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24 days ago
Current Stalling falling blossoms in bloom
1 mo ago
Even if our words seem meaningless
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2 mos ago
Time turning on us always
2 mos ago
Fusing into the unknown
4 mos ago
Coming back at you twice as great as you had thought
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Bio

Current GM of World of Light. When it comes to writing, there's nothing I love more than imagination, engagement, and commitment. I'm always open to talk, suggestion, criticism, and collaboration. While I try to be as obliging, helpful, and courteous as possible, I have very little sympathy for ghosts, and anyone who'd like to string me along. Straightforwardness is all I ask for.

Looking for more personal details? I'm just some dude from the American south; software development is my job but games, writing, and trying to help others enjoy life are my passions. Been RPing for over a decade, starting waaaay back with humble beginnings on the Spore forum, so I know a thing or two, though I won't pretend to be an expert. If you're down for some fun, let's make something spectacular together.

Most Recent Posts

I hope this is suitable!

Knight Sylvestre vs the Cereal Killer – Round 4


The haze surrounding Cyril grew dark and gray—dust in the air. He let the force of his swing peter out, knowing it would hit nothing, then with a last, explosive burst of energy lashed out in a silver spin attack. Away from the whirling knight the dust peeled away, but it left behind a man who, after coming to a halt, could scarcely stand.

A short distance away, the bloodied pirate stood with the barrel of his flintlock trained on Cyril's unprotected skull. The pain on his face mixed with pity, for he knew as well as the vanguard that adrenaline cured fatigue as well as determination cured agony. Cyril's ruinous stance told Runch of the near-fulfillment of the prophecy in his journal; that after extended periods of berserk fighting that the knight would reach his limit. The act of carving that hideous gash into himself did not erect a mental barrier to keep back the exhaustion -induced by both his frenetic style and by the pirate's gaseous subterfuge- that plagued him, but instead revealed that after that last strain there remained no more adrenaline in reserve. “Uuuugh....”

On the sidelines, Juniper clenched her fist. While both combatants sported terrible wounds, only one stood fighting-fit. The other leaned on the shaft of his halberd with both hands, legs splayed, the potent cocktail of agony and fatigue that coursed through him clouding his mind almost as badly as it wracked his body. His bold declaration moments ago rung hollow now. Could he really be the man who beat her before? He looked so pitiful. Yet, for reasons she couldn't quite place, the shrine maiden felt like he could still win, like one more inch of strength remained in him, one inch of nobility in the face of defeat. “Hey! You're not looking so good. I better not get my soul taken again.”

The Cereal Killer said nothing, though his hesitation to fire upon Cyril suggested that his ultimatum from a moment ago still held, despite the dreadful injury he received. Cyril, glaring at him through beads of stinging sweat and strands of thick hair, thanked him for that in silence. He knew that he hated this man, and would never concede to him, but he knew also that this pirate harbored a strain of that chivalrous honor he once admired. His body, alive with spasms, felt close to numb. It wouldn't be long now before he could not fight, and the pirate would have his soul. The idea infuriated him, and for a moment his mind slipped, making him wonder if Juniper felt the same rage. To have a part one oneself owned by another...

”How do you do it?”

Taken aback, Cyril gave a coarse sputter. Runch could see the questioning in his foe's eyes, and elaborated. ”That determination. Pardon me for saying so, but you don't seem driven by heroism or honor, and you don't see the type to draw power from friendship and camaraderie. Even before we fought, you sounded weary of whatever war it is you're waging. What drives you on?”

More precious seconds to try in vain to rest suited Cyril, who decided to put his battle focus on hold and answer. In fact, he felt compelled to, for it stung him that after all this Runch didn't understand. “I keep fighting,” he uttered, voice guttural, “Because my life is worthless. One body...weak and momentary...dead, buried, forgotten. But an idea...to banish evil...to bring safety and freedom.” Breathing deeply, the vanguard fought to steady himself, and to stand a little higher. “Peace. It can't be broken, or killed. Peace is stronger, more important...than pride.” He brought his shield up. “Or pain.” He turned his glaive upside-down. “Or death!”

Silver overtook him, picking him up and yanking him, puppet-like, at an angle. Runch's shot whizzed by as he zigged to the left, and the next instant he zagged to the right, approaching in a path shaped like a lightning bolt. Then he blasted left again, and instead of a thrust to the shoulder as he expected, Runch took a solid kick to the hip and flew backward. “Rrrah!” Cyril hurled his shield like a disc after the retreating body that struck him in midair and bounced off. Sent spinning by the hit, Runch twisted about just in time to raise a Bori Bori Pillar to lift him up out of the way of his enemy's thrown polearm, and once inside the cereal tower the weapon caught fast.

Without waiting a moment Runch threw himself from his perch toward the vanguard, holding out his hand as he fell. ”Bori Bori Hellberry Blast!” A plume of fire exploded in front of the haggard knight as he snatched his shield, staggering him. Runch landed and rushed forward, striking with an upward Bori Bori Greave kick that carried him two feet into the air, which he followed with a second kick just like it. Bori Bori Cannon: Mush Mellow Recipe!” A giant white blob shot out of his palm and stuck to the ground where he expected Cyril to land.

Sure enough, the vanguard plopped square in the center and sunk in. ”Bori Bori Jet Insta-pop! The pirate's cereal greaves exploded off him, propelling him into position. He thrust his spoonsaber skyward and cried, ”Set sail! Bori Bori Emergency Oar!” A stream of water-resistant oats snaked out across his weapon, building up and extending until he gripped a giant version of the spoonsaber, barely balanced above his head. From there, the slightest effort sent the tremendous weapon on its way, and gravity did the rest.

WHAM

Marshmellow splattered in every direction. When Runch landed, he could see the damage. Curling up into the fetal position with legs held close and shield across upper body preserved the vanguard's upper half, but neither leg seemed quite right, and though Cyril stirred, he did not stand. Biting his lip through the pain, he hefted himself into a kneeling position atop his useless legs.

It is finished.

Runch began to walk forward, reloading his pistol with a new cereal bullet as he did. “I suppose I don't need to ask,” he said through a smile.

A gesture of respect, in this moment of all moments. In reply, Cyril yanked the throttle on his shield again, starting the saw. He then held his hands to his head, obscuring it with his shield.

One chance. Can't miss this

There came a clicking noise, and a flash of silver. Though he thought himself ready, Runch did not anticipate the shield thrown vertically at the cobblestone to bounce back up and slam into his bloody chest. ”Kuh! Not again!” The return angle of the shield sent it right back into Cyril's clutches, and like a gleaming comet he shot forward, sliding on his armored shins as he span. The blade whirled around, a cyclone of death, until its wielder came into striking distance of the Cereal Killer's calves.

Instead of tearing into cloth, flesh, and bone, however, the glittering sawblade met rock-hard cereal, and ground to a halt.

Cyril stared with wide eyes. Armor!? I saw his greaves blow off! He glanced up, jaw slack, just in time to see Runch swing the flat of the spoonsaber into the side of his head. Then, he saw nothing at all.

The Murder

Location: Street Mall
@Propro


The moment a dread aura began to stir, the corpulent merchant screwed his eyes shut. His grin, never pleasant, grew even more leering as Samuel's venom filled the air. Malevolence began to flood out from the nightmarish man, despite the lack of eye contact he aimed for, but if the vendor felt as much of an ounce of it he appeared frustratingly discreet about it. Moments passed, guilt and darkness undulating in a wretched miasma, but the ghoulish trinket seller did not react.

“Huh huh huh!” He chortled. “Wondering why I am not grovelling? Huh huh! Make no mistake, Mr. Raven, you are quite the terror among men. This Horror of yours is potent indeed. But there are deeper fears still, fears that seldom occur to man. Perhaps one day I will show you.”

When the merchant opened his mouth, there came a whiteness. Without a luster of its own, it did not seem to be light, but rather a simple, stark nothingness. It rippled across the Street Mall, wiping away every brick, every fiber, every mote of dust. For a second, there was nothing at all.

Then the scene remade itself, returning to the way it was before, albeit with two anomalies. Two puddles of dull whiteness lay on the pavement a short ways away, one next to the other. As Samuel watched, their surfaces stirred, and thin strands like roots or stripes of paper rose from them. Over a span of mere moments the two groups knit themselves into two identical shapes, which after a moment recolored themselves to make two pale women, cloaked in black and bearing three pairs of arms. Each held a sniper rifle, a pistol, and two knives, and as one they aimed at Samuel, spread apart, and started to back away.
I have an idea in mind, and will post my character application in the near future.
Before either of his visitors could respond to the Margrave's query, an interloper appeared with a deafening squeal. For a moment the antihero's face twisted into a furious snarl, but that expression evaporated when he saw who it belonged to. That yellow scarf, those black gloves, that black baseball cap, that murky green overcoat...could it be? Frozen like a statue with a visage of somewhat-alarmed wondered, he allowed himself to be seized in an enthusiastic embrace more akin to a flying tackle over the table, and to be battered by the young girl's bubbling. Even after she finished, with her feet on the ground and her mint-condition action figure outstretched toward him, he took a moment to recuperate. Something was irritating his eyes, causing a slight twitch and bizarre wateriness, but a hero overcame all challenges.

There appeared on his face a wider smile than any Ward had ever seen, and a truer smile than any Elliot had known for years. “Heheh. I like the cut of your jib, kid. You've got a serious eye for quality.” Reaching into a pocket, he produced a small, thin object scarcely bigger than a grain of rice: a pen meant for the hand of a Lego minifigure. The Margrave positioned it like a coin and flipped it up, and as it spun in midair it grew to a normal-sized pen. With deft fingers he snatched it and twirled it between them, until it fell into his grip in perfect writing position. All that time spent twirling pencils in school actually came in handy, huh? “Allow me.” He took the boxed figure and flourished a signature across a blank spot of the cardstock backing: 'Your biggest fan: the Margrave!'

With that done, he handed it back. “I trust you'll keep me safe. Of course, you are keenly aware of the extravagant value any imitation of me possesses, so I have utmost faith in you. And please, help yourself to any of these, if you are so inclined.” He gestured to the small though untouched stack of expensive photographs. “For being such a steadfast supporter, you may have as many as you wish. It is the least I can do in thanks!” He arrayed his arms diagonally parallel across his front, one reaching down toward the hip and the other toward its face, both hands inclined so as to be vertical with the fingers splayed.

His posing was, however, rudely and unforgivably cut off as a great rumble shook the convention center and from the floor burst an unruly mob atop an imposing goliath. Debris flew in every direction from the eruption point, and as if a burst of lightning shot through his veins, the Margrave jumped into action. Slamming his hands down on his desk and jumping, he vaulted over both it and his little fan, unzipping his jacket and flipping up his hood as he did so. He landed with his back facing the deadly spray, stumbled and fell down for a moment, but righted himself in time to spread his coat as a cloth shield to protect his new friend and merchandise from harm, though his overcoat did not absorb the worst of the fragments. When the dust cleared, he seized a toy baton from his side pocket and spun around, leveling a rapidly-expanding baseball bat at the unexpected enemies. Bruises ached and scratches stung, but he kept his face a mask of grim steel, pausing only to make sure the girl was behind him.

“Alright,” he snapped, moving his bat to his shoulder. “Who called in the loser brigade? Just when we might have had a nice day, these insipid nobodies stumble along.” Sure, a few of them looked tough, and that giant could do a lot of damage, but who in their right mind would attack almost every Cape in the city at once? Any one of the veterans here could probably handle the situation alone. Speaking of handling things, I could negate that golem in a single stroke if I got close enough. That'd make things pretty easy. The only conceivable rationale behind this attack would be to make a scene by threatening and hurting civilians, which they were admittedly accomplishing. If that was the case, the Margrave commended their bravery for putting an end to their futures and possibly their lives for the sake of an intimidation gambit.

Winning this fight was never in question. Winning while protecting the civilians would be where things got hairy. The Margrave, however, was nothing if not confident. Nearby, the other Wards -as well as a few visitors- were preparing for a scuffle as well, though one somewhat flirtatious exchange brought an incredulous look to the Margrave's face.
I may get in on this.


Living in the world of Alrest isn't easy.

In all directions it stretches—the endless Cloud Sea. Though of a similar density to a water ocean, and serving many of the same functions, it differs in one key respect: no land rises from its surface. Instead, there are the Titans. While these beasts come in all shapes and sizes, the largest colossi among them form the ground upon which mankind survives. Whether in the plains or forests of deer-shaped Gormott, within the body of Uraya, atop the pristine heights of Indol, across the warm wastes of Mor Ardain, or any one of the other titans, people make their settlements and eke out a living as best they can, all while their continents circle the legendary World Tree in an endless death march.

While some technologies are incredibly advanced, many nations lack the resources to expand civilization, realize ambition, or even sustain themselves, leading to a world of worry and strife where the threat of war is constant. For instance, Mor Ardain's Titan is dying, hence the slow but worryingly steady rise in its core temperature turning its surface into arid badlands. The Empire has therefore turned its sights outward, acquiring what is now known as the Imperial Province of Gormott, and creating much anxiety in Uraya.

Titans are not, however, the only subject of fascination on Alrest. In addition to humanity and the diminutive Nopon, there exists the Blades. Though little is known about their origin or why they exist the way they do, it is well-documented that Blades are weaponized life forms that are summoned by an individual of another race on Alrest from a Core Crystal through a process called resonance. Once given form, the immortal, fantastical Blades endow their partners -called Drivers- with abilities and a weapon, and live alongside them until the Driver's death returns the Blade to its Core Crystal, able to be awakened anew, but without any memories of its past life.

However, political struggles and Blade mysteries seem far away indeed on the serpentine Titan called Vennligh. Daily life is uneventful, travelers come and go, and any notable matters are attended to by the esteemed, oligarchic Council. Yet, unbeknownst to the populace of Vennligh's largest city, Attica, a beleaguered Ardanian Core Crystal transport is bound for its shores, pursued by an unknown assailant, and on the very day of Pasholm Academy's field trip to Vennligh's tailtip, no less. The winds of fate are poised to kick up a tumult of coincidence, and what happens next is anyone's guess.




Welcome to Xenoblade Encounters. While just an interest check for now, I hope to find enough support to make this idea into a fully-fledged, narrative and character-driven RP. The RP's setting is a fictional world from a property known as Xenoblade Chronicles 2, but one needs no particular familiarity with that world beforehand; everything important will be explained, and I think you'll find there's a lot of freedom in terms of character-making.

Something I hope to accomplish is giving every character an important role in the story. Players aren't limited to entering a teenager as one of the five students of Pasholm Academy about to stumble onto a strange and exciting adventure; you could just as well apply as the teacher leading the field trip, or the sheriff accompanying them for security, or one of the soldiers aboard the Ardanian vessel on collision course with the Vennligh titan, or even as a member of the mysterious group attacking that vessel. Of course, you could also give to and play as one of those character's Blades. Once the story starts, I can present different scenarios to different groups to keep multiple storylines going separately or to let them collide.

For anyone interested in brainstorming a character, here are the playable races. May they, and the Blades in particular, present you with unique opportunities for crafting intriguing and engaging personalities, appearances, and backstories.

Races


Humanity
Ardanian – bearing no dissimilarities from humans, the technology-oriented Ardanians are versatile and hardy. Hailing from the dying bipedal titan Mor Ardain, they can be found most anywhere in Alrest, particularly in regions where the expansionist Empire of Mor Ardain has a pronounced presence, but no Ardanian would deny that the Empire's capital city of Alba Cavanich is where his heart belongs.
Gormotti – notable for their feline characteristics, including ears and some behavioral traits (though never a tail) the inhabitants of the lush, quadrupedal titan Gormott are kind and peaceful, living in harmony with nature and bearing a lively culture most evident in the Gormott's largest city, Torigoth.
Indoline – with bluish skin and pointed ears, the tall, slender inhabitants of the beautiful draconian titan Indol experience far longer lifespans than other races. Often characterized by reservation, politeness, and pious titan worship, they constitute the vast majority of the Indoline Praetorium, Indol's theocratic governing body, from the capital of Goetius.
Leftherian – indistinguishable from humans, the Leftherians tend to be good-natured and laidback, perhaps due to the peace that's held over their native Leftherian Archipelago, a great chain of jellyfish-like titans, since long ago. Their small towns, like Fonsett Village, are predominantly agricultural, with little in the way of technology.
Tantalese – though ostensibly human, the Tantalese are set apart in two ways. The first are their appearances, namely the symmetric markings on their faces, cross-shaped, in any number and position, as well as their predominantly red hair. The second, more literally, is the isolationist attitude of the Kingdom of Tantal, kept away from the outside world inside the body of the frigid turtle-shaped titan Genbu. As a result, most Tantalese -even those in the capital of Theosoir- have known their fair share of suffering and want, including occasional starvation, and few have much knowledge of the outside world or its customs.
Urayan – most unique among the people of Alrest, the Urayans tend to be darker of complexion and have pointed, almost finlike ears as well as scales scattered across their faces and bodies. They also boast the only naturally unnatural hair colors in Alrest, mostly greens and blues, but on occasion also sport multicolored hair. Under the rule of Queen Raqura the Kingdom of Uraya lives with a deep respect of nature inside the vast, whale-shaped Titan of the same name, where they foster advanced biotechnology and artistic culture, particularly in the capital of Fonsa Myma.
Vennlighn – said to be the bearers of 'giant blood', Vennlighns once stood the tallest of Alrest's races, but over the generations they have mostly lost that old, hereditary claim to fame. Nevertheless, a few bloodlines continue to stand unusually tall, though otherwise the Vennlighns are not especially distinct. On their remote, peaceful, welcoming serpentine titan Vennligh they live in scattered farm villages or industrial Attica, with its great highrises, on Vennligh's spine. Vennlighn society is an old one, priding itself on honorbound customs and ancient architectural traditions, and they continue to hold the secret toward artificial titans called golems that are put to everyday tasks like hauling and building. Distinguished citizens may be selected to join the oligarchical Council based in Attica that oversees nation-wise concerns.

Nopon
Nopon - small, round, fuzzy, and utterly adorable, Nopon can be found throughout Alrest but have the largest presence in the Argentum Trade Guild, the giant barge that rests beneath the floating titan Goldmouth. Most Nopon stand about two feet tall, though some get as high as three feet, and a few -like the brilliant Chairman Bana of Argentum Trade Guild- are twice that, though such lofty heights are for Nopon the result of genetic mutations rather than heredity. They have three sets of limbs: stubby little arms, stubby little legs, and a pair of prehensile, short-feathered wings coming from their upper backs that rest around their necks when not in use. These wings, better served as arms, grant extremely limited flight. It is not considered taboo or improper for Nopon to not wear clothes, but all adults do both as a show of status (wealth, occupation, et cetera) and to help others discern their gender; other than clothing, a Nopon's voice is the only way to tell if one is male or female.

Nopon are friendly and outgoing, and often try to avoid conflict, but are seldom as harmless or dumb as they might appear. All Nopon have gluttonous and greedy streaks of varying strength, not nearly significant enough to qualify as obsessions but certainly present enough to make food and especially money common topics of conversation. Indeed, while their mechanical skill is not to be derided, many choose to become merchants and salespon. They possess an unusual pattern of speech, which uses the third-person primarily, refers to strangers as 'friends', attaches the suffix 'pon' to familial terms, occasionally eliminates articles, and sometimes repeats words.

Nopon have an extremely low resonance rate, meaning that very, very few ever become Drivers.

Blade
At the heart of every Blade, both literally and figuratively, is a core crystal, a blue octahedron of a material akin to lapis lazuli, inscribed with unknown patterns and symbols. For a Blade to exist, a living being must resonate with its core crystal. Not everyone can resonate; it takes a certain aptitude that one must have, and those without it who try to resonate face dire consequences. A single Driver can, however, have multiple Blades, though fighting with more than one at once becomes increasingly impractical.

Once a core is resonated with, the Blade is formed. A core crystal that's resonated before forms the Blade just as it was before, but a fresh crystal creates one entirely new. It's a common assumption that a Blade's appearance and personality, on first resonance, are influenced by its new Driver—sometimes mimicking the Driver's, sometimes being molded by and embodying their thoughts, dreams, or desires. Either way, Blades can take practically any shape, from people to machines to animals to monsters to anything in between.

Blades are unique in that they alone of all the living beings are capable of taking in and using the versatile energy that pervades Alrest's atmosphere, ether. They can alter and express this energy in different ways, most often elemental powers but occasionally abilities more unique. All, however, are capable of generating a distinctive weapon that embodies the Blade, which the Blade itself can wield but is more effective in the hands of the Blade's Driver, to which the Blade channels energy. Without ether, a Blade weapon is inert, no better (and oftentimes worse) than a conventional weapon. While Blades are often thought of as living weapons, the weapons are products of the Blade rather than vice-versa, and if a Blade's weapon is destroyed, they can create a replacement from ether.

Blades are effectively immortal, never physically aging or changing, and they heal from injuries very quickly. However, a when a Blade's driver dies, the Blade returns to its core crystal, which remains gray and inert for a while before regaining its luster and ability to resonate. If awakened once again, a Blade retains no memory of its past life, and even with its previous appearance and personality can develop into a very different person. It's not just a Blade's character that can change, either; a Blade's powers grow in strength, utility, and usability overtime, and different Drivers can coax out different strengths from the same basic skillset

Character Sheet


Name:
Sex:
Race: Either a human (one of the races listed under 'humanity'), a Nopon, or a Blade
Class: A name that acts as a general descriptor of the character's talents, abilities, and/or fighting style. For civilians this may just be their occupation, but any fighters or group members should have something that describes his or her role
Faction: There are four available: Pasholm (one of the five students on the field trip, their teacher, and the sheriff, caught up in events beyond their control), Marauder (one of the three members of the organization that attacked the Core Crystal transport, who may be with the organization for any number of reasons, to whose players secret information will be sent) or Detective (local law enforcement or half of the pair investigators from abroad, trying to protect the people of Vennligh from the Marauders or figure out either who they're working for or what their goal is)
Personality: Since every person is unique and infinitely complex, go into some detail. A character's personality is ordinarily tied to his or her backstory
Backstory: The character's life so far, including why they are where they are at the start of the story. For instance, a student at Pasholm Academy certainly is staying somewhere behind, perhaps with parents or guardians, and a Marauder should have the events leading up to joining with the dark organziation. Keep in mind preexisting relationships; it's only natural for both people from the school and members of the Marauders to be familiar with and have opinions of one another. You may wish to edit or add to this section as other characters are submitted for the RP. This section may include past lives lived by Blades
Appearance: Look to the Races section to get an idea of the suite you have to work with, though if you've chosen a Blade, the sky's basically the limit. If you've chosen a Blade, include his or her weapon

I'm planning to allow up to two characters per person. If a character is a Blade, he or she is irreparably tied to his or her Driver. While it would make sense to control both a Driver and a Blade, you could very well work with another player to establish a Blade-Driver duo. If you do this, however, keep in mind that you're dependent on one another, so choose someone you can depend on, and be aware that to avoid inundation with small posts you'll be expected to make collab posts with your partner very often

If you have any questions, I'd be more than happy to answer!


Inari

Location: Deadbeat Sky
@Kapuchu


Having satiated his hunger before Inari arrived, Carreau waited with his cheek resting against his knuckles for his guests to finish. His golden eyes stared listlessly at the door as if waiting for company that would never arrive, though it was plain his thoughts -though themselves inscrutable- were elsewhere. Compared to his earlier self, he seemed weary, or perhaps unhappy. When Lily finished her food and spoke to him, he held his head up and returned his hand to his lap. If her question seemed obvious, he gave no indication. “Well, I planned to assign however many elite fighters I can spare to fight alongside you. In the interest of demonstrating my seriousness about our agreement and my earlier statement I thought I'd take an active role and join you as well.” With his talons he scratched at the feathers around his neck. “By the way, do you have any way to find your next opponent? I recall seeing a little robot of some kind near you before your fight with the monster, but it occurs to me that it hasn't been around since then.”

The Murder

Location: Street Mall
@Propro


Samuel's fingers closed around something bizarre, not quite solid, but inclined to hold its shape and move like one, a little bit like jelly if less inclined to squirm out of the hand that grabbed it and fall apart. In fact, the thing the man clutched did move, wriggling ever-so-softly, though this did not hinder his ability to pick it up. When he retrieved it from his pocket and held it up for inspection under the early evening's fading light, he beheld an object utterly unlike any he had ever seen before, as alien as it was unnerving.

A disgusting, ghostly apparition sat upon his palm, every few moments giving a horrendous twitch. It resembled several nightmarish corvids if those pitiable birds had been fused together and mixed around; different parts stuck out in every direction in a loathsome, haphazard fashion. One got the impression in very short order that this malformed wretch should never have existed at all—yet, when Sam examined it, it struck him as both natural and, though a touch repulsive, familiar. If anything, the only true unease it caused him was a subtle sense of loss, like bringing it out into the open put it in danger, and that it held some kind of hidden value best kept secret.

For the mysterious, unflinching vendor, however, the abomination's value was plain to see. “Aaaah, yes! Even more fascinating than I pictured. Please, allow me to relieve you of it. It might inspire funny feelings in you just now, like you should not be giving it up, but it is a deception. Like a parasite, it tries to manipulate to keep you from removing it. Remember that its riddance is your ultimate want.” He gave a guttural laugh, spreading his hands. “And I do not blame you, either! Nasty thing like that, a terrible weight to carry.”
Azura
Level 2
Day 3
Location: The Land of Skyrim
Experience: |||||||||||||||||||| (6/20)
Word Count: 588


So, the strategy was set. For all the tensions that troubled and divided the squad of misfits, Azura did not find the plan all that bad, either. Having returned nothing but a blank face to her 'Ice Witch' misnomer from Ulfric, she nodded when he asked if all was agreed. As things seemed to wrapping up for the night, Azura allowed her fatigue to seep in and suffuse her. In the morning prior to departure on this mission she spent hours practicing, and that combined with the brief but action-packed battle earlier weighed on her. So too did a lingering, subversive pain that she couldn't quite place, though she knew it all too well.

That pain brought back to mind what she said moments ago. During the planmaking she offered without hesitation to perform a special maneuver near the river, and while it promised results, she dreaded the backlash such a task would inflict on her were the rite not executed flawlessly. Why did I jump to, in all likelihood, sacrifice myself? I owe these people no heroics, and their opinions of me won't improve if I perform for them. That was a bothersome impulse, and one that left her both nervous and reflective. Any spontaneous behavior arising from a burst of latent need for approval could be lethal on the battlefield. Besides, it wasn't her job as a supporter to play the daredevil. I just need to survive. My most basic songs won't eat away at me. Once I enact my plan, I'll lay low if I'm able.

With her agenda to control the damage laid out, her thoughts drifted elsewhere. The food Ulfric offered was standard soldier cuisine, ordinary fare for ordinary men, but in the end Azura did not have to think about it very long. Food was food, and she did not have the luxury of choice. After a minute or two of gathering, she returned to the commander's tent with the makings of a crude meal in a bundle of cloth. Before eating anything, she placed a mug, emptied of ale and filled with fresh snow, by the fire. A short time passed while she sat next to it, staring into the flames, and when she retrieved the mug she found it full of cool water. The songstress poured out about half of it in total to wash her hands, after which she finally picked up the food. In silence she chewed on a hunk of venison, then a small, tough slab of hard tack. A drink of clear water washed it all down. For want of anything better to do, Azura then relocated herself to a cluster of barrels on the opposite side of the tent from the Boss's claimed bedroll, and there she took a reclined sitting position on the ground. Thanks to her soft, voluminous winter coat, her chosen spot could very well serve as a makeshift bed, though comfortable or not she felt tired enough to collapse most anywhere. Nestling down in her coat, Azura closed her eyes and tried to fall asleep, though she had to shift a few times to get comfortable and ended up lying on her side with her arms crossed in such a way as to elevate her head off the floor.

Though any of the others would be more than hard-pressed to hear it, Azura began to hum herself a sort of lullaby. With its aid, she was able to shut out the stiffness and cold, and drift closer and closer to slumber.
Into the Stygian depths of murky resentment and dire delinquency plunged a glimmering beacon of light. Its radiance pierced the abyss's unnameable bed, dredging from the black mire a creature long since resigned to the deepest dark.

Stirring, Elliot glanced up to see that a gorgeous face well suited the melodic voice that disturbed his sullen reprieve. It was all the more attractive for the fact that he did not recognize it, which meant that someone stood before him that he might yet mystify and amaze. Her question set the gears spinning in his head, and the lone prodigy's unsung genius went to work.

Leaning back, he held one arm across his middle for the elbow of his other to rest on, and having held that couched limb skyward, he flicked his hand in an offhanded what-can-you-do gesture. “More like 'long life', unfortunately,” he conceded, his tone brimming with casual confidence tinged by weary determination. “But no matter how hard it is to get up in the morning, we are heroes because we answer the call, right? Your concern is, of course, appreciated, not to mention rather touching from someone so fetching.” He became aware of a troubling presence now dominating his left peripheral—Alessa. Of course. Here to rain on his parade, just as his luck was turning around. Her words, which practically trumped his own, confirmed his apprehension that she was inserting herself unnecessarily and shamelessly into this situation to put him down. Even worse, those words held the suggestion of something venomous: pity. Elliot's right eyebrow twitched, the only fault in his masking of inner frustration. How dare this insipid peabrain have pity on me? What have I done to deserve such condescension? Could it be that someone who broke down like a preschooler during the warehouse incident has the audacity to feel sorry for me in front of someone who chose to interact with me out of her own free will? Her delusions run deeper than imagined righteousness and heroism.

But after a moment of making sure his mild indignation was visible, all Elliot said was, “Hmm...I'm afraid you have me mistaken. If I seem out-of-sorts, it is merely the byproduct of some rogue stress or another.” He turned a pointed smile Alessa's way. “And if I seem distant, it is merely because I wished to avoid needless conversations at inopportune moments. Us Wards do, after all, have the opportunity to interact any time outside of this event.” Interlacing his fingers, he placed his hands on the desk before him. After looking between both young women, he said, “Of course, this is the first advent of the illustrious Margrave at a public event—the first glance into the hidden secrets of the Wards' Sixth Ranger. So I can't blame you for being...interested, Messiah. If there's anything I can do for you -either of you- please don't hesitate to ask.”
“Hey, I know you!”

Elliot jerked awake, blinking to clear the drowsiness from his eyes as he straightened up. He'd been slumped over so long that his back ached, and on the hand that he'd been resting his chin in there seemed to be a sticky liquid. In front of him stood a twelve-year-old kid wearing a whole heap of Cape merchandise. As he ran his eyes over it, Elliot could make our a number of signatures, but he paid the greatest attention to the boy's look of intense thought.

A mysterious, captivating smile appeared on Elliot's face, and he crossed his arms as he turned a quarter-circle to the side. “You do, do you? Of course—you seem the studious, perceptive type. Your vestments identify you as a true, perhaps even fanatical, supporter of heroism. I'll wager you wait with bated breath when word gets out of some ne'er-do-well causing a ruckus, flipping through channels to see which hero answers duty's call. Am I right?” The youngster nodded, though is pensive expression did not lessen. “So then, who is it that beams down at you from atop righteousness's holy dias?”

The kid clapped his hands together, his eyebrows knit together in determined realization. “You're that super-dork that's full of himself and plays with toys, Marbleguv!”

A few seconds of silence passed as the dull-eyed antihero stared at the child from atop his stool, overlooking the plastic table that lay before him, adorned with a fastidiously-organized pile of pictures of himself posing. At length, Elliot replied in a clipped voice, “...You must have me mistaken. I am...Margrave. THE Margrave. And I do not play with toys; I resize and reconstitute all manner of objects, applying them with ingenious wit to make the most of every situation! Look, it says here!” Elliot produced a black card with the exact tagline he just recited emblazoned on its surface in silver, alongside an image of his face with his hand held in front of it. “How d'you like that? The first in my new series of hand-made collectible cards!”

The boy did not take the card. Nor did he bother masking his disinterested expression. “Ookay.” He put his hands in his pockets and turned to walk away. “Uh, sorry, but that's pretty lame. If you could make action figures, that'd be cool, but...uh, bye!”

Taking a deep breath, Elliot leaned back in his stool, though he managed to stop himself before getting to the point where he'd fall over backwards. As fun as potentially knocking himself out sounded right now, he felt like a quick rendezvous with the ground would not give him the jolt of energy he needed to get through today. Instead, he placed a palm against the back of his neck, angling his elbow outward, and turned his closed eyes up to the ceiling in a pose suggesting admirability. “I'm counting that. Heheh. Always nice to be recognized!” he told himself, his tone very satisfied. “Hour and a half and I already got one visitor. Everything's turning up Margrave!”

His expression soured six seconds later. In fact, it went from gregarious to glacial. Elliot considered putting his hood on and trying to go back to sleep, but with the hubbub that had swollen throughout the event center he doubted he'd be able to. “Why am I here?” he half-mumbled, half-growled. “Spotlight's no place for...anti-heroes...” Shutting his eyes, he tried to tune out the noise. To his left, where the other Wards and their booths were, he could hear a new and different voice, but he paid it no attention. The others -especially Tiger Lily, who he now felt ashamed of looking down on- had been getting fans nonstop, so nothing remarkable demanded his attention. His own station was only about a booth-and-a-half away from where the others were arrayed, but that combined with his lack of costume seemed to be deterring pretty much anyone from coming over. Yeah, I'm sure those are the only reasons, he thought, grim-faced. Did they even realize he was one of them? It had been his intention to set himself up as something separate, to avoid falling under their brand and to escape the commercialized 'hero' image that now held them, but now that seemed liked a bad idea. Whatever. I don't need the attention anyway. In fact, of not for being required to be here as one of the Wards, I wouldn't be here. I'm not missing out on a single thing. He put his head in his hand again, though not as part of an elaborate pose, for once.
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