Mcmolly

Amygdala Circuit

Besca could never really be sure how well a conversation with Quinn was going until it was over, and even then, sometimes it was a guess. They descended into quiet, the rapid breathing on the other end of the line slowed. Besca sat with the phone in one hand and her head leaning heavily down on the other, alternating between kicking herself for saying the wrong thing, abject worry, and the longer she went without hearing tears, a little glimmer of hope that maybe she hadn’t fucked up at the worst time.

Eventually, Quinn asked a stupid question. For a moment she was almost offended; it felt like discovering someone you considered a friend didn’t know your name. Do you miss me? What sort of question was that? What could have happened between them to make Quinn think, even for a moment, that there could be any other answer but yes?

Then, of course, Besca realized yes was a stupid answer.

She missed her, dearly, and they both knew it. Quinn didn’t need to hear that. What Quinn needed was to know that the things that happened, the horrors that came and would come again, weren’t her fault. That they didn’t outweigh the rest of her. There was no way for Besca to assure her, beyond any doubt, that nothing was going to happen to Cantimine; and that wasn’t what she was asking. She needed to know she wouldn’t be abandoned if it did.

Besca couldn’t tell Quinn she was blameless. She believed that with all her heart, but it wasn’t her place to say it. Quinn would prove that to herself, eventually, and she wouldn’t have to do it alone, but she would have to do it. In the meantime, Besca could at least tell her an undeniable truth—one that was hers to give.

“You’re worth it,” she said quietly. “I wouldn’t change anything. You’re worth every single moment to me.”

Amygdala Circuit

Besca listened quietly. It was all she could do, really; an unpleasant reality she’d thus far been able to bury under the mountain of other unpleasant realities. Quinn might as well have been across the sun for how far apart they were, how impossible it would be to reach her, and as someone with a scientific background and an extensive history ceding to futility, she should have been able to boldly face the fact that there was nothing she could do.

She couldn’t, of course.

But there wasn’t room for two breakdowns, and anyway, the thought of slipping into despair in front of Quinn filled her with an unmanageable amount of dread. So she shelved those impulses for now and decided to drown them in coffee later.

She should have seen this coming, frankly. Cantimine shared too many similarities with Hovvi for this to go any other way. If it had been Dahlia down there instead, Besca would probably have needed to make this call herself just to make sure. At least with Quinn, she could always count on the girl to be upfront with what was bothering her. A selfish part of her lamented that, but it was the part that demanded she do her job in the cold, effective way that the Euserans or Helburkans did. If RISC had those resources, those numbers, she wondered how long it would have taken them to churn through Quinn and Dahlia for quicker, frictionless alternatives. The answer was not optimistic.

When Quinn’s paper-thin composure finally gave way, there was nothing for several moments but quick, panicked breathing. Besca shut her eyes, resisted the urge to pull the phone away from her ear; sometimes it felt like her own lungs took the cue to shrivel up and choke her from the inside out.

“I—” she cleared her throat. “I understand, hun. I do. When I first got to Runa, for a long time I didn’t…uhm…” again, more hoarsely. “I had trouble visiting big cities, being on boats, seeing Saviors. I spent a lot of time on the Aerie out of…self-defense, I guess. It never really went away, you just…see more of how a place is rather than what you remember it could be. See the people as people, instead of shadows. See Saviors instead of monsters. It’s…hard.”

She sighed. When she was little, she used to wish the world was a gentler place, and after Westwel, she settled for wishing it was a place she could survive in. It wasn’t that she’d stopped wanting a kinder world, she’d just given up on it. Until Dahlia, until Quinn. Now, especially right now, she found herself wishing she could say more than what she needed to.

“I want to tell you that Hovvi will never happen again. That you’ll never see anything so terrible in your life, and that you’ll always be able to stop the tragedies before they happen. I…can’t, tell you that. I can’t promise you that. I should, I know, maybe that’s what you need to hear right now, but I wouldn’t believe it.

“What I do believe, from the bottom of my heart, is that there’s no one I would trust more to try. I don’t think a single person on this planet would fight harder, for the right reasons. Maybe you can’t understand how much that means right now, but for me it means a lot. This business with Casoban isn’t forever, Cantimine isn’t forever, but there will always be another fight. All I can tell you is that you will never be in those fights alone. Not really. Not ever.”

Amygdala Circuit

“You what?”

Besca became briefly, shamefully aware that the door to her office was open. A few bridge personnel craned their heads to peak inside, confused, concerned, curious. She gave them an apologetic look, then quickly shut the door. It would be soundproof now, but she still tried to wrangle her temper in, just in case.

“I offered them the alliance,” Toussaint said. “Well, I was approved to offer it to them, then I did it. Effective immediately, the CSC would cease any and all cooperation with RISC, and Casoban would begin nullifying the past decade or so worth of trade agreements between us and Runa. We would, effectively if not officially, become a vassal state to Eusero.”

“Why.”

“Because they didn’t expect it. Because the Casobani people would likely riot under whatever new agreements they’d have needed to endure. Mostly, though, because I knew Eusero wouldn’t accept.”

It seemed restraining herself had been the right call after all. Normally she’d have known better than to underestimate Jaime. As aggravating and sycophantic as he could sometimes be, it was easy to forget that he was her peer for a reason.

He seemed to take her silence for permission to expound. “You should have seen the treatise, Besca, it would have made you ill. We’d have ceded almost everything, forsaken every connection outside of Eusero’s umbrella. They’d have been the exclusive recipient of all our resources, at a rate that would have made Selen Dane blush. And we only asked for one thing.”

“Cantimine.” she muttered.

“Cantimine,” he agreed. “They denied the request ten minutes after I sent it. I imagine that wasn’t a second longer than it took to reach Dane’s desk. They aren’t even reporting on it. Imagine how humiliating it would be for Casoban, and Runa, to air a deal that desperate. But not a peep.”

Besca sat back in her desk. None of this made sense; Cantimine belonged to Eusero, but according to Toussaint, whatever signal had breached the Ange’s systems originated from Cantimine. Led them right to it—whatever it was. If Eusero was hiding something in the town, why in the world would they leave a trail of breadcrumbs leading right to their doorstep, then pretend like nothing had happened? Why fight so hard to protect a secret they’d leaked?

“Regardless,” Toussaint said, pulling her back. “Dane surely suspects we know something, or at least that there’s something to know. This won’t end with the duel tomorrow, I’m sure, regardless of how it goes.”

“And how is it going to go?”

He sighed, she heard his chair creak. “They rejected a nation to keep ahold of Cantimine. I expect they intend to win. Romeo or Faltiste would be my guess.”

“They’d look desperate sending their best pilots to a dispute like this.”

“True enough. Anyone in their top ten would give them a decent shot. Camille is talented, but, well, we’ve avoided conflicts with Eusero for a reason. Besca.”

“Hm?”

“You understand that neither of us can afford to let this alone.”

Besca scoffed. “I think the fact that you’ve got half our pilots with you states pretty clearly that we’re not abandoning you.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Toussaint said. “If we fail tomorrow, you need to take up the torch. Not for Casoban’s sake, for Runa’s. The signal that got through here…something is wrong. I have a feeling they’re going to push, even if we win. If they posture, send Romeo, or, I don’t know, whatever they do—do not back down.”

It was a tall order. Toussaint was, essentially, asking her to risk Dragon—risk Dahlia—over this town. Over something that they didn’t even know was anything.

Over something that had scared Quinn.

Quinn. Quinn was calling her. Right now. Besca scrambled out of her seat, fumbling with her phone to make sure she was seeing right.

“Besca?” Toussaint asked. “Is everything alright?”

“Peachy,” she said. “I gotta go, Jaime. Good luck tomorrow, I’ll keep what you said in mind, uh, I’ll—yeah, you got it. Gotta go. Bye.”

“But—”

She hung up, steadied herself with a few breaths, then swiped ‘Accept’ on her phone. “Hey hun,” she said, as casually as she could. “How’s it going down there? Everything alright?”

And as nice as it was to hear the girl’s voice again, it became quickly clear that, as was so often the case with Quinnlash, no, everything was not alright.

Scion: The Prophecy of Anani

---

“Don't believe in ketchup,” Penne offered, apropos to nothing, as she and Alasdair made their way to the table of food. She’d spotted a bottle of the disdainful stuff among the accoutrements, and as was often the way, found herself incapable of withholding comment. “Tomatoes and corn syrup? Total hoax. Not a condiment. Not a sauce. Candy. Criminal candy.”

Thankfully there were other, more worthy offerings on display. Rodian stew, Doumercine filets, Lorenzian pasta—prepared by a Lorenzian, or at the very least someone who had learned to make pasta in Lorenzia. She filled a tiny porcelain bowl with some ricotta ravioli, a modest ladle of an aromatic brown butter sauce, and topped it with a few Rosarian meatballs.

There was a bar as well, open of course, and she ordered herself a glass of red. Part of her yearned for something a bit stronger; despite her diminished state, she still had the tolerance to make a Rodian vanguard blush. But there were social expectations here, as her father had so keenly explained, and while she was certain she had handled the paparazzi flawlessly, she couldn’t afford to be stumbling over herself in front of, more or less, every important person in Estora.

Oh well. The liquor wouldn’t go to waste under Alasdair’s watch anyway. The man’s own resilience put hers well to shame. Having a Templar who wore his vices on his sleeve ought to have caused her some degree of discomfort. Not so. Penne liked knowing things, especially things about people she spent lots of time around. And even inebriated she was more confident in his capabilities than the rest of the gathered muscle. She would take drunken experience over novice vivre any day of the week and twice on Sunday. Still, she hoped he would eat something. Some protein. Some carbs. He looked a bit gaunt.

“I had a cousin who carried a dried, preserved goldfish in his pocket everywhere he went,” she went on, popping a meatball into her mouth. “Called it his business partner. Took it out in meetings and talked to it. Listened to it. One time this Estoran diner served him pasta with ketchup. Just ketchup. Not even a shaker of parmesan. He marched right into the kitchen and made the cook drink the whole bottle. Man spoke to dead fish, still knew ketchup was wrong.”

She nodded to herself, content with the sageness of her fable. Her father had always blamed Estorans for ketchup, though she didn’t know herself whether or not they’d invented it. Seemed a fitting assumption for a country so averse to seasoning.

“He’s dead now—horse kicked him in the head at the derby. The cousin, not the cook.”

Scion: The Prophecy of Anani

---

A file cabinet had exploded in the back seat of the car. Manilla folders spilled their guts across the upholstery, staples and paperclips littered the floormats, and with every bump and turn along the road to the Cathedral, the car filled with the sounds of shifting paper.

Penne was a fast reader, and despite the apparent chaos around her, she knew exactly what she was looking for. Bright, wide eyes scanned a page, doubled back for any compelling bits or bobs, then it was tossed aside into the passenger-sized pile of information beside, beneath, and at times fluttering down from above her. She hadn’t read all this on the way to the ceremony of course—the trip wasn’t quite that long—but there was time enough for a refresher, for a last-second check over the points of interest she’d put a pin in on their way down from Lorenzia.

A bit fraying on the nerves, if she was being honest. Her fault though. Waited too long. Didn't socialize with the others. Too much moping in the early months; self-pity was rust on the joints and miserable to clean off.

“Ex-military...” she mumbled, mostly to herself. She took a bite from her sandwich—another ball in the juggling act that was the back seat—finished the page, then flapped it at the front seat to get Alasdair’s attention. “Fire Scion dropped out of the military. Not discharged. Then disowned. Family trouble? Mm. Always family trouble.”

Then she tossed the paper aside and moved on. This had been her last week—and by extension, her Templar’s last week as well—a thorough high dive into whatever information she could gather about her new divine colleagues and their plus-ones. Most of it was public knowledge, but being public knowledge was not the same as being widely known. Most people didn’t bother digging into online records. Most people didn’t poke the genealogy sections of city libraries. Most people didn’t call old high schools, hospitals, employers, associates, and those who did certainly didn’t have the resources to pry past the awkward barriers one runs into when asking personal questions about other people.

Of course she’d found nothing revealing. There was never anything explicit at this stage, at least nothing credible. But the was the job, the meat of it anyway; you're not supposed to get all the letters in hangman, you're supposed to figure it out partway.

Not that she anticipated hanging anyone. The hope was always for frictionless working relationships, but it never hurt to keep some WD-40 in the glovebox.

She only got half a page into the Wind Scion’s folder before the car rolled to a stop, and they were enveloped by the sounds of paparazzi. Anxiety bubbled in Penne’s gut, which was becoming distressingly common for her. She had half a mind to stay put and finish reading, or at least finish her sandwich behind the comfort of the tinted windows. But tardiness was unbecoming of a Scion, probably, and she’d been given explicit instructions not to embarrass the family on this outing.

So, utilizing a little trickery Alasdair had taught her, Penne dropped her sandwich into her shadow for later, pushed her paperwork to the far side of the seat, and got out.

It was very bright and very crowded. Penne moved with haste, and between her cap, her shades, and the high collar of her coat, she was little more than a small, black smudge. That, combined with the fact that it seemed Ms. Desrosiers had arrived only just before her and had thus soaked up much of the cameras’ attentions, made her trip across the carpet less frantic than it could have been. Unfortunately, an intrepid reporter did manage to put himself just in the way enough as to make it unacceptable to ignore him.

“Your Holiness! Just a quick question! Your Holiness!” And when she stopped, he nodded his cameraman over to bring the lens entirely too close to her face. “You seem to wear the same outfits every time you meet the public. Is this a style you’re bringing into the mainstream? Are you giving your support to a particular designer?”

Penne looked down at herself. Did she really wear the same thing all the time? That seemed possible. The coat, at least, came with her everywhere. It was like a smock that wrapped all the way around, soft inside and almost rubbery on the outside, but not the least bit smothering. She’d worn it all the time while she worked for the family.

“It’s from a butchers’ supply store in Ornell. Hard to stain, easy to clean—it’s very convenient. I’ve only had to replace it once, but that was because it was stabbed, not because of any problem with the coat.”

The interviewer nodded. Penne nodded. Moments passed without comment.

“Okay goodbye,” she said, then turned on her heel and hurried the rest of the way into the Cathedral to wait for Alasdair.

Amygdala Circuit

Cyril did not hesitate to expound upon the finer points of cat ownership, despite the fact that the Derisas had never, in fact, owned a cat. They were owner-adjacent, baby-sitters and house-watchers and friends to neighborhood strays, which he insisted was enough. As he highlighted for Quinn the various joys of animal friendships, there was a conspiratorial lilt to his voice, the idea that she might not be alone in her desires.

“Alas,” he lamented, with all the drama and tragique of a dying soliloquy. “Camille would murder us. And probably keep the cat.”

Sybil remained quiet throughout, though she secretly shared the sentiment. Sometimes their little corner of the Ange could feel so sterile; a little fuzz wouldn’t hurt. Truly though—and she would not have admitted it at gunpoint—there was a genuineness in Quinn’s reaction that had affected her deeply. She hadn’t gushed compliments, hadn’t waxed on about avant garde approaches to color theory, or tried to analyze her brushing technique. She’d just looked at the painting, and felt something very strongly.

When Sybil did paint for others, which was not as often as everyone seemed to think, that was thereabouts what she wanted from it.

Reluctantly, she began to understand why Cyril thought so kindly of the Runan pilot. He spent so much of his life on stage, pretending, and often he complained to her about the same sorts of things she despised about her newfound fame in the art world. No one, really, ever seemed genuine.

Eventually their little reprieve ended. The twins were called away to their various duties, and before long the evening came, and Quinn was ushered back into the CSC’s zone, to a commandeered motel. She was given her own room with all its amenities, with the other pilots a few doors down—minus Camille, who would be gone late, attending briefings for tomorrow's duel. Beyond the cordon the party went on, lights and voices in the dark that wouldn’t dim for hours yet, if they did at all.

But here, at least for the time being, things were quieter. Save for the bootsteps outside Quinn’s room. Toussaint had seen fit to increase the security presence, and so every entrance and exit was manned, every floor patrolled in regular intervals. But her responsibilities, vague though they were, were done for the night.

Scion: The Prophecy of Anani

robert this is a dangerous place

________________________________________ Penne Rosa Female | 20 | Lorenzia Scion of Shadow _______________________________________________ "Sir Argyll there has been an incident." ________________________________________

"Hi yes hello." Holy Sigil Location Base of the neck, like jewelry. Also faintly visible on her shadow. Appearance While not particularly intimidating, there’s a distinctiveness to Penne. A smidgen under average height, rather wiry, and quite pale for someone from a place as sunny as Lorenzia. She has the big, bright eyes of a startled deer, or a particularly attentive spider that tend to glue themselves to the face of whoever she speaks to. Her aesthetic tastes tended towards gothic even before her ascension to scionhood, with a wardrobe that walks somewhere between Rodion utility and Rosarian streetwear. Personality Penne is possessed of what many people would describe as a discomfiting presence. She’s blunt, with a habit of staring, but what might appear as empty-headed gawking is, in fact, a critically observant nature. Penne is generally quite friendly, and also endlessly curious about most things. She retains information like a sponge—which is to say, impressively effective, but dense. That curiosity does, unfortunately, bleed into gullibility. It’s not that she believes everything she’s told, but she just likes to be sure. She’s aware enough to understand when she’s being taken advantage of, usually, if not after the fact, but that hasn’t stopped her from being convinced into trying horrible foods, or sticking her tongue to frozen light poles. Then of course there’s the crime. For better or for worse, Penne has never blanched at violence. She’s not a soldier, nor does she have any kind of training; her only tool is spontaneity, she just happens to wield it well. Her brutality comes seldomly, but when it does it’s swift, cold, and thorough. If you’re ever wondering whether the glint in her eyes is a question forming, or a sign she’s about to swing for your kneecaps, you could always ask—she’d probably just tell you. Biography The Rosa family is old, established, and depending on who you ask, they’re either saints possessed of peerless virtue, or racketeering thugs with a boot planted on the necks of the common folk, and a hand twisting the balls of the nobility. Two generations ago, they sided against the tyrant scion Yusef Zente, giving aid to the hero that bested him, and took the opportunity to integrate themselves into the country’s economic backbone in the following years. Now, you can’t throw a stone in Lorenzia without hitting a business owned, operated, or protected by the Rosas. Especially in the cities, everyone seems to know someone who owes someone who works for them. Restaurants get their food from Rosa-sponsored farms, delivered on Rosa-owned trucks, fueled by gas, electricity, or mana siphoned from power companies propped up by loans from banks funded by Rosa investments, paying rent to Rosa landlords. Where most families have trees, the Rosas have orchards. They are, of course, not the only big fish in the pond. Lorenzia has no shortage of noble families vying for power and influence, and the two quickest, easiest ways to get it are through politics, and war. The Rosas, ever unconventional, never meddled much in either. Until twenty years ago, when Penne was born to Bavette Rosa, youngest son of the family’s head, Orzo. While Bavette’s older siblings dug their fingers into the well-worked pies of the country’s economy, he turned his attention, as well as his factories and his workforce towards the ceaseless conflicts on the Rodion border. By the time Penne was ten, the Rosas were supplying a startling amount of weapons and ordinance to the Rodion military, who seemed more than happy to outsource the boring, logistical side of warfare to their industrious neighbors. It was dangerous, both physically and financially, and it worked. The Rosas had cornered a market untapped by their competition. At fifteen, Penne spent just as much time in Rodion as she did in Lorenzia, shadowing her father as he ingratiated their family with the Rodion brass. She was a dutiful daughter, if odd, and if something needed doing, she never hesitated. Loyalty was everything, after all. As she grew older, her involvement with the family necessitated involvement with its less than overtly legal affairs. Sit ins with friends and business partners were sprinkled with sit ins with overdue debtors and rivals. Penne learned about extortion in all its forms; blackmail, bribery, torture. She learned how to find out what hurt people enough to make them do what you want, and when that didn’t work, she learned how to keep a body weighed down underwater, how long it took pigs to eat through bone, and how to throw dogs off the scent of rot. Karma struck in her twentieth year, though in which direction is unclear. First she was cursed with seemingly no explanation, and then, shortly thereafter, she ascended to scionhood. Unfortunately this did nothing for the dark magic slowly eating away at her life, and so she continues to wither, slowly but surely, until one day she assumes, she’ll probably just crumple over and turn to dust. And so now Penne presents an issue: on the one hand, a scion with direct ties to organized crime should be concerning ethically, spiritually, and practically; on the other, how much trouble can she really cause before the curse inevitably kills her? Naturally, there’s only one way to find out. Weapon of Choice Penne is not a fighter, but she’s familiar with getting behind people who are. Misc. theme or something Penne loves music, and though she can’t play an instrument to save her life, she’s a wonderful dancer. Penne is an enthusiastic polyglot, fluent in Lorenzian, Rodion and of course Estoran, and is conversational in Rosarian and Doumercan.

Mol's CS Thing

________________________________________ Penne Rosa Female | 20 | Lorenzia Scion of Shadow _______________________________________________ "Sir Argyll there has been an incident." ________________________________________

"Hi yes hello." Holy Sigil Location Base of the neck, like jewelry. Also faintly visible on her shadow. Appearance While not particularly intimidating, there’s a distinctiveness to Penne. A smidgen under average height, rather wiry, and quite pale for someone from a place as sunny as Lorenzia. She has the big, bright eyes of a startled deer, or a particularly attentive spider that tend to glue themselves to the face of whoever she speaks to. Her aesthetic tastes tended towards gothic even before her ascension to scionhood, with a wardrobe that walks somewhere between Rodion utility and Rosarian streetwear. Personality Penne is possessed of what many people would describe as a discomfiting presence. She’s blunt, with a habit of staring, but what might appear as empty-headed gawking is, in fact, a critically observant nature. Penne is generally quite friendly, and also endlessly curious about most things. She retains information like a sponge—which is to say, impressively effective, but dense. That curiosity does, unfortunately, bleed into gullibility. It’s not that she believes everything she’s told, but she just likes to be sure. She’s aware enough to understand when she’s being taken advantage of, usually, if not after the fact, but that hasn’t stopped her from being convinced into trying horrible foods, or sticking her tongue to frozen light poles. Then of course there’s the crime. For better or for worse, Penne has never blanched at violence. She’s not a soldier, nor does she have any kind of training; her only tool is spontaneity, she just happens to wield it well. Her brutality comes seldomly, but when it does it’s swift, cold, and thorough. If you’re ever wondering whether the glint in her eyes is a question forming, or a sign she’s about to swing for your kneecaps, you could always ask—she’d probably just tell you. Biography The Rosa family is old, established, and depending on who you ask, they’re either saints possessed of peerless virtue, or racketeering thugs with a boot planted on the necks of the common folk, and a hand twisting the balls of the nobility. Two generations ago, they sided against the tyrant scion Yusef Zente, giving aid to the hero that bested him, and took the opportunity to integrate themselves into the country’s economic backbone in the following years. Now, you can’t throw a stone in Lorenzia without hitting a business owned, operated, or protected by the Rosas. Especially in the cities, everyone seems to know someone who owes someone who works for them. Restaurants get their food from Rosa-sponsored farms, delivered on Rosa-owned trucks, fueled by gas, electricity, or mana siphoned from power companies propped up by loans from banks funded by Rosa investments, paying rent to Rosa landlords. Where most families have trees, the Rosas have orchards. They are, of course, not the only big fish in the pond. Lorenzia has no shortage of noble families vying for power and influence, and the two quickest, easiest ways to get it are through politics, and war. The Rosas, ever unconventional, never meddled much in either. Until twenty years ago, when Penne was born to Bavette Rosa, youngest son of the family’s head, Orzo. While Bavette’s older siblings dug their fingers into the well-worked pies of the country’s economy, he turned his attention, as well as his factories and his workforce towards the ceaseless conflicts on the Rodion border. By the time Penne was ten, the Rosas were supplying a startling amount of weapons and ordinance to the Rodion military, who seemed more than happy to outsource the boring, logistical side of warfare to their industrious neighbors. It was dangerous, both physically and financially, and it worked. The Rosas had cornered a market untapped by their competition. At fifteen, Penne spent just as much time in Rodion as she did in Lorenzia, shadowing her father as he ingratiated their family with the Rodion brass. She was a dutiful daughter, if odd, and if something needed doing, she never hesitated. Loyalty was everything, after all. As she grew older, her involvement with the family necessitated involvement with its less than overtly legal affairs. Sit ins with friends and business partners were sprinkled with sit ins with overdue debtors and rivals. Penne learned about extortion in all its forms; blackmail, bribery, torture. She learned how to find out what hurt people enough to make them do what you want, and when that didn’t work, she learned how to keep a body weighed down underwater, how long it took pigs to eat through bone, and how to throw dogs off the scent of rot. Karma struck in her twentieth year, though in which direction is unclear. First she was cursed with seemingly no explanation, and then, shortly thereafter, she ascended to scionhood. Unfortunately this did nothing for the dark magic slowly eating away at her life, and so she continues to wither, slowly but surely, until one day she assumes, she’ll probably just crumple over and turn to dust. And so now Penne presents an issue: on the one hand, a scion with direct ties to organized crime should be concerning ethically, spiritually, and practically; on the other, how much trouble can she really cause before the curse inevitably kills her? Naturally, there’s only one way to find out. Weapon of Choice Penne is not a fighter, but she’s familiar with getting behind people who are. Misc. theme or something Penne loves music, and though she can’t play an instrument to save her life, she’s a wonderful dancer. Penne is an enthusiastic polyglot, fluent in Lorenzian, Rodion and of course Estoran, and is conversational in Rosarian and Doumercan.

Mol's CS Thing

A K A I O
A K A I O

^{"My patience for those who have yet to kneel is eclipsed only by my duty to those who have."}

C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T _________________________________________________________ C H A R A C T E R D A T A C H A R A C T E R D A T A _________________________________________________________ Name Akaio - 赤い王 Age 25 Gender Femme Height 195cm (6'4") Appearance Akaio can be most comfortably described as a spire. Toweringly tall and narrow, with the physiological architecture of a railroad spike. Alarmingly red hair hangs like a curtain well past her back, contrasting skin which seems almost bloodless by comparison. There is a sharp and unceasing intensity to her presence, highlighted by bright eyes and a face which expresses all emotions in their extremes. In action her wardrobe is chivalry-chic, with a gothic twist. Armor as black and sharp as a blade, accented bloody-red, with a crimson cloak that might as well be grafted on. Off the clock, however, one could confuse her for a coasting college student. Sweatpants, band tees, slippers, a neck pillow on rough days. When she isn't playing her role as the destined empress, Akaio would much prefer to be comfortable rather than stylish. Lineage 1st Generation Type Soul Substantializer Power Carcosian Eventide - Akaio manifests her dominion, becoming a focal point from which the Red City spills forth. Carcosian Eventide does not distort reality in the conventional manner of a Substantializer. Rather, it appears to corrupt the very Makai around her, filling in the cracks the Makai creates. As the world begins to break down, it is made anew, "repaired" with the bizarre architecture and landscape of the Red City. The effects of this power are weak at first, but the longer it's active, and the longer Akaio remains within the Makai, the stronger and more vivid its effects become, twisting both the world and Akaio herself. Her mortality sloughs away for the Monarch beneath, and as the Empire manifests, so too does her strength. Turning delusion into reality, her power, speed and durability will slowly ramp until she either leaves the Makai, deactivates her ability, or dies. Or, she suspects, she loses herself entirely to the City.

B A C K S T O R Y - M I N D O F I C E B A C K S T O R Y - M I N D O F I C E ________________________________________________________________________________________ WIP P E R S O N A L I T Y - H E A R T O F A S H P E R S O N A L I T Y - H E A R T O F A S H ________________________________________________________________________________________ WIP C H A R A C T E R A R C - S O U L O F F I R E C H A R A C T E R A R C - S O U L O F F I R E ________________________________________________________________________________________ WIP

---

Pariah Online

R O O K
R O O K

^{“Keep talking, and the next time you open your mouth it’ll be to spit out your teeth.”}

C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T _________________________________________________________ C H A R A C T E R D A T A C H A R A C T E R D A T A _________________________________________________________ True Self Alberta "Albie" Klein Persona Rook Pathos Draethir Role DPS Weapon of Choice Gauntlets Arcane Spinal Brace Domains Metal; Enhancement, Alteration Playstyle & Attitude Apoplectic frontliner ♬

A L B I E : R E D A C T E D A L B I E : R E D A C T E D ________________________________________________________________________________________ [Access denied in compliance with the Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act] R O O K : S I N G L E M I N D E D F U R Y R O O K : S I N G L E M I N D E D F U R Y ________________________________________________________________________________________ They say if you can’t throw the first punch, throw the last. Rook says: why settle—throw both. Rook’s a veteran. Since Pariah’s first beta, she’s been there, to everyone’s chagrin but her own. At first she hated it; which was fair enough, no love lost either direction. PvE was fine, she guessed. Killing big monsters was cool, shiny loot was cool, and suffering catastrophic bodily damage only to respawn shortly thereafter was cool too. Less cool was that most of this had to be done with other people. People with loud voices, dumb faces, and slow, stupid hands or heads or whatever it was you played Pariah with. They’d interrupt the fun to do shit like ask questions or socialize, and when she reacted accordingly, she was more often than not kicked. It was bullshit. Then she discovered PvP, and oh, the stars, they just aligned. Here was a world where she could inflict herself upon others and be rewarded for the resulting carnage. She jumped in with both feet and never looked back. Rook didn’t just thrive here, she excelled. What she lacked, tremendously, in working with other people, she more than made up for with her ability to hurt them. Duels, free for all’s, even team-based games; as long as she could punch someone, she was happy. With a seemingly bottomless furnace of rage, fueled by a steady stream of angry DMs from salty opponents, Rook found a home for herself. A home on the PvP leaderboards, a home on Pariah’s battlegrounds, and a home on the shit lists of damn near every PvP guild and bounty hunter in the game. Her life became a revolving door of challengers and arenas and PEGI 18 rated bloodsports. She wouldn’t have it any other way.

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Spells & Spell-like Abilities

Signature

Terminus

Terminus
The cornerstone to Rook’s playstyle lies in the arcane brace attached to her spine. The device is socketed with a quintet of jutting nodes, which can be activated in sequence to instill her with ramping power—at a cost. This process puts Rook on a time limit, as once the third node is activated, Terminus will continue its sequence, draining mana until she's spent, dead, or both. Ultimately, this makes Rook exceptionally well suited for fast, bursty combat, but she suffers in protracted encounters.

Passively, Terminus gives Rook a baseline enhanced strength, as well as the ability to rapidly regenerate mana when inactive. Once activated, Rook can subconsciously allocate a node to her skills of Enhancement or Alteration, up to five times, meaning she cannot hit the capstone of both skills.

Enhancement

Each node allocated to Enhancement grants Rook an exponential increase to strength, speed, and reflex, with the most notable increase at three. Each allocation unlocks a new spell.

Node 1: Relapse ★

Relapse ★
Rook's next strike hits twice.

Node 2: Eidetic Agony ★★

Eidetic Agony ★★
Rook memorizes the damage of the next attack that hits her, mimicking it with her next strike.

Node 3: Damocles ★★

Damocles ★★
Rook becomes momentarily invulnerable, restoring her body to full health temporarily, and replenishing her mana but draining it at an increased rate. Once Damocles ends, Rook suffers the damage she took prior to its cast.

Alteration

Each node allocated to Alteration grants Rook mastery over her arcane gauntlets, allowing access to new spells with each dedicated node.

Node 1: Polverize ★

Polverize ★
Rook marks the last target she hit with arcane polarity, allowing her to either repel herself away from them, or rush directly to them.

Node 2: Mercurial Agony ★★

Mercurial Agony ★★
Rook traps the arcane energy of the next attack that hits her, allowing her to either replenish a small amount of mana, or infuse her gauntlets with an absorbed element. Defaults to a raw magic infusion if no element is absorbed. This spell does not deflect or diminish the damage of the attack.

Node 3: Meteoran ★★★★★

Meteoran ★★★★★
Rook throws her Hail Mary, channeling all of her mana, recently trapped energy, and memorized damage into a single, explosive strike. This immediately ends Terminus.

Character Feats

World of Nails : Rook does one thing: she hits people. She's exceedingly good at it, some might even say born for it. Put her in front of a target, and she will, inevitably, find a way to make it cry. Alas, it is also the only thing she's good at. She's not a crafter, she's not a raider, and she's certainly not a public servant. She's a PvPer; she needs a player to versus, or she kind of has no idea what to do with herself.

No-Lifer : Between her veteran status, and the fact that she hardly ever seems to log off, Rook has an amount of hours in this game rivaled by few players. One would think this would make for a well-rounded experience, but no. As stated, Rook has spent a majority of her time either in arenas, or fighting out in the open world. This has, at least, made her rather knowledgeable of Pariah's lands. She probably couldn't draw you a map, but if you dropped her in a random place, chances are she's murdered someone or been murdered there. If all else fails, she could make a living as a particularly ornery wilderness guide.

Metalhead : Rook is, for better or worse, determined to the point of incorrigibility. When she sets her mind to something, it's damn near impossible to dissuade her, especially with force. Fortunately, she's rather dense, and it usually doesn't take much to convince her of something. Using big words is a risk; after four syllables she'll either assume you know what you're talking about, or get incredibly angry. Which, to be fair, is her reaction to most stimuli.

Small Heart Beating : Rook is cruel, but not wantonly. She doesn't necessarily enjoy being mad, but there's not much catharsis in anything else. Life isn't fair like that. Still, there's a part of her, tiny as it might be, that takes every opportunity it can to twist her anger towards more noble pursuits. It doesn't always succeed, but when it does, she finds the satisfaction lingers just a little bit longer.