Mcmolly

My Hero Academia RP | Interest Check & Recruitment Ad

Interested as well.

An Earthen Lament

---

Fucking—

Fine.

Sybil looked around the rest of the meal hall one last time, struggling to hide how desperate she was for literally anyone else to make an offer, before she reiterated to herself: Stomach over discomfort. So, with a scoff at the noble boy’s folding, she made the short, haughty stride to his table.

Rather than sit, she placed a boot up on the bench and snatched up the bowl, heedless to the little that spilled over. The spoon she flicked aside, then angled the cusp to her lips and drank. Cold, gritty, tasteless, like swallowing a mouthful of chicken spit. She didn’t care. Food was fuel she could burn before having to burn…well, herself, she supposed.

She’d gulped down half the bowl when the perfumed little shit decided to be smart with her. Sybil lowered it briefly, just long enough to stare him down—not that he had the guts to look her in the eyes. Coward. He had his nose pasted to the parchment on the table, though it didn’t seem to her like he was making much progress. On instinct she tilted her head to get a better look at the words, but that didn’t do much for her considering she wasn’t particularly literate. She’d had to learn how to read and sign her name when she turned her father over, and she recognized the names of a few towns and cities on the roads, but nobody in the old band had been known for their linguistic expertise.

Which was all to say that she wanted to bean him with the bowl, or snatch the paper up and blow her nose in it, but she didn’t. When Daumm wanted something, and someone gave it to him, he—usually—didn’t bully them for it, he went easier on them. Of course, that only ever went for the people in the band. Everyone else got their heap of bullying whether they gave him what he wanted or not. But, as she’d been trying to convince herself, the Blackwardens were essentially her new band.

So instead she finished drinking down the soup. Eventually Thomas did speak up again, and she ignored him until she was finished. When the bowl was practically empty, she dropped it back onto the table, spit out a chunk of vegetable stuck between her teeth, then leveled her eyes at him again, though he still had his head down. The longer she stood there, the more she realized that, even though he was sitting, they were still practically at-eyes with one another. Not a good look.

“Me?” She asked, sitting down with her back to him, elbows propped up on the table. “Sure. I’ve handled plenty of shit whether I was ready for it or not. You, though…I dunno. Unless you’re gonna read the monsters and marauders to death, I’d be worried. But I’m not. Worried. About me.”

An Earthen Lament

---

The ceiling was too tall.

Sybil couldn’t help staring up at it. It rose so high that the torchlight didn’t reach the top, and the light piece dangling from a chain, arrayed with a dozen candles, didn’t either. It was just…black, up there, and no one could say with absolute certainty whether there was stone above, or just nothing. She’d seen all manner of southron creatures emerge from darkness like that, some she could kill, some she could outrun, and some she just didn’t stand a chance against. Obviously nothing was going to drop out of the ceiling in a Blackwarden castle, but, still, it begged attention from someone who’d only ever seen the low ceilings of roadside inns, and commandeered farmsteads.

It was also a better sight than the rest of the meal hall.

Sparsely populated as it was, Sybil hadn’t had much issue pinning the other initiates. Anyone who wasn’t bussing plates, peppering food, or who didn’t have spine-bending hunches and brows low enough to make a Neanderthal jealous, seemed like a safe bet. She counted two, maybe three, but she was also shit with math. It hadn’t quite settled with her yet whether she was meant to think of them as companions or competition, nor did she know which she’d have preferred. Competition? Sure. Kick some ass, she could do that. Easy. Ass-kick was her middle name, which was particularly impressive since she didn’t even have a last name.

But companions? Her kneejerk reaction was along the lines of “gross,” especially considering one of the initiates looked like she’d been hurled out of a swamp orphanage, and the other looked like nobility. That skeeved her out a bit. She’d robbed plenty of nobles—most indirectly, through their couriers or trade routes—had she ever lined her pockets with his family’s gold? Was that something to feel bad about?

Fuck the nobles. That’s what her father had always said, but she still thought it anyway. She might have been a piece a of shit, but that meant she could recognize other pieces of shit. Or, she thought reluctantly, she was being presumptuous, and this was precisely the sort of thinking she was trying to get away from. And sure, maybe. But fuck the nobles.

Sybil gnawed clean the last bone on her plate and finally brought her eyes down from the ceiling. On their way into the Vólkerben someone had remarked on it being their first time in a castle—fellow initiate or other passerby, she didn’t remember. In response, Sybil mentioned that she’d been in a castle once, much smaller, poorly guarded, more like a fort, really, when she thought about it. She’d found the minor lord of the property on the shitter, heard the fear drop right out of his guts. Now she was sitting alone. Alone, and still hungry.

She got up and headed for the little cove the cook inhabited, leaving her sword propped up against the table. Among bandits, or at least in her father’s band, the only people who left their things unattended were the ones who weren’t afraid they’d be stolen. Here, well, that wasn’t really a worry, but in her mind it was still a power move. In her mind she was also an even six-foot, and the maids swooned when she passed by. Someone had to think highly of her, might as well be herself.

“Garçon,” she said with as much pomp as she could muster, slapping the iron plate down onto the cook’s table. “Your finest…I dunno, something with a bone in it. The closer it has to a pulse, the better. Really just, just the bloodiest—”

“You got your share,” the cook said grimly.

Sybil blinked, eyes flicking to the rest of the food he was preparing. He noticed, and his demeanor didn’t lighten any at the implication.

“Ain’t meal hours. You get what was prepped for you, this is for later—for the real wardens. You want more? Maybe there’s someone you could steal it from.”

The twist in his words was…unsubtle. She licked her teeth to bite off whatever nasty and ill-minded retort was bubbling up in her throat, and merely huffed out “fine,” before turning to the rest of the feasting hall.

“Okay,” she called out, arms wide. “Who’s feeling charitable today?”

Her eyes swept the room, searching not only her fellow initiates, but even the veterans. If it was worth doing, it was worth overdoing, and she’d be underdoing if she left out the grizzled old bastards just because they outranked her—or could kick her ass.

She walked by the tables, swallowing down the taste of distaste at interacting with people. People she didn’t know or cared to know. Stomach over discomfort. Growing up as she did might have taught her a lot of unsavory things, but it had also instilled in her the value of a good meal.

“Doesn’t have to be charity, if the word offends you,” she said with faux-amicability. “You’re just as welcome to call it ‘self-preservation,’ hm? How’s that? Anyone feel like doing themselves a favor?”

An Earthen Lament

---

__________________________________________ Sybil, Daughter of Daumm _______________________________________________________________ 18 | Female | Southron _______________________________________________________________ [+] ▼ B A S I C S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Height – 4’11" ► Weight - 100 lbs ► Build - Slight Runner ► Hair Colour - Black ► Eye Colour – Dun Gray ► Origin – Unnamed or Unknown, Southern Confederacy - [+] ▼ S K I L L S E T ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Swordsman ship – Relentless harasser, ferocious and formidable ► Blood Magic – Blood for Brawn, understanding of the nature of sacrifice ► Dauntless – Voracious in the face of adversity, unblemished by fear -

D E T A I L E D A P P E A R A N C E Sybil is much bigger on the inside than she is on the outside. She stands a head or two below her peers, even in greaves, and has a habit of lugging things around that put her size into an unfavorable perspective. Her physique is wanting for the focused muscle of a would-be warden, and instead she bears the build of someone who spent their life walking, and often enough, running. Otherwise, while not shying from exercise, she’s never put much stock into it. It’s not as though muscle would make her any taller. To compensate, she has mastered the art of the glower. The glare, the scowl, the knives-in-the-eyes-and-soon-in-your-spine stare, and it’s just about bolted on. She keeps her soot-colored hair in a short bob, her face framed by blunt bangs and dirt, neither of which lend her any disarming qualities. Her attire is a motley collage of southron culture, crossed with all the chic of a hedge knight with no money. Patchy cloths and dark leathers shift and chafe under joint segments of armor. The sword she carries stands nearly as tall as she does, and when it isn’t strapped to her back, she’s dragging it along like a dead animal. She cleans them when she cleans them, which just happens to be past the threshold most people do—people who don’t understand the value of a dirt sheen. At a glance Sybil may look like someone’s grumpy, ill-tempered niece, but in reality Sybil doesn’t have any aunts or uncles.

---_{P E R S O N A L I T Y}

There’s something unsettlingly vicious about Sybil, from the way she speaks and carries herself, all the way down to her personal ideologies. She has a low tolerance for socialization, and an indiscriminate temper that often leaves people with a low tolerance for her, and that’s all before the garnishing of sadistic tendencies and a wicked napoleon complex.

Missing from this vile mixture, and perhaps her saving grace from true villainy, is the textbook narcissism and arrogance. Sybil possesses a candid self-awareness, and admits her own shortcomings as freely and as bluntly as she points out the mistakes of others. If it’s her fault, she’s the first to rat on herself, and she’s quick to avoid making the same mistake twice. To her, there’s a million things to shame people for, but learning isn’t one of them. This has made her a rather productive learner, and an apt student.

But there are some stains the wardens can’t wash out. The body can be scrubbed, the mind can be polished, but dirt on the soul tends to never have been dirt at all, but intrinsic. This belief has been the cornerstone to Sybil’s reflection upon not only herself, but the Path as well. Nature rules man, Evilness lingers in all men, Know oneself. Do these tenants better the soul, or do they simply justify the soul’s behavior? Is change possible, or is it simply a matter of being repurposed?

Does she care, or is she just making excuses for why she's always favored killing men over beasts? Perhaps there are questions she isn't ready to ask herself.

---_{O R I G I N}

The wardens really will take just about anyone.

Sybil was born to a bandit and raised in banditry. Her father, a man named Daumm, roamed the marshlands with his band of reprobates, terrorizing traveling merchants and plaguing the trade routes between lordships. He knew no boundary to self-indulgence, and spared no thought to foresight. This recklessness made him excellent at marauding and debauchery and generally any activity which could stand to debase the good name of men, mankind, and people with black hair.

It made him terrible at pulling out.

Sybil’s mother, according to her father, had set out from whatever hole-in-the-dirt town she lived in and found him on the road. She stormed right past his men, stared him in the face, and shoved a bundle into his arms. Not her problem, she’d said. Well fuck, said he, because it ought not to be his problem either. Daumm never danced around that idea—that Sybil wasn’t wanted, that she was a mistake and a burden and every other easy jab he could make to get a rise out of her, until he got bored, or she got used to them.

It could go without saying, but should be said regardless, that Daumm was an abysmal father. None of his qualities even orbited the loosest definition of the word “parental.” In many ways, in fact in most ways, Daumm was no different from any other bandit. He was unruly, greedy, sadistic, a violent drunk and seemingly allergic to hygiene and good manners.

But in another, important way, he was very different.

He was a mage.

More specifically he was a blood mage, a particular discipline of blood mage, but nonetheless. He never considered Sybil a protégé, but he did see an opportunity in training her. After all, one blood mage had gotten him this far, and if it worked once it would certainly work twice. Daumm never considered the potential fallout of teaching his daughter everything he knew because, as demonstrated ad nauseum, Daumm didn’t think ahead. Instead, he took the meager little girl that spent her days gnawing charred meat off bones tossed in the pit fire, told her the whole world hated her more than he did, and gave her a weapon.

At a young age Sybil went from observing violence to partaking in it. It felt…good. At first. Luckless as she was, she’d inherited some of her father’s worst qualities, namely being late on the uptake for things like “compassion” and “empathy.” So for a time she delighted in the power her magic and lifestyle allowed her to exert over others. This was just the way things were, Daumm had said, this was their nature—the nature of all men, magic or otherwise. The savage life of banditry took hold of her, the violence, the power, became her passion. For a time the bloodshed brought out something in Daumm that she’d never seen before, something that fueled her and yet, in retrospect, sickened her deeply. It was pride. Pride in who she’d become. This was who she was, and she would never change.

Eventually, she changed. It was in no grand way, and it certainly didn’t happen quickly, but eventually those foreign concepts of humanity did come to her. Their roots were shallow and lethargic, and she fought them off for a while, but once they had settled, she couldn’t shake them.

Soon she had lost her passion. The violence, especially violence against people who didn’t want it, or worse, stood no chance against her, lost its thrill. She began to feel…bad, for what she’d done. Regret came quickly and burrowed deep. The sleepless nights and miserable days took their toll, until Sybil made the unsettlingly easy decision that she wanted peace more than she wanted a family.

So she struck a deal with one of the petty lords. Her father for her freedom. Hands were shaken, writs were signed, and the trap was set. It wasn’t a particularly elaborate trap, but still, no one was surprised when Daumm fell helplessly into it, nor when he went raging and wild into custody. He invoked meaning in their relationship that there had never been, that he’d been certain to remind her day in and day out could never be. Yet when she left with her freedom, she did so bitter and ashamed.

Freedom without purpose was nearly worse than regret. She longed for the thrill she’d felt before, but knew she needed a different avenue to it. Something new, something, daresay, honorable, that would accept her despite herself. Despite what she’d done. What she was even in the wake of change.

The Blackwardens didn’t even bat an eye.

---_{E Q U I P M E N T}

Arms and Armor
► Greatsword
► Morning Star
► Leather Cuirass and Spaulder
► Mottled Iron Gauntlets and Greaves
► Black Leather Jerkin
► Daumm’s Cloak

Misc and Utility
►Paring Knife
►Unsavory Rations (7 days)
►"Water" Flask
►Whetstone
►Assorted Blood Vials, All Labeled "Normal Jelly"

---_{O T H E R}

Expansion on Blood Magic

Utilizing her father’s unsurprisingly poor teaching, Sybil has learned a particular style of blood magic called Burning. This allows her to enhance her physical strength in exchange for blood. The greater the enhancement, the greater the cost, and for someone of Sybil’s build and stature, there’s a higher buy-in just to break even with most people. Because of this, she suffers in prolonged engagements, but can be quite deadly in bursts.

As well, Sybil generates blood at a quicker pace than is natural. Not enough to make a difference in combat, but enough for her to regain in hours what may have normally taken days, or to offset the cost of burning to lug her sword around.

-

---

-A Template by Load Wraith

An Earthen Lament

small angry

---

__________________________________________ Sybil, Daughter of Daumm _______________________________________________________________ 18 | Female | Southron _______________________________________________________________ [+] ▼ B A S I C S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Height – 4’11" ► Weight - 100 lbs ► Build - Slight Runner ► Hair Colour - Black ► Eye Colour – Dun Gray ► Origin – Unnamed or Unknown, Southern Confederacy - [+] ▼ S K I L L S E T ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Swordsman ship – Relentless harasser, ferocious and formidable ► Blood Magic – Blood for Brawn, understanding of the nature of sacrifice ► Dauntless – Voracious in the face of adversity, unblemished by fear -

D E T A I L E D A P P E A R A N C E Sybil is much bigger on the inside than she is on the outside. She stands a head or two below her peers, even in greaves, and has a habit of lugging things around that put her size into an unfavorable perspective. Her physique is wanting for the focused muscle of a would-be warden, and instead she bears the build of someone who spent their life walking, and often enough, running. Otherwise, while not shying from exercise, she’s never put much stock into it. It’s not as though muscle would make her any taller. To compensate, she has mastered the art of the glower. The glare, the scowl, the knives-in-the-eyes-and-soon-in-your-spine stare, and it’s just about bolted on. She keeps her soot-colored hair in a short bob, her face framed by blunt bangs and dirt, neither of which lend her any disarming qualities. Her attire is a motley collage of southron culture, crossed with all the chic of a hedge knight with no money. Patchy cloths and dark leathers shift and chafe under joint segments of armor. The sword she carries stands nearly as tall as she does, and when it isn’t strapped to her back, she’s dragging it along like a dead animal. She cleans them when she cleans them, which just happens to be past the threshold most people do—people who don’t understand the value of a dirt sheen. At a glance Sybil may look like someone’s grumpy, ill-tempered niece, but in reality Sybil doesn’t have any aunts or uncles.

---_{P E R S O N A L I T Y}

There’s something unsettlingly vicious about Sybil, from the way she speaks and carries herself, all the way down to her personal ideologies. She has a low tolerance for socialization, and an indiscriminate temper that often leaves people with a low tolerance for her, and that’s all before the garnishing of sadistic tendencies and a wicked napoleon complex.

Missing from this vile mixture, and perhaps her saving grace from true villainy, is the textbook narcissism and arrogance. Sybil possesses a candid self-awareness, and admits her own shortcomings as freely and as bluntly as she points out the mistakes of others. If it’s her fault, she’s the first to rat on herself, and she’s quick to avoid making the same mistake twice. To her, there’s a million things to shame people for, but learning isn’t one of them. This has made her a rather productive learner, and an apt student.

But there are some stains the wardens can’t wash out. The body can be scrubbed, the mind can be polished, but dirt on the soul tends to never have been dirt at all, but intrinsic. This belief has been the cornerstone to Sybil’s reflection upon not only herself, but the Path as well. Nature rules man, Evilness lingers in all men, Know oneself. Do these tenants better the soul, or do they simply justify the soul’s behavior? Is change possible, or is it simply a matter of being repurposed?

Does she care, or is she just making excuses for why she's always favored killing men over beasts? Perhaps there are questions she isn't ready to ask herself.

---_{O R I G I N}

The wardens really will take just about anyone.

Sybil was born to a bandit and raised in banditry. Her father, a man named Daumm, roamed the marshlands with his band of reprobates, terrorizing traveling merchants and plaguing the trade routes between lordships. He knew no boundary to self-indulgence, and spared no thought to foresight. This recklessness made him excellent at marauding and debauchery and generally any activity which could stand to debase the good name of men, mankind, and people with black hair.

It made him terrible at pulling out.

Sybil’s mother, according to her father, had set out from whatever hole-in-the-dirt town she lived in and found him on the road. She stormed right past his men, stared him in the face, and shoved a bundle into his arms. Not her problem, she’d said. Well fuck, said he, because it ought not to be his problem either. Daumm never danced around that idea—that Sybil wasn’t wanted, that she was a mistake and a burden and every other easy jab he could make to get a rise out of her, until he got bored, or she got used to them.

It could go without saying, but should be said regardless, that Daumm was an abysmal father. None of his qualities even orbited the loosest definition of the word “parental.” In many ways, in fact in most ways, Daumm was no different from any other bandit. He was unruly, greedy, sadistic, a violent drunk and seemingly allergic to hygiene and good manners.

But in another, important way, he was very different.

He was a mage.

More specifically he was a blood mage, a particular discipline of blood mage, but nonetheless. He never considered Sybil a protégé, but he did see an opportunity in training her. After all, one blood mage had gotten him this far, and if it worked once it would certainly work twice. Daumm never considered the potential fallout of teaching his daughter everything he knew because, as demonstrated ad nauseum, Daumm didn’t think ahead. Instead, he took the meager little girl that spent her days gnawing charred meat off bones tossed in the pit fire, told her the whole world hated her more than he did, and gave her a weapon.

At a young age Sybil went from observing violence to partaking in it. It felt…good. At first. Luckless as she was, she’d inherited some of her father’s worst qualities, namely being late on the uptake for things like “compassion” and “empathy.” So for a time she delighted in the power her magic and lifestyle allowed her to exert over others. This was just the way things were, Daumm had said, this was their nature—the nature of all men, magic or otherwise. The savage life of banditry took hold of her, the violence, the power, became her passion. For a time the bloodshed brought out something in Daumm that she’d never seen before, something that fueled her and yet, in retrospect, sickened her deeply. It was pride. Pride in who she’d become. This was who she was, and she would never change.

Eventually, she changed. It was in no grand way, and it certainly didn’t happen quickly, but eventually those foreign concepts of humanity did come to her. Their roots were shallow and lethargic, and she fought them off for a while, but once they had settled, she couldn’t shake them.

Soon she had lost her passion. The violence, especially violence against people who didn’t want it, or worse, stood no chance against her, lost its thrill. She began to feel…bad, for what she’d done. Regret came quickly and burrowed deep. The sleepless nights and miserable days took their toll, until Sybil made the unsettlingly easy decision that she wanted peace more than she wanted a family.

So she struck a deal with one of the petty lords. Her father for her freedom. Hands were shaken, writs were signed, and the trap was set. It wasn’t a particularly elaborate trap, but still, no one was surprised when Daumm fell helplessly into it, nor when he went raging and wild into custody. He invoked meaning in their relationship that there had never been, that he’d been certain to remind her day in and day out could never be. Yet when she left with her freedom, she did so bitter and ashamed.

Freedom without purpose was nearly worse than regret. She longed for the thrill she’d felt before, but knew she needed a different avenue to it. Something new, something, daresay, honorable, that would accept her despite herself. Despite what she’d done. What she was even in the wake of change.

The Blackwardens didn’t even bat an eye.

---_{E Q U I P M E N T}

Arms and Armor
► Greatsword
► Morning Star
► Leather Cuirass and Spaulder
► Mottled Iron Gauntlets and Greaves
► Black Leather Jerkin
► Daumm’s Cloak

Misc and Utility
►Paring Knife
►Unsavory Rations (7 days)
►"Water" Flask
►Whetstone
►Assorted Blood Vials, All Labeled "Normal Jelly"

---_{O T H E R}

Expansion on Blood Magic

Utilizing her father’s unsurprisingly poor teaching, Sybil has learned a particular style of blood magic called Burning. This allows her to enhance her physical strength in exchange for blood. The greater the enhancement, the greater the cost, and for someone of Sybil’s build and stature, there’s a higher buy-in just to break even with most people. Because of this, she suffers in prolonged engagements, but can be quite deadly in bursts.

As well, Sybil generates blood at a quicker pace than is natural. Not enough to make a difference in combat, but enough for her to regain in hours what may have normally taken days, or to offset the cost of burning to lug her sword around.

-

---

-A Template by Load Wraith

Polaris: A New Anchorage Story

---

Smith's Rest | HQ Tram Station
January 16th, 2677

---

“That one’s cute.”

“These are pilots. They are here to bring the threats against New Anchorage to heel, and, if they stay, they may have to lay down their lives for it. These people are not here to be our friends. If you’re going to judge them on their physiques, it should be in regards to how well they can handle themselves in a fight. Even then, that hardly matters compared to how well they can pilot.”

“That one’s cute, too!”

Eli pinched the bridge of her nose. “Vera this is not appropriate behavior for a pilot.”

“Well, like you keep telling me, I’m not a pilot yet,” Vera said. There was a little bite in her voice, but she was still smiling. She stuck her tongue out playfully at Eli and turned back to the newcomers.

They didn’t look like much. It was hard to tell the weather-beat of a veteran from the grime of needing a shower and a washing machine. Then again, none of them here had ever been much to look at either. Raschke was, generously speaking, a “man of the people,” the pilots and staff were nobodies, some of whom weren’t even natives. Even Sophia had been a haggard woman, blown into her role like an icy tumbleweed, and gone just as quickly. No, she thought. Not gone. Deserted. She left us.

Eli regarded the newcomers more heavily. If only she could know from a look who meant to help them and who, like Sophia, would betray them. These people would sign their names and make their pledges, but those were words only, and for all her shortcoming’s in understanding people, Eli knew better than to trust them by their words.

Or, she thought, eyes falling upon the commander. Their ranks.

“Ohmigosh,” Vera said, sitting up in her chair. “Hey, I think that one’s a kid. Lizzy, look, that one—she’s a kid!”

“I see.”

Vera’s smile twitched. She searched for something in the air, and then her eyes went wide. She hopped out of her chair, said something about practicing sims, and then scurried off.

Eli was tempted to follow out of concern, but she’d have had no luck voicing them. It was all Vera talked about nowadays, piloting. Whether it was simulations, speculating about her own NC, worrying over her own capabilities, or, perhaps worst of all, waxing about her conversations with Stein, there was no escaping it. Eli had no issues with piloting, and by all accounts she should have felt proud of how much effort Vera was putting into it. But she didn’t. She couldn’t. All she felt when they talked about the future was dread, and guilt. One day, sooner now than later, Vera would do for New Anchorage exactly what Eli expected of every pilot: she would put her life on the line.

Eli got up from the table, unfocused. She cast one last glance over the newcomers, then left for the hangar.

Polaris: A New Anchorage Story

---

Smith's Rest | HQ Tram Station
January 16th, 2677

---

One two-three, one two-three.

Eli tapped her fingers on the table, entirely absent. Even her own thoughts keeping time in her head sounded distant, or so engrained that they were nearly unreal. She sat at a small table by the tram station, eyes transfixed upon the rails like she was waiting for them to rattle with the incoming transport. Her coffee, untouched since she’d sat down, was cold now. Most things at the station were cold, given the open ends. Between the wind and chill, there weren’t many people around who weren’t explicitly paid to be there. She wasn’t sure if that same motivation applied to her. It wasn’t why she was here, sitting alone at a table, waiting for a trolley full of new-blood, but it was perhaps a justification.

A particularly harsh breeze flooded through the station. She adjusted her scarf—the only not-strictly-in-code addition she’d made to her uniform—and sat up straight, legs crossed, fingers trilling, staring.

Her data-tool beeped. It beeped three times before she blinked herself out of her trance and answered the call without checking the ID. It would have been a bad habit, if anyone but her sister ever called her.

“Lizzy?” Vera asked. “Where are you? Did you hear the announcement?”

She sounded strained, Eli guessed she’d been running simulations all morning. Vera was the…proactive sort. Ever since she was tested, even before the surgery, she’d accompanied Eli to the facility’s gym, and started each morning with a run through the hangar so she could marvel at the NC’s. As soon as she could hook up to the simulation pods, that had taken a priority spot in her routine.

It would have made Eli proud, if it didn’t disturb her so deeply.

“Lizzy?” Vera asked again.

Eli cleared her throat. “I did, yes. I heard it.”

“So where are you? Graham said he wanted us to look busy. Guess he wants to make a good impression on the new guys.”

“It ought to be them concerned with making impressions,” Eli said lowly.

Vera was quiet for a moment.

“Are you waiting at the tram station? You’re gonna stare at them, aren’t you?”

Eli’s fingers stopped tapping, her lips pursed. “I’m observing the band of wasters and mercenaries Commander Graham has seen fit to invite into our home, and trust with the safety of our people.”

“God—hold on…” there was rustling on the other end of the line. “I’m on my way down there.”

“I do not need chaperoning, Vera.”

“You’re gonna look like some kinda goblin, I’m coming down. I wanna see’em too, anyway. Maybe try and get’em in a good mood before Graham, y’know, ruins their day. See you soon!”

Vera cut the call. Eli pinched the bridge of her nose, and tried to go back to watching the tracks. But it was no use now, Vera had a knack for making Eli feel entirely aware of herself. It was the sort of social awareness she lacked on her own. So, instead of doing anything useful, she sat there, feeling awkward, trilling her fingers off-time, until Vera appeared in the tram station.

She’d thrown on a uniform jacket and shorts over her pilot suit, and that seemed to be enough for her to deal with the cold. That, and the ushanka perpetually snug atop her head.

“Heya,” she said, taking the seat opposite Eli. She looked out at the tracks either direction. “Not here yet, huh?”

“Not yet. Soon, I imagine.”

Vera nodded. “I’m excited. Not that you all aren’t great, but, man, I can’t wait to meet some new pilots. I bet they’re gonna have so many stories.”

“Don’t get too attached,” Eli said. “Even if they all manage to stay, they still have to survive.”

“I think someone’s afraid they might make a friend.”

Eli shot her a scowl, but it was weak. Vera giggled and sat back, taking the cup from the table and peering down into it.

“This is…coffee.”

“People drink coffee,” Eli said, certain of it.

“It’s cold. And you hate coffee.”

Eli rolled her eyes. “By all means, take it.”

“No thanks,” Vera said, setting it back down. “I don’t need to be this short forever.”

Polaris: A New Anchorage Story

Vera Voloshyna | Firefly | F | 14 | Smith’s Rest

Personal Dossier

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Physical Description

Personality Traits

Optimistic
Friendly
Persistent
Resilient
Conflict-Avoidant
Empathetic

Effects of Polaris Shift

Personal History

TBD

Tactical Preferences and Skills

TBD

Notes

TBD

Neural Combatant

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Codename

Firefly

Type

Squad Role

TBD

NC Description

Weapons and Armaments

TBD

Polaris: A New Anchorage Story

Elizabeth “Eli” Jackspar | Blur | F | 21 | Smith’s Rest

Personal Dossier

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Physical Description

In a lot of ways, Eli resembles her mother. Spirely, with strict and rigid posture and a demeanor that might generally be considered as “harsh.” Physically she’s a bit lanky, and if observed in her rare, relaxed moments, one might remark that she seems ill-fitted to herself. Her hair falls long and flat, and is a shade of off-white that makes her otherwise porcelain skin appear thin and pallid. The sunkeness of her eyes is off-put by their brightness: a deep, bright blue like the depth beneath a sheet of ice.

She tends to dress conservatively, and her wardrobe is slim. An assortment of long shirts and pants, pull-overs and thick boots. The one constant is the plain, sky-blue scarf she wears as often as she’s allowed—which, considering the lax dress code in the facility, especially among pilots, is nearly always. Beneath it all though is her pilot suit, donned first-thing, so that she can be ready for anything that might come New Anchorage’s way.

Personality Traits

Fiercely Loyal
Direct
Obsessive
Instinctual
Distrusting
Perceptive
Cold

Effects of Polaris Shift

Eli may be newer to piloting, but she’s been given no breaks for it. The nature of her combat role, as well as Blur’s reliance on the physical and mental reflexes of its pilot necessitate both high and consistent rates of synchronization. Due to a crisis of identity brought on as a result of her mother’s psychological conditioning, Eli has little to no trouble assimilating herself into Blur and achieving these synch rates, and it’s here that her Polaris Shift finds its roots.

Eli is slowly losing herself to her NC. The more benign effects of this Shift include things like adherence to patterns and routines, acute awareness, and the occasional need to remind herself to blink. In more serious instances, or flares, Eli ceases to think of herself as a human being, but rather a part of the machine. She may neglect sleeping and eating, disregard pain and harm herself as a result, or simply “shut down,” which could more accurately be described as an immobilizing episode of dissociation.

She’s found some success in repressing these effects through medication. Alternatively, the commands of her mother, or the consolation of her sister, have also shown to be able to “snap her out of it.” But as with all Polaris Shifts, there is no long-term cure.

Personal History

Eli was five when she learned that her name was short for “Elizabeth.” Her mother used it the first time she’d cried during one of their conditioning sessions.

“Elizabeth,” she’d said. “Never cry in front of me again.”

For most of her life, Eli rarely left the ramshackle library the Jackspars called home. She spent her days studying, practicing, and doing what her mother commanded, when she commanded. At night, she would listen to Vera talk about her day; where she went, what she did, who she met. Second-handedly she developed a sense of community, which mingled nicely with her burgeoning desire to protect Smith’s Rest.

As her mother began to take a more active role in the Smith’s Rest community, Eli was subjected to fewer conditioning sessions, and the two were around each other less often. She spent more time with Vera, who coaxed out of her an almost human affection, which blossomed into a genuine, if repressed, personality. She grew to be more than just a prospective tool, she became a sister and a friend. She became “Lizzy.”

When the day finally came that Smith’s Rest acquired its Neural Combatants, Eli was there fresh and early. She hadn’t considered that she might fail her compatibility test, her mother had never even mentioned it. It was as if the woman knew, somehow, that her daughter would pass. Eli considered it a sort of destiny. Of course she would defend Smith’s Rest, what else was there?

The cockpit fit her like a glove. Blur was her second skin, her body-away-from-her-body. Never before had she felt so certain of who she was, never had she dreamt of what fulfilling her purpose might feel like. Together with her team, under the command of Sophia Torres, Eli finally saw what Smith’s Rest could be.

Then, Sophia vanished.

Smith’s Rest, now expanded into the Free State of New Anchorage, went on without her. The NC program went on without her. It seemed like everyone was willing to move forward without batting an eye at the fact that their head of defense had disappeared overnight. Eli, however, was not. Her sharpening image of New Anchorage could not accommodate deserters, or traitors, or those whose intentions were too selfish to put the good of the people before themselves. When Raschke brought on Michael Graham, and he proposed to flood their ranks with mercenaries, Eli was…less than confident in his choices. She was, admittedly, less than confident in him.

Now, with her sister’s imminent career as a pilot, and her mother’s growing popularity among the people of New Anchorage, Eli feels stuck between her obligation towards her home, and her own distrust of the strangers inhabiting it.

Tactical Preferences and Skills

Up Close and Personal: Eli isn’t a good shot. One could justifiably say that Eli is in fact a bad shot. Thankfully, swordplay and fist-fighting require grace and power over accuracy, and utilize a different sort of hand-eye coordination, which Eli excels in. Quick, agile, and ambidextrous from years of self-teaching, Eli would like to say she makes up for her shortcomings in long-range combat with her prowess in CQC, but she still has to reach her target first.

Unwavering Loyalty: Alternatively: “goal-oriented,” “single-minded,” and “unhealthily skeptical.” With Eli, the mission always comes first, because to her, the mission is always in the interest of New Anchorage. Instilled within her is an almost fanatical loyalty to her home, desire to protect its people, and see it prosper. To her, any pilot who fights for them should be willing to lay down their lives for the good of New Anchorage. This has led her to hold a distaste for newcomers, especially mercenaries, or former mega corporation pilots. Consequently however, her trust, once gained, is absolute to a gullible fault.

Reliable: Eli is, if nothing else, a phenomenal solider. She gets things done. She follows directions and fulfils her tasks with speed and proficiency, never questioning—out loud, at least—the orders of a superior. For everyone else, especially her equals, she rarely keeps her doubts to herself, and as standoffish as that may sometimes be, one can at least rely on her to be honest and direct.

Notes

TBD

Neural Combatant

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Codename

Blur

Type

Bipedal, Melee

Squad Role

Close-Range Assault

NC Description

Blur is a light-weight, medium-sized Neural Combatant designed to embody the “high-risk, high-reward” philosophy. Likely created by Red Star, it was recovered from a glacial wall. Its sleekly humanoid, aerodynamic frame and snow-white exterior help it live up to its name amidst the Alaskan wasteland, and especially during blizzards. The array of propulsion engines affixed to its back expand and shift during use not unlike spines, or sharp wings.

Weapons and Armaments

Omni-Propulsion System: Integral to Blur’s design philosophy is its array of engines, which help it to achieve the ludicrous speed required of a melee-oriented NC. When coupled with Eli’s quick reflexes and intuition, they also provide Blur with a surprising degree of maneuverability, necessary for avoiding the front and backline fire it tends to draw.

Bladed Weaponry: Blur’s weapons reflect its orient towards melee-combat. A beam-sword of standard design, an energy-projected, wrist-mounted shorter blade, and sharp, retractable claw-tips for its fingers complete its standard arsenal. The only deviance in the design of her weapons is that they’ve been fitted to work with Blur’s Energy Relay System.

Energy Relay System: What the Omni-Propulsion system does to initiate combat, the ERS does to finish it. Considering the prioritization of agility over distance-closing speed in close-quarters, the ERS seeks to make sure that the engines’ massive energy output isn’t put to waste once Blur has actually reached its target. It allows Eli to pump extra power to her sword, or her gauntlet-blade, or even the sharp-tipped fingers, which can come in handy when cutting apart NCs and holding against other melee weapons.

Flare Cache: When fancy-feet and speed just aren’t enough, or as a proactive-countermeasure to cover its approach, Blur is equipped with multiple rounds of flares with which to throw off heat-seeking ballistics. They don’t always count for much, and they’re no replacement for covering fire, but in a pinch Eli has found them useful.

Mol's CS Thing

_______________________________________________ // INFO Character Info Name – Ezmy Eibril Age - 18 Gender - Female Place of Origin - Munzo Type – Cyber-Newtype Mobile Weapon Profile Suit Type - General-Purpose Mobile Suit Suit Style - Federation, junker Combat Role - Close-range striker Suit Armaments - Twin Beam Spear, Head-mounted Vulcan Gun, YHI YF-MG100 100mm Machine Gun - // PERSONALITY Pilot Personality Reckless Anger Ezmy has never been good at controlling her temper, a problem drastically exacerbated by Neo Zeon's conditioning. However, even before being brought in to the cyber-newtype experiments, her parents would have described her as a problem child, which might have been why there was so little fuss about giving her up. Within her is an ugly, angry, violent fire which refuses to be snuffed out, burning brightest in the heat of battle, and the cold of isolation. Grim Outlook Misanthropy was an ineluctable fate; people are disgusting during war, and there’s always war. On the one hand, an almost cruel contempt for life made Ezmy a good soldier on paper, but on the other hand—everything else. To Ezmy, the only thing more demeaning than being human is being a tool for humans, but dignity was never the thing getting her out of bed in the morning. Autophobic A misanthrope with a longing for affection might seem paradoxical to some, or perfectly logical to others. Ezmy just finds it humiliating. The love of family, the comradery of friendship, even in her dreams these things are vague and ephemeral. She cannot describe how they feel—or would feel—or just why she wants them, but she does. She wants them more than anything, sometimes even enough to act like someone acting like a well-adjusted person. But being discarded again, this time by Zeon itself, has done little to change her belief that these intangible concepts, if they’re real at all, are worth wasting on a tool.

Physical Description Ezmy is a built like a spike; short, narrow, deceptively sturdy. Spotty diets haven’t left her with much to build muscle on, but old exercise habits have at least kept her from wasting away. She wears what she can get her hands on, which usually means clothes that are baggy and too big for her, but which are at least insulated to handle the Cathartes’ occasional temperature tantrums. Her hair is kept short out of reflex, and her eyes are a dim, earthy brown. Her boney skin burns easily and often, and the multitude of scars left over from childhood experimentation crawl across her arms and spine and up her neck. She’s gone out of her way to rip out and stitch over the identifying Zeon crests of her mobile suit gear. The colors still disgust her, but there’s an odd, familiar comfort to the suit that’s kept her from tossing it in the airlock. Character Conceptualization Ezmy is Neo Zeon war-chaff brought up in the wake of one loss, and discarded on the eve of another. While initially a promising prospect due to how responsive she was to experimentation, her volatile personality and growing disdain for authority ultimately led to her dismissal after only a brief tour in conflict. Her home, which had so greedily sought her out, was now embarrassed by her, and at the age of eighteen she found herself living the life of a disgraced nomad. Neo Zeon coaxed the aptitude for violence out of her, and used it to feed her craving for conflict. Now, with the second war behind, Ezmy drifts listlessly in secret, desperate search of anything even resembling purpose. Time alone has awakened a new hunger within her as well, one for companionship. The feeling confuses her, disgusts her, and she does not know how to feed it, nor can she bring herself to ignore it. Mobile Weapon Description After her dismissal from Neo Zeon, Ezmy came into possession of a seized Federation relic, a nearly two-decade old GM Striker, and was sent on her way. The thing was hardly functional and took some time to adjust to, and the irony of having to pilot old Federation tech was not lost on her. While outdated in nearly every way, its close-range leanings were at least familiar to her. Passably mobile, with head-mounted vulcan cannons for minor cover, and a twin beam spear, which can be detached into two sabers, what the Striker lacks in range and defense it…well, it doesn’t really make up for it, but it does well enough up close.