Mcmolly

Midnight Sun: Last Song Over the Horizon

---

Cinny had managed to balance the stylus of her data pad between her nose and upper lip for nearly five minutes when class suddenly ended, and she realized she’d missed most of the lecture. Oops. New record, but oops.

“And don't forget that I want your essays on Isao Taiyōtawa in my databanks by Tuesday!”

Right, she knew she’d forgotten something. Essays, important robot history, big ol’ chunk of her final grade; she hadn’t started it yet. Oops, again. Seemed like she was going to have a few late nights ahead of her, which wasn’t a big problem. Cinny had always been a bit of a night-owl—everyone back home was, really. This wouldn’t be the first assignment she’d cranked out on a tight-deadline, and like the others, it wouldn’t be pretty but it’d keep her afloat.

Some of her classmates enjoyed the history lessons, enjoyed learning about all of the egg-heads and big-wigs that’d built the mecha programs up, but Cinny just didn’t. It wasn’t why she was here. Isao Taiyōtawa was probably very smart, and very important—you didn’t name schools after idiot nobodies—and like every other hero and scientist they’d learned about, he wouldn’t matter when it came time to actually pilot. The bullets weren’t going to fly any faster because she knew Taiyōtawa’s favorite color.

The lot of them were herded into the cafeteria. She waited in line, never overly eager to get first-slop. They’d had weeks to adjust to the academy’s tailored-diet, and while the groaning had mostly stopped, she knew better than most that silence was not the same as complacence. Cinny hadn’t said anything the whole time, and she hated the paste. Every meal was a reminder of how nice she’d had it back on the farm. Sure, things were usually tight, dark, and miserable, but in addition to good company she could always count on a well-cooked meal at the end of the day. Not all of the invasive creatures introduced to her home were safe to eat, but some were. Some were downright delicious.

Finally seated, Cinny stared down at the goop on her tray, mouth twisted in distaste, and started to eat.

“Hey.”

Someone sat down across from her at the long table, an upper-classman she didn’t recognize. He had an untouched tray of his own goop, and he looked at her with the sort of muted intrigue of someone who didn’t want to appear desperate. But Cinny had been dealing with looks like that for weeks now, she knew exactly why he was here.

“I heard you, uh…” he mumbled. Cinny cocked a brow, feigning ignorance, and the student chewed his lip. “You’re Cincinna, right? Uh, sorry, I mean Cinny.”

She nodded, and he stared at her until it became clear that she wasn’t going to offer anything else. Something approaching frustration seeped onto his face. “This stuff tastes like solid-vomit,” he said, poking the goop with his fork. “And word is you…like…have stuff that doesn’t taste like that. Maybe. Right?”

Cinny put a finger on her chin and batted her lashes at him. Who, me? she seemed to say.

“Yeah,” he said. Most people were quick to pick up what she put down. A bit impatiently he added, “so do you or not?”

He was reaching a familiar point, she saw, contemplating whether or not that sweet, delectable contraband was worth putting up with her. Unlike most students who got their hands on—admittedly harmless—illicit goodies, Cinny didn’t charge, but people who came to her thinking that meant they got stuff for free were always sorely mistaken. The price was that they were subjected to Cinny’s weird bullshit.

Ugh, she loved it. It was so hard to find reasons to smile up here.

Cinny conceded, nodding, but just when he seemed ready to thank her, she held up a finger. He watched exasperated as she tugged down one of her sleeves, showing that it was empty, and then did the same to the other.

“What are you doing.”

She twinkled her fingers, waving her hands in mystical circles. Lem used to chant ridiculous incantations when he did parlor tricks, Cinny just turned up the gestures. He flinched when she reached out at him, but stilled at a placating look from her. Her hand went past his face and into his hair, and she screwed up her face with mock-puzzlement, only to pop her mouth into a little ‘o’ imitating discovery. Then, as if from thin air, she produced a Zhenko bar from behind his ear.

Lem would have said something like: “Now how did that get back there?” Cinny just mimed amazement. The student blinked. He was more than just unamused, he was now openly aggravated. Without so much as a thank-you, he snatched the bar from her, stuffed it into his pocket, and stalked off with his tray.

“Fuckin’ hell,” she heard him mutter under his breath.

Cinny was beaming. The next bite of goop didn’t taste quite so bad.

Gundam 0094 (Invite Only Roleplay)

---

As the captain finished up his spiel, and the survivors began to disperse, Ezmy found her interest waning. No one had tried to press their luck, or whined about their shitty accommodations—which were only marginally less-shitty than the crews’ own—they all just seemed happy to be breathing. Which was stupid. They were attacked, stranded, and now they were essentially being robbed in exchange for their lives. The fact that a few of these idiots would consider the Voltus company heroes when they got to Mars was one part hilarious, and nine parts fucking annoying.

Some Federation roach skittered up to Cornell and introduced himself as a Lieutenant Commander. The captain shot that shit down pretty quick, and Ezmy scoffed when he winked her way. She hopped down off the table and made her way to the back of the mess again, but did it without hurry so that she could still hear the conversation. There was no reason to eavesdrop; Cornell was just telling the same story all of them had heard before about his past rodeos, and the suit just groveled compliance. Nothing special. Besides, even if Spare Change or Tire or whatever-the-fuck his name was did say something interesting, even if he’d just started spilling Federation secrets, so what? Who was she gonna tell? Who was anyone on this bloated iron tub gonna tell? She quickly found herself tuning it out.

Some of the survivors followed Kellen out of the mess to where they’d be bunking. He was easily one of the most aggravating people on the Cathartes and, probably, in the whole galaxy—an opinion shared by other crew-members, she was sure—however, through the doorway she caught a glimpse of first-place: Marlowe.

He was badgering Disker about something, showing off a…toy? It looked like a toy. Had he picked it out of the wreckage? She felt herself growing annoyed with him already, a familiar feeling when it came to the lesser Voltus. Pirates ambush a pack of helpless traders, and Marlowe manages to salvage a toy rubble.

With effort, Ezmy suppressed the urge to yell “grow up!” through the door, and chugged the last of her coffee instead. Her face twisted at the taste, and for a moment she thought she might not mind if the newcomers did drink it all.

But the moment passed, and she went back for a refill. There were still enough people in the mess for her tastes; she'd stick around here until that changed, or until someone barked at her to make herself useful. No one ever got away with loitering on the Cathartes for long.

Pariah Online: A Voyage into the Intangible Aether

Location:The City of Thorinn, Aetheria

---

Sunlight spilled through the open window of Missy’s room at the little inn across from the Laughing Worg. She lay on her bed, staring out at the open sky as the warm air of a Thorinn morning settled around her. Outside, the city was waking and anxious. No doubt most of the wayfarers, and perhaps even some of the denizens, were finding it hard to rest each night, and harder to rise in the mornings. It was a plight she empathized with.

Missy had not slept in four days. You sleep too much, Missy.

Sitting up was an ordeal, as though she was rising back into her own body. She sat at the edge of her bed, hunched, eyes half-lidded, hair strewn across her face, and stared blankly at one of the half-dozen candles she’d set up across the room. Most of them had melted into puddles in their sconces and snuffed out, this one’s wick was barely standing on a brittle, bent pillar of wax. She’d have to replace them before tonight. As the days went on, it wasn’t enough to just be awake anymore. Her dreams were seeping into the shadows, breeding whispers and harboring strange, violent shapes. Things had begun nesting in the dark.

Missy stood and dressed. She was reeling; her head throbbed, she was nauseous, her whole body was beset with tremors. Her mind felt like liquid, holding onto her own thoughts was like trying to grasp water. It was a struggle just to wrap her wrists and secure her robes. She left the inn with her parasol sheathed at her hip, and made a brisk, if unsteady trip across to a smaller tavern a few streets over.

She paused at the door, rubbed her eyes; they hurt as though two coals were simmering in the sockets, but she took a deep breath and pushed the discomfort aside. Seele smiled and went in.

The place was quiet and mildly busy. Wayfarers with the coin to spare bought hot breakfasts and others just nursed cups of water or milk or weak ale. It wasn’t as nice as the Laughing Worg, but Dariel had put much into that place. He was a pleasant man. Experienced, and intolerant of nonsense—though more tolerant than Arie—but nice. She hadn’t forgotten the headache her group had caused him weeks ago, and that he still allowed them in was testament to a patience not present in other denizens, at least when it came to wayfarers.

At a table in the corner was a lone man, and she went to sit opposite him. He was a recent acquaintance of hers, a surreptitious healer she’d met on one of her evening walks. He hadn’t given a name, but he was sympathetic towards his fellow supports, and, importantly, prone to discreteness. They exchanged greetings, and then he placed two fingers on her temple.

Dim, comforting light drifted into her vision, and slowly—very slowly—the headache, the nausea, the little tremors, all began to fade. She felt precious clarity returning to her. The fatigue lingered, lessened but not erased. Days ago his magic would leave her feeling downright well-rested. Now the effects were weaker. It was better than the alternative, but she wasn’t sure she’d be able to stay awake tonight, when the effects wore off. She would still try. It was an old habit, but it was a hard one to forget.

At length he pulled his hand away, and there was concern on his face. “This is the longest bout so far, it’ll be a week, soon. I think you should consider finding a real healer, or maybe some high-end apothecary. Someone who can at least tell you if this is a disease, or some kind of curse, or…I don’t know.”
Did you dream?
Seele hid her guilt well. This man had been quick-fixing the fallout of her sleep-deprivation almost since they’d met, and she didn’t have the courage to admit she was doing it to herself. He’d wondered if her group’s healer could help, but she’d asked for his assistance to avoid worrying any of them. Which was true, in all fairness. She didn’t want to be untruthful with her friends, but more than that, she didn’t want to burden them.

Politely, and with more than a few grateful thank-you’s, Seele excused herself from the tavern and started back for the Laughing Worg to meet up with Alex. It was still early, but with how crowded Thorinn had become, she wasn’t surprised to find herself in mild traffic. Many of the wayfarers she saw seemed to be wandering aimlessly, with uneasy looks on their faces somewhere between worry and shame. They didn’t have much, and what little remained dwindled quickly away as the days passed and the call for action went unanswered. When she was able to think about it clearly, it troubled her.

Seele felt an obligation to the Fraternity Hall. Whatever despair she saw outside of it was so much worse inside, where the wayfarers were mainly newcomers with little grasp on the workings of the world. There was panic there at almost all hours, and at night it often devolved into terrible, inconsolable fear—one of the reasons she chose to sleep elsewhere. She was glad to help, glad to lift what spirits she could, glad to teach what she knew to those with bravery enough to even consider striking out on their own. And yet, Aetheria was getting worse.

Her group had discussed the new dungeon already, and while Seele had offered to follow whatever decision was made, she secretly wished to stay and assist the Hall. Perhaps not so secretly though, as she’d been counted as “against.” Now, though, she wasn’t so sure. Only a single group had decided to brave the new dungeon, and they hadn’t returned. Monsters were still appearing, and with so few wayfarers to cull the numbers, denizen villages were falling, quickly and brutally. The people in Thorinn needed help, but it seemed to her now that the people outside needed it more.

Gradually, Seele’s mind was made up. She would do her duty for Drox today, but afterwards she would tell Benkei that her vote had changed. Someone had to do something, and as long as Pariah had been around, that someone had been the wayfarers.

Eventually Seele realized she was standing by a street many blocks past the Laughing Worg. She blinked, but was only momentarily surprised. Time had slipped her again, another side effect, and one she was as dreadfully, intimately familiar with as the rest. At least she was still inside the city. Turning about, she headed back towards Dariel’s tavern, and made a point to keep herself focused the whole way. Alex had been so nice in offering to come with her, the last thing she wanted to do was annoy him by being needlessly late.

When she finally made it back, she took a seat at a table inside to wait. Thankfully it was still early, and she hadn’t missed him.

“We could stick to the courtyard— ” she said to Alex, and a yawn overtook her. “Oof, excuse me. We could stick to the courtyard, or we could go in and see if the Hallmasters have anything specific they need done. We’ll be helping out either way, so I really don’t mind. Any preference?” Was I in it?

Gundam 0094 (Invite Only Roleplay)

---

This sucked.

Ezmy entered the mess hall just in time to hear captain Voltus say they were going to ferry the survivors to Mars. A forgone conclusion, but nevertheless, the thought of sharing what little, cramped space the Cathartes had with a bunch of weepy, paranoid space-mailmen did not, to put it mildly, excite her. More bodies to clog the narrow halls, more mouths to suck up all the air. There were already enough morons onboard as it was.

And they were drinking the coffee, too. Great.

“Move,” she muttered, as she made her way to the long counter towards the back of the mess. Most of the survivors hardly registered her, even when she pushed past them; she was below their eyeline and wasn’t exactly built to bowl people over. Still, a few indignant snorts and distasteful grumbles lingered behind her, something she wouldn’t have taken so quietly if she weren’t dead-tired.

“…Your scrap is worth enough.”

A smirk tugged at Ezmy’s lips as she swiped a mug from the table. What Voltus suggested would have sounded almost like charity to the stragglers, but she knew better. Was what he was doing nice? Sure. But people did nice things all the time—when there was something in it for them. This was just business, plain and simple, and their geriatric captain was nothing if not a good businessman. Most of the crew owed him in some way or another, that was how you earned a bed on the Cathartes.

That or nepotism, she thought, and scanned the crowd briefly for the younger, dumber Voltus.

Ezmy brought her mug to the jittery old coffee machine, shouldering past another clot of survivors, and filled it right to the brim. They had a bit of a journey ahead of them to Mars, and she wasn’t sure there’d be enough for a ship actually full of people. That done, she hopped up to sit on one of the tables and listened to whatever else Voltus had to say, or whatever woes the people would throw at him. Someone would probably try to leverage their misfortune for recovered items. Hah. Good luck with that.

Disker dipped out quietly, which wasn’t a surprise. The man was usually reserved to a degree that even Ezmy found frustrating. He was a thinker, she didn’t like thinkers. She didn’t like anyone, really, but especially not thinkers.

Gaida dismissed herself as well, though she did it like a soldier—asking permission even if she didn’t actually want it. She was a bit like Disker; she was a thinker, too. Thinker and soldier. Blegh.

There wasn’t much for her in the mess, but she stayed anyway. She could have passed time rifling through the scrap, or finding one of the few quiet, secluded places onboard that would very soon no longer be either, but she didn’t want to. Being alone was boring as fuck, and there were people here. They were miserable, and disgusting, and they probably wouldn’t shut up about their bad luck as long as it took them to get to Mars, but fine, whatever.

At least it was company.

Gundam 0094 (Invite Only Roleplay)

_______________________________________________ // 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.

Pariah Online: A Voyage into the Intangible Aether

Location: Mystic Prophecy Chapterhouse -- The City of Thorinn, Aetheria

---

Beautiful. Oh, it was just beautiful.

Sure, the both of them were fumbling a bit—Kazuki looked back her once like a boy taking his first steps into school, and Graves had put a hand on his shoulder with all the naturality of a statue—but there was no such thing as a perfect reconciliation. The two of them had, in their own ways, come to terms with each other for the sakes of others; imperfections and all, that was beautiful. She’d have cried if she could still do that. Seele made a note to herself to pick up an extra pastry for Graves as well.
…
The conversation changed with…admirable grace, all things considered, and Seele shot Rael a look of grateful pride, as well as a subtle two-thumbs-up. The girl had done a good job reining Graves back from whatever brink he had nearly stormed off of. No doubt they had her to thank that he was still in Thorinn at all. Her little dilemma in the tavern still unsettled Seele a bit, but that was another matter for another time. For now, they were here, and they were…well, she supposed if the consensus pushed against calling them all “friends” then she would settle for saying that they were all at least a “team” again. That was something.

Graves addressed the both of them, and so it seemed appropriate enough to join the conversation. She wished she could have come in with something better, to lighten the mood or at least help the easing tension. Unfortunately, he’d chosen a topic that was sore for all parties involved. She was still immensely proud of Kazuki for coming here despite…circumstances, and he’d certainly shown himself capable of keeping himself composed, but expecting him to hold a conversation about Luci on his own on top of everything else seemed borderline cruel.

“We did,” Seele said, stepping up politely beside Kazuki. “She…well, no. No, she didn’t. She’s grieving, I believe it’s best that we let her. What you’re doing is lovely, though. I’m sure Mystic Prophecy appreciates the helping hand. I have a feeling those are going to be in high demand soon.”
…
“But anyway, I don’t suppose either of you saw Benkei on your way here? Kazuki is certain he’ll be fine—and I mean, I believe him of course. I’m sure he’ll end up at the tavern with the rest of us, just, I thought it might be helpful to keep track of everyone.”

Midnight Sun: Last Song Over the Horizon

*Enthusiastic finger guns*

Cinny, to her copilot.

Personal Dossier

---

_Name

Cincinna "Cinny" Siloux

_Age

18

_Gender

Female

_Origin

Mālum, Teegarden System

_Appearance

For a space hick, Cinny is a bit of an anomaly. Living in the near-perpetual shadow of her system’s only habitable planet, she lacks the stereotypical awkward tan and sun-bleached hair of farmers from other, more standard planets. She is in fact rather pale, without freckles or blemishes apart from calloused hands and the occasional scar from dealing with varmints and other unwanted guests. Her attire certainly fits the bill however, finding comfort in old staples like overalls, boots, and gloves, though she’s had to give most of that up since joining Taiyōtawa Academy.

Cinny is average in height and surprisingly middling in weight, due to poorly-paying work and the rule that it was generally bad business to eat the crops you were selling. Nevertheless, she’s no twig to be blown over; there’s a deceptive amount of well-worked muscle on those bones as well as the wherewithal to use them.

_Personality

Despite growing up in the dark, Cinny is possessed of a near-invincibly sunny disposition. Friendly, empathetic, and trusting to a definite and undeniably detrimental fault, she is at once easy to befriend, and difficult to be rid of. She prefers the company of others, partly because she genuinely enjoys being around people, and partly because she utterly despises being alone.

Unfortunately, this craving for companionship is hindered a bit by the fact that Cinny has said perhaps six words in the past four years. She was never a particularly talkative child, but following the murder of her brother and loss of her home, Cinny has rarely ever been able to utter a word in the presence of anyone, even just herself. Medical evaluations have pinned the condition as concretely psychological, but despite the numerous reminders that “it’s all in her head,” and the urging that she needs to “move on,” she hasn’t. She can’t.

Thankfully tablets, text-to-speech, and good old pen n’ pad have gotten her along, and she’s even taken up learning some rudimentary signing. However, were it not for the fact that the link between Coordinators is largely mental, she’d likely have no place in Taiyōtawa or Project Valkyrie.

_{Background Information}

Cincinna was born on Mālum, and was eight years old when she discovered from her brother, Ptolemy, that its full name was Mālum floresco in umbra, “The apple that grows in the shade.” He’d said it with such distaste that she understood immediately why he chose to go by “Lem,” and shortly thereafter, she shortened her own name to “Cinny.”

Life on Mālum was peculiar, floating in the shadow of the system’s only other planet, Ventus, (which itself had some overly-long, descriptive name amounting to something along the lines of, “the sun’s favorite child,” despite that it was arid to the point of uninhabitability.) Cinny’s home was draped in perpetual shadow, with its brightest hours coming, ironically, during the rising of the moon. But Mālum persisted and thrived in its own way. Its soil was rich, and the crops it yielded grew with astounding speed so long as they were not exposed to direct sunlight. As such, Mālum found itself a small yet lucrative niche acting as a source of food for the Confederacy.

And as with anything of value, there were people seeking to steal it.

The Siloux farm was among Mālum’s most successful, owing to a long lineage of seasoned farmers, honed techniques, and a ridiculously fertile span of land. Ptolemy was the eldest of two children, and was forced to take responsibility of the operation as well as his young sister when their parents passed. In addition to keeping the small yet loyal group of farmhands organized, the duty also fell upon him to protect his land from the array of predators set upon it, man and beast and machine alike. But Lem never cracked under the pressure.

Pirates were simple enough to handle. Lem was an ace with a gun, and a born leader, and so it was that time and again a band of marauders would sail planet-side, try their hand at driving the Silouxs off, only to be thrown back into orbit with their tails between their legs.

Ascendancy meddling came in more nuanced forms, the most dangerous of which was the introduction of strange, predatory species. Alien beasts from other worlds more vicious than most anything the generally docile and dark planet had to offer would occasionally, "spontaneously" appear to wreak havoc near and around the farm.

Lem brought Cinny into the fold then, and she held a gun long before she ever handled a plough. It took years of practice, many mistakes, and more than a few acres of ruined crops, but eventually Cinny got the knack for hunting in the dark. It necessitated a bestial instinct and awareness, patience, the reflex to pull a trigger quick and the discipline to make a steady shot. By the time she was teenaged, she was patrolling the farmlands with the rest of the perimeter wardens, fending off whatever strange, snarling things came out of the shadows. Whenever she made a clean kill or earned a new scar, she’d come home to boast about it to Lem.

One day a man came to the farm. He had a fancy ship, but no guns and no crew ready to storm the farm. Lem invited him inside the small estate, and Cinny listened through holes in the floorboards as the two of them discussed, as the man said, “business.” He claimed to have the utmost respect for their family, for what they were doing, said he understood what drove them to protect their land so fiercely. He used a lot of big words to offer empty platitudes and make vague threats. Ultimately, what he did was offer Lem a choice: take a ludicrous amount of money and leave the farm, or face severe consequences. The war was cold, he’d said, but not snuffed.

Lem politely told the man to leave or he’d shoot him. The man left.

He came back in a mech weeks later, with a dozen small ships at his back. Cinny and the farmhands took up arms and prepared for the worst. Instead, Lem marched right up to the big, iron foot, and demanded the man meet him. To Cinny’s shock, the man did. He came right down in his fancy pilot clothes with a gun at his hip, and he and Lem had long words, too far away for any of them to hear.

At length the two of them stood apart, Lem just inside the farm’s line, the man just outside of it, with the moon high above them booth. They drew, two gunshots cracked the air. Lem dropped and the man did not.

Minutes later the farm was put to fire. Some of the farmhands tried to intervene, but were shot down with half the honor and twice the ease as was afforded to Lem. Cinny was dragged away kicking and screaming, screaming so loud she thought she might’ve torn her throat apart trying to deny the reality of what had happened. She screamed and wailed to go back and help Lem, to save the farm, until eventually she was only whimpering, and then, finally, she was silent.

The next time she opened her mouth was years later, when her school’s counselor came to her, concerned, asking if she really wanted to enroll somewhere like Taiyōtawa Academy now that she was graduating.

She said: “Yep.”

Attributes & Other Information

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_{Coordinator Type}

PC

_{Coordination Profile}

Awareness | ■■■■□
Composure | ■■□□□
Endurance | ■■■□□
Instinct | ■■■■■
Intellect | ■□□□□

RWBY: Chasing Shadows

WIP

Huntsman Sheet

To understand the value of bravery, you need to pay the price for cowardice.

Wisteria grew up being told she didn’t belong, being hated for reasons everyone else seemed to understand but her. Threats to her and her family came often and in great number, and she was too afraid then to stand up to it.

Not anymore.

Wisteria is a girl of few words, but she tries to make those words kind. While patient almost to a fault, and generally averse towards conflict, she no longer shies away from it. Obstacles, problems, enemies—if they cannot be avoided then they are to be met head-on with grace and finesse, but never run from. Doing so sometimes means putting aside things like fear, and compromising sense for integrity. Wisteria has no qualms about putting herself in danger to see something done, or—especially—to see someone protected. There is an undeniable air of self-destructiveness about her, a silent, willful disregard for her own well-being, both physically and emotionally. She learned late the importance of altruism in a place like Vacuo, and later still that there is no such thing as altruism without self-loathing.

Wisteria walks a paradoxically obscure and yet undeniably loud line between ethereality and the brand of garishness rivaled only by carnivals and tie-dye shirts. Her clothes scream with colors that often clash or are simply unpleasing to look at, but they are undeniably well-made. People with an eye for fashion would spot the calls toward high-end Mistral styles, but even those without could still peg the pieces as obnoxiously flashy and overly elaborate, which are just as characteristic, to be fair.

Sashes and hoops, sleeves with buttons and shoulder-cloaks and now and then a ribbon or two dangling from the cuffs and hips. One could justifiably call her outfits impractical, but in action Wisteria moves unimpeded, skirting and dancing across the battlefield as the various colors dim and flare and seem to flow into each other heedless of boundary.

In contrast, the girl keeps an almost demure, unassuming demeanor. Neither short nor tall, with dim-colored eyes and a propensity for blank expressions, Wisteria is, mildly put, not what is advertised on the tin.

---

Name

Wisteria Ferrox

Aliases / Nicknames

Wisty

Gender

Female

Age

16

Kingdom of Origin

Vacuo

Race

Human

History

Wisteria’s mother initially came to Sanus to liaise between a sect of the Mistral aristocracy and a small yet promising dust mine in Vacuo. Negotiations were short, unsuccessful, and ended with her marrying the mine’s young owner, leaving her own home, as they say, in the dust.

The two lived together happily, though they faced their fair share of challenges. Between Vacuo’s general lawlessness and distaste for the frivolities of Mistral, the only thing that kept the Ferrox family alive and in business was the fact that the dust flowed steadily, and also that nobody seemed to be able to kill the bastards. Plenty tried, but most learned quick and deathly that missus Ferrox was more than just a pretty, foreign flower.

Eventually they brought two children into the world. First a boy, Pasque, and two years later a girl, Wisteria, both named after the contents of the garden their mother had left behind in Mistral. Wisteria spent her youth in the protective shadows of her mother and Pasque, whose dreams of becoming a huntsman were shelved in favor of guarding his family. While their mother taught Pasque how to fight, she taught Wisteria the finer arts of the Mistral elite. She learned how to paint, how to dance, how to appear composed even when she was not. She was given a thorough if informal education, and when her semblance blossomed, Wisteria quickly turned it into a tool for artistic expression.

However, while she was blind to Vacuo’s hostilities, Vacuo was not blind to her. The people saw in the Ferrox children a burgeoning dynasty of opulence, and feared that the mine might one day direct its dust to one of the nations that had tried and failed to bleed them dry before. Bandits came more frequently, more fiercely, and though none managed to get past Pasque’s spear, it was clear that the attacks would not stop as long as Mistral had its neatly-trimmed nails dug into Vacuan soil.

One day, their mother vanished.

Their father was crestfallen, Pasque remained steadfast but it was obvious he was hurt as well. Wisteria withered. Fear became her closest companion; between the devastation of abandonment, the new night-terrors, and the outright refusal to even walk beyond the walls of their home, people might very well have assumed that the Ferrox daughter was gone as well. Pasque tried to comfort her, and to his credit, the safest she ever felt was beside him, but it wasn’t enough. She was utterly ruled by her fear. The bandits and marauders slowed for a time, but soon the old sentiments returned. Their family was not forgiven. The attacks resumed.

Troubles did not end there. While sorrows were never scarce in Vacuo, the fact that most people lived their lives on the move meant Grimm had trouble pinning them down. The Ferrox posed no such problem; theirs was a thoroughly planted home now utterly rife with gloom. Eventually it was that when the bandits ebbed, the Grimm would flow, and Pasque, while well-versed in warding off man and faunus, scrambled to adapt to the more monstrous assailants.

One night he was not fast enough. The mines were overrun, the house sieged by Grimm. Pasque fought into the dawn, but was overwhelmed. Their father died protecting him. Just when it seemed like all was lost however, the cavalry arrived. Men and women with weapons bared, and even semblances flaring, drove the Grimm away from the mines and the manor.

Wisteria crawled out from her hiding place shaken and wide-eyed, and saw through the window her brother struggling to his feet, bloody but alive. Then one of their saviors stabbed him through the chest. They set about sacking the home and seizing control of the mine, and Wisteria, spurred out of her shock by fear and shame, took her mother’s spear and fled.

The next anyone would see of her would be at Oscuro’s doorstep, and shortly after, the doors of Shade Academy.

Semblance

Wisteria’s semblance, Achromatopsia, allows her to pull colors from objects and areas, which can be applied to other things, or molded into various constructs, controlled telekinetically. Higher quantities of constructs naturally require more color and effort to create, but large amounts of color can also be channeled to make fewer but stronger and more resilient ones.

When constructs are destroyed or dismissed, unless applied to something else, the color returns to its source. As well, color taken from living things, while generally more potent, can only be held temporarily, and cannot be applied to other objects when dismissed. With focus, Wisteria can alter taken colors, but this change reverts when the color returns to its source.

Weapon & Fighting Style

Wisteria’s wields her family’s heirloom, a modified glaive called Prism Ribbon. While certainly more ornamental among the weapons found in Vacuo, Wisteria has modified it over the course of her time at Oscuro. With a pearlescent blade, and an internal chamber for utilizing dust, Prism Ribbon has become much more than decoration.

In practice, Wisteria’s combat style is graceful, bordering on dancelike and bursting with flourish. She will often use her semblance to extend the glaive’s edge, effectively turning it into a scythe with a warped, flowing blade of weaponized color.

Strengths & Weaknesses

Strengths

• Well-educated, analytical, able to strategize quickly and effectively.
• Quick, nimble, with a dancer’s grace that lends itself to her melee combat-style.
• Dauntless, able to suppress fears and anxieties in order to focus on the problems at hand.
• Very experienced with her semblance, able to utilize it in a variety of ways in combat.

Weaknesses

• Mental stability hinges entirely on a false persona.
• Little to no experience fighting Grimm.
• Reliant upon agility and precision, little aptitude for strength.
• Only a rudimentary understanding of aura.
• Stubborn, self-destructive, scant regard for personal safety.

Fatal Flaw

Wisteria’s entire being is founded upon the denial of the fact that she is a coward at heart. She’s spent years building a wall around that inner, pathetic self that was too weak to save her brother, and too afraid to die with him. It’s a strong wall, but it has cracks, and should it crumble there may not be anything left of her to salvage from the rubble.

RWBY: Chasing Shadows

Gonna drop my interest in here too!

Pariah Online: A Voyage into the Intangible Aether

Location: City Streets -- The City of Thorinn, Aetheria

---

Seele couldn’t help but gape a bit as Kazuki explained his situation. Some of it was predictable enough; she’d have wagered he was Queon, though she might have also guessed Sikth a day ago. But to own houses all over Aetheria? That had to have been some sort of feat. Not that she would have known, she’d been playing the part of a drifter the whole time she’d been playing Pariah. Perhaps Kazuki had simply applied himself to the project, he certainly seemed to be diligent enough.

He mentioned Benkei again. He seemed to know a lot about their tank, and now she was hearing that they’d played together often, to the point that Benkei had Kazuki at his beck and call. She couldn’t imagine Kazuki waiting on most anyone like that. He’d even mentioned a friend.
…
Before she could ask about it though, he pushed the subject back to her. Hm. Tricky. She was eager to learn more about her group, but for the moment, she thought it best to lean into whatever direction Kazuki steered their conversation. So, she stored those questions away for later.

Their pace wasn’t exceptionally fast—she hadn’t expected them to exactly sprint to Mystic Prophecy—so she didn’t feel too guilty about taking her time to answer.

“Oh, Drox. I know, huge surprise right? A support in the support pathos, how scandalous! It’s nice, though. I was really into the pathos stuff when I first started. Did a bunch of reading up on all the lore, took a peek at some of the quests and region-specific areas. Thorinn was—is, I mean—really just beautiful, but so are all of the other places in their own ways. Almost went Tyhrien, if I’m being honest.”

She twirled her parasol, considering for a moment what Kazuki had suggested about weaponizing it. She wouldn’t—though the idea of enhancing it into a backup focus was appealing for sure. Seele made a point not to carry weapons with her, it was part of the reason she hadn’t gone Tyhrien. “It is the duty of the hero to protect the helpless,” sounded very nice on paper, but in practice she’d found the Tyhrien brand of protection often involved violence against the aggressors, which she simply wasn’t cut out for. And besides that, the longer she’d played, the more she realized the moniker “hero” didn’t apply to her. Seele didn’t want to be a hero, she wanted to be there for the people who did.
…
“Drox fit better,” she said with a shrug. “And, you know it seems kind of silly to say, but I actually really sort of respected Erianda. All of the pathos leaders are compelling characters, I mean I thought the same thing about Itrius, but, I dunno, something about Erianda just drew me in. Made the decision easier.”

Soon enough they came upon Mystic Prophecy’s guildhall, which was surprisingly modest-looking for such a well-renowned group. Seele breezed up to the doors, only to hesitate. She turned back to Kazuki, donning sympathy once again in her smile.

“You’re doing the right thing,” she said again. “I’m really proud of you. No matter what happens in there, have faith in yourself to handle it. You can.”

Then she knocked on the door and took a step behind Kazuki. She’d do her best to support him, but this was his trial to face, and the last thing she wanted to do was step over him and say something he didn’t mean. In the end, all she could really do was hope everyone had calmed down enough to approach things with the intention of moving on.