Obscene Symphony

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You can't escape

You can't outrun

Your DNA

What's in your blood

The Shattering of Aegis

_{✧ Location: Snakeburrow Woods ✧ Purse: 12 copper ✧ @McMolly @Achronum ✧}

Kyreth regarded Lilann with a sympathetic half-smile, appreciating her humour but still pitying her her mistake. However, he did not despair; any other time, Lilann would be in a serious bind, but luckily for her Kyreth had come into some luck of his own.

“Don’t worry Lilann, I have plenty,” he offered her, gesturing with the sack over his shoulder. By the weight of it, he was certain he had enough food to split with Lilann over the course of their journey; if he could make it from Straithmoor to Soft Haven on a pocketful of dried fish skins and handfuls of berries, he could manage on half rations for ten days. He smiled supportively. “We can share.”

However, no sooner had the words left his mouth than the murmur of another voice appeared directly behind him, whispering warnings of savage beasts that came out in rainstorms. Ceolfric’s warning came too late; as soon as the voice manifested, Kyreth had whirled around to face the nonexistent stranger - or, perhaps, to run away from it - his heart racing even as their companion explained himself. A sharp glare in Ceolfric’s direction was his only response, as Kyreth was quickly distracted by Lilann’s whispers.

Kyreth looked down at her in surprise, but left it at that; the cart was starting to move, and it was time to take their places. Though he admitted it begrudgingly after that little assault, Ceolfric had a point; they could tell ghost stories when Ms. Buckman was out of earshot.

Before taking up his spot near the rear of the cart, though, Kyreth remembered that he was here for a reason. As the cart - and the group - started to pull away, he paused, turning away from the noise of wheels and hoofbeats and closing his eyes to draw a deep breath. After a moment of settling, his senses awoke to the aether in the area, dense and bright at once, flowing gently toward the town as if on a soft breeze. The nervous buzzing in his limbs had yet to cease, and now Kyreth saw why; despite his lack of any real frame of reference, even he could tell that the aether in Soft Haven was dense, and something pulled it inwards to the town proper, like water circling a drain. He didn’t understand the why of it, but he took note of it for comparison later, allowing himself one more slow breath before hurrying to catch up with the wagon team.

~ /// ~

Fortunately, despite Lilann’s suspicion and Ceolfric’s warnings, the day passed largely without incident, the team winding slowly through the Snakeburrow Woods with little more than a frightened pig to startle them. In fact, other than that single scare, the trip was kind of pleasant; the rain never ended up falling and Lilann filled the hours with stories and songs, making it that much easier to forget the threat of monsters hanging over their heads. Kyreth could see how she managed the money for her lyre and (now missing) sword - he’d have kept walking all night listening to her, forgetting the soreness in his shoulder or the holes in his boots. He still kept an eye out for threats, of course - old habits died hard, and if he was going to hitchhike on the rest of the group’s job then he might as well be useful - but it would have been easy to forget and get lost in Lilann’s tales of far-off lands and ancient heroes.

Night was beginning to gather when they finally did stop, and it was only then that the full force of Kyreth’s fatigue came to bear on him. He gratefully dropped his pack when they reached the clearing, working out the stiff knots in his shoulders as the others found their spots. Damn, he was used to traveling, but traveling with luggage was a whole different beast. He supposed it had its merits, though, as he unfurled the top and pulled out a portion of food wrapped in oilcloth. Definitely better than fish skins, the rations consisted of a good-sized chunk of hardtack, some dried meat, and even a few slices of dried apple. Lord Mystralath was generous indeed.

“Here,” Kyreth told Lilann, kneeling down and placing the unwrapped bundle on a hard spot of ground. Producing his knife, he jabbed the point into the middle of the hardtack biscuit, thumping the pommel with his palm a few times until the rocklike biscuit split roughly in half. Careful not to drop any crumbs, he pocketed half the biscuit and a slice of the dried meat, wrapping the remainder and the apple slices back up in the cloth and handing it to Lilann. “That should do you for the night, I think. No need for mushrooms.” He grinned.

Reassembling his pack, he shouldered it once more and made his way back to the cart, putting his waterskin with the others, but lingered as the others spread out in the clearing. When he and Cerric were the only ones around the water trough, he cleared his throat.

“Evening, Mr. Liadon,” he greeted, offering a token smile before immediately tripping over his own tongue. What was he supposed to say? ‘Thanks for making sure I don’t burn the forest down’? ‘Sorry to crash your escort party with my martially incompetent ass’? Gods, he felt like a little sibling begrudgingly taken along at his mother’s command, not a student, or an apprentice, or even a simple traveler. As soon as he spoke, he fell awkwardly silent again, grabbing the strap of his pack en lieu of the back of his neck.

“I… wanted to thank you. For having me along. And for… well, supervising, I guess,” he finally said, momentarily distracted by the sound of a flint striking. He glanced suspiciously over to where one of their number was starting a fire in the pit, and shifted so as to put Cerric between himself and the distant flames. “I hope I’m not making your job much harder,” he continued quietly, “I don’t want to be a burden on their evaluation, so if there’s anything I can do, by all means…”

Kyreth trailed off, distracted by the fire. To his credit, he was rather more used to starting to offer help than finishing it; normally, whenever he tried, he was chased away before he had the chance to finish his sentence.

The Shattering of Aegis

_{✧ Location: Soft Haven Bounty House ✧ Purse: 12 copper ✧ @McMolly @Hero ✧}

So, Lilann wasn’t showing her cards yet either. But Cerric’s response, still confusing for its utter lack of the spine-chilling fear Kyreth thought the topic warranted, was cut off when the last member of their merry band showed up, panting and wheezing. Kyreth cringed as he watched Eila get chewed out; it was uncomfortable enough to see Eila in such a state of disorder, but Cerric’s dressing-down was a good warning to them all of the consequences of screwing up. Looking between the scene and Lilann, Kyreth was glad he, at least, wasn’t personally responsible for the success of the escort mission - but on the other hand, it could be argued that his own responsibilities were much greater. If he screwed up, the consequences would be a lot more dire than a failed contract and a discount…

Suppressing a shudder, Kyreth turned away from the display, looking to Lilann. “One hell of a poker face, huh?” he commented under his breath, gesturing to Cerric as he climbed the wagon. Quietly, the faintest hint of trepidation tinted his voice. “Do you think he really doesn’t know? Or does he know something we don’t?”

The latter would be preferable, clearly. It was very hard to believe Cerric had no idea what was in the woods; if he did know, and he was still so eerily calm about it, then maybe they could be calm too. Maybe Cerric had everything under control and there was nothing to worry about.

Somehow Kyreth had a hard time believing that.

He shook his head, not wanting to dwell on the subject. There would be time to get answers from Cerric later, assuming they were lucky and he’d be forthcoming with them. For the moment, Kyreth chose to believe that Lord Mystralath trusted Cerric for a reason, and if he was going to learn to fit in with their “little family,” then that would have to be enough for him, too. Easier said than done.

Instead of dwelling on the topic, Kyreth adjusted his pack on his shoulder, waving Eila over and shepherding the three of them out of the way of the wagon. “Good morning Eila, nice to see you,” he greeted warmly, deciding not to address the woman’s general state of disarray.

As Ms. Buckman sounded her warning, Kyreth shrugged, opting to keep his pack on him; no need to take up space on the wagon when he wasn’t even really part of the detail. Looking between Eila and Lilann, though, he frowned, noticing Lilann sported nothing but the same satchel she had on when they arrived yesterday.

“Wait, Lilann, where’s your bag?” he asked, brow furrowing. For a ten day trip, she should have been dragging a pack of rations almost as big as she was, but there was nothing. “Didn’t you bring any food?”

Obscene's Scratchpad

Roan Alserda

________________________________________ Roan Levi Alserda Male | 22 | Sound _______________________________________________ "The next thing that bites me is getting a bite back." ________________________________________ Likes Anything with cinnamon Listening to stories Meals with loved ones Music Dislikes People who think they're better than others (vampires included) Authority in general Being objectified Long silences Life magic Telling people bad news Habits Drumming on whatever's around (tables, chairs, his legs, etc) Whistling, singing, otherwise making noise music Talking about deep, yet completely irrelevant topics Not taking serious things seriously enough Interrupting silences Misc His focus is a little metal rock with the word "Hope" inscribed into it. He has a long scar on the left side of his face. He's pretty sure it's from his vampire scratching him when he attacked her, but he can't quite remember. Roan has no combat training of any kind. Similarly, since he escaped his vampire so early in his education, he also has not had any arcane training. Fortunately, his skill for subtle reconnaissance means he still has something to offer a team. Theme Pullin' me back into my body I'm just a dead man walking I'm just a pawn But nothing hurts better than you

"A caged bird's gotta stop singing." Appearance With dark olive skin, deep green eyes, and graceful features, Roan always had something of a delicate look about him; something his vampire must have noticed, since she had those features enhanced with life magic treatments and plastic surgery until Roan took on the sort of refined, ethereal mien that served nicely as an attractive show piece. Always having hated being looked at like a decorative sculpture, Roan has since done his best to downplay his looks, letting his eyebrows grow back a little thicker, his skin get a little rougher, and dyeing his hair from its former glossy black to a very obviously bleached, out-of-the-bottle blue. A long scar mars his left cheek down to the jawline, further breaking up his formerly symmetrical face, and he hides his lithe, willowy build with oversized tees and zip hoodies. Personality Roan is famously easy to get along with. Easygoing to a fault, Roan has always been perfectly happy to go with the flow, preferring to follow the leader rather than striking out himself. He’s very forgiving of slights against him, preferring to err on the side of grace, and usually assumes (for better or for worse) that people don’t mean to be as harsh as they sometimes come across. But everyone has their limits, and if someone does manage to get on his bad side, he can grow immature, stubborn, and snarky. Of course, getting Roan to the point of spitting back is a feat in itself; in his personal life as well as in battle, Roan would much rather flee than fight. Growing up with two bickering older sisters taught Roan to be an effective mediator, and since tension drives him crazy, he will often be found trying to help people work out their differences - whether his efforts are welcome or not. Averse to conflict and discomforted by seriousness, Roan does his best to keep the mood light, usually trying to diffuse tense situations with a joke or a change of subject. His discomfort with silence, especially, is even more notable these days; the longer people are around him, the more they will notice that his constant attempts at levity may be less of a personality quirk and more of a protective measure. This is most evident in his relatively new aversion to being alone, a discomfort so encompassing it’s probably better described as a fear. So Roan does his best to keep people around, keep them talking, and keep them smiling - after all, too much time alone with his thoughts is bad news when there’s so much in his head he’d rather not think about. Bio Hailing from an orbital Eve territory, Roan’s upbringing was pleasant enough. Born to a single mother with two older sisters, it’s true that they weren’t the model of the nuclear family, and without a second income, they also struggled financially for a while until his oldest sister started working. But they were happy; Roan’s house was always full, be it with the people who lived there or friends and loved ones who stopped in. Even after his oldest sister married and started a family of her own, she was always over with her husband and children, filling the house with the happy noise Roan grew so fond of. It was a happy childhood, the memories of which Roan still treasures to this day. But he couldn’t stay a child forever, and that fact was underscored the year he turned eighteen, when his Awakening crystal lit up and changed his life forever. Truth be told, while he was sad to leave home, Roan was a little excited at the prospect of serving a vampire; it was a chance to step out of the modest means he was so accustomed to, to make something of himself he probably couldn’t have as a mundane man. He considered himself pretty lucky, too. He ended up with a vampiress named Bellamira Deale, part of some distant branch of the Eve family on the low end of the social hierarchy - still plenty rich, but largely uninvolved with the political machine. On top of that, she was decently kind to him. A bit of a diva, she liked things a certain way, of course, but she took a particular interest in Roan, doting on him like an exotic pet and grooming him to become a show mage. She was a great fan of his talent for music, hiring magic tutors to teach him how to enhance his natural ability with Sound magic, and she loved showing him off to friends at parties. It wasn’t always the most comfortable thing to be poked and prodded by rich vampires and looked at like more of a toy than a person - especially when they got a little more handsy - but Roan counted his blessings, and he was more or less content. He spent two reasonably good years with Bellamira, but the novelty wore off when she decided that it was time for the ‘training wheels’ to come off and to induct him into service as a proper show mage. See, in her eyes, becoming a “proper” show mage meant changes; she told him they were simple ‘enhancements’, meant to play on his existing features, highlight his best qualities and minimize the bad ones, and that he’d be happier for them. But it wasn’t until he finally awoke from a whole host of surgical and magical procedures that Roan realized just how dramatic of a change Bellamira wanted to make. He couldn’t deny that he looked “better”, in a way; his features were smoother, his flaws tucked away, his assets exaggerated, just as she said. But it went way beyond ‘enhancement’; his eyes were green instead of hazel, he had an entirely different nose, and all the other features he was used to - even the flaws he never expected to miss - were gone. He looked more like a sculpture freshly carved than a real person, lacking the story of his life he didn’t realize was written in his features until they were gone. He barely recognized himself in the mirror. It was jarring, but for a while, Roan tried to convince himself that he was okay with it. After all, Bellamira was pleased, he was turning more heads than ever, and he seemed to be on his way to a promising ‘career’ as a show mage; he should have been happy, right? Moon only knew most mages weren’t nearly that lucky, especially these days. But something still didn’t sit right with him. Deny or distract all he wanted, the changes still ate away at him. He no longer had his mother’s nose or his sister’s eyes. His home wasn’t full of life or laughter, just schedules and meetings and glorified busywork to keep the mages looking busy. He barely recognized himself anymore, inside or out, and he didn’t realize until it was too late how much he’d miss those faint echoes of his mom and sisters in the mirror. When he could no longer bear the feeling of separation, he went to his mistress, all but begging her to turn him back, or at least to let him dial back the changes to something more subtle. But to his surprise, Bellamira, who had always been more or less amicable with him, was not pleased. She denied him fervently, insulted by his brazen rejection of her ‘gift’ to him, and made it clear who made the decisions in her house and who he really belonged to. Crestfallen and hurt, Roan accepted her decision, but fell into a numbing sadness. Apparently Bellamira noticed how her decision was weighing on him, and surprisingly, attempted to make things right. But a vampire’s interpretation of making amends was much different than a mage’s. She approached him late one morning, where he was moping in his room, and tried to comfort him - he didn’t need to be sad anymore, because now he didn’t need to compare himself to anybody. He could ‘be his own person’, free from the burden of some petty family resemblance weighing down on him, because she’d seen to it that everyone in his ‘old family’ was gone. Roan doesn’t remember much about what happened next. It must have been dramatic, though, because the result was an open curtain, a pile of ash on his floor, and him running for his life. The next few weeks were a blur, but at some point he joined up with a small local rebellion cell that had merged into a distant limb of Dawn Rising, less than ten people in number. He spent about a year with his small band of comrades, conducting small-scale operations that ultimately didn’t accomplish much more than soothing Roan’s burning need to do something, anything to make sure what happened to him never happened to anyone ever again. When they finally got to make a move that might actually have made a difference, Roan’s endeavours once more ended in tragedy. Finding unexpected resistance and succumbing to a crucial organizational breakdown, the entire cell was killed; Roan was the only survivor, and even then, only because for the second time, he ran. And again, the next few weeks - or was it months? It was so hard to tell - went by in a blur, and now he’s once more searching for a chance to join up with the resistance in the hopes that this time, maybe he can actually make a difference.

Obscene's Scratchpad

Henry Starag

________________________________________ Henry Starag Male | 23 | Sound _______________________________________________ "You were prettier with your mouth closed." ________________________________________ Likes Competent competition Useful gossip Manipulating people Coffee Chances for advancement (aka chances to show off) Dislikes Tattletails (why waste a perfectly good secret?) Bluntness (unless it's fun) Incompetent competition Alcohol - clouds the mind, very dangerous People he can't read Habits Flexing his status just to fluster people Checking his reflection Messing with people/pushing their buttons Eavesdropping Misc. Two words: ego problem Henry has been training in mental magic with the realm's finest teachers for three years. Opera singer No martial training but his skill with magic makes up for it While he still has the Sinnenodel distaste for violence (because it's crude and messy and for peasants), Henry can't deny a morbid fascination with it. His focus is a small titanium earring. Theme You're not such an easy target One minute I know you then I don't I know you then I don't

"Legacies are made to be surpassed." Appearance In many ways, Henry is the spitting image of his father; fair-skinned, blue-eyed, and sporting a head of thick, golden blond hair, always well looked-after. Standing a bit shorter than his father at around 5'9, his body strikes a fine balance between a lithe frame and practical musculature, just as Lady Sinnenodel prefers. Dressing in whatever style the Lady fancies that year, Henry is always sure to be put together to the letter of her command and keeps himself meticulously clean and cared for. Conventionally handsome, Henry usually sports an eerie, masklike expression utterly devoid of emotion, having long since learned to keep such silly mortal trappings to himself - or, better yet, expunge them completely. Despite this, his eyes have a chilling sharpness to them, always searching for traps, weaknesses, and opportunities. Personality Henry was raised to be the ideal Sinnenodel mage, and he would like to think he’s very close to achieving it. Cold and ruthless, there are no lengths to which he won’t go—or levels he won’t stoop to—to accomplish his goals, be they simply following orders or tipping the scales of fate in his favour. It cannot be overstated that his interests begin and end with himself, and to that end, he is zealously ambitious—a passion that currently manifests in the enthusiastic service of his Lady. Make no mistake, though; his loyalty does not stem from love, or gratitude, tradition, or any supposedly higher calling. No, Henry’s fierce loyalty stems squarely from his own desire to succeed, and there can be no success higher in this world than earning the favour of the Empress herself. Having learned from a young age that mortal emotions are nothing but an obstacle in his path, he’s learned to suppress them, smother them somewhere safe and out of the way to be dealt with later - or preferably, never. However, that isn’t to say that he doesn’t entertain the occasional human urge. Quite the contrary; Henry has come to see the game of words and daggers the Sinnenodels play as quite the pastime indeed, and finds great entertainment in all the myriad ways he can pull the strings of his social fabric. He likes to have fun; it just so happens that his idea of fun is invoking the misfortune of others. Above all, though, it bears repeating that Henry’s sole purpose is his own self interest. He will do, take, and endure absolutely anything to secure his own future, and Fate help anything—or anyone—that stands in his way. Bio No matter one’s status, it is impossible to completely escape the clutches of war; Henry Starag was no exception. Born in the year 507, Henry was a toddler when Lycans attacked his childhood home, forcing his father Aaron, his mother Eloise, and their cadre of allies to pull out every possible stop to defend themselves. If not for his father’s Lycan breakthrough and Max Alderman’s sheer magical might, Henry’s life would have been a short one. But the only thing that ended that night was Henry’s direct involvement in the war; on an agreement that it was best to keep him safe, three-year-old Henry was sent to none other than Sybil Sinnenodel’s household, where he’d be protected from any and every possible threat excepting the Empress herself. There, safely tucked away in the heart of Sinnenodel territory and far from the war, Henry grew to forget most of that night, and lived in relative normalcy. Instead, Henry grew up under the harsh and exacting tutelage of Sybil Sinnenodel and her household, and there was molded into the very finest example of what a Sinnenodel mage - and a Starag, for that matter - should be. But it wasn’t just the Empress’ creative methods or the competence of the mages under her employ that were responsible for Henry’s success. On the contrary; even as a child, Henry proved the perfect receptacle for their teaching, driven to excel and eager to use any method, no matter how underhanded, to do so. By personality alone, there was nothing of his father in him. Where Aaron was kind, Henry was cunning; where Aaron was gentle, Henry was ruthless; where Aaron was duty-bound, Henry was motivated only by the prospect of his own achievement. Not that there was anyone around to recognize the difference - Aaron was long since a changed man by the time Henry was becoming his own person. Growing up largely apart from his parents, who were usually busy with the war, Henry enjoyed every luxury and endured every hardship a proper Sinnenodel mage was expected to, as if there was no war at all - more or less. From a young age he learned to keep his ‘human’ side carefully concealed, to tolerate Sybil’s frequent invasions into his psyche, and even to keep his very thoughts in check, lest he attract his Mistress’ ire. As he grew and learned more about his family, the Sinnenodels, and his place between the two, Henry came to recognize the gravity of the same lofty Starag lineage that inspired such zealous awe in his father. However, Henry wasn’t struck by admiration; rather, he was taken by the sheer scale of the achievements he’d have to someday outpace in order to finally step out from under their shadow. And his ancestors weren’t his only competition, either. Aside from his own father and the other handful of accomplished mages who joined him in the war, Henry had Lena. Lena, the insufferable pile of perfect looks and feminine curves and infuriating talent. Lena, the ice mage he’d been engaged to marry since before either of them could walk, who had been his chief competitor for Sybil’s good graces throughout their entire shared upbringing. Lena, who matched Henry for every accomplishment without fail, who he hated and loved, who was probably the closest thing to an equal he had in the world’s entire population of mages. Lena, who he’d strangle if he could and whose company he resented so much and yearned for so dearly the second she was gone. Yeah, that bitch. Let it never be said that Henry Starag didn’t enjoy a good challenge, because if ever there was one, Lena was it. However, as of late, Henry has gotten an edge. New intel has come in on some potential to stir up Dawn Rising, the foremost band of terrorists currently acting the thorn in the Empress’ side, and it just so happens, it’s finally time for Henry to show his Lady what he’s capable of. True, he has very big shoes to fill, and very long shadows to overtake if he wants to truly make a name for himself beyond his father’s reputation. Fortunately, single-handedly toppling Dawn Rising from the inside should prove an excellent start.

Obscene's Scratchpad

(size 60)
(60)
(107)
size 69 (nice

72

Obscene's Scratchpad

Trainer is a bastard
Trainer is a bastard (trainer's colour)
Testtestestest
Trainer is a bastard (hair colour)
Trainer is a bastard (hair lighter)
Trainer is a bastard

The Shattering of Aegis

_{✧ Location: Soft Haven Bounty House ✧ Purse: 12 copper ✧ @Achronum @Scribe of Thoth @McMolly @Trainerblue192 ✧}

Fortunately, Kyreth wasn’t left to stand silently by himself for long; not long after he arrived, the sullen boy from the day before made his appearance, sporting a loaf of fine bread Kyreth was just about certain he couldn’t afford. To Kyreth’s surprise, Ermes walked right up to him, starting up a conversation with a question that was either sincere and poorly delivered or a poorly-veiled jab.

Kyreth eyed the bread with something akin to disgust, but rather than comment, looked around for his new traveling partner. Had she gotten cold feet? After yesterday’s endeavours, he certainly couldn’t blame her, but he shifted on his feet just the same. “Oh, um, she’s…”

Having been surprised Lilann hadn’t beaten him there in the first place, Kyreth wasn’t surprised to see a top-heavy silhouette materialize in the morning mist right on cue. “Right there!” he finished more confidently than he started, motioning to Lilann’s figure emerging from the fog.

“Good morning,” he returned her greeting kindly, noticing she’d gone back to her mask. Smart. He wished he could get away with that, but he didn’t have the performer’s air Lilann had to pull it off - if he donned a mask he’d be pegged as some kind of criminal before anyone even had the chance to find out he was Tainted and consider themselves sure.

It wasn’t long after Lilann arrived that Cerric launched into another introductory spiel, helpfully repeating their patron’s name so Kyreth could commit it to memory. Judging by their patron’s demeanour, Ms. Buckman either wasn’t bothered by the presence of two Tainted among her ragtag guard, or hadn’t noticed - either one worked for Kyreth, and he dared not hope for any more than that. Whichever one it was, he made a mental note to steer clear of the front of the carriage on their trek - no need to take any chances.

Kyreth reflected Ms. Buckman’s concern about their numbers, though - especially when Cerric approached the topic of Lilann’s “search” after his announcement. Cerric’s excuse weakened considerably when an eldritch horror in the woods was factored into the equation, and Kyreth was left to wonder once more if Cerric truly believed the woods would be empty, or if he was just that powerful that whatever that thing was didn’t concern him. Which it was, he couldn’t tell; behind the near-ominous curiosity on his face, the man was intriguingly hard to read.

And speaking of people who were difficult to read, Ceolfric shot a comment as he passed, earning little more than a quizzical look from Kyreth. If only the bandit knew his real reason for tagging along made even less sense; mending fences was certainly more within his wheelhouse than aetherically mapping the road out of Soft Haven as a walking firebomb. On that topic, Kyreth made a mental note to suss out the aether around the North Gate before they set off.

But that could wait a moment. In the meantime, Cerric had the bulk of his attention. “Ah, right, sorry about that,” he apologized less-than-sincerely, crossing his arms. He leveled the blue-skinned man with a searching stare, unsure whether to broach the topic, but eventually decided to follow Lilann’s lead; it was her story to tell, and he wouldn’t tramp on her right to tell it as she saw fit. Besides, he wasn’t fond of accusing Cerric of malfeasance on day one, especially when their ten-day foray promised a lot of close dealing with the man - more if he needed to put out any fires.

Decibitus [Moved to a new thread]

Maya

---

~6AM | KAMAKURA | MORON CENTRAL GENJIYAMA PARK

---

As soon as the nerd started talking, Maya regretted asking; not only did he give a few paragraphs when a sentence would probably do, but she realized as he spoke that his insight probably wasn’t gonna be all that helpful. After all, even if this dude could see ghosts, how did they know he’d be helpful? He might not be able to tell the difference between a lost spirit and a lost tourist, and hell, he might not even want to talk to them.

Meanwhile, the rock star-looking one seemed to find something more concrete, pointing them towards the Southwest. Where, as it happened, some guy with clothes over his shoulder was making a beeline straight for them.

Not sure if Sparky should be credited with his quick work or if he just pointed out the guy obviously walking toward them, Maya stared at the dude skeptically as he made his way over; she’d been dead long enough by now not to expect anyone to see her, let alone approach, and honestly, it felt a little weird to be picked out of a crowd. But he was definitely coming for them; there was nobody behind them he could have been going after, and his eyes were set right on them.

Placing a hand on her hip as he went into his spiel, Maya’s expression returned to one of abject boredom - the novelty of being seen and spoken to wore off when he started giving bland directions. Jesus, if she wanted to be dictated to like an employee she would have just stayed at the office today. She’d admit it was kinda funny when the realization hit him that he was talking to dead people - by the looks of it, not a new realization, but unwelcome nonetheless - and then, even funnier, he tried to give them tips. Ha!

Of course, Achilles the Brainless piped up before anyone else got the chance, with something more liable to make buddy panic than to help. Rather than scold him, Maya simply shot him a sharp look and wrenched her hammer from his grip, begrudgingly accepting her new apparent role as the Team Mom as she let it dissipate into smoke. Bless his heart, it seemed like he was doing his best, but pretty and dumb were a better combination at a frat party than on a field mission.

“Don’t listen to him,” she excused offhandedly, rolling her eyes. The ghost-seeing dude’s comment that sparked the whole thing was kinda funny, though, in a fucked up way. What, was Miss Death hiring the living now, too? The dude just got here and he was already doing a better job of Reaping than anyone on the job today. Or hey, maybe he was a Reaper who decided to take an extended vaca--

Her thoughts were stopped dead in their tracks when the guy did his little hair flip, the strangely familiar gem on his earring - ohmygodwhothefuckwearsasingleearringanymore - catching her attention. Brow furrowed and looking more pissed than confused, Maya stepped forward and waved her hand out in front of her, phasing right through the guy’s chest as if he wasn’t there. Or, rather, as if she wasn’t there - he was definitely mortal, so what was he doing with that?

“Is that a… where the fuck did you get that?” she asked incredulously, pointing at his suspiciously weapon-core-looking earring. Was she imagining things? She didn’t know a mortal could possess a weapon core - not that there was any reason she knew of that they couldn’t, but it didn’t seem right.

Staring for another moment, Maya finally closed her eyes and took a breath, resolving that that whole debacle was above her pay grade. Right, she had some confused asshole to find, and then she could go make sense of that paperwork nightmare later.

“You know what, whatever, I don’t care,” she sighed, waving the thought away. She put her hand back on her hip, gesturing lazily with the other. “Don’t worry, we’re not here for you. We just wanna know if you’ve seen a confused-looking dead guy wandering around by the shrines, and then we’ll be out of your hair. Ring any bells?”

@Hero @OwO @PapiTan @dragonmancer

Fire Emblem: The Slumbering Goddess

_{@Hero @Scribe of Thoth}

On some level, Jorah was thoroughly cowed by the sight of the bandit with the axe going absolutely gangbusters on Auberon and everything nearby, but to his surprise more than anyone else’s, his feet stayed firm. He recognized the danger, knew it should - and did - scare the shit out of him, but he didn’t falter; for his fear was drowned out like a whisper in a crowd by the bright, screaming aura emanating from Auberon. The Lion didn’t even flinch - he was excited for the chance to test his mettle against a raving heretic. It was enough to embolden even Jorah, to the point that he found himself breaking ranks, circling around to the side in order to get a clearer shot on the bandit without as much risk of shooting Auberon.

“To your left!” he cried, repeating a hunter’s warning as he drew his bow. But rather than mess with the axeman, Jorah took aim at the man accompanying him. Unlike the others, he didn’t recognize the man; he simply aligned his sights and shot, loosing another two arrows in quick succession for good measure.

However, a commotion behind them caught Jorah’s attention, a scream and a spike of someone else’s shock jolting him. He whirled around to see another wyvern charging at the rest of the party, Michail fending it off as Isolde and Derec were fallen upon by more soldiers.

Caught between an axeman and a wyvern, Jorah spun back and forth comically for a moment, his prior religious fervor chastened by uncertainty. “Look out!” he called, loosing a few arrows in Isolde and Derec’s direction, as well. However, they landed wide, splintering loudly against a building to their side; an intentional miss, it being too risky to shoot at the bandits with his comrades just beyond.

“HEY!” Jorah yelled to get the bandits’ attention, nocking another arrow. Unsurprisingly, it worked; however, Jorah hadn’t really planned that far ahead. Saints dammit, he always had to be the centre of attention, didn’t he? Couldn’t lay that to rest for a single second?!

Well, now he was committed. And alone. And being stared down by angry bandits. “Yeah! You!” he called again, sending a few more poorly-aimed arrows downrange for good measure. His nerves must have been getting to him, because against his intention, one of them actually hit; however, the bandit must have had a breastplate, because the arrow exploded into splinters on impact. Shit. Hopefully his compatriots would take the hint and use their opening before the bandits sicced another wyvern on him - or clobbered him themselves.