pugbutter

Blades of Iron Roses: A fantasy Knight RP

With all due respect: what are you talking about?

nodding approvingly with the appraisal already given.

@pugbutter

Blades of Iron Roses: A fantasy Knight RP

edited it already

Fear and Loading: A Tale of Cyberpunk Misadventures

So the plot is No Country for Old Men but with cyborgs instead of cowboys?

👍

E:\cyberpunk\the_deadliest_question.exe

Alan J. Elliott

E:\cyberpunk\the_deadliest_question.exe

Jewel glanced toward her as she spoke. His alarm from her sudden swerving disrupted what little progress he had made toward sleep, and he gave her that bare modicum of manners as his way of expressing his gratitude for this favor she was doing him: eye contact (or as close as possible, when she was keeping her own eyes on the road). He was lucky enough to catch the frown, ever modest and controlled; she must have read somewhere that frowning too much causes wrinkles or some-such, he thought. For all her ruthless intelligence in the office and behind the one-way mirror, she seemed much too eager sometimes to believe, strongly and sincerely, that within her cheap Cosmo's and Allure Women's Beauty's, the secrets to eternal loveliness and great sex could be excavated. She was willing to dig through 109 pages of ads and fluff to find the one which divulged the location of the fountain of youth.

Only a vague silhouette of a man invaded Jewel's brain at mention of the name. He was not extremely sociable anyway, but less so outside of their sector and field. What interest had he in information technology, or in security? If he was interested in them then those are the jobs he would have studied in school and interviewed for at Transcomm. But then, that attitude, he understood, was why Ona would make it to the top someday and he'd be stuck here, hoping for her to toss him some scraps from the big table. He had too much pride for that, he told himself, but the company would call it a lack of ambition or worse, laziness. He thought Ona suckled their toes and licked their boots in vain, but they must have been quicker to assure her that it was getting her somewhere. Beyond the part of him that always wanted to be right and to say "I told you so," the rest of him knew she deserved that big break, and if she didn't get it, the word "justice" had been stripped of its meaning, soaked in turpentine and paint thinner until its naked bones stank.

"I thought those guys weren't supposed to die until they were two days from retirement," Jewel joked tastelessly. At least he didn't laugh at his own joke like a pissant. "Too bad. I guess the coffee frayed his nerves."

Blades of Iron Roses: A fantasy Knight RP

...that would just make it anything that isn't France/french. German is part of that category...

I don't think I understand what you mean there

@Zetsuko

It's France but it's pretending not to be.

Like how Bioshock looks like an underwater Steampunk version of Art Deco 1920s NYC, except it's the city of "Rapture" instead.

Loving and Dreading the Black Shroud [shylarah & pugbutter] [Historical/Gothic]

[redacted]

ᚠᚨᚱᛋᛁᚷᛚᛁᛝᛋᚨᚷᚨ

Hrífa hummed in sprightly agreement, not stopping to lollygag and gape at the ship from afar. After all, he was convinced that there were "better" and "worse" seats on the ship, and he had to claim one quickly for himself. Walking past the squabblers, he smirked victoriously to himself; this, he could argue, was why being alone benefited people more than it harmed them! Smug, and smooth like a dense boiling cream, he hopped aboard, having no need for the nearby gangplank. Soon he was crouch-crawling along the hull's length like a crab, measuring the benches by some strange standard, dragging his sleeping bag along behind him.

"The wind is always near us. Always it licks at our ears and tousles our hair," said the bald-shaven witch. "Every day is a good day to sail, if the sailor is skilled enough."

Blades of Iron Roses: A fantasy Knight RP

"Yeah, it's fine," Gütta mumbled at the voice standing behind him, nodding approvingly with the appraisal already given. He was leaning back in his seat, with the two front legs propped off the ground; only when he threw his head back, looking over his shoulders and toward this voice, did he see its owner, who looked much too large and foreboding. "Say; I guess you're our doctor?" He tried not to sound shocked, but the Nord undoubtedly dwarfed him, and if he had half a fighter's brain, could probably beat him into the ground without breaking a sweat, too, Gütta knew. He sat forward, and turned around properly, inspecting the surgeon and his mismatched body. The mercenary should have expected a more scholarly, mousey man, but then, he was grateful enough that he hadn't needed to meet the company surgeon yet at all. In that regard the surprise was a pleasant one.

[+]

@Fyre Unholy

ᚠᚨᚱᛋᛁᚷᛚᛁᛝᛋᚨᚷᚨ

Hrífa made no preparations in the way of patterns painted on his body with woad and yarrow dyes, and certainly no sacrifices offered to the golden tongues which licked voraciously at his firewood, knowing well that he wished not to taint his visions with biases; neither his own hopes nor the gods' favor then would skew them. Regardless, as he laid himself down that evening, he welcomed any dreams which might beset him from the great dark.

None came. Not knowing whether to feel relieved or dread-stricken, he chose not to dwell on it, trying, if rather in vain, to place his faith in the Weavers sat at the foot of Yggdrasil. Although they knew well what course the man's path would take, he, only a man, blind to their designs, could only worry, and wonder.

When he returned to the village, of the few who walked about (with no fields to till and no sports to play, enough men let their sleep carve well into the morning, and their women let them), most were gathered at the dock, and Hrífa wondered if they'd set off to the cheers and songs reserved for heroes. Would such songs be only for particular members? If Valhöll could hear these songs, would they Óðinn and his einherjar slice them up and distribute their blessings accordingly to the intended recipients? The witch hoped he would be near enough to these heroes to catch some of the residue which would splash off them if it was so; he knew no songs were sung for him.

He seemed assaulted by a great worm as he came forth, but it was his sleeping-bag, stuffed with his belongings and carried with a fist cinching the mouth. Encouraged by the sight of the village, he limbs were stuffed again with vigor, and he picked up his pace toward the ship, hoping to save one of the better seats for himself. Evidently one might give him a better view from the deck, or give his bum fewer splinters.

---

Meanwhile ...

---

Hralding had climbed the ship's prow, carved in the semblance of a scowling snake, and as he devoted some lazy thought toward keeping his balance, the rest of him was down with the people, watching the goings-on of the land. He shivered a little, having shed his fur-lined cloak down in the hull; he watched in angry futility especially as parents pleaded with their children to come home. There were more sailors than oars, and he'd ordered that they work it out amongst themselves who would not be coming. He had "warriors" in excess, but of these abundances, few who could actually fight, to himself he sighed!