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10 mos ago
Current I just force Bork or Shiva to RP when I need a GM.
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10 mos ago
I think the main thing with any IC is a good pitch, I've joined plenty of RPs because the pitch was good (but rarely do I care about how pretty the thread is).
12 mos ago
Some questions are just curve balls though. Traditionally the answer to "Do you support white supremacy?" is an easy no, unless you're either an idiot or racist or probably both.


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With basically the max possible interest possible in terms of an RP, I did some writing (and also shamelessly stole the format for the CS from the last iteration of the SG).

A DIY alchemist on the run from the vampire mob wanders into a supernatural detective agency and somehow gets a job.


Swords on her hip, musket slung over back, and with a bag of supplies in hand, Nora appeared in the common room of the Faded Lantern with silent steps. She had been delayed. They had been delayed, but there was still time, and she did not doubt that Vargas had expected some trouble. Y'Vanna was already infamous in the Faded Lantern for her debauchery and no one, least of all Nora, held much hope for the moral fortitude of a roving sailor. Men who spent years on the sea were no doubt poisoned by the salt tinged water and seemed to inevitably fall to all of the many vices offered for a price in the Faded Lantern. Ne'miah's fresh infamy presented new problems, chiefly with the corrupt servants to of the law, still, dealing with the Sheriff was always part of the endless chess game that Vargas said he played.

Approaching the bar, Nora waved a hand dismissively as the bartender reached for a flagon, it was too early to drink, and she had already had her morning coffee in her private quarters. Casting a watchful eye over the room, she spotted Solange and Maréngo. Suspiciously they seemed to be deep in conversation and even getting along. Polite discussion, worrisome as it was, was better than insults, Nora thought, remembering the unfortunate incidents of violence and debauchery that had spoiled the past evening.

"You look restored, sailor," Nora said catching the end of their conversation. She nodded in greeting to her two companions and offered a subtle wave of her hand in the way of the desert people.

"The merchant Salman, is known for the quality of his coffee beans, but I warn you, his prices are not cheap, and the man knows how to haggle. Still, what price is not a good cup of coffee worth?" Nora generously added, deciding that scowling for once was not necessary.
I'm so in.

Fortuitously, I have spent some time rewriting Val (now Anna), so I'll be tossing a DIY alchemist raver doing an alarming quantity of magical drugs into the mix once more.
In Forsaken 8 days ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Valanthe Vanatar

Having suffered patiently through a litany of questions concerning matters that were far beneath the necessary attentions of a master wizard, Val had somehow managed to remain quiet and composed.

"Performing great feats of magic requires a certain amount of rest and necessary comforts. It would be a tragedy if I was too tired to cast a spell as a result of overtaxing my delicate constitution."

"... As I told our fine goliath friend, any comforts beyond the basic necessities are your own responsibility, Miss Vanatar."

"How sad," Val mused with a hint of mischief in her voice, "I had hoped perhaps that an exception might be made, but I shall welcome the challenge of acquiring a carriage for my personal for my private usage at a reasonable price."

"Cinder, perhaps you would like to be my driver? I will pay you a fair wage in compensation. You were always so wonderfully talented when it came to simpler tasks," Val asked with a soft smile and what might have passed for kindness in the elf sparkling behind her eyes.

Silence greeted the elf as Cinder gave her deadpan stare. The flames in her hair had died down a little, but it continued to smolder while she remained in Valanthe's presence.

"Why don't you ask one of the tabaxi to do it? They already have a wagon, just ride with them. I've got Ulleiss to look after.

"Oh, but Cinder, you are such a wonderful conversationalist, and we have so much to catch up on," Val said, clasping her hands together dramatically as she relished the moment of banter and teasing. She had forgotten how much more fun adventuring was when Cinder was forced to travel beside her.

"However, you raise an intriguing point, my dearest Cinder," Val continued, turning towards the tabaxi brothers. "Gentleman, do you perhaps have space in your wagon for a gentle wizard and her modest possessions? And if not, might one of you be interested in driving a carriage for me. I have no doubt I can find one for a winning price in town if there is a need for more space on what promises to be an undoubtedly perilous journey."

Cinder could be heard actually laughing behind her but it was clearly too dry to be genuine amusement, and was more likely to be the wry sort of laughter one does when they hear something so outrageous they can't even contemplate how to respond.

Pursing her lips into a thin smile, Val waggled a finger at Cinder, as if playfully chastising the fire gensai for interrupting her proposition to the tabaxi brothers.

"Well, gentleman, what do you say?" Val said, flashing her most winning smile. "Naturally, I will compensate you fairly for any services rendered. I am afraid my talents in wizardry far exceed my ability to handle animals and wagons."


"Thomas," Nora said, catching the attention of the young serving boy that Vargas employed as she stroded through the hallways of the Faded Lantern. "Fetch a two additional buckets of water. As cold as you can manage."

Nora steeled herself for the imiment confrontation she expected. She couldn't help but feel a small amount of satisfaction at the thought of teaching Y'Vanna yet another lesson. Y'Vanna was a talented enough theif when she was sober, which was seldom, and yet Nora had grown weary of her tirelless depravity.

She put the buckets she carried on the floor with a heavy thud. It would be a waste of water. Foolish were it not for the haste that Vargas and the situation demanded. With a deep sigh, Nora knocked on the door. She waited, frowned, and knocked again. The door creaked open with a slow gnash of wood and one of the establishments resident harlots stood in front of Nora, berfit of anything that could even generously be considered clothing. Nora frowned even more deeply and pushed past the woman without comment, sending the poor harlot stumpling backwards onto the floor.

The smell that assailed her nostrils as she stepped into the room, sent her hands moving in a quick warding motion. The fading whisps of burnt incense could not mask the odor of sweat and alcohol. A cloud of smoke still lingered, a lazy haze that mercifully shielded the young serving boy from the worst of the scene. Discarded bottles and knocked over pitchers seemed to decorate every inch of the room. With a quick flick of her eyes, Nora counted nine debauched revelers tossed across the room like spilled dust. Weighed down with water and vice.
Naked, they lay scattered across the room in a string of sweat covered skin and tousled hair. Nora did not need to use a great deal of her imagination to perceive what had passed in the long, dark hours of the night. The sight and smell that greeted her was enough.

She found Y'Vanna slumped in a corner of the room, dust still covering her nose, and three strangers wrapped around her. Nora clucked her tongue with great disapproval, shaking her head critically from side to side as she guided the serving boy carrying the buckets of water into the room. He had seen worse, much worse, she knew, but still it did not feel completely right to subject a youth to the worst of Y'Vanna's many and uncountable list of sins.

Maréngo lay dead to the world apart from Y'Vanna, a small blessing in Nora's view, snoring on a bed beneath and between two women. It was a small comfort to Nora that he was wearing nothing save a ridiculously large leather hat trimmed with an equally preposterous ostrich feather. A bottle of rum, no doubt empty, was clutched in his left hand and Nora felt certain that she could smell the rum that coursed through his blood from across the room.

Fanning the smoke out of her way as she continued to quietly walk through the room, the desert bandit noted with some concern the fur covered camelid, an alpaca as Vargas had once called it, that stood politely near the window, munching happily on a bowl of vegetables that had been strewn across the floor. Nora could not help but notice that the creature was disinterestedly wearing a most shameful collection of intimate garments around its neck. To her greater sorrow, having long regretted how she had unwilling acquired the knowledge, the Zherpanian could furthermore not help but note that some of the undergarments belonged to Y'Vanna.

Her patience finally reached an end and Nora pointed towards Y'Vanna, nodding to the the serving boy, "Please wake Miss Y'Vanna and her dear friends up, Thomas."

The serving boy shrugged, grinned, and then tossed a bucket of ice cold water over the three dreamers. In the same moment, Nora threw the drapes open with a flash of her hands, her voice firm as she spoke, "Wake up, water drinkers! Wake up drunkards. Out with all of you harlots. Away with you vile beggars. I have water enough to drown all of you and I will not wait to drench you like the rat, Y'Vanna."
The Sanguine Symphony 1.2

A voice.

A woman's voice.

Warm. Familiar somehow. Tinged as it was with the faintest hint of what might have once been French.


"What? Leave me alone. It's too early."

"Rory Regan," the voice insisted sternly. "Wake up!"

"Why?" Rory hissed back, pulling her bedsheet closer.

"There's evil in the city."

"There's always evil in this city," Rory groaned back, burying her head against her pillow.

"No, not like this, not evil like this, greater forces are at work here now. Wake up! This is no time for sleeping!"

Rory lurched to life with a cold shiver. A thin layer of sweat tugged the sleep from her eyes as she held the pillow in her hands like a weapon. She lived alone. She lived alone above her thrift shop. There shouldn't have been anyone in her apartment. There shouldn't be a voice telling her to wake up.

She could feel the threads tautening. She could feel the familiar pull. She knew it was waiting. She knew it was waiting for her. Souls tugged at her awareness. Souls bound to the suit, chained to her will. The suit of souls lay crumpled in a pile on the floor. She could never quite place it. It was always changing. Yesterday it had been a knee length skirt. Brilliant rags stitched together with an expert hand. Today. Today it was a periwinkle blouse. An elegant patchwork of blue, with a fluffy crepe and lace gown.


Who knew?

Who knew what the suit of souls would be tomorrow?

Who knew who she would be?

Who knew what she would be?

Ragwoman let the suit of souls guide her through the narrow streets. The suit didn't need to speak to her. The fabric had weaved through her soul. It was a part of her. Or was she a part of it? Another soul ensnared by the suit of souls? It didn't matter. Evil was evil. And she was Ragwoman. Evil had to be stopped. Evil had to be punished. And the evil souls Ragwoman encountered had to be absorbed into the suit of souls.

The tugging soul lined string brought Ragwoman to the Warehouse District. Lurking in the darkness of an alley, her eyes were drawn towards a remodeled warehouse building.

The Callan Contemporary.

A fancy art gallery in the Warehouse District. Ragwoman sneered beneath her mask. Of course evil was hiding behind a heavy venire of tasteful class.

Tendrils of fabric flared out from the soul of suits.




In the darkness of the gallery she saw two figures. One figure loomed over the other, which seemed to be writhing on the floor.

A faint pain coursed through Ragwoman and the suit of souls seemed to recoil. A symphony of angry voices rose up in righteous anger. There was nothing. No souls. Not even the faintest hint of any souls in the two creatures she saw.

It was wrong.

The fabric of the suit twitched with anger at the wrongness of it all. It was evil. It had to be evil. Evil, the suit wordlessly told her, as a symphony of voices began to rise, souls clamoring for violent justice.

Eric let the vamp he was holding slide down to the floor, head lolling on the ground in meek surrender. His hand fidgeted on the handle of his sliver claymore strapped on his back as his mind continued to scream and his skin prickled at what he saw. He remembered when he was tracking down a group of Anchorites down in the Mid-West, creeping in cornfields where rows upon rows of scarecrows loomed and swayed in the wind. He was reminded of one of those straw men as he observed the newcomer. Their costume, their skin, whatever the hell they were wearing at the moment was like looking at a patchwork quilt, a blanket that had been passed on from child to child across generations.

His head throbbed as he continued to hear the voices screaming in his ear. Man, woman, child, old, young. It was as if someone had mixed together the soundtracks from a dozen rock bands to make some horrific abomination.

His head turned to the vampire, still lying insensate on the ground and then, to the hooded stranger.

Like Jamal said, it was better to be safe than sorry.

His left hand shot towards his belt, unclipping another mixture of holy water, silver nitrate and a dozen other ingredients that Whistler included. It was a broad spectrum measure so that he didn’t have to twiddle his thumbs making stupid decisions that would kill him in the heat of battle.

He’d have to get up close first, though. He grabbed a stake from his bandolier with his right hand and then, began sprinting towards the stranger, thrusting the wooden apparatus forward at where their heart was.

The voices screamed as Blade violently crashed into Ragwoman. His aim was true and Ragwoman crumbled from the blow as the stake smashed into her ribcage. Ragwoman shuddered, shivering on the floor in a fit, her hands clawing at her chest before she slumped over.

Well, that was easy. Eric was somewhat miffed as he watched the stranger fold like a piece of paper. He knelt down and examined the still body closer. It was evidently human with no abnormal proportions that would suggest otherwise. The only thing to do now was to find out who the hell they were. Eric began pawing around their face, trying to remove their mask.

"That hurt, asshole," Ragwoman said, grabbing hold of the vampire hunter's hands with an inhumanely strong grip. Shoving Blade backwards as she staggered to her feet, Ragwoman wrenched his trench coat with her left hand and swung her fight fist squarely at Blade’s boxlike jawline. The heavy blow echoed through the gallery and sent Blade crashing to the ground. A brave soul, perhaps seeking redemption, had swallowed up the mortal blow, vanishing in a chorus of laughter as Ragwoman loomed over the halfbreed vampire.

Stars danced in his eyes as the sucker punch got him good in the chin. He shook his head, slightly punch drunk. Eric slowly picked the cracked shades off his face, scowling up at her. He spat out a drop of blood.

" Motherfucker!," Unveiling the canister in his right hand, he threw it against the stranger’s chest, the contents breaking open and spilling all over them.

Ragwoman screeched as foul smelling liquid covered her, desperately brushing her suit as if it would somehow remove whatever it was that the trench coat wearing psychopath had thrown at her. She wanted to vomit. She smelled like cat piss and garlic. She was done playing around. She was done observing. She needed a shower...and a dry cleaner.

Pointing a rag clothed finger at Blade, her voice rose in a cacophony of sound, interwoven with arcane energies, "Your tricks will not save you from judgment, villain."

" Wait a second." Eric’s eyes squinted in disbelief " Villain? What in the - " He then thumbed over his back towards the still comatose vampire and the disemboweled remains of his companion. " - I was in the process of disposing of some villains over there till you came swaggering in with that goofy ass costume."

He then pointed towards the soaked patch of where Whistler’s concoction made contact. " And how the hell are you not screaming in pain right now?" He pinched the bridge of his nose. " I swear to god, if she gave me holy water blessed by Protestants instead of Catholics to annoy me……."

"First of all, goofy ass costume? How dare you. Second of all, holy water? What the fuck did you think that would do? Melt me? I’m not a witch, Dracula."

"You have a lot of opinions for a psycho staking random strangers," Ragwoman continued, her voice rising as she ranted. "Besides, you’re missing something. Something is off, something is wrong about you. Beyond your apparent interest in stabbing people that is."

" I sometimes shoot them as well." Eric sourly muttered before clasping both of his hands in front of himself and sighing. How the hell would Jamal do this?

" I know this might sound stupid but….name’s Blade. That guy and ….." Eric motioned towards the sprayed blood everywhere " two parts of another guy over there are two idiots who happened to stumble upon me while I was investigating the area. Things got messy, then, you entered the equation. I thought you were a fuckin’ demon with all that nastiness pouring off your aura, lady."

" Now that I’ve given my side of the story" Eric pointed towards Ragwoman. " - who the hell are you?"

"Ragwoman," Ragwoman said, flipping her cloak dramatically over her shoulder. "Defender of the weak, savior of the oppressed, and punisher of evil, you know, the usual stuff."

"Not a demon, definitely not a demon, despite whatever my aura may look like to you," she added with a shrug. "I’m here to stop some big bad evil. Trouble is I’m not quite sure what it is yet. Or where it is for that matter. You sure you’re not evil? Maybe you’re the reason I’m here?"

Great. It seemed like the Big Empty was filling to the brim with more weirdos by the day. A extrajudicial vigilante, though, was acceptable in terms of all the crap Eric had dealt with in his years of hunting. He crossed his arms, deciding on whether or not to bring her in. He considered the risks and benefits.

On the one hand, this person was an unknown variable in the supernatural ball game. A stranger. Someone out of left field who Eric had no context on. Danger was sewn into every fabric of her being and he didn’t want any part of it.

On the other hand, allies were hard to come by, and he’d be damned if he took help for Van Helsing or any of her stuck up armchair lounging brood again. He took a deep breath and then began with a question.

" How much do you know about vampires?"

"They’ve got pointy teeth, drink blood, don’t tan well, hate holy water, and have a distinct lack of anything resembling a soul," Ragwoman replied. "Or so I’ve heard…I’m not really a vampire hunter, I’m just your friendly neighborhood mystic vigilante."

"Not to be rude, but you look kinda like your napping friend over there," Ragwoman concluded, nodding beneath her hood in the direction of the knocked out vampire.

Eric paused to digest her answer before nodding shortly. " Close enough."

There was a moment of silence before he crouched down and hoisted the unconscious vampire on his shoulder like a bag of flour.

" If you want to find out more ‘bout the murders that have been happening around these parts, you best follow me. Otherwise, you could also stick out of my business, but you don’t seem the type." He ripped the stake out of the vampire he was currently holding with a wet pop and inserted it onto one of his bandoliers. " So, what’s it going to be, Rags?"

"Well, Blade, this is my city, warts, vampire cabals, spooky evil, and all. So you’re stuck with me. However, lead on Mr. Vampire Hunter, let’s get to the bottom of this mystery and save the Big Easy. It’s a dirty job, but someone’s gotta do it," Ragwoman snarked back, her voice shifting into a multitude as the souls in her suit clamored to be heard.

" Ain’t that the truth." He shifted slightly to ease the weight on his shoulder before turning his back. " So long as you don’t try and chop my head, I’ll do the same for you. Now, come on. I think Whistler’s got something back at that base to wash off all that crap I got on you."

Clara / Zoom

Clara suppressed a groan, first a Coalition ambush, then a lost princess, then giant lizards, and now the lost princess wanted to play rear guard.

Depressing her communications key, Clara broadcast privately to Ingram, "Boss, is it kidnapping if we shove a princess, our princess, onto the Roanoke first, so we can bug out before we all end up permanent guests of the Coalition's finest?"

She didn't have time to wait for a reply before another river drake threatened the gravity bound MAS. Diving low, Clara opened up with the cannon of the Peregrine, sending HE rounds across the nearest river drake, and deftly dodging the snapping jaws of the lumbering lizard. Performing a steep loop, Clara dove back down and sent a cone of deadly cannon fire across the river drakes that popped across her sights.

"I'll be the rabbit for now," Clara broadcast over the comms, "I've got the speed, moving to engage the remaining Coalition patrol."

The 7th needed more time. The princess was still in danger. They didn't have the numbers, even if they had the guns. And the Peregrine was the fastest MAS on the field. Playing the distraction was hardly ideal, but it had to be her. It had to be her and the Peregrine if they wanted to buy time without sacrificing a pilot and MAS.

Firewalling her throttle, Clara grimaced beneath her helmet as the Peregrine rocketed towards the approaching Coalition patrol. She wasn't sure if the river drakes had followed her. She didn't care. There wasn't time to check. She had to keep moving. She had to stay fast.

Speed was life.
Just as an update, so I don't seem like I am napping, but @Bork Lazer and I have a collab post in the works.

I've enjoyed the last week of posts, in particular I'm digging the Sandman story!
Valanthe Vanatar

Steps echoed from the hallway, the rhythmic click of heels on the polished floor. A high, decidedly polite laugh, and the tail end of a conversation drifted into the room.

"Miss Vanatar, do you really intend to join the rabble assembled in the study? I'm not quite sure what Mr. Garrick was thinking..."

"Any good party needs a wizard, Haldir, and perhaps a touch of class," Val replied, with another velvet laugh.

Following in Haldir's measured step, Valanthe strode into the room, dressed in a brilliant sapphire dress that touched the ground, she was a swirl of graceful movement as she entered the study. Her time in the local jail had been mercifully short and the week spent lounging in the only hotel of Forsaken, pitiful as it was, had left her feeling much restored. The profits from her latest gambling venture had been sizable and she spent the money on clothing and jewelry befitting a wizard.

"Valanthe Vantar, master wizard, at your service," Val said with a formal courtesy and a warm smile. "But please, call me Val, there is no need for pointless formalities."

She paused, examining the party that Garrick had assembled. Where Haldir saw coarseness, Val instead saw potential. She hated to work. She hated physical work even more still. Fortune once more shone upon her, she thought as she stared at the rugged individuals spread out across the study. A rough looking orc sat splayed across a couch. A tiefling lazed in a chair that verged on tipping over. A foreigner Val surmised, noting his strange armor and curved swords. Two rustic looking tabaxi filled out the party, rather large tabaxi at that if her past experience had been any indication. Taller still was the goliath, sitting on the floor of the study. However, for all her interest in her new colleagues, Val's eyes lingered the longest on the fire gensai sitting aloof from the others.

A smile danced across the moon elf's lips, as her eyes sparkled with growing mischief, "Well now, Cinder Nordes, as I live and breathe, what a wonderful surprise. I had no idea that you were in town again!"

"... shit."

A long sigh came from the genasi as she pinched the bridge of her nose, as if warding off a headache. "Val, for the love of the gods, tell me you're going to ditch immediately after this meeting is over."

"A wizard stays true to her word, Cinder. The mere idea of worrying Mr. Garrick is positively abhorrent to me. Besides, I could never imagine abandoning a dear and beloved friend in her time of need," Val said, striding across the room in gracefully as she lifted her sweeping dress slightly off the ground. Before Cinder could object, Val wrapped her slender arms around the Fire Gensai and pulled the other woman into a close hug.

"Oh Cinder, to see you here and to have you join me on another grand adventure is a warm balm to my soul. I have so missed our delightful conversations during my dusty travels in these quaint lands."

The lithe frame of Cinder was rigid and hard as stone, tensed against the embrace, and shaking with barely contained rage as her hair started to crackle and smell distinctly of smoke.

"Valanthe Vanatar," Cinder hissed into her ear, "I don't know what game you're playing at, but if you don't let go of me I swear I'm going to sear a permeant fist-mark into that smug face of yours."

"Dearest Cinder, it gladdens me to see that you are as fiery as ever. The two of us will have such a grand time," Val whispered with a laugh, pecking Cinder lightly on both cheeks in the elven manner before she pulled away.

The hair went from crackling quietly to bursting into a roaring fire in a matter of seconds, and the genasi was quite literally seething when Val pulled away, her fists clenched as she held herself back from letting her temper run away with her. This was hardly the place for that after all. She muttered a very long string of curses before moving as far away from the elf as was currently possible, shooting daggers at Val the entire time.
I'll be there or rather here!

Real life is as always more important than this fun hobby.
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