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10 mos ago
Current A kind action means the world, but that doesn't mean kind words are useless. The cruelest thing a person can do in this world is to keep their kindness to themself.
4 likes
10 mos ago
Because they're trying to encourage other people. What, do you think it's 'vain' to tell a friend in the hospital you hope for their speedy recovery?
3 likes
1 yr ago
That said, I won't lie, this is a website of geeks and nerds and I don't know how many of them bother with any sport, much less baseball specifically.
2 likes
1 yr ago
Tally plz
1 like
3 yrs ago
All I needed to hear, have a nice day.

Bio

I live in the EST time zone. Due to work, unless I think it's important not to leave someone hanging, I will be off by 11 PM. I will rarely post daily, but I can at least guarantee I'll never give you a substance-less post.

Currently active rps:

Most Recent Posts

And again, sorry for my slowness. I think Foxsumon wouldn't know the cable is a thing - presumably, most infected digimon are destroyed whole and tend to have thicker skin - but she may be able to identify it as something that definitely doesn't belong in the Digital World, much less as part of a digimon.
Sonia groaned; even if she didn't hit the wall, the sudden stop still made her back hurt. The creature slithered forward, the fire at its base burning hotter when-

"Crazy Giggle!"

Keramon's energy bombs struck, battering the digimon to little effect beyond catching its attention. It was all she really needed, though, to keep it off of her partner. She grinned, tilted her head with a mad laugh, and slammed her tentacles down to send a shockwave through the ground. The creature jiggled, and that was when the sharpened end of a black cable pierced through. Keramon stopped laughing.

"What in the world...?" She swooped back to avoid a sudden fiery aura stretching out to scorch her.
--
At the torn tent entrance, two heads poked out. One vaguely resembled an Agumon, but no Agumon wore an orange-striped pelt like that or had a horn on their head. The other barely resembled any other digimon - more some kind of weasel with fins for ears, armored from the neck down. Her distinctly-boneless fingers tapped over the tent fabric.

"Definitely crazy." The weasel sighed. "Figures."

"Maybe it'll work next time?" The not-Agumon sounded unconvinced by his own words. He watched the thing, formerly a Flamemon, fighting with a Keramon before he noticed the human helping Foxsumon back up. "Well, I think we should go."

"Hang on - if nothing else, we can collect-"

"No, Ferrumon. We gotta go, now. Pack up." The not-Agumon ducked back into the tent. Ferrumon looked back to the battle before following her assistant back in.

"What's got you so spooked, Gagumon?"

"If that digimon is who I think she is, you're in trouble. Trust me, we gotta leave." Gagumon shoved several bottles of data unceremoniously into a bag while Ferrumon carefully slid her knives into a carrier.

"You better tell me on the way out then, if you're so sure there isn't time now."

"Yeah, whatever. Keep packing."
Writing and writing and writing. Writing everywhere off-site.
Still interested for the record.
It's fine, dude.

@Vincanity, your turn.
Keramon stared at the spot Foxsumon had vanished into, ignoring Sonia's whispered 'wow'. Well then. Keramon was about to take the seat Foxsumon had left when Sonia got up.

"Miz Zonia?"

"It's gotta be one of those digimon she mentioned and we said we were gonna help with that so we gotta go with her!" Keramon was about to object with the fact they didn't even know where Foxsumon had gone. but Sonia was already out the door. So. Obey Foxsumon or follow Sonia? Keramon looked down at the very confused Tapirmon and grinned.

"Do keep everyone zafe inzide. We will be back momentarily." And she flew after her partner.
--
The thing staggered to its feet and shrieked. Soulmon nodded, eyes visible from under her hat, and managed to pick up the half-mauled Omekamon and flee. If Foxsumon hadn't addressed the creature and captured its attention, it surely would've pursued the two for its prey. Instead, it glared at Foxsumon as the wound left by the shadow blade oozed out and filled back in. The face was similar to a Flamemon's and, from the waist up, it was a passable imitation. Its colors were all wrong, though, the skin and eyes and hair all the same shade of olive-green, and its form shook with every breath it took, no longer solid. Its gauntlets seemed to be made of pink shell now and, where hands should've protruded, white teeth did instead. Below the waist, though, where its belt should've been holding up its pants, there was nothing but a thick oozing mass wreathed by red flames. The ground scorched under its touch. Perhaps the strangest part was the faint undulation under the skin, as if some worm was tunneling beneath.

It held its arms up at Foxsumon and attempted to speak, though only a gurgling game out of its mouth. From the hole between the teeth, a short spiral of water shot out at Foxsumon.
Either Drac or Vin haven't posted recently. Both would be appreciated.
Well, it took five days but I did post as promised. I suppose let me know if there's any blatant anachronism or mistake I've made? Or just if something needs to be changed.
Amanda Smith

Physical state: Healthy, no notable symptoms
Mental state: Nervous


Arkham certainly had its upsides, in Amanda's opinion, and who was she to name them all? There was the beautiful architecture with the kind of diversity begotten only by the forces of humanity battling the forces of time and decay; the way the sun turned the river multi-hued, from glittering orange at sunrise, to the brown of the riverbed and blue of the water and white of the light on cloudless days, to the brilliant shade of red that accompanied every sunset; or even the, ah, colorful rumors that flitted about the city with the speed of a hummingbird, the duration of a fruit fly, and the intensity of an oil fire. She supposed if she wanted to, she could settle in Arkham, make her position at the Arkham Sun more permanent, and declare the city her new home. It would be a welcome reprieve from the months of travel and anxiety and guilt, and the city surely had room for another storyteller in its streets to chronicle the lives its inhabitants lived. But no, a patch was not the same as a cure and so, as much as the streets' tales called to her, it was just another stop. Another stop, and another story to pursue for her employer.

This was a good one, though. She could feel it in her bones, to borrow the cliche. It wouldn't be easy by any means, and when her boss agreed to publish her results, she ended up vomiting in the women's bathroom shortly thereafter. A week had passed though and the sickening anxiety passed with it. She had chatted with a few beat cops, but it was time to find those directly involved.

The business was formerly a bar, but Amanda was so sure they were still being supplied that she didn't feel comfortable calling it anything else in her mind. Not that she was going to ask directly. Things like this, trust had to be made, promises of anonymity ensured, and then maybe she could ask how they were being supplied. She nudged the door experimentally, hearing a faint ringing, and then pushed the door open and entered. Despite the fact it was still early day, the establishment was poorly lit. Even with sunlight streaming in, the dark wood tables and seats looked almost black. She counted three people - a man behind the polished countertop that most certainly no longer had any alcoholic bottles beneath it, the man sitting at the counter drinking what looked like a carbonated drink that could've been tonic water, and a woman sitting at a table near the front with a glass of her own and a small plate of stuffed mushrooms. When she let the door swing shut behind her and her eyes adjust to the dim lighting, Amanda realized there was one more gentleman near the very back, reading a newspaper. She wondered if he was a regular. That would be answered with simple observation. For now, best to adjust to the place. None of them looked dangerous, and only the man sitting at the counter seemed confused by her arrival. She straightened her stance and approached the counter, shoulders straight, expression blank, and doing her best to look braver than she felt. She just had to remember, she needed to first act like she belonged. No odd stares could wilt her composure, no raised eyebrows would catch the words in her throat, she was here for a tonic water, bitter lemon if the man knew how, and there was nothing wrong with that.

As she leaned against the counter, she glanced towards the back until she saw the sign for the restrooms hanging over the entrance to a corridor with an end she could not see from her position. Right then. She cleared her throat.

"Tonic water, splash of lemon, sir." The man behind the counter raised his eyebrow, and Amanda kept from attempting to sink through the floor. Instead, she cleared her throat. "I was informed it was served here?" She couldn't keep the words from coming out as a question, though. The man stared a few moments longer before ducking down beneath the counter and slamming a glass down that nearly shattered her nerves. Bit too quick, bit too loud. She wasn't ready to quit yet, but the world sure didn't seem interested in helping her succeed. Though she suspected she shouldn't expect anything less.
Well, that's just depressing :c

As an aisde, /v/ seems to be trying to honor him
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