I'll make note of it, so as to remember.
There were quite a few potentials in the interest thread, hopefully everyone gets their butts here!
Rockette
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𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶.
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So, VI's spear and hunting -buck- knife [I've decided to add one, a hunter should own one I would think!] will be currently unavailable until we leave - gotcha'.
Should I mention that her weapons were confiscated in the character sheet?
Should I mention that her weapons were confiscated in the character sheet?
Haha, I don't think our writing styles would, I would hope anyways, but I should be available this weekend for a chance to JP with you. Or whenever you're back from being on the road, I'm patient.
Random Fact: The scarlet band she wears originally belonged to her eldest brother, who was an archer, he wore various bands of different red hues to keep his wrist from being damaged.
❝ H A W K ❞
Early thirties ┊ 5A
Weapon—
A wooden spear: essentially a glorified pointed stick that extends her reach drastically and is made of a strong lumber that is ancient and worn by countless gestures and cinched fingers; foraged from one the various corpses of scavengers dotted across a dead land, it possess a history and tale that she isn't privy too. Having withheld it for a lasting period, it's literally a bound extension of herself, a mere tool and a constant at her side or slung diagonally across her spine by various tanned leathers.
Buck knife: primarily used for skinning her various kills, the blade itself was a hand-me-down from her usual Hunting Parade known as the Avians; they were Hawks, Falcas, Eagles, and Buzzras, and more raptors appellations from the world of old. It's rather large in size to serve the purpose of much larger game, but the fine edge from years of care is capable of smaller prized and skins. Hawk resorts to this secondary weapon in close encounters should anyone get past her elongated spear. She'd rather avoid killing with it, as the blade has yet to be tainted with such rotten filth like the Grey or infected fauna.
Buck knife: primarily used for skinning her various kills, the blade itself was a hand-me-down from her usual Hunting Parade known as the Avians; they were Hawks, Falcas, Eagles, and Buzzras, and more raptors appellations from the world of old. It's rather large in size to serve the purpose of much larger game, but the fine edge from years of care is capable of smaller prized and skins. Hawk resorts to this secondary weapon in close encounters should anyone get past her elongated spear. She'd rather avoid killing with it, as the blade has yet to be tainted with such rotten filth like the Grey or infected fauna.
Personality— Curious┊Intuitive┊Resourceful┊Introvert
Hawk talks to herself.
She proposes various inquires that do not necessarily accumulate reason or coherent thought, often they are simplistic statements and queries that assist her in coming to finalized conclusions and theories. The fact that she vocalizes them is an oddity, but Hawk has long been rather fearful of the permanent thoughts in her mind, and consistency makes her nervous and wavering in her usual convictions. Thus it spurs her habitual wondering and caters to her curious individualism that could be labeled as a careless, indifferent nature when she scours across a blanched and dried landscape and through fantastical ruins of a forgotten age. Talking to herself also provides a queer sort of company, as in her usual preference of solitary, she typically avoids gatherings and events of socializing grandeur. Not because she is shy or awkward around these circumstances; rather it's because she isn't used to them. Her adaptability and resourcefulness come from a once upon a time wild disposition that has long been exchanged for her intuition, and now serves her quite pleasantly.
But in these quirks and routines, it has severely isolated Hawk from interactions, thus proving unfortunate when provided with excavating troupes and individuals, she'd rather mumble to herself than pass on a courteous greeting. It has shadowed and sheltered her for so long, that she can be rumoured as a callous, tactless woman in confrontations and conversation. She prefers wild abandon and endless landscapes, being in the same place or bridled with a cage of sorts sends her into a shock of animal basics where her moniker is rather proven in a confrontational front. Figures of authority she avoids, those that are the rigid backbone of the System tend to scare her and it's by sheer luck and her ability to hide that has kept her from committing entirely to communities.
She proposes various inquires that do not necessarily accumulate reason or coherent thought, often they are simplistic statements and queries that assist her in coming to finalized conclusions and theories. The fact that she vocalizes them is an oddity, but Hawk has long been rather fearful of the permanent thoughts in her mind, and consistency makes her nervous and wavering in her usual convictions. Thus it spurs her habitual wondering and caters to her curious individualism that could be labeled as a careless, indifferent nature when she scours across a blanched and dried landscape and through fantastical ruins of a forgotten age. Talking to herself also provides a queer sort of company, as in her usual preference of solitary, she typically avoids gatherings and events of socializing grandeur. Not because she is shy or awkward around these circumstances; rather it's because she isn't used to them. Her adaptability and resourcefulness come from a once upon a time wild disposition that has long been exchanged for her intuition, and now serves her quite pleasantly.
But in these quirks and routines, it has severely isolated Hawk from interactions, thus proving unfortunate when provided with excavating troupes and individuals, she'd rather mumble to herself than pass on a courteous greeting. It has shadowed and sheltered her for so long, that she can be rumoured as a callous, tactless woman in confrontations and conversation. She prefers wild abandon and endless landscapes, being in the same place or bridled with a cage of sorts sends her into a shock of animal basics where her moniker is rather proven in a confrontational front. Figures of authority she avoids, those that are the rigid backbone of the System tend to scare her and it's by sheer luck and her ability to hide that has kept her from committing entirely to communities.
Brief Background—
Vi was a fortunate babe in the Conway Community: a hodge podge of dismal scraps of tarpaulin houses and concrete walls, sometimes fortified in the dark ruins of underground tunnels and of what her family referred to as cities. Enchanted by these histories, Vi had originally striven to be academic and a keeper of tales and stories of buildings that peaked among the clouds and extraterrestrial terrorists that had brought about a time of slavery and ruin. The Conways, mostly of old blood and too fresh youth that didn't know what to do with themselves, had been fruitful in the practices of the Hunt: a sort of game and festival time when everyone become donned in the remains of their kills and went about the parched land in a near carnival fanfare. Vivian, later to be given the alias of Hawk, was introduced to this pass time and despite her initial studies with old books that had been bought in trade and the ones her family carried, she took well to the primitive activity. Surrounded by luxuriant persons in her young age, an estimation of ten in the commune, they shaped and molded her into the carnivorous bird she had been named after. The signature epitaph was given to those that were quick and flawless, beautiful disasters and daring hunters that abandoned conscious reasoning.
Perhaps this is what led to their early deaths.
Her parents weren't her biological ones, they had died, her adoptive pair had been Hart and Millie, hunters in their own right though Hart was what one would call a scholar if modern terms still applied. Having taken her in, Hart and Millie -estimated in their mid fifites-, had taught Vi to adapt and survive, they were rather cheerful tutors and mentors; Hart having originally spurred Vivian's want of spreading stories despite Millie's often mocking tone about the uselessness of forgotten literature. Her original name, Vivian, had been a passing joke that eventually stuck with her and she became a Conway just like every one else in the shambled town: one broken, dismal family that had been slaughtered by the very things they often hunted.
In the wake of blood and death, Vivian had barely made it through the night despite the vicious onslaught, Millie having been stubborn and firm in getting her out of Conway during the assault, survived just barely. Time, from this point on, was an excruciating crawl of misery and loneliness, her mother having perished from age, environmental conditions and typical sickness, her family now presumed to be gone. She had not seen the bodies, but then, Millie had spirited her away into the dead world so she didn't have to. Though, in her solitude, she had began to wonder if had been worth it in the end. During these dragging, horrid periods of wondering aimlessly and adaption, Hawk had changed drastically; a transition that was more startling in the barbaric visage she donned and her festooned headdress of elaborate feathers. She proffered herself often to randomized caravans and traveling troupes of hopeless vagabonds, sometimes as protection, sometimes as a hunter and tracker to slay the new and terrifying beasts of infectious horror. In turn, they were temporary havens of protection against her ascending loneliness and fracturing psyche. But even these situations did not last, and by a wondering chance and fortune, Hawk had literally tripped into Barrowside and found herself, unfortunately, stuck in place among its System where they even confiscated her weapons from her calloused and worn hands.
Time has been blurred but she can only guess that she has been in community for a little over a year, and almost unwillingly at that.
Perhaps this is what led to their early deaths.
Her parents weren't her biological ones, they had died, her adoptive pair had been Hart and Millie, hunters in their own right though Hart was what one would call a scholar if modern terms still applied. Having taken her in, Hart and Millie -estimated in their mid fifites-, had taught Vi to adapt and survive, they were rather cheerful tutors and mentors; Hart having originally spurred Vivian's want of spreading stories despite Millie's often mocking tone about the uselessness of forgotten literature. Her original name, Vivian, had been a passing joke that eventually stuck with her and she became a Conway just like every one else in the shambled town: one broken, dismal family that had been slaughtered by the very things they often hunted.
In the wake of blood and death, Vivian had barely made it through the night despite the vicious onslaught, Millie having been stubborn and firm in getting her out of Conway during the assault, survived just barely. Time, from this point on, was an excruciating crawl of misery and loneliness, her mother having perished from age, environmental conditions and typical sickness, her family now presumed to be gone. She had not seen the bodies, but then, Millie had spirited her away into the dead world so she didn't have to. Though, in her solitude, she had began to wonder if had been worth it in the end. During these dragging, horrid periods of wondering aimlessly and adaption, Hawk had changed drastically; a transition that was more startling in the barbaric visage she donned and her festooned headdress of elaborate feathers. She proffered herself often to randomized caravans and traveling troupes of hopeless vagabonds, sometimes as protection, sometimes as a hunter and tracker to slay the new and terrifying beasts of infectious horror. In turn, they were temporary havens of protection against her ascending loneliness and fracturing psyche. But even these situations did not last, and by a wondering chance and fortune, Hawk had literally tripped into Barrowside and found herself, unfortunately, stuck in place among its System where they even confiscated her weapons from her calloused and worn hands.
Time has been blurred but she can only guess that she has been in community for a little over a year, and almost unwillingly at that.
Misc—
She's a hunter, perhaps a rather odd profession, but it is essentially what she excels at. In this she is rather knowledgeable about the surrounding fauna and in some circumstances acts as a scout, but is by no means associated with the military officials. Hawk has skills sets of a typical hunter: tracking and foraging and skinning whichever she catches.
— ᴼˢᶜᵃʳ ᵂᶦᶫᵈᵉ'ˢ ﹔ 'ᵀʰᵉ ᴾᶦᶜᵗᵘʳᵉ ᵒᶠ ᴰᵒʳᶦᵃᶰ ᴳʳᵃʸ'
In the rituals of consumption, Magdalena had remained entirely subdued and pensive, idle in her dexterity and otherwise content with their improvised cuisine. Her stomach was a hollow pit akin to her soul despite every morsel she popped between her busted lips that were meandering through their healing process. She lacked the usual beneficiaries of medic contributions, but standing Guardianship proved that her process of vitality was much more hastened by mere and common comparison; the bruises were leagues of violets and blues against her sallow complexion, but the borders were already beginning to dissipate into brown and bisque blemishes. Her alms of conversation were light and concise, carefully articulate and efficient when probed further about the dark discolorations, in which she made joke about a bear and that was the end of that. It was quaint, she had to admit, but there was subtle tension that was corded tight around everyone, be it the coming battle or the shackles of their histories, she couldn’t say, but her shadow was a constant, nervous fluctuation that was subtle, but to her it spoke volumes, in which bid Magdalena to excuse herself from the homey assemblage early and finally retire to much needed sleep. She doubted that she would be fortunate enough to retain some, but, the thought of her bunk was much more appealing than retreating to her nook upon the cannon, besides she was wary of seeing It again.
Falling into sleep had been easy, it was just what she saw that made it terribly horrifying every time she succumbed, the interchange to a deep state of unconsciousness performed as a rather morbid catalyst of the same consistency every night for her. Behind laden eyes was that same constant of alabaster smoothness, the plain undisturbed by any wind her nightmarish state could conjure, the never changing scenery its self was only disturbed by the randomized flashes of ebony that were warped into strange manifestations of, for lack of a better term, dogs. They were bone-white masks and spines ridged down their backs, tails likes whips and fur constantly oozing and moving seamlessly in a hazy and hypnotic rotation. Some were deformed: heads that were eyeless, rounded like a like worms and warped with a boundless entwine of flesh that was burned and rotted; they weren't faces, just folds of skin that bled profusely. Some possessed extra limbs that dragged uselessly upon the silvery plain, extra eyes, ears, more than a singular row of teeth. One of the hound’s head was completely split open, some had human ligaments and fingers and hummed constantly with their human mouths. There was even some with the void faces of man and she could swear they bore a similarity to her mother, father, and brothers. She simply sat between them all with hands tucked around her knees, there wasn't fear in her eyes, as she was long used to their rather horrific appearances. She memorized each of their features, and she didn't cringe when one of the shadowy canines sat beside her with vacant eyes glowing white and a long, ruby red tongue came lolling from its slack and broken mouth.
In this scenery of deformity she could make out the distinction of other creature like shadows, wide smiles of needles, and even a large wrath of darkness in which from its core were the faces of Death. Magdalena though could not see Chaos among them, that familiar pain and anguish was not present to this, whatever it was, so when she laid back among the pure and mocking pallid field, she stared up at the black sun above her and let her eyes close with each of these dark, hellish dogs lying at her sides.
And then, without remorse, her mind receded into her precious memories and with that her real nightmare began.
Falling into sleep had been easy, it was just what she saw that made it terribly horrifying every time she succumbed, the interchange to a deep state of unconsciousness performed as a rather morbid catalyst of the same consistency every night for her. Behind laden eyes was that same constant of alabaster smoothness, the plain undisturbed by any wind her nightmarish state could conjure, the never changing scenery its self was only disturbed by the randomized flashes of ebony that were warped into strange manifestations of, for lack of a better term, dogs. They were bone-white masks and spines ridged down their backs, tails likes whips and fur constantly oozing and moving seamlessly in a hazy and hypnotic rotation. Some were deformed: heads that were eyeless, rounded like a like worms and warped with a boundless entwine of flesh that was burned and rotted; they weren't faces, just folds of skin that bled profusely. Some possessed extra limbs that dragged uselessly upon the silvery plain, extra eyes, ears, more than a singular row of teeth. One of the hound’s head was completely split open, some had human ligaments and fingers and hummed constantly with their human mouths. There was even some with the void faces of man and she could swear they bore a similarity to her mother, father, and brothers. She simply sat between them all with hands tucked around her knees, there wasn't fear in her eyes, as she was long used to their rather horrific appearances. She memorized each of their features, and she didn't cringe when one of the shadowy canines sat beside her with vacant eyes glowing white and a long, ruby red tongue came lolling from its slack and broken mouth.
In this scenery of deformity she could make out the distinction of other creature like shadows, wide smiles of needles, and even a large wrath of darkness in which from its core were the faces of Death. Magdalena though could not see Chaos among them, that familiar pain and anguish was not present to this, whatever it was, so when she laid back among the pure and mocking pallid field, she stared up at the black sun above her and let her eyes close with each of these dark, hellish dogs lying at her sides.
And then, without remorse, her mind receded into her precious memories and with that her real nightmare began.
She woke up on the floor, which wasn’t so much as a surprise, but what she did not expect was her cabin to be covered in thick, unwavering darkness. Magdalena rolled into a prone position and reclined on her elbows, gazing in various directions, at least she thought she was; with each rotation of her eyes, there was no break in the void. Interesting. Then she lifted her delicate fingers through her pale hair and froze, the texture wasn’t the smoothness of follicles, but instead the heavy, wet sensation of liquid dripping across her palm. Magdalena lifted her fingers to her wide eye stare, though the dark atmosphere didn’t permit her to see, but she flicked each digit in a singular flex and sure enough something clinging and heavy was impairing them.
“Shit.”
With a sudden gasp of breath, in which she held it in her lungs, she pivoted forward and clasped her hands together into a point and immediately dove for what assumed was the floor. In a wet, sloshing and plop of noise she dug her fingers into the cabin’s floor and tore herself from the shadows cast by the rising light. She panted harshly with exertion, tearing herself from the inky pit, clawing desperately to separate herself from this abyss and blinking away the clogging blackness that was spread across her skin in splotches. Half-way through she heaved herself from the pool completely and breathed in relief when a solidified surface was there to catch her breathless fall; the brunt of her endeavor making her arms tremble in their strain, almost liquefied when the final tendrils of obsidian goo snapped back from her pores. Magdalena inhaled in a sodden gasp that bubbled in her throat, coughing and sputtering an obsidian tar that congealed in her mouth with the barest hints and suggestions of vermilion and scarlet edges. Her bruised knuckles swiped back against her lips, all of the blemishes and wounds having faded into bare minimums of blues and violets and now resembling more bisque splotches after having slept, despite her usual nightmarish qualms. She breathed in deep, counted out in Anatolian numerals and shoveled the pale blonde from her brow in a slow gesticulation that wasn’t slogged with inky forms now. The murky taint spread across the walls and bunk gradually slunk back underneath her given membrane, even the bits that had formerly painted her simple, cotton negligee; not necessarily appealing but otherwise effective and practical.
She sighed in a minute of relief and attempted to recall on her nightmares that would have forced her spirits into dragging her into the void of their selves. There was no revelation though in her discombobulated memory and an effective haze draped over any chance she had, so tapping her nail against her chin and using her opposite to fetch her pack, Magdalena began assembling herself to proper order and appearance. There were constant twinges and flaring nerves that retold of physical harm and aching muscles flexing in their former abuse. These boughs of pain though weren’t distracting but rather clarifying, their subtle discomforts sharpening the resolute capability of her mind: yes she had endured a rather confusing, carnal sort with Kimberly and had even spoken to the - she refused to think of it as anything corporeal - It and even shared what was officially indicated and dubbed as an awkward conversation with Aaron. She wasn’t sure what to make of that little botch of traded words and decided that, in this, it was best to not inquire after. What benefit would come from probing those trio of occurrences and circumstances, though they had plagued her psyche and if she was honest [which she never was] they probably would for an extended period of time. Her neck was the most problematic area, gently touching around the bitten flesh with her finger tips and smoothing down her blonde tresses - the short strands flipped out rather childishly when she slept - to conceal the rather cannibalistic mark, she felt nearly branded with it. That was troubling.
But these thought processes would soon be compressed to the back of her mind, her fingers worked effectively as she donned the uniform blues, and her shadow coiled in the corner of her room; dark and thick, rippling peculiarly despite the calmness of her own mentality. Her blue eyes narrowed, and then, with a donning realization, Magdalena grabbed her gear, snapped her weapon into place and ascended upon the bow with a wide stare and an eager grin akin to a feral Cheshire.
War.
“Shit.”
With a sudden gasp of breath, in which she held it in her lungs, she pivoted forward and clasped her hands together into a point and immediately dove for what assumed was the floor. In a wet, sloshing and plop of noise she dug her fingers into the cabin’s floor and tore herself from the shadows cast by the rising light. She panted harshly with exertion, tearing herself from the inky pit, clawing desperately to separate herself from this abyss and blinking away the clogging blackness that was spread across her skin in splotches. Half-way through she heaved herself from the pool completely and breathed in relief when a solidified surface was there to catch her breathless fall; the brunt of her endeavor making her arms tremble in their strain, almost liquefied when the final tendrils of obsidian goo snapped back from her pores. Magdalena inhaled in a sodden gasp that bubbled in her throat, coughing and sputtering an obsidian tar that congealed in her mouth with the barest hints and suggestions of vermilion and scarlet edges. Her bruised knuckles swiped back against her lips, all of the blemishes and wounds having faded into bare minimums of blues and violets and now resembling more bisque splotches after having slept, despite her usual nightmarish qualms. She breathed in deep, counted out in Anatolian numerals and shoveled the pale blonde from her brow in a slow gesticulation that wasn’t slogged with inky forms now. The murky taint spread across the walls and bunk gradually slunk back underneath her given membrane, even the bits that had formerly painted her simple, cotton negligee; not necessarily appealing but otherwise effective and practical.
She sighed in a minute of relief and attempted to recall on her nightmares that would have forced her spirits into dragging her into the void of their selves. There was no revelation though in her discombobulated memory and an effective haze draped over any chance she had, so tapping her nail against her chin and using her opposite to fetch her pack, Magdalena began assembling herself to proper order and appearance. There were constant twinges and flaring nerves that retold of physical harm and aching muscles flexing in their former abuse. These boughs of pain though weren’t distracting but rather clarifying, their subtle discomforts sharpening the resolute capability of her mind: yes she had endured a rather confusing, carnal sort with Kimberly and had even spoken to the - she refused to think of it as anything corporeal - It and even shared what was officially indicated and dubbed as an awkward conversation with Aaron. She wasn’t sure what to make of that little botch of traded words and decided that, in this, it was best to not inquire after. What benefit would come from probing those trio of occurrences and circumstances, though they had plagued her psyche and if she was honest [which she never was] they probably would for an extended period of time. Her neck was the most problematic area, gently touching around the bitten flesh with her finger tips and smoothing down her blonde tresses - the short strands flipped out rather childishly when she slept - to conceal the rather cannibalistic mark, she felt nearly branded with it. That was troubling.
But these thought processes would soon be compressed to the back of her mind, her fingers worked effectively as she donned the uniform blues, and her shadow coiled in the corner of her room; dark and thick, rippling peculiarly despite the calmness of her own mentality. Her blue eyes narrowed, and then, with a donning realization, Magdalena grabbed her gear, snapped her weapon into place and ascended upon the bow with a wide stare and an eager grin akin to a feral Cheshire.
War.
┊» ｂａｔｔｌｅ ＩＩ●
The embossed image of their aquatic fiend and assault would stay constantly with her from that day on, having nearly been sundered from her visions, being accompanied in the static tang of Olivia’s electricity. It entirely distracted her, keeping the petite woman from bracing against the rail for the sudden impact against the harbour. Magdalena flew, her small frame easily cast off from the group and through it all: sailing across the expanse of sand and driftwood, the intonations of battle assaulting her ears, she could only formulate one thought.
Well fuck.
She twisted her body just in time to catch the brunt of her fall upon the ground, her acceleration pelting her into a roll that was abruptly ended by one of the various concrete fortifications of the barricade. It stole and tore her breath from her body in a harsh, cracking snap and she nearly bit through her tongue to silence the screech of agony that speared through her spine and hip. It wasn’t an entirely flawless landing, but fortunate was seldom Magdalena’s company. The hail of gunfire signaled the start of the secondary - or was it third, did that make it her fourth? - confrontation and she winced around the crack of bone as her spine popped and she resettled her shoulders with a roll of her spheroid joint and used her diminutive size to hide. The entire assault was exhilarating, ground troops, mechanized machinery that was towering and intimidating in unique assemblage and the flares of red against the backdrop of a once proud city; skyscrapers bathed in blood. Her shadows spread wide at the sound of command, she chuckled, nightmares were right. How clever of her.
She cast blue eyes over the barricade and watched as Emily and Roy immediately submerged themselves within battle; witnessed Kimberly sprint and charge into the fray; Olivia become a mere doll and thrown afar; Kat’s ice bright against the bulk of the Mech and Jyn become pinned beneath a Guard. All of this slowly wound down into her vision, calculating, working up a process of attack as within her pit of a soul a sudden heat flared up and boiled hot underneath her skin. The usual paleness of her complexion shimmered in a queer light, as if coals were alive beneath her very dermal extremities, burning finger tips swung up and grasped her chakram from her back and with vermilion bordering her dilated pupils, Magdalena surrendered to the haze. With her brow folding down into narrowed eyes and a lip tipped into a grimace, she couldn’t help but keep her eyes on Kimberly in the moment he took a Guard alone, her observation wasn’t from worry or concern, but a simple study. She grits her teeth.
She recognizes every movement, he isn’t planning to kill, he never is. He’s planning to incapacitate their enemies and she growls at that; that will get him killed. She recalls the victims of her former emotional take over and snaps her eyes at the holographic tag illuminating the enemies tag. Well then.
The quaking earth wasn’t directed towards them but the fatigued Storm Guards, she leaps over the fissures and with one of her signature flips, she pivots into the air and uses the weight of her descent to drop down into a vicious kick against Storm Guard Omega to distance the enemy from Kimberly after having utilized his secondary weapon upon his back. The foot soldier grunts in pain from her sudden impact and with a haughty glare tossed towards Kim, she growls in a manic rumble and follows up upon her former attack. Her chakram is a deadly whirlwind, spinning around her wrist as she throws herself against the Storm Guard, every clash of steel and brass against his armour is a resonating ring of the metals colliding. He hastily throws up his night stick against her assault, but the force of her weapon knocks it away when she grips her chakram with both hands and spins her body to bring the deadly circlet up to slice vertically against the fortified chest plate.
“Come on darling, let’s dance.”
She switches wrists, swinging her chakram left and right, relentlessly attacking her opponent who is forced back and back from her malevolence. In a last, desperate attempt to stand up to the blonde demon, he uses her break in switching wrists to charge forward and drive his plated shoulder into her torso. Magdalena’s grip falters, having been lost to her sadistic haze and her chakram spins from her fingers tips and impales the quaking earth, her shadow spreads wide and far and instead of a painful bellow, she laughs and clutches at the Storm Guard with a wide simper. Her shadows swallow her, inky hands oozing and pulsating grips dragging against his armour, the soldier hollers behind his face plate and shoves away from the woman, too soon for her true Despair to assault him, but Magdalena doesn’t let him escape easily. With a sharp inhale she holds onto him just a little bit longer before her cheeks cave in and she releases a directed spat of boiling lava at his armour. Where the magma lands it immediately begins to boil against him, his alarm is acute and direct, backing away from her and flashing out his weapon with a desperate lash. The stick comes hard across her jaw, another crack and a flare of pain that is dulled when he brings it across her chest and throws her across the battle field. Magdalena surrenders to the rolling force, coming up in a feral crouch as she bares her teeth and her eyes flash orange and black, a deadly, boiling ebony of anger as the Storm Guard then tries to remove the festering, heat assuaged pieces of his plating.
Well fuck.
She twisted her body just in time to catch the brunt of her fall upon the ground, her acceleration pelting her into a roll that was abruptly ended by one of the various concrete fortifications of the barricade. It stole and tore her breath from her body in a harsh, cracking snap and she nearly bit through her tongue to silence the screech of agony that speared through her spine and hip. It wasn’t an entirely flawless landing, but fortunate was seldom Magdalena’s company. The hail of gunfire signaled the start of the secondary - or was it third, did that make it her fourth? - confrontation and she winced around the crack of bone as her spine popped and she resettled her shoulders with a roll of her spheroid joint and used her diminutive size to hide. The entire assault was exhilarating, ground troops, mechanized machinery that was towering and intimidating in unique assemblage and the flares of red against the backdrop of a once proud city; skyscrapers bathed in blood. Her shadows spread wide at the sound of command, she chuckled, nightmares were right. How clever of her.
She cast blue eyes over the barricade and watched as Emily and Roy immediately submerged themselves within battle; witnessed Kimberly sprint and charge into the fray; Olivia become a mere doll and thrown afar; Kat’s ice bright against the bulk of the Mech and Jyn become pinned beneath a Guard. All of this slowly wound down into her vision, calculating, working up a process of attack as within her pit of a soul a sudden heat flared up and boiled hot underneath her skin. The usual paleness of her complexion shimmered in a queer light, as if coals were alive beneath her very dermal extremities, burning finger tips swung up and grasped her chakram from her back and with vermilion bordering her dilated pupils, Magdalena surrendered to the haze. With her brow folding down into narrowed eyes and a lip tipped into a grimace, she couldn’t help but keep her eyes on Kimberly in the moment he took a Guard alone, her observation wasn’t from worry or concern, but a simple study. She grits her teeth.
She recognizes every movement, he isn’t planning to kill, he never is. He’s planning to incapacitate their enemies and she growls at that; that will get him killed. She recalls the victims of her former emotional take over and snaps her eyes at the holographic tag illuminating the enemies tag. Well then.
The quaking earth wasn’t directed towards them but the fatigued Storm Guards, she leaps over the fissures and with one of her signature flips, she pivots into the air and uses the weight of her descent to drop down into a vicious kick against Storm Guard Omega to distance the enemy from Kimberly after having utilized his secondary weapon upon his back. The foot soldier grunts in pain from her sudden impact and with a haughty glare tossed towards Kim, she growls in a manic rumble and follows up upon her former attack. Her chakram is a deadly whirlwind, spinning around her wrist as she throws herself against the Storm Guard, every clash of steel and brass against his armour is a resonating ring of the metals colliding. He hastily throws up his night stick against her assault, but the force of her weapon knocks it away when she grips her chakram with both hands and spins her body to bring the deadly circlet up to slice vertically against the fortified chest plate.
“Come on darling, let’s dance.”
She switches wrists, swinging her chakram left and right, relentlessly attacking her opponent who is forced back and back from her malevolence. In a last, desperate attempt to stand up to the blonde demon, he uses her break in switching wrists to charge forward and drive his plated shoulder into her torso. Magdalena’s grip falters, having been lost to her sadistic haze and her chakram spins from her fingers tips and impales the quaking earth, her shadow spreads wide and far and instead of a painful bellow, she laughs and clutches at the Storm Guard with a wide simper. Her shadows swallow her, inky hands oozing and pulsating grips dragging against his armour, the soldier hollers behind his face plate and shoves away from the woman, too soon for her true Despair to assault him, but Magdalena doesn’t let him escape easily. With a sharp inhale she holds onto him just a little bit longer before her cheeks cave in and she releases a directed spat of boiling lava at his armour. Where the magma lands it immediately begins to boil against him, his alarm is acute and direct, backing away from her and flashing out his weapon with a desperate lash. The stick comes hard across her jaw, another crack and a flare of pain that is dulled when he brings it across her chest and throws her across the battle field. Magdalena surrenders to the rolling force, coming up in a feral crouch as she bares her teeth and her eyes flash orange and black, a deadly, boiling ebony of anger as the Storm Guard then tries to remove the festering, heat assuaged pieces of his plating.
Insatiable said
EDIT: never mind...667, Damn so close.
Of course JJ is the one to get it, ehem.
Prisk said
Those songs were quite nice! Haha, you were dragged out to do shopping and dinner? Sounds about right; it's usually the same circumstance when it happens to me!
I usually wouldn't mind, but I was planning to be a bum and they wouldn't let me. But hey, free food, and I'm down.
Lovely!
Will be posting character by tomorrow. c:
Will be posting character by tomorrow. c:
Random Fact: Magdalena had a twin: Moses Abendroth. Who almost, almost, made it into being Mag's antagonist.
Anyways, I was into dubstep for a little while, hated Swag. My brothers abused it.
But Obsidia with their song Android and Cryptex with Slay it are my own favourites to this day, but I hardly every listen to them.
Also I just got home, was off, but I was dragged out to do shopping and dinner. Will be finishing my post though, without a doubt.
Anyways, I was into dubstep for a little while, hated Swag. My brothers abused it.
But Obsidia with their song Android and Cryptex with Slay it are my own favourites to this day, but I hardly every listen to them.
Also I just got home, was off, but I was dragged out to do shopping and dinner. Will be finishing my post though, without a doubt.
Ugh. Knew it.
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