Rockette

The Spirits Within: Oakridge Chronicles

Since the sheet is on the previous page, post it again here in a hider and @tag Priskins in it so she'll see it when she wakes up. That way it's easier to look it over and won't be missed.

The Spirits Within: Oakridge Chronicles

Huehue, I want to see some drama!

@ZB1996 - I haven't had the chance to read it yet, but like Priskins said, so long as you don't kill everyone, you're all peaches!

The Spirits Within: Oakridge Chronicles

@icmasticc - Oh my god, like, no way! That's crazy, who knew my style could be mimicked? I'm appalled! You better hurry up and reply to her then because who knows how crazy she might get if she writes like me!

The Spirits Within: Oakridge Chronicles

@ZB1996 - Oh, you're bringing them to the Reactor? I'd love to hear what ideas you have; nothing I love more than interconnecting sub-plots in these characters!

@Archangel89 - Looks good thus far, can't wait to see him completed.

Update on my end: my weekend as been a bit taxing, despite my days off, my personal life has been swelling into a pressing load. But I'll be resuming my banner work tonight when I'm finally home, luckily I have all the pictures cut and cleaned, just need to slap them with backgrounds, textures and effects.

Monika's post is being worked into a collaboration - just waiting on someone ~ to respond!
If anything I'll post a filler deal for Ollie's father, Julian, he needs a little spot light.

[ ♕ ] - c o l l i d e. // smoke & gasoline.

[ ♕ ] - c o l l i d e. // smoke & gasoline.

_{i dreamed that love would never die.}
^{now life has killed the dream that i dreamed.}

---

Twisting, falling, plummeting, never ceasing, never slowing - too fast, too quick - destructive speeds and failing catches against the bedrock. Rain slick roads, smog choked alleys, and neon signs flickering in the gloom, The Badlands won't let them go, it's a cruel master, a terrifying mother, a sadistic mistress and a smiling executioner. They're bastards of the underground, orphans of the church and victims of the sin and the sinner, the spires glow and the people go, never figuring to inquire why, how, and where do they go. The Badlands is Home, in all the pain, agony, the fresh wounds, the nicotine stained teeth and lips, the blackened lungs and the poison kisses of each smile. The children suffer, the adults wane, the adolescents are the only ones who seem to thrive. They've given their innocence to The Badlands, and laugh gleefully with bodies flush, arms taut, and throats raw from their cries and songs. The Badlands even takes that happiness, in cost and exchange for soul and heart, leaving no room for hope, dreams, life, and ambition - love.

Until they met.

[ ♕ ]

[ ♕ ] - c o l l i d e. // smoke & gasoline.

[ ♕ ]


^{oh, all these minutes passing, sick of feeling used. if you wanna break these walls down, you’re gonna get bruised.}

---

Have you seen the bridge that leads out from The Badlands; it's all done up in black, strung by wires and pillars, laden with asphalt cracked, broken and chipped. Vehicles come in, constant, but none ever leave, the exiting transition is barren, almost falling away into the river that, they say, leads out in the ocean beyond. The air is tinged with the faintest touches of salt, like tears of the woeful who look beyond the bridge, never able to cross, never able to leave. There's nothing, they say, but roads and fields yonder, trees in sparse gatherings, cliffs that edge their rocks higher and higher, looking down onto The Badlands; like sentinels on their perches, eyes of boulders and soil that have become frozen because they too cannot leave. The bridge is called the ways of the Hopeless; those that attempt to cross, but instead, pitch themselves over in the river below, falling, failing, and dying.

It always rains in The Badlands, and even with spires lit and streets glimmering in neons and pale luminescence, there were thickets of shadows, oppressing and teeming, spilling out onto the roads where mindless individuals edged. They sat within warmth and leather, and stared straight ahead, unseeing. The bus terminal was crowded, bodies compressed beneath the awning, awaiting transit in the dwindling hours of twilight and gloom. Refuge and gossip, words passing between lips that tasted of cherries and nicotine, tainted fruit and wasted dreams. A common night for the vagabond.

"I heard that Cassie tried crossing the Hopeless, she tried running away with Spencer."
"Oh my god, why with Spence though?"

No matter or reflection that the vagabond lovers were somewhere, lost, in the turns of the river. None ever make it across. They should've known better.

"Maybe they wanted to die." Smoke and smog in tendrils of white hazed between eyes of broken azure, feathered with lashes spiked and gilded in the rain and smudges of grey blotted and hosting each as her gaze penetrated through hazel and brown. Alexia. Her impression was a silhouette of waning health and hope, waterlogged tresses of rosewood, translucent skin burdened under the ebon threads of her jacket two sizes larger than what was befitting to her typical frame. Persistent narcotics and fed constant abuse saw her debut worn and almost haggard, despite all dressings and attempts for visual appeal in those raccoon framed eyes and chapped lips cradling the charcoal stick of her preferred smoke; clove and black.

"Yeah, maybe. . ."

The bus screeched into the terminal, the trains were abandoned at this hour and only one rail existed, a one way transportation that fled to the Northern section of The Badlands, where shadows weren't so dark and depravity lurked behind pallid smiles of bone and lies and the church was founded where memories and beginnings and ends dominated. Alexia boarded the bus, almost lazily and sluggish, her stature wavering as more clamoured on and fell into their seats with shuffling breath and attempts to gather warmth. The rain continued, never ceasing, and Alexia watched the lines of heaven sent tears against the stained glass of the transport, ignoring the man who sat next to her and immediately tuned out into the flickering lights and neon. She gazed to the alley ways where people stood betwixt, laughter bubbling between them as they clutched the insides of their elbows and awaited the sweeping euphoria. She envied them, just a bit, for their careless endeavors, to trust whoever proffered a simple promise and a contract of temporary release. But, Alexia had only one source, and his vice was terrible and demanding, costly degrees of loyalty and old worn connections that he tugged on daily.

The vibration of her cellular phone against her thighs pulled her envious musings to the side, the purposely low setting of the screen barely illuminating the text: instructions, a change in meetings, a new location.

Passion.

"I know Passion, it's part of the West district." Her seat companion muttered, eyes on her phone, a smile on his lips, no shame reflected there in his eavesdropping.

"Oh." Alexia murmured, immediately pulling an inhale through her nostrils and mouth, billows of smoke purposely released into his direction. A scowl briefly flickered over his lips, scrunching up brows and nose until he stood and crossed to another seat. Alexia responded accordingly to the aforementioned missive, lazily punching in her rejoinder with a swift sigh and dropping the device back to nestle on her thighs suddenly gone frigid. Last minutes changes unnerved her, caused her anxiety to propel into a hypersensitivity that drew her jacket tighter and her teeth to gnash against the butt of her addiction. Not that the Western district broke protocol and contract, but that establishments like Passion meant crowds and bodies, flesh and taint and music; eyes and mouths. Alexia would never deny her patron, she couldn't, even if she desired to deny the new location. She needed this, craved this, and after days of stagnation in her own loft of bare nothings and nicotine stained walls, she had to find it. Release and numbing whispers, promises and golden liquids in needles and pallid desires that would make her feel, if only for a moment, better. Whole.

The Western district was like any other of The Badlands, towers and warehouses, homes and businesses on every street and corner. She could already hear music down the boulevard, thrumming through concrete as the rain dragged her hair down, mussed it against her complexion until she drew her hood up and through the flicker of neon, she read the sign, glanced over the door and the line pouring out from the propped-open entrance. They all huddled together away from the rain, girls with wide eyes, broken glances they were. Alexia mused over their waif forms, no different than her own, and by passed the surge of bodies. It took a flash of skin, a peeking pull of her jacket to expose the body lined with gaping black, and a whispered name that saw her entry way that was followed by mutters of protest and inquiry.

The interior of Passion was like any other club she had frequented, but there was a fresh perspective aligned in the walls and placement of luxury, a new attempt to the universal aesthetics of such a place. Alexia shook out the water from her tresses, combed through them with trembling gestures and released the knotted plait she had woven that morning, but she did not release her jacket. She kept it draped over shoulders and arms despite the humidity of bodies and breath. She wore it like a barrier, a shield. . .

"Alex!" Over music and laughter, she pirouetted on the call of her moniker and watched, with a small quirk of her lips, as the lanky prince of The Badlands sauntered up to her, clothed in black, slashes through his blouse revealing marked skin of ink and bruises, and the tight fabric of his trousers allowing much the same view. Danny. Her arms laced around his torso, squeezing and he buried his Chesire smile into her damp hair.

"I didn't think you'd come. Place is amazing, 'innit?"
"It's not bad, never been here though."
"Well shit, good thing I got called here. Most of my customers prefer this place and the owner is," he whistled, jostling her body with a knife-sharp elbow into her ribs. "Totally my type, too bad you're the only girl for me, Alex." Her eyes rolled, lashes fluttering in her amusement until he tugged on her clothing, nails scraping against her sensitive flesh.

"Stop, I'm cold." Alexia muttered, drawing the jacket tighter and watching as Danny's lips dropped into a sullen pout. Petulant and exaggerated, all of it a ploy and a play. Danny was no better of a liar than she, she was just a tad more clever. "Don't make that face, it's unbecoming." She teased, eyes spanning over the crowd.

"Yeah well, you're the tease with that ragged thing." He plucked the fabric between his forefinger and thumb. "But, I promised someone I'd meet them in the back about an hour ago. Hang out, enjoy the music, there's a band coming on in a few." Danny began, fingers toying with the bottle-black dye of his hair next, already wandering away from her, leaving her to the crushing sea of bodies already festering within the foyer as the rain increased, pounding without mercy. Alexia ground her clove addiction out on an unsuspecting spine, the girl barely registering the charred circle worn into her clothing before the dance floor was braved, elbows and shoulders, hips swaying and bodies wed to one another. Some murmured about the band Danny had mentioned, murmuring of the players and the almost scandalous arrangement of the entire venue. Alexia shoved her way through, already worn and irritated by Danny's priorities. Her patience was frayed and bloodied, chipped and bruised, and yet he required her to wait. Maybe it was a game, an attempt to tease and test her boundaries of restraint. Her lips pulled tight in a simper of agony and desperation, her body immediately falling into the embrace of another that dipped her low, all hands and hot breath on her skin that only compounded her frustration.

At least there will be good music. . .

---

[ ♕ ]

The Spirits Within: Oakridge Chronicles

Don't think of them as spells; they're not magi. The abilities they have are the massive conform of spirits that adhere to various emotional aspects of a person. It's not singular, but plural, and the massive gathering of them creates the specific attack.

For your bard-trope, I'm definitely thinking of the exotic effects that bolster and fortify. Then again that all depends on how these songs carry out in tune.

I would suggest: Empower; Frenzy; Vigor; and any of the elemental resistances.
Possibly Dispel as well.

The Spirits Within: Oakridge Chronicles

@ZB1996 - Yes, that I can!

All right, I posted for Ollie and Mags this round, as I'm working on something with Monika at the momenet and I did not want to make you guys wait any longer for my post. So there we have it, some nice action now for each of you in those missions!

The Spirits Within: Oakridge Chronicles

_{[✦] N E X U S R E A C T O R. // June 6. // W i t h i n t h e R u i n s.}

---

So they could sense it too. Good.

The depths of every nook and crevice seemed to swell, expanding beyond the thresholds meant for typical units of overcast gloom. It was enough to require inspection to every crossing and interlacing path of grate and rail, the interior of the Reactor a drone of sound that pitched and made the claps of thunder ominous. The circulations of traveling groans continued to chafe and ground against Ollie's shoulders with every powerful release, making him beyond tense and taut. Within the intensity of his soul he felt the pull of his spirits, each conglomerate of darkness and fire amass in their frenzy, awakened by the sensations of being observed, watched, gleaned from the companionable shadows that only parted by the playful orbs of Eric's own spirits. Ollie swept closer up the line, bringing himself nearly flush against Serenity where he clasped her shoulder and guided her aside, indicating with a quick salute of his fingers to the brief, almost unrecognizable, shift in the shadows near the catwalk they were currently on. He pointed, briefly, indicating the shimmer of movement, the small glide of something that causes the ebon pools of his perspective to nearly eclipse the sclera into a lagoon of obsidian tar. He leaned down close, bending his height to accompany her stature and breathed a silent whisper, his voice low beneath the shuddering impact of another thunderous roar of the storm outside.

"See that? We're not alone."

It was more than mere speculation and wonder, something was indeed there, something was following beneath and above, never crossing onto the same trajectory of there own footfalls, but encroaching close enough to summon their trained and nearly perfected awareness to fruition. He left Serenity, gesturing for her to continue on, to pass the message onto the others ahead of them and swiftly drew his Magus Bow, pulling taut on the string, nocking an arrow with fluidity and panning a swift eye over the catwalk adjacent to them. He waited, breaths swift, almost akin to a hyperventilation to compound the sensitivity of his observation and sight. An archer had impeccable concentration and even the slightest of impairment would ensure failure in their paths, and Ollie thought maybe it was his time spent with Monika that beget this sort of perfectionism. But. He never missed his target.

Another shimmer of psychical action caused sound and breath to hitch somewhere in his throat, almost sputtering from his lips in a triumphant call as he released his arrow. The whistling penetration was the only indication of disturbance, followed by a rapid clang and terrifying screech, a caterwauling breath of fury and surprise that transpired into a defiant hiss that coiled through Ollie's blood and bones. He ascended up the rest of the catwalk, his chest nearly heaving with the ominous ring of the creature's call of agony, his countenance though betrayed all traces of fear, there in the grooves of facial hair and skin was the presence of pure elation and anticipation.

The hunt begins.

"It'll come after us next, whatever it is," he began in a soft murmur of a whisper. "I managed to put an arrow in it, it'll be pissed now. So keep your guards up. We need to find those breakers, now." There was no time for stealth and secrecy, the tremors of the storms sounded from the exterior, the Dark Zone weather unleashing all wrath onto the Reactor as rapid rainfall drummed against the shell of the ruins. Cracks of lightning and thunder sounded, and through small vents and windows of ventilation there were brief alabaster flashes of power.

"Go!"

_{[✦]K I N A B A L U S U M M I T. // June 6. // T h e B e a s t W i t h i n.}

---

Later, in solitude and remorse, Magdalena would realize - with forlorn detachment and regret - that she could not die. No matter how deeply she desired it.

She anticipated and expected endeavors of diplomacy gilded with mute and silence threat and pose, that the Guardians would defend their purpose and mission with the loyalty Oak Ridge sired in their souls. Her countenance nearly crippled and fell, recognizing that stalwart conviction, the unwavering method of succession and perfection to their deeds. However, she was disappointed in the initial response, what was rejoined to her inquiry was not what she needed to know. The veteran soldier knew they were after the depths of the mines and the reasons behind the charred paths and rumours circulating, what she needed was their intentions with the secrets laden within those depths beyond her stance. She, herself, intended no harm, but only to provide and sanction judgement, to protect that which had hidden its self from mortal touch and manipulation. Magdalena knew that something else lurked within their selves, their hearts, for Empathy was crawling ever closer, inch by inch that shadow pressed and teased the barrier of light, intent to focus all emotional gluttony onto their souls to understand the truths of their wants.

Almost. . .

But, then she sensed Death. The eternal reaper reared forth, it summoned an awakening, it summoned despair and desire for slumber, rest, and the numbness of the void. Nihilism. The shadows championed by another swirled in a wrath of gloom and pitch, a void of sinister want and need, the macabre instrument promising to sunder, reap and dispose. Magdalena did not move, her visual did not wane, those eyes of swirling Hellfire widened, the rings of serpentine, molten wrath bloomed aglow until the last possible second where thunder did not ring, where the wind stilled and the shadows swarmed in silence and Empathy suddenly latched onto the remaining Guardians. Tendrils of ebon fissures aligned there, splintering briefly before cinching tight and only then did Magdalena finally perform action.

Or, rather, her shadows did.

The mass of obsidian wraiths that had been spreading aloft and swarming the expanse of the clearing appeared to increase, rising high into the wrath of the wind where a face began to form. If one of mortal comprehension could prescribe such a visage in the common tongue, there was another depth of labels to be sired here, for a hellacious maw where ruby pulsations dominated, forming the infernal jaws of a monstrous apparition. Eyes of boring anger and despair bore down on the woman who deemed to attack, the billowing edges and feathers of black pouring behind to configure the rest of the ominous projection of spiritual wrath. Magdalena's lips parted, trickles and pools of magma sliding forth from her yawned orifice, a terrible shudder waking through her being as the terrible form above her, connected to her, roared at the sythe-wielder. With an extended shadow rocketing from the depths of the pitch around her, much like a gargantuan claw that struck the earth and suddenly swept Magdalena back, barely avoiding the impending strike of the weapon that impaled the soil.

"Do you wish to die so desperately. Do you wish for the pitch of an afterlife, of a deriving path of Fate that I would grant you?" Her voice trembled, warped, a distorted intonation that reached to her and beyond to the Guardians being touched by Empathy. Magdalena's figure was immediately transitioned, igneous rocks and solids forms broken over her eyes, fanned out into tines and horns, wings of Hell and fissures of solidified magma and shadows decorating limbs and body, penetrating the ancient armour she donned.

"Is this your heart, Selene? Or shall we look deeper?"

Figures and wisps of shadows plummeted from the yawning maw of the horrid apparition, the inky tendrils of her utter despair and anguish threatening to envelop Selene.

---

summary.

REACTOR — The ominous feeling of being watched increases. Now they are seeing movements, the depths of shadow conforming. Ollie whispers and warns Serenity, asks her to inform the rest whilst he nocks and arrow and fires in the gloom, making his mark against whatever creature is following, With a terribly screech echoing through the chambers of the Reactor, he whispers to them quickly of what transpired before commanding that they go, and fast.

KINABALU — In response to the attack, Magdalena's spirits form the terrifying face of a monstrous creature that roars at her attacker before being swept back from the group. Empathy has latched onto the Guardians, wishing to know their hearts whilst Magdalena aims to use Verzweiflung on Selene.