Member
CabbageAngel
Antlers
Eddie Brock
AuthorialTheory
AmongHeroes
Kefka Palazzo
Exit
Mjolnir
Lunamaria Hawke
Altered Tundra
She shouldn’t have been all that surprised, she briefly reflected, her claws finding purchase on the hull, tearing through the metal further, her eyes burning, the oculi banked within her veneer webbed with scarlet as the salt of the waters assaulted her senses. The malfunction, the entire circumstance was a ominous projection of awaiting misfortune, chaos and reaping intentions that sowed ill intent to their objective. The frigid Celsius sundered her pores beneath her armour, forcing her claws to execute quick work against the canal’s depths, the natural buoyancy of her figure carrying her upward until she broke the surface with a swift inhale. The Shyp yonder was descending further, the waters pressing inward, invading and crushing the entire behemoth of aerial inclination and power as if mere nothing - to smithereens of hopeless manufacturing. Carmen counted each of the heads within her spanning stare, treading waters with her clawed gestures churning whorls of water.
Some won’t make it out.
There was that tangible odor of death, the fresh taste of crimson sorrows mingled with a taint of regret and sudden sorrow, the pain akin to blackened and charred epidermis that she’d describe as a rare palette of candied flesh. It coiled coyly and tempting from the froth of waves and whirlpools beneath them, and the exposure of mania was betwixt her external projection and inner appetency at the prospect of fresh kill. The King roared critically, within it was a crescendo of a predator lurking heavenward above their quivering submissive, the prey thus warped under claw and tooth of a creature and surrendered under might and wonder. Carmen glanced yonder to the shore, a whorl of nightly fog banked down low, the tentative mist concealing what potential threat may yet wait and carefully panned her stare across the waters, until the caper of a sentry brought her observation back to the present circumstance. The scent she associated with her potential new favourite bloomed across her parted orifice and the creature looming above, warped and distorted and bridled with a myriad of crimson orbs was all too fascinating not to observe.
“Scan the shores! I doubt the crash didn’t attract at least a few curious dead-fellows, we need to know if there’s anyone, and if so, we need to avoid detection.” She rejoined Sammael’s suggestion, heading to his proclamation of potential enemies awaiting their suddenly foreseen and announced arrival. Carmen carefully made her slow swim to the shore, following behind the floating scents of her sudden comrades, pinging each by the gathered ranges of their fears, powers, and general consensus of taste and appeal. She recognized a waning taste of despair cloaked in fissures of malformed ice, the demented and tainted lilacs and periwinkles warped by a foreign dictator of darkness and shadow. She forgets her name, her claws pausing momentarily to pick her out among those making way for the line of sand and muck. Only she has no time to engage, only to command.
“Head close to the shore, but do not bring-”
The plume of fire erupted suddenly, several feet high, careening forth by the defiance of a roar that inflicted Carmen down to her chilled bones, akin to a tempestuous bellow from a fictional creature of draconic might and wrath. Thus now making a straight and critical line towards the shore before they even had a chance to accumulate and formulate a stratagem, though, she supposed the ceremony was now ruined upon the berserker’s ravaging power. She hissed, felidae teeth grounding against one another as she made headway to the shore, the mistral of her previous power display upon their arrival sired by the bestial domination within her soul, the banshees of ebon lust heralded by the wake of her fury.
Imbecile. Heathen. He’ll ruin this mission with all that bluster and bellow.
“Stand down SOLDIER!” Carmen screeched, knowing it would fall on deaf ears, bladed claws digging and falling through sand, water sloshing around her figure as winds fell and writhed against the feverish blaze and conflagration surrounding him, her figure nearly rid of water and salt deposits and remains suddenly hardening in pale crystallizations.
They were ordered not to kill, they couldn’t afford to reap Archadian bodies and have the weeping blood and scarlet on their hands, not quite yet. There was a cage awaiting her return, bars yawning wide, peeling open like demented dentures awaiting the feast of flesh and heart. Carmen came closer to Kain, her winds billowing outward, fighting against the fog until she saw them.
Indeed there was an awaiting contingent, a phalanx of infantry creeping closer, edging towards the awaiting shore by minuscule steps and falls, hesitant and unsure. The sound of the Shyp crashing having obviously brought unfortunate attention to their supposed preference of secrecy and darkness. She could smell that much through the mistral and glades of her fluctuating emotions and the careening wail and shuffle of The King within the visual of her mind. It was always incomplete, this visual, this presentation of a wrathful being that harboured death and power, not quite whole, not quite there, but just enough to bring about the eternal pain within her soul. Carmen halted her steps, the gleam of her gauntlets and footwear burying deep within the loose soil as more of the SOLDIERS came afoot, her eyes were glimmering pools of feral inclinations, her figure crouching down low, black within the blonde and brown follicles of sand darkened by the wet muck of their water givings and shedding. She rapidly tapped one blade on her knee, a quick succession that combined with the rapid ping and tap of her claws against the metal of her pauldron. They were manic, burdened by haste, but it was a code.
It was a lost method of communication, only privy to those familiar with the action and execution of a well-worn custom, but she knew Corbyn would recognize the sounds and be informed by her silent commands. Continue with the mission, do not falter, they’d start the distractions early and bring all forces to the shore, they would need to continue onward.
The Shyp was lost to them, the possible order malformed and done so poorly, but they couldn’t afford the moment of listing judgement and initiative. Carmen glanced towards the Commander, her following nod quick and nearly passable until her gaze fell onto Nicholaus in the same manner and she tucked one coral shell betwixt teeth, fang and all and whistled, the sharp screech amplified by the flurry of her winds and sanction of power, summoning all attention and acknowledge.
“Infiltration team, move, Distraction team, on me. We’ve got company boys, missions is starting early.” Carmen intoned, her figure rising slowly forth, body swaying until snapping into formation, the bend of her spine and arch of her fingers critical in every twitch of sinew and ebon armoured exterior.
“Unless the buffoon burns us all alive,” she sneered, slick and mocking before forcing her body flew up the shore line, leaving behind the churning waters as the canal swallowed more of the Shyp, clawing the remains to her awaiting depths. The pending troop barely had time to prepare before the whorl and wrath of black winds fell, screeching banshees presenting her impending malice as Carmen fell upon one unsuspecting soul, bringing them flush against her body, claws on his armour, her manic grin and fangs oozing with taint and tar. She utilized the force of her sudden leap, forcing them down and down, her simper looming above before she brought down her clawed gauntlet, knocking one of them out cold.
“One down,” she barked, her laughter sickening and her eyes, aglow and wide, practically famished once more.
Archadian infantry was mostly consumed of poor souls and individuals drafted to their sudden cause, the sealing of the borders having brought a massive sweep through the states to protect them from further harm and injustice. They were outfitted almost medieval like, with prototype artillery at the ready, helms flagging behind typical advancement, thus proving inferior to the current wardrobe of most SOLDIERS and common military of Galbadian empowerment. They had numbers, their only benefit, as her quick calculation brought forth the answer of at least twelve mortal souls suddenly at their mercy.
Some won’t make it out.
There was that tangible odor of death, the fresh taste of crimson sorrows mingled with a taint of regret and sudden sorrow, the pain akin to blackened and charred epidermis that she’d describe as a rare palette of candied flesh. It coiled coyly and tempting from the froth of waves and whirlpools beneath them, and the exposure of mania was betwixt her external projection and inner appetency at the prospect of fresh kill. The King roared critically, within it was a crescendo of a predator lurking heavenward above their quivering submissive, the prey thus warped under claw and tooth of a creature and surrendered under might and wonder. Carmen glanced yonder to the shore, a whorl of nightly fog banked down low, the tentative mist concealing what potential threat may yet wait and carefully panned her stare across the waters, until the caper of a sentry brought her observation back to the present circumstance. The scent she associated with her potential new favourite bloomed across her parted orifice and the creature looming above, warped and distorted and bridled with a myriad of crimson orbs was all too fascinating not to observe.
“Scan the shores! I doubt the crash didn’t attract at least a few curious dead-fellows, we need to know if there’s anyone, and if so, we need to avoid detection.” She rejoined Sammael’s suggestion, heading to his proclamation of potential enemies awaiting their suddenly foreseen and announced arrival. Carmen carefully made her slow swim to the shore, following behind the floating scents of her sudden comrades, pinging each by the gathered ranges of their fears, powers, and general consensus of taste and appeal. She recognized a waning taste of despair cloaked in fissures of malformed ice, the demented and tainted lilacs and periwinkles warped by a foreign dictator of darkness and shadow. She forgets her name, her claws pausing momentarily to pick her out among those making way for the line of sand and muck. Only she has no time to engage, only to command.
“Head close to the shore, but do not bring-”
The plume of fire erupted suddenly, several feet high, careening forth by the defiance of a roar that inflicted Carmen down to her chilled bones, akin to a tempestuous bellow from a fictional creature of draconic might and wrath. Thus now making a straight and critical line towards the shore before they even had a chance to accumulate and formulate a stratagem, though, she supposed the ceremony was now ruined upon the berserker’s ravaging power. She hissed, felidae teeth grounding against one another as she made headway to the shore, the mistral of her previous power display upon their arrival sired by the bestial domination within her soul, the banshees of ebon lust heralded by the wake of her fury.
Imbecile. Heathen. He’ll ruin this mission with all that bluster and bellow.
“Stand down SOLDIER!” Carmen screeched, knowing it would fall on deaf ears, bladed claws digging and falling through sand, water sloshing around her figure as winds fell and writhed against the feverish blaze and conflagration surrounding him, her figure nearly rid of water and salt deposits and remains suddenly hardening in pale crystallizations.
They were ordered not to kill, they couldn’t afford to reap Archadian bodies and have the weeping blood and scarlet on their hands, not quite yet. There was a cage awaiting her return, bars yawning wide, peeling open like demented dentures awaiting the feast of flesh and heart. Carmen came closer to Kain, her winds billowing outward, fighting against the fog until she saw them.
Indeed there was an awaiting contingent, a phalanx of infantry creeping closer, edging towards the awaiting shore by minuscule steps and falls, hesitant and unsure. The sound of the Shyp crashing having obviously brought unfortunate attention to their supposed preference of secrecy and darkness. She could smell that much through the mistral and glades of her fluctuating emotions and the careening wail and shuffle of The King within the visual of her mind. It was always incomplete, this visual, this presentation of a wrathful being that harboured death and power, not quite whole, not quite there, but just enough to bring about the eternal pain within her soul. Carmen halted her steps, the gleam of her gauntlets and footwear burying deep within the loose soil as more of the SOLDIERS came afoot, her eyes were glimmering pools of feral inclinations, her figure crouching down low, black within the blonde and brown follicles of sand darkened by the wet muck of their water givings and shedding. She rapidly tapped one blade on her knee, a quick succession that combined with the rapid ping and tap of her claws against the metal of her pauldron. They were manic, burdened by haste, but it was a code.
It was a lost method of communication, only privy to those familiar with the action and execution of a well-worn custom, but she knew Corbyn would recognize the sounds and be informed by her silent commands. Continue with the mission, do not falter, they’d start the distractions early and bring all forces to the shore, they would need to continue onward.
The Shyp was lost to them, the possible order malformed and done so poorly, but they couldn’t afford the moment of listing judgement and initiative. Carmen glanced towards the Commander, her following nod quick and nearly passable until her gaze fell onto Nicholaus in the same manner and she tucked one coral shell betwixt teeth, fang and all and whistled, the sharp screech amplified by the flurry of her winds and sanction of power, summoning all attention and acknowledge.
“Infiltration team, move, Distraction team, on me. We’ve got company boys, missions is starting early.” Carmen intoned, her figure rising slowly forth, body swaying until snapping into formation, the bend of her spine and arch of her fingers critical in every twitch of sinew and ebon armoured exterior.
“Unless the buffoon burns us all alive,” she sneered, slick and mocking before forcing her body flew up the shore line, leaving behind the churning waters as the canal swallowed more of the Shyp, clawing the remains to her awaiting depths. The pending troop barely had time to prepare before the whorl and wrath of black winds fell, screeching banshees presenting her impending malice as Carmen fell upon one unsuspecting soul, bringing them flush against her body, claws on his armour, her manic grin and fangs oozing with taint and tar. She utilized the force of her sudden leap, forcing them down and down, her simper looming above before she brought down her clawed gauntlet, knocking one of them out cold.
“One down,” she barked, her laughter sickening and her eyes, aglow and wide, practically famished once more.
Archadian infantry was mostly consumed of poor souls and individuals drafted to their sudden cause, the sealing of the borders having brought a massive sweep through the states to protect them from further harm and injustice. They were outfitted almost medieval like, with prototype artillery at the ready, helms flagging behind typical advancement, thus proving inferior to the current wardrobe of most SOLDIERS and common military of Galbadian empowerment. They had numbers, their only benefit, as her quick calculation brought forth the answer of at least twelve mortal souls suddenly at their mercy.
