Rockette — Roleplayer Guild

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1. Rockette 10 yrs ago
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In OBLIVION → 2 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay

if you wouldn’t mind also finding a FC for your sheet, it doesn’t have to be added I’d just like to attach a face to the name.@Salsa Verde

i do mind.

jk. on it!

In OBLIVION → 2 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay

█   Samuel Sabiston
▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅

   ▼   PERSONAL DETAILS
► Age - twenty-six.
► Gender - cis-male.
► Sexuality - hetero.
► Nickname - sam.
► Occupation - tattoo artist; contracted at Black Arrow on the boardwalk.
► Qualifications - associate's degree in fine arts.
► Residence - ocean city, maryland.

   ▼   PHYSICALITY
► Scars - long surgical scar on his right arm, about as long as his forearm.
► Tattoos - from neck to feet, all six-three of him, Sam is donned in tattoos from conceptual lines and fonts, to expansive murals of snakes and birds; mammal skulls, shadowed out profiles, and miscellaneous practice flashes from various artists.
► Piercings - stretched out earlobes, up to 1".
► Style - black on black with rare interchanges of various-stages-of-wash denim and graphic tees between shades of white and gray. bottle-black dyed hair, razor-faded at the edges, and curling stubbornly on his brow.

▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔LIFE AT RITMAN
Samuel Sabiston was always troubled.

Ritman High would remember the creature that was poor, grungy, unassuming and an overall underachiever that listed into the crowds as a specter: the kid sunken into his seat; bedded down away from the social woes and ques of his peers. Overweight and penned as the loner child from separated parents that found solace in the back of the class and spent lunch hours smoking at the nearest park on the swing sets. Clove and smoke and hole-punched ears with barbed wire exteriors and acid wash hand-me-downs. A counselor's wet dream.

Homework was penned in scrawls of skulls and cross-bones, snakes and pin-ups of historical dames, the black splotches of ink bleeding into math problems -- completed, but none the less marred -- and English papers much to the chagrin of his teachers. Even the vexation of his art instructors was palpable, his brand of flourish not quite accepted and their criticism going unheard to the ear-buds jammed painfully in safety-pinned lobes. Endearing terms of prodigy and genius were exchanged for the fixated labels of trouble-child and lost-cause; maybe he'll grow out of it, as Mom would say. Maybe he'll change. 

And he was just fine with it. 
He could manage. 

Rumors dipped and spun, an elaborated tale of the woe be gone boy that flitted between families during the holidays, his parents remarried, beginning lives anew. Mutters and whispers of ball-pen stick 'n poke tattoos done in the boys room, pretty white lines on mirrors to fix the ravenous voices in his head, and looted liquor cabinets to drown out the noise his music could not. 
PSYCHE
Buried - entombed, maybe - beneath dregs of smoke and mystery lies a heart of gold.

Tarnished, dented, chipped and perhaps a forgery, but none the less the by gone remains of a child the world forgot. Samuel Sabiston set fire to the child within and from the ashes he was made anew and he never looked back; but even ashes hold the remains of what was and could have been. From baby pictures thrown aside and yearbooks sacrificed to the shredder, he didn't want to acknowledge the demon within and Ritman High was nothing more than the foundation of lonely days and nights numbed thoroughly by addictions. An addictive personality his mentor would mutter, one that flings upon the chasms of obsession and passion and fixation when sanity refused to be had. Such appellations befitting to his work perhaps, from apprenticeship days spent on faux skin until his first practices of twenty-dollar flashes on insatiable individuals looking to rebel. 

Smiles are perhaps sharp and brittle, like bared teeth peeled through the shadows, the mask of mystery and secrecy one wears to protect the most delicate parts of their heart and soul. Outward projections allude to a rebellious man unhinged and untamed, wild and brazen and harsh, but Samuel instead exchanges deep whispers liken to an old and aged man, and anxiously drums his fingers to a tune unheard. He's seen and heard and done it all, got the shirt, and the post card to prove it.

As many of the woefully misunderstood and underestimated, life did not begin until after graduation wherein Samuel disappeared, not that many would've noticed, let's be honest. Two years of absence until social media became abuzz with an emerging artist with an eye for conceptual commissions and aesthetics of hyper realism with a broad portfolio that ranged from traditional, old school, blackwork to new age water color and Japanese landscapes. A young prodigy, the irony did not go unnoticed. Still, Samuel mastered them all, dedicated his life to the art, to busy himself because as they say, the devil finds work for idle hands.
▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔
▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅
POWER
Animation and tangibility. 

To bring temporary life to the still images of the world, to breath in an obsidian smoke that pulsates to a tempo of a heartbeat, that rises and falls like a lover and just as seductive in its intention. Coiled limbs bunched and tense, muscles flexing beneath the inked flesh that suddenly awakens in twining shadows as the pores of his skin expand. From their release his tattoos emerge as arisen beasts. The shadowed profiles stumble forth and serpents hiss and strike, bidden upon his thoughts and will. Shadow like wraiths donning the skulls of mammals chitter madly and stalk through the gloom whilst crows survey and scout, inky pits serving as his eyes. Some are no more than wisps, others substantial enough in their support. But, they always share a heart, a will, his thought and his emotions and sometimes, their pain.

Sam's tattoos move beneath his skin in idle standing, sometimes as personifications to his hidden emotions, illustrating what his face and eyes cannot. Other times they lay still, dependent upon his reign of control. His influence varies from illustrations on paper or even written text, landscapes of epic proportions managed in small quantities and always black and white and gray - never in color. Objects can also be manipulated and animated depending on their structures, this bidden by concentrated gestures and the black smoke influencing their movements. Such objects require proper form, or joints rather, like toys, dolls, for example. This is not to be compared or mistaken for objects that are influenced by the will of the mind.
▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔-
   ▼   STRENGTHS
► Essentially his tattoos are infinite, always returning to his skin when not made tangible and alive, thus their uses vast and their capabilities broad by the structure of his will. Their potency and quality is often dependent on his state of mind and intention, be it defensive or malignant. Once unburdened from his skin and made real, their sizes can also be influenced - this concept knows no limitation other than the bounds of his mind. Objects under temporary animation are limited to their own structural soundness.

   ▼   WEAKNESSES
► He cannot animate all of his tattoos, thus limiting quantity. He can however animate objects along side his illustrations. 
► Though made into the physical, enough injury sustained to his animations renders them null and void, inflictions done unto them sometimes transfer to his person. 
▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔


the aesthetics are not what I want to them be.
the information however is accurate, images subjected to change. ♥


_{▼ PERSONAL DETAILS} _{► Age - twenty-six. ► Gender - cis-male. ► Sexuality - hetero. ► Nickname - sam. ► Occupation - tattoo artist; contracted at Black Arrow on the boardwalk. ► Qualifications - associate's degree in fine arts. ► Residence - ocean city, maryland.} ^{▼ PHYSICALITY} ^{► Scars - long surgical scar on his right arm, about as long as his forearm. ► Tattoos - from neck to feet, all six-three of him, Sam is donned in tattoos from conceptual lines and fonts, to expansive murals of snakes and birds; mammal skulls, shadowed out profiles, and miscellaneous practice flashes from various artists. ► Piercings - stretched out earlobes, up to 1". ► Style - black on black with rare interchanges of various-stages-of-wash denim and graphic tees between shades of white and gray. bottle-black dyed hair, razor-faded at the edges, and curling stubbornly on his brow.} _{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}	^{_{LIFE AT RITMAN}} _{Samuel Sabiston was always troubled. Ritman High would remember the creature that was poor, grungy, unassuming and an overall underachiever that listed into the crowds as a specter: the kid sunken into his seat; bedded down away from the social woes and ques of his peers. Overweight and penned as the loner child from separated parents that found solace in the back of the class and spent lunch hours smoking at the nearest park on the swing sets. Clove and smoke and hole-punched ears with barbed wire exteriors and acid wash hand-me-downs. A counselor's wet dream. Homework was penned in scrawls of skulls and cross-bones, snakes and pin-ups of historical dames, the black splotches of ink bleeding into math problems -- completed, but none the less marred -- and English papers much to the chagrin of his teachers. Even the vexation of his art instructors was palpable, his brand of flourish not quite accepted and their criticism going unheard to the ear-buds jammed painfully in safety-pinned lobes. Endearing terms of prodigy and genius were exchanged for the fixated labels of trouble-child and lost-cause; maybe he'll grow out of it, as Mom would say. Maybe he'll change. And he was just fine with it. He could manage. Rumors dipped and spun, an elaborated tale of the woe be gone boy that flitted between families during the holidays, his parents remarried, beginning lives anew. Mutters and whispers of ball-pen stick 'n poke tattoos done in the boys room, pretty white lines on mirrors to fix the ravenous voices in his head, and looted liquor cabinets to drown out the noise his music could not.} ^_PSYCHE _{Buried - entombed, maybe - beneath dregs of smoke and mystery lies a heart of gold. Tarnished, dented, chipped and perhaps a forgery, but none the less the by gone remains of a child the world forgot. Samuel Sabiston set fire to the child within and from the ashes he was made anew and he never looked back; but even ashes hold the remains of what was and could have been. From baby pictures thrown aside and yearbooks sacrificed to the shredder, he didn't want to acknowledge the demon within and Ritman High was nothing more than the foundation of lonely days and nights numbed thoroughly by addictions. An addictive personality his mentor would mutter, one that flings upon the chasms of obsession and passion and fixation when sanity refused to be had. Such appellations befitting to his work perhaps, from apprenticeship days spent on faux skin until his first practices of twenty-dollar flashes on insatiable individuals looking to rebel. Smiles are perhaps sharp and brittle, like bared teeth peeled through the shadows, the mask of mystery and secrecy one wears to protect the most delicate parts of their heart and soul. Outward projections allude to a rebellious man unhinged and untamed, wild and brazen and harsh, but Samuel instead exchanges deep whispers liken to an old and aged man, and anxiously drums his fingers to a tune unheard. He's seen and heard and done it all, got the shirt, and the post card to prove it. As many of the woefully misunderstood and underestimated, life did not begin until after graduation wherein Samuel disappeared, not that many would've noticed, let's be honest. Two years of absence until social media became abuzz with an emerging artist with an eye for conceptual commissions and aesthetics of hyper realism with a broad portfolio that ranged from traditional, old school, blackwork to new age water color and Japanese landscapes. A young prodigy, the irony did not go unnoticed. Still, Samuel mastered them all, dedicated his life to the art, to busy himself because as they say, the devil finds work for idle hands.} ^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}


^_POWER _{Animation and tangibility. To bring temporary life to the still images of the world, to breath in an obsidian smoke that pulsates to a tempo of a heartbeat, that rises and falls like a lover and just as seductive in its intention. Coiled limbs bunched and tense, muscles flexing beneath the inked flesh that suddenly awakens in twining shadows as the pores of his skin expand. From their release his tattoos emerge as arisen beasts. The shadowed profiles stumble forth and serpents hiss and strike, bidden upon his thoughts and will. Shadow like wraiths donning the skulls of mammals chitter madly and stalk through the gloom whilst crows survey and scout, inky pits serving as his eyes. Some are no more than wisps, others substantial enough in their support. But, they always share a heart, a will, his thought and his emotions and sometimes, their pain. Sam's tattoos move beneath his skin in idle standing, sometimes as personifications to his hidden emotions, illustrating what his face and eyes cannot. Other times they lay still, dependent upon his reign of control. His influence varies from illustrations on paper or even written text, landscapes of epic proportions managed in small quantities and always black and white and gray - never in color. Objects can also be manipulated and animated depending on their structures, this bidden by concentrated gestures and the black smoke influencing their movements. Such objects require proper form, or joints rather, like toys, dolls, for example. This is not to be compared or mistaken for objects that are influenced by the will of the mind.} ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔	- _{▼ STRENGTHS} _{► Essentially his tattoos are infinite, always returning to his skin when not made tangible and alive, thus their uses vast and their capabilities broad by the structure of his will. Their potency and quality is often dependent on his state of mind and intention, be it defensive or malignant. Once unburdened from his skin and made real, their sizes can also be influenced - this concept knows no limitation other than the bounds of his mind. Objects under temporary animation are limited to their own structural soundness.} ^{▼ WEAKNESSES} ^{► He cannot animate all of his tattoos, thus limiting quantity. He can however animate objects along side his illustrations. ► Though made into the physical, enough injury sustained to his animations renders them null and void, inflictions done unto them sometimes transfer to his person.} ^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}

In ᵀʰᵉ Spirits Within/Aeon → 2 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay

Scylla post sometime this week. ♥ gunna slice 'n dice some people.

In OBLIVION → 2 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay

I’m working with the concept of animation & tangibility. To bring temporary existence to still images/objects with some limitations to quality and quantity. 

In OBLIVION → 2 yrs ago Forum: Casual Interest Checks

cool shit. 
kind of stalked the old one, so. 

In ᵀʰᵉ Spirits Within/Aeon → 2 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay

@Prisk
sick. Reminds me of the original TSW. 

In ᵀʰᵉ Spirits Within/Aeon → 2 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay

wine 'n dine baby.

In ᵀʰᵉ Spirits Within/Aeon → 2 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay

DAY 1 《》 STEELWATER [Forest - Creek] 《》 Late Morning 《》 @Rockette@DeadDrop
▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇	Scylla is busily assessing her injuries when he approaches, thankful, genuine, his compliment awash in the lamplight of that lingering hellfire. She's never seen such conflagration bidden inside a man before and in her piercing glare she tacks the flutter of her lashes down and back up in slow increments of feminine appraisal. Lips purse over teeth, tongue flush against the bone as she sucks against their bite and says:

	"Yeah..." She drawls, blouse thrust up high above her navel, fingers delicately circling the bruise embossed to ivory skin. "I guess I should be thanking you, though." Scylla's eyes dart to their flank, somewhere she assumes Aaron is lingering. "I was seconds away from becoming a snack." Her other wounds have long begun to heal, her spirits coolly gliding over her arms decorated in shallow crescents and perpendicular lines. They were not healing apparitions, but rather they could soothe and seduce as the waves often bid against the shores. Carefully Scylla bent knee to the creek wherein the waters began to return, she dipped her fingers and curled against the calm surface before raking her gestures through her silver hair to assemble her braid into normalcy. She made a face at the lingering detritus of their felled beast, for even as a woman of WarDiv, she was a creature of vanity. 

There was a lingering affect of calm that poured through her bones, willed her movements to be almost slumberous and lax compared to their earlier urgency. She recognized it as the adrenaline sweeping away from her limbs but what remnants of their engagement fell short in light of the fires that still consumed the heavens. Arachnid gestures fell to her throat, nails pricked against the scars there and pressed to the comms:

	"I don't believe that's the last of our little tree and insect friends," as where one dominant creature loomed and fell, so were there many more to claim the mantle. "But," Scylla rises to her feet, scuffing her boots against the pebbles of the creek, the waters playful against her heels as she disengaged her communication with the rest. "Let's go, Flyboy. Try not to nearly take me out next time, yeah. 'Least buy me dinner first."  


▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇	Scylla is busily assessing her injuries when he approaches, thankful, genuine, his compliment awash in the lamplight of that lingering hellfire. She's never seen such conflagration bidden inside a man before and in her piercing glare she tacks the flutter of her lashes down and back up in slow increments of feminine appraisal. Lips purse over teeth, tongue flush against the bone as she sucks against their bite and says: "Yeah..." She drawls, blouse thrust up high above her navel, fingers delicately circling the bruise embossed to ivory skin. "I guess I should be thanking you, though." Scylla's eyes dart to their flank, somewhere she assumes Aaron is lingering. "I was seconds away from becoming a snack." Her other wounds have long begun to heal, her spirits coolly gliding over her arms decorated in shallow crescents and perpendicular lines. They were not healing apparitions, but rather they could soothe and seduce as the waves often bid against the shores. Carefully Scylla bent knee to the creek wherein the waters began to return, she dipped her fingers and curled against the calm surface before raking her gestures through her silver hair to assemble her braid into normalcy. She made a face at the lingering detritus of their felled beast, for even as a woman of WarDiv, she was a creature of vanity. There was a lingering affect of calm that poured through her bones, willed her movements to be almost slumberous and lax compared to their earlier urgency. She recognized it as the adrenaline sweeping away from her limbs but what remnants of their engagement fell short in light of the fires that still consumed the heavens. Arachnid gestures fell to her throat, nails pricked against the scars there and pressed to the comms: "I don't believe that's the last of our little tree and insect friends," as where one dominant creature loomed and fell, so were there many more to claim the mantle. "But," Scylla rises to her feet, scuffing her boots against the pebbles of the creek, the waters playful against her heels as she disengaged her communication with the rest. "Let's go, Flyboy. Try not to nearly take me out next time, yeah. 'Least buy me dinner first."

In ᵀʰᵉ Spirits Within/Aeon → 2 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay

gosh y'all..

Past few days have been hell, unfortunately, but hell. But, I'm back, I'm here.

sorry. ♥

In ᵀʰᵉ Spirits Within/Aeon → 2 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay

DAY 1 《》 STEELWATER [Forest - Creek] 《》 Late Morning 《》 @Rockette@DeadDrop
▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇	Since the beginning - no, maybe before they landed, or perhaps long before even that - there was a roar inside her head. 

Betwixt her ears it rang with a defiance like none other; the champion call perchance; or the forlorn and pitied creature; the dominant beast that demanded subjugation. Such a crescendo assaulted her waking world, a screeching torrent that fused onto her throat and bade that it be heard, it slid through gnashed teeth and peeled lips as Scylla was knocked back several feet into the creek. Submerged to her knees, she thrust her lance into the rock bed to prevent herself from being completely taken by the churning whorl. Waves ebbed and flowed across her thighs, welcoming and cooling laps that stilled the moment she ghosted her palm across the surface to reestablish her balance. Across her cheek and through minuscule tears decorating the sleeves of her uniform Scylla harnessed the sting from her sudden wounds, the pain reigned as blossoms of life that anchored reality to the maelstrom of psychology that was war. Lessons taught and stilled into a child forsaken from gilded towers that once were home, to wield that fire and razor sharpness to deadly efficiency. 

For scant moments, Scylla counted each cut and bruise: from the rings of purpling flesh around her middle, to the meat of her palm lanced open from the impact of her bladed weapon, to the cheek that yawned upon sharp bone as her simper grew wide. It seemed to last a life time, to catalog each one, and in those moments she flitted among the flanks of battle, fingers poised and dancing through the water, caressing against the pressure as it swelled and crested upon her very touch. Spirits within coiled and rejoined her ministrations, seducing and manipulating through molecules and atoms and the symphony of their coupling a siren call. It started as a tantalizing fizz before it erupted into a boiling, writhing whirlpool with Scylla secured at its epicenter, the surging waters summoned higher and higher. And all the while, Garuda discharged from battle - her air missile impact still felt down to the foundation of bone - and then Robert [no, she thinks, Flyboy, that's right] heralded as a king of the battlefield with the swagger of a conditioned warrior. 

	"He's going to catch us in the blast," she tore her palm away from her throat, disabling the coms brutishly. He was a sight to behold, launched into the sky, his barrier a golden lamplight and spirits a wrathful vengeance that scorched the air whilst she engaged the lands below, the waters of the creek surging away from the banks and then -- 

	"You fucking -- " Massive globes of water floated on high, drifting around the beast that roared and flailed in pain, or perhaps in preparation for another lash of its tentacles or torrential spew. It knew where the immediate threat rose, and the heat, gods, it was unlike anything she has ever felt. Scylla knew she should flee, get away safely as it where, but within those orbs, water churned and just as suddenly as they appeared, she unleashed their manifest with an enclosed fist in tandem with Robert's molten blast. Liken to the launch of the creature's violent torrent, high emission beams of water shot through, easily surrendering through the bulbous flesh of their foe with incredible accuracy. The sound was unlike any other and the beams arched back along her beckoning calls, tearing through where Scylla could only assume its "heart" lay. 

	"Destroy it."

SummaryScylla is knocked down, injured but only slight. She summons water globes and uses them to launch highly pressurized water beams at the "Scraal" in time with Robert's attacks.


▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇	Since the beginning - no, maybe before they landed, or perhaps long before even that - there was a roar inside her head. Betwixt her ears it rang with a defiance like none other; the champion call perchance; or the forlorn and pitied creature; the dominant beast that demanded subjugation. Such a crescendo assaulted her waking world, a screeching torrent that fused onto her throat and bade that it be heard, it slid through gnashed teeth and peeled lips as Scylla was knocked back several feet into the creek. Submerged to her knees, she thrust her lance into the rock bed to prevent herself from being completely taken by the churning whorl. Waves ebbed and flowed across her thighs, welcoming and cooling laps that stilled the moment she ghosted her palm across the surface to reestablish her balance. Across her cheek and through minuscule tears decorating the sleeves of her uniform Scylla harnessed the sting from her sudden wounds, the pain reigned as blossoms of life that anchored reality to the maelstrom of psychology that was war. Lessons taught and stilled into a child forsaken from gilded towers that once were home, to wield that fire and razor sharpness to deadly efficiency. For scant moments, Scylla counted each cut and bruise: from the rings of purpling flesh around her middle, to the meat of her palm lanced open from the impact of her bladed weapon, to the cheek that yawned upon sharp bone as her simper grew wide. It seemed to last a life time, to catalog each one, and in those moments she flitted among the flanks of battle, fingers poised and dancing through the water, caressing against the pressure as it swelled and crested upon her very touch. Spirits within coiled and rejoined her ministrations, seducing and manipulating through molecules and atoms and the symphony of their coupling a siren call. It started as a tantalizing fizz before it erupted into a boiling, writhing whirlpool with Scylla secured at its epicenter, the surging waters summoned higher and higher. And all the while, Garuda discharged from battle - her air missile impact still felt down to the foundation of bone - and then Robert [no, she thinks, Flyboy, that's right] heralded as a king of the battlefield with the swagger of a conditioned warrior. "He's going to catch us in the blast," she tore her palm away from her throat, disabling the coms brutishly. He was a sight to behold, launched into the sky, his barrier a golden lamplight and spirits a wrathful vengeance that scorched the air whilst she engaged the lands below, the waters of the creek surging away from the banks and then -- "You fucking -- " Massive globes of water floated on high, drifting around the beast that roared and flailed in pain, or perhaps in preparation for another lash of its tentacles or torrential spew. It knew where the immediate threat rose, and the heat, gods, it was unlike anything she has ever felt. Scylla knew she should flee, get away safely as it where, but within those orbs, water churned and just as suddenly as they appeared, she unleashed their manifest with an enclosed fist in tandem with Robert's molten blast. Liken to the launch of the creature's violent torrent, high emission beams of water shot through, easily surrendering through the bulbous flesh of their foe with incredible accuracy. The sound was unlike any other and the beams arched back along her beckoning calls, tearing through where Scylla could only assume its "heart" lay. "Destroy it."

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