Sigil

The Legend of Zelda: Fragments of Hope

@Sho Minazuki
I have a minor concern with Sigurd being able to auto grab two PCs, then wait until they "stop struggling" before letting them go. Further, you continued without regard to their actions to the situation. (Deku lady seems like the type that'd knife a guy for doing that.)

Now, if this was worked out with the other two via PM or the Titanpad, great. Otherwise, it's bunnying. I'd be careful about that, particularly when the group gets into an actual combat scenario.

🧚🏻‍♀️ The Walking Dead - Year 6 Part 1

"The Adventures of Froggy & Dick"

or

"What They Did When The Zombies Attacked"

...best children's book EVER.

🦄 Duplicity - D&D Style Fantasy Rp Adventure (Completed)

@Salrynn

Interactions like Keystone tying ropes to her wrists and ankles and making her dance like a marionette? A little "Weekend at Bernie's" action, hmmm?

The Legend of Zelda: Fragments of Hope

A quick request to @Gowi and @Kafka Komedy, if you would, please put your CS in hiders. Makes it so much easier for reference. Thanks.

🧚🏻‍♀️ The Walking Dead - Year 6 Part 1

@Charnobylisk
It will be mentioned in my "In Memoriam" post, after the emergency is over.

The Legend of Zelda: Fragments of Hope

The chill of the morning air in Oasis seemed the perfect time to work on weapon drills. At least, that seemed to be sincerely held belief of several Gerudo women, scimitars in hand. Their twirling, flowing style of fighting with two long blades held a great fascination for Cricket; his native method of combat insisted on utilitarian moves and economy of motion.

Still, the enigmatic Sheikah youth wanted to learn more. He stood parallel to, but apart from, the group of Gerudo soldiers as they went through their forms and footwork, drilling and sparring. The slender Cricket stood, mimicking their movements and approximating their stances, with a pair of his own Gerudo scimitars. Well, maybe not his own; the word of a Sheikah training with the women of the desert attracted the attention of a few natives. Just now, some three dark skinned, red haired girls sat with amused looks on their faces, each armed appropriately to their standing except for one - curved scabbards adorned her well-toned form, presumably the rightful resting spots of the weapons Cricket wielded now.

On the ground near the desert maidens lay a long, brown coat with two Sheikah blades atop it. Kodachi, they were called by most. Shorter than a long blade, larger than a dagger, designed for close work and variable fighting conditions. The youth himself, an odd young man who answered to Cricket, could have easily been mistaken for a knife merchant with the number of sharp implements on his person. He was garbed mostly in functional, tactical black and grey, the cut and fit not a common sight in this part of the world. A black half-mask covered the lower half of his face, giving feature to his bright, red eyes and the tattoo of his people's symbol around his left eye: Three triangles above and a teardrop below.

Were it not for the events which had unfolded elsewhere in the world, Cricket would never have been seen openly here. He surely wouldn't have been learning the techniques of the Desert Folk, and he sure as hell wouldn't be this up close and personal with a Gerudo woman. But it was a strange time for everyone. Strange, and very dangerous.

Cricket's stark white hair blew in the cool air as he looked up from his practice, noting a hawk descending from the sky in the distance. It was a message, certainly. Hopefully it was good news. There was a convoy expected soon, perhaps this was the Fortress confirming its arrival. At least, he hoped. Something inside of him told him that it wasn't. He had come to trust these flashes of intuition, be they fairly recent arrivals in his skill set.

No, he needed to stop what he was doing and go see if he was needed.

The out-of-place Sheikah gave his borrowed twin scimitars a quick twirl and backed out of the morning's exercises. He jogged up to the three Gerudo girls, knelt before the unarmed one, and presented her swords to her with a touch of dramatic motion. She stood and sheathed them, regarding the strange boy with interest and amusement. Cricket pulled down his mask, revealing pleasant features and a wide, genuine smile.

From the corner of his eye, Cricket noticed the other Sheikah rounding onto the thoroughfare near them. He glanced over toward the man, and returned his attention to the lady standing above him. He took her hand and traced a triangle pattern on it with his finger, gave it a quick kiss, and rose. Recovering his coat and swords, he winked at his new friend and moved to meet the other Shiekah in town.

A series of hand motions seemed to ask a question, it was responded to in kind by the other red-eyed man. A look of puzzled urgency came over Cricket, and he fell in line behind the messenger, following him to Resistance HQ as their first volunteer.

🦄 Duplicity - D&D Style Fantasy Rp Adventure (Completed)

Keystone

Location: Road North of Salarn, Camp

Interacting With: 7 - Orc: Fighter, 7:45 (corpse of), Sona, Cremwise

An arrow, originating from points unknown, appeared quivering in the skull of the Orc assisting the horizontally mounted Five Thirty. This led Keystone's train of thought toward more questions. Sadly, these questions could not be asked nor answered in the meantime. He was paid to protect a wagon and its owner, and that's precisely what he intended to do. Two targets left alive and/or conscious, only one standing. This last one standing was wearing one of his favorite knives in his kidney.

The actions of the Bard, Sona, did not go unnoticed. She was spry, that one. Then again, it seemed that most of her people were. The delicate musician was eager enough to hurl herself into a particularly vorpal piggy-back ride with Seven Forty-Five, though it came at a cost. The one standing Orc, Seven, was right next to her, clawing at Keystone's kunai in his lower back. It was a short matter of time before he got the blade free and turned his aggressive intentions on either Cremwise or the unconscious Bard. It was quite literally his job to make sure that did not happen.

Keystone's left hand was still ringing and numbish from his bracers deflecting that swordfall from Five Thirty. He needed every advantage in with his range attack if he was to close the distance before it was too late. The bulging Pugilist reached back with his steadier right, unsheathing his large, bone handled seax knife. It was a truly masterful piece of steel, catching the cold morning light as he flipped it in his hand to grasp it by the blade. He exhaled sharply and stepped his right foot forward, twisting slightly to involve as many muscle groups into the throw as he could.

While his form was not perfect, it was an adequate and powerful hurl of a lightly magicked blade, constructed for, among other things, just this purpose. It seemed to sing as it parted the air in front of it, traveling in a swift and direct path terminating in the ribcage of the Axe wielding Orc known to him as Seven. Blood gurgled through Seven's mouth, his hands reflexively grasping at the knife as his own weapon slipped from his hand. The Orc was slowing, winding down like some giant, greygreen fleshy clockwork. He collapsed, and embraced the eventual outcome of mortality. Goodnight, Seven.

Keystone ran after his blade full tilt, hopping over another fallen Orc along the way. The large man paused before retrieving his knives to roll Sona's kill, the Archer (Seven Forty-Five), off of her. Satisfied that she was still breathing, Keystone removed his knives from their present resting place and put them away. "Cremwise," he started, "You stay hid 'till we can sort this out, right? Not over just yet. Yeah, Sona ain't dead, by the by."

🧚🏻‍♀️ The Walking Dead - Year 6 Part 1

@Charnobylisk@Nallore@Aewin
Ok, I think we're good now. Thanks, guys!

🧚🏻‍♀️ The Walking Dead - Year 6 Part 1

@Charnobylisk@Nallore@Aewin

Per GM request, I'm editing my last post to account for GLARING continuity errors, and clarify a psychological issue. Please don't post until I'm done fixing it.

Will post in the OOC when we're good to go. Thanx.

🧚🏻‍♀️ The Walking Dead - Year 6 Part 1

---

Ashton Holloway

---

Location: Newnan
Interacting With: Lorna, Meg, Zoie, Dexter, Maria

---

Lorna's chest erupted, staining the front of her with a truly sorrowful color of crimson. Ashton grabbed for her as she slumped against the truck, kneeling by her as her life's blood freely parted from her body. For just a moment, the embittered engineer didn't see Lorna. Instead, her pale and shock torn features were replaced with Alicia's, torn and bleeding, eyes growing less vibrant with each passing second.

So now he was hallucinating. Great. Maybe it was an aftereffect of losing his Alicia, and then Leann, but Ash felt a kinship with this woman that could have become actual friendship. He trusted her enough for the short time they'd shared breathing room. And now she, like so many others that day, was gone. He removed his Captains' bars from the lapel of the BDU jacket that she had borrowed and pocketed them. Then he drove his knife up through the base of her skull.

Somewhere back in the recesses of his mind, the thought pinged once or twice inside of his skull that he was never getting that jacket back. Ever.

"Goddamnit!" he yelled, and snatched up the walkie with his free hand. "Maria! James! We need cover NOW. Whoever fires at us dies. DIES. A-fucking-SAP. If they're hiding, use that cannon and drill them through the fucking wall. Got me?

He risked a glance back in the direction of the shots, just on time to see Zoie disappear around the corner following her declaration of, "I got this, you get to the fucking armory!"

Again in the walkie, "...damnit... Be advised we have a friendly in pursuit of the shooter. Give her a clear path, James."

From the corner of his eye, Ash saw Dexter crawling under the truck to avoid further (very unfriendly) fire. He grabbed a leg, possessed by almost manic strength and a decided lack of fuckgiving, and drug the Newnan newcomer from his hidey-hole half beneath the vehicle. "Not today, Fucko. No one's hiding today. No one's running. We're doing this, all of us are doing this." Ash had obviously switched from speaking to Dexter, and was now addressing all present. "Everyone fights. No one runs. We're all in this together, now. If you want out, I'll let you out with a bullet. Is that understood?"

He had to trust his team to do their jobs competently. He just hoped he could, as well. "Objective is still the Armory. Doubletime. He looked to Meg, not quite equipped for this run proper. "If you need something, anyone needs something, Lorna's not going to need her weapons anymore. We leave now.

---

Black James!

---

Location: Newnan
Interacting With: Himself, the Dead, and the Soon To Be Dead

---

James held back Alicia's rifle, giving a quick scan to the surroundings down below. The new girl seemed pissed, and on a mission. Then the walkie barked, with Ash's voice taking on a tone of anger and urgency. "Maria! James! We need cover NOW. Whoever fires at us dies. DIES. A-fucking-SAP. If they're hiding, use that cannon and drill them through the fucking wall. Got me?

Yeah. Army guy wasn't happy. He drug his Barrett closer to him and leaned it against the wall near him. "Hells yes, we gonna do some killin' today..."

"...damnit... Be advised we have a friendly in pursuit of the shooter. Give her a clear path, James."

Still with the lighter sniper rifle, James fired off three quick shots, helping to clear Zoie's way. It was quickly replaced by his monster sniper system, and anti-material rifle that he called Vera. The door to Automotive was starting to close, apparently where the asshat he was after had slipped. This assertion was supported by Zoie's use of the doorway as well. Lady on a mission. Three Walkers down for his old friend below, he switched his perception to Ash's group.

Scanning the area with the Barrett's powerful, variable scope, he looked for any signs of life he could extinguish. Well, any life that wasn't friendly, anyway. For one half second, he opened his non-dominant eye for perspective while making his sweep. In that half second, he could have sworn he saw Caesar's long, dark hair disappearing back down the steps, leading out of the clocktower.

---

Caesar Gonzalez

---

Location: Newnan
Interacting With: Kristina

---

The grief stricken warrior left the Infirmary, weapons ready to bear against the first person and/or thing that got in his way. Problem was, nothing seemed hostile seemed to be left alive, or undead, in the building. So, the energetic elder took off up the stairs at a jog.

A quick scan of the room yielded him a bit of face time with one of the new people. A young girl, fresh faced but tired; she looked like she'd gone a few rounds with a prize fighter. Caesar looked to the unconscious Edenite, back to Kristina, and nodded gravely. "Good work. Keep away from the windows and you should be ok. Stay safe."

Girls her age, in his opinion, shouldn't have to be a part of things like this. Then again, no one really had a choice in the matter anymore. He found his mind drifting back to his own daughter at that age, just in college ready to take on the world. Then he had to immediately banish those thoughts before his emotions overwhelmed him again. Caesar was of zero use to anyone like that. Grief transformed to rage, blunted to a quiet need to kill. Time to get a lay of the land.

El Jefe quickly and quietly ascended the stairs to the clocktower, determined to see what he could before launching himself into a killing rage. He had to pick a direction to fire off his swath of destruction toward, you see. The melee specialist poked his head unnoticed into sniper's nest. He heard Ash's words, noticed the minuscule cracks in his voice before his anger poured through the walkie-talkie, a muted reflection of Caesar's own.

Armory, huh? Yeah, he was going to help them get there. And kill as many things as possible on the way.

Back on the second floor, Caesar ran to the broken window - the one the Dead Guy smashed through thanks to that bit of circular moving air earlier, and drug the corpse of the nearby Walker near to it. An expertly placed machete slashed open its abdomen, and the other grabbed a handful of mostly intact intestine. Caesar would be damned if he was going to open any of the defenses below to get into the fight, leaving those inside at more risk. Rappelling from above? Perfectly acceptable.

In the three seconds it took to hit the ground, he was already fully rearmed. The elasticy guts snapped back up toward the body like a big, gooey vein from a bite of fried chicken slapping you in the face after being ripped free by ravenous incisors. He could just hear the Newnan group coming up from around the corner, in a few seconds they would meet up.

He twirled his signature blades in front of him once and got to work, making the street a little safer for his people.