I was curious, as I had looked up what it was, but I apologize - La Brea was more exciting, as I have never been to La Barge, @Carantathraiel.
The Harbinger of Ferocity Member
STATUS: Masses are always breeding grounds of psychic epidemics. 6 yrs ago- Last Seen: 4 yrs ago
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Masses are always breeding grounds of psychic epidemics.
6 yrs ago
The highest, most decisive experience is to be alone with one's own self. You must be alone to find out what supports you, when you find that you can not support yourself.
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7 yrs ago
One cannot live from anything except what one is.
7 yrs ago
The slave to virtue finds the way as little as the slave to vices.
7 yrs ago
The core of an individual is the mystery of life, which dies when it is 'grasped'. That is also why symbols want to keep their secrets.
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The Harbinger of Ferocity
Agent of the Wild, Aspect of the Ferine
Nature, red in tooth and claw.
"There is, indeed, no single quality of the cat that man could not emulate to his advantage."
- Carl Van Vechten
I am, at my core, a personification and manifestation of those things whose blood and hearts run red with the ferocity of the animal world. It is this which convicts and controls my works, my writing, my being; the force and guidance in which I gain wisdom from. It is what inspires me as a creator and weaver of words, the very thing I admire as an author.
My leanings, savage as they are, are of the feline sort as there exists no greater lineage of beasts whom can be drawn from. No others captivate and motivate my talent and skill as the greatest of cats do.
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I will reply tomorrow morning - as of right now I cannot truthfully imagine how and why The Red would've abandoned a hunt, in part because I am tired.
La Barge. *waggles fingers*
I have not an idea what that is to mean, but La Brea was an interesting experience.
I will go under the assumption that The Red and Jon Y were unable to find the source of the strange aura - Zargon - and ultimately went about seeing themselves to the tavern once more.
La Brea.
That is all.
That is all.
I get the feeling you have a plot in mind if you've introduced a champion of Nerull so early on, which gives ample hope for the roleplay, @Shade. It did not take long to transition from milling about to having an enemy - hopefully you can include your characters as well... we could always use an illusionist-evoker.
This is a better solution than the one I was having to gamble on, @Shade. This said, I will let my cohorts reply before I dare to do anything but burn through my second most powerful spells for the day as hastily as possible.
Hehe, indeed, don't worry, this is for character development.
I just have to ask the obvious if he's even capable of being defeated; I have a few ways to get all of us out, barring him - or maybe him too - but I am unsure what your intent is. Mine, currently, if you're curious, is using one of the warden's Banishment effects to kick us back to our home plane and leave him stuck planeshifted there.
Well, that escalated quickly.
The sickly, scalding sear akin to flesh upon open flames crackled to life in the air which came with it an odor most foul; while repugnant alone in thought - what just transpired to the drow-elf's physical form as he willingly endured the intense white heat of the glowing metal - his vileness and evil bled through him more so. Visibly allowing loose pieces of his burnt form to fall about him like shriveled leaves, he was horribly disfigured by any mortal standard - requiring magical aid if he were to ever again appear as he did prior. The sword landing with a cascade of glittering sparks at his feet, audibly crackling as the two opposed magics fought at one another, he composed himself after a few moments of interlude.
Still this man of dark intent persisted in the face of his immense suffering, but it soon became clear why.
He was a mortal man, but gripped in something that was certainly not; Nerull, the Mockery - the Enemy of Life. For all the calm and peace that befell creatures when their time ran short, Nerull was the sole force to rip it away as a cruel gesture of power... but it was the tattoos that spoke a thousand words. Each tattoo revealed by his lack of armor displayed some greater sacrifice of self - or another - to his master.
All this man was, was no more himself - just a puppet of a dark god.
Abjuration shielding his form as best it could, the man found himself taking the brunt of the onslaught of darkness cast forth from the drow's hand; its terribleness dazing him briefly. For all his endurance and willpower, the sheer darkness channeled was enough to penetrate the barrier against evil and still inflict bodily damage to the man. Taking a step back, as if pushed at a distance, he steadied himself, resting slightly in a hunch - hand braced lightly to a wall.
The naiveness, or outright denial, of the girl beside the humble man, whose arm was numb from pain and settled in blood, was enough to spur him to words while he straightened his form to standing; the debilitating blackness having worn off the worst of its effects.
"Enough prattle..." He began mystic gestures, calling upon one of the greatest of powers he held knowledge of, "Aid the man and the orc - buy us time, woman."
The man of the staff, having shaken free of the turn of events, lashed out with a fearsome and surprise blow of his choice weapon at Cario's hand of which bore the Dark Seed; if he could break his hold, the darkness' might - Nerull's might - would ebb from this blacksmith briefly in scope. It was a multiplier of force that needed to be addressed if there was any hope to put this battle behind them with no casualties aside from Cario's.
After all, both of the commoner's hands grew alight with an amalgamation of orange and golden flames, the latter of which seethed with sacred energy while the former burned bright in traditional flame. Raising both palms from his sides in a sweeping motion he prepared his spell and so they grew far more intense and vivid.
But... there proved to be a distraction beside the druid now in the form of a young boy of bright blonde hair and perhaps brighter eyes who wedged his way between the door and the conflict. This complicated matters some, driving the no longer mere commoner to sidestep slightly, putting himself before the human as his action remained ever readied for the opening it needed.
Gritting his teeth, he muttered incoherently - the situation escalating too quickly for but a lone Fang of the Wild to handle; at least the much needed assistance was here in part.
@Shade@Gentlemanvaultboy@SouffleGirl123@TaroMaster4
Still this man of dark intent persisted in the face of his immense suffering, but it soon became clear why.
He was a mortal man, but gripped in something that was certainly not; Nerull, the Mockery - the Enemy of Life. For all the calm and peace that befell creatures when their time ran short, Nerull was the sole force to rip it away as a cruel gesture of power... but it was the tattoos that spoke a thousand words. Each tattoo revealed by his lack of armor displayed some greater sacrifice of self - or another - to his master.
All this man was, was no more himself - just a puppet of a dark god.
Abjuration shielding his form as best it could, the man found himself taking the brunt of the onslaught of darkness cast forth from the drow's hand; its terribleness dazing him briefly. For all his endurance and willpower, the sheer darkness channeled was enough to penetrate the barrier against evil and still inflict bodily damage to the man. Taking a step back, as if pushed at a distance, he steadied himself, resting slightly in a hunch - hand braced lightly to a wall.
The naiveness, or outright denial, of the girl beside the humble man, whose arm was numb from pain and settled in blood, was enough to spur him to words while he straightened his form to standing; the debilitating blackness having worn off the worst of its effects.
"Enough prattle..." He began mystic gestures, calling upon one of the greatest of powers he held knowledge of, "Aid the man and the orc - buy us time, woman."
The man of the staff, having shaken free of the turn of events, lashed out with a fearsome and surprise blow of his choice weapon at Cario's hand of which bore the Dark Seed; if he could break his hold, the darkness' might - Nerull's might - would ebb from this blacksmith briefly in scope. It was a multiplier of force that needed to be addressed if there was any hope to put this battle behind them with no casualties aside from Cario's.
After all, both of the commoner's hands grew alight with an amalgamation of orange and golden flames, the latter of which seethed with sacred energy while the former burned bright in traditional flame. Raising both palms from his sides in a sweeping motion he prepared his spell and so they grew far more intense and vivid.
But... there proved to be a distraction beside the druid now in the form of a young boy of bright blonde hair and perhaps brighter eyes who wedged his way between the door and the conflict. This complicated matters some, driving the no longer mere commoner to sidestep slightly, putting himself before the human as his action remained ever readied for the opening it needed.
Gritting his teeth, he muttered incoherently - the situation escalating too quickly for but a lone Fang of the Wild to handle; at least the much needed assistance was here in part.
@Shade@Gentlemanvaultboy@SouffleGirl123@TaroMaster4
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