Vertigo

Epyllion: Beyond Moonlight's Reach

Ha, her exasperation is very fun to write! Rip Garrock, disrespected by a wee one.

And oh, good to know, will edit that part real quick.

Final Fantasy: Lightseekers

𝔏𝔢𝔦𝔣𝔲𝔯 𝔊𝔲ð𝔪𝔲𝔫𝔡𝔰𝔰𝔬𝔫

__________________________________________________

Leifur had yet to get too far from the argument when he heard it wind down. He picked up footsteps; one set, then two. Heavy. Glancing over his shoulder, he found exactly who he'd expected to; Arton and Galahad. Out of everyone present, they were the ones he expected to focus on the mission the most. The viera was about to give the two an acknowledging nod, when he caught Arton murmur something under his breath. It had likely not been meant for him to hear, but few things escaped the sensitive ears of a viera, especially this close by. Furi? A name, most likely. He would commit it to memory, whatever it meant.

Galahad caught up with Arton, and from somewhere behind him, Leifur could hear more footsteps, and then a shout. Butterboy. At least there was no longer a danger of him alerting potential enemies to their presence; the arguing from earlier had already done a fine job at that.

There seemed to be no danger of such anyway; everyone they met on the corridors was long gone, a victim to a senseless battle. Corpses clad in armour, some with anger or surprise frozen on their faces, some with no discernible faces left at all. They'd been caught in heavy gunfire.

... Gunfire that Leifur could hear once more. He picked up his pace eagerly - not because he'd be excited to spill more blood, or to save someone from having theirs spilled, but because he was curious. He needed to understand how this happened, how so many soldiers made it so far into the castle, especially on a day like this, when security should have been particularly tight. It was inconceivable.

They arrived to the scene of a battle, catching a glimpse of the king, fighting, when they found themselves at the more unfortunate end of a rifle. Leifur was preparing for a dash, leg muscles tensed, when the members of another team cut down the gunmen - then proceeded to start barking orders and level a weapon at Neve's face, clearly blind to the very visible proof that their team had been fighting as well.

Had the others not been faster, Leifur would've attempted to cleave the man's gunblade in half, maybe an arm to go with it, out of sheer reflex. Thankfully, the urge was quelled by a stalemate, the subsequent breaking of it and then, as usual, Galahad.

Leifur glanced at the Skaelan who'd joined the fray, entirely sure he recognized her. Not from a personal account, but by reputation. It mattered little right now, though; he'd let the others resolve this matter, and move on to another. To the king, unharmed, and his troupe, equally so.

"A shame to find you without injury," Leifur raised his voice upon approach, but not his weapon. He was angry, not a threat looking to be cut down. "Considering the sorry state of so many of your men - and guests. Slaughtered in your own castle, on the day you threw a feast. Either you're a conspirator, or entirely undeserving of a crown. Explain yourself, and perhaps we'll know which."

Epyllion: Beyond Moonlight's Reach

𝐹𝑒𝓁𝓁𝓌𝒾𝓃𝑔

__________________________________________________

Oh. Right. Garrock.

Fellwing had all but forgotten about him, and what blissful ignorance it had been. At the sight of the old coot - and then again as he opened his mouth to complain - Fellwing had to fight back a visible frown. At the very least, Skobeloff was quick enough to steal Garrock's attention, giving the Seer some time to gather herself. But though she managed to maintain a neutral expression, she kept fiddling with her claws and swishing her tail, impatient and annoyed by a yet another delay. A most useless delay, at that.

As the grumpy fool redirected his attention back to the rest of them, prattling about how he hoped they'd been useful, Fellwing mustered a smile so polite it teetered on unnatural. "Likewise," she quipped, "I do trust that a capable dragon such as yourself made good use of all the time we took."

She raised a claw, hoping to intercept him if he were about to go on another spiel. "And that you understand we've no further time to waste here. Any further chitchat can be done on the way. We have drakes to rescue."

Purgatorium [Cancelled]

And I hope, truly, that you can forgive me and not see it as a spot on my record or something. I'm terrified that it'll color the impression of any future projects. That said, I probably won't be doing any GM work for possibly months.

@SparkleNana

No worries, real life comes first, and no one'll hold that against you! Roleplays are made and dropped all the time, and it's definitely not something that will taint your record. Good luck, and like Dragonfly said, hope to see you around as a player at least.

Sleepless Nights\\ Iron Cages

Hell yeah, sneaky shit.

Expedition to Isekai

𝐃𝐮𝐧𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐭

__________________________________________________

The ball connected with the charging beast's head accurately enough, but the brief moment of victory Duncan felt for hitting a moving target square in the face didn't last long. As soon as the ball had made impact, it'd bounced off somewhere unseen, leaving Duncan without weapons - and also without his favourite fucking basketball. Great. He didn't... didn't think that far. Thinking wasn't exactly his forte.

But though the ball had done nothing to disorient the beast, it had drawn its attention well enough. That was what Duncan had wanted, but seeing the beast's hulking form and hungry eyes turn to him, he wasn't sure why. So Haruko and the others could run while he wrestled it down like some sort of a fucking action hero? C'mon. He'd shouted for the others to do something, so why wasn't anyone doing sh--

Two shouts pierced the air; Asahi's, as he rushed forward with a burning stick, and Daisuke's as he spurred the rest of the team into action. To fight, not to run. A grin spread across Duncan's face. Man, what an ass, trying to one up him at every turn. He couldn't have that. Everywhere around them, the air was already filling with shouts, grunts, screams, as the other students all scrambled into action against the monsters. They were taking a stand on all fronts.

"Already on it!" Duncan shouted back at Daisuke, about to dash towards the wolfbear, when someone sped past him. Sasuke. In a feat that halted Duncan where he stood, the guy flipped the beast onto its back like it was some fat, flailing man. Oh. Oh, well, shit. Reminder not to mess with that one. Suddenly, his 78 streak against Daisuke didn't feel that impressive.

... Right, the dogpile! "Last one there's a fucking nerd!"

And everyone knew he wasn't a fucking nerd.

The combined weight of multiple bodies piled onto the wolfbear, trying to pin it down. But it wouldn't be enough to just hold it in place forever, they had to actually take it down permanently, somehow. But how? Beat it unconscious? Strangle it? Snap its neck? Its skull was solid and neck thicker than Haruko's thighs! If only they had something sharp to just gut it.

You know what, whatever, with enough force, there was nothing they couldn't accomplish. The fear that had churned Duncan's insides had long since been drowned by a rush of adrenaline. This was the final game of the season, the one that decided everything, and he was the ace for a reason. So, stubbornly and recklessly, he shoved his weight, knees first, down on the beast's throat e to restrict airflow, eyes fixed on its jaws - but not on its claws.

Duncan didn't feel pain at first. He felt the impact, saw the claws as they grazed against his chest, but the damage done didn't register through the adrenaline. What he did register was all the red. It stained everything. His clothes, his hands, all taken by a warm red something. Something was wrong, that much he understood on an instinctive level.

Someone close by, someone else in the dogpile, sounded startled. Their eyes were wide, finger pointing. At him. At his torso. Duncan looked down, and realized his shirt had been torn open. Bloodied chunks had curled to the sides.

Then he realized the chunks weren't fabric. They were skin.

Realization hit him with the force of a thousand basketballs: there was a gash on his abdomen, and he was going to fucking die.

Fire Emblem: Crestfallen

Leonid Hector Sylmare, Heir to House Sylmare

[Full Name]

Leonid Hector Sylmare

[Alias]

Leon

[Affiliation]

Cretus

[Starting Class]

Noble

[Status]

(Adopted) heir to House Sylmare

[Crest]

Minor Crest of Sylmare

[Age]

Seventeen

[Date of Birth]

27th of the Hallowed Moon, Divine Year 763

[Appearance Information]

Once an unmistakable product of the streets, the past few months have molded Leonid into the epitome of nobility - as far as appearances go, anyhow. Much as he dislikes tight collars, unnecessary gloves and stiff pants, he wears them like he was born in them, both in classrooms and beyond. And with an impeccable posture to match a confident gait, he doesn't seem out of place even in the most prestigious of gatherings. That is, until he's forced to speak. He can't quite pull off formalities like second nature, and seems to often get lost between what he wants to say and what he should say. Amusing to some, jarring to others - and a source of great concern for his new 'family'.

Standing average at 5'9'', Leon is more lean and lithe than muscular, yet fully capable of besting any noble who's never known hard work. He has a very slight tan that makes the scars scattered upon his skin that much more apparent, at least when unclothed. Most are around his arms and back, which formal attire hides quite conveniently. Something good comes outta the stuffy uniform, at least. Whenever given the chance, rare as those instances may be, he likes to slip into more comfortable and loose clothes - not quite the rags he once wore, but clean casual wear befitting nobility.

Leon's eyes are a reddish shade of brown, constantly carrying an observant, even sly look - as if he's always assessing everything around him; the places he goes to, the people he meets and the words they speak. Call it a survival instinct or paranoia, it's all the same to him. He has an expressive face, and though he's learnt to fake a polite smile quite well, his gaze rarely changes. Leon's chestnut brown hair is forcibly combed to some form of submission, but a few loose strands still like to stick out every which way no matter how many hours he spends taming them.

[Personality]

First impressions, as is often the case, are quite deceiving when it comes to Leonid. Though he looks refined and may come across as such at first, none of it comes naturally to him. In reality, Leonid couldn't care less for etiquette or manners, and sees them as a necessary evil at best. He's quite against the general view that some people are better than others through birthright alone, be it due to wealth, station or the possession of a crest, and he doesn't really believe in god or fate. As far as he's concerned, everyone should earn their place in the world - which is why he feels undeserving of his new title.

Everything he's experienced has left him bitter and somewhat cynical - both traits that tend to show through the cracks of his noble mask from time to time. Still, it's not as though he's purposefully antagonistic even behind his facade. He does tend to make quick judgments when he first meets people, if only because living on the streets and dealing with shady folk taught him it was a necessity, but he is also willing to change his views if proven wrong. He's alert and observant, and it's difficult to sneak up on him - in fact, it's more likely that he's the one to sneak up on you! Though he makes sure not to go too far and risk consequences from the Sylmares, he doesn't at all mind rattling up nobles, particularly pompous or arrogant ones - be it with his words or actions.

Though he usually appears calm enough, deep down Leonid doesn't have the longest fuse out there. He isn't one to resort to shouting or swinging his fists around, but he does get annoyed somewhat easily in certain circumstances, and that can lead to quite a sharp tongue indeed. He isn't a sore loser, and can even take some insults in a stride - but witnessing injustice or having to listen to nobles spout self-righteous spiels does get under his skin quite fast. Having to pretend to agree with them is even worse. As such, Leonid usually tends to avoid such situations; he knows that when angry, keeping up his act becomes that much more difficult - and his ability to care about being exposed lessens to a dangerous degree. He also has a soft spot for the downtrodden, and particularly hates seeing them mistreated.

On most occasions when interacting with others however, Leonid is amiable enough. He's talkative, and though his jokes tend to be a bit strange and some of the things he lets slip unfitting for a man of his status, he isn't looking for trouble - most of the time.

[Personal History]

If categorized, Leon's story would be of the "rags to riches" variety. Born as a nobody in the less fortunate parts of Cretus, most of his early life was marked by struggle and poverty. According to the tales his father used to tell, theirs was once a successful merchant business in the heart of Solitaire - but whatever wealth their forefathers had once accrued had long since been lost to time. Bad business decisions, bandits and untimely deaths had eaten away at the success of their business over generations, until naught remained but tales. 'Keep close ever penny,' his father always told him at the end of the story. 'Today's coin is tomorrow's dinner.'

At the dawn of Leonid's ninth Amber Moon, his father told stories no longer. Illness claimed him, and at the turn of the year, his mother followed. Devastated and alone, Leonid soon found himself on the streets. At first, he got by with help of strangers' kindness; neighbours who pitied his fate, townspeople who'd known his parents and wished to aid their son in his time of need. Sometimes, he was given food - other times a bed, even coin, a time or two. But kind as the townspeople were, their resources were not infinite. At the end of the day, they had their own families to care for - and the more time passed, the more forgotten Leonid's plight became. New orphans were birthed by the harsh living conditions, and alms were distributed to them in turn. Even when Leonid worked for his coin or spent the entirety of his day begging, the closer the winter came, the less people could afford to give. It wasn't just him; everyone was struggling.

Then, with the first snow, they arrived to town; traveling merchants, looking for a roof above their heads for a night. Leonid overheard them talk as he cleaned tables at the tavern, catching wind of their plans to head for the capital to sell their wares come morrow. The capital, Solitaire... a place where his family had once prospered, and where many a merchant had earned their fortune. Perhaps there, Leonid could start to accrue his own fortune. It wasn't easy convincing the merchants to take with them a stray boy, but free labor was free labor and Leonid promised he'd make a fine attendant and didn't have too big a belly. Scraps would suit him just fine.

Solitaire was as grand as the stories told, and from the moment Leonid first set foot onto its cobblestone streets, he was in awe. The city was big, beautiful and bustling, worlds apart from the quaint little town he'd called home. Leonid felt as though anything was possible here.

His glee did not last.

Not long after arrival, he realized that for a filthy boy with no coin in his pocket, Solitaire was no more hospitable than any other city. On the contrary, even; the citizens of the capital did not know him like his neighbours had, and they'd seen enough bastards, scoundrels and thieves that they had no sympathy left to spare. And then there were the unwritten rules of the street; where one could beg, sleep, or tread, carefully dictated by already existing gangs that had claimed parts of the back alleys to their name.

Leonid never wanted to steal. He'd heard his father speak ill of the bandits that partook in his family's fall from grace, yet winter was harsh and circumstances dire. It started as grabbing produce when no one was looking, then moved on to picking a pocket, two, three - until finally, he found himself stealing and conning the good people of Solitaire even when no direct need dictated it. He found a certain thrill in a successful gig - and it was only matter of time until it got him into trouble. Not with the locals themselves, nor even guards; certainly, he'd gotten a beating once or twice in his earlier years, but this was worse. He got caught trying to steal from a criminal much worse than him; a trained assassin, part of a guild of his kind.

Leonid ended up trading his freedom for a chance to live another day. He was still a boy of thirteen at the time, but the guild never had a shortage of little birds. They did not only deal in assassinations; espionage and information breaking were also part of their trade, and the younger their messenger, the easier they could slip by undetected. That is how he spent the next few years: acquiring, carrying and exchanging information the land over, until fate threw a yet another twist his way. He got caught a second time. But if the first had been a curse, this one was more a blessing.

The young criminal had found his way into the manor of the Sylmares - the second wealthiest noble house in all of Cretus. Perhaps in part due to the legalization of assassinations, the house was quite secretive, and so any information he could gather would likely fetch a fine price. Unfortunately, as many others before him, Leonid got caught in the act by the many guards of the estate. Unlike those before him, however, he did not meet his end as punishment. In the process of examination and interrogation, it was discovered that he, against all odds, was in possession of a crest. And not just any crest, either - but the Crest of Sylmare. Someone, somewhere down his line of ancestors, descended from Sylmare.

Judging by the look in the lord's eyes, the news bode well for Leonid. All he wanted was to keep his life. What he got, instead, was a new life altogether. As it turned out, apart from the current head herself, they had no one with a crest to inherit the family name. And so, a quick plan was devised to present Leonid as the heir proper. With the legal status of assassinations, it would not be unthinkable for the family to have kept a crest-bearing heir a secret out of fear of attempts on his life, after all. And with him being almost of age, now would be a good time to reveal him to the world - perhaps by sending him to the monastery?

Leonid was not thrilled, yet he found himself given little choice. And so, for the next few excruciating months, he was trained in the ways of nobility. Etiquette, dancing, proper manner of dress and address - he did his best to learn it all, if only to keep his head. And when the next academic year begun, he was sent off to learn the rest of the skills necessary for someone in his position.

[Preferred Fighting Style]

Bow

[Equipment]

Training Sword, Training Bow

[Learned Spells]

N/A

[Interests]

• Climbing
• Archery
• Cooking
• Storytelling

[Likes]

• Money
• Sweets
• Rain
• Nighttime
• Banter
• Naps

[Dislikes]

• Nobles
• Horses
• Fleas
• Hypocrites
• Etiquette
• Restrictive clothing

Fire Emblem: Crestfallen

"Preferred fighting style: sword"

Lmao that's such bs, changed that and chucked him over.

Purgatorium [Cancelled]

Looks very cool

Sleepless Nights\\ Iron Cages

𝔼𝕞𝕞𝕒 𝔹𝕒𝕕𝕖𝕒𝕦𝕩

__________________________________________________

One moment Emma was admiring the theatre below, attention drawn to the ringleader's intangible narration as if she understood every word, giggling at the antics of the clowns as a polite member of the audience should, and then--

The world shattered.

Shards of glass danced in the air around her like reflective petals. On their tiny surfaces, Emma caught momentary glimpses of her own face; startled, wide-eyed, but not afraid. Never afraid again, for as long as she wasn't alone. She hugged the stolen reel to her chest with one hand, allowed herself to be pulled through the air with the other. For a moment the two girls flew, wingless but aloft, part of a performance far greater than any she'd seen before.

And then they fell.

Something caught their fall, then fell with them, then caught their fall again. Above, Emma could see a brief flash of a ceiling made of flesh, the party streamers that dotted the grotesque sight with colour swaying in the aftermath of their passing. Disoriented, Emma stumbled to her feet, searching for Yasu. Not concerned, because she knew the girl well enough, but curious, eager, wanting to exchange a smile. She found her, safe and sound, just in time to see Cam launch herself at the clowns, a dance that Emma could have watched forever - had she not noticed the angry faces that surrounded them.

"Oh! Do pardon us the intrusion! Why, your show was--" something in her peripheral vision chased away the words before they could form. Something was flying through the air towards her, fast if careless. Emma turned, blinking, forced to open her parasol to shield her from the light. It was harsh here on the stage, blaring from the projector they'd left behind. Beyond the light's edges, hiding behind curtains, was an endless sea of shadow.

From it emerged a monster. Its body was the vague shape of a canine, six long legs carrying it across the stage. Where its legs touched, they melted together, its entire body shifting with each step. Mouths here, eyes there, opening and closing to snarl, growl - and grasp the pins mid-flight in its many maws. They disappeared within, swallowed by an ever-shifting void. The creature stopped in front of Emma, lowering its hulking head just as it split into two, and sought approval.

"Such a good boy," Emma cooed, running her hand against the shadows. She felt fur underneath her palm, even though none was in sight. "Now, why don't we unite the nice elephant-cycle with his pins?"

The monster was a streak of black as it dashed forth and leapt towards the unicyclist, entire body splitting into two to form a gigantic maw. Emma twirled her parasol and waited for the satisfying crunch.