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Hello!

I'm Pollen, hope you're not allergic. I like writing a myriad of characters in all kinds of genres, so I'm pretty much down for anything roleplay-wise.

Come talk with me if you want! I'm friendly.

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Svanhild

The creature explained her intentions, and Svanhild listened in absolute silence. Unflinching, unyielding, even when wild visions flooded her mind and some new thing gazed back at her through them. To feel fear was natural and inevitable, but to express it—to show any sign of weakness before so many watching eyes—would be fatal. The giantess's discipline held firm as an iron wall, her terrors confined to a tiny black room in the very depths of her consciousness.

In contrast, her jailers had revealed their own fragility. The White Tiger, the mighty king, turns to his monstrous pet rather than face the threat directly. And our captor, for all her wicked power, passes the task down unto us. To Svanhild the reason was clear: they were scared of this gold-masked god. They dreaded a war against him, and chose to poke and prod with spies and pawns, hoping to find a hidden flaw that would shatter his empire from within. She knew all about the way they operated: the kingdom had used the very same strategy to defeat her in the past.

Ironic, that she should be the one to carry it out now.

The chamber abruptly shook, and began to unravel itself all around her. Blinking in surprise, the giantess subtly shifted her feet, though a quick glance showed her nowhere was safe from the effect. Logically she knew that their captor would not try to kill them now, but even so it took all her willpower to stand firm and embrace the oncoming wave of magic and madness. She had to stay focused, had to remember the plan—not the one spelled out for her by that smiling abomination, but the one that she'd tucked away in her hidden thoughts the moment she'd understood the situation.

Locate the spies. Infiltrate the god-king's court. Find Ael-Gol...

...And help him burn the Westerlands to the ground.

Cradling this deadly spark, this desperate hope for revenge, she plunged headfirst towards her fate.


...How long had it been, since she'd last seen a sky so bright?

Her eyes cracked open, and a sharp breath filled up her lungs. Warm, sweet, fresh in the way that only untainted air could be. After all these years, it felt like a miracle, like something impossible. She wanted to weep, to cry out, to fall down on her knees and plunge her fingers into the rich and beautiful soil. The only things that stopped her were a habit of self control and her awareness of the silhouettes around her—shadows that resolved themselves into familiar shapes as her vision adjusted to the light.

It seemed the wretches had come with her, all eight of them. The majority maintained their composure better than she'd have expected—which only made the lone exception stand out all the more. Her eyes narrowed with irritation as she watched the pyromaniac dance and flaunt his power, almost as if he was trying to draw unwanted attention down upon them. A madman and a fool, better disposed of now before he could cause any further trouble...

...Or so she'd have thought, if he hadn't immediately followed up with critical information about the region. It was enough to make Svanhild raise an eyebrow, and unclench the half-formed fist she'd planned to bury halfway through his skull.

"Your word's as good as any." With a languid roll of her shoulders, she started off in the same direction as the man and the ogre. "Best we cover as much ground as we can before nightfall. Fill us in about the roads along the way."
Anne Mayer
Aventon

"...Best of luck, then." Anne sighed and lowered her head, though not without a faintly nostalgic smile. Back in her younger days she might have joined in the sparring herself, but the current her was too old and battered for this sort of thing. Maybe she'd come along and watch—Alvin and Millie would doubtless want to go, given how keen they seemed on people who were 'super strong.' A lot of the other villagers as well, who'd stayed hidden away in the lodge during the battle before. This might be the last chance they'd get to see their heroes in action, an occasion not to be missed.

All the more reason for the Knight to keep an eye on things.

While the mercenaries wandered off to gather their weapons, Anne made her way over to the towering green robot who'd seemed most concerned about this turn of events. "I appreciate the effort, Lewa. Though I don't think we can stop them now, and they don't intend on doing real harm in any case." Even as she said it, however, she couldn't quite hide her concern. A brief glance confirmed that Frankenstein was heading southwards, and her eyes quietly narrowed at the Otherworlder's retreating back.

"The best thing we can do is look out for them, and be ready to step in if anything gets out of control. It'd be good to have someone besides me around to oversee the fight, even if there might not end up being any need for it."

@Lugubrious
Svanhild

She dreamed of a distant land, of thin grasses dusted with a light brush of snow.

The frigid air clenched around her like a fist, every bit as heavy as the dead beast she carried slung over one shoulder. No sound could be heard for miles around outside of the steady pant of her own breath, and the weighty crunch of her footsteps as she forced her way uphill. A vast and merciless figure loomed above, and sneered down at her struggles with eyes bereft of all compassion.

"Still so frail, Svanhild. You march like a wounded wolf hastening to its own death."

The girl did not look up. Her advance proceeded unfaltering, even as pain gnawed deep into her muscles and tore at the inner skin of her lungs. She could not slow down, could never slow down, not when one missed step would earn her a beating or lose her a precious meal. In a way this was lucky for her: once she was grown there would be no such merciful punishments for her mistakes.

"I am yet alive, mother," she said, between one ragged breath and the next. The top of the hill seemed so distant, further away with every passing moment, and she knew countless more lay beyond it. She spoke for her own sake, to summon up strength where none remained. "The cold and the beasts could not end me, and not once have I ever faltered. When I fall, my journey will live on in hallowed tales, and in the scars I leave upon the world. They will weep for my passing; they will sing my name to the endless heavens."

She truly believed it, even after all this time. Wanted to believe, enough that it burned her inside.

Her only answer was a laugh like the cracking of ice. "And who will weep for you, daughter? Who will sing?" The giant's gaze was unrelenting, a pitiless light that glared through to her very soul. "There is no one left to follow you, and you have nowhere left to go. You live in the dark, broken and lost, and you are alone." That laughter again, echoing from everywhere at once. Svanhild's mother was gone, and in her place stood a black and bloodied spear, its tip stabbed through a maimed and blue-skinned head that cackled ceaselessly at the girl as a fresh wind stained the landscape red.

"You are alone!"



Awareness returned to her by degrees, a slow and grinding inevitability. Corrupt and fetid air, that lapped against her skin with a sickly warmth incomparable to the chill of her homeland. Voices, hateful voices, speaking a language foreign and foul. Even before she opened her eyes she could guess at the truth of her surroundings, and only with great reluctance did she finally pry her lids apart to greet the sorry sight that awaited.

The woman. Svanhild would not grace her with her title, though even calling her a living thing felt somehow wrong. Regent of this accursed pit, architect of perpetual despair, slave to the crown and enslaver of all who fell into this abyss: the giantess had every reason to want this creature dead, and now she stood no more than a stride or two before her. In that moment Svanhild wanted nothing more than to lunge forward and snap that monster in half, break her like a twig and dash her brains out across the hard stone floor. Only honed instincts stayed her hand, informing her that if she were to try, she would be dead before she made it a single step.

Instead she lifted her muscular arms, and folded them across her chest. Let her attention turn to some of the others in the chamber, without ever taking her eyes off her despised foe.

She hadn't met all of them before, but rumors had a way of traveling through the Maw, and she could identify most of these people by reputation alone. The savage ogre, a crass brute even taller than Svanhild herself, though she wagered the beast had barely half of her brains. A rotting corpse of a human, who had well earned his evocative nickname. A vile elven witch and a reckless pyromaniac, each seeking to outdo the other in the field of insanity. Not a one of them was worth more than the filth that lined their cells, but their collective presence told her much about the nature of this meeting. Dangerous prisoners, all potential flight risks... Only a fool would gather them together like this for a common execution.

No, this was something special. They were needed for something.

Svanhild did not waste her breath on pointless words. Unlike many in this room, she could exhibit actual patience, a quality she proved by waiting in silence without moving a millimeter further. Her gaze remained fixed upon her ghastly captor, an unflinching blue glare filled with all the bitter defiance of a monarch trapped in hell.
Anne Mayer
Aventon

It still felt odd to hear terms like 'magical goods' brought up so casually in conversation, but Anne did her best to play along with the local superstitions. Unfortunately, the merchants didn't know much that could help her identify the contents of her 'gift box,' and she could only glean a little from their vague answers to her inquiries. At least she now knew that such items could be created with some degree of reliability, a tidbit that immediately filled up her mind with fresh questions and ideas. The moment she found someone more knowledgeable to ask about all this, she was going to drag them aside and either bribe or browbeat them into spilling every detail they knew, until she discovered a way to replicate the process herself.

In the meantime, she quietly set her professional curiosity aside and moved on to the rest of the items. A careful survey found no signs of advanced engineering, but the quantity of food available and the presence of luxuries such as toys indicated that this kingdom was doing pretty well for itself regardless. In fact, the rich variety in local fauna hinted at a thriving biosphere unlike any she'd seen before. The idea of a planet this lush, this peaceful, wholly untouched by the interstellar scourge of the Beasts—Anne could only describe such a place as paradise itself.

Why would humans ever wage war, living in a place like this? She cast her eyes back towards the freshly repaired village, caught for a moment between wonder and despair. None of them know. None of them understand just how lucky they are. Even the other strangers, plucked from faraway worlds, seemed to take this peace for granted, as though it were the natural state of things.

For Anne, it had been the ruined and broken village that felt most familiar. These mercenaries, too, who clung to their weapons and inflated martial pride. She wanted to ask about the books, maybe even barter for a couple of them, but her attention soon drifted back to the guards, and the escalating tensions surrounding them.

"Don't mind those girls too much. They like to joke around." With her hands in her coat pockets, the Knight ambled right up to the group of sellswords and addressed them directly. "But you've made me curious now: for your employer to speak of you so highly, you all must have quite the credentials." Maybe they were even strong enough to protect a certain village for a few weeks, while someone else took up their duties guarding the caravan. Already Anne could see the outline of a mutually beneficial exchange—but first she needed to verify that these soldiers of fortune were more than paper tigers.
Anne Mayer
Aventon

A brother and sister, reunited at last. No matter what else Anne had failed to save, she had at least helped accomplish this much.

The Knight wisely kept her mouth shut as the children fell into each other's arms, and took a step back to give them some space. The sight of their joy and relief warmed her heart, and even drew out a brief smile, though she knew better than to linger too long. By the time she turned away Anne's eyes had already become murky and unreadable, and a visible tremor shot through her left arm. She blinked hard and clutched at her left wrist, as though shrugging off the grasp of a ghost that had begun to possess her.

Even after all this time, her thoughts kept straying back to her own sister, who had loved her just as Alvin and Millie so deeply cared for one another. Of course, Pray was dead now, and every memory of their time together seemed tainted by the echoes of that loss. Rather than think on it, and let grief and regret bring her to her knees, the tired woman hardened her heart again and threw herself into a sober discussion with Kendrick.

She had plenty to share. Millie's dreams, the barriers between worlds, the warning about the capital. When the other Strangers returned from the forest Anne would tell them all as well, starting with Joker and Sanae. Those two were the ones she saw as being the most reliable and trustworthy, but she gave a general summary to Lewa and Rayne as well, along with the white-haired swordswoman Youmu. Mokou might be able to glean some details off her if she asked directly, but the Knight seemed to view Frankenstein with barely masked suspicion from the moment she laid eyes on the horned girl. She never acted on it or said anything openly, but always seemed to tense up when the Servant was in the vicinity, as though prepared to cut her down at a moment's notice.

The days passed, and Anne did what she could to assist. Watching over Millie, mainly, and doting on the girl where she could. Making sure Alvin was okay. She tried her hand at some of the manual labor, but proved clumsy and quick to tire, hardly any more useful than the ordinary villagers in that respect. Instead, she focused more on making use of her experience and going over battle plans with Kendrick, plotting out defensive tactics and evacuation routes in the event of a second attack. Her health seemed to be gradually improving as well, with the surface-level injuries from just before her summoning all but vanished now. Only the deeper issues remained, and so long as the peace held those weren't an immediate problem.

So, when the caravan arrived, the Knight was right there in the middle of the village along with just about everyone else in town. One eye kept watch over the children, who were doubtless caught up in the all the excitement surrounding the event as well, but things seemed safe enough for Anne to idly browse over the wares on display and look for anything that could be useful. Mainly she was searching for books or scrolls, anything that contained written information, as well as strange and out-of-place items that might have unique properties like that Herald necklace. In general, though, just glancing over what they had would give her a firmer idea of this nation's level of technology, and whether it really was all as rudimentary as what she'd come to know in Aventon.
Sounds interesting! Looking forward to seeing the CS!

Voila. Let me know if this works :)

I’m interested! Thinking I’ll keep it simple and make a Girl Who Punches Things Real Good. Possibly with fire.
Anne Mayer
Aventon — Hunter's Lodge

Anne nodded her head in agreement, though her expression was thoughtful. "I think you're right. A place as big and important as a capital city would be well-equipped to fight off invaders. If they're far from the frontier, they'd also have plenty of advance warning if anyone tried to march troops across their borders..." Admittedly, those rules only applied if the enemy lacked access to spacecraft and warp technology. It seemed a safe assumption to make, given the practically stone-age level of advancement she'd witnessed so far, but she couldn't rule out the Heralds or someone else having an alternative method on hand. Her thoughts strayed back to the strange necklace she'd received, and its as-yet unexplained tracking capabilities.

"Anyway, that's important information. Well done, Millie." After a moment's hesitation, Anne reached out to very gently pat the girl's head. "The lady in your dream was probably the same one who brought my friends and I here to protect you. So whatever that warning really means, I bet she meant for us to hear it."

If nothing else, it was a lead that she could share with the others once they returned. Now that she thought about it, the part about 'accidents' might also be the reason why new Strangers kept popping up even after the Heralds' attack. The incident at the church had pulled in an entire group at once and dropped them all in once location, but the seemingly random appearances following that seemed more like the aftershocks from an earthquake than anything intentional.

...Barring that trio of colorful girls who just so happened to know one another. This whole ordeal would be so much easier if only Anne had one or two true companions at her side... O goddess, hear my prayer: please bring Leo here so I can make him do all the inconvenient jobs.

@PKMNB0Y
In Neo Babylon 29 days ago Forum: Arena Roleplay
Name: Halima Jaiteh
Alias(es): Hali, Libertine, Psycho Woman, East Street Butcher
Gender: F
Height: 6'2" (188 cm)
Distinctive Features: Large red earrings, green-dyed hair, partial black carapace often growing across her face. You can’t miss her.
Likes: machines, weapons, spicy food, high-collared jackets, city smells, dogs, heavy rain.
Dislikes: dust, grit, needles, intense sunlight, people.


Appearance:
A looming monster in feminine form. Wide mouth, sharp teeth, eyes that look at you like she might bite your head off at any moment. The hair dye and flashy accessories point to someone trying to build a reputation, and her outfits seem chosen as much for menace as they are for taking a beating. For someone her size, though, she moves so fluidly that she has to be packing serious muscle underneath all that warning black-and-red. A careful touch of lipstick and eyeshadow lend her just a hint of allure, in sharp contrast to the overt aggression she displays everywhere else.

Personality:
Outgoing, congenial, and quick to get along with just about anyone who’ll tolerate her presence. She’s no silver-tongued manipulator, but her confident, relaxed attitude lends her a certain breezy charisma, the kind that lets her slip into the flow of a conversation and ride it like a fish swimming downriver. She makes no overt judgements, and she has no morals to speak of: any business is good business, so long as it pays well and doesn’t mess with her personal notoriety. Most of the time, she’s the muscle, and that suits her just fine.
Only problem is the rumors. Stories that follow her around like the scent of blood, about cases of unprofessional conduct, times she went above and beyond the requirements of the job. We said to rough the guy up; we never said anything about his kids. Or, we just wanted that one disposed of, not hog-tied and eaten alive by starving dogs. If you ever ask Halima about these incidents, she’ll only laugh them all off as hearsay and exaggeration, albeit with a smile more genuine than any other you’ll see her wear.

Powers, Skills, and Abilities:
They say the supersoldier genes come from her father’s side, though when someone’s exposed to that much radiation from birth all kinds of weird mutations are bound to crop up. Halima’s reaction times are scarily fast, and she’s strong enough to casually pick up a grown man and hurl him across a room one-handed. She has little formal combat training, but her manual dexterity and coordination is exceptional to the point where she can pick up almost any kind of weapon and immediately use it with lethal efficacy. Even under frantic and low-visibility conditions, her pinpoint accuracy with firearms and thrown objects defies belief, and if she’s given time to actually practice with a given implement she’ll rapidly surpass the boundaries of human technique and achieve unnatural feats of laser-precise violence.
Her biggest asset, however, is her seeming inability to just fucking die. Sheer toughness, biological redundancy, and the ability to override her own pain responses are all part of it, but mainly it’s because of the ultra-hard carapace that grows across her skin in the blink of an eye to guard any point under threat, before merging again with her flesh once the job is done. She can control its emergence to some extent, but for the most part it happens automatically, either in response to physical trauma or to reflexively guard against it.

Equipment:
- Julong Model 21 “Valentine”: A weighty handgun with a kick to match its impressive stopping power. This model in particular stands out for its unique sound, which at a distance rings out more like a crash or a thunderclap than a gunshot.
Nanofilament rounds: Specialized bullets that explosively unfold on impact into tangles of microscopic wire. The filaments are thinner than a razor edge, but possess incredible tensile strength, and a direct hit from one of these rounds will shred all but the toughest of materials. Their deadly effectiveness makes them very expensive, however, and Hali uses them sparingly.
EMP Jammer: A handheld device consisting mainly of a powerful battery hooked up to a specialized high-voltage ignition coil. Push the button, and it lets off a pulse powerful enough to briefly disable most electronics within a range of about fifty feet. The effect becomes more reliable and longer-lasting at closer ranges, and can permanently take out a device if delivered point-blank.
Hammers: Completely ordinary hammers made for DIY engineering projects. Hali is fond of these, and has accumulated a whole collection of different kinds, though for practical reasons she doesn’t carry them all around at once.
Ax: Heavy-duty flathead fire ax.

Your Last Memory:
Tossing a weighted black bag into a river, and watching with satisfaction as it sank into the murk.

Additional Plot Hooks:
She’s still trying to work out who created her father, or if the fucker’s even still alive.
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