Sounds like the friendly sort.
Abstract Proxy Member
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Most Recent Posts
In
INHERITANCE - transhuman sci-fantasy space opera, bespoke system
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12 mos ago
Forum: Tabletop Interest Checks
I'm pretty swamped with time, but provided you want another weirdo, I do love the lore.
HAPPY NEW YEAR!
!!!
I can't believe another year is so soon upon us, but hooray indeed!
@Abstract Proxy Cold Hands seems well steeped in Cold Truths. Looking forward to seeing such poetry play out in combat too.
Thank you! She's been fun to write, I will have to do some thinking and writing to her fighting is up to snuff.
I dig the informant character you have up too, she looks like a lovely addition to the crew.
The Cells
"I will be ready," Cold Hands replied, the faint smile reappearing in a moment over her blueish lips.
She did not need to ask what trial awaited. She did not want to. The saga carved into the Unfortunate Son's flesh was promise enough. There was nothing more that needed to be said.
The smile faded slowly from Cold Hands' mouth. Her eyes closing as she returned to her meditations. Slow breath settled the excitement she felt in her heart. Her hands grew still, clasped in cold contemplation, resting once more unmoving over her legs.
"I will be ready," Cold Hands replied, the faint smile reappearing in a moment over her blueish lips.
She did not need to ask what trial awaited. She did not want to. The saga carved into the Unfortunate Son's flesh was promise enough. There was nothing more that needed to be said.
The smile faded slowly from Cold Hands' mouth. Her eyes closing as she returned to her meditations. Slow breath settled the excitement she felt in her heart. Her hands grew still, clasped in cold contemplation, resting once more unmoving over her legs.
The Cells
Faint memories stirred deep within Cold Hands as she listened to the orc, the one they called the Unfortunate Son, speaking in his soft voice. But it was the peculiar feeling in her hands that she focused on, that she latched on to with a fanatical devotion. She let left hands form a tight fist, considering the emotion. She seldom felt the urge to inflict violence, not truly. The sensation was unfamiliar, but welcome, oh so welcome. Leagues she had traveled. Years she had suffered. Kindness was a weakness that tormented her with every step that she took along the unspoken path. Charity a fever that threatened, always, to consume her. The frozen monastery of the Last Stand lay far behind her. She carried the cold within her, certain of the tides she traveled. Hardship and suffering awaited.
"One day," Cold Hands began, nodding at her clenched fist, "One day, I will strike the Bitter Wind herself with this fist. My mind, my heart, my body, and my soul. They are no more than tools, weapons I have forged to wield against the gods themselves."
"You may tear any god from my heart, but you would only hasten my work."
Faint memories stirred deep within Cold Hands as she listened to the orc, the one they called the Unfortunate Son, speaking in his soft voice. But it was the peculiar feeling in her hands that she focused on, that she latched on to with a fanatical devotion. She let left hands form a tight fist, considering the emotion. She seldom felt the urge to inflict violence, not truly. The sensation was unfamiliar, but welcome, oh so welcome. Leagues she had traveled. Years she had suffered. Kindness was a weakness that tormented her with every step that she took along the unspoken path. Charity a fever that threatened, always, to consume her. The frozen monastery of the Last Stand lay far behind her. She carried the cold within her, certain of the tides she traveled. Hardship and suffering awaited.
"One day," Cold Hands began, nodding at her clenched fist, "One day, I will strike the Bitter Wind herself with this fist. My mind, my heart, my body, and my soul. They are no more than tools, weapons I have forged to wield against the gods themselves."
"You may tear any god from my heart, but you would only hasten my work."
Ziska
Fighting the controls of her BattleMech, Ziska hissed as she fought the damage from the PPC bolt. She was down an arm and two medium lasers. Her armor was open in more places than she could count. The fight was far from settled. It was no time for caution. She had to act. Ziska watched with a lopsided grin as Merry Go absorbed an AC 20 round and then returned fire. A grin that grew even larger as the slab of armor moved to screen her. It was brave, possibly a bit foolish, but she would take it. There was still a chance and she would keep punching for as long as she could. It wasn't time to run.
"Merry Go Round, move a bit closer, I need to stay in this," Ziska keyed over the tight-beam comms. Uninterested in colliding with the lumbering tank, Ziska kept the RVN-3L skulking behind. When the range indicator finally dipped down to 180 meters, she pulled the trigger, bobbing the right torso of the birdlike BattleMech skyward as she launched her SRMs in a high parabolic arc. Lofting her instructors had called it back in the Magistracy. Something old, something for dumb-fire weapons, but when it worked, it worked.
Ziska could have sworn she heard the whistling death falling from the sky as the missiles slammed into the enemy Panther that had clipped one of her raven's wings. Explosions rattled the scarred Panther, cutting into the left torso from the top and gaps where the left arm had once been. Another SRM missile slammed into the blackened right arm, tearing off what little myomer remained, and sending the PPC thundering to the snow in a great, big puff of powder.
"That'll teach you," Ziska muttered to herself, already targeting the enemy Hunchback as her sensors registered damage that stripped almost all of the remaining armor from the Panther's Right Torso.
The beam of her TAG laser fired, flickering into existence for a moment, before Ziska felt her BattleMech shudder under a loose patch of snow, she cursed as she watched the "good TAG" indicator vanish from her screen. Barreling towards the Hunchback without further input, her NARC instead hit true, and NARC once more blazoned across Ziska's HUD.
"Panther has lost his PPC, Hunchback NARCed," Ziska said, trying to make herself small behind the Merry Go Round. Never say no to a hero Thrice Hanged had always said. She hoped the enemy mediums and heavies were busy enough dealing with the rest of her lance...but if not...well, she had always figured Thomas was right when it came to heroes.
The Cells
Her breath no more than a whisper, a chill wind that faintly moves her chest, Cold Hands sat quietly at first, as if no words had been spoken. Her lips purse in a faint smile as her eyes open, cold ice orbs of blueish white unflinchingly meeting those of the Unfortunate Son. Welcome words of violence pour from his form, a great sea of suffering that fills Cold Hands with the memories of blessed revelation.
When she spoke her voice was warm, her Trollish light, the gentle rocking of some distant waves, "Despair is the key that opens all doors, even to Heaven. There is no prison that the bitter winds cannot reach. I am free here or elsewhere."
Slowly, she opened open her hands, resting them serenely in her lap, "I am Cold Hands, of the Hearts By Tide Devoured."
Her breath no more than a whisper, a chill wind that faintly moves her chest, Cold Hands sat quietly at first, as if no words had been spoken. Her lips purse in a faint smile as her eyes open, cold ice orbs of blueish white unflinchingly meeting those of the Unfortunate Son. Welcome words of violence pour from his form, a great sea of suffering that fills Cold Hands with the memories of blessed revelation.
When she spoke her voice was warm, her Trollish light, the gentle rocking of some distant waves, "Despair is the key that opens all doors, even to Heaven. There is no prison that the bitter winds cannot reach. I am free here or elsewhere."
Slowly, she opened open her hands, resting them serenely in her lap, "I am Cold Hands, of the Hearts By Tide Devoured."
Dominika Kovač Pignatelli
Small mercies, Dom thought as darkness enveloped the ballroom. Like a battery run for too long she had felt herself drained of all energy. Talking. Politely nodding. Laughing at the right moment. Perhaps such things came naturally to others, certainly she suspected to Maya or the Marchioness Lucienne, but they did not to her. The gunfire and screaming that followed spoiled the welcome feeling of relief she had felt for a fleeting moment. Showered by glass, Dom found herself crouching low on the floor. Fear ran through her, filtering into shock. Cold surprise that left her jaw clinched tightly together. Scrambling across the floor, she regretted agreeing to wear a dress again. Her left hand gripped tightly around the handle of the the fancy purse Catalina had handed her as she helped her change into an evening gown.
Dominika flinched as a chair came hurtling past her, splintering into a cloud of far less elegant and symmetrical pieces. Strong hands grabbed her and raised her to her feet. The quick thanks she was about to mutter died on her lips when she realized she was staring into a masked face. A design she did not know. A person she did not recognize. Her hands moved thoughtlessly, batting the armored hands away from her, and she shoved the figure as she stumble backwards. The unyielding firmness of a wall touched her bare shoulder blades and Dom pulled the revolver from her purse in a panicked motion.
"Don't, stay back," she managed, the snub nosed gun heavy, so heavy, in her shaking hands.
"You don't want to hurt us, put the gun down," the masked figure said, unbothered by the gun barrel pointed at her chest, a manablade in her right hand resting lazily against her leg.
Eyes full of unwelcome dampness, Dom nodded and lowered the barrel of the gun, setting it down gently on a nearby table.
"Good, let's do this the easy way," the woman wearing the mask sweetly beckoned, holding out her hand and motioning for Dom to come closer.
Dom shook her head. She knew better. She reached out with her magic. She felt the materials all around her. Metal armor crumbled, crushed as if by the great depths of the ocean, imploding in a sudden pop as the bones of her assailants wrist and hand were pulverized. Dom stood frozen with fear, fear at violence she had inflected, listening to the mad screaming of the woman as she fell to the floor. Over the calamity and horror of the ballroom, Dom heard her name shouted. Ionna called to her. Rousing her from her terror and summoning her spirit.
"Ionna! I'm here- Dominika shouted back, her joyous reply fading into a pained exhale as a baton thumped unceremoniously into her shoulder and sent her clattering across another table. She hadn't seen the pair circling her, stepping unhesitatingly over their fallen friend.
@Mcmolly
In
Caravan: An Episodic Fantasy with Worldbuilding! [Always Accepting]
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1 yr ago
Forum: Casual Roleplay
Nemeia
Ducking under the clumsy blow of one half-crumbled skeleton, Nemeia staggered as another hammer her shoulder with the chipped blade of a longsword. Her armor held true and Nemeia righted herself. Nimbly dodging the optimistic blow that followed, she lashed out with her mace and promptly caving in the chest of the maligned spirit. The baleful energy that had enveloped the room filled Nemeia with growing discomfort, that almost seemed like pain. The wrongness, the unholiness of whatever foul ritual the creature was performing was unmistakable. The battle was proving difficult, the tide had shifted, and they needed the moon to restore balance. The Necromancer appeared hurt, assailed by some hidden evil. Galaxor bore fresh wounds, but fought on with his unbeatable spirit. The bounding spearman too had been painted with blood and still danced gracefully between undead. Nemeia would do no less. She would not let the other pilgrim's down.
Time came to a slow creeping halt for Nemeia as she drew a long, slow breath. Prayer escaped her lips. Old words shaped by her tongue, formed by her heart, and guided by Valradun's merciful teachings. She raised her free hand and a silvery beam of pale light shone impossibly from above, through the carved stone of the vaulted ceiling crowning the crypt. The dim light took form, shifting into a physical shape, erupting into a brilliant cylinder, several feet wide and tens of feet tall. It was no spell that required careful aiming. It was no precise magic that relied on expert timing. It was faith. And it was divine magic. It was the purifying radiance of restoration and the blessing of her Goddess.
Caught in the moonlight, ghostly flames engulfed the wright and the undead servants that surrounded him. Valradun's mercy reached out with holy fire. She had armed Nemeia well.
Nemeia had no time to observe what effect her divine magic had, instead she found herself desperately backpedaling, defending herself by mere hair lengths from a two handed hammer that thundered after her. Clothed in mail, the helmed figure that harried her stood several heads taller than her, and bore little of the decay of the other undead. He spun his weapon expertly, pushed her further backwards, sending sparks into the air as he smashed his hammer down onto the ground with each missing blow.
"Courage friends, Valradun is with us!" she managed, catching the mailed skeleton across the knee, slowing his pace as his kneecap almost fully escaped what remained of his leg.
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