Abstract Proxy

Shadowrun: Lost Heir

Also, I have listed on the ooc the first location for the rp which will be Lisbon, Portugal.

@Theyra

Paella Arroz à Valenciana for everyone!

Shadowrun: Lost Heir

After drinking too much coffee and consulting Faded Memory, I will retool my character to be a physical adept with some bioware.

The corporate bodyguard concept remains, but it's more vat born ninja now (punching baddies in the face with magic hands).

Pirates of the Darkening Skies

At least in my heart.

Shadowrun: Lost Heir

@Abstract Proxy will also be dropping a street sam 😎

@vietmyke

We got some plans.

Shadowrun: Lost Heir

Sweet!

Will drop an ex-corporate bodyguard turn runner (street samurai) with a full suite of bioware and cyberware in a bit.

The Whispering Grove

<Snipped quote by Abstract Proxy>

This line might need a little tweaking.

@rush99999

Lol, that's what I get for writing it on my phone.

The Whispering Grove

Vaelyn

Stepping off of the ship, Vaelyn felt herself a stranger, most of all from herself. Ranshelm was as she remembered it, the years had changed little about the small village. Calmness touched her, traveling on gentle winds that drew forth from the ancient forest. Sweet scents reached her with each breath she took. Peace could to little to hide the mournful memories. Her recollections were scattered, shrouded with sorrow. Luisa had been so young. The fabled herbs of the island had not saved her, an unwelcome truth that filled Vaelyn with renewed bitterness. She would offer no forgiveness. It was she who had changed. And perhaps not for the better.

Vaelyn could not name the melody that had drawn her back to the Isle of Tiguarsne. But she could hear it. And she could feel it. Even in the gentle twilight. The ethereal rhythm that played over her heart. The formless tones that danced in front of her eyes. The song had not left her. She could not resist such a mysterious composition, she knew, but she held no such desire. Her friends made no effort to stop her. She had no ties of kinship to ensnare her, none that endured. She had nowhere else to be. One place was as good as any. There were uncountable stages for her to discover. And audiences in numbers that equaled those of the stars shining high above.

She had missed the sea. The salt lingering in the air. The sunshine surrounding the ship. The birds aflight in the distance. The journey had been pleasant, the sea more than kind. Vaelyn had easily mingled with the other passengers. Offering song and music in return for small amounts of coin. She regarded travelers with boundless affection, for they were a reliable source of income. They longed for reminders of some distant home and familiar songs to ease their anxious minds. She did not mind. It was time spent dedicated to her craft, to her instrument and her voice. And it was a chance to spread joy and share pleasure with strangers. With her fingers and heart kept busy, she had spent few nights awake under the moonless skies.

All thoughts of rest and food left her as she heard new sounds. Life and merriment echoed across the village, music playing not far away. The sounds of joy, accompanied by warm lamplight. A smile played over Vaelyn's lips and she caressed the strings of the lute she cradled in her arms. Darkness was no obstacle. Weariness could be easily driven away. Her feelings could be reshaped. And she had no time for the past.

A festival was just the place for a bard. And Vaelyn Silverstrider, bard of bards, had no intention of missing her chance.

Shadowrun: Lost Heir

👀

@vietmyke

Scion: The Prophecy of Anani

---

Dominika Kovač Pignatelli

---

Forcing herself to breath, Dom felt the room spinning around her. It was as if all her fears had been realized in one fell swoop of uninvited horror. To live in interesting times was bad enough. The bloody celebration that haunted them all, even months later, was painful memory enough. Dom had barely registered anything following the related prophecy. Bits and pieces had reached her, beneath the blanket of fear that had enveloped her. She knew nothing of the new Scion, save his name. She had paid no heed to the rumors, whispered as they were. All the same, the newest Scion advocated a reasonable course that seemed mercifully underdeveloped in terms of violence. Sara's fervent faith struck a familiar chord, an unexpected response from the steadfast Templar. There was steel in her words, and Dom wished she possessed such confidence and certainty in her own beliefs.

She had always held onto a dutiful piousness, a simple, childlike view of religion, rooted in the long recalled superstitions spoken of by sailors as they crossed the seas. She had attended services regularly at the simple chapel buried in a corner of the dockyards. She had donated appropriately. She had carried Incepta in heart with boundless love and given the same affection to the Church. She had listened unquestioningly and without much thought. To be a Scion, to be so touched by the hand of the Goddess herself, had made it impossible to deviate from this course. And yet, she found no relief in the prophecy Lucas offered, only a new horror, now named, that loomed beyond the horizon.

"We are in this together, then, we must protect the Princess," Dom said, discovering to her own surprise that she was speaking, her voice steady and clear as she rose to her feet. She met Holly's eyes gratefully, finding some comfort in her manner. Her Templar offered hope and Dom sensed the truth in Jannick's words. Still standing, she reached gracefully for a portion of the gift ham that Holly had once again brought to the forefront, selecting a modestly sized slice and placing it on her plate. The dearly departed pork was something simple, something she could understand, and something she could measure.

"We must set aside our differences and dedicate ourselves anew to this holy task," Dom said, sitting down and burying her hands in her lap as she cast a desperate glance at Jannick, Sara, and then Holly, looking for any reassurance, any indication that she had not gone too far, that she had no said too much.

Mechwarrior: Disposable Heroes

Ziska

"You're still alive."

"Still alive," Ziska replied, running a hand through her sweat plastered hair. She closed her eyes and let the exhaustion tug at her body, pulling on the thin threads carried only by fading adrenaline.

Blood trickled along the edges of her lips. She had a new bruise. Several even. She had new cuts. And worst of all, she could have sworn her lips were chaffed from the heat of the cockpit. Ziska frowned. The bottle cradled in her arms felt suspiciously light. She suspected Witchcraft. Witchcraft, not just witchcraft. Ansi couldn't be trusted. Not when it came to matters of drinking.

Davids was uninvolved. The pair had left him fuming, swearing up a fresh storm of hatred as he stood in front of the battered RVN-3L she had returned to him. Sunther was too busy calculating, mapping out the damage, and measuring to care. He had a new task, another job to do. Licht had been crestfallen, Ziska thought that he might have cried had she not been there. Lyrans always had strange ideas about the chain of command. Kan and Minhas had been more worried about the weak flesh, the battered MechWarrior piloting the bird of prey. It would have been sweet if it wasn't so inconvenient. And so embarrassing.

She was alive. She was still alive. That was all that mattered.

"You were a bit too daring."

"Yeah, well, someone's gotta be."

"Tsk tsk, Ziska. Cutting it awfully close aren't you? Over and over again. If I didn't know any better I'd say you were trying to prove something."

Ziska shook her head, irritation burning across her cheeks in a burst of red, "It's just math. A Hunchback and a Catapult. A medium and a heavy mech. 115 tons for 35. A battered Raven for two fresh BattleMechs. A good trade. An excellent bargain that any commander would be happy to make in any battle."

"Ah, but what about you? I'd have lost you, my dear friend. They'd have lost you. And your work has only just started. There's much for you to do here. I sense the merciful hand of Blake, blessed be his memory, in all of this. The prophet has not forgotten you."

"Thomas."

"Yes?"

"Shut up

"You wound me, Ziska. I came to congratulate you. You should be happy. You should be celebrating with your...ahhh friends."

"Somehow I don't think there's going to be much celebration."

"Tell me you aren't pleased? With all of this."

"Oh, I am. But they aren't. You think the Colonel wanted this? You think Ingrid was happy to lead a kill squad? Marit, mmm, she might not have minded as much as I thought she would. She's more mercenary than she seemed when Wayne hired her. Rivers is...Rivers. He's out of his fucking min-"

"He's playing his own game, a different game," Thomas interrupted, his grating laughter shaking Ziska's head. "Oh, do not be too harsh, dear Ziska. He has been dealt a poor hand and is locked in a gamble with stakes far higher than yours."

"Not my problem. Besides, you now how this is going to end Thomas. You always knew."

"Perhaps, but so did you."

"Yes."

---

"Ziska?"

The voice was familiar, and Ziska felt her senses returning. Slowly drifting back to baseline as she listened to the soft words. Stern, but not unkind. Calming somehow, despite the unwelcome context and the uncomfortable table.

A distant memory threatened at the edges of Ziska's awareness. A Long buried recollection. A week of R&R. A week that had turned into two weeks and then a month. Too much saké. Too many designer drugs. And all together, too much fun. Chu-i Matsumoto had been one of a kind, she mused. It was a shame things had ended like they did. Like they usually did for Ziska. Badly. And with a gun pointed at her. Several guns if she remembered correctly. They'd always have Solaris though. No one could take that from her. Not even Chu-i Matsumoto.

"Yeah."

"Who are you talking to?"

"No one."

"Right."

"So what's the damage this time, Doc? What do I owe you?"

"Ziska..."

"Don't hold out on me, Doc, the suspense is killing me."

Sitting down on a bar stool that the junkyard rats had helpfully provided for her makeshift office and surgical suite, Doc Nakajima sighed,"Another set of bruises. Moderate. Some cuts. You'll be fine. But you should really get some rest."

"No time for that Doc, I got places to be and people to see."

"You're exhausting, Ziska. You know that, right?"

"That's what they tell me, Doc, but help me up. I need to find my lance. There's a party. And best of all, they're all invited!"