BCTheEntity

The Rhythm of the Night

Sorry if my post took a little longer than I meant it to, folks. Hopefully it's satisfactory, though.

The Rhythm of the Night

Brandon Whittaker

He didn't hate Jennie, contrary to what some might imagine. He just felt she could do with learning how to cool off a little at times. How could a human being always be on like that, constantly? Even with his Beat pounding through his head constantly, inspiring him to feats of immense heroism, Brandon always found time to take a breather, because he knew he'd break down later on if he didn't. Regardless, he thanked her for handing him the drink, only to hear Glenn's suggestion as he sipped that he have some alcohol, followed by Jennie's rebuttal of his statement.

Glenn, when he wasn't out of his mind on whatever he'd gotten high on that day, was a fairly nice guy in his own right. He always insisted that Brandon do or perceive some things differently, though - have something alcoholic to drink, try some pot, and don't you know how many chemicals are in cola? He knew it wasn't the healthiest drink in the world, but it was a damn sight better than rendering oneself stupid with pot, or God forbid sipping on the calorie-sodden lard that most alcoholic drinks essentially were. He had a figure to maintain, thank you.

'Glenn, dear, I appreciate your concerns and offers,' Brandon promptly assured him, 'but as a lot of women say, it's my body and my right to choose.' He capped his sentence with a slightly sardonic giggle - he was a white man, in a society where white men had a far easier time of things than just about any other social group, and all things considered had no right to actually use that phrase. How amusing that he could choose to do so anyway, then.

And not long after that exchange, Grits finally showed up. 'Griiits, it's so good to see you!' he exclaimed; the old timer was a lot grouchy, but at the same time, he was so interesting. And a recovering alcoholic, which meant he probably shouldn't be in here, but still... 'How've you been, friend?' Brandon asked with a big grin. 'Everything going smoothly? You making sure you don't keel over? Who am I kidding, you look amazing, as usual, heheh.'

Warhammer 40k: Enemy Without, Enemy Within - an 'Ecclesiarchal' RP [Mature][High Casual/Low Advanced]

Alexa rather wanted to believe that a miracle had been performed. It happened occasionally, when the Emperor truly did bestow his blessings upon the people of the Imperium, and for instance brought the dead back to life, or bestowed a loyal servant with truly prodigious power in the course of accomplishing an amazing feat. Most notably, the resurrection of Saint Celestine was a gift to humanity that had yet to be matched by any of the feats of mere mortal men.

Yet, they were remarkable because of how rare they were. It was unfortunate that frequently, somebody would claim to have died and been resurrected, only to prove themselves a charlatan, or worse a heretic, when examined by the eyes of the Emperor's most faithful flock, as Sister Victorine established quite clearly. In this case, if it was a legitimate resurrection, it'd be a most bizarre planet for such an event - agri-worlds, whilst tending to be quite well-suited to supporting mass human infrastructure simply by their nature, were also loathe to produce men of a temperament that best suited the Emperor's grace. All the prayer in the world, literally, would yet amount to barely a drop in a bucket when compared to the faith needed to draw His almighty praise.

Therefore, she concluded, a true miracle would be an unusual thing to see. She let out a forlorn sigh- or an exasperated sigh, according to her helmet vox- as she came to the realisation that they may be forced to deal with an uprising of heretical fervour before it spread too far. Naught else came to mind to ask, and as others had already asked their own questions, Alexa remained silent. She was sure they'd receive any answers they truly needed as and when the time came to receive them.

Into The Dark: Tales of Maroleth

@The Fated Fallen No, yeah, that makes sense. I was just having Sett resist the urge to so much as look in that direction.

Into The Dark: Tales of Maroleth

Sett tried his best to ignore that Alice was redressing herself nearby. He tried very, very hard indeed, and succeeded partially due to the fact that Geradin had asked him what he was doing a tad angrily. 'It's only fair,' he'd responded immediately, 'that one who has assisted us in defeating our foes ought to be given their freedom, granted that they do not in turn become a foe of ours.'

Another part of his success came from the Scorely's seemingly-mocking imitation of Settionne's own velvet tones- how dare he, by the by- before he began to... grope her? Ah, no, he was searching for weaponry, of course. And doing a poor job of it, given that he'd made the poor girl laugh via apparently tickling her. Obviously, he hadn't meant to, but Sett was obligated to give him a disapproving glance, complete with a shake of his head. He was, after all, a priest of the gods.

Nonetheless, the Skolly seemed satisfied with his search, and the Dark Elf seemed contrite and honest enough to be trustworthy... no matter. With just the slightest bit of tentative movement, perhaps wondering whether he couldn't have given the key to another to use, Sett unlocked the woman's shackles, stepping back with them in hand before placing them neatly on the ground. Chances were, they wouldn't be needed again.

'And may the gods bless your future travels,' he blessed the Dark Elf, shortly before Beren suggested that she have lunch with them and join them on their quest, in turn followed by Geradin rudely interrupted. He had no idea what Beren and the dwarf were saying to one another, but it seemed Geradin was the loser of that argument; whilst Sett would otherwise have agreed with him, given that this was a Dark Elf and all, he wasn't exactly going to ignore the fact that he'd been shoved for no reason.

'Well, dare I say,' he murmured to the Dark Elf with an air of conspiracy- falsified, of course, even if it sounded truthful- 'we as a group could do with a few extra hands, and you're clearly a skilled enough fighter that you'd be no burden.' Never mind that technically, Settionne was more of a burden than any other person here, but he'd assisted them from time to time, not to mention succeeded at keeping Fineki's favour and anonymity both. If he could do a decent job, why not her?

@POOHEAD189@Gardevoiran@The Fated Fallen@Fetzen@Stormflyx

Warhammer 40k: Enemy Without, Enemy Within - an 'Ecclesiarchal' RP [Mature][High Casual/Low Advanced]

@Jbcool I admit, I was confused by that phrasing too. I will admit some blame on my part in that regard, since I was helping guide LemonZest through the writing process; that said, I reckon his CS looks pretty good.

Capes of Denver: A Worm RP

Alessa Heather: Trainyard --> PRT HQ

The drive back passed in a bit of a blur for Alessa. Her leg was treated by medical staff in the van, though she insisted that Lillian, Overlook, and Private Skeetz receive treatment first until the medic realised she was sitting in a slowly-growing puddle of blood. She felt that didn’t matter so much. Everyone else’s injuries were worse. Alessa was just tired.

By the time they’d gotten back, she was bandaged up and able to walk about as well as she could hope. Lillian insisted on holding her hand throughout the walk through the building, and after she’d given her passcode, Alessa was asked ‘The fire leaves me heart’, to which she responded ‘Yet I shall never leave your side.’ Her voice shook slightly as she said it, but it remained steady enough to allow her access alongside Lily nonetheless.

Then came Director Kens’ rant. He’d never unleash his fury directly upon them, she knew. He wasn’t that sort of person. It was clear how upset the whole situation was making him, though... and of course he had every right to be upset. They’d failed. She had failed. It wasn’t an acceptable standard to hold herself to.

Before she could say anything, Lillian replied to Kens with an impressive speech. Clearly, something had happened other than Dean’s appearance to greatly upset her, and Alessa wasn’t sure if she could help the poor girl get over it.

Dean was dead. Him and hundreds of his fake yet far-too-real clones.

She had to stop herself gagging at the thought. Jesus Christ, so much blood.

Had Ira said something under her breath? She’d stopped paying attention briefly. Unacceptable.

By contrast, she heard every word of Elliot’s input, and that was the first thing said in the meeting that actually got her significantly more upset than before. Was that how casually he’d dismiss a former teammate? Because if it was, then he really did deserve the surname “Prat”- no, no, that wasn’t fair to him, he might not... he might not even...

‘Oh my God, you don’t know who it was,’ she concluded out loud, her voice and her look in his direction, all directions, a mixture of distress and, for the first time that day, intense anger. ‘That “freakazoid” was Dean, Elliot. Troll’s “lackey” was Dean, Overrun was Dean. Do you remember Dean, folks? Not Lillian, she had no reason to recognise him, but anyone else? Because I sure do, all three hundred and sixty-odd days of his friendship before he vanished. He died, by the way. He died right in front of me. He-’

A second of hyperventilation was strangled before she continued more somberly.

‘He was shot. I think he was, anyway, because whatever killed him sounded like a cannon. He turned to paste and gore right in front of me. It was... there... all the... and the rest...’

Inhale, slowly. Exhale, slowly. Breath, Alessa.

Oh, she was covered in blood. That was new.

Some of it was probably the real Dean’s, come to think of it.

‘I set the warehouse on fire,’ she admitted as calmly as she could, staring into the distance as she spoke, just to move on from the topic of nonononono keep talking keep talking. ‘Something smashed into Lillian. I vaporised it, and then I hit half the building with a beam of fire to save Tulpa from being beaten to death. I didn’t think, I was caught up in... with my...’

Breath. Keep talking. It’s fine.

‘...and that’s why it’s no longer standing. That’s why the evidence is gone, Director Kens.’ Now she faced him directly, her resolve set. She was the leader here. She had to take responsibility for what happened. ‘Everyone else is relatively blameless. I’m the one the rest of the team ought to be taking examples from, and yet how can they when I do stupid things like that?

‘So, please, sir,’ she begged him, ‘if you intend to punish anyone... just punish me. Give me everyone’s punishments combined if you must, just don’t blame them when I’m the one who ruined the operation in the end.’ And she had, hadn’t she? All else excluded, the warehouse would still be standing and the evidence undamaged if she hadn’t freaked out. She deserved to be punished for her misdeed. It was only just.

---

Raymond Haywood: Trainyard

Raymond nodded politely as Chatterbox instructed him on what to do to identify the real Chatterbox, considering that it’d be a good plan to know what the power's effects felt like, yet painfully aware that if the primary Chatterbox and his clone shared similar memories, then chances were the clone would also know of Raymond’s false name, since he’d given it before anything else. In which case, he needed to give out a new name, completely new...

‘It was actually Devin Crash,’ he muttered to Chatterbox, any mouth movements hidden by his mask. ‘And I might take a separate van to everyone else, if you don’t mind.’ Hopefully, the man would be savvy enough to recognise what he was doing and why; otherwise, he couldn’t help him. That said, now was probably a good time to do as he asked and stop the clone from continuing to chatter at the last two of the Jacks.

Yet chatter he did, and as Headhunter, Chatterbox and Whimsy approached the two real and two fake Jacks, the clone Chatterbox explained how he and his partner were linked, and then explained that supposedly, he was more than willing to team up with the rest of the Jacks in pursuit of even greater fame and fortune than before. Raymond considered the thought, and decided that it was perfectly reasonable to consider.

Which was a problem, because he suspected that if that Chatterbox were using his power on him, a lot of things would sound perfectly reasonable, especially if they were small suggestions like that. In other words, he had to be utterly vigilant. He’d personally witnessed the real Chatterbox turn the fool Gamble into his pliant minion in less than an hour; if he didn’t stop him talking now, he and the others might wind up the blabbermouth’s thrall before the day was out- ah, Blabbermouth. A good alternate reference for the clone, perhaps accompanying a synonym for Whimsy… he’d do some research in that regard, he supposed.

Yet it seemed his spell was already quite ingrained into both Heartless and Thunderbolt. Heartless threatened him, but didn’t so much as grapple him, and Thunderbolt didn’t even dare to touch him. That wasn’t acceptable; he had to act as soon as possible, or they’d all be lost, and he already had an idea of how to do it. The order of instructions would be important, too... yes, that should work.

As he moved toward the would-be escape van, Headhunter had no choice but to pass Blabbermouth and his smug face, gesturing as he was. He did not get into the van immediately, but instead walked slowly enough to stall until he heard the second van's near approach. It was then that he acted; quite abruptly, he booted the clone Sofia in the chest and stomach, knocking her into the van and ideally winding her. The real Sofia would suffer that indignity as well, but no matter. He supposed he'd make up for it later on, somehow.

Immediately after his boot had connected, Headhunter wrapped an arm round Blabbermouth’s chest and upper arms, yanked him away from his cloned partner, and called out ‘Heartless, Thunderbolt, help me gag him; Sofia, when you recover, stop your clone,’ at the same time ripping the glove off of the hand holding Blabbermouth in place and attempting to force it into the boy’s mouth. Admittedly, this was helped by Thunderbolt finally being useful and throwing a fist into the side of Blabbermouth's head, dazing him and his alternate self at once, but not knocking them out cold. A fantasy of many detractors of "James", he was sure - punching two of him at once.

In combination with something to stop him spitting it out, worst case scenario the still-army-gloved and thus biteproof hand presently over Blabbermouth's jaw, the clone of Chatterbox would now be depowered enough that Raymond and co. could haul him with minimal resistance to whichever other van the real Chatterbox had called forth and have them drive back to the location separately; Raymond’s own body armour ought to stop Blabbermouth from trying anything funny with any amount of success, and if he was lucky, Sofia would be able to stop herself from saving her ally from what amounted to being kidnapped.

Warhammer 40k: Enemy Without, Enemy Within - an 'Ecclesiarchal' RP [Mature][High Casual/Low Advanced]

I'll do my best to get a post out as soon as possible. In the meantime, @Jbcool I feel compelled to mention that the image given for the power armour colour scheme of the Order of Our Thrice-Pierced Martyr has stopped showing itself. You may want to rectify this at some point.

One Piece: New Horizons!

Dirk Messir - C Is For CEREAL, Also Caesar

He saw the enemy mothership, after sandviving all the other nonsense, including SLICK DIDN'T RUN IN THE SAILS YOU UTTER FOOOOOOL. Also, it was hard for the Divine Purpose to be followed properly, and if he failed, Dirk gets boat injured at times. That wouldn't be good. And then he was right up in the frontness area part of the boat which would get hit when Captain Cool Moustache Wario hits them with his their that crew's boat which is tooooooooo angry.

You may as well jump overboard now. It'd be a quicker death, and the world would be spared your visage, freak.

'NUUOOOOOOHHHH!' Dirk shrieked, both at Death and Derek, who both suck and could not channel the Divine Purpose. But speaking of that, it said do what Borne said, so Dirk can't say what I mean but can do what I mean, and I turned it to the leftleftleft, so the boat would head down right in the leftrightleftrightleftrightleftright I really love your tidy light.

Stop it Retard! You're going to die Dickhead!

You are the retarded ones. I am a genius is Dirk am is he. See, it's turning right now! Right to the appropriate area of the downstream downhill to the area where where they want to be. At the equal time, Caesar Salad was saying to have tell Lillian she needs to do the Cool Jokes, so I says to Mabel I says 'Yes. Do it.' Not in yelling, but she probably heard him. Yeah, she totally heard him say that.

The Rhythm of the Night

Brandon Whittaker

Brandon started his day, as he often did, with a quick 5K, followed by another session of the Wim Hof Method: heavy hyperventilation until his head started feeling fuzzy, almost luminous; expelling all the air from his lungs and holding as long as he could; inhaling as much as he could, then performing pushups until he could no longer hold his breath. Then, repeat, replacing the pushups with a yoga pose. He preferred downward dog, but any would do. He'd go over that cycle again and again until his entire body felt vibrant, then wrap up with a cold shower. All of this set him up for another great day.

Not least of this was the fact that today was a little bit less action-packed than usual. On any given day, he could expect to indulge in English, Engineering, Gymnastics, Dance, and Squash, in some combination or another; today, Squash and Engineering weren't involved, meaning he was left with a couple of extra hours free post-Gym to chat with his family, and then to do something with some of his college friends. They, of course, were always upset that he didn't go out so much with them beyond a certain time; he claimed it was best that they all get an appropriate amount of sleep. For Brandon, of course, that was about four hours, but they didn't need to know that. Besides, crime never slept, no matter what time of day it was.

He also knew he couldn't destroy all crime in one day. Nor could he pull it off if he was constantly wired. So, he had to relax sometimes. Ironically, one of the best places to do that was the bar sandwiched between his apartment complex and the larger, more expensive complex on the bar's other side; so many of the inhabitants of both apartment buildings found themselves there on a regular basis that it was easily the best spot to socialise in for somebody of his means, even if he didn't approve of how many substances found their way into the bodies of many patrons.

That wasn't going to stop him from flouncing into the building with a smile on his lips, though. Jennie was always quite a cool cat, even if she never seemed to slow down - and it seemed a lot of others were here too. Manny, Glenn, even Mister Rich-guy Alexander himself.

'Eeeevening, folks!' he called to everyone, not expecting too much of a reply back from any of them. 'How're y'all doin' today? Good, good? Goooood.' With his introduction made, Brandon took a seat at the bar, asking Jennie for 'The usual' once she got round to serving him - just a Diet Pepsi, in his case. Something a lot of people didn't know was that whilst Pepsi was designed to be drunk cold, Coca-Cola was actually intended to be drunk at room temperature, which was why their flavours differed somewhat when both were chilled.