BCTheEntity

Into The Dark: Tales of Maroleth

@The Fated Fallen For me, yes, it's going quite well. How's life for you?

Into The Dark: Tales of Maroleth

So, uh, guys? Is everything alright as far as posting for this?

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

Mercy to those innocents fallen today. Damnation to those who would slaughter so many.

Alexa really didn't have much else to consider here. Or rather, she didn't want to consider the possibilities too much at the present time. For now, there was need to slay a foe, and a crude mask on one such corpse made it simple to determine what future enemies would look like. And, admittedly, brought a touch of relief, for it was clear that possession was not the cause of such devastation.

The enemy in question arrived on the heels of a brigade of guardsmen. And, thank goodness, the guardsmen this time were seemingly on the side of the Imperium. Their foes, the heretics that had evidently brought such slaughter to this place, seemed... well, ineffective. Certainly not enough to break their morale, not with the Adepta Sororitas to rally around - and that, somehow, brought a touch of joy to Alexa's heart. They were symbols of the Emperor's might and righteousness - and, at Sister-Celestian Victorine's command, she brought her bolt pistol up toward the foes facing them.

It seemed obvious that the biggest threats to guardsman and Sister of Battle alike were the flamers. Whilst it normally had her stand out from others, here Alexa's unusual height gave her the advantage of being able to see over the throngs, to identify those with flamers at the ready - and then, with a burst of pistol fire for each, to snuff them out before they could cause further harm, their masks shattered and their heads turned to paste by the bolt rounds detonating inside their skulls. Three trigger pulls, three dead heretics. Retaining the final round in the magazine for the moment, she quickly reloaded, hoping the rest of the heretics here could be quickly dealt with by her allies.

Worlds of Disney

Emperor Kuzco

Oh, cool. Skeletons. Yeah okay, so apparently there were all sorts of ghosts and goblins doing stuff tonight, except that the skeleton was on their side? And Meringa was there, and oh no there they were! He flailed at one of them as it started drawing near, only to open his eyes with the realisation that he'd actually managed to... to chop it up? Had he done that? He... well, he was practising his martial arts. Obviously he could deal with a couple of shadows. Hah, what was he even scared of to begin with? They weren't even there, they were just shadow ghost things! Not even a threat to people!

He still couldn't help but laugh despairingly at the situation, turning into more of a whimper as the sound of terrifying laughter filled the night in response, complete with the words of a terrifying scarecrow-looking thing. Pumpkin on its head and everything. Was... wait, was that the skeleton? What was with the outfit? Why was it friends with them?

And what the heck was that misshapen creature fighting the other shadows?

'Are we gonna die?' he asked nobody in particular, only to realise that his only audience was an unconcerned alpaca. His last remaining guard had already joined the fray alongside the dragon lady and the drunk archer. And everyone else. Even... even a hourers was getting in on it! Dang it, he was making a scene of himself! He knew he could deal with stuff like that if it just dissolved immediately, and... and he was not going to be overshadowed by a horus!

'Okay, Kuzco,' the emperor mumbled to himself as he made his way cautiously forward, 'you got this, you totally got this, you can- you can just... kick them through the chest, right, yeah that'll work. Kick 'em through the chest...' Oh no one of them slunk past the others, there it was, all big and intimidating. Kick through the chest, kick THROUGH the-

'HIYAA!' With a loud yell, he lashed out with his foot, and- oh dang, he totally did it. His foot was very much through the shadow monster - where it had been, anyway, as it collapsed into nothing.

'...HA!'

Aaaaand he just drew the attention of several more. The last time this had happened, he'd run screaming from a pack of panthers... but, heh, noo, these weren't panthers. These were more like weak harmless kittens. Ahaha... yeah, he could take them. Totally could take them, for sure.

The New Pride: A Second Founding RP [Warhammer 40,000]

Saraqael, Grand Master of the Deathwing

'So, you alone have recognised my ploy. This will not help you.'

The Fallen Traitor drew his power sword, its ignition a tainted red glow far removed from the usual blue fire of a power field, and Knight Zechariah answered with a silent, contemptuous charge - this traitor had fallen thanks to the Arch-Heretic Luther's honeyed lies, and now his corrupted psychic abilities were put to use in creating a false legion of his brethren, who the rest of his squadron were occupied with to no avail. Only he had realised the truth at hand; and so only he could defeat this black-clad heretic.

The Indomitus pattern of Tactical Dreadnought armour offered far greater speed and flexibility of movement than the Cataphractii pattern, Zechariah had found. Though it was somewhat less protective, the presence of a potent storm shield made up for this downfall and then some, and paired with his Mace of Absolution, he like the rest of the squad were nearly unstoppable. Not that this assumption would hold, if he didn't destroy the Fallen Angel immediately - and whilst he'd expected some disparity in mobility, the Traitor wore his power armour like a second skin, despite the spikes and the stars of Chaos adorning its frame. His initial dodge around Zechariah seemed impossibly light. That too was Chaotic influence, no doubt.

The Traitor's returned sword strike barely deflected off of the storm shield's surface, the deflector field briefly failing to hold the weapon at bay, and Zechariah's own weapon flew toward the Traitor again, and was again dodged - just as Zechariah anticipated. If the Fallen could outspeed him, then he simply had to be prevented from moving. In a single fluid motion, he dropped his shield and snatched the Fallen's sword arm before the slab hit the ground, ramming the empowered head of his mace deep into his foe's armour, crushing his guts beneath its force. Even then, the Fallen Traitor continued to fight back, drawing his bolt pistol and attempting to aim it toward Zechariah's skull; for his efforts, he was kicked in the leg to throw him off-balance, his knee snapped back on itself as the Terminator armour's enhanced strength easily overpowered the defenses of the Traitor's joint armour. The offending weapon, hand and all, was crushed by another swing of the mace, and a third and final return blow staved in the skull of the Fallen.

And like that, one more instance of shame on the part of the Unforgiven was cleansed. Relaxing, his squad safe for now, Zechariah pulled his mace away from the corpse he was now holding up - only to startle, as the perfectly intact face of the Fallen Angel was that of-

---

The illusion passed, and naturally, as others had before him, Zechariah immediately began assessing the change in scenery, only to settle as he recalled at last what had happened. The dark metallic room they were in was akin to a standard training room, the machine spirits tapping into Zechariah's nervous system and restricting his movements realistically through wired plugs inserted into, and now one by one removed from, his Black Carapace ports, playing illusory situations into his mind. Far from being used for training, however, this room was purposed to generate scenarios for potential Deathwing Veterans, Knights, and Knight Masters to overcome; Brother Zechariah's situation had not been dissimilar to one Saraqael had encountered in the Horus Heresy, as a matter of fact. Back then, Saraqael had not been so lucky as to escape without injury, his stubborn refusal to change tactics costing him an arm, since replaced with a bionic that was, whilst a blunt beacon and reminder of his failure at the time, more functional than the original limb for it. The opponent provided in both the reality and the illusion was "a black-armoured Traitor Marine", of course, rather than the Fallen Zechariah had fooled himself into fighting- just in case a Techmarine working on the device learned too much from the spirits within- but even so, he'd outdone himself in both skill and determination.

'Brother Zechariah, you have passed the penultimate test of Knighthood,' Saraqael announced once Zechariah was free of the device, half a cold blue gaze and half an augmetic orange glare examining the unarmoured veteran from within a mass of scar tissue across his face, and in turn beneath a neat shock of short black hair. The burgeoning Knight's outfit more or less matched the Grand Master's own armourless robes in form if not in deed, though not his round eight feet of height. 'One more challenge lies before you, however. Follow on.'

As one silent unit, they moved deeper still into the bowels of the chapter barque that served as the fortress-monastery of the Lions of Absolution. Saraqael pondered for a while what he was about to tell Zechariah - a much more grim story than Master Gedeon liked to peddle to the Scouts, and yet a crucial aspect of testing new recruits. Those joining the First Company fresh often feigned ignorance about the Fallen, even when they'd been present during Caliban's Fall, and yet many had been entirely absent for the Shattering, Zechariah included.

'What have you been told about the Shattering?' Saraqael asked abruptly, their only audience now a cadre of Watchers.

'Of the Heavenfall Blade? Only what I have been allowed,' Zechariah replied, a polite and suitably formal response. 'As Master Gedeon has stated, the blade was formerly wielded by Supreme Grand Master Kushiel, only to shatter as it struck down the last of a band of Traitor Marines.'

'Indeed. And I suppose you recognise that you have not been told the full truth?'

'...I have supposed nothing, Grand Master. It is not my place.'

'Yet, knowing what you now know compared to the original telling, do you believe the story in full? Or do you suspect it is falsified?'

'Well, if I am permitted to say so, Grand Master...' Hesitation, just long enough for Saraqael to nod his approval. 'In this context, I imagine the foes that broke the Blade were not mere Traitor Marines.'

'Indeed.' Nothing more was said until they reached their destination: the heart of the Lions' Chamber of Judgements, a place of black marble and grey stone. The shadowed arch was a far cry from that of the Rock which the Dark Angels held sacred, but it was decorated with the names of those who had previously passed beneath, and it would more than suffice for this final test.

'The truth of the Shattering is as follows,' Saraqael uttered monotonously, halting Zechariah's motion with an arm as he stepped ahead of the veteran before turning back to face him. 'Much of it has been relayed faithfully, but the foes the sword broke against were not mere Traitor Marines. As you have surmised, those it faced on the day were Fallen, at least in part.' Zechariah's face contorted to a scowl, but he said nothing in response. Good. Contempt for the vile, more than proven before now.

'It did not, however, break with the last killing blow of battle. Rather, it broke at combat's height against the weapon of a Fallen Angel, when its edge was needed most.' This revelation caused more reaction. Not much more, but a widening of the eyes in disbelief. 'The Shattering alone marked the destruction of a priceless relic, but the blade's failure was not Sin in itself. The consequences thereafter were what was and still is unforgivable - because of the Heavenfall Blade's destruction,' Saraqael proclaimed with great condemnation, 'and in spite of our best efforts thereafter, several Fallen escaped their due punishment, an unfathomable blow to our efforts.' Now Zechariah was reacting - some mixture of uncoiling horror and disgust and righteous fury, filtered through the psycho-conditioned mind of a Space Marine to produce no more than a locked jaw and, perhaps, barely-suppressed twitching as his muscles clenched tightly.

Saraqael sympathised with his reaction. He himself considered the Sin of the Shattering a blight that the Lions of Absolution should never have experienced, and if Zechariah ever achieved the rank of Knight Master, he too would learn why this was - a stray shard from the broken blade, sharp as the obsidian it was forged from, had been what cut out Saraqael's eye and damaged much of the rest of his face, and surely his blinding, on top of his failure to react properly despite his mere wound, was what had led to the Fallen Traitor escaping with his life and too many of his unrepentant comrades. No matter how one looked at it, Saraqael surely had personal responsibility in the Sin of the Shattering.

'How dare they.' Zechariah's statement conveyed his hatred of the Fallen all too aptly, heightened yet further by another drizzle of truth. Just in time - the Watchers in the Dark had positioned his new equipment, mace and shield and black Indomitus armour with orange lenses, each attached to a pedestal on the other side of the arch. All he needed to do was walk to them.

'The Blade of Mourning,' Saraqael continued, taking the weapon from the Watcher who bore it up to him and drawing it from its sheath, 'has been intentionally warped. In bowing so, it bears the weight of the Sin of the Shattering, so that its brothers retain their parents' purity despite the Sin's marring. Kneel.' Zechariah did so, going down on one knee before Saraqael before the Grand Master continued. 'As a part of the First Company, you were dubbed with this blade, taking on the burden of both Sins, the Shattering and the Fallen. In joining the ranks of the Deathwing's Knights, you shall be dubbed again, taking on the burden twofold. If you can bear its weight, you will be accepted. If you cannot, you will die here as though you had failed any preceding test. Do you understand?'

'Yes, Grand Master.'

'Then, by my power.' Saraqael took up a two-handed stance with his Mourneblade, before bringing it down toward Zechariah's left shoulder - not a full-speed swing, but fast enough to threaten a slight cut if he flinched. He did not.

'As Grand Master of the Deathwing of the Lions of Absolution.' Another swing, directed towards the right shoulder.

'I dub thee.' One last swing toward the center of Zechariah's skull, and once more halted just before it would wound.

'Knight Zechariah, of the Deathwing.

'Now stand, and receive your reward,' he concluded, keeping the Blade of Mourning unsheathed. Zechariah stood, perhaps wondering why the Blade was still in Saraqael's hand - only to strain, and then tense up as he realised what was happening, before slowly and carefully beginning to walk toward the arch.

The first time a Marine of the Lions of Absolution was dubbed with the Blade of Mourning, they took on the burden of both the Sin of the Shattering and the Sin of the Fall. And Sins had Weight - not literal, but metaphorical, psychological, dragging all but the most utterly righteous down even when fully unburdened, and somehow the Blade of Mourning imposed that Weight upon them for a time. A member of the Deathwing had to be capable of bearing that metaphorical Weight - and with each subsequent step up the ladder, each dubbing from Veteran to Knight to Knight Master, and each new bearing of the Sins, the Weight grew heavier. To bear the Weight at all was proof of one's devotion to the cause of the Unforgiven; yet the Knights bore double the Weight of the Veterans; and the Knight Masters bore that Weight thrice over.

To date, the only man who had taken the Sins on a fourth time was the Deathwing's own Champion. Not even Saraqael had taken such a Weight, nor did he fully understood how the Champion had achieved it, and for that he held great respect for his functional second.

Yes, Zechariah would have his rank, his equipment, his reward. All he needed to do was walk to it.

If he could.

Into The Dark: Tales of Maroleth

Uh. Shoot. That was a lot of them. The ones they'd fought before. But yes, good thing he'd blessed the group earlier that day. That meant his responsibilities were limited to... well. Exactly what Beren had told him to do. At least briefly.

'As you wish, Beren. Oh, and Ursaren?' he added just before taking off. 'I'm sure the villagers won't mind that much, in context.' And with that said, he ran - bag, to wit, in hand. He still hadn't gotten the chance to thank Aeryn for that. It was once he'd left the party's sight that he decided now was the time to claw out the helmet he'd abducted and reblessed a while back, though abstained from actually putting it on for the time being. If he saw an enemy abducting villagers, of course he'd want it on for protection, but what if he was mistaken for a Rog mid-flight? That'd be simply unacceptable.

Briefly, his fingers ran across the staff within too. Alas - no daggers had been snuck away for him, and no valdium sword either. Merely a potent magical staff, craved by dark elves and pilfered from a place of death. Sanctified much like the helm, of course, but he'd certainly not want to use it if he had a choice. If he had a choice. Or if he needed to use any weapons to begin with! That was a good thought to keep in mind, he considered as he continued his scouting. If enemies abounded only in the form of rogs, so be it. If they presented themselves otherwise... well... it had been requisition of divine assistance that led the stave into his possession in the first place. How bad could such a thing be?

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

REIGN IN HELL: Ultra-Violent Demonic Shonen Battle

I can see this being pretty fun, yeah. I assume we're reasonably free to characterise whichever demon we take charge of, so long as they roughly match their roles as described in the Ars Goetia?

Worlds of Disney

Emperor Kuzco

❚❚

Now, see, if I'd known we were gonna get hunted down by... uhhh... if I'd known about that, I'd have gone into the city with the other people I met.

As it was, well, plus side: Kronk showed up again, yaaay, he found us. Downside: shadow monsters. Loooots of shadow monsters. We got kind of, uh, chased into the city, right? I was gonna fight them, with my kung fu, but one of the guards kind of just... picked me up. Yes. They picked me up, definitely didn't have me clinging to their head and shoulders, that would be undignified.

...the point is, guards kept staying behind to "hold them off", and now it's just me and that one guard. Not even Kronk, he got lost at some point. Not even Calo! So now both the chefs have been eaten by shadow demons. That suuuucks! Sure, they managed to keep an alpaca, because one of them followed us and eventually started being carried, and that meant I had to start running, which in these trousers- am I stalling? I might be stalling.

►

---

With a very manly and totally understandable under the circumstances shriek, Kuzco rounded the next corner at full sprint, charging headlong toward what looked like a very bright, shiny, and not shadow demon infested building. Was that a tavern? Hey, it was a tavern! Great, they could totally hole up there until this stopped being a problem!

And then he tripped over a rock, and in a very déjà vu moment, he managed to keep himself from tripping just long enough to spiral into a sort of... cartwheel fall. Right into the alley next to the building, naturally, on to his face. And right in front of a bunch of people, the two more directly associated with him he had to blink to try and recognise.

'...oh hey, I think I know you,' he mumbled after a moment, righting himself and brushing off the stuff on his nice robe. And also righting his crown. 'You were that soldier person, right? With the dragon who got turned into a dragon by Yzma, you probably know who I mean. I... I don't recognise you,' he admitted to the other man. He looked pretty... mm... scruffy? Well, he had a bag of coins. He wasn't stealing things, was he? Oh jeez, that'd suck if he was. Who needed to do that, anyway?

'Sire! Are you alright?' the guard exclaimed, poking his head into the alley, complete with alpaca. He didn't know why the alpaca was necessary, but it didn't seem to mind not being eaten by shadow monsters, so- oh wait, right.

'Yeah, I'm fine, thanks,' Kuzco replied, whacking himself a couple of times on the side of the head and shaking it vigorously to get himself back in gear. 'Hey, so, no biggie, you guys, but do you know how to fight shadow monsters? Because we're being attacked by shadow monsters, and I'm pretty sure most of my cohort is dead.' Which, which sucked. He hated that. But he was a bit preoccupied to think over it more deeply right now.

The New Pride: A Second Founding RP [Warhammer 40,000]

Saraqael, Grand Master of the Deathwing

'So, you alone have recognised my ploy. This will not help you.'

The Fallen Traitor drew his power sword, its ignition a tainted red glow far removed from the usual blue fire of a power field, and Knight Zechariah answered with a silent, contemptuous charge - this traitor had fallen thanks to the Arch-Heretic Luther's honeyed lies, and now his corrupted psychic abilities were put to use in creating a false legion of his brethren, who the rest of his squadron were occupied with to no avail. Only he had realised the truth at hand; and so only he could defeat this black-clad heretic.

The Indomitus pattern of Tactical Dreadnought armour offered far greater speed and flexibility of movement than the Cataphractii pattern, Zechariah had found. Though it was somewhat less protective, the presence of a potent storm shield made up for this downfall and then some, and paired with his Mace of Absolution, he like the rest of the squad were nearly unstoppable. Not that this assumption would hold, if he didn't destroy the Fallen Angel immediately - and whilst he'd expected some disparity in mobility, the Traitor wore his power armour like a second skin, despite the spikes and the stars of Chaos adorning its frame. His initial dodge around Zechariah seemed impossibly light. That too was Chaotic influence, no doubt.

The Traitor's returned sword strike barely deflected off of the storm shield's surface, the deflector field briefly failing to hold the weapon at bay, and Zechariah's own weapon flew toward the Traitor again, and was again dodged - just as Zechariah anticipated. If the Fallen could outspeed him, then he simply had to be prevented from moving. In a single fluid motion, he dropped his shield and snatched the Fallen's sword arm before the slab hit the ground, ramming the empowered head of his mace deep into his foe's armour, crushing his guts beneath its force. Even then, the Fallen Traitor continued to fight back, drawing his bolt pistol and attempting to aim it toward Zechariah's skull; for his efforts, he was kicked in the leg to throw him off-balance, his knee snapped back on itself as the Terminator armour's enhanced strength easily overpowered the defenses of the Traitor's joint armour. The offending weapon, hand and all, was crushed by another swing of the mace, and a third and final return blow staved in the skull of the Fallen.

And like that, one more instance of shame on the part of the Unforgiven was cleansed. Relaxing, his squad safe for now, Zechariah pulled his mace away from the corpse he was now holding up - only to startle, as the perfectly intact face of the Fallen Angel was that of-

---

The illusion passed, and naturally, as others had before him, Zechariah immediately began assessing the change in scenery, only to settle as he recalled at last what had happened. The dark metallic room they were in was akin to a standard training room, the machine spirits tapping into Zechariah's nervous system and restricting his movements realistically through wired plugs inserted into, and now one by one removed from, his Black Carapace ports, playing illusory situations into his mind. Far from being used for training, however, this room was purposed to generate scenarios for potential Deathwing Veterans, Knights, and Knight Masters to overcome; Brother Zechariah's situation had not been dissimilar to one Saraqael had encountered in the Horus Heresy, as a matter of fact. Back then, Saraqael had not been so lucky as to escape without injury, his stubborn refusal to change tactics costing him an arm, since replaced with a bionic that was, whilst a blunt beacon and reminder of his failure at the time, more functional than the original limb for it. The opponent provided in both the reality and the illusion was "a black-armoured Traitor Marine", of course, rather than the Fallen Zechariah had fooled himself into fighting- just in case a Techmarine working on the device learned too much from the spirits within- but even so, he'd outdone himself in both skill and determination.

'Brother Zechariah, you have passed the penultimate test of Knighthood,' Saraqael announced once Zechariah was free of the device, half a cold blue gaze and half an augmetic orange glare examining the unarmoured veteran from within a mass of scar tissue across his face, and in turn beneath a neat shock of short black hair. The burgeoning Knight's outfit more or less matched the Grand Master's own armourless robes in form if not in deed, though not his round eight feet of height. 'One more challenge lies before you, however. Follow on.'

As one silent unit, they moved deeper still into the bowels of the chapter barque that served as the fortress-monastery of the Lions of Absolution. Saraqael pondered for a while what he was about to tell Zechariah - a much more grim story than Master Gedeon liked to peddle to the Scouts, and yet a crucial aspect of testing new recruits. Those joining the First Company fresh often feigned ignorance about the Fallen, even when they'd been present during Caliban's Fall, and yet many had been entirely absent for the Shattering, Zechariah included.

'What have you been told about the Shattering?' Saraqael asked abruptly, their only audience now a cadre of Watchers.

'Of the Heavenfall Blade? Only what I have been allowed,' Zechariah replied, a polite and suitably formal response. 'As Master Gedeon has stated, the blade was formerly wielded by Supreme Grand Master Kushiel, only to shatter as it struck down the last of a band of Traitor Marines.'

'Indeed. And I suppose you recognise that you have not been told the full truth?'

'...I have supposed nothing, Grand Master. It is not my place.'

'Yet, knowing what you now know compared to the original telling, do you believe the story in full? Or do you suspect it is falsified?'

'Well, if I am permitted to say so, Grand Master...' Hesitation, just long enough for Saraqael to nod his approval. 'In this context, I imagine the foes that broke the Blade were not mere Traitor Marines.'

'Indeed.' Nothing more was said until they reached their destination: the heart of the Lions' Chamber of Judgements, a place of black marble and grey stone. The shadowed arch was a far cry from that of the Rock which the Dark Angels held sacred, but it was decorated with the names of those who had previously passed beneath, and it would more than suffice for this final test.

'The truth of the Shattering is as follows,' Saraqael uttered monotonously, halting Zechariah's motion with an arm as he stepped ahead of the veteran before turning back to face him. 'Much of it has been relayed faithfully, but the foes the sword broke against were not mere Traitor Marines. As you have surmised, those it faced on the day were Fallen, at least in part.' Zechariah's face contorted to a scowl, but he said nothing in response. Good. Contempt for the vile, more than proven before now.

'It did not, however, break with the last killing blow of battle. Rather, it broke at combat's height against the weapon of a Fallen Angel, when its edge was needed most.' This revelation caused more reaction. Not much more, but a widening of the eyes in disbelief. 'The Shattering alone marked the destruction of a priceless relic, but the blade's failure was not Sin in itself. The consequences thereafter were what was and still is unforgivable - because of the Heavenfall Blade's destruction,' Saraqael proclaimed with great condemnation, 'and in spite of our best efforts thereafter, several Fallen escaped their due punishment, an unfathomable blow to our efforts.' Now Zechariah was reacting - some mixture of uncoiling horror and disgust and righteous fury, filtered through the psycho-conditioned mind of a Space Marine to produce no more than a locked jaw and, perhaps, barely-suppressed twitching as his muscles clenched tightly.

Saraqael sympathised with his reaction. He himself considered the Sin of the Shattering a blight that the Lions of Absolution should never have experienced, and if Zechariah ever achieved the rank of Knight Master, he too would learn why this was - a stray shard from the broken blade, sharp as the obsidian it was forged from, had been what cut out Saraqael's eye and damaged much of the rest of his face, and surely his blinding, on top of his failure to react properly despite his mere wound, was what had led to the Fallen Traitor escaping with his life and too many of his unrepentant comrades. No matter how one looked at it, Saraqael surely had personal responsibility in the Sin of the Shattering.

'How dare they.' Zechariah's statement conveyed his hatred of the Fallen all too aptly, heightened yet further by another drizzle of truth. Just in time - the Watchers in the Dark had positioned his new equipment, mace and shield and black Indomitus armour with orange lenses, each attached to a pedestal on the other side of the arch. All he needed to do was walk to them.

'The Blade of Mourning,' Saraqael continued, taking the weapon from the Watcher who bore it up to him and drawing it from its sheath, 'has been intentionally warped. In bowing so, it bears the weight of the Sin of the Shattering, so that its brothers retain their parents' purity despite the Sin's marring. Kneel.' Zechariah did so, going down on one knee before Saraqael before the Grand Master continued. 'As a part of the First Company, you were dubbed with this blade, taking on the burden of both Sins, the Shattering and the Fallen. In joining the ranks of the Deathwing's Knights, you shall be dubbed again, taking on the burden twofold. If you can bear its weight, you will be accepted. If you cannot, you will die here as though you had failed any preceding test. Do you understand?'

'Yes, Grand Master.'

'Then, by my power.' Saraqael took up a two-handed stance with his Mourneblade, before bringing it down toward Zechariah's left shoulder - not a full-speed swing, but fast enough to threaten a slight cut if he flinched. He did not.

'As Grand Master of the Deathwing of the Lions of Absolution.' Another swing, directed towards the right shoulder.

'I dub thee.' One last swing toward the center of Zechariah's skull, and once more halted just before it would wound.

'Knight Zechariah, of the Deathwing.

'Now stand, and receive your reward,' he concluded, keeping the Blade of Mourning unsheathed. Zechariah stood, perhaps wondering why the Blade was still in Saraqael's hand - only to strain, and then tense up as he realised what was happening, before slowly and carefully beginning to walk toward the arch.

The first time a Marine of the Lions of Absolution was dubbed with the Blade of Mourning, they took on the burden of both the Sin of the Shattering and the Sin of the Fall. And Sins had Weight - not literal, but metaphorical, psychological, dragging all but the most utterly righteous down even when fully unburdened, and somehow the Blade of Mourning imposed that Weight upon them for a time. A member of the Deathwing had to be capable of bearing that metaphorical Weight - and with each subsequent step up the ladder, each dubbing from Veteran to Knight to Knight Master, and each new bearing of the Sins, the Weight grew heavier. To bear the Weight at all was proof of one's devotion to the cause of the Unforgiven; yet the Knights bore double the Weight of the Veterans; and the Knight Masters bore that Weight thrice over.

To date, the only man who had taken the Sins on a fourth time was the Deathwing's own Champion. Not even Saraqael had taken such a Weight, nor did he fully understood how the Champion had achieved it, and for that he held great respect for his functional second.

Yes, Zechariah would have his rank, his equipment, his reward. All he needed to do was walk to it.

If he could.

Jojo's Bizarre Adventure: Gray Horizon

The Delinquent

"Fuck off, you lemming. I never did anything to you."

---

Name: Tim Conner

Alias: Delinquent, thug, basketcase, asshole, scumbag... really, a lot of insults could be considered "aliases" for him, though they are not names he particularly enjoys.

Namesake: Tim Commerford, bass and backing vocals for various bands such as Rage Against the Machine, Audioslave, and Prophets of Rage.

Age: 16

Gender: Male

Birthday: 19th July, 2002

Zodiac: Cancer

Chinese Zodiac: Horse

Appearance: Tim isn't weak in and of himself, but he's not the strongest person in the world either. Combining with his height of 5'6" and weight of 124 lbs, it's hard to say he's intimidating, at least when he isn't scowling at everybody.

Personality: Tim is a real douchebag. Just ask anyone, or heck, just look at how he dresses and acts like a total thug! Complete asshole. Except, that's a very surface-level interpretation of his character, despite his aggression toward others. For one thing, he's pretty intelligent, enough to realise that just because the society he lives in isn't the absolute worst version of itself, doesn't mean there aren't very glaring flaws in how it functions, albeit describing how it's wrong in precise detail escapes him - he's only young, after all. He consequently puts up a front against others, one of disrespect and delinquency, because he can't exactly respect people who are slaves to a system that hates them. Equally, though, he can't truly hate them just for being stupid, and in reality, he is quite self-conscious, not keen on engaging in fights most of the time, and very anxious about how the rich might crush him to nothing under their heel; thus, whilst he might lash out verbally, his bark tends to be much worse than his bite, unless you really are somebody who controls how things are.

Short Biography: Born to a family with modest prospects at best, Tim grew up watching his parents work as hard as they could to provide for him, and yet never truly escaping the proverbial rat race. They way they were told, and the way they told him, "hard work pays off" - and yet, the reality of their hard work for little gain seemed to disprove that constantly. Even as Tim grew older, he watched his dad finally enter a more promising career path that could afford to put him into better education, only to witness how listless his father seemed to become thanks to his job, almost like it was sucking out his soul in exchange for that comfort and security.

It also afforded the family a few luxuries. For Tim, it afforded a fairly nice smartphone. He would use this phone constantly throughout his early teens, looking up information about "the American dream" and "corporate culture" and such, and whilst he could well have been directed to content that would reassure him that all was well, the algorithms behind his searches directed him toward much more radical content - content that suggested the world was screwed, content that said it was the fault of the rich, content that provided statistics which soured Tim to the idea of any dreams being feasible for his social class, let alone American. And so, whilst he kept going to high school for the time being, he found himself falling into crowds that others might find unacceptably crude, but who agreed with him when it came to how screwed up America was, and through this outlet cemented himself as the delinquent of the schoolground - unapproachable, mean, resentful, but not necessarily underperforming despite himself.

Quirk:

• At any given moment, there is a good chance Tim will be on his phone instead of looking at the world around him.
• Whilst not actually suicidal, he has a tendency to claim he wants to off himself the moment something goes even slightly wrong. This habit may or may not be derived from his anxiety.
• Don't talk to him about money. He will get angry with you, sometimes incoherently so.

Other: Expect lots of swearing from him, even as a friend. Also, the other delinquents he hangs out with are presented below:

Friendelinquents

Jason Johnson:

Luke King: