BCTheEntity

Itiner: Heroes of Ardenfeld

Dame Niala Evenhand

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So Snowing Timber had chosen survival over pacifism. Then it seemed his weapons were not taken by choice, as hers were... as for Danyl? By the weapons in tow and the patch over one socket, it appeared he'd done much the same. Though if she recalled, hadn't he lost vision in that eye gradually anyway even before her departure? It couldn't be a pretty sight even now.

'I dare say, it is a pleasure to reacquaint with all and sundry,' she proclaimed, her earlier dourness lost again in a sea of gregariousness. 'If we've all sought our best selves, then surely it'll continue to be so-'

...hmm? Who...? Who was that? They looked... ill, almost, by the hair and the posture-

The horns spake devil. Her hand jolted reflexively, but stopped short of reaching for her blade as she recalled the nature of the tiefling: helltouched, but not necessarily hellions unto themselves. And her voice, or rather her mannerisms, seemed to indicate an unwillingness to fight. Forcing herself to relax, she stated with a smile 'I see no issue with it, madam. This is a public tavern, after all, it'd be strange if you weren't allowed access!'

You Can Become a Hero!

Iekami Kaoru

_______________________________________________ // INFO D A T A Full Name - Iekami Kaoru (家神薫) Hometown - Kyoto, Kyoto Prefecture, Japan Quirk Type - Emitter Gender - Masc - // PERSONALITY P E R S O N A L I T Y Domineering Kaoru has this idea that the world rewards hard work and ability. He rather believes, then, that having put a huge amount of effort into developing his Quirk naturally makes him the best and most deserving person in the room to succeed! But, of course, he's also "magnanimous", and sees it as his right, nay his duty, to pursue the betterment of his fellows, such that they too can one day stand where he is, look back at their past, then point and laugh at how foolish they were. Reserved Partly thanks to how he has had to prosecute his arrogant nature, partly due to his parents' attitude, and partly from simply having a seemingly unimpressive Quirk for most of his life, Kaoru tends toward not making a big scene if he can help it. Generally, he'll be cool-headed and approach situations logically, but even when his emotions are up, it takes a lot to get him to express those emotions in a major way - an ironic contrast to how he sees himself as better. He might phrase it as humility, despite the distinct lack thereof. Lateral Thinker In terms of STEM-type smarts, Kaoru is fairly modest by IA's standards - good enough to get in, but not necessarily to stand out. On the other hand, his ability to think outside the box has been honed by years of association with certain individuals, and by a personal demand to render his Quirk into something practical for hero work. Consequently, he can quickly figure out ways to approach even high-stress situations, even though a solution might not be obvious to most.

Physical Description For his age, Kaoru is fairly tall. At 174 cm, he sticks out as looking almost like an older student, matched by a shock of pale blue hair grown out into luscious locks below his shoulders, and a fairly lean and well-built figure. Contrariwise, his casual outfits tend to be nondescript - simple dark tees and trousers, albeit accented with a bomber jacket in colder climates. Lastly, his eyes have a habit of flipping between purple and amber seemingly based on his body temperature, with lower temperatures leading to yellower eyes; this is purely a holdover from an ancestor's Quirk, with no effect on his current Quirk so far as he can tell. Personal History A great deal of Kaoru's life has been spent training. This was not necessarily intentional, mind you. As most children do, he idolised the Pro Heroes of the world, making a certain number of friends based on mutual appreciation of heroes like Big Booster and Hawks. Naturally, when at last Kaoru's own bubble-making Quirk arose (a holdover of his father's air-blowing Quirk and his mother's skin film Quirk), he was delighted! Not so much, however, as he quickly realised that aside from maybe getting soap in somebody's eyes, it was kind of useless for actually being a hero. Thus began an extremely unusual way of thinking for a child his age. A hyperfocus on what he could do, and what he could do to make it be more useful. To that end, he asked his mother Karin if he could take up martial arts! Surely that'd let him pull it off, and maybe even become a Pro Hero! "Oh... I'm sorry, honey, but I don't think your Quirk will be very good for being a hero..." Not that that stopped him from trying his five year old heart out. More friends were made at his new jujutsu and aikido classes, and after a special request was made, he also received extra training from a private tutor in karate, who went even further as to teach him more about his Quirk through internalising the lessons of kokoro, rei, and aiki - contextually attitude, courtesy, and will, and more specifically the will to combine one's energy with an opponent's not to ensure a mutual kill, but to overcome and redirect their energy to guarantee victory without injury. Each victory in this respect was subtly denigrated. An effort to keep him humble - but in practice, moulding him unerringly toward the way of will rather than truly benefiting from a positive attitude. He started to grow snide, proceeding in his education moreso for his physical betterment than anything else. He began driving away his friends as he started to put himself above them. In private, he even made the claim to his mother that he'd be a Pro Hero with or without a Quirk! "That's quite enough, dear! You need to stop pressing toward this nonsense; how do you expect to save people with your power when you can't even keep yourself safe with it?" Again she put him down by trying to keep his ideals realistic. And as for his father, Kuuya? "Son, sometimes there are things people just can't do- and that's okay. You can't judge a turtle for not leaping up a waterfall and turning into a dragon, after all." To hell with his defeatist parents, then! If he had to leap up a waterfall and become a dragon to become a hero, he'd damn well do it! But that necessitated being able to make that leap to begin with - and they were right: bubbles alone did not a Hero make. Another bout of highly unusual behaviour spawned from this. To solve a seemingly-intractable problem, he had to think around the problem's individual components. He could make bubbles. They had air in them, of course, but that seemed kind of incidental. So what about the bubble itself, the "film" part of the Quirk? How could he weaponise that? What could he do to make what was basically just soap into a weapon? Eventually, at the age of eleven, that notion clicked in his mind. It wasn't just soap - it was soaps. Once that realisation had come, developing his powers became a hell of a lot easier. He had something to work with; soaps to research, ways to produce soap that wasn't bubbles, and eventually the production of other fluids to clean with: shampoo! Lye! Bleach! "Oh my God! Kaoru, what happened to your hands?!" As it turns out, both lye and bleach are rather corrosive substances, and his first try at making them demanded rather serious medical attention to keep the skin of his hands from completely dissolving. Best to avoid them unless he couldn't help it, then. All this time, he'd been steadily degrading in other areas. By the time he got out of hospital after that incident, he'd grown to realise his last "friend" really didn't see fit to associate with him anymore, and whilst he'd attained black belts in his martial arts, the group teachers eventually saw fit to bar him from further education, on the basis that he was upsetting his fellows and, in the end, didn't really understand what they were teaching him. Then bah; they could rot for all he cared. He'd spent all this time making his Quirk into something he could use, ensuring his martial arts and physique were finely tuned, then so what if they didn't want the same for him or themselves? He'd join an academy, show off his skills, and then he'd meet people who agreed with the way he saw things, and perhaps even educate some of them on what they needed to do to become as great as him. It'd be tough, sure, but if he could turn bubbles into a useful ability, what couldn't he do? Character Arc Kaoru's character development will likely be similar to that of Mirio's from canon - or rather, his power development will likely follow a similar pattern. Initially, his Quirk was ineffective in a fight, and whilst he has made progress toward its improvement, it still has a very long way to go to reach its maximum potential. Furthermore, Kaoru himself is rather the embodiment of an arrogant kung fu guy: whilst not trained in kung fu, he has received education in various other Japanese martial arts, and he's very well aware of how far he's come from when he first started, all hidden by a veneer of civility that may make it hard to see the smugness beneath it. Most likely, he'll wind up receiving lessons on notions such as "being kind to one's peers instead of nice", "not thinking oneself the most capable person around even in areas one has no experience in", and "no, you cannot beat anybody and everybody with skill alone, there genuinely are people who are better than you in every way, and by a wide margin at that". Though depending on how the plot progresses, these lessons may take some time to internalise... to that end, genuine friendships not based on his being subtly pushy about how they act and how they use their Quirk will probably help him a great deal. Quirk Description Once upon a time, Kaoru's Quirk might have been easily mistaken as merely the generation of bubbles. But with time, practice, and a great deal of consideration, Super Soaper proves to be far more effective than just this: its nature is the generation out of his skin of soaps, shampoos, and other such cleaning products, a disproportionately-broad spectrum of substances with the general properties of being slippery and germ-washing-away assisted largely by a strong knowledge of the associated materials and chemicals present. In practice, the actual versatility comes with how he uses it: one of the most obvious uses is to cover an opponent in soap and reduce their friction, making it much harder for them to move around. He is not nearly so hindered by this issue thanks to a great deal of practice, allowing him to slide around on his own soap trail with immense speed compared to the average person. Additionally, one would be surprised how hard it is to concentrate or, well, see clearly with soap in one's eyes, not to mention the effects it can have on sensitive equipment such as firearms or electronics. At its most extreme, he can even produce rather more dangerous substances to inflict direct damage - lye or bleach come to mind, though as he lacks direct resistance to their effects, even producing them could cause him just as much harm as his target. More subtly, he could also damage his skin or hair follicles over time by producing too much of the wrong type of soap or shampoo; to wit, the stuff he uses to wash his hair every morning is a particular formulation designed to avoid precisely this. Whilst lack of specific resistance is merely a limitation, his true weakness comes with the fact that all of his substances work best at a rather specific moisture level: if it is too dry, say due to an extreme rise or fall of temperature, his soap will film up and stop being slippery or pop any bubbles he makes before they can perform their function properly; and whilst some additional wetness could make the soap even more slippery, too much extra liquidity will dilute it beyond usefulness, if it isn't simply washed away outright.

Itiner: Heroes of Ardenfeld

Dame Niala Evenhand

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She chuckled as Nathaniel took some time to recognise her, followed by a joke about her height. 'Well, time does leave its mark, after all,' she'd respond, not long before another individual entered... yet again, cat features gave away his identity. Though they were far more stern-jawed than as a younger boy, there was no mistaking Snowing Timber for anyone else in that village, a lovely sight to behold in any respect. And speaking of time, well...

'You can say that again,' she replied, her tone suddenly far less jovial. 'I assure you, I know exactly what I am fighting for; Tyr's blessing standing, I shall see my oaths to Him fulfilled.' She couldn't afford to let those who had wronged Ardenfeld escape without justice brought to them, of course. Though, if either of these men were anything like her, there was a good chance they would be brought down even if she were to pass unkindly into Tyr's arms.

Itiner: Heroes of Ardenfeld

Dame Niala Evenhand

---

Niala entered the Lying Wolverine not long after Nathaniel, fully clad in plate mail save a helmet; right, in fact, as he pulled back his hood and revealed his ears, and thereby his identity to all who might recognise them. Certainly, the shopkeeper was an interesting character in herself - Prelissa, if she presumed correctly, the innkeeper's daughter, though from his absence now seemingly just the innkeeper - but the instances where Niala had had time to interact with her were relatively few. Her own father's materials were often traded for here, though she was rarely taken along on such expeditions.

Maybe she would have come more often later in life, if he hadn't been slaughtered.

But there was no mistaking the characteristic cat ears of Nathaniel Brightwood for anything else than his signature. Smiling, she strode up to him with full intent to catch his attention, uttering boldly once she had his ear 'Well, if I weren't already counting my blessings! It has been a while, hasn't it, Nathaniel?'

Thornwood Asylum For The Criminal Insane- A Villain Roleplay. (Closed Indefinitely)

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Brock

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Hemlock - Red - Represented in Teal, Rueyn - Siri - Represented in Orange, Brock - BCLEGENDS - Represented in Plum

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Rue walked through the inky shadows that covered the building and walked into the layer of blackness, Hemlock’s fingers firmly laced in hers. Anyone who was watching them would have seen them just disappear into darkness, fading away with a few blinks, shortly before the lights went out and all was plunged further into chaos.

It isn’t nearly as uncomfortable as Rueyn had implied. Yes, all he could focus on is the crimson nebula of light whom he held hands with. Here it seemed much so. Like they were in the depths of the vacuum of space, and she had grown into a far more expansive blackhole. Though there is a familiarity to it, a disconnect from his own physical body that he had grown accustomed to as Digital Ghost. It felt familiar, as familiar as traveling through a network of circuitry.

Despite this moment of reprieve, he suppose is what he would call it - sighing to himself mentally. As much as he’d like to consider himself as heartless as the rest of them, He wasn’t there at the cafeteria today. And he usually is always there. Spewing nonsense. Well, that’s not fair. A majority of it in reality is just spider facts, yet it is Froth who chose him to speak with. Hemlock didn’t do much talking, then again he never was able to get in a word edgewise when it came to Froth anyway.

“Rue,” he finally calls out, “I need another favor. I apologize that I keep asking for these.”

“Welcome to the realm of shadow,” her voice had a dark and echoing, ringing quality to it that had not been there before. “My ability to even reenter this realm in order to do whatever you and I may need has been restored because of you, stop apologizing. If it makes you feel better, consider it your apology for asking favors of me at the moment.”

She surveyed the shadowy realm around her with glowing eyes.

“Ask away.”

“There is an inmate, who wasn’t at the cafeteria,” Hemlock pauses, “He likely has no idea about the riots, and as much as I am sure he is capable by himself, he hasn’t the faintest idea on how to navigate the facility. And capable doesn’t account for endurance.”

That and well, he’s a bit naive. Perhaps, some of that innocence has rubbed away. The edges began to rub raw, yet he doubted he had the mental endurance for the task as well. Again, as much as he’d like to think he is as heartless as the rest - he doubted that Froth could make it on his own and find the entrance. And unfortunately he had to admit, he’d miss being spewed spider facts.

“Lead the way, then. Direct me.”

Hemlock hesitates. He didn’t bother to look up his cell when he was in the security room. It hadn’t crossed his mind then, “I can navigate the facility, but I don’t know specifically where he is.” He should have thought ahead.

“Goddess above,” Rue muttered a swear in Latin then sighed. “If it would help, I can bring us into the spirit realm. Your ability is EMF based, yes? Souls emit EMF, if you can lock onto him that way, we could navigate it much easier, especially if his soul appears the same colors to you as it does me.”

“Wir sprechen jetzt in anderen sprachen" he responds with a smirk towards her cursing, “Ya draznyu.” Right. Where was he? English. English. Spirit Realm? “I can see spirits, yes, well the EMFs they admit. I used to never mind that’s not important. I know what his signature is like, it’s the color of Froth. It is “purple”, but not really purple, just perceived as purple and then there are little bits of EMFs that pop and fizzle from time to time.” If that made any sense, probably most likely to her.

Rue rolled her eyes at his teasing her in German and began the process of rapidly going intangible and shifting their souls and bodies into the spirit realm, the darkness around them fading away to be replaced by a hazy, muted version of the world around them, everything outside of the spirit realm seeming to move slightly slowly and with a faded trail of movement. To Hemlock, it might feel as if he was stepping from the forest and into a foggy clearing.

“Alright, then, what general direction should I be heading from here?”

The Spirit Realm? In all of his years of study - well this is fantastic. So fantastic that he has completely lost himself to the sounds of the disembodied static voices he could barely make out. The dead murmurs. Flickers of light appeared here and there, “I had been studying spirits, and the spirit realm.” he says excitedly, “I used to investigate ghosts, and equipment in fact.” Right. He’s supposed to be looking for Brock in the facility. He’d love to stay here, study it, record it, but they had an escape to continue escaping. Searching. Scanning. Closing his eyes and attempting to tap into the map of the facility in his head while using the flickering of energy.

“West wing,” he points, “In the middle cell. There are others there. The riot has begun. Guards. Inmates. Most likely.”

“I’ve been around them since I was born,” she replied. “I understand them in a different way than you do, I understand what ties them here long after their bodies have given way. I feel their calls when their physical forms give out, are destroyed. I lead them to their peace if I can. It’s my duty as a Reaper.”

She took his words in and led them in the direction of the west wing, making note of the hallway and each exit. Of the rusty, brownish facility, seemingly constructed out of one giant square shape, and noting that there was only one way in and out of the facility. At least, for those who couldn’t travel the way she could.

She saw bodies of guards and inmates alike strewn on the floor, could feel the many souls that now screamed in anger and fear, tormented by the idea of forever being trapped here in this hellhole of an excuse for a building.

Rue made a note to take as many as she could to where they needed if she could. Perhaps after the breakout, after she was finally home, perhaps she could come back in spirit form to help them. She hated their suffering tugging at her own soul but shook such thoughts from her mind and stopped when she saw him.

Ahead was a tall, massive, man about eight feet tall with bulging muscles currently ragdolling guards and inmates alike as if they were made out of sacks of flour. Rue gave a rumbly demonic purr at the sight of the one who was responsible for all of the carnage, forgetting the agony of the spirits trapped behind, claws itching for a challenge now that those godsforsaken cuffs were off.

Sticking a head out, just like Hemlock described, is a man who pops up. Idiot, the large man notices the purple popping man sticking his head out of his cell. The large man takes his massive paw size hand and grabs the collar of the young man’s shirt, dragging him up.

“Eh heh, gonna snap you like a twig, and the rest of you,” he challenged, pointing to Rueyn, who responded with an excited growl, a wild, manic grin under her mask.

Seee… he had heard the initial noise of people fighting, eventually the noise dying down, and he’d decided to just spend a bit of time in his cell. He had lunch, he wasn’t about to go anywhere. Which was a shame, because he’d wanted to talk to Lock today… apparently, today wasn’t that kind of day. The cell doors opened up, and then he’d heard somebody rampaging out in the hall, and just as it started growing quiet he’d decided to stick his head out and check if the coast was clear. First thing he saw, the real big guy on this cell block.

Second thing, the same guy’s hand lifting him off the ground, which he reacted to initially with a rapid punch to the head! To no effect, because he could hit pretty hard, but not hard enough to take down an actual human tank.

Third thing was Lock, with that one demon lady Ruin or whoever. Rune, Ruin? Now that did put a smile on his face!

“Hey, Lock!” he called out, grinning widely. “Nice to see you! Didn’t think I’d get the chance-”

“Oi! this is no friendly reunion, we ain’t meetin’ up at some damn high scool,” Mammoth interjects.

“Well I mean yeah,” Brock continued, “but like, I wanted to see him today, and then I didn’t get to yet, but now we-”

“Are you his boyfriend or somethin’?” Mammoth interrupts again and barks.

“I’d like to mention that in this current social structure, that may not necessarily be an acceptable comment to make. With that said, I understand the usage is meant to degrade someone. Hmm, right, Brock we’ve apparently come to rescue you it seems,” it takes a lot of effort to project his voice in a hall like this, he’s not the loudest speaker.

“Oh! Yaaay! Er, from him,” he asked, tilting his head over at the big guy, “or in a more general sense, like from the loud fighting stuff that’s happening?”

“Both,” Hemlock has reserved to looking at a spot in the hallway, instead of attempting to look at anyone, yet he awkwardly moves his head towards Rueyn, “Should we interv-
-and she’s already charging ahead. He'll let her do her thing then.

Rue’s instincts were singing with battle-lust as she crouched like a large cat before launching herself at the large man. She closed the distance between them in a single breath, punching him in the stomach with great force and grabbing the wrist that currently held Brock.

Doubling back Mammoth from being punched into the gut, his grip on the young man loosening, feeling her massive grip,tis witch is crazy got ah a bloodlusty look in her eye didn’t she? Tugging his wrist back, not to escape from her grip, but to pull himself slightly back, grounding his heels into the floor, using his stance to spring forward using her strength like a rubber band to push Brock into Rueyn.

Rue caught the young man with her other arm with ease and narrowed her eyes, as the force of doing so knocked her mask from her face, revealing the skeletal bone structure of her lower face, staring from the tip of her nose to the bottom of her jaw, smoky black mist covering the spaces between her teeth as well as the inside of her mouth from view. She growled and tossed Brock over her hip like she used to toss her daughter when they were playing, a move that allowed the smaller being to simply somersault without harm.

Rue grabbed Mammoth’s other wrist and wrenched both of his arms down towards her hips to unbalance him, her knee coming up into his stomach as he fell forward, trying to wind him so she could take him out and neutralize but not necessarily kill him. As far as she knew, he’d mistaken Brock for another threat, and therefore punishing him with death wasn't fair to her. She’d rather kick his ass out cold or injure him badly enough to leave him there.

Being bent forward his eyes widen a crooked grin on his face. Rolling himself over her knee he stands on his hands wrapping his large thighs around her neck yanking her forward to throw her to the ground.

“Aye, likely wasn’t expecting that, me muscles ain’t just for show,” Mammoth gloats, turning his head to the other man down the hall, “Oi. Bonsey. Skeletor?” he notices the man frowns, “Okay. Okay. That ain’t so funny. Get her off of me. I can help ya out.”

Rue laughs when he wraps his thighs around her neck, and simply melts into the shadow realm, avoiding being thrown to the ground, the large man dropping to the floor like a sack of potatoes with a resounding smack of a body on concrete.

“Wut in the bloody fuck! I don’t want to be fuckin’ posessed!” Mammoth shouts in surprise, “I am gettin’ out of here!” He had other plans anyway. Thinking of his next big heist, couldn’t do that if he was going to get possessed. He begins to run down the hall, breaking through the wall into the next level of prison cells. Does he know he’s going to simply be running through the underground?

“Well, that was both unexpected, and bothersome,” Hemlock mentions, “But it sounds like we have a way out.” he gives a dry laugh, “Brock, are you well?”

Rue reappeared, laughing her ass off at the sight of a massive man running away and through an entire wall in fear of being possessed, a power she didn’t even have.

“Holy shit,” she cackled, retrieving her mask from where it had skittered to a stop near the badly mutilated corpse of an inmate, the man’s angry spirit sulking nearby. “Did you hear him? Practically ran for the hills crying for his momma.” She slipped her mask back on after wiping away the blood and grime that had gathered on it before returning to where Brock and Hemlock were, looking over both of them for any potential injuries.

“I did not hurt you when I tossed you out of the way, did I?” she asked, her voice flat but curious. “It was to prevent you from gaining any harm done to you.”

“Well,” Brock began, rolling over and off his front where he’d been chucked like a bag in a car tumbling over itself, “I’ve been kind of figuring out what to do after that, just like waiting until the big guy was gone, and I think I bit my tongue too. I’m fine otherwise though. It’s good to see you, Lock,” he added with a smile. Lock was great, brilliant to chat with.

He takes a second to “look” at Brock. He wouldn’t say Brock is his favorite person in the world, though that comes off cold. He’s merely used to being on his own, small talk and it’s otherwise underused substantial talk were not his usual interest. Most of the time talking to Brock involved Hemlock doing a lot of listening, he preferred it, simply he preferred also not to be talked to. Still, Brock deserved a chance of escape.

“There’s currently an escape plan happening at the moment, you weren’t at the cafeteria to be filled in with the details. I had Rueyn take us here in order to guide you towards the exit,” he shifts to the matter at hand, “It’s good to hear though that you have not become a splatter on the walls.” he attempts a weak smile.

So many people today. So many personalities to juggle. Brock usually had a relatively young mentality and it seemed Rueyn might be a bit over enthusiastic. Not everyone is aware of every ability he had, which is how he preferred it anyway. Likely he could coast through this riot, as the hacking, meek, blind man. For as long as people believed it. Something about being defined as such brought him back to the days of being a runaway teenager, who got a hold of people’s bank accounts being lost and blind and “scared”. They would give him their phones so he could call someone, what he really did was tap into their phones to take their money. Countless of accounts that he would take small sums of money from. He could continually dip into. Unless they noticed something and closed their accounts. Though easy to trace them, when he had their name and addresses. He used to have them stored on a file. Not the time to have introspection of the past, however.

If people wanted to see him as small. And fragile. He’d let them for now. It worked on the guards for so long. It’s the only reason he’s out here and not in that Faraday Cage. They thought he was incapable. They thought he was one of the “good prisoners”. So they let him get away with things they shouldn’t have, their facility, partially his now because of their miscalculation.

“Oh, awesome, an escape plan. And yeah, it’s good not to be a splatter!” Brock agreed, cracking his knuckles. “I don’t want to end up with my insides turned to goo… I mean, I know I’ve said this to you before Lock, but not to Miss Ruin- Rune? Whichever, so fun fact, did you know that the initial bite a spider does on prey isn’t generally what turns their insides to mush?” He sat up so he could explain better, his arms waving around a bit as he did. “See, when they want to feed, they inject digestive enzymes into the dead creature, and those are what fully dissolve their guts and stuff so that the spider can suck them up and toss the husk away. I don’t need to do that, obviously, because uh, I have my stomach that works fine, and I don’t want to puke on my food and suck that up either. We have saliva with enzymes in it also. Are you spitting on all of your food before putting it in your mouth? I didn’t think so.” He folded his arms, nodding to himself. It was weird, he’d never thought about it until that one doctor guy brought it up years ago.

“Speaking of, that’s some crazy jaw stuff you have there, Rune,” he pointed out, tilting his head curiously. “How’d that happen? Did they melt part of your face when they captured you? Was it an acid attack? Oh, I hope not, that’d be painful… or is it just like how your face is?”

“Good to know you are alright for the most part,” Rue rumbled in reply. “I knew they didn’t inject their prey with it immediately but I didn’t know the rest, to be honest.”

“The name is Rueyn,” she rumbled, a growl of annoyance in the undertones of her voice at Brock’s misnaming of her. “As in, ‘Don’t touch my mask or I’ll ruin your chances of being able to hold a spoon by yourself when I break your fingers.”

She wasn’t trying to be mean just to be mean, but she was edgy, ready to get the fuck out of the hellhole she had endured for the last two decades and two years and had no patience for stupid shit at the moment. She quirked a pierced red eyebrow at Brock when he mentioned some “crazy jaw stuff” going on with her face, asking if she had been disfigured somehow or if it was just her face.

He’s fucking lucky he didn’t run away screaming in horror, unlike the rest of these fuckers. He lives only because I don’t want to waste time, and also because I owe Lock for freeing my powers.

“No. I’m not disfigured, not in the way you mean,” she couldn’t help the small growl in her reply, forever reminded that she was a monster to everyone, even other people who would be considered monsters as well. “I was born with my lower face exposed like this, it’s a common feature for my race. You’re one of the very few who hasn’t ran away screaming in terror upon seeing it, though, so I’ll let the unintended rudeness slide.”

She rumbled again, grouchy and wanting to get on with the escape that they were currently in the midst of.

“We can discuss the many ways my body and limbs have been disfigured over my extensively long life, later,” the perpetual raspy and growl voice that had earned her the fear of many an inmate and guard alike was back for the moment, the Reaper was done playing around.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here before I get pissy and start ripping limbs from bodies indiscriminately.”

“Oh- shit, I’m sorry,” he immediately apologized, stiffening up slightly. “I wasn’t meaning to insult you. I just was looking at the jaw, because it was cool, right? And like, because with spiders, they have the fangs, right? The reason for that is that most insects and arthropods don’t have endoskeletons- spiders do, they’re just collagen and some hard plates though, no bones- but they have exoskeletons, and those are made of chitin. So, they’re difficult to break through at that size,” he explained, his arms no longer stiff as they moved around in explanation - though wherever they were going, he’d make sure to follow on from them accordingly as he spoke. “But, because of how focusing pressure at a very small point works, it’s actually a lot easier to pierce through chitin, and so you get a very large number of insects and arachnids with piercing-

“Oh! I forgot to thank you for coming to grab me from out of here!” he realized with a shock. Crap, he did need to do that! “It’s rude of me not to say thanks, so thanks Rueyn for getting the big guy off of me, and I assume it was Hemlock who said to come get me, so thank you Hemlock for doing that- You uh, I mean I hope it’s not too much bother, coming to get me that is. I know it winds up being a bit of a detour, since… I don’t even know what’s actually going on. Could you explain, Lock? Because, because, I assume there’s a riot or something happening, but I don’t actually know what the deal is, I’ve just been hiding out in my cell until you showed up.”

Truth is that he’s drowned them both out. Attempting to navigate with the information that he has received from the security camera. It would be easier to navigate with a full scope of the place though, main control room? It’s dawned on him that Brock has asked him a question. Should he bother to answer? The answer seems relatively obvious to him.

“We’re escaping, follow or don’t Brock,” Lock tells them both, though the statement is for Rueyn just as much as it’s for Brock.

Starting to lead by walking forward navigating the prison is more like a sense for him. He’s not really seeing the facility. Only sensing the layout. The one plugged into his mind.

Perhaps that came off too harsh, “I am heading to the main control room. To seize the entire facility, not just the security system. I’ll have full control of the lights, the generators, the cells, and so on and so forth. This is child’s play, I have done it before, and their system is not my system, so it’s nowhere nearly as secure. I have seen multiple points of structural weakness within their network.”

He smirks. You’ve done this to yourselves. Keeping them locked up like flightless birds. He had a surprise for them.

Persona - Soldiers of Fortune

Alina Sanford

Well... she'd lived.

And then remained quiet, doing as told by this Spindle lady. She'd run out of energy to really question the events of today, so she dutifully ate and drank as instructed... and, to be honest, she did feel a bit better. Her ankle wasn't hurting so much anymore- or, eventually, at all. From the sound of it, she kind of had to be in good condition, too - sooner or later, something would come for her. Maybe it'd be her own worst self. Maybe it'd be somebody else's, the Warlords in question. And gee, what a name for the leaders of such a combative place... like the leaders of raider tribes back in Antiquity, but worse in that their mere existence made others do as they did, in both the real world and Metaverse.

Go figure.

Soon, they had to go. Even here wasn't going to be safe forever. As they travelled onward, and in "the trenches" representing everyone's struggles, unheard by one another, Alina wondered what her own nemesis would be. Would some part of her psyche come crawling out of her and devour her alive? Or would her worst self be dragged into full view by that of somebody else? Somebody she knew? But who?

Heh... hypocrite that she was, so focused on herself when the police girl had just explained the Metaverse's state was precisely because of that. She'd never be able to help the way Spindle wanted. She wasn't cut out for it, and the thought almost put a smile on her face. She really was a coward, huh.

But, they found their way through to an apartment building. And, well, the end sentiment that Barney relayed was exactly right. This was creepy. Were these other peoples' shadows, then? Their feelings in real life? Could... could she help them, somehow? But how? It wasn't like she could grab them, could she?

Especially not the children. Not when they were throwing a tantrum, and... oh, good. Something else she couldn't help with. Was that it, then, that was her role here right now? Hide behind the people who could do things? Great.

'Please don't let me die.'

Useless of her. Still, she stepped back for that; Barney's wheel-thing would probably do fine for now.

The Grim Crusade - A Warhammer 30000 RP

@Savage Ah, hey there! It has been a while, for sure; I believe we should still have spots available, so if you haven't already, feel free to join the Discord channel for the RP.

Kingmakers: The Throne Alone (A Medieval Fantasy Succession Crisis)

The Northern Treaty

Featuring @BCTheEntity as Varangyrian, @TheRedWatcher as Mertavodah, and @ShadowSunRisen as Egil, plus assorted NPC dukes and duchesses of the Frostmark and Mistlands

---

The hall was filled with the sounds of dukes and duchesses chatting with one another as Velikynaz Varangyrian Vyapult VII took his position at the table, quieting the discussion down immediately. It was a pleasant enough scene - more or less a dining hall in one of the Mistland’s cities, not quite so bold as his own keep, but sufficient for this purpose nonetheless.

‘Greetings, my fellow Northfolk. I’m sure it’s no surprise to you why we’re here,’ he began, choosing to start proceedings frankly, and with little fanfare. ‘Protection, alliance. Support, most importantly. Ours are not grand regions like the Arbormark or Stormlands, and we are not flush with resources despite our best efforts. Though I and my fellow Knyaz are who lead the Frostmark and Mistlands respectively, the war that looms affects us all, down to the most diligent of layfolk. Best, then, to lay differences aside before the situation grows dire.’

The hall of ancestors from the Engelhardt family was a morbid setting for a meeting, but served its function well. It was a long house of rich wood textures and solemn engraved images to represent them. Most apparent of them was a tall figure stretched up to the ceiling, dwarfing all the others in height. A figure of a bearded man with a sword in one hand and a dove perched on his other, a crown annoyed by a priestly figure. The first convert to the Twin Faiths, and the Saint of the Mistlands.

Egil sat underneath the tall figure, hearing the movement and chatter and focused intently on Vyapult’s words. It was an auspicious day, a day of a proposed grand alliance in the face of war. The setting felt strangely fitting to the young duke.

“I agree wholeheartedly, and your words ring true. We must cooperate so no violence transpires in our realms without our say. Although, I wonder what terms each of you may bring. I know no alliance comes without strings attached.”

Egil stood up from his seat and wished to cut to the chase. With war looming so soon, there wasn’t time to waste in his mind.

All this talk seemed like war talk. Or perhaps that is his interpretation of the Marble People. They talk all gravely and dire. Their what they call politics - seemed in comparison - so bloody. True the Frozen Tears had their territorial dispute though they were often settled through the community and rarely ever ended up so brutal. Though Merta is also aware that this has something to do with the Marble People and their Kings. He never understood the relevance. It’s why he came to understand it in better detail. To better know how to prepare his people and relay the Marble People’s perspective.

Though it was hard to do so, when he spent an unnecessary amount of time having to focus on what they were saying. Why were these places so busy with noise? Varan is easy to understand, he has spoken to him a number of times and it was easy to follow. Egil - is it? It took considerable focus to determine his response.

“My people,” Merta begins, “We do not often deal with things like war. While our people hunt and use the land like a sleeping beast lying in wait. We have traditions against violence. Not that we are - what’s the marble people word ah -pah-si-fist. I do agree that it is necessary that we assure the safety of those who live here. That is something I do understand. If there is to be an alliance, then I need the good faith of both Varan and yourself - though I understand Varan’s position, my people are recognized as people. Not every Marble People sees this. We’re treated like com-mah-dities, is that the word? Accessories to the silver in the mines as if we eek out of stone like ore.”

Varan nodded as Merta spoke, certainly in agreement, even if some dukes made minor complaints on the matter. In a way, the positions of the Archduchies compared to other regions were not too dissimilar from that of the Silver City - though much less extreme regardless of the angle taken, for land potency alone if nothing more.

‘I couldn’t agree with you more, Duke Mertavodah,’ he proceeded. ‘War is not ideal, even for many of the Archdukes, and for the Duchies of our nations even less so. But, two vying candidates for the position of monarch is something that has instilled tension into Adanion’s people; refusal to choose a quarter will simply mean it is chosen for us. Certainly, there will be no desire on my end to see any Duchy’s people diminished, least of all yours. And,’ he made clear, ‘I will expand on this as a portion of my own terms: that the same courtesy be extended from all, to all, within the context of this treaty. If we are allied, then I believe we must be clear on our allegiances, rather than ranking amongst ourselves by perceived traits.’

Egil would appreciate the two speaking with careful eyes and a blank face that hid his true emotions. Internally his mind was awash with tons of questions and concerns, assessing risks and wondering if this was worth all the trouble. In many ways he felt his hand was forced by circumstance but he yearned to believe there were still individual actions he could do to change the course of history. Something he simultaneously thought was foolishly idealistic and needed in this moment.

“Clarity will be needed not just for the other lords, but ourselves as well. This alliance will combine our levies and we’ll have to divulge any secrets we may have to work best together. This will also mean you may have to risk people and resources for the defense of another realm that’s not your own.”

“We’ll also be attacked for this. Not directly, at least not immediately. The southern duchies will retaliate with tariffs, merchants denied or other services denied. There is no doubt in my mind that when this alliance leaks out, and it will, that we will be targeted. War may become inevitable very quickly, even though no one here wishes for it.”

Egil clears his throat, he looks among the guards posted downstairs and sees Marya among them. A source of strength.

“So I apologize if it seemed this was motivated to take advantage of resources” He would gesture to Merta; “Or to put people at risk.” He’d then gesture to Vyapult. “But there will be a retaliation upon us the second this is agreed upon, and I want to make sure everyone here knows and understands this and is willing to weather the coming storm.”

When he went on this journey he knew that he would be submerged into the politics of the Marble People. He decided to go on this path in order to guarantee his people’s security in the new Marble People future. Because he knows they will continue to expand, he feels the pressure of their power, the pressure of their expansion and the worry of their leaders. His people feel like they are simply attached like a tumor. That one day, someone will cut them off. He also worries about accepting and becoming more involved in the Marble People’s politics. The Echoes in his past have dealt with the Marble People by keeping themselves isolated, and distant. That will not protect them in the end. But Merta wonders if this is the right path. When will this alliance falter, as they all do? Because the Marble People’s words are often like the tides. First they bring bounty, then they retreat. Perhaps it is distrust, but then again the people he has seen haven’t shown themselves to be trustworthy. He tries not to generalize. Yet. He is uncertain.

What do the spirits say? What does the Mountain Father and Mother say, what does the Forest Father say? Is this protection? Is this security? Is the path that he has begun to walk is the right way? As an Echo he is a guide to his people.

“My worry is not about the resources, things are things, the Marble People seem obsessed with land and power, they do not seem to see people as people, my concern is that my people are and will be seen as accessories or objects in the end. We have no long lasting power in your court, we’re an aside, an attachment. An attachment. What my concern is that again,” Merta pauses, “And I mean this not in disrespect to Varan.” he nods politely towards him, “Is that my people will not be seen as separate entities. Currently we are in a position of vassal to House Vyapult. We’re in an awkward position making alliances. People will see this as a grab of power on my part. Though I admit honestly and selfishly, with full trust that I wish my people were not seen as merely eyesores. This is the position I am placed in when making these decisions. It’s not just war that is at sake. Or who brandishes their sword. But I am thinking of the long term consequences. I want no part in your power. My people want no part in the Marble People’s Kingdom. But the more they expand. The more their power exerts pressure. I wonder what our role is in it. If you understand these things, then I will accept what you have to say.”

‘Of course.’ Of course he understood; he’d been involved with Merta and the People of the Silver City for who knew how many years now. He recognised their plight - and he knew he wasn’t one to talk, he was an archduke in quite a stable position, especially with the Mad King’s demise. But damn it all. ‘I reiterate my insistence. All must see each other as equal - as people, no matter the culture. Rest assured, I will personally speak with those who refuse these terms…

‘And on that note,’ he continued firmly, ‘we must as well make a decision on who we support collectively. In this, I am perhaps foolish to propose that the choice be allowed at all; but, I allow it in understanding that we all gain more from Sharles’ reign than Anyamara’s, and that all recognise this idea. Anyamara’s supporters, in many ways, feel impelled to do so by the money they are offered. Rest assured, if we are truly seen as lesser for our limited export, then she will not provide equivalent due for our support as to the richer regions of the South, and in the meantime will only lessen the standing of the common people all over, those who cannot afford the lessening, least of all in the Frostmark and Mistlands. Under Sharles, I dare say we shall all be brought upward - and, to be sure, it will be those who have most to lose under the Bastard Maiden who will have most to gain under the alternative.’

Egil again retreated into himself to process Merta’s speech. It was a new perspective that he did not immediately understand. He’d think back on the strange feather he was offered as a gift, one that appeared important to the Echo but to himself had no value. A collective alliance would be complicated in many more ways than originally thought.

“For all intents and purposes, Lord Merta. In this alliance we are one people by just how our soon to emerge enemies shall perceive us. Although this process won’t be painless or without misunderstanding, if you allow patience I think it will protect us all from the ‘marble kingdoms’ as you call them. Although I share a lot of their traditions, the people of the Illemani river are still yet their own and there was a proud culture and religion here before any southerner set foot in these woods. As Vyapult has noted too, our support of Sharles will bind us together through the ugliness of politics. Another Mad King is something I simply cannot tolerate.”

“I hope that is convincing to you both that you will not be taken advantage of or seen as lowly pieces on a chess board. There will be a need for much sympathy between us here, but I am confident we will come out stronger on the other side. Our first step should be the security of the border and to deny any army professing loyalty to Anyamara passage through our lands. The people will come first, that I can easily agree to and their security will be seen to.”

It had not been a question whether Merta supported Sharles or Anyamara. The question was more or less him stepping forth in this world or not and beginning to make plays on a chessboard, “I only saw one option in your politics, which is Sharles. So the three of us are in agreement there.”

‘Our borders can be secured readily if need be,’ Varan cited. ‘A region loyal to Anyamara will likely make themselves known one way or another; until they do, we can retain our trade routes with them, and benefit for as long as possible.

‘But what say the rest of you?’ Varangyrian asked the other assorted nobles. ‘All in favour of Sharles as King, raise your hand and call “aye”.’ A chorus of “aye!”s rang out; though some resolutely kept their hands down and their mouths shut, there was a clear majority in favour.

‘Then it’s agreed,’ he concluded. ‘Unless or until extreme circumstances deem it necessary to state otherwise, the duchies of the Northern Treaty recognise Sharles of Bremerant as the rightful heir to the throne.’ A small chorus of cheers followed after this. And he wouldn’t admit here that it’d be so in word more so than thought for him, not until the man had proven his worth.

Although more details needed to be ironed out, for the moment the alliance was set in place. Joining in with the other lords, Egil threw his support behind Sharles as well.

“So it is decided. We’ll work out more later, but for now this alliance will be for Sharles as the rightful heir to the throne.”

Persona - Soldiers of Fortune

Alina Sanford

They'd done it. They'd met back up with the others. But no sooner had they succeeded there, than the worst came to pass: not one, not two, but three of those "Warlord" people had come out. And one was new, even... great.

She was tired. Tired of all of this. Which was why she didn't even question this new Spindle person's idea, or the idea that maybe jumping off a cliff was a bad idea, or that it'd probably aggravate her ankle even further. She simply followed after her as fast as she could, a modest hobble rather than a sprint by now, and when she came to the cliff's edge... hesitated.

She'd die. She'd die if she fell down there.

But everyone else was doing it. God, that brought back that old idiom about everyone's friends jumping off a bridge, didn't it?

Fuck it. She closed her eyes, screwed up her face, and tossed herself off the edge as best she could, folding her body together. She didn't want to tense up for the impact...

PZPRS : Hard Cover Edition

Exampaul Leaderman

Name: Master Sergeant Giovanni Marcellus
Callsign: “Booties”
B.A.S.E. Degree: Banal
Threat Level: N/A

Age: 42
Appearance: Giovanni is in his middle age, and it shows largely in his facial features and hair - he has the figure of somebody holding on to strength, but the wrinkles in his face, the weariness of once-bright blue eyes, and the salting of otherwise-dark brown hair shows that strength is waning. Outfit-wise, he tends to stick to the uniform offered by PZPRS, a fairly dark-toned modification of military uniform with no identifying markers beyond PZPRS’s symbol on the inside of one chest pocket.

Personality: He is, for want of better phrasing, a perfect military man. Loyal to whoever has his service, which for a great long time has been the US Army and the USA as a whole, and is currently the Paranatural Zoology and Physics Research Syndicate, he’s seen the best and worst of the world through the lens of a veteran, and it has shaped him accordingly, his responses to most events pretty well engineered to those of a soldier, and more precisely a sergeant of several decades.

Background: Born to an impoverished family of Italian descent, Giovanni followed the path of a great many college students and joined the military at a young age. In theory part of a reserve unit, it was only a few years after that when a certain nation-shaking event changed things for him forever: deployed to the Middle East, Giovanni spent countless years fighting in the name of the United States of America, against foes who he saw as the bane of world safety, with for the most part not enough time spent back home to even realise the folly of his hatred of people who he didn’t even quite understand were of different cultures... until he was injured at the age of forty, and sent home to rest and recover until he could return to the front line. With nothing else to do, he did his research, realised the truth, and as soon as he could stand requested he be sent home with an honourable discharge.
Returning home physically was one thing. Mentally was quite another - in the end, the fighting had left its scars, as it does on most veterans, and he struggled immensely to find work with any civilian faculty. Eventually, he hit a low point; and it was there that an agent of a group he’d never heard of before approached him, asking him to visit them and see if he had what it took to be an employee of theirs. He agreed begrudgingly - it couldn’t be worse than the mental demons he had going already. Little did he know that the entity he’d be put up against, as head of a squadron of prospective hires, would try to insert its own; a quirk of its paranaturality kept those who suffered PTSD from being too badly affected, and of a group of ten potential victims of intense madness, only he and two others stood tall enough to fend it off and capture it for the company - or rather, for the Syndicate. A permanent position was offered to him, and he took it, finding a new purpose as a Hard Cover Agent.

Specialty: Leader/Coordinator
Gear: Bullet-resistant vest, to avoid being shot.
M4 carbine, for effective military-grade firepower in confined spaces.
M9 pistol, for close-quarters firing.
KA-BAR US army knife, for CQC.
Group radio, to communicate with and relay orders to fellow squad members relatively silently and/or from a distance.

Paranatural Effects: N/A