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  • Old Guild Username: AM Oneechan
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    1. Big Sister AM 11 yrs ago

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Wow... So... 30 fucking posts in one night? Do you even realize that there are other people there? How can anyone be that bad at roleplaying? Now I am forced to have my character just sit around doing nothing for the entirety of the fight, do you realize that? Nobody, at any point, thought about "Hey, there's some other dudes sitting around who could potentially do shit, so I might want to wait with posting a million times so those people has the oppotunity to react to everything that is happening."? No. Nobody fucking did. And if they did; they ignored that very potent thought.

Sorry for swearing so much, but you pissed me off a great deal.

I'll dropping this for really fucking obvious reasons.

.:EDIT:.

And before anyone goes "You could just have been online and posted", let me just mention, again, that I live in a different time zone from most. I sleep while you post.
And I have a job, familiy and lots of pets, so very little free time.
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Swear words really were few, in his native tongue. He had often wondered why. Did Elves not feel the need to express their dislike of a situation, like humans did? If not, was it the muddy human blood in him that made him feel compelled to such outbursts? Was there really a pshycological or mental difference decided by blood only? He did not know and he never would. He was half human, after all.

As fate would have it, he really needed a swear at the moment. The stranger had agreed to his healing and dismissed his offer to take him to the temple. Who would prefer the hand of a sweaty soldier on their chest over the soft palms of a dozen innocent Temple Maidens? Did this stranger not know that the Princess herself, a woman with beuty just as striking as that of any Elf, was a Maiden at the temple? Had his Lady General not healed his every wound with a declaration of just how much of a, well, wimp he was, he would have asked to go to the temple each and every time.

But alas, the stranger did choose his hand over the Temple Maidens' and it was his duty to heal if asked to. Had he not been a soldier, but just any other regular High Elf who had chosen the lighter magic over the arcane arts, he would have been able to sit by, sipping his wine and letting the man bleed out on the floor.

As if the misfortune of the situation was not quite bad enough, his little Lady Hobgoblin even spoke to him again, “Sir Nihmgor, this is too much, I can't possibly take it,” she said. She had heard who he was. She had not believed him when he had told her of his heritage. He was a bit disappointed at that. Did he not look the role of the son of a duke? Was it the hair? Everyone in the Earroldian empire knew that the Nihmgor duchy had always been run by High Elves. Never before had a human entered the noble family. So, was it because he was not some beautiful blonde? Nobody ever doubted his sister, with her golden curls, even if she was just as much a half-blood as he. Once he took his father's place at his hundreth birthday, he would make sure that people knew him on the streets; the crimson-haired half-Elf would not exactly be someone you would forget. The Crimson Duke, though... it had an evil sort of ring to it. Like some villan from one of the fairy tales the Maidens told the orphans.

I insist, my Lady,” he pushed on as he moved the the wounded man's side “Consider it your prize for entertaining an old man at a bar. Even if I am young for an Elf, I certainly am old for a human,” he finished talking to his Lady and to prove this to her, he placed his hands gently on his bleeding chest and focusing the best he could on mending the torn flesh. Blood was a beautiful thing, though. So … red.

The focusing part, though, was most of the reason why his magic was so … unpredicatble, though. His mind tended to wander when he was not doing something enjoyable. The wound ever so slowly, and probably quite unpleasantly for the man being healed, began mending itself. Because his magical nature was so slow to react to him, due to his muddy blood, it actually happened so slowly and so crudely that one could see the tissue connecting again.
Meanwhile, in Grapholo

Get outta ma way!” the small, yet strong, woman yelled out, making several of the other Grapholan engineers leap out of her way; a wrench was clutched so tightly in her little fist that the knuckles had long since gone white with the lack of blood. A mechanical dog about the size of a pony came jogging after her, its metal tongue hanging out the open mouth, leaking what appeared to be oil all over the place.

Ninni Gobbletaker was the name of that small woman and she was not a force to be reconed with when she was in one of her moods. The King himself had just turned down her sixth attempt at the mountable weapons and she was on the verge of exploding.

Her mechanical dog, Project One, was proof of her impressive skills when it came to machinery and if that was not enough, she had even developed the very first of their mechanical weapons; a thing she called a “gun”. She was quite the impressive woman, but she was a woman, nonetheless. Countless times had her co-workers, or employees as they were, heard her scream and shout about how she would build herself a mechanical penis and maybe then the King would listen to her ideas. They all doubted it.

YA!!” the small woman called out, stopping before the Necromancer, thrusting her wrench up into the dangerous woman's face, causing her to draw back a bit, “Ya and ya f*ckin' magics's why that God damned King won't listen to a word I say!” she strongly accused, using as much spit as she did words.

The Necromancer, Azura Rabonne, was not a force to be reckoned with, either. Her magical mutation allowed her to raise the dead and she was far from shy at using this ability. She held no fear for anyone, but everyone feared her. Everyone but Ninni Gobbletaker, that is.

It was magic against mechanics; a war that had been fought in Grapholo for about as long as the war against Earroldir.

Azura scoffed and peted her skeleton dog that stood by her side, “My magic is a blessing of Humossia. Dare you say your ideas are better than hers, little woman?” was the icy reply.

Danm straight I do!” Ninni snapped back, “A human with magics; it's unnatural!” she added in a a sort of growling hiss that it was only Ninni who could possibly make, “We've got our brains! That's why we didn't need magics, like dem mythicals!

Their argument, even if it was only Ninni arguing and Azuyra simply speaking, was interrupted by a young messenger who came sprinting; wheezing and hacking for breath, “Lady -” he began, but had to pause for breath, “Lady Rabonne -” he paused for breath again, “- the Nords -” he paused for breath again and the annoyance in both Ninni's and Azura's faces would have been enough to stop an entire army, make them put down their weapons and apologize for their inconvenience, “- burned the Gralhold.

As soon as she was certain he had actually finished speaking and was not just holding another pause for breath, Azura was off. It was surprising, really, how fast she could run in heels. Ninni was foaming by now, that they once again chose the magic users over her inventions, but it mattered not. Azura was already outside. The lines on her face glowed, as did her eyes and only a moment passed before the pile of bones by the stables formed themselves into a real, living horse … minus the flesh, of course. Using her dog, Skelly, as a step, she jumped onto the back of the bone-horse and without having to command it, as it took the orders straight from her brain, the horse had run off. The dog, however, fell to a pile of bones where it was left.
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YES!!! WE'RE BACK!!!

*ahem*

So, the site was down for a while... No biggie, right? Glad it's back up, though ^_^
@Aleranicus;
In that case, I do believe I will accept your character. You'll be starting out as the only actual player in the Grapholan parts. If you want, my Demolisher or the Necromancer can join you. Or both.
Welcome aboard *offers handshake*

Everyone else... I do believe my post comes next, does it not? ^_^
Lucas, or Sissy as he preferred to be called, sat with his legs curled underneath him on his bed. His hands were positioned as if he was holding a guitar, even though there was nothing there. His eyes were shut in a way that, to the cameras, appeared peaceful. Actually, he was clenching them shut. His head... it felt like it was going to explode. He was sweating like he had just run a marathon in a million degrees and he could swear that he was breathing embers. He was certain that he was heating his little room up quite a lot, but he knew not what to do. He wanted so bad to tell one of the MSP enforcers, those dudes with the masks that came around once in a while, about his powers slowly returning. What if they did return to their full extend? Last time, he had burnt down his home.

He released a shuttering, shallow breath. He was sure that they could see the embers in his breath if he heaved a sigh. If he did tell one of the masked dudes about his powers, what about the other people? There were others in confinement as well and not all of them were as pleased to be there as he was. Many would want their powers back. What if he ruined that, by telling?

He wiped his brow with his sleeve in a calm, casual way.

Jesus Christ on toast, he was so hot. He wanted to think about something else, but he was afraid of letting himself go and just enjoying the music of his mind. The dancing flames would come back and if he felt this bad already, the flames would be far from small by now.

Just as he thought that maybe a nap would be good, he heard footsteps outside of his door. Dear God, no, not today. If they were to take him out of his cell and into contact with other people... he dared not think of what might happen.

Sure enough, the door opened and one of the masked men gave a little speech of how he was chosen to go excersise. Well, whoop-dee-doo. He had been there twice before. He had eaten some shit, played some solitaire, talked to some dudes and went back to his cell. It was not all that exciting.

“I'm not feeling so well, can't I just go next week?” was his meek reply. He did not move to get up, but he knew the masked man had nothing against moving him against his will.

The masked man seemed to think it over for a moment, or perhaps he was just shocked that he would even bother to ask, because the answer was a curt and firm, “No.”

He was brought down the hallways and he thanked every deity possible for the armor-like suits that the MSPE wore. Had it not been for the layers, the guard would have certainly felt the heat that was emitting from the young redhead.
He was pushed inside and the door was shut behind him.

He was not the first one in the common room, he was somewhat pleased and somewhat worried to know. He just hoped, and without really taking notice of it, prayed that they would not get near him and notice his, well, rather immense fever.

Instead of going to where most of the others seemed to be talking amonst each other, he went to the corner furthest way from them. He was dripping sweat, he was sure of it. He grabbed a guitar, sat down in the corner, no chair or pillow, just plain on the floor, leaned against the wall, placed the guitar in his lap and started playing. Soft, relaxing notes spawned from the intruments and he found himself feeling a little bit better, even if it was only his nerves. He hummed along; a few mumbled words of text squeezed in between the joyful sound of relaxation.
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