Short post!
El Taco Taco
Member
Schist happens.
STATUS: 'I know the Goliath Fucking Bird-Eating Spider can't fly because if it could, it would have a different name entirely. We would call it "sir" because it would be the dominant species on the planet.' 6 yrs ago
- Last Seen: 6 mos ago
- Old Guild Username: El Taco Taco
- Joined: 11 yrs ago
- Posts: 1221 (0.31 / day)
- VMs: 2
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- El Taco Taco 11 yrs ago
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TheDookieNut,
quasarsurprise,
puddingpunter,
Tim the Yeti
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6 yrs ago
Current
'I know the Goliath Fucking Bird-Eating Spider can't fly because if it could, it would have a different name entirely. We would call it "sir" because it would be the dominant species on the planet.'
7
likes
6 yrs ago
'There is no word in the English language for the feeling someone gets when they suddenly realize they're standing next to an unholy monster impersonating a human. Monstralization, maybe?'
2
likes
7 yrs ago
'If Zoey Ashe had known she was being stalked by a man who intended to kill her and then slowly eat her bones, she would've worried more about that and less about getting her cat off the roof.'
1
like
7 yrs ago
"And watch out for Molly. See if she does anything unusual. There’s something I don’t trust about the way she exploded and then came back from the dead like that."
7
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7 yrs ago
"We're talking about a tentacled flying lamp fucker, Dave. What are you prepared to call unlikely?"
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Bio
"OK, I've just about had my FILL of riddle-asking, quest-assigning, insult-throwing, pun-hurling, hostage-taking, iron-mongering, smart-arsed fools, freaks, and felons that continually test my will, mettle, strength, intelligence, and most of all, patience! If you've got a straight answer ANYWHERE in that bent little head of yours, I want to hear it pretty damn quick or I'm going to take a large blunt object roughly the size of Elminster AND his hat, and stuff it lengthwise into a crevice of your being so seldom seen that even the denizens of the nine hells themselves wouldn't touch it with a twenty-foot rusty halberd! Have I MADE myself perfectly CLEAR?!" - CHARNAME, Baldur's Gate
Most Recent Posts
This was not the first time Victoire had been strangled in a ruin.
Annoyingly, this strangler was soaking wet. The arm lashed about her throat was annoyingly cold. Something had her wrists—clever enough to know her for wix, but daft enough to think that it had the upperhand—and Victoire began to kick wildly. Nearly six foot tall, her thrashing did not make things easy.
It spoke, which was bizarre. It spoke modern English, which was weirder. Of course, it was all a bunch of nonsense.
“Get off of me, you nutter,” Victoire snarled, taking a moment to aim and drive the heel of her boot into his foot with all her might. Her wand sparked in hand, pressed between them, stinging her back, undoubtedly raising welts. She was too furious to much care. Her patronus had vanished in a whirl of light. She just had to survive long enough for Bulstrode to find her.
Her attacker called her Weasley, which just plain pissed her off. No. She had not stalked the halls of an ancient ruin for the past hour and change to somehow find someone who knew her fucking family name. It was ridiculous. She was never going to get away from her name, it seemed.
“My team will be here in minutes,” she hissed as best she could with the forearm cutting off her air supply. Black spots were beginning to blossom in her vision. “And my boss is going to hex the ever loving shit out of you for trespassing.”
Annoyingly, this strangler was soaking wet. The arm lashed about her throat was annoyingly cold. Something had her wrists—clever enough to know her for wix, but daft enough to think that it had the upperhand—and Victoire began to kick wildly. Nearly six foot tall, her thrashing did not make things easy.
It spoke, which was bizarre. It spoke modern English, which was weirder. Of course, it was all a bunch of nonsense.
“Get off of me, you nutter,” Victoire snarled, taking a moment to aim and drive the heel of her boot into his foot with all her might. Her wand sparked in hand, pressed between them, stinging her back, undoubtedly raising welts. She was too furious to much care. Her patronus had vanished in a whirl of light. She just had to survive long enough for Bulstrode to find her.
Her attacker called her Weasley, which just plain pissed her off. No. She had not stalked the halls of an ancient ruin for the past hour and change to somehow find someone who knew her fucking family name. It was ridiculous. She was never going to get away from her name, it seemed.
“My team will be here in minutes,” she hissed as best she could with the forearm cutting off her air supply. Black spots were beginning to blossom in her vision. “And my boss is going to hex the ever loving shit out of you for trespassing.”
Good! Busy. Cosplay ate my life for a bit there.
And no worries, I totes understand. Take as much time as you need, boo, I just missed chatting with you <3
And no worries, I totes understand. Take as much time as you need, boo, I just missed chatting with you <3
Look at you, patient mcpatientbutt. Thanks <3
WOOSH POST. Time skip?
George offered reassurance—they were probably just being suspicious, right? Sadie chewed her lip, glancing back up at the Head Table. The Headmistress seemed impassive, tucking into a roasted pumpkin. Professor Sprout looked cheery as ever, regaling Madame Hooch was a tale, hands dancing as she spoke.
Niall didn’t look convinced. His brows had furrowed, blue eyes still watching their professors, like he didn’t trust them. She couldn’t imagine why not. Her professors seemed lovely—although Professor Binns’ voice was very difficult to listen to without feeling drowsy—why should she distrust their judgment? It wasn’t like she knew enough about this world yet, anyways.
“I guess,” he said finally, shifting his gaze over to the Slytherin table, as if he were trying to make eye contact with someone. He nodded his head towards the table and shrugged. Sadie resisted the urge to twist around in her seat and see who he was looking at.
“Are werewolves common, then?” Sadie asked Seine. God, would she ever feel like she knew this world? Every day seemed to be a constant reminder that the rules of reality she’d known her whole life meant nothing.
Seine shifted uncomfortably for a moment, studying his mashed potatoes as if they might answer her question. She was nearly ready to brush it off when he spoke up.
“Yeah—during the war there were a lot of attacks. A lot of people were turned.”
“Jesus,” Sadie didn’t mean to blasphemy, but it was just… she didn’t know the context, but even she could tell that that was awful. She frowned, pushing her roast beef about her plate with a fork. She forced her thoughts to better places and turned to George. “Right! So, muggle Halloween…”
Niall didn’t look convinced. His brows had furrowed, blue eyes still watching their professors, like he didn’t trust them. She couldn’t imagine why not. Her professors seemed lovely—although Professor Binns’ voice was very difficult to listen to without feeling drowsy—why should she distrust their judgment? It wasn’t like she knew enough about this world yet, anyways.
“I guess,” he said finally, shifting his gaze over to the Slytherin table, as if he were trying to make eye contact with someone. He nodded his head towards the table and shrugged. Sadie resisted the urge to twist around in her seat and see who he was looking at.
“Are werewolves common, then?” Sadie asked Seine. God, would she ever feel like she knew this world? Every day seemed to be a constant reminder that the rules of reality she’d known her whole life meant nothing.
Seine shifted uncomfortably for a moment, studying his mashed potatoes as if they might answer her question. She was nearly ready to brush it off when he spoke up.
“Yeah—during the war there were a lot of attacks. A lot of people were turned.”
“Jesus,” Sadie didn’t mean to blasphemy, but it was just… she didn’t know the context, but even she could tell that that was awful. She frowned, pushing her roast beef about her plate with a fork. She forced her thoughts to better places and turned to George. “Right! So, muggle Halloween…”
Hey girl heeeeeyyyy <3 <3 <3 how you be?
Part 1 of 3 posted! I'll finish the others as soon as I can manage.
August ████
Madripoor
Madripoor
Natalia is about seventy percent sure she’s never been shot by an arrow before, which is about as certain as she can ever be. It’s not unlike a bullet wound—perhaps more painful, perhaps not. It’s difficult to tell. Her veins are surging with adrenaline and dopamine, her vision red, her body moving on pure instinct. Her reflexes are what let her move and catch the arrow with a forearm. The bloodied tip points straight at her throat.
The sight of her own fragile mortality should probably disturb her.
She spares only an instant to find her would-be killer. Male, dressed like wait-staff, with a bow that looks custom-made. Nothing useful springs to mind. Sometimes she sees people and somehow knows their name, their skills, their histories and crimes—not this time.
She runs. Her blood screams as she flits through halls she memorized weeks ago. She snaps the shaft of the arrow, leaving it to plug the wound. She just needs to reach the third floor, where she has an open window and a motorbike parked below it. With leathers and a helmet, she can disappear into the crowded streets and fall back to her extraction point.
Her handler will not be pleased.
The thought makes her stumble, dread pooling in her stomach, airway closing up.
She can’t leave. She hasn’t finished the job properly. If she returns now, she will be taken back to that stainless steel room and she knows without knowing why that she does not want to go back there. Every instinct screams at the idea. She’d panic, if she could.
She’s losing time. Her assassin can’t be far behind, and he has reach. Natalia sprints harder, rounding a corner. Motorbike first—finish the job later.
Galveston, Texas
Smoke, pitch black, every instinct screaming run, thoughts blurring at the edges, familiar fog--No.
Natasha dropped low, reflexes taking over. Old reflexes, ones they had given her in cold grey halls and red, red rooms. Sweep the leg, elbow to the back of a head, sprint, legs swinging up around a neck, throwing her weight and snapping down to cold concrete, blood arcing across S.H.I.E.L.D. blue.
Blue.
Her thoughts sharpened. The world came into agonizing focus. Smoke was clearing, and they had guns, but they had trained her too well. Someone was speaking old words, familiar and tugging at old instructions, but Natasha was new and young and this is my body burned in her every vein.
The tasers around her wrists were very effective, taking two seperate men down in a breath. She really needed to thank the (terrified) S.H.I.E.L.D. tech that had built them for her.
Four remaining, trying to find cover and riddle her with bullet holes. Green eyes darted through the warehouse, tracing a path along boxes and machinery, to the catwalk above and--Barton. Barton and white blonde hair strafing, moving to snake legs about his throat and snap him down (Наталья, shift your weight just so, dark eyes wounded, drowning and empty and screaming through a void, hand so cold against her skin and she owns her body in his lessons).
Natasha moved, darting past the screaming of bullets, launching onto a massive piece of equipment and climbing. They made her a spider. Natasha darted through steel and empty air, moving upwards, focused.
This is her body, and she won't let an empty puppet kill the only good thing in her life.
Inquisition Scout Orielle Anthea
City Elf MercenaryDenerim was a bit of a shit place to grow up. By the time she reached seventeen, Orielle had already survived a purge, Tevinter slavers, the Fifth Blight, and a bout of pneumonia. The Alienage was decidedly worse for the wear, and while the rest of the city was quickly rebuilt, her home was mostly left to rot.
Orielle was not having any of that. Nicking a bow from unattended wares, she made her way to the Pearl and forced her way into the employ of the Blackstone Irregulars.
Which, surprisingly, worked.
Mercenary life was a hell of a lot better than sitting around the Alienage, waiting to get married off. Having coin and freedom for the first time in her life was strange as shite, but absolutely brilliant. Having enough food to eat was worth every job staining her hands red for the highest bidder.
Of course, then the Conclave happened. The world was back on the brink of ending.
Not this shit again.
At least this end of days brought work with it. The Irregulars journeyed west, hired to protect a caravan of supplies meant for Haven. Several of their number made their goodbyes and signed on with the burgeoning Inquisition. Orielle hadn’t meant to join up—but she’d seen the scores of demons decimating the country side, and she couldn’t help but remember being fifteen and hiding from darkspawn. How could she not?
On the tall side for an elven woman, Orielle is best described as lanky. Despite having put on some much needed weight, her cheeks are still just a little too hollow, her features sharpened from years of near-starvation. Despite this, there’s something sickeningly sweet about her—doe eyed and incapable of scowling, Orielle seems out of place on the battlefield. The flowers she likes to weave into her dark braid don’t help her case.
Orielle was not having any of that. Nicking a bow from unattended wares, she made her way to the Pearl and forced her way into the employ of the Blackstone Irregulars.
Which, surprisingly, worked.
Mercenary life was a hell of a lot better than sitting around the Alienage, waiting to get married off. Having coin and freedom for the first time in her life was strange as shite, but absolutely brilliant. Having enough food to eat was worth every job staining her hands red for the highest bidder.
Of course, then the Conclave happened. The world was back on the brink of ending.
Not this shit again.
At least this end of days brought work with it. The Irregulars journeyed west, hired to protect a caravan of supplies meant for Haven. Several of their number made their goodbyes and signed on with the burgeoning Inquisition. Orielle hadn’t meant to join up—but she’d seen the scores of demons decimating the country side, and she couldn’t help but remember being fifteen and hiding from darkspawn. How could she not?
On the tall side for an elven woman, Orielle is best described as lanky. Despite having put on some much needed weight, her cheeks are still just a little too hollow, her features sharpened from years of near-starvation. Despite this, there’s something sickeningly sweet about her—doe eyed and incapable of scowling, Orielle seems out of place on the battlefield. The flowers she likes to weave into her dark braid don’t help her case.
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