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HereComesTheSnow Member
dehydration expert
STATUS: trying to find the "golden ratio" of weed and ozempic to cause my appetite to stack overflow and reactivate the long-dormant photosynthesis gene from that 50% of DNA we share with plants. will update 13 days ago
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13 days ago
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trying to find the "golden ratio" of weed and ozempic to cause my appetite to stack overflow and reactivate the long-dormant photosynthesis gene from that 50% of DNA we share with plants. will update
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1 mo ago
many people dont know this but a good cue for deadlifting is to bring your chest up and lock your lats for proper spinal stability. this also applies to interacting with gorillas i'm told. testing no—
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3 mos ago
yeah i work in area 51, it's pretty chill. usually you just get a tweaker roll by on a "spiritual journey" once a month. they tend to go away once you put a few AIM-9s downrange on their flying saucer
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4 mos ago
man is closest to god after an ice cold beer in the warm shower. his mind and body are freed. next closest is behind the wheel in a scool zone, also with an ice cold beer in hand. study this well.
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5 mos ago
yeah mom its me can you come pick me up me and the boys were wondering if pulling a potato peeler over tommy's behelit would wake up the little guy in there and it started screaming.. thanks love you
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ok im glad i wasn't the only one thinking it
lets beat that ass
lets beat that ass
I’m sure nobody’d mind
@jdh97@Psyker Landshark@VitaVitaAR
"Of course not." he reassured. "I wouldn't dare neglect one chance for another."
Beyond that, preparations were swift. A few more knights split themselves amongst the four fronts, filing in behind the leaders with simple, brief words of assent. Just as well— any internal conflict on the ensuing front would create needless tension within their ranks, and potentially spoil the dominating victory that lied ahead. But Knights were professional even in the face of certain misgivings— none he himself held or knew any to hold against him, but those more plainly observed in his peers had been quelled in the face of imminent action.
They broke through the tree line once more, bandit camp now in sight. High above, Ter's iridescent wings fluttered, a spot of azure against the dimming orange sky that kept watchful eye upon the positions of their fellows and awaited the magical signals from their back lines, just as Sir Jerel had asked of him. While he was no falconer, Gerard found himself impressed by the obvious intelligence Ter seemed to display— it was a more complex command than "hunt for voles". It required more abstraction, by his reckoning, for the frame of mind for a bird of prey.
But he could ask such questions later. For now, everything should be in position. All that was left was the signal.
He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the battle to come.
For a moment of silence, the proverbial calm before the storm, there was a profound stillness in the now-night air. Despite neither having the eyes of Ter high above nor Tyaethe on the opposite flank, the roaring bonfire provided ample illumination for Sagramore to take in the encampment, take in his foes. Bandits, Jeremiah's army, milled about a coven of makeshift huts, tents, and other rudimentary, disposable or portable structures. They were unaware of what was to come, and upon the glorified chair of oak overlooking the bonfire, supposedly their "King"'s throne, there was nothing. Presumably he was amongst them. Perhaps near the rightward flank?
Should we be so lucky.
He saw a familiar sight upon their axes. Their spears. Their swords. Their sickles. Their armor. Their faces. Their hands.
Blood.
That blood he knew to be of either innocents, or those who had sworn to protect them. Those whose lives had been taken, were being brutalized, or worse by these unrepentant thugs. He knew well what bandits did to "prisoners" or "hostages"— lawless men saw no barriers beyond, if you were lucky enough to be perceived as "useful", killing you.
In spite of himself, young Gellért felt a familiar burning tar where his blood once ran calmly.
His grip around the longsword tightened as he returned his search towards the sky— for exactly THAT pinprick of light.
"Előre!"
With the roar of "forward" in his native tongue, punctuated by Ter's cry from high above, the coal-haired night threw himself fully towards the camp, steel ready to bite deep into all opposition and his fellows following swiftly behind, just as he knew Tyaethe's were upon the other end of the camp. Forget hammer and anvil— his full intent was to hammer them from both sides.
And should this Jeremiah show his mug within the reach of his blade, Segremors would waste no time in carving the title he so pompously adorned himself with right into his vulgar hide.
"Of course not." he reassured. "I wouldn't dare neglect one chance for another."
Beyond that, preparations were swift. A few more knights split themselves amongst the four fronts, filing in behind the leaders with simple, brief words of assent. Just as well— any internal conflict on the ensuing front would create needless tension within their ranks, and potentially spoil the dominating victory that lied ahead. But Knights were professional even in the face of certain misgivings— none he himself held or knew any to hold against him, but those more plainly observed in his peers had been quelled in the face of imminent action.
They broke through the tree line once more, bandit camp now in sight. High above, Ter's iridescent wings fluttered, a spot of azure against the dimming orange sky that kept watchful eye upon the positions of their fellows and awaited the magical signals from their back lines, just as Sir Jerel had asked of him. While he was no falconer, Gerard found himself impressed by the obvious intelligence Ter seemed to display— it was a more complex command than "hunt for voles". It required more abstraction, by his reckoning, for the frame of mind for a bird of prey.
But he could ask such questions later. For now, everything should be in position. All that was left was the signal.
He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the battle to come.
For a moment of silence, the proverbial calm before the storm, there was a profound stillness in the now-night air. Despite neither having the eyes of Ter high above nor Tyaethe on the opposite flank, the roaring bonfire provided ample illumination for Sagramore to take in the encampment, take in his foes. Bandits, Jeremiah's army, milled about a coven of makeshift huts, tents, and other rudimentary, disposable or portable structures. They were unaware of what was to come, and upon the glorified chair of oak overlooking the bonfire, supposedly their "King"'s throne, there was nothing. Presumably he was amongst them. Perhaps near the rightward flank?
Should we be so lucky.
He saw a familiar sight upon their axes. Their spears. Their swords. Their sickles. Their armor. Their faces. Their hands.
Blood.
That blood he knew to be of either innocents, or those who had sworn to protect them. Those whose lives had been taken, were being brutalized, or worse by these unrepentant thugs. He knew well what bandits did to "prisoners" or "hostages"— lawless men saw no barriers beyond, if you were lucky enough to be perceived as "useful", killing you.
In spite of himself, young Gellért felt a familiar burning tar where his blood once ran calmly.
His grip around the longsword tightened as he returned his search towards the sky— for exactly THAT pinprick of light.
"Előre!"
With the roar of "forward" in his native tongue, punctuated by Ter's cry from high above, the coal-haired night threw himself fully towards the camp, steel ready to bite deep into all opposition and his fellows following swiftly behind, just as he knew Tyaethe's were upon the other end of the camp. Forget hammer and anvil— his full intent was to hammer them from both sides.
And should this Jeremiah show his mug within the reach of his blade, Segremors would waste no time in carving the title he so pompously adorned himself with right into his vulgar hide.
Well.
"Of course, Sir Renar, Sir Jerel." he replied graciously, nodding to both in turn. "I would be honored."
It seemed the young Captain was still somewhat unfamiliar with the knights under her command— In appointing Gerard, at the very least, she was giving the responsibility to one of her greenest as opposed to a knight with more tenure and earned respect within the Order. For this to happen so soon was surprising. He had easily enough battle experience to wait for a signal and order a cavalry charge, that much was true enough, but he had in truth been more of a frontline fighter before knighthood— A man in decent armor pointed towards something that needed killing by men who stood in the position she had just thrust him into with much more experience. Much more than either of them.
A thousand miles and a single step, eh?
But Knighthood meant decisive action, and this was part of it. One order, one signal, one charge.
It served none for him to falter. His mission was so simple he could do the tasks it entailed in his sleep, and the companions who volunteered to his detachment deadly, self-sufficient men. If they would follow the Captain's appointment and freely offer to ride with him without issue, then his authority would not need to be hammered down upon them like it would upon the unruly miscreants he was used to. He had not survived in the fray for seven years thanks to any sort of folding under pressure, had he? A knight was a man with poise and dignity, and when the call was made, he would step to answer it with neither hesitation nor complaint.
And that would be it.
"Let's make haste, then. All others who would join me, fall in."
If the bandits they had encountered were any indication, he needed only worry about Jeremiah himself running to their flank— thereby leaving every other side open to the crushing force of the other three companies. A military force propped up by a singular fighter, exceptional or otherwise, could only work through a choke point— and this encompassing assault proved just the opposite. The man certainly could not be everywhere at once.
Without anyone breaking synchronization, the Iron Roses definitely could. Regarding that, he had an inkling of an idea.
"Sir Jerel, that falcon of yours— Would he be of any use in spotting and relaying our Captain's signal in the event we ourselves couldn't?"
@jdh97@Psyker Landshark
"Of course, Sir Renar, Sir Jerel." he replied graciously, nodding to both in turn. "I would be honored."
It seemed the young Captain was still somewhat unfamiliar with the knights under her command— In appointing Gerard, at the very least, she was giving the responsibility to one of her greenest as opposed to a knight with more tenure and earned respect within the Order. For this to happen so soon was surprising. He had easily enough battle experience to wait for a signal and order a cavalry charge, that much was true enough, but he had in truth been more of a frontline fighter before knighthood— A man in decent armor pointed towards something that needed killing by men who stood in the position she had just thrust him into with much more experience. Much more than either of them.
A thousand miles and a single step, eh?
But Knighthood meant decisive action, and this was part of it. One order, one signal, one charge.
It served none for him to falter. His mission was so simple he could do the tasks it entailed in his sleep, and the companions who volunteered to his detachment deadly, self-sufficient men. If they would follow the Captain's appointment and freely offer to ride with him without issue, then his authority would not need to be hammered down upon them like it would upon the unruly miscreants he was used to. He had not survived in the fray for seven years thanks to any sort of folding under pressure, had he? A knight was a man with poise and dignity, and when the call was made, he would step to answer it with neither hesitation nor complaint.
And that would be it.
"Let's make haste, then. All others who would join me, fall in."
If the bandits they had encountered were any indication, he needed only worry about Jeremiah himself running to their flank— thereby leaving every other side open to the crushing force of the other three companies. A military force propped up by a singular fighter, exceptional or otherwise, could only work through a choke point— and this encompassing assault proved just the opposite. The man certainly could not be everywhere at once.
Without anyone breaking synchronization, the Iron Roses definitely could. Regarding that, he had an inkling of an idea.
"Sir Jerel, that falcon of yours— Would he be of any use in spotting and relaying our Captain's signal in the event we ourselves couldn't?"
@jdh97@Psyker Landshark
Sorry, dealing with some roommate switches. Still here, looking to post again before the end of the week.
"Under the mattress. It'll make your whole week."
Those were my words to Rebekah Cross as the image of a nameless and wholly unremarkable Rapier formed within my mind. I had found it somewhat surprising that nobody else had taken me up upon the offer, but much less so that she, the only one, made a request twofold. Perhaps the Athenian was the only one who truly knew of Glorious Eidolon's capability— Nobody else has sparred quite so much with me save my sister, who already held a weapon of her own. And in truth, that one pistol's true nature blew almost everything I had out of the water— almost.
But this was not enough to warrant the only surefire exception. Too many people here, too much nature to wreck, and no enemies that necessitated it. I am not a grand strategist like Fell, but even me and my humble schemes have more nuance that vaporizing a kilometer of forest and lake for these lowly beasts.
I quickly pulled that Rapier into reality, and tossed it to her waiting grasp, hilt-first. With no legend attached, there was no need for specificity, and as such I could draw up a perfect copy of what I had envisioned— a sword I had even the pleasure to wield in my own hands before adding it to the library. There would be no dissipating, no time or force limit that came with trying to use Divine Magic to brute-force an incomplete visualization onto the material world. What her request traded in unique attributes, it made up for in reliability.
For all intents and purposes, the thin and elegant stinger she held was real. Everything from material composition to structural layout to even the attached history— It was all as good as genuine.
After that, I only had the opportunity to rearm myself before the swarm came. Despite constant bombardment, their proclivity to multiply upon being damaged gave them enough staying power to close the gap without suffering visible losses in body count. However, this initial wave had given me an important piece of information— These shadows did feel fear.
That I knew how to leverage.
Ten minutes had passed since I entered melee combat now. I know for certain I've cut through them like a tempest, leaving dozens cut and broken in my wake. They had come at me from multiple sides, first in twos, then threes, then groups of five. Very much like wolves indeed. I doubt they intended this, but it did manage to dampen the effects of the pair of blades I hold.
The terrors of the Moors, symbols of the Reconquista, and the hero that arose from it that outshone all others from the nation before or since— El Cid. Both are well-crafted and marvelous things, resplendent with gilded crossguards and inlaid jewels at the pommel; only the finest livery that would befit a great hero of Spain. Their razor sharp blades, however, and the deadly arcs of moonlight I cut with each swing—
The hound leaps back as Tizona catches the fire's light. It yowls not in anger, nor in pain. Upon the sight of this weapon and his twin, Colada, all even this unnatural beast can feel is frigid terror. Brave men, courageous vanguards of Castille and Al-Andalus alike, knew the very same fear when they faced the man known as El Campeador. According to legend, upon catching sight of either of these three-foot swords, they would throw their own down and scream "I yield!". Ferrán González had not even met the blade in El Cid's hands, but rather those of Pero Vermúdez— and surely my own would too elicit surrender in a duel.
These hounds do no such thing, and have a nasty habit of trying to go for my neck from behind, where they have both the least chance of catching sight certain death and the "best" chance of taking me out. Annoying, but not troublesome. The line that has formed from my peers has had no trouble, even bolstering their ranks as the newly arrived Haluk Erdogan brought with him the party favor of a lifetime— a radius of courage. Let alone myself— not even they, mostly partygoers who did not live and breathe this nearly so much, were in any trouble.
An inhuman burst of speed drives me forward, as Tizona's downward arc continues unbidden by the thing's skull and torso. Strength, speed, agility, fighting intelligence— they are outmatched in every area. I whirl, and to no great surprise, three are midair with claws outstretched, leaping for my neck. Pack tactics emphasizing bait-and-switch play. Smart enough for dogs.
In my left hand, carried by the momentum of my turn, Colada tears through three more victims, rendering them smoke.
Not smart enough for me.
The sound of moving paws from roughly where I had noticed a dark mass beforehand reveals a new nugget of information, one I by now digest in the same instant. This one is new, lining up with about what I had expected for a timeframe.
The root individual that spawned these leaps through the inky smoke they left behind by their passing, absorbing some of their dispersing matter back into itself. Maximizing strength whilst attacking through a screen, off-beat from the pattern I had grown so clearly used to.
They are learning. Getting craftier. Not smart enough yet, but inching their way through the gap between themselves and I. Perhaps with enough numbers, they could eventually overrun me. I'd be stupid to ignore it, even if the possibility was nowhere near a concern right now.
My shin crashes into the hound's jaw, and the best-plotted attack of the night falls limp as the force of my roundhouse kick renders its neck completely shattered.
They did not multiply. The first four have all dispersed, adding to the growing dent I've punched in them over ten minutes— but the fifth and original joins a frothing mass at the center, all darkness reaching out and coalescing into the field of pitch that cascades before us, before pulling back inward.
A lull forms. The fighting everywhere else has stopped— it seemed everything that had survived the onslaught had huddled together into this one mass, a last-ditch effort to consolidate strength and punch through our defenses. Fair enough, I suppose. They were getting nowhere with wave tactics.
The darkness rises, taking the shape, finally, of a man. I observe it as it speaks. Two stories tall. Cloaking the outline of its frame with ambient shadow. Tail seems active, likely a weapon. Consider as large cat o' nine tails, each sub-appendage ends in a long spike. Limbs are bulky, suggesting a rather severe uptick in power, and end in trios of robust but sharp claws. Similar to the beasts that in was borne from, doubtless. Most concerning is the ooze which these key points secrete, seeming of some sort of corrosive or corruptive nature. How fitting if I were to fight All the World's Evil after playing at what I have for so long— But I doubt it's so grand.
Least concerning is its mouth. I want to sigh hearing this.
"'Shadow'. How..." I intone off-handedly, planting the blades of Tizona and Colada in the earth for a moment. Taking a second to roll out my shoulder, my disdain must be apparent even as the spectral image of Fail-not gives way to yew and string.
Drawing a trio of Ornithes Arrows to full, I settle on the expression as I aim for a very high arc.
"How utterly two-bit. You've been trying to take us out for ten minutes straight, and that managed to be the most tired thing here."
I honestly really doubt it's very grand at all. Especially if it bites on the bait my words have just placed.
Smirking, I let them fly. They will continue on their own accord and adjust for his movements, should he make any, until they fall as thunderbolts from nearly straight above.
I dismiss the conjured bow. I have no need for it where I am going.
I reach for my swords, pulling them free from the earth, and start forward. I am a supreme athlete even amongst my demigod fellows, and now that I am in the full heat of battle, my physical prowess is all but unmatched. This distance between us is as nothing.
In the blink of an eye, I am level with it's grinning "face", covered by the shadows of its hood. My eyes bore into where its should be, assuming a humanoid skull structure. A smug look might be on my face, but there would be no doubting that I have intent to kill.
And in the blink of the next, I swing Tizona and Colada in a murderous cross, beginning my assaults both physical and psychological. He was confident, yes, but so were many before they faced either of these preternaturally terrifying blades in combat. I want to see how he reacts to that.
Not to mention whether or not he minds me cutting a huge X through his torso.
as if it wasn't obvious enough when she picked the new guy, ufufufu
"Worry not, Sir Jarde." the slightly younger of the more seasoned warriors said simply. "I'll be sure to make good upon it once the battle is truly over."
The other rookie'd of course need a ride back.
Turning his gaze outwards towards the bodies that littered the field for a moment, the leather-clad man allowed the young knight's words to wash over his mind and the scene of their handiwork before them. Though delivered with a smirk on the face and a tongue in the cheek, they did not seem to be wholeheartedly playful... Perhaps he did misread his compatriot, but in the event he had not, Gerard spoke again.
"Kidding or not, your words aren't without merit. Every man has somewhere he comes from. No man acts without a reason. It's something I personally believe we would be unwise as knights to simply forget." Here he inclined his head to Sir Renar, a return of the nod he had been given earlier. "Though we also can't ignore the choices they made once they reached that point either, as Sir Renar says. They chose their path as one of violence, exploitation, and extortion— something we have sworn to not abide."
Finally, his amber eyes returned to focus upon the young blonde sickle-wielder, carrying with them a glint of reassurance beneath their weatheredness. They would need him ready for the next stage of this mission.
"And beyond even that, friend; there's no great injustice in choosing your life over he who would end it. You don't need to enjoy the act, but you'll need to be ready for it. Keep that in mind from here on out, and it should keep you upright."
@PaulHaynek@Psyker Landshark
The other rookie'd of course need a ride back.
Turning his gaze outwards towards the bodies that littered the field for a moment, the leather-clad man allowed the young knight's words to wash over his mind and the scene of their handiwork before them. Though delivered with a smirk on the face and a tongue in the cheek, they did not seem to be wholeheartedly playful... Perhaps he did misread his compatriot, but in the event he had not, Gerard spoke again.
"Kidding or not, your words aren't without merit. Every man has somewhere he comes from. No man acts without a reason. It's something I personally believe we would be unwise as knights to simply forget." Here he inclined his head to Sir Renar, a return of the nod he had been given earlier. "Though we also can't ignore the choices they made once they reached that point either, as Sir Renar says. They chose their path as one of violence, exploitation, and extortion— something we have sworn to not abide."
Finally, his amber eyes returned to focus upon the young blonde sickle-wielder, carrying with them a glint of reassurance beneath their weatheredness. They would need him ready for the next stage of this mission.
"And beyond even that, friend; there's no great injustice in choosing your life over he who would end it. You don't need to enjoy the act, but you'll need to be ready for it. Keep that in mind from here on out, and it should keep you upright."
@PaulHaynek@Psyker Landshark
Ryuji Igarashi - Traffic Jam - District 19
@Krayzikk
Here." He said simply, glasses catching the light for a moment as he retrieved them from his collar and sent them her way with an underhand toss. Obviously she could see without them, so there wasn't any reason to worry about hitting her in the face...
Well, on second thought, that would be pretty funny. A woman ripping a signpost out from the concrete and not being able to catch a pair of glasses? Pretty ridiculous, especially after her other stunts. Imagine jumping off of balconies if you can't track a softballed pair of specs, really.
Wiping the smirk off of his face after a moment's imagined slapstick, the pizza boy raised an eyebrow and the well-traveled cardboard box in unison. "Never dropped it." he replied, before exaggeratedly puffing his chest up. "Luigi's Pizzeria employs only the finest in transportation specialists. A freak of nature is nothing for one of us when we're on our game. In fact, I would go as far as to say the service environment has us rated, much like crash-test dummies, for mental stress well beyond what that thing was capable of."
Prying the lid open, he peered inside for a moment before resealing, hopefully not having let too much heat escape. Some people didn't mind cold pizza, the freaks, but nobody wanted it cold on delivery.
"Looks like it just slid around a bit— Shall we be off? No telling what else'll be out on these streets."
@Krayzikk
Here." He said simply, glasses catching the light for a moment as he retrieved them from his collar and sent them her way with an underhand toss. Obviously she could see without them, so there wasn't any reason to worry about hitting her in the face...
Well, on second thought, that would be pretty funny. A woman ripping a signpost out from the concrete and not being able to catch a pair of glasses? Pretty ridiculous, especially after her other stunts. Imagine jumping off of balconies if you can't track a softballed pair of specs, really.
Wiping the smirk off of his face after a moment's imagined slapstick, the pizza boy raised an eyebrow and the well-traveled cardboard box in unison. "Never dropped it." he replied, before exaggeratedly puffing his chest up. "Luigi's Pizzeria employs only the finest in transportation specialists. A freak of nature is nothing for one of us when we're on our game. In fact, I would go as far as to say the service environment has us rated, much like crash-test dummies, for mental stress well beyond what that thing was capable of."
Prying the lid open, he peered inside for a moment before resealing, hopefully not having let too much heat escape. Some people didn't mind cold pizza, the freaks, but nobody wanted it cold on delivery.
"Looks like it just slid around a bit— Shall we be off? No telling what else'll be out on these streets."
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