HereComesTheSnow

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Fantasy Knight RP

nice, thanks. in addition, if anyone ever wants to do stuff with gerard, they need of course only either ask or even just pop up IC

Secundi Lux

---

Beautiful.

Those two were beautiful. Elegant, poised, in total command of their Elementa and Gladii. More than wielders, more than users, Rivka and Crystal embodied their elements, the twin extremes of heat and cold— presence and absence of energy. They both tore through the Nox in front of them as if lifelong combatants against Mankind's Greatest Foe, leveling primal force onto the field with natural ease. They returned invigorated, staring down the door they had just opened within themselves into the great depths of power they now held. Changed, however minutely, by the light they bore within them.

When it came time to lower Selma into the proverbial ring, their words, glances and pats on the back couldn't even begin to hope to encourage her more than their performances had. In mere moments, she too would be ascendant. She would partake in the grandest honor of all— becoming a heroine to beat back the night. Rivka and Crystal now knew a jubilation only a precious few could ever hope to grasp. Magic made them so alive, even compared to that time three days ago in the tunnel, now feeling ages past.

As the brown, once orange, once green leaves softly crumpled beneath her feet, the tall girl fought an inescapable urge to fidget as the exercise began, nervous energy doubtlessly still bleeding through to the observers in that rower far away from this derelict of steel, concrete and glass. Whether or not they were looking at her expectantly, whether or not she could measure up to the ease they'd shown— what did it matter to her? This was the moment she had awaited since she first learned she was a candidate.

No two ways about this. It was purely hers.

She took a deep breath of crisp morning air, as for the first time her earpiece sounded.

“Now lowering diffusion level. Nox levels rising.”

At first, the most deciduous Ars Magi wrote it off as something in her ear. Maybe some small bit of pressure change going down the tower and into ground level mucking thing up, as the air sorted itself out.

"Nox levels still rising."

She soon realized she was deathly wrong, as it continued to build. First a stone, then a boulder, then a mountain, until finally it felt as though the world itself pressed upon her mind. A massive pressure, crushing all thought and focus to dust. she fought to simply breathe, her vision not going dark inasmuch as it went blank, form and contrast fading in and out as the poison assaulted her very essence. This was what lay outside the walls, she recognized for a fleeting moment. This Hell.

“Manifestation of Voids detected.”

"Urgh."

And these demons. Space felt fluctuated once, twice, thrice as Miss Rosmarie's eyes found themselves shut by a furrowed brow and the rare scowl, somehow further intensifying the sensation of her consciousness and awareness being squeezed dry of thought. She stood stock still, body fighting through the brain's unwiring to keep itself upright as the Voids began to slowly creep forward, toward their newly spotted prey. Each step wrenched the towel of her self further, each stride drawing more and more disparity, distinction, definition out of her.

This haze of wisps that once made a train of thought felt... a lot like that surgery she'd just recovered from. That dream. To be scattered by a power beyond humanity, wasn't it? Only this was a hostility rather than nature itself— corruption, not purity. The shadows of the world, blight that had swept nations and forced not just humanity, but life itself from the land. Diametric opposition to what she felt then.

Yet that contrast made it all the easier for her to find the escape rope back to self. Deep within her now was a great, lush center. That forest of oak, once again, atop that sturdy bedrock. A place for her soul to brace against, push back outward, and reach for that light buried deep within the soil. Deep within her, carrying that untold, unrivaled, ultimate liberating power.

---

Ｍａｙ　ｔｈｅ　Ｗｏｒｌｄ　Ｑｕａｋｅ

---

The Voids pounced, and Selma stood in a field of Emerald.

Her clothes fell away to dust, as a ring of green tinged white exploded outward from the verdant gem in her navel, wreathing her statuesque form in a cloak of arcane power. Flecks of emerald scattered in its wake— not the Armagus itself, but formations of the magic it commanded. They swung into a tight orbit around her, one, two, three revolutions going by before descending to the earth beneath the field of light, as though tracing a circle of magic around their mistress.

The girl in white took a deep breath, and made a single heavy stomp upon the ground.

Instantly, the emeralds rose as though launched skyward, drawing level with the Armagus at her core and then splitting into twin rings that traversed outwards through her full height. In their passage, that blinding light that had so long concealed form gave way to sturdy leathers and hide, thick and tough browns supported by multitudes of straps that gave direction and frame to her uniquely rustic parma, one that looked for all the world to belong to some ancient warrior. As it settled onto her body, she felt the magic too settle within her, bolstering her bones, her muscles, her spirit. She felt strong, fast, fiercer than she ever dared dream. Elated and energized, as the upper ring passed her face and she could suddenly read the words of a dilapidated sign a hundred meters away, her eyes and hair almost aglow with the hue of brilliant green.

The gems broke off now, reorienting and coalescing around her shoulders, shins, and forearms, giving only momentary pause befrone slamming into her frame. Encasing her limbs, they shone brilliantly— and with the sound of splitting rubble, gave way to shaped metal plating, true armor that coursed with the magical protective force all Parma gave. Her newly gauntleted hand closed around a thin line of green, the last flecks left, as they melted into the shape of a sturdy, somehow intrinsically familiar axe. Her Gladius. She swung it once, twice, unable to control her grin at how right it felt despite its almost ostentatious size—

"HAH!"

And the third stopped the nearmost Void in its tracks, biting so very deep into its chest as blackened claws swiped desperately for her face, anything that would wipe off that girl with bared teeth from the face of the Earth. But it was to no avail. The next second, as the light of her ascendance had only just begun to fade, the Void found itself swung by that same wound, that same axe, straight off the ground in a giant arc around her.

"Ahahahaha! Woohoo!"

A deadly waltz, lead by laughter, mania, and entirely too much strength as it was summarily launched when it came back around, slamming into the Void behind it. Heedless of the sounds of crumpling obsidian evil as the first expired, or the great crash of them slamming into a conveniently placed skyscraper, Selma reached out and grasped for the last fading wisps of transformative luminescence. Something was missing. Just one last little thing...

Void, being constructs of Nox run rampant more than true life itself, did not experience any fear at the display. All it saw was a preoccupied enemy. It lunged for her midsection, lower than the previous two. Cunning enough to switch tactics? Savage enough to simply prefer disemboweling her to ripping her throat? Selma didn't know. It didn't matter.

Her hand finally came around one last ribbon that hung within the air, and she exploded into motion as she felt the Void's footfalls take it in close enough to enter her reach. She stamped her foot down once again, much like she first did three days ago when clumsily, so weakly and clumsily, tried to harness ambient Nox to work her Sonar. In retrospect, while it was fine for not being a magical warrior yet, it was so much for so little.

This time, there was a whole lot more she could do.

A sudden outcrop of stone, shaped like a pillar and long as she was tall, erupted into the Void's chin from beneath, halting its advance and knocking it skyward. She swung her newly obtained thread of sunbeam, of light, towards the suspended devil made manifest, the alabaster glow finally giving way to a long, warm, sturdy ribbon of white fabric. One that wrapped around the Void's ankle and pulled taut, as Selma ripped it through the air in a meteoric arc hurtling down towards the pavement without any escape from the splat at the end.

Her improvised flail cracked the pavement, the jagged geometries etched into its skin smashing beyond recognition as its wispy frame was pulverised by the impact. If it were not the face of the evil that had taken their homelands from them, Selma might have even pitied the hopeless bastard...

The final void, shoving its faded compatriot off of its body, had nearly dug itself free from the rubble of the building's (former) west wall. Her little brother of a Gladius at its side, it just needed to get a larger section of concrete off of its back.

Might.

She spun to face it again and threw the bolt of white cloth over her shoulder, Parma finally feeling right with a scarf 'round her neck. Ah, the missing little link made it all click into place— she even had an idea about how to help the last of her three "friends" with his problem! All it took was going back to her roots, just a little bit! Back to horsing around!

She broke into a run, feeling for all the world to be on the moon as her strides chewed up distance with superhuman speed, culminating in a Herculean leap skyward that took her a good dozen feet into the void above the struggling nox golem. For a moment, she was singularly out of her element, with no connection to the stable ground beneath her feet or sturdy rock to support herself on. In her inexperience, there was a small chance she'd even tricked herself into vulnerability, were this a real battle and not wholesale slaughter.

"AHAHAHAHA, COMING DOWN FROM THE TOP ROPE, ARSCHGEIGE! WELCOME TO HELL IN A SELMA!"

And then she plummeted back home, body falling in behind the armor clad point of her elbow, in what she would quite proudly put forth as the greatest candidate the Academy had ever seen for "The Drop Heard Round the World". At the very least, there wasn't a chance on Earth it wouldn't be today's best.

An almighty crash filled the air as the emerald thunderbolt impacted the mass of concrete, and the Nox beneath learned the meaning of being stuck between The Rock and A Hard Place. The section of manmade stone that had before so troubled it gave way beneath her armor and bone, rattling her skeleton where it would once be rendered powder. The force of the drop, the weight of the structure's two halves suddenly coaxing downward, pushed the Void's spindly frame past its limits, whatever pseudoskeleton holding it together snapping beneath the load. It reached out one last time, dumb instinct or programming or what-have-you still trying to free itself.

And its last moments were, of course, dictated by the weight and splitting edge of Kleinbruder, freeing it of its head. No more worries about being stuck under something, right? Now he could join his friends, back in the nothingness that had birthed them. Happy end for everyone!

The dust began to settle around her, and at it's epicenter, the young conifer sat on her haunches, perched atop the rubble as though enthroned.

Awash with the rush of combat, of glorious victory, of seeing the new horizons of possibilities and potential before her, Selma threw her head back and laughed yet again, ringing peals of joy echoing throughout the once-quiet streets.

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Fantasy Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

@Krayzikk

"With respect, Sir Nicomede, ours is a trade of inches and instants." came the inevitable riposte, as Gerard turned to face the other man fully. Something about that grin told him that he'd been, whether he'd meant to hide or otherwise, found out in his probing. That the deeper answer he sought was locked yet away, even if the fencer deigned to elucidate upon that which was said. Hm. Once again, it seemed proof that he had not the foresight to play such games with words...

"Surely you know as well as I that action and reaction are a world removed from contemplation."

Best keep to what he knew until he did.

It was initiative on the field that had kept him alive thus far. Each time he had ripped his life free from the battles he'd thrown it into, it had been off the back of his courage, tenacity, and split-second action. If he had stopped to contemplate Elva Fraus, her crimson lightning would have cooked him. If that man in the Bandit camp were a second sharper than he, his name would be listed alongside Rickart as a casualty, crossbow bolt through the eye. Had he not stood firm in the face of blinding heat and light, he'd have never even nicked Jeremiah. Readiness came from instincts, refined to a hair trigger. Perhaps Nicomede was the type of man to call that a form of "thinking"... But Gerard had his doubts.

His crossguard continued to float near his brow.

"By all means. If I may learn."

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Fantasy Knight RP

It is extremely on brand for gerard to not be anywhere near this lecture about "just go in: not smart"

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Fantasy Knight RP

okay, posting and dnd does not make for easy multitask. flew to close to the sun here

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Fantasy Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

@Krayzikk

"Either works," he grunted, speaking through a frown both stemmed from exertion and from pensive processing. Had he named himself Sagramore in the man's presence? Poring through the few memories he had of interactions with Nicomede, Gellert... found nothing. Not that he remembered. Strange. First the vague sense of familiarity, and now a casual knowledge of his birth name— which as far as Gerard was aware, had been concealed to him by the usage of the more central Thalnic form. Once is happenstance. Twice might be coincidence. If there were a third factor, he was certainly onto something.

"Though, I can't claim to remember giving the first this far South. How'd you sniff me out as Magyarok? We aren't the biggest of tribes." the question was posed neutrally as he settled into the Pflug guard, golden eyes scanning his senior inquisitively as he in turn ground his heel in thought to mull over the previous query. He was an intellectual, surely— it hadn't been lost on Gerard that he was always observing his environment and fellows with an analytical eye.

Even now, such was the case, as he had casually eyed Gerard's progression through the master cuts and taken their measure. In Segremors' opinion, the world's most dangerous sommelier had beheld nothing special— much of his technique was forged in combat, and sourced second-hand by a mercenary quartermaster's worn Fechtbücher. Rough around the edges, compensating for lack of polish with violence.

Which brought him to the man's response, as he related it back to Knight's Doom. To counter strength with speed. Speed with skill. Skill with Sense. In theory, correct— leveraging whatever advantages one has against his foe, for it is a rare one that eclipses you in ever aspect. Gerard himself had found great success in following similar lines of thinking many a time— as would anyone who faced combat regularly and lived. And yet... remembering that fight, that looming sense of a snapped blade and imminent death...

"Interesting how it all plays back into itself." he breathed, raising to an ochs guard slowly as he searched Nicomede's expression. "For if I were faced with a foe smarter than me, such as yourself, my instincts are to crush him before he can think. Allow no time to plot, no time to settle, no time to breathe."

The shadow of the mountain loomed over him again.

"It's hard to be smart when faced with a raging storm, Sir Nicomede. At the very least, I found it so."

Secundi Lux

---

She sits.

Stable. Still. Solid.

Centered at the base of all, she sits quietly, letting Wind breathe through her, Water shape and caress her boundaries, Fire flow within her veins carrying Purity and Refinement. She knows of Time and Distance, cataloging both in innumerable measure to the scales of the meager life she nurtures. And so much life it is. The greenery, holding silent vigil where once awash with the roar of wildness, before the clouds of toxic ink shore and twisted it away. Those that crawled along the ground, dug within it, furtively living beneath the poison, too. And of course, the great Sancti of man— each and every last foot that pounded upon stone, upon steel, upon the walls that they had erected into and from her flesh, her essence shaped and extruded to protect them. She is surely aware of them, as they rise to her heights and desperately cling to what boons she could still give them, leveling all of their heart, their cunning, and their mulelike stubbornness against the shadows that veiled her.

How could she not feel her angriest sons and daughters fighting?

No, that's not right. Not hers... but nonetheless shared with her. How? Despite agreeing with the sentiment, she's no mother. She is her, obviously, and yet—

She is at the greatest height of the world, and at its deepest trench. Ever-present in both mountain peak and secluded, sealed cavern. It does not make sense to her thoughts when she tries for them, yet her mind understands it. A connection to all things, vast and so far beyond the reckoning of even the smartest among them, let alone someone as simple as she— yet for all she cannot name, define, or compartmentalize it, she can feel among that expanse in a way she had not when succumbing to those sterile white lanterns. Maybe it is her simplicity that allows for it.

A kinship. She and this primal essence have a kinship, her heart decides, unbidden by the brain's usual monologue. Both are solid, both are honest, both are centered within their world. They lend a weight to themselves, material and metaphysical, that stabilizes and serves as a foundation for all they take upon themselves, all they are surrounded by. She has tapped into something much akin to her, in personality, in temperament, in way of being.

Her and her new friend would probably get along great. Their strengths, together, could make a great change. To tap into something so vast in any respect made it seem a cinch in comparison. Would it be that easy? No. Definitely not, but this would always be there, always bolster her, always provide the bedrock upon which she could build her every dream into reality. She carried it within her as it carried her upon itself, just like all the others that breathed and walked.

Green eyes open, as the seated girl noticed this.

She found herself, as she sat, within the depths of an oak forest. At the back of her mind she could still feel the enormity she had toured, and a wave of wry amusement passed over her as she realized just how lost she'd gotten. To vibe with something so omnipresent as ..rth, one needed to spread their profile a bit— zoom out to get it all into frame. Finding a tiny little sapling again could get tricky, mhm, mhm.

But now she had drawn things back into square one, cognizant of her context. The songbird perched on her head was light as its feathers. The fox in the bushes, wandering across in search of good hunting, carried himself with such care and lightness of tread. The ancient trees, once acorns in yet older soil, breathed and drank and spoke with voices too slow and soft to hear. This was where she had been hiding away, then.

How nice...

But having pulled herself back together from that wide reach, Selma knows that this is soon to end.

Green eyes open, this time for real.

---

"Wuuuugh. No." She replied, frank as a girl ever could be, to the first words she heard. "I feel like I spent about three days at work without any sleep. Don't worry, Crystal, I don't wanna move."

Every muscle she knew how to use and some she didn't know were a thing felt tight, wound together into scouts' knots by the procedure, her body's reaction to whatever had been done. They felt less like meat and more like hardwood... maybe steel cable. That IV drip hadn't gone too far into the vein, had it?

Nah, that's not how that works, dummy.

Having been briefed on the general outline of the surgery ahead of time, she fought the urge to feel around her navel for the Armagus implanted within— twelve-cylinder Nox engine that, if she heard right, came in green. It felt like a weight within her gut, for certain. A heavy, cold stone that somehow... permeated her, now that she thought of it. Maybe that tautness wasn't entirely muscles needing a good hard stretch. She felt like shit, that much was certain. Barely thinking straight and sore for days, but beneath that?

Well, the word she couldn't get out of her head was sturdy. She felt, beneath the cloud of pain and haze of disjointed consciousness, that she could probably handle the workload she'd just bemoaned if she had to. Ars Magi, huh? They really were a cut above your average jane...

Her eyes, while contemplating this, slid over the other four, stuck in the same situation.

Not three.

Not three?

Chie Crystal Rivka Me Whoooooo is this one?

"Hey, where'd you come from? We don't know eachother yet, last I checked— I'm Selma."

Sturdy. Still. Stable. Solid. Not Subtle.

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Fantasy Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

@Krayzikk

Yesterday had started with technique, borne of a furious drive to escape the shadow of a towering opponent. A spectre of a mountain looming over him, insurmountable in strength and only conquered by strategy, when not even skill could close the gap. It had pushed him to grind out cut after cut in the open air, simulating an endless horde of foes in the mind's eye as each challenged his understanding of space, his form, his speed. Replicating every fight his body had remembered, to try and refine what he could for future encounters. Structureless training, chaotic as the battlefields he had known for years.

Today, Gerard sought to further his condition. One of his strengths, he had discovered, was a refusal to relent. Practically an inability. To foster such a pressure, and overwhelming surge of force, he needed twice the endurance of his foes. To break a man with pace was to pit will and stamina against him. He had not failed in it, not yet— but that was no excuse to become complacent. If his condition tapered off, his breath would leave him.

It wasn't lost on him that he had felt like death upon their return that night. He was a man of swiftness and brutality— fighting like hell on the field and leaving nothing in reserve. Such an act would have starved him before knighthood, to take a half-measure was to receive half the pay. Undeniably effective. Undeniably taxing too, once the rush of swordplay faded.

So, at his usual waking time of just after first light, Segremors began the first of many laps round the inside of Candaeln's outer wall with his sword upon his back, forcing his burning muscles into a steady jog. If you could keep a run, or at least a trot, going for hours, your ability to march, ride, and fight would have a broader baseline. Simple wisdom of any working man— the longer you could exert yourself, the more dividends it paid down the road in your craft.

It was grindingly slow compared to the dead sprints and charges he had displayed the night before, but it was not until his dozenth circuit of the Iron Roses' massive compound that he allowed himself to drift to a stop in the courtyard, wiping sweat from his brow with the plain black shirt he used for training.

The flash of steel quickly caught his eye, drawing the young man's amber gaze as he forced his breathing back under control. Sir Nicomede. A study in contrasts with Sagramore if there ever were one— stately, poised, and refined in both court and field. He quietly observed the elder knight as he comfortably flowed through long, practiced sequences with that longer, thinner cut-and-thrust blade of his, its ornate basket hilt catching the midmorning sun as the Spada answered every question asked of it.

Actual, classical training, if he had to guess. While not quite the knightly longsword nor the rapier of the aristocracy, the Spada da lato was a fitting middle ground between the two for a man like Nicomede.

That name is familiar. Probably nobility of a sort, but more than that. I wouldn't know it through ties to the peerage.

The intelligence and awareness he knew that man to wield after the ball last night notwithstanding, Gerard decided to cut the silent act from his musing. As a matter of fact, such was all the more reason to: no way Sir Nicomede hadn't realized he was being observed.

"Morning, Sir Nicomede." he said simply after clearing his throat of the last burning that came up from the lungs. "Mind if I pick your brain a bit, since it seems we both feel like training?"

Nicomede's man-to-man battle experience he was unaware of, but he clearly knew a thing or two about strategy and swordplay as a combative art.

He drew his own sword a moment after, holding it aloft and savoring how his body handled the weight, the balance. Now that things had loosened back up a bit, he felt comfortable... Up to a point. Better than where he had left himself the morning prior, at least. As a cooldown exercise, if nothing else, he could progress through the master cuts while they talked. Begin, as always, with Oberhau. Then Mittel. Then Unter.

"If you were faced with an opponent that was poised to physically overwhelm you, how would you handle them?"

Advance on Distant Proxima (Mecha RPG)

back on my bullshit

Advance on Distant Proxima (Mecha RPG)

---

[ERROR: Data Transfer to PANDORA unable to complete. Suspected Signal Interference. Retry? Y/N]

Ahead of him, he saw the massive frame of his prey lurch— the one-two punch of the Iliad's finest biting deep into its armor and equilibrium. The railgun of Ajax in particular had bitten deep into its center mass, roughly where an Orbital's reactor would be housed at that scale. There was no plume of flame and fury, no chain reaction of runaway energy, no critical hull rupture billowing outward ahead of a torrent of aether. Rather, the alien was reeling, staggering down to a hand and knee as though drunk. Rabbit punched. Holden had wrecked its equilibrium. Systems for weight distribution stored in the interior of the chassis? Maybe.

No. Electromagnetic Interference. The shell carried much of its charge from acceleration into impact— a poisoned bullet. That was it, right. You only get one slip-up, Kon. Have everything memorized after this.

Regardless, the man from Belgrade hungrily leaned forward in his seat, body fighting against the inexorable press backward of acceleration as he screamed, transonic, towards the action. The blue flame of his verniers kicked up a rolling tower of dust behind as he brushed the sound barrier. Ten seconds out.

His comrades wasted no time in responding to his hails, Gypsy Soul seeming none the worse for wear in spite of engaging in melee with a foe well outside its weight class. The fey mech's blade, a red-hot light to match its wielder, had confidently redirected strikes meant to tear her in half completely, and more than forceful enough to. He'd underestimated that strange girl behind the mask, in truth— for all her spaced-out demeanor and corporate-based piloting experience, she was good behind the controls. More than the civilian carried by an exotic, high-spec design that he’d taken her for would be, certainly.

Five seconds.

That same warning blared in Konstantin's ears once more as his field of view glowed gold. The foreign ape of steel unleashed another spray of diseased fury at its assailants— No. One in Particular. Ajax, raising his seven-layered shield as Hektor's mighty lance sought his heart, and his alone. The second Bandit clearly had some measure of intelligence left— an understanding of cause and effect enough to recognize Castle as a primary threat after the Keruanos had destroyed the equivalent of its inner ear. It couldn't allow such a weapon, both capable of piercing armor and scrambling its systems, to have any more battlefield presence. Its spines were aglow with alien light, burning hot as a sun and totally focused upon tearing straight through Ajax.

Gypsy Soul and Bedwyr completely forgotten. Fatal.

Most pilots would have carried their messages in cool, crisp, confident tones. It spoke partially to professionalism, true, the discipline instilled in anyone allowed to play jockey for a multistory mass of carefully engineered alloys, ordinance, and electronics that clocked speeds measured in mach with regularity. But for those in the know, those immersed in the unique military culture of piloting, far more motivation came from pageantry— smooth, swaggering radio cues were your calling card, proof you belong in the seat. Better death than sounding bad.

Kon's undertone, beneath this affectation, almost sounded hungry.

<<Pickle, pickle. Bombs away. All friendlies break.>>

The Marshal of Arthur's Court, revived into the twenty-meter frame of state of the art military ingenuity cast not a sword into a lake, but rather a disc into light. His momentum being what it was, not even the awe-inspiring might of a full-size orbital's limbs could produce much effect on trajectory or velocity of payload. Instead, the drum was in his wake as he passed overhead, veering off in a hard right turn the moment he entered the thing's field of view. Air resistance buffeting the knight's frame, Kon clenched his teeth and hitched his breath to push the blackness from the edges of his vision. By contrast his chariot's single yellow eye shone like the midday sun.

A dull, slightly hollow clang sounded from the region of yellow-white luminescence upon the creature's back, filling what would have been an almost awkward beat in the action.

And then, that same light melted through the steel drum, and met the payload within.

A blossom of fire and force erupted from the spines, as hundreds of fourty millimeter thermobaric cartridges passed the point of autoignition instantaneously within the remains of their containment. A ripple passed through the air as the pressure front surged outward in all directions, pushed by the countless expanding blazes in close proximity within the greater fireball. A wall of concussive force that, with any luck, would serve to flatten the damn alien he could only sand down before.

<<Ask, and ye shall receive.>>

How's that for a lightning bolt?

Left hand now unoccupied, the Bedwyr drew the blade at its hip, TLS-88 sparking to life as it circled in the air.