Lemons

Breaking the Sun

Victoria Eskridge

PERSONNEL FILE

{ VICTORIA ESKRIDGE }

{ 309468 }

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General Information

name:// Victoria Alina Eskridge
age:// 23
birth date:// April 17th
gender:// Female
occupation:// Unemployed

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Biology

height:// 5' 5"
weight:// 127 pounds
hair color:// Medium-blonde
eye color:// Gray
tattoos, scars, piercings:// She has a piercing in her right ear, but otherwise none

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Psychology

ability:// Paladin

personality:// Tori was...pissed. Nearly all of the time. She's always been exceedingly irritable, and she's seemingly-always had a hair trigger that goes off if you so much as look at her wrong. Of course, being locked up underground against her will certainly hasn't helped that; now she's even more pissed. She's quite violent, and won't hesitate to deck you if you so much as look at her wrong. She's always been rather callous, and has never put a lot of stock into being emotional; those that do are often laid to waste with her whiplike, scorning tongue. Despite that, she's brutally honest, and at the very least, she can be expected to tell the truth.

With the whole 'imprisoned-against-her-will' thing, she's also become exceedingly cynical. She finds it very difficult to plan for the future, since she doesn't believe she'll have one, and is mostly just living her life day to day, hoping that something is going to go right for her eventually but not believing it. She's not particularly cooperative with her captors, which has led to a bit more that her fair share of bruises and other such 'war wounds,' as she calls them. In the end, most of her angry, callous personality boils down to the fact that she doesn't feel she's able to trust anybody, and so she's forged a very spiky armored shell. Not the irritability, though; that's always been her style.

The last real cardinal point in her personality, and pretty much her only redeeming quality, is her unbreakable tenacity. Those expecting her to give up once she's set her mind to something will find themselves disappointed. While it can certainly lead to her breaking instead of bending, it can also keep her going when somebody else might've quit a long time ago.

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family history://

• Mina Eskridge, mother; deceased at 48; Paladin; buried in a graveyard near Philadelphia, her hometown
• Robin Eskridge, father; deceased at 47; No abilities; buried next to Mina
• Jack Eskridge, brother; estranged; 25; No abilities; currently living in Prague, Czech Republic

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Miscellaneous Information

She vehemently despises vanilla, and much rather prefers Tori to Victoria. She really hates it when people call her Vicky, because when she was little, she was bullied by people who liked to call her 'Icky Vicky.'

She went to Susquehanna College and majored in Creative Writing, realizing only afterwards that now she has a hard time in the job market.

Did somebody say they wanted an angry, cynical, unemployed former college student?

Breaking the Sun

Is this still open? It's practically ideal for exactly the kind of RP I love.

Flames of Vytal : Hunter's Mettle [High Casual] [World of Remnant]

Eyo.

Iquenos: In Nomine Domini

I did a thing. It was a mediocre thing. I enjoy my characters being injured. Yes.

Iquenos: In Nomine Domini

Etoile

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Etoile was, quite predictably, displeased with how out-of-hand things were getting. She snorted somewhat disdainfully at the elaborate introduction of this 'Lazulin Mulciber.'

"Etoile. And he is not my friend. Now stop talking and start moving."

A moment later, the young-looking red-haired girl from the cabin—the one who had seemed so familiar—walked up, and showed that at least she knew what she was talking about. Etoile rolled her eyes as she burst into motion, calling back to her: "Nice to see that there's at least one other person here who knows anything about magic." With that, she dashed over to the blonde kid, lashing about her with her sabre at ever-swelling flocks of birds that hovered around him. She winced as a small raptor of indiscriminate type buried its talons into the soft flesh of her single working shoulder. Even the thick woolen mantle couldn't quite keep the claws off, and as it disengaged, it ripped a huge slash in the garment.

"I have no idea why you're still out here. How long does it take to get a few deckworkers and people taking the air down into the cabin? Your incompetence appears to have few boundaries. But as long as you're trying to draw the birds off so your friend over there," she jerked a thumb at Pagonia, "can get people into the cabin, I'll see if I can give you a hand."

That, of course, was the ideal moment for Etoile, distracted by her lambasting, to demonstrate her own incompetence. A sizable chunk was ripped out of her thigh by a particularly large bird as she missed it by a handsbreadth, unused to working with her left arm. She did manage to sever one of its wings on a second strike as it came back towards her, but the damage was done; blood was rapidly inundating the fabric around the wound, and a moment later, the pain came through and she staggered, barely managing to remain standing. "Bloody birds," she hissed through tightly-pressed teeth. Shit, shit, shit! Her options instantly dwindled heavily. The wound was extremely painful, hampering her ability to move around quickly. More than that, though, she didn't know if the bird had slashed open an artery or something, but the wound was bleeding more than she would've liked. If she passed out in the middle of this, the odds were heavily weighed into her being eaten rather quickly. She swore at herself for being so careless.

And this is what I get for relying on magic, she thought acidly. She'd been neglecting her swordsmanship practice in favor of running from Inquisitors, and now she was put into an impossible situation because of it. She spat a stream of bloody spittle, and realized that she'd bitten her cheek hard enough for it to bleed. Sliding the sabre into her mouth, she pressed her hand to the wound, grimly continuing to fight on and distracting herself with the impossible hope that just pressure could staunch the bleeding.

"If I fee a birvv affer thif, I'm going fo murvver if," she muttered to herself through the sword's handle, trying her best to pretend that there would be an 'after this.'

@Altered Tundra

Iquenos: In Nomine Domini

Sorry; college got busy, and allergies and sickness should never mix ever ever. Ready to go.

Iquenos: In Nomine Domini

My backspace key just cracked in half.

I feel like this is an appropriate metaphor for how writing works.

Flames of Vytal : Hunter's Mettle [High Casual] [World of Remnant]

Boat thing has been donked. Or, well, kind of. Hopefully this is in line. Sorry the post is so short.

Flames of Vytal : Hunter's Mettle [High Casual] [World of Remnant]

"Everyone ready? Good? Good. Let's head out."

Punching her gauntlets together one last time as if to make sure they wouldn't fall apart, Tori picked up and shouldered her backpack, heading towards the door. She strode through the streets, looking far better than she did the last time she'd walked by in the opposite direction. Shading her eyes, she looked up at the sky; it was approaching late afternoon, so the sun hung low in the sky and, more to the point, to the west, in front of her. She paused a moment to wait for anybody lagging behind to catch up before turning.

"Alright," she said, pointing to a sign that said DOCK - 15 MILES, "here's the deal. The dock is about six, seven miles to the south. The road winds around the forest, since people don't like going into it. Full of Grimm, y'know. So that's the question. You guys want to head into the woods and maybe fight along the way, or walk about twice as long and probably not get to the boat until two or three in the morning?"

Of course, they could always stay at the inn in town, but she neglected to mention that. She'd never quite liked sitting still when she had something she needed to do, so she really did want to get going today. Personally? She wanted to head into the forest. She still had a lot of pent-up frustration towards that gryphon to take out.

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

26th of Rain’s Hand, 4E208

When Gaius woke, it was to a thrumming headache and the sound of screaming. Not the best of combinations, even on the best of days. "Thrice-damned booze," he groaned, rolling over in bed, not awake enough—or coherent enough, at least—to fully appreciate the panicked sounds of the city. The one night of drinking had turned into nights, and now it was becoming a regular occurrence to spy is burgundy-and-brown form at the Merchant's Inn on busy nights, laughing uproariously with complete strangers

Then there was a thunderous boom, and even the legendary hangover currently afflicting him couldn't really stop him from noticing it. He turned lethargically in his bed, looking out of the window. His eyes shot open. Lack of coordination notwithstanding, he bolted up, already mouthing a prayer. Dwemer. There are Dwemer in the Imperial City.

Contrary to popular belief, Gaius was not thick, nor did he have a poor memory. He very distinctly recalled exploding a mysterious device in a Dwemer ruin, sending a beam of light high into the sky with enough force to explode a mountain. It wasn't much of a stretch to imagine that this was a direct result of that. Burden of responsibility weighing heavily on him, he did his best to ignore the headache and dry mouth, putting on his armor at record speed and hoisting Empire's Aegis from the mantle where he'd let it rest. "Helena," he called, "stay inside, and stay safe!" There was no answer. His blood immediately jumped, and he dashed to the door to find it hanging open. The spear Helena had accosted him with on the first night was gone.

"No," he muttered, a drone that slowly grew into a bellowing shout, "no, no, no, no, no!"

Ripping a proudly-displayed mace from the wall, he bolted into the streets, looking on in horror as Legionnaires, some that he had trained with and known since he had been scant an adult, were unceremoniously butchered on the mechanical blades. His mouth morphed into a small 'o' of shock and terror for a brief moment. But only a moment. He roared, barreling down at the sphere and launching himself bodily at it. Though the mace was unfamiliar in his hand—he'd always been a swordsman—his rage fueled him, pumping liquid adrenaline into his blood as he pounded away at the Dwarven metal like a demented blacksmith. No more than a minute passed before it lay dismantled on the cobbles before him.

"This is my home, you curs!" he shouted at the ships in the sky. "You don't belong here!"

With that, he launched into a brutal slaughtering-spree through the city, bringing down spiders and spheres as best he could while doing his best to stay away from the massive Centurions and—as evidenced by the dripping of water off of his shield that had been the only thing to save him from some very nasty scalding—not entirely succeeding. It was as he was breathing heavily, hastily bandaging a cut in his mace hand that had gotten into the of his gauntlet, when he heard a sound from behind him and whirled, already prepared to cave in the metallic shell of whatever was creeping up behind him with the shield. He barely managed to throttle the blow, in fact, in time to stop it from caving in Alim's skull instead.

He stared at the man, breathing heavily with wide, rage-filled eyes, before slowly lowering the slab of metal, breathing a long sigh out. "So, the Dwemer."