That post had some really rad imagery. Good stuff.
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I put in a small clarifying edit in the event anyone already read that latest scene.
Nice. Can't wait to read!
I put in a small clarifying edit in the event anyone already read that latest scene.
Nice. Can't wait to read!
Born last to an odd litter of calico, Mr.Whiskers always was special. Tightly snug in the nightly embrace of young Victoria, she hugged him as her father rarely would, telling him stories of how he wasn't so great as people say, and how most nights he failed to tuck her in bed.
“I hate him!”
The cat purred as if it understood her resentment, comforting the nine-year-old by rubbing its curled backside on her, encouraging the girl to stroke his soft spotted fur. Unbeknownst to her father, Reginald Cavala, CEO of Balecorp, the largest smuggler of drug paraphernalia across this sector of the cosmos, she adopted a new pet. Victoria befriended the playful alley cat, secretly feeding him when he hopped onto her window sill one starry night. Her father, as the scrooge of the galaxy he is, forbade even the idea of Victoria owning dogs, hamsters, or even a red slider turtle, and above all, he hated cats. He even went out of his way to order the hundreds of guards under his command to treat strays like vermin and eliminate them on sight.
In the past, any animal Victoria befriended, even as gentle as a hummingbird, her father killed, but that's what made Mr. Whiskers so special. Whether it was a few days or even a week, he always came back.
On this foggy night, Reginald left his Sauron tower of a headquarters and decided to take it easy for once, lounging in the theater of his luxurious neoclassical mansion, cigar in hand. Currently, the lone spectator of a blockbuster he missed out on, it was a well-needed rest from balancing his public figure and the extremely dangerous line of work from the safety of his grandiose shimmering durasteel walls and transparent aluminum windows.
The film Illuminating the dim room detailed a spy getting the drop on a mafia head by playing a loyal confidante for years. It was no comedy, but the sheer contrast in his reality from the character’s caused the CEO to smirk. If he told you, he was bulletproof. There was never a reality where he'd get caught with his pants down. With the graveyard of assassins sent his way, there was little reason for the linchpin to think he could ever be lynched. That didn't mean he wasn't paranoid. The militia of agents throughout his many-acre residences showed Reginald was overcompensating for something. With a crib boasting several landing pads, a private hangar for spacecraft, shelter concealing infinity pools, biometrically secured underground vaults, escape tunnels, robotic chefs half defense bots, and sensory fields for the utmost security, even if Reginald wasn't aware of it himself, it was fear.
Of what remained to be seen, and easily one might attribute his abundance of security to protecting his young daughter who would one day inherit his enterprise. After dozing off several times in the final act, Reginald decided to call it a night, slipping on his slides, zonked, walking through his art-filled halls before stopping at Victoria's room. She was already sleeping before he got home, so as any loving father would, he slowly cracked the door open to get a glance at her considering he'd leave before she even got the chance to get up for homeschooling.
Lit under the hazy moonlight from her window, the sight of her in slumber reminded the linchpin of his only soft spot, who he did all of this for, his little princess, Victoria. After her mother, his Mrs.Smith to his vice-based endeavors, was taken out by some photosynthesis-powered weirdo who he still has a hit out on to this day, Reginald vowed to protect Victoria to the extent that made her dislike him.
Her long hair likened her to Rapunzel, trapped on the top floor with little interaction in her father's built fortress. She was too young to understand, yet old enough to rebel. She didn't know of the dark consequences of her father's work but soon she would.
Reginald looked at her side, Victoria's body cupped like she tenderly embraced an absent teddy bear. It was odd, but not enough for him to draw suspicion. The thought of forgetting a book he intended to finish on his helicopter ride to his headquarters in the morning sidetracked him, so he went to his home office as a last stop before bed to retrieve it.
At this point, he walked into his oval-like office like a zombie. Opening the door, everything was of norm. Quasi-slumbered, Reginald made it to his home office’s desk. While he monologued angrily under his breath why his favorite sports team still sucked after checking his phone, the CEO managed to sit for a moment in his office chair. The second he sat down, it appeared something small pranced through the slither he left in the door. His eyes widened like he awoke from a nightmare at the realization that it was a cat. Jolting up, the cat’s lassoing tail around his neck forced him back down just as fast.
“You've been lying to me, Reggie.”
Mr. Whisker's small body began to convulse, fur rippling as his bones audibly cracked, limbs stretching, contorting, elongating to that of a human-esque figure. His menacing yellow eyes glowed like any cat’s would in the night, and the “gotcha” smirk on his face as his spotted fur transitioned to a sleek black was of Reginald’s worst nightmares. It was Merse, who did in fact, catch the bulletproof CEO linchpin, all of those things, with his pants down.
“You didn’t get the message the first time when I sent Edris. You thought you could disrespect me again by taking out one of my closest informants and hiding your hand? In return, I gained an even closer one to you. She rants often about how you're rarely home. Poor thing. She’s just getting to the tip of the iceberg of how much of a piece of shit her father is.”
“Victoria!” Reginald screamed, forehead veins bulging.
“As a CEO, you quickly grasped the stipulations. In case you didn't, this is how it's going to go from now on. You work for me.” Before the information broker could lecture further, his left ear twitched, keening in on an alarming sound.
As quickly as Merse was aware, an enormous, oval-shaped golden spacecraft shimmering with a moon-like glow several times larger than the mansion he stood in entered the air space above him. Veering ridiculously close, the spaceship possessing rings like Saturn was in full control.
“Reginald Cavala, your continuous crimes across known space end today as we, Orichalca, have deemed your reformation necessary.”
“Shit! I knew you were scum but not enough to get on their radar.”
Merse’s animal intuition led him to retake his form as an innocent house cat, relinquishing his grip on the CEO's neck. As soon as he did, a series of intricate Holographic rays penetrated every inch of the manor, ignoring walls, doors, even people. Nothing could cast a shadow and just like that, Reginald saw only black.
“I hate him!”
The cat purred as if it understood her resentment, comforting the nine-year-old by rubbing its curled backside on her, encouraging the girl to stroke his soft spotted fur. Unbeknownst to her father, Reginald Cavala, CEO of Balecorp, the largest smuggler of drug paraphernalia across this sector of the cosmos, she adopted a new pet. Victoria befriended the playful alley cat, secretly feeding him when he hopped onto her window sill one starry night. Her father, as the scrooge of the galaxy he is, forbade even the idea of Victoria owning dogs, hamsters, or even a red slider turtle, and above all, he hated cats. He even went out of his way to order the hundreds of guards under his command to treat strays like vermin and eliminate them on sight.
In the past, any animal Victoria befriended, even as gentle as a hummingbird, her father killed, but that's what made Mr. Whiskers so special. Whether it was a few days or even a week, he always came back.
On this foggy night, Reginald left his Sauron tower of a headquarters and decided to take it easy for once, lounging in the theater of his luxurious neoclassical mansion, cigar in hand. Currently, the lone spectator of a blockbuster he missed out on, it was a well-needed rest from balancing his public figure and the extremely dangerous line of work from the safety of his grandiose shimmering durasteel walls and transparent aluminum windows.
The film Illuminating the dim room detailed a spy getting the drop on a mafia head by playing a loyal confidante for years. It was no comedy, but the sheer contrast in his reality from the character’s caused the CEO to smirk. If he told you, he was bulletproof. There was never a reality where he'd get caught with his pants down. With the graveyard of assassins sent his way, there was little reason for the linchpin to think he could ever be lynched. That didn't mean he wasn't paranoid. The militia of agents throughout his many-acre residences showed Reginald was overcompensating for something. With a crib boasting several landing pads, a private hangar for spacecraft, shelter concealing infinity pools, biometrically secured underground vaults, escape tunnels, robotic chefs half defense bots, and sensory fields for the utmost security, even if Reginald wasn't aware of it himself, it was fear.
Of what remained to be seen, and easily one might attribute his abundance of security to protecting his young daughter who would one day inherit his enterprise. After dozing off several times in the final act, Reginald decided to call it a night, slipping on his slides, zonked, walking through his art-filled halls before stopping at Victoria's room. She was already sleeping before he got home, so as any loving father would, he slowly cracked the door open to get a glance at her considering he'd leave before she even got the chance to get up for homeschooling.
Lit under the hazy moonlight from her window, the sight of her in slumber reminded the linchpin of his only soft spot, who he did all of this for, his little princess, Victoria. After her mother, his Mrs.Smith to his vice-based endeavors, was taken out by some photosynthesis-powered weirdo who he still has a hit out on to this day, Reginald vowed to protect Victoria to the extent that made her dislike him.
Her long hair likened her to Rapunzel, trapped on the top floor with little interaction in her father's built fortress. She was too young to understand, yet old enough to rebel. She didn't know of the dark consequences of her father's work but soon she would.
Reginald looked at her side, Victoria's body cupped like she tenderly embraced an absent teddy bear. It was odd, but not enough for him to draw suspicion. The thought of forgetting a book he intended to finish on his helicopter ride to his headquarters in the morning sidetracked him, so he went to his home office as a last stop before bed to retrieve it.
At this point, he walked into his oval-like office like a zombie. Opening the door, everything was of norm. Quasi-slumbered, Reginald made it to his home office’s desk. While he monologued angrily under his breath why his favorite sports team still sucked after checking his phone, the CEO managed to sit for a moment in his office chair. The second he sat down, it appeared something small pranced through the slither he left in the door. His eyes widened like he awoke from a nightmare at the realization that it was a cat. Jolting up, the cat’s lassoing tail around his neck forced him back down just as fast.
“You've been lying to me, Reggie.”
Mr. Whisker's small body began to convulse, fur rippling as his bones audibly cracked, limbs stretching, contorting, elongating to that of a human-esque figure. His menacing yellow eyes glowed like any cat’s would in the night, and the “gotcha” smirk on his face as his spotted fur transitioned to a sleek black was of Reginald’s worst nightmares. It was Merse, who did in fact, catch the bulletproof CEO linchpin, all of those things, with his pants down.
“You didn’t get the message the first time when I sent Edris. You thought you could disrespect me again by taking out one of my closest informants and hiding your hand? In return, I gained an even closer one to you. She rants often about how you're rarely home. Poor thing. She’s just getting to the tip of the iceberg of how much of a piece of shit her father is.”
“Victoria!” Reginald screamed, forehead veins bulging.
“As a CEO, you quickly grasped the stipulations. In case you didn't, this is how it's going to go from now on. You work for me.” Before the information broker could lecture further, his left ear twitched, keening in on an alarming sound.
As quickly as Merse was aware, an enormous, oval-shaped golden spacecraft shimmering with a moon-like glow several times larger than the mansion he stood in entered the air space above him. Veering ridiculously close, the spaceship possessing rings like Saturn was in full control.
“Reginald Cavala, your continuous crimes across known space end today as we, Orichalca, have deemed your reformation necessary.”
“Shit! I knew you were scum but not enough to get on their radar.”
Merse’s animal intuition led him to retake his form as an innocent house cat, relinquishing his grip on the CEO's neck. As soon as he did, a series of intricate Holographic rays penetrated every inch of the manor, ignoring walls, doors, even people. Nothing could cast a shadow and just like that, Reginald saw only black.
Golden Asteria
An extraordinary sight in the vastness of space, Asteria is a radiant utopia dependent on who you ask. Built upon a small terraformed asteroid operating more like a ship, this golden city is the proud home of the Orichalca, a tribe of space-fairing, winged, teal-skinned alien women warriors who go on long space “excursions” where they find resources for their society.
Asteria is encased within a shimmering, energy-infused dome that maintains a temperate climate fostering verdant landscapes, and a breathable atmosphere. This city is filled with lush gardens, sparkling waterfalls, and architectural marvels that blend natural beauty with advanced technology.
With all things beautiful, there is a not-so-hidden dark side. Their society is a matriarchy where women hold the highest positions of power and respect. Men in the city are emasculated, oppressed, slaving away at blue-collar labor with little chances for advancement or leadership. At the heart of the asteroid lies Asteria’s underground prison in the asteroid’s core. This high-security facility is a testament to their galactic might as they imprison the most vile and odious male rulers and criminals from countless corners around the galaxy to reform them.
The asteroid they're stationed on bestows magical abilities to their ordained warriors through ritual. Combined with their mystical weaponry, defense systems, and infrastructure, they were equipped to take on the various civilizations that aimed to steal from their golden city. It was truly a marvel of a stronghold to be revered throughout known space.
Human, or so Zourn thought. As a wavy brunette, she was undeniably beautiful, her sharp, striking features, surely making her the apple of someone's eye. Yet, beneath, her spirit was tinged with an unsettling depth of familiarity with others. She wasn’t an empath, though some considered her so. Lacking empathy, anyone she truly understood, she controlled. The Ecrui probably couldn’t make the correlation based on her overexposed senses, but several individuals on Earth held traces of her weaved into their very being.
A stick of dark-plum lipstick parted from Margaret Iedereen's gently smacking lips, gracefully twirling into its rose gold container before dropping into her classic Sac Faubourg Birkin resting on the table above her pencil skirt. All eyes sat on this woman seemingly without care in the world practicing her office beauty routine to a sour-faced audience. In the wake of Allure City's mass erasure and replacement of Spain, and the lockdown on her precious city, Earthlings searched desperately for signs of stress in her. Any sprinkle of doubt in her timeless visage, any stutter of words in her convicting tone, even a drop of sweat. Examining her defined brows in a compact mirror in her left hand, she didn't crack. Despite the sheer totality of individuals clamoring for her downfall outside of Earth’s Extraterrestrial Embassy, business was business, and Allureans could always count on their not-so-honest, not-so-duly elected, silver-tongued leader to work in their best interests. Her plate was stacked rather high, and rather than play with her food, she got straight down to the meat and potatoes enacting her current agenda, ranging anywhere from imperative to petty.
Beginning with petty, with her usual resting bitch face, Margaret’s almond-shaped eyes leered through her gem-studded birdcage veil into the tongue-biting agents of the room. An awkward silence inflated the space, only disrupted by the lynch mob outside the embassy broadcasted via the lone television of the conference room. “WE KNOW SHE PLAYED A PART IN THIS! MARGARET IEDEREEN IS COMPLICIT WITH THE CAT MAN!” They protested her right to live, let alone allow her to take refuge on Earth.
Folding her arms, bust buckling ever so slightly out of her caramel blazer, Margaret addressed the room. "Earthlings may protest, snivel, and cry out over my arrival, casting me as both a pariah to their society and a symbol of their imagined oppression. I find it quite amusing. History suggests I cannot be both, though the former would streamline operations. Yet, I must admit, I find the latter sentiment rather endearing."
Already over it, a man, clearly lacking dozens of hours of sleep at this point, sitting opposite the oval oak cherrywood table from her, slid a heavy manila envelope halfway across the table. The tall silent figure accompanying Margaret approached from the corner of the room, fetching the documents. One side of his body and entire face was wrapped in an excessive amount of bandages, reminiscent of a mummy freshly unearthed. The rest of his get-up contrasted greatly. Wearing an intricately designed jacket with asymmetric cuts, straps criss-crossing his torso, and pants that seemed to defy conventional tailoring with their unorthodox shapes and patterns, his avant-garde attire dangled as he stretched his arm to Margaret.
“Thank you, Ra.”
Margaret smirked, her eyes twinkling with a touch of mischief. As she perused the document before her, a hint of satisfaction curled the corners of her elegant lips.
“I see you admirably acquiesced to most of my stipulations. The Catch-22?”
A stick of dark-plum lipstick parted from Margaret Iedereen's gently smacking lips, gracefully twirling into its rose gold container before dropping into her classic Sac Faubourg Birkin resting on the table above her pencil skirt. All eyes sat on this woman seemingly without care in the world practicing her office beauty routine to a sour-faced audience. In the wake of Allure City's mass erasure and replacement of Spain, and the lockdown on her precious city, Earthlings searched desperately for signs of stress in her. Any sprinkle of doubt in her timeless visage, any stutter of words in her convicting tone, even a drop of sweat. Examining her defined brows in a compact mirror in her left hand, she didn't crack. Despite the sheer totality of individuals clamoring for her downfall outside of Earth’s Extraterrestrial Embassy, business was business, and Allureans could always count on their not-so-honest, not-so-duly elected, silver-tongued leader to work in their best interests. Her plate was stacked rather high, and rather than play with her food, she got straight down to the meat and potatoes enacting her current agenda, ranging anywhere from imperative to petty.
Beginning with petty, with her usual resting bitch face, Margaret’s almond-shaped eyes leered through her gem-studded birdcage veil into the tongue-biting agents of the room. An awkward silence inflated the space, only disrupted by the lynch mob outside the embassy broadcasted via the lone television of the conference room. “WE KNOW SHE PLAYED A PART IN THIS! MARGARET IEDEREEN IS COMPLICIT WITH THE CAT MAN!” They protested her right to live, let alone allow her to take refuge on Earth.
Folding her arms, bust buckling ever so slightly out of her caramel blazer, Margaret addressed the room. "Earthlings may protest, snivel, and cry out over my arrival, casting me as both a pariah to their society and a symbol of their imagined oppression. I find it quite amusing. History suggests I cannot be both, though the former would streamline operations. Yet, I must admit, I find the latter sentiment rather endearing."
Already over it, a man, clearly lacking dozens of hours of sleep at this point, sitting opposite the oval oak cherrywood table from her, slid a heavy manila envelope halfway across the table. The tall silent figure accompanying Margaret approached from the corner of the room, fetching the documents. One side of his body and entire face was wrapped in an excessive amount of bandages, reminiscent of a mummy freshly unearthed. The rest of his get-up contrasted greatly. Wearing an intricately designed jacket with asymmetric cuts, straps criss-crossing his torso, and pants that seemed to defy conventional tailoring with their unorthodox shapes and patterns, his avant-garde attire dangled as he stretched his arm to Margaret.
“Thank you, Ra.”
Margaret smirked, her eyes twinkling with a touch of mischief. As she perused the document before her, a hint of satisfaction curled the corners of her elegant lips.
“I see you admirably acquiesced to most of my stipulations. The Catch-22?”
Name: Edris Alder Horatio
Alias(es): U.S.N., Pitcher Plant, Agent E., Poison Edris
Gender: Male
Hair: Feign Lavender
Eyes: Dark Brown
Skin: Dark Olive
Height: 6’3
Distinctive Features: Annoyingly, flower petals seemed to randomly appear during his monologues, and no one can quite figure out why. Naturally, he gave off the slightest bit hint of pollen causing people to sneeze.
Likes: Women, Ackee & Saltfish, Beach Apples, Elderberry shakes, Yewberry pie, Honey-roasted Apricot kernels, Jatropha, and Cashew apple fruit snacks.
Dislikes: Being called Poison Edris
Appearance:
An impeccably tailored off-white tweed suit, to go with his absurdly proper posture. Examining closer, you'll notice the subtle herringbone pattern woven from the finest ivory and cream wool. Beneath, a soft cashmere white turtleneck with a silver Cuban link choker chain resting at the collar. His ensemble was in sartorial harmony with his slim-cut trousers matching his blazer. In the breast pocket, Edris sported a vibrant crimson rose, meticulously positioned to contrast and add a dynamic focal point. Hailing from the school of Bond, he blended elegance and sophistication with in-the-open, easily identified, explosive methods of espionage and unnecessary chaos.
Personality:
Habitual unsolicited winker, no woman was safe from the self-proclaimed heartbreak kid's “passionate” pursuit. Only second to his espionage escapades, his love bombing knew no bounds, often landing him in the company of not-so-innocent socialites, one half allured by his propensity to spring rare flowers on them, and other dangerously aroused by the prospect of this so-called agent's naïveté. His notorious at this point, lowered guard flew too close to the sun, but there was a reason why his assignment inbox was full. Many of his enemies by now figured his flirty, flower petal bullshit entangled antics as a front for a deadly killer, dubbing him The Pitcher Plant.
Powers, Skills, and Abilities:
As felt by nature, his passion burned with the white, hot intensity of a thousand suns. Enough to influence seedlings to sequoia with little time in between, he'd rather clench the thorniest rose between his pearly whites. Never wilting, his posture was absurdly great. His skin, photoshop fresh. The definition of his flexed muscles felt like snakewood. He'd attribute his way with ladies more to his charisma than acknowledge his natural cologne of pheromones.
Equipment:
Un-prettier Lance: A Lance as much a mystical force as it is a physical object. As the manifestation of nature's power, taking the form of a blade with an immeasurable Janka rating, Edris could blossom it out of a pot of collard greens on Thanksgiving if he wanted. Its unparalleled hardness and durability clashed with metals at no cost. Any chip reformed with evergreen vines and radiant chlorophyll, absorbing bright energy sources like sunlight. Only the rightful wielder can summon the full blade from any nearby plant or even the smallest mustard seed. It was an antenna for all things nature, life, and growth.
Seeds: Lots of them.
Seedshot: Crafted from ancient wood revered for its sturdiness, the Seedshot is both elegant and powerful. To the touch, it felt like cool iron. The “bullets” it shoots are extremely hard, imbued with natural energy allowing them to penetrate surfaces and germinate upon impact, rapidly growing into thick vines or entangling plants to immobilize targets. The gun itself is charcoal-black, ergonomic, and adorned with intricate gold leaf and vine engravings. Were there an assassin’s museum, it deserved its own exhibit.
Your Last Memory:
“One knee down, kissing the delicate opera-gloved hand of Jadwiga, a beautiful woman I had only just met at the Celestial Soiree, a gala serving as the main event of a long week celebrating breakthroughs in fashion, technology, and interstellar culture in the Prolix star system.”
Additional Plot Hooks:
Once, Margaret Iedeeren hired him to kill Merse, so promptly, our favorite anthropomorphic information broker shows up uninvited to her manor, having a destructive skirmish with Edris in her luxurious ballroom only for Margaret to show up in her bathrobe, mid-facial scrub, screaming at the top of her lungs for both of them to get out and that Edris would not be getting paid. The two shook on it as they had a relatively fun exchange and bid farewell. A very unorthodox beginning to their ongoing professional relationship.
Alias(es): U.S.N., Pitcher Plant, Agent E., Poison Edris
Gender: Male
Hair: Feign Lavender
Eyes: Dark Brown
Skin: Dark Olive
Height: 6’3
Distinctive Features: Annoyingly, flower petals seemed to randomly appear during his monologues, and no one can quite figure out why. Naturally, he gave off the slightest bit hint of pollen causing people to sneeze.
Likes: Women, Ackee & Saltfish, Beach Apples, Elderberry shakes, Yewberry pie, Honey-roasted Apricot kernels, Jatropha, and Cashew apple fruit snacks.
Dislikes: Being called Poison Edris
Appearance:
An impeccably tailored off-white tweed suit, to go with his absurdly proper posture. Examining closer, you'll notice the subtle herringbone pattern woven from the finest ivory and cream wool. Beneath, a soft cashmere white turtleneck with a silver Cuban link choker chain resting at the collar. His ensemble was in sartorial harmony with his slim-cut trousers matching his blazer. In the breast pocket, Edris sported a vibrant crimson rose, meticulously positioned to contrast and add a dynamic focal point. Hailing from the school of Bond, he blended elegance and sophistication with in-the-open, easily identified, explosive methods of espionage and unnecessary chaos.
Personality:
Habitual unsolicited winker, no woman was safe from the self-proclaimed heartbreak kid's “passionate” pursuit. Only second to his espionage escapades, his love bombing knew no bounds, often landing him in the company of not-so-innocent socialites, one half allured by his propensity to spring rare flowers on them, and other dangerously aroused by the prospect of this so-called agent's naïveté. His notorious at this point, lowered guard flew too close to the sun, but there was a reason why his assignment inbox was full. Many of his enemies by now figured his flirty, flower petal bullshit entangled antics as a front for a deadly killer, dubbing him The Pitcher Plant.
Powers, Skills, and Abilities:
As felt by nature, his passion burned with the white, hot intensity of a thousand suns. Enough to influence seedlings to sequoia with little time in between, he'd rather clench the thorniest rose between his pearly whites. Never wilting, his posture was absurdly great. His skin, photoshop fresh. The definition of his flexed muscles felt like snakewood. He'd attribute his way with ladies more to his charisma than acknowledge his natural cologne of pheromones.
Equipment:
Un-prettier Lance: A Lance as much a mystical force as it is a physical object. As the manifestation of nature's power, taking the form of a blade with an immeasurable Janka rating, Edris could blossom it out of a pot of collard greens on Thanksgiving if he wanted. Its unparalleled hardness and durability clashed with metals at no cost. Any chip reformed with evergreen vines and radiant chlorophyll, absorbing bright energy sources like sunlight. Only the rightful wielder can summon the full blade from any nearby plant or even the smallest mustard seed. It was an antenna for all things nature, life, and growth.
Seeds: Lots of them.
Seedshot: Crafted from ancient wood revered for its sturdiness, the Seedshot is both elegant and powerful. To the touch, it felt like cool iron. The “bullets” it shoots are extremely hard, imbued with natural energy allowing them to penetrate surfaces and germinate upon impact, rapidly growing into thick vines or entangling plants to immobilize targets. The gun itself is charcoal-black, ergonomic, and adorned with intricate gold leaf and vine engravings. Were there an assassin’s museum, it deserved its own exhibit.
Your Last Memory:
“One knee down, kissing the delicate opera-gloved hand of Jadwiga, a beautiful woman I had only just met at the Celestial Soiree, a gala serving as the main event of a long week celebrating breakthroughs in fashion, technology, and interstellar culture in the Prolix star system.”
Additional Plot Hooks:
Once, Margaret Iedeeren hired him to kill Merse, so promptly, our favorite anthropomorphic information broker shows up uninvited to her manor, having a destructive skirmish with Edris in her luxurious ballroom only for Margaret to show up in her bathrobe, mid-facial scrub, screaming at the top of her lungs for both of them to get out and that Edris would not be getting paid. The two shook on it as they had a relatively fun exchange and bid farewell. A very unorthodox beginning to their ongoing professional relationship.
Hmmm...
Do you have a character in mind?
@savvy in the IC? >_>
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