Lith

Beyblade :: The Last Genocide

Announcement Post:

July 12th 2023: Beyblade.

Beyblade :: The Last Genocide

__________________________________________________
Reference the OOC for announcements!
__________________________________________________

Long ago when the world was young, it was the year 2025. Kids did the majority of fighting in the world, using spinning tops called Beyblades to have battles. As was customary, they would unleash these spinning tops. Having your spinning top damaged would inflict real damage onto you through means unknown, and the victor would often kill the loser by stomping on them afterwards. This was considered legal and socially acceptable. Adults were incompetent at the game unless evil, in which case they are moderately decent at best. Life isn't fair sometimes, and your ability to drop a spinning top onto the ground decayed as you aged significantly. Such was life.

The lay of the land is simple. You know Earth. Who doesn't?



In the land of Zurkenjark, which is the one to the left kinda shaped like a boot I believe, as we all know, was a small suburb town called Suburb Town. Your adventure, my adventure -- our adventure begins there, comrade.

Action! Enter the town as either a 13 year old child or an evil adult, and do battle with your fellow Beyblader to the death!

Drama! Your Beyblade means everything. If it gets damaged in some fashion, this confers an unspecified but surely devastating penalty to it. I dunno how, maybe it affects air resistance. I dunno.

Romance! Actually. You know on second thought given this roleplay predominantly involves 13 year olds, please don't? I've uh, I've never really reported someone on this site before.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Zack McStreetsmart just finished murdering his neighbor in a legal and fair game of Beyblade, as oft an aspiring warrior would in this day and age.

And here was his signature Beyblade.



Bhra....Mr....dra.... Bahamut Zero. Bahamut Zero was the strongest Beyblade, in Zack's house. As to be expected as both of his parents were evil and attempted to do battle with him and are now dead. The fools.

Wiping the blood off his hands, Zack picks up Bahamut Zero, and takes a step outside. The sunlight was terrifying. It burned his eyes and baked his skin. It was as though some comically malicious god had erected a Beyblade in the sky that constantly did damage to all of Earth's inhabitants. One day, Zack reasoned he would find this entity and kill the Sun. A reasonable goal your average 13 year old had, did I mention public education had been abolished due to most instructors being murdered by Beyblades? I feel I should've specified that earlier. Well now I have. Keep that in mind.

Ban the User Above You

Banned for high probability of being a sailor.

Jack In! Megaman Battle Network RP

*I'm* gonna be in elementary school. Just as it was meant to be!

Jack In! Megaman Battle Network RP

Hohoho, at last, SnakeMan.exe can triumph. I just might *jack in*, I've been working on a tabletop campaign involving MMBN (and North Korean historical drama but let's ignore that for now).

Are we just gonna wing it on battle chips and e-mails or will be there be something mechanical at play?

Word association Game!

Murders!

Hey I'm LeeRoy!

Greetings individual. Welcome back to the Guild. Enjoy your stay, may I recommend the casual forum or perhaps a word game?

TNT - The Nameless Tavern. (Always Open)

^{@ProxyInc and @Dark Cloud and the delayed post}

🐍
<< Alcoholic Establishment >> The Game is Afoot!

As Ophelia, "Wench" leaned over her shoulder to gauge the wild haired man's interpretation -- she would likely come to a startle. Why? Because in reaction, he had turned his head to face her, eyes... well his eyelids were drooped a bit. Still, it was a reaction time both impressive and excessive, as though he couldn't let someone face him without staring them down. Inappropriate spacing, inappropriate boundaries -- and yet none of that seemed to phase the already drunken man wearing his snake embroidered clothing.

Drank fast.. and drunk fast. A lightweight.

His words came out without slurring, pompous tone melting away to an unusually open hearty gravel in the words that flowed out of him: "Of course cards can predict the future. Only an imbecile would doubt the capabilities of magic. That's not important. Listen. You're armed. I'm going to level with you." Squinting just a moment to regain his focus, as though Washed Up wasn't there and it was only the two of them alone in this little tavern, his teeth and tongue moved independent of each other with such articulation: "I'm pretty sure the owners of this establishment were murdered, and that we are in a different space and time than where we began. The two may or may not be related. That's not important. What is, is we need to shake the place down. There's no way this old man would be allowed to do half of what he's done otherwise. It's simple deduction. Look at him."

Right hand gesturing erratically at Krin, his left defiantly pointed at the floor to punctuate his statements while his voice momentarily traced off before regaining strength. "Two feet in the grave. Pitiful, I'll deal with that later. Soon more'll realize it's free reign here and then it'll be anarchy. Got to crush the dissidents while they don't know we know. Deal those future telling cards, that'll give us quite an advantage in our approach." His breath besides the burn of alcohol laced within was hot yet, of one whom had upper echelon hygiene for his region at least.

Striking while the iron was hot, it was a stroke of pure luck that the street urchin harlot was in fact a prophet with diving cards. He didn't expect that. But it was quite opportune. If she could give him the drop on these... what would they even be. Thieves? No, to call them thieves implies theft is the primary goal when clearly they desire to use this establishment as honey for springing the trap; these monsters, then she was of paramount use. And the old beast could, while clearly a racial supremacist that needed to be beaten to a pulp, redeem himself via becoming a meat wall for imminent harm. Fortuitous for them all. It wasn't often you got a chance to redeem your honor like that!

But if it was the opposite. If she was perhaps a manipulator of fate, a participant in this dark affair.. then Omi had them both right where he wanted them.

Soon.

Either way, all too soon, it'd be time to gorge himself on blood until he vomited. Metaphorically of course, he was still cross the faux bartending thief didn't search the back for baked goods and pastries.

TNT - The Nameless Tavern. (Always Open)

^{@ProxyInc and @Dark Cloud}

🐍
<< Alcoholic Establishment >>

*Lurch* went back his body, righting himself as his mouth wrapped around the bottle neck to toss back a large gulp accompanied by a dismissive "Of course of course~" -- for the crisis had been adverted. Alcohol, obtained. Bottled no less, it was less probable to be poisoned. Not impossible, if he began sagging then in his final moments he'd kill Washed Up. But in the realm of probabilities it occupied a lower level. And Street Urchin, she wanted him to promise some lofty thing like a bid of aid despite them not knowing one another's titles. Prideful.. and useless. Easy to boast yes to.

Just like that. Just like that he had exited the limelight. Now he just had to slither into the background after this little fortune telling exercise the drunkard elder played with the wound up harlot.. and none would be the wiser. He could resume his hunt. For real sustenance. The true divine, cake, pastries. Yes.

Yet as the honey liquor flooded down his meat hole and washed down his throat carrying through the intricate crevices within the human body, a stillness came to his shaking pupils. Excellent. This wasn't swill. The ex-military veteran turned bar thief who handed him this must not've appreciated the year nor value. Obvious it was they were a thief now, in that they so harshly refused coin; weary of a trail to their misdeeds and more permitting to hand out inventory not theirs to dissuade trouble. Loathsome imbecile.

Omi was of no noble blood himself, he began at the very bottom in the harsh sands and the brutal treatment of his betters. But that was what fueled his thirst for rising, not succumbing to these... gulp, baser impulses. Least the kind that made you a faux bar patron.

Lips pulling back in a sharp toothed grimace, the bottle was already halfway down in shocking time. Yeah. He had no special love for the local government either what with being what amounted to a foreign emissary, nor a fondness for their authority and guards entrenched within town limits. But, this tavern was obviously poor. Barely staffed and worse managed. Probably barely getting by with this clown show on display. Yet he dared rob it anyway? There was no grand display here, no huge bounty. No riches. There wasn't a challenge. It was commoner goods, commoner means, and even that.. wasn't allowed?

Chink sounded his gauntlet metal grinding against the bottle neck with a bit too much force. What was it then? Lack of empathy for small business owners or.. was it his race? Judging by the clientele and the means, it was likely human owned assuming they still lived. That what it was? Old mangy mongrel of a beast-man seized opportunity, looked down on the human owner, cut their throat, and now's liquidating what ain't able to be carried off before law enforcement arrives? Keeping the illusion of operations afloat until nightfall where he disappears, avoiding consequences, avoiding responsibility? Now that wasn't okay. Think human're cattle now? Think..

GULP GULP GULP went the burning elixir with a face eerily gaining more lucidity not losing it to inebriation, a stillness in facial features most unnerving, a thousand yard stare fixed not three feet ahead. Suddenly the bottle's base found itself planted on the bar counter with a touch too loud a thud.

No. None of that was okay. Perhaps it was time to play town guard.

TNT - The Nameless Tavern. (Always Open)

^{@ProxyInc and @Dark Cloud}

<< Alcoholic Establishment >>

Shoulders slumping. One lens obscured eye caught a hint of the bar lighting and kept it opaque. Previously wild smile, erased; replaced by a somber pursed set of lips.

”Excuse me, sir,”
"Oi the fu-"
”A bit rude, don’t ya think? Coming in and intruding upon a business proposition like ya did.”
"Whoever the fuck you are here, just-" "Take it, no charge at all on the house. And uh..."

No. No no no. No, no NO no.

”I dare say I think you owe our dearest barkeep more than just a decent tip, sir."
"Good gods, sir-"
"As for me, I think I can let you off with an apology.”

NO NO NO NO NO-

"I ain't a bloody pastry chef."



And like that, it all stopped. A stillness, a quietness, to this dystopian nightmare he had awoken into. Had time truly halted, or was Omi sucked into a true delusion? None were to say, none could judge, none could perceive but he. And though the bizarre man's body could not move either, in this state of timeless self reflection, he did not bother questioning it. That was just a price. A price for time to ponder.

"Alright. Let's regroup." Words without lips moving, meaning without sound. Thus began his internal monologue made external, to an audience of one. "I've never seen this business before. It's unlikely to have been constructed in the short time I was away.. yet here I am. I know, I ABSOLUTELY know, I first entered from the eastern gates of Latent. The first contradiction. This should not exist and yet it does. Secondly, it is staffed by degenerate beast-men who smell of liquor and mud." Stillness, quiet, yet his eyes still moved. "And, patronized by.. I don't even know what. Sassy, likely armed women of a younger age; probably orphaned. Likely a brigand. Latent was never this poor off, they wouldn't have drunkard rejects for waiters and muggers for customers. Furthermore, neither of these "people"," The sound of clapped lips and drawn breath was imparted, yet neither took place. Neither could take place. "Neither one recognizes me despite my renown. So we must assume the very worst."

Muttering and meandering of vocals for a moment before "Mmm, no, there are two possibilities. Three? Three. The first: I've been egressed from Latent, against my knowledge, to this unknown land. Second, I was perhaps, frozen? Frozen in some kind of stasis, unknown to time and unknowing to change. So then this is the Latent of say, a century or two ahead, dumbed down and unwashed. That could be. Alright. Alright, I have to assume then that their senses are muddled, their intelligence is worse, and their ability to be sophisticated is nonexistent. No, no EVEN.. even if it is the former. Was there three? Oh I've already forgotten the third possibility. Let's assume for now we are no longer in modern Latent. Bother. So then. The bartender is just incompetent and the woman is trying to intimidate me to establish power. I see. I see!"
_____________________________________________________

To those around him, the man said not a word. Nothing of the above took place. It was not reality, not their reality. He seemed for just an instant "spacey." Nothing more.

But that energy shot through him like lightning once more, as his fanged teeth suddenly flashed white with their exposed enamel and glint first at the bartender as though to entirely disregard the other customer: "Why my apologies fine sir, I must have mistaken this for a different sort of establishment. Free of charge simply won't do, I will make sure when I'm done imbibing to tip you most handsomely. Thank you very much~" Absolute adrenaline rush, the lightest tinge of sweat, blood vessels swimming -- yet his voice. Now it was much more even toned, with an almost sultry rattle of stones. You could certainly interpret it as condescending.

Much more so as he suddenly looked over his shoulder in a sudden lurch, half-masked face at a 50 degree rotation eyeballing the third component to this social exchange: whatever her name was. Truth be told, if this was a foreign land in space or time, Omi didn't see the need to know titles of a bartending drunkard and a street urchin. So then he'd name them appropriately within: Washedup and Urchin. Urchin had prodded him and made some thinly veiled threat. So never once minding the social faux paus underway with Omi's face uncomfortably close and fully exposed to reprisal or attack -- he thought to smooth the situation over.

"Likewise you've my apologies, I only assumed a smith at their station creates swords and a bartender at his bar serves drink. It was not my intention to slight you nor your business." Still not a single blink. It was unnerving. His neck was exposed. Madness could be a justification one gives for the behavior, yet.. his posture reeked of confidence. As though awkwardly elbow propped against a bar counter with his head comically turned sideways ignoring his flank was the most natural and secure one could ever hope to be. As his hands worked to grasp the bottle sans a single glance in that direction, his brown eyes were boring Urchin. It was anything but natural in feel. "I can fetch you a coin for your inconvenience once I have my bearings about me. What say you, fine lady? Would you forgive my rudeness?" A question asked with a barely contained curling of his lips; something about the question humored him greatly.

Yet, it was necessary. Pests swarmed in packs. He didn't need trouble with the local low lives; not just yet. If placating this woman and showing simple courtesy to the likely illegal employee was enough to deter needing to take action, it was a cost worth paying. Even if his fatigue was washing away with a brutal tension building within, it would not disappear forever. He would eventually need lodging, not blades and arrows in his sleeping form.

No. He'd imbibe the whisky, in increments as to ascertain the odds of it being poisoned.. and then after slipping the offended parties their bribery, fetch his jacket which Omi just KNEW was safely upfront and depart to better decipher where he was. That was the likely day's agenda.