I like all the posting.
LorelleQuips Member
aka LadyCthulhu
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- LorelleQuips 8 yrs ago
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Writing. Cosplay. Musical theater. Smiling. Sunshine. Classic horror.
Give me witty banter or give me death.
Give me witty banter or give me death.
Most Recent Posts
Eheheh. I live for making people get funny looks in public.
And I didn't feel like it needed a ton more information, unless there is some atypical kind of gear that wasn't mentioned at all. I'm frankly okay with many things revealed during in-character posting.
And I didn't feel like it needed a ton more information, unless there is some atypical kind of gear that wasn't mentioned at all. I'm frankly okay with many things revealed during in-character posting.
On that note, I've very much been entertaining myself by trying to characterize the weirdo Erubescan scientist who was eccentric enough to come up with this but also somehow charismatic enough to convince the higher ups they should fund this project.
"Let's make a horse. With wings."
"Oh okay cool, like a Pegasus. That'll be popular."
"It must be smart. Like...person-smart."
"Yeah...okay, Dr., although--"
"And camouflage."
"Yeah okay, we have isolated the gene to make camo fur possible, but why--"
"You'll be able to read it."
"Huh?"
"Words will pop up on the horse so that it can communicate."
"Oh for the love. Want to make it effing jet-propelled while you're at it?"
"No. Don't be ridiculous."
"Let's make a horse. With wings."
"Oh okay cool, like a Pegasus. That'll be popular."
"It must be smart. Like...person-smart."
"Yeah...okay, Dr., although--"
"And camouflage."
"Yeah okay, we have isolated the gene to make camo fur possible, but why--"
"You'll be able to read it."
"Huh?"
"Words will pop up on the horse so that it can communicate."
"Oh for the love. Want to make it effing jet-propelled while you're at it?"
"No. Don't be ridiculous."
"It does, actually," said Spire, a shade of his artificial pleasantry fading to genuine interest. "Quite a lot."
"Yeah but um," said Toby. "It's the psychic. And the t--teleporter."
The approach of these new enemies added a note of urgency they could not ignore. Spire and Toby wanted to hang around for story time from this ancient sage so unnaturally existing in a young man's body. Spire and Toby also wanted to kill Montana - a process they knew would take longer than usual due to the strange, pensive man's healing factor.
Spire and Toby didn't have time for either.
This Montana had probably taken pure human lives with his own hands. Listening to old stories about the beginning of the Crown and the Hand - the factions - might let Montana incriminate himself. Most of the Gifted generation that could claim that feat was dead. For the Schippers, killing the spawn of the original genocidal murderers was one thing, but executing one of the original guilty party... Granted, Spire was pretty pleased to be doing any of the executing, but that might mean something powerful for Toby.
"We might have to take a rain check on the war stories, old man," said Spire genially. "We may have some hostile greetings coming up."
He and Toby shared a look. It was risky, but all they really needed to do was let the mind manipulator get in sight. Either Toby could shoot them, or Spire could use his power. If she seized control of one of their minds first, well...the other would just have to work fast. The teleporter could be handled afterward. Maybe Montana, inhuman though he was, had enough sense of gratitude to either stay out of the way, or join them.
But Toby forced himself not to think about that. The mind manipulator had to be getting close enough to begin to get a read on their surface thoughts, at least. Though he knew the invasive Curse could dig deep if the user wished, Toby tried to fill his head with the last thing he'd read (something he didn't know verbatim, so that he'd have to think about it) to keep a target off his back...or brain, as it were.
'Do not go gentle into that good night
rage, rage against the dying of the light....'
Nope. There's a line in between there. Something about burning and raging.
'Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have'...something about dancing in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light...'
This is a second-person address encouraging people to rage. Unfortunate choice.
'It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.'
....Okay. That's all I got of that one.
The urgency of Toby's squirming told Spire to follow suit on the misdirecting thoughts, though he took a bit of a different tac to turning his mind from violent intentions. Unlike Toby, he mused aloud, directing the comments loosely to Montana.
"This is turning out to be a full day. Got a kid back at our base I've got to get back to," he said, thinking of how Hel's shoes were getting worn out and too small for her, and how he should look in the old broken shops for something she could wear. "Not my kid. But a kid we look after. Telling her we found a very old guy locked in a box might be one of the weirder bits of news I've had the pleasure of reporting to her at bedtime..."
Playing the child card shamelessly, but, to be fair, honestly.
"Yeah but um," said Toby. "It's the psychic. And the t--teleporter."
The approach of these new enemies added a note of urgency they could not ignore. Spire and Toby wanted to hang around for story time from this ancient sage so unnaturally existing in a young man's body. Spire and Toby also wanted to kill Montana - a process they knew would take longer than usual due to the strange, pensive man's healing factor.
Spire and Toby didn't have time for either.
This Montana had probably taken pure human lives with his own hands. Listening to old stories about the beginning of the Crown and the Hand - the factions - might let Montana incriminate himself. Most of the Gifted generation that could claim that feat was dead. For the Schippers, killing the spawn of the original genocidal murderers was one thing, but executing one of the original guilty party... Granted, Spire was pretty pleased to be doing any of the executing, but that might mean something powerful for Toby.
"We might have to take a rain check on the war stories, old man," said Spire genially. "We may have some hostile greetings coming up."
He and Toby shared a look. It was risky, but all they really needed to do was let the mind manipulator get in sight. Either Toby could shoot them, or Spire could use his power. If she seized control of one of their minds first, well...the other would just have to work fast. The teleporter could be handled afterward. Maybe Montana, inhuman though he was, had enough sense of gratitude to either stay out of the way, or join them.
But Toby forced himself not to think about that. The mind manipulator had to be getting close enough to begin to get a read on their surface thoughts, at least. Though he knew the invasive Curse could dig deep if the user wished, Toby tried to fill his head with the last thing he'd read (something he didn't know verbatim, so that he'd have to think about it) to keep a target off his back...or brain, as it were.
'Do not go gentle into that good night
rage, rage against the dying of the light....'
Nope. There's a line in between there. Something about burning and raging.
'Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have'...something about dancing in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light...'
This is a second-person address encouraging people to rage. Unfortunate choice.
'It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.'
....Okay. That's all I got of that one.
The urgency of Toby's squirming told Spire to follow suit on the misdirecting thoughts, though he took a bit of a different tac to turning his mind from violent intentions. Unlike Toby, he mused aloud, directing the comments loosely to Montana.
"This is turning out to be a full day. Got a kid back at our base I've got to get back to," he said, thinking of how Hel's shoes were getting worn out and too small for her, and how he should look in the old broken shops for something she could wear. "Not my kid. But a kid we look after. Telling her we found a very old guy locked in a box might be one of the weirder bits of news I've had the pleasure of reporting to her at bedtime..."
Playing the child card shamelessly, but, to be fair, honestly.
Toby blinked, startled at being singled out. What kind of game was it to be put, seemingly randomly, on the spot for an answer when anyone's guess would have been as good as his own? "Um," he managed as his tongue jammed itself to the roof of his mouth in an apparent act of defiance. Perhaps Montana had noticed his reluctance to speak. The Cursed really were cruel.
Unlike his tongue, however, Toby's feet moved. Without so much as a conscious thought, he readjusted his footing to keep Spire out of potential line of fire, almost in sync with Montana's shift. Despite his mental scramble to make words go, he stepped on instinct, not suspecting for an instant that Montana was testing his caution.
He glanced only briefly at one of the paper dry corpses.
"Not sure," he mumbled. "It--c------c----------"
Toby's left shoulder rose to his ear as he tried to force the word out, a tic that tended to surface in situations like these: the 'talking to people who weren't Spire' situations.
Spire, who was watching Toby closely, was about to rescue him with a glib conversational redirection, but Toby managed to let spill the next few syllables: "---could have been years--with the weather so d--d--d-- with the weather so not-wet. Hard to know for sure. Unless...I d--don't think those Eru uniforms have been in circulation for a while. So, um." He cleared his throat and managed a weak smile. "My incredibly scientific c--conclusion is, 'a really, really long time.'"
He finished with a faint air of triumph at having played the game and reached the finish, in spite of being held up somewhere at the crossroads of block-stutter and nerves.
Spire's hands had returned to his pockets, back to the handles of the knives in the lining. If Montana intended to probe Toby like a lab specimen rather than share with the class how he'd ended up a Jack in the Box, Spire would grow bored quickly. Bored, and annoyed. Montana was only worth keeping around as long as he was more interesting alive than bleeding. But one other thing had sparked his attention.
"It's one thing to forget your age and another not to be interested in what decade it is. Sounds like you've been around for a while," Spire chuckled.
Long enough to have seen the factions founded? Long enough to have seen the human war? Long enough to remember before the Cursed overran the earth?
"I'm guessing you've seen a lot."
Toby, too, would have been fascinated by this possibility, had he not suddenly noted a spike in his internal radar. His gaze became glazed for a moment as he focused on the shift. That not quite a feeling, not quite a sound, not quite a thought pinging of his ability told him the psychic he had wanted to avoid was on the move, and headed in their general direction.
"Hey, um, we might have company soon," he mumbled. He didnt like to speculate what might happen if the mind manipulator got close enough to prod around in their heads.
Unlike his tongue, however, Toby's feet moved. Without so much as a conscious thought, he readjusted his footing to keep Spire out of potential line of fire, almost in sync with Montana's shift. Despite his mental scramble to make words go, he stepped on instinct, not suspecting for an instant that Montana was testing his caution.
He glanced only briefly at one of the paper dry corpses.
"Not sure," he mumbled. "It--c------c----------"
Toby's left shoulder rose to his ear as he tried to force the word out, a tic that tended to surface in situations like these: the 'talking to people who weren't Spire' situations.
Spire, who was watching Toby closely, was about to rescue him with a glib conversational redirection, but Toby managed to let spill the next few syllables: "---could have been years--with the weather so d--d--d-- with the weather so not-wet. Hard to know for sure. Unless...I d--don't think those Eru uniforms have been in circulation for a while. So, um." He cleared his throat and managed a weak smile. "My incredibly scientific c--conclusion is, 'a really, really long time.'"
He finished with a faint air of triumph at having played the game and reached the finish, in spite of being held up somewhere at the crossroads of block-stutter and nerves.
Spire's hands had returned to his pockets, back to the handles of the knives in the lining. If Montana intended to probe Toby like a lab specimen rather than share with the class how he'd ended up a Jack in the Box, Spire would grow bored quickly. Bored, and annoyed. Montana was only worth keeping around as long as he was more interesting alive than bleeding. But one other thing had sparked his attention.
"It's one thing to forget your age and another not to be interested in what decade it is. Sounds like you've been around for a while," Spire chuckled.
Long enough to have seen the factions founded? Long enough to have seen the human war? Long enough to remember before the Cursed overran the earth?
"I'm guessing you've seen a lot."
Toby, too, would have been fascinated by this possibility, had he not suddenly noted a spike in his internal radar. His gaze became glazed for a moment as he focused on the shift. That not quite a feeling, not quite a sound, not quite a thought pinging of his ability told him the psychic he had wanted to avoid was on the move, and headed in their general direction.
"Hey, um, we might have company soon," he mumbled. He didnt like to speculate what might happen if the mind manipulator got close enough to prod around in their heads.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
That.
That.
The man, surprisingly spry for one who could not have been comfortable crammed inside that container, looked young, but from what Toby knew from the Gift, he could have been around for millennia...and his eyes were unsettling. Glossy circles of ink.
"Well. You're quite welcome," said Spire. He had retreated a pace as the lid swung open, but he stepped back up to the lockbox to give it a clank with the side of his dusty hiking boot. "Nice place. How long have you been taking up residence in there?" he asked with a dry but affable smile.
"Spire..." said Toby wearily, impatiently. He couldn't shoot the man to any effect until Spire made the regeneration short-circuit. But Spire hushed him, the picture of ease.
"Oh, come on, kid. Don't tell me you're not curious," said Spire. Anyway, the regenerator didn't appear to be posing any immediate threat. "I'm Spire. This is Toby," said the older brother. On the extremely unlikely chance the man would know them by their first names, they'd just kill him, which was the plan anyway. Spire pulled one hand out of his pocket, where it had been settled on the smooth handle of a blade, to offer a hand shake. It would be a good, personable handshake, should the stranger choose to take it, nothing menacing or threatening about it. A good-faith gesture. A we-outnumber-you,-and-are-clearly-armed,-but-here-is-a-friendly-and-vulnerable-offer-to-show-we-mean-no-harm sort of gesture. With a dash of we-did-rescue-you-after-all. By all appearances, Spire was relaxed (but very intentionally not too relaxed--he had to adjust for the suspicion that always hung in the air of the Wastelands, of course. He manufactured fake emotions with the precision of a well-trained stage actor. "You got a name, or just...what I'm sure is a really interesting story?"
"Well. You're quite welcome," said Spire. He had retreated a pace as the lid swung open, but he stepped back up to the lockbox to give it a clank with the side of his dusty hiking boot. "Nice place. How long have you been taking up residence in there?" he asked with a dry but affable smile.
"Spire..." said Toby wearily, impatiently. He couldn't shoot the man to any effect until Spire made the regeneration short-circuit. But Spire hushed him, the picture of ease.
"Oh, come on, kid. Don't tell me you're not curious," said Spire. Anyway, the regenerator didn't appear to be posing any immediate threat. "I'm Spire. This is Toby," said the older brother. On the extremely unlikely chance the man would know them by their first names, they'd just kill him, which was the plan anyway. Spire pulled one hand out of his pocket, where it had been settled on the smooth handle of a blade, to offer a hand shake. It would be a good, personable handshake, should the stranger choose to take it, nothing menacing or threatening about it. A good-faith gesture. A we-outnumber-you,-and-are-clearly-armed,-but-here-is-a-friendly-and-vulnerable-offer-to-show-we-mean-no-harm sort of gesture. With a dash of we-did-rescue-you-after-all. By all appearances, Spire was relaxed (but very intentionally not too relaxed--he had to adjust for the suspicion that always hung in the air of the Wastelands, of course. He manufactured fake emotions with the precision of a well-trained stage actor. "You got a name, or just...what I'm sure is a really interesting story?"
What @Magister said, @Framing A Moose. Writer's block is totally understandable, but when it comes to role-playing, I'd prefer momentum over pretty writing any day. I'm guessing you'll find this crowd feels similarly. :) and I bet what you've written is better tham you think.
Considering how long that poor sucker appears to have been in there, it would appear this one can. XD
Two brothers stood at the crest of a hill at an edge of town, if the crumbling heaps of debris counted as a town. But it was just the kind of place to draw scavengers and hideaways. Ashrat fish in the proverbial barrel. A wanderer's playground like that was bound to draw in predators. Cats like rats and fish.
"What have we got?" asked Spire, the elder of the two, as he surveyed the broken, ash-dusted buildings with keen gray eyes.
The brothers, despite any and all prior use of cat metaphor, had an essence more canine than feline about them, the attractive, dark haired Spire showing something vaguely wolfish in his cool, dispassionate smile. The younger Schippers brother, Toby, might identify more closely with a golden retriever. His big eyes and the permanent furrow of concern in his forehead looked inherently trustworthy, and sky blue argyle sweatervests don't make very intimidating battle armor, whether you wear shoulder holsters over them or not.
"There's a group on the other side of the ruins," said Toby. They were only just in his sensory range, but he screwed his eyes shut to concentrate. "Invisibility...c--contact transmutation, something with body energy and heat..."
"Invisibility could be irritating," observed Spire, whose counter-Curse wouldn't work too well, or, well, at all, if he couldn't see the target.
"Yeah," said Toby. "There are some other stragglers. T--T--Teleporter... and then another one, um...oh." He shook his head. "Mind manipulator. He or--or she could know our intentions and make us k--kill each other before we even got close. So unless you want me to, you know, snipe from the top of the hill..." But he knew Spire never never did.
Spire made a noncommittal sound in his throat.
They spoke of picking victims with the casual air one might use to debate which brand of shoes to buy.
"Regenerator?" tried Toby. "Alone, at the moment." Though there were others in the ruins.
Spire smiled. "And could probably use some degenerating."
"I think we'll have an issue with making this one stay d--dead when you look away. Um. We'd probably have to cut the body up into pieces and put them in separate containers to prevent regeneration," said Toby, frowning. "For sure the head." He didn't look forward to the idea of that kind of mutilation even a little bit.
Spire, on the other hand, shrugged, his interest vaguely piqued. Tucking his hands in the pockets of his slim gray coat, he ran his thumb along the edge of a serrated blade that could probably handle the bone sawing he envisioned would happen in the near future. He wasn't usually one for going all Texas Chainsaw Massacre on people, appreciating rather the elegant simplicity of a sliced throat or a couple of slow-killing puncture wounds, but it wasn't like he minded the indulgence of a mess now and again. "Well, sounds like if we dont kill this bastard, nobody will."
"Thought you'd say that," said Toby with meek reluctance, and he started down the hill, focused on the aura of the regenerator.
They found a metal box where the Cursed should have been, surrounded by shriveled corpses. Toby could detect ability-related residue wafting from the area. This was a quizzical little scene.
Toby held onto his old but reliable Glock.
"Gift box? You shouldn't have," Spire remarked to no one in particular, taking a knee and proceeding to break the rusty padlock with a nearby brick.
"What have we got?" asked Spire, the elder of the two, as he surveyed the broken, ash-dusted buildings with keen gray eyes.
The brothers, despite any and all prior use of cat metaphor, had an essence more canine than feline about them, the attractive, dark haired Spire showing something vaguely wolfish in his cool, dispassionate smile. The younger Schippers brother, Toby, might identify more closely with a golden retriever. His big eyes and the permanent furrow of concern in his forehead looked inherently trustworthy, and sky blue argyle sweatervests don't make very intimidating battle armor, whether you wear shoulder holsters over them or not.
"There's a group on the other side of the ruins," said Toby. They were only just in his sensory range, but he screwed his eyes shut to concentrate. "Invisibility...c--contact transmutation, something with body energy and heat..."
"Invisibility could be irritating," observed Spire, whose counter-Curse wouldn't work too well, or, well, at all, if he couldn't see the target.
"Yeah," said Toby. "There are some other stragglers. T--T--Teleporter... and then another one, um...oh." He shook his head. "Mind manipulator. He or--or she could know our intentions and make us k--kill each other before we even got close. So unless you want me to, you know, snipe from the top of the hill..." But he knew Spire never never did.
Spire made a noncommittal sound in his throat.
They spoke of picking victims with the casual air one might use to debate which brand of shoes to buy.
"Regenerator?" tried Toby. "Alone, at the moment." Though there were others in the ruins.
Spire smiled. "And could probably use some degenerating."
"I think we'll have an issue with making this one stay d--dead when you look away. Um. We'd probably have to cut the body up into pieces and put them in separate containers to prevent regeneration," said Toby, frowning. "For sure the head." He didn't look forward to the idea of that kind of mutilation even a little bit.
Spire, on the other hand, shrugged, his interest vaguely piqued. Tucking his hands in the pockets of his slim gray coat, he ran his thumb along the edge of a serrated blade that could probably handle the bone sawing he envisioned would happen in the near future. He wasn't usually one for going all Texas Chainsaw Massacre on people, appreciating rather the elegant simplicity of a sliced throat or a couple of slow-killing puncture wounds, but it wasn't like he minded the indulgence of a mess now and again. "Well, sounds like if we dont kill this bastard, nobody will."
"Thought you'd say that," said Toby with meek reluctance, and he started down the hill, focused on the aura of the regenerator.
They found a metal box where the Cursed should have been, surrounded by shriveled corpses. Toby could detect ability-related residue wafting from the area. This was a quizzical little scene.
Toby held onto his old but reliable Glock.
"Gift box? You shouldn't have," Spire remarked to no one in particular, taking a knee and proceeding to break the rusty padlock with a nearby brick.
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