Noxious

An Unholy Mass: Warhammer 40,000 RP [Black Crusade Inspired] [Mature Content]

She rested her head on a bench, blonde curls suffocating one another in an attempt to bind and knot into dreadlocks and escape the lack of care and constant fluctuating dampness even as they fell from her horizontal angle towards the unsavory floor. She had been grasping at sleep with languid claws, but it continued to dart about with the rest of her thoughts. She shuffled skeletal fingers through the mess, not to control but to relocate, as her head canted to take in the dim seedy establishment her employer had offered up for cheap. Her present lodging did little to abate her elation; rather, it appeared a mere window to a yawning expanse she had yet to explore.

She abandoned sleep with a caustic sigh and sat up, tapping a lho-stick against the arm of the bench and then pressing it between lips devoid of any healthy pallor. A blaze stemmed from an igniter and cast a glow upon her paling eyes that fell shut for a brief moment as she inhaled. Upon exhale her eyes reopened and it became apparent that her right eye had succumbed to an inky blackness that crept from her pupil like a rotted root systems into the sclera. If it bothered her, she didn’t let it show; her lips were resting in a pleased manner about the lho-stick as she began tying up her boots.

She had always been an outworlder, born and raised in a civilized world that’s population barely boasted half a billion and hive cities had been of little interest in her past life. To be fair, nothing had been of any real interest in her past life. There had been mention of hive worlds from visiting friends in the past life; their voices foggy echoes laced in acedia mirroring her own so that she could barely recall what she’d been told, something about pollution and overcrowding. Their distaste had been palpable, but as she rolled it around her mouth she let her own palate savor the promise of such an inimical place. Abhorrent smells, disturbing people, surrounded by sin with the sanctimonious looming just out of reach for the masses; what more could a girl ask for?

She’d even been provided with something to keep her busy. While Nurgle was ever present in her fever muddled mind, his bidding didn’t always pay. The jobs that did pay were never exclusive though; she could always do a little something something for Nurgle. She thought about forming some sort of plan as she pulled her flak jacket off the back off the bench and slipped it on; a plan to locate the young boy with an affinity for narcotics and easy women. He owed a few debts, enough that someone was willing to pay her to find him. She opened the small door and took another drag of the stick. Her soul purred something pleasing as she looked out at the underbelly, coaxing her, and making a plan would have to be plan B. She pulled a hood from beneath her jacket over her messy hair, failing to hide the depraved smile but adding a bit of anonymity to her stroll. A levity of fate swallowed the weight of her stride so that she bounced easily through the door and into wretched depths of the hive.

[closed]

I'M BACK! AND HAPPY LATE BIRTHDAY @Rockette!

I was in hospital for 5 days because of damn stomach pains. There's a possibility I need by spleen and gallbladder removed.

So that happened.

@Wade Wilson

Ugh. That sounds terrible! I hope everything starts looking up.

Sacred Arms: a Tale of Heroes

Tacache Zas Shik'isn

^XXVII
Thirty-three || Human-Sylvan || Female

[+]

.Appearance

Her form was as human as she was; 5’10” with limbs and digits lengthier than average proportions and tipped with claws strong enough to rip a throat out with ease. She appears slightly gaunt, with skin the color and feel of the ice she hails from; eyes reflecting a similar pale coloration with slit pupils that recalled something beastly. No one can be quite sure about the wendigo-human aging process but a youthful demeanor infiltrated all actions and thoughts. Her ears shot from behind snow white hair, pointed and exceptional at their duties. Her lips were pale, contrasting greatly with the blood that always found itself a home during battle; beneath those lips a predators jaw contained elongated and sharp canines and bicuspids. A Templar militaristic tattoo graces her neck, reading her birth name “XXVII.”

.Biography

There was no birth, no mother or father, and no childhood to speak of. It was rare even that she was allowed into existence in the anti-magic state Vroncroft, but even the Templar could be tempted by the promise of military perfection. Thus, the Wendigo Project was initiated, a secret even among the secretive; because according to any known documentation, she did not exist. But, she did. Twenty-seven of thirty, XXVII, an inartistic tattoo presented to the girl upon birth. Perhaps her existence would be legitimized if the program had been a success, but it was anything but. Of the original thirty created in the Wendigo Project there were only four still under the observation and acceptance of the commanders that created them.

Eleven were executed for their inability to control their malevolent nature before the project had reached its tenth year. The remaining subjects were forced to watch; conditioning they called it. She stood there, a nameless face among the others, as they unceremoniously injected the children who resisted control. They couldn’t resist the noxious influx that dissipated their lives though. Afterwards, they were expected to be forgotten, cremated, as if they never existed. The only telltale sign was the growing gaps in numbers. She no longer bunked, ate and sat next to XXVI and XXVIII, instead she was placed by XXI.

None were untouched by the wicked wendigo within, but the survivors learned to keep quiet about it. She herself was plagued with the dreams she never talked about, dreams in which the wendigo calls to her, starving and gluttonous. The fear that welled up from these dreams were not fear of the wendigo, but rather the “conditioning” coming into play. When it’s sickly sweet voice racked across her soul, a part of her, calling for her to come home, all she could do was picture those children. Even now, two decades later, she sees them, small and helpless as they were exterminated.

As their militaristic training continued the perils that became “cause for termination” grew. They were expected to kill, but not to imbibe their kills. They were expected to hunt, but not to press themselves so awkwardly among nature. They were expected to be human monsters, not monster monsters. Eight more were exterminated during their first drills in the outside world. She kept her head down, did as she was told and only escaped at night. She welcomed her wendigo dreams, whispering secrets with her only friend while the world slept.

It wasn’t long after the group had dwindled to eleven before the murmurs among her kin began. She couldn’t allow herself to be tempted; how could they? They had seen the same repercussions as she had, but they foolishly believed that talking was not an offense. Perhaps if it had ended with words they would have been correct, but during the night four of them ran away. The seven remaining were tasked with hunting them down and destroying them. She had hoped it would be difficult, the killing. She expected some pang of consciousness would clasp her hand before she could deliver a final blow; but she felt no guilt, no temptation to desist. She slaughtered two of them like the monster that she was. As she clawed at XVI’s neck, ripping the flesh so that the head could be returned to her masters she noticed the arcane arm. She had every intention of passing it off along with the head, but something stopped her. It stopped her.

Her collection of friends had been doubled.

Killing their own proved too much for her dwindling siblings and three of the remaining seven were removed from the facility. Their fate is unknown, presumed dead. It was abundantly clear the project was a failure and should be terminated. The four remaining genetic abominations would be dispersed to alleviate any blame or suspicion, and were also expected to keep eyes and ears open for the missing three. Other than finding her siblings, which she mentally placed at the bottom of her to-do list, their instructions were to kill demons and enemies of the Templar. For the first time in her life she had been given no strict orders. She had been given a semblance of freedom, though the threat of observation from the Templar was ever present, pushing her down a thin gray line mirroring her existence. She often feared they would find out about the arcane arm that had been gifted to her, but if they did know about it, they made no move to acquire it.

.Other

Terrified of fire, thanks to the wendigo. If you ask a human to stop breathing they can attempt it, but in the end they will gasp for breath. Her fear of fire is similar. She can attempt to force herself into proximity and may even be able to maintain for a short period, but in the end the fear, supplanted as a will to survive, will override.

Soul Wretch

[+]

.Origin; arcane arms

Eons ago there was a being whose fate had been read long before it would come to pass, an existence plotted by ancient gods and scrawled in the burning endurance of gaseous balls far from the reach of prophets. He would be known by a mark that followed the shell from the womb; a paleness and cold touch, an evil. A predestined existence, but when he was born, he didn’t want to be evil. They told him he was and his amassing magical abilities were sure confirmation, but still, the boy struggled with such a destiny. He didn’t feel evil.How could one close off the awe inspiring beauty that surrounded each existence and become the foil to their own wants?

In an effort to summon his own self-acceptance, he began work on a magical talisman. It was an intricate metal skull, formed of blended metals whose origins spanned the cosmos. The metal was fused with the hands of his shell, imperfect things that pressed hot and cold energy into its form. Those same troublesome digits ascribed prophetic inscriptions and unknown rituals that laced the shell of the talisman. A final stone, one meticulously chosen from a century aged death shroud of a virgin oracle, was pressed into the forehead as he prayed to ancient deities for inner sight. The Talisman proved to be an effective amplifier of his magic. He could invade minds and manipulate the fates of others, but still, he could not realign his own to it’s foretold majesty. He died, disgraced, and worse yet, loved.

His aged and spindley fingers wrapped about the talisman, clutching it to his decaying chest, until his race and history had fallen away and been replaced. It was oft told with a tinge of sadness for the boy, but defying fate seemed to her a noble goal, one that whispered late into the night, kindred to her own soul. Of course, it’s just a story and variations do exist. Some say that he was evil and the creation of the arcane arm turned him good, but she favored the first story.

.Activation; arcane arms

The small, yet impossibly tenacious talisman hastily forms a bond with the curator, whispering into their mind in an ancient dialect both exotic and familiar, eerie and comforting. It is assured that each possessor has a different experience with the talisman, and her own was nothing short of revolutionary. It provided companionship when she was alone in the yawning and bleak expanse of the tundra. She would wrap her claw-like nails about her favored friend and her eyes would drift closed while power pulsed from it’s small form, entering and exiting her body with wiles barely contained. It soon blended seamlessly with her own psyche and the magic was used as habitually as a blade for a warrior.

.Cast Out; standard

From the depths of the curator “consciousness” is pulled asunder, creating a duplication of herself that can exist stand alone or possess a soulless body; most commonly the dead. Initially the ability failed to balance the pieces of consciousness in both forms so that one was almost purely wendigo, leaving the other human. This happens infrequently now, but it can still be a gamble.

.Take In; alternate

After Tacache has ingested some form of body matter, quite an easy process for one who hunts with teeth and claws, she can take in the victim. The ability weaves magic through the foreign body matter and chases it back to it’s origin, battering down any defenses and splaying open the chosen mind like a road map for the curator. While reading another being is not an exact science, it requires focus and the being to have some sort of soul force. Occasionally the chosen mind will linger within her own for a short time, which can be quite bothersome, but not deadly.

.Body Heist; overbreak

A sort of melding of the first two abilities, Body Heist allows the curator to cast out a piece of their own "consciousness" into a victim whose body matter has been ingested. Temporarily this gives the curator control of their own body as well as control over the victim. A strong willed individual can put up a mental fight, but the arcane arm suppresses any physical control, so again, this is more bothersome than anything else. It is assumed that lengthy habitation in another shell would be detrimental to the curator’s overall psyche.

.Army of Mine; unleashed

The curators "consciousness" shatters into a multitude of entities capable of inhabiting dead, inanimate objects and/or consumed victims. It is unclear what lasting effects this will have on the curator.

TLDR TACACHE

& Wendigo/human female created by the Templar of Vroncroft
& Afraid of fire
& Arcane Arm called Soul Wretch deals with duplication and possession

Sacred Arms: a Tale of Heroes

You want us to post CS's in the character tab?

An Unholy Mass: Warhammer 40,000 RP [Black Crusade Inspired] [Mature Content]

Mondays are my busy days so if I don't get posted up tonight it will be tomorrow. Good posts so far!

[closed]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY! MAY THE BEERS FIND YOU!
^{if you are into that}

ςнαяαςтєяş × яøℓєρℓαчş

Rosalux

“When the Imperium talks about decay and disease, they very often focus upon ailments of the body. They are always so base. Far worse is the decay in one’s mind that belittles existence to the point of forcing a candle to flicker, coaxing the wind and licking the wax in an attempt to fade away. A flame is meant to burn strong and ferocious, to ravage landscapes without bias, not to be trapped in a wax house.”

“I was that candle. Groomed and pampered, a pedigree pet put on a pedestal to suffocate in apathy. I’d been disgusting and wasteful; doing no good, bad, doing nothing. Like you. They would tell me how lucky I was to be coveted and protected, but a disease-like stagnation settled upon me. I know now that I was searching for something long before he found me.”

She spoke with resolve and a twisted sort of adoration. The way those words stretched her pale lips hinted at the charm and education groomed into upper class and if fear hadn’t clenched his reactions he would likely have found the girl attractive, in a sickly sort of way. Blonde hair continually curling underneath an oppressive heat that exuded from her and eyes as pale green as death that whispered paradoxical promises to what sanity the fever had not possessed.

“W..why are you telling me all of this?”

“Because how else would I save you?”

“Are...Aren’t you going to kill me?” She looked down at the hog tied man beneath her lithe form. His face was half pressed into the ash and grit of this burial tomb he had led her into and tears, clean and lost, fell from his eyes causing his voice to quiver. Her eyebrows quirked in what could only be shock, and maybe a little hurt. She had spent weeks tracking him down, hunting him specifically and he thought she was just going to kill him? She couldn’t let him ruin this moment.

“You haven’t been listening at all. I’m not some psychopath.” She remembered then that he was still confused. There was a pause before a laugh slipped from between her lips, joyous and, in other circumstances, infectious. Almost as much as her fever damp fingers that petted across his cheek while she spoke. “I’m not going to kill you. I’m going to send you home, a savior.”

Currently, he was no one but a connection to the Imperium, but she knew he could be so much more. The hunt had proved he was resourceful and strong willed, taking much longer than initially expected. She had become quite adept at tracking down the things she wanted. Originally it had all been about the book, but after such an elaborate chase she had seen the fighter inside of him. Nurgle would be so pleased.

It would be days before the Weeping Widow consumed him, weeks if he was as strong as she hoped. Men rarely survived the disease, hence its colloquial tag. She felt such pride that she could only beam down at him like a coveting mother, like she had with her own son years ago.

The baby had been quarantined as the Weeping Widow’s plague corrupted their country. The poverty stricken were embraced first as the wealthy locked themselves away and dismissed their servants. All of it was in vain, Nurgle does not care about status. The Imperium and their corpse god were not coming to the rescue as promised; and why would they? They had no might to reclaim the conquests of a stronger god. It had been two weeks and the taint had made it into every home. With the servants dismissed it wasn’t difficult to make it to her son’s side. She lay with him, petting the infant’s plagueless forehead and letting him grab and suck upon her fingers, damp with disease. A smile had claimed residence on her lips; such a lucky boy indeed, to never have to look back at wasted life. He would live forever with the knowledge of struggle and the vibrant joy that erupted from such.

“Of course, you may be angry at first. I was. There is an initial desperation and agony. My own was immense, consuming, a burning fire unchecked. I was dying; hateful and aghast at my own misfortune and my old god. Under the guise of fevered dreams they came to me. Nurgle. It was impossible to imagine a time this didn’t make sense. How had my reality been so tainted that I could not see such a blatant truth? The truth of everything. This was my freedom, the Weeping Widow plague that defiled my planet, devouring souls relentlessly for Nurgle. My husband would no longer force me to stay. They would no longer expect dutiful stagnation.” Her captured prize continued eking out pathetic whimpers while the hand extending from her flak jacket continued to caress his cheek. She was careful not to mar his appearance with her clawlike nails, even as she ignored his protests and continued on. “You’ll be free too, after the pain.”

“It is said that after Nurgle’s embrace the torment is no longer there; the ailment exists but the pain is replaced. I believe this. I believe my pain came from my pride and the deceit of the Imperium about the goals of existence. I saw clearly the waste and disgust I had rooted in for years. The pain ceased because I realized the futility of that life.”

“Please, please stop. Just let me go. I can pay you.” Her eyes rolled as another giggle chimed from her throat. The ash of the fallen stuck to the tears upon his face that she stroked away. The infection from her fingertips had long soaked into his pores and now she was simply trying to comfort the man.

“You’ll see.” Long lashes pinched in a wink as she removed her weight from on top of him, jingling the clip/drop harness that hugged her hips. She reached into his pocket and pulled out a communication device she knew contained a tracker. Spidery digits tapped on the controls and connected with his employer before she tossed the tech beside him.

“They’ll come for you and you can tell them about me, but they’ll kill you on the spot. Or you can fight the good fight.” She knew what he would choose. It was her absolute favorite part of humanity; that pesky drive to survive. She slipped the book, one that claimed to be the account of a psyker who had ventured to Nurgle’s plain, into a satchel at her side and turned towards the entrance of the cave. As her feet moved en route to the exit they began a skipping rhythm. In the decay behind her she dragged an open blade chassis chain sword, rusted and corroded. He continued to whimper and sob, hopefully on the path of desperation, as she slipped from his view. His muffled sobs were soon overwhelmed with her own humming; an enchanting diddy she’d picked up a trader’s station.

Ideas on Appearance

.....

ςнαяαςтєяş × яøℓєρℓαчş

TACACHE

Tacache Zas Shik'isn

^XXVII
Thirty-three || Human-Sylvan || Female

[+]

.Appearance

Her form was as human as she was; 5’10” with limbs and digits lengthier than average proportions and tipped with claws strong enough to rip a throat out with ease. She appears slightly gaunt, with skin the color and feel of the ice she hails from; eyes reflecting a similar pale coloration with slit pupils that recalled something beastly. No one can be quite sure about the wendigo-human aging process but a youthful demeanor infiltrated all actions and thoughts. Her ears shot from behind snow white hair, pointed and exceptional at their duties. Her lips were pale, contrasting greatly with the blood that always found itself a home during battle; beneath those lips a predators jaw contained elongated and sharp canines and bicuspids. A Templar militaristic tattoo graces her neck, reading her birth name “XXVII.”

.Biography

There was no birth, no mother or father, and no childhood to speak of. It was rare even that she was allowed into existence in the anti-magic state Vroncroft, but even the Templar could be tempted by the promise of military perfection. Thus, the Wendigo Project was initiated, a secret even among the secretive; because according to any known documentation, she did not exist. But, she did. Twenty-seven of thirty, XXVII, an inartistic tattoo presented to the girl upon birth. Perhaps her existence would be legitimized if the program had been a success, but it was anything but. Of the original thirty created in the Wendigo Project there were only four still under the observation and acceptance of the commanders that created them.

Eleven were executed for their inability to control their malevolent nature before the project had reached its tenth year. The remaining subjects were forced to watch; conditioning they called it. She stood there, a nameless face among the others, as they unceremoniously injected the children who resisted control. They couldn’t resist the noxious influx that dissipated their lives though. Afterwards, they were expected to be forgotten, cremated, as if they never existed. The only telltale sign was the growing gaps in numbers. She no longer bunked, ate and sat next to XXVI and XXVIII, instead she was placed by XXI.

None were untouched by the wicked wendigo within, but the survivors learned to keep quiet about it. She herself was plagued with the dreams she never talked about, dreams in which the wendigo calls to her, starving and gluttonous. The fear that welled up from these dreams were not fear of the wendigo, but rather the “conditioning” coming into play. When it’s sickly sweet voice racked across her soul, a part of her, calling for her to come home, all she could do was picture those children. Even now, two decades later, she sees them, small and helpless as they were exterminated.

As their militaristic training continued the perils that became “cause for termination” grew. They were expected to kill, but not to imbibe their kills. They were expected to hunt, but not to press themselves so awkwardly among nature. They were expected to be human monsters, not monster monsters. Eight more were exterminated during their first drills in the outside world. She kept her head down, did as she was told and only escaped at night. She welcomed her wendigo dreams, whispering secrets with her only friend while the world slept.

It wasn’t long after the group had dwindled to eleven before the murmurs among her kin began. She couldn’t allow herself to be tempted; how could they? They had seen the same repercussions as she had, but they foolishly believed that talking was not an offense. Perhaps if it had ended with words they would have been correct, but during the night four of them ran away. The seven remaining were tasked with hunting them down and destroying them. She had hoped it would be difficult, the killing. She expected some pang of consciousness would clasp her hand before she could deliver a final blow; but she felt no guilt, no temptation to desist. She slaughtered two of them like the monster that she was. As she clawed at XVI’s neck, ripping the flesh so that the head could be returned to her masters she noticed the arcane arm. She had every intention of passing it off along with the head, but something stopped her. It stopped her.

Her collection of friends had been doubled.

Killing their own proved too much for her dwindling siblings and three of the remaining seven were removed from the facility. Their fate is unknown, presumed dead. It was abundantly clear the project was a failure and should be terminated. The four remaining genetic abominations would be dispersed to alleviate any blame or suspicion, and were also expected to keep eyes and ears open for the missing three. Other than finding her siblings, which she mentally placed at the bottom of her to-do list, their instructions were to kill demons and enemies of the Templar. For the first time in her life she had been given no strict orders. She had been given a semblance of freedom, though the threat of observation from the Templar was ever present, pushing her down a thin gray line mirroring her existence. She often feared they would find out about the arcane arm that had been gifted to her, but if they did know about it, they made no move to acquire it.

.Other

Terrified of fire, thanks to the wendigo. If you ask a human to stop breathing they can attempt it, but in the end they will gasp for breath. Her fear of fire is similar. She can attempt to force herself into proximity and may even be able to maintain for a short period, but in the end the fear, supplanted as a will to survive, will override.

Soul Wretch

[+]

.Origin; arcane arms

Eons ago there was a being whose fate had been read long before it would come to pass, an existence plotted by ancient gods and scrawled in the burning endurance of gaseous balls far from the reach of prophets. He would be known by a mark that followed the shell from the womb; a paleness and cold touch, an evil. A predestined existence, but when he was born, he didn’t want to be evil. They told him he was and his amassing magical abilities were sure confirmation, but still, the boy struggled with such a destiny. He didn’t feel evil.How could one close off the awe inspiring beauty that surrounded each existence and become the foil to their own wants?

In an effort to summon his own self-acceptance, he began work on a magical talisman. It was an intricate metal skull, formed of blended metals whose origins spanned the cosmos. The metal was fused with the hands of his shell, imperfect things that pressed hot and cold energy into its form. Those same troublesome digits ascribed prophetic inscriptions and unknown rituals that laced the shell of the talisman. A final stone, one meticulously chosen from a century aged death shroud of a virgin oracle, was pressed into the forehead as he prayed to ancient deities for inner sight. The Talisman proved to be an effective amplifier of his magic. He could invade minds and manipulate the fates of others, but still, he could not realign his own to it’s foretold majesty. He died, disgraced, and worse yet, loved.

His aged and spindley fingers wrapped about the talisman, clutching it to his decaying chest, until his race and history had fallen away and been replaced. It was oft told with a tinge of sadness for the boy, but defying fate seemed to her a noble goal, one that whispered late into the night, kindred to her own soul. Of course, it’s just a story and variations do exist. Some say that he was evil and the creation of the arcane arm turned him good, but she favored the first story.

.Activation; arcane arms

The small, yet impossibly tenacious talisman hastily forms a bond with the curator, whispering into their mind in an ancient dialect both exotic and familiar, eerie and comforting. It is assured that each possessor has a different experience with the talisman, and her own was nothing short of revolutionary. It provided companionship when she was alone in the yawning and bleak expanse of the tundra. She would wrap her claw-like nails about her favored friend and her eyes would drift closed while power pulsed from it’s small form, entering and exiting her body with wiles barely contained. It soon blended seamlessly with her own psyche and the magic was used as habitually as a blade for a warrior.

.Cast Out; standard

From the depths of the curator “consciousness” is pulled asunder, creating a duplication of herself that can exist stand alone or possess a soulless body; most commonly the dead. Initially the ability failed to balance the pieces of consciousness in both forms so that one was almost purely wendigo, leaving the other human. This happens infrequently now, but it can still be a gamble.

.Take In; alternate

After Tacache has ingested some form of body matter, quite an easy process for one who hunts with teeth and claws, she can take in the victim. The ability weaves magic through the foreign body matter and chases it back to it’s origin, battering down any defenses and splaying open the chosen mind like a road map for the curator. While reading another being is not an exact science, it requires focus and the being to have some sort of soul force. Occasionally the chosen mind will linger within her own for a short time, which can be quite bothersome, but not deadly.

.Body Heist; overbreak

A sort of melding of the first two abilities, Body Heist allows the curator to cast out a piece of their own "consciousness" into a victim whose body matter has been ingested. Temporarily this gives the curator control of their own body as well as control over the victim. A strong willed individual can put up a mental fight, but the arcane arm suppresses any physical control, so again, this is more bothersome than anything else. It is assumed that lengthy habitation in another shell would be detrimental to the curator’s overall psyche.

.Army of Mine; unleashed

The curators "consciousness" shatters into a multitude of entities capable of inhabiting dead, inanimate objects and/or consumed victims. It is unclear what lasting effects this will have on the curator.

TLDR TACACHE

& Wendigo/human female created by the Templar of Vroncroft
& Afraid of fire
& Arcane Arm called Soul Wretch deals with duplication and possession

An Unholy Mass: Warhammer 40,000 RP [Black Crusade Inspired] [Mature Content]

I concur on the excitement. My Nurgle follower is way to normal looking and needs to gain some gifts. I am so excited! DECAY AND PESTILENCE FOR ALL!

[closed]

Your the one farthest away. A target it hardly makes you when the rest of us are so close and convenient xD.

@Hellis

Nah man, the bitch bird came at the Behemoth and KAIN DID NOTHING TO SAVE ME!
\kain_ship.exe