Noxious

Job, Nevada (Supernatural Western/Mystery)

@Noxious Hi, have we met? I'm Merlin ;) I do all things World of Darkness. Though I don't begrudge the appeal of the Fae

@Themerlinhawk

AND have you ever run an RPG Changeling RP or even seen one?

Job, Nevada (Supernatural Western/Mystery)

Pretty sure I am going Changeling, some kind of dryad like Kith, I haven't perfected the idea yet. Big hulking tree of a man.

And I do love werewolves and undead too, but how often does someone *actually* bring WoD changelings into the mix?

Job, Nevada (Supernatural Western/Mystery)

I'm *thinking* of a changeling that deals in contracts and favors, for a price. I'm weighing my other commitments.

edit: I mean mortal contracts, not Fae contracts.

ςнαяαςтєяş × яøℓєρℓαчş

Amentia Obcasus

_{∙• never once considering how in the world she was to get out again •∙}

Ʌ M Ǝ N Ŧ I Ʌ Ɵ B C Ʌ Ṣ U Ṡ

^{Twenty-Seven || 11th of April || 170 cm. || First Class}

A ᴘ ᴘ ᴇ ᴀ ʀ ᴀ ɴ ᴄ ᴇ

The poise and title of SOLDIER seems to have rolled off her shoulders and fallen to the wayside, leaving a waifish and excessively girly silhouette that lits about the shadows with a skipping gait in a world here and yet not wholly here; a dance among the fantastical; reminiscent of a pixie intoxicated. To focus on the girl illuminated is to see her clearly, but wandering or shaded eyes are graced with a haze about her form that licks at the air with a maddening lack of cohesion, one of many peculiarities inherited. Wardrobe of opportunity, though rarely afforded, is youthfully feminine: lace, ruffles and hues of cerise, lavender and periwinkle, with a particular affinity for grandiose furs that recall adolescence in her mother’s wardrobe. The overall effect is like a porcelain doll out of place, fragile and fading.

A once chestnut mane now dipped in the ink of aeon is sheared to a bob style that did not seem to falter the image, falling messily in raven strands across fair skin lightly dusted with freckles. A fragmented soul mended with aeon too late gazes out of almost colorless pale gray orbs that twitch imperceptibly between vacant, melancholy, exuberant, and then back again. Features display too easily stolen emotion; pale pink lips that curl towards dimples and a laugh betraying shared secrets in tune with the hearts of lovers.

Her beauty and virility becomes a juxtaposition akin to her mind, both savage and innocent, when surrounded by the destruction of battle. Lips curl in pensive and somber thought, touching her expression with a cause, and an occasional flicker of bemusement that finally entrances her eyes into a gnawing darkness. Those that had tempted emotion would do well to weep for the ferocity it holds on her bearing, the monster it bequeaths upon the girl.

P s ʏ ᴄ ʜ ᴇ

There is a world that consumes her and it is not our own. While SOLDIER has taught her to remain present there is always a notion about her that belies the struggle to exist and absorb her surroundings. Her facade is one she is well committed too; sweet, innocent, damaged, lost, but there is occasionally a method to her betrayal from the inner yearnings. The veneer was cast to dispel the cruel beast that claws about within. There is meaning in not knowing oneself, but loss in not being truly known.

She is far from opposed to making friends, or even small talk, but most find her to be lackadaisical, quirky or to be blunt, fucking weird. She has a tendency to latch onto specific individuals and dismiss others entirely. At first there seemed to very little rhyme or reason as to how these judgments were made. In time, it was observed that her aeon helps shield her from her apathetic cruelty by teaching her to feed from the emotions of those around her. The observant believe the girl is drawn towards those with intense and lucid emotions; be they poignant or jubilant. The SOLDIER program, as of yet, has seen no negative effects of this emotion siphoning, though her companions are usually chosen with this in mind and personnel with weak constitutions are advised against prolonged contact.

It would not be a stretch to say that her aeon is her best friend, the only one she has truly allowed past her barriers. He dwells in her head and likely knows the girl better than herself. She views the transformation as a boon, unsurprisingly. When one has grown accustomed to madness then madness is the only norm to be known.

B ᴀ ᴄ ᴋ ɢ ʀ ᴏ ᴜ ɴ ᴅ

Amentia was born into a line of excessive wealth and influence. Her mother, an enchanting woman, doted heavily on her only child and was a superb storyteller. They would create castles of silk and her mother’s empyreal voice would weave fantasies about princesses battling demons in a land where magic was paramount. She was six when her mother died. Heartbroken, Amy slipped more and more into their fantasy world. Her father favored to spoil the girl through objects rather than affection and allowed the harmless delusions to continue, viewing her as a child, or not seeing her at all.

Years later the Father brought a new wife and son into their home. Amy seemed pleased to have the company and Father was content to leave them alone while he traveled. But all good things come to an end, and her Father’s realization of this was sudden. He came home to find Amy standing in the foyer, barefoot in a white gown stained with crimson bleeding into soft pinks. He removed a kitchen knife from her hand and scooped her into his arms, battling a mounting hysteria. In a shaky, almost reluctant, voice he asked what had happened. “They were bored and so I helped them get to a better place,” was the beaming cherubs only response. He set her down then, never to touch the girl again. Amentia would never feel remorse for her actions, though she did over the loss of contact.

The whole incident was covered up; any evidence disappeared, along with Amy. Her Uncle was currently pulling for a Regent position in Nuxvar and this scandal, Amentia, could not be allowed to tarnish the family name. The media relayed the fabricated story calling it a burglary and even the people at the Mental Health Institute deigned it improper to discuss, instead choosing to drown the girl in lôtos, a drug that induces sleep with the side of effect of vivid dreams and hallucinations. Had they cared, they would realize this only compounded her previous insanity. Soon she acquired a dependence on the drug, and any attempt to remove it from her system brought on a frightful fit of anhedonia and withdrawal. She was ten.

She lived there for years, there and not there, crawling into her head so that the world within her became more vibrant and encapsulating than anything reality had to offer. It wasn’t until she was 16 that SOLDIER came collecting at the request of her almost forgotten family. SOLDIER proved to be a blessing. They gave her a semblance of sanity and normality, at least a means to grasp at it. They gave her routine and they treated her like everyone else. She was far from the worst case to pass through these halls. Her Father has even written her to tell her how proud he is of her progress, though she wasn’t asked to return home and he never bothered to come visit. She convinced herself these were impossibilities and not the fault of her Father’s affections.

She continues to struggle with -facilitated- drug abuse. SOLDIER even chose to expand her arsenal of abuses when they realized that there was a need to quickly remove the effects of her crutches in lieu of battle and training. The doctors assured an easy fix and introduced her to Exsomnis IX; a high grade amphetamine. The average human would surely deteriorate in health with this juxtaposed concoction, but thanks to her aeon infusion her body seems no worse for wear. It is difficult to tell if it has furthered her mental capacities. She still proves to be an effective weapon and so concern has yet to be shown over medicating.

R ᴇ ɢ ᴀ ʟ ɪ ᴀ

Her inherited empathetic nature gives her an almost prophetic sense in battle, an instinct that thrives with or without a centered calm. Due to this she adapts quickly to her opponents. She favors a style that is ultimately rooted in surprise and is not beyond running and drawing the opponent into a situation beneficial to herself or faking an injury to lull the already over-estimated opponent into complacency.

She favors lightweight armor in muted camouflaging tones and has been provided with a thin durable suit that bends reflective light and allows for near perfect concealment in an array of environments. Her weapon of choice and skill is of limited variation; relying heavily upon bo-shuriken that are placed in excess on her thighs, arms, boots and occasionally even used to hold her hair up. After the realization that her blood can have damaging effects when making contact with others she has taken to cutting them across her own flesh and coating their tips. She is currently trying to master the lightweight and ferocious Kpinga and has taken to strapping two of them across her back.

She doesn't hesitate. Ever. True mercy is a thought claimed by sanity, of which she has very little kinship, and instead her own mind sees death as its own mercy. To remove people from the dull and damning reality and allow them to venture somewhere better. SOLDIER is inclined to favor this reasoning, if only they could remove its application to the home team.

For as long as she can remember there has been another inside her. A monster dwelling within, vying for control and whispering immoral absurdities so she took the introduction of her aeon quite well. He even proved to win out against the other and provide comfort while her body trembled and writhed in sweat through a melodic caress of complex ethereal symphonies. They bonded; both trapped in this reality, misunderstood and sharing a rather loose view on pesky definitions like morality and damnation.

She feels indebted which she attempts to repay by granting freedoms over her physical being that most SOLDIERs dare not afford their own aeons. Her lack of conviction for control over the aeon and his genetic influence has hindered any further advancement as the SOLDIER program seems weary of her compulsions, and whom truly conceives her actions and thoughts.

T A N T I B U S : ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ᴀᴅᴀᴘᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ғᴀʙʀɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

Often our worst enemy is our fear, the creeping miasma that crawls and burrows destructively between heart and mind, finding true potential and presence as you drift between worlds- nightmares. She beckons these demons from within their keepers imagination, whispering animation and confirmations to new found pets in tones that edge upon the void of sanity and ravishment. They creep forth, cimmerian phantoms tinged in malice. While they lack in capacity to deal sizable damage, they are impervious to receiving and often deter the assaults of enemies.

V E S A N I A : ᴅᴇᴠᴏᴜʀɪɴɢ, ᴀᴘᴀᴛʜʏ, ᴍᴀᴅɴᴇss

Focusing on a chosen enemy mind can send their consciousness into a downward spiral in which madness begins to devour through emotion, memories and sanity. The experience is far from painless. It has been cured with time in some, while others show only minimal improvement after lengthy exposure. The negative effect of this is a sort of absorption on her end, for pieces of soul never truly dissipate.

P R A E D O M O : ᴄᴏɴsᴜᴍᴇ, ᴇᴍᴘᴀᴛʜʏ, sᴜʙᴊᴜɢᴀᴛᴇ

A fog of shadows wells about the girl, consuming only an inch or so of space from the ground but affecting an odd sensation of slithering solidifications just below; a miasma of guardian hood that embraces almost imperceptible tentacles. Should anyone deign to approach the maniacal minx the tentacles are quick to lacerate their flesh with spiked tips that skirt upon the edge of reality and link them to her purpose; temporarily removing their own thoughts/motivations and replacing them with her own. Depending on her mood this can induce an urge to protect or an overwhelming need to curl into a ball and whimper for release. Effects are nullified once contact is broken.

A ᴇ ᴏ ɴ

+ X C A V A I R N || C ᴏ ʟ ᴏ ᴜ ʀ ʟ ᴇ s s & B ʟ ᴀ ᴄ ᴋ

ᴀᴅᴀᴘᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴅᴇᴄᴀʏ, ᴇᴍᴘᴀᴛʜʏ, ᴇɴsʟᴀᴠɪɴɢ.

Initially it’s true visage was an incomprehensible jumble of debate, an evasive camouflage of nothingness and familiarity, as viewers each recalled entirely deviating entities. A repair to cohesion was found through implementing an array of blinding illumination upon the persecuted creature. Exposed was a coherent yet defective amalgamation of nix and psyche; a penumbra of macabre allure. Sharp points and twisted claws weep corrupting toxin and precede degeneration with a myriad of oculus’ that seem to perceive through aura as well as sight. To be unguarded in the presence of such an embodiment is to feel, utterly and inescapably, tinged with dread and some suffering crippling depressive ruminations. The emotions are so woven in proximity that to claim them as your own or the aeons is futile.

...and with creation there would be death and decay, and as beginnings are messy, so shall be the end, for all creation is subject to time and fate, especially the mind…

It’s own intentions are muddled in an impractical translation of other to human; maddening and virulent. It isn’t evil in so far as it’s incomprehensible and noxious; transcending our own ideals of morality and aligning with natural progressions. It speaks in a symphonic lament that recalls something both sinister and intimate in most. Personnel in contact with the aeon are consistently rotated as it seems a reverse Stockholm syndrome often comes into play.

C ᴏ ʀ ᴇ

A S S A S S I N

O ᴠ ᴇ ʀ ᴅ ʀ ɪ ᴠ ᴇ

D A E M O N I U M V I S

Limit break induces an appearance of coma on the girl. The essence of Amentia and Xcavairn splinter outward in an all out empathetic assault; entering, enslaving and adapting the bodies of the recently deceased [human or other] within an unknown proximity. If there is no readily available dead then the critically wounded will do. It harkens a process of decay and atrophy, delayed enough to make the husks useful either in an assault or protective capacity.

[♛] 𝓡equiem. // the rise of soldier.

Another announcement for you kittens.

I am making character banners this go around - of course - and will start on them within the next day or so. If you have a particular photo you'd like me to use for your character, let me know, otherwise I shall use the ones provided in the character sheets. I use colours associated with the character that some of you used in your submissions, but if you would like something specific, just holler.

Stay tuned.

@Rockette

Since I manipulated mine if you want a cleaner version her name is Mellissa Clarke. I'm not picky, you've got the artistic eye and I trust you so if you see one that works better for you go for it.

[♛] 𝓡equiem. // the rise of soldier.

@Hexaflexagon

Hey man. Can Kain get some of that sweet sweet overdrive boosting. I am just imagining a Overdrive enabled Kain going berserk on fools...

@Hellis

Pub-lease. That boosting is going to go straight to your hips. Churchy is going to help sweet little ole Amentia call out demons from Oblivion. He likes the damaged chicks. I can tell. :P

Seriously though, loving the cast.

[♛] 𝓡equiem. // the rise of soldier.

_{∙• never once considering how in the world she was to get out again •∙}

Ʌ M Ǝ N Ŧ I Ʌ Ɵ B C Ʌ Ṣ U Ṡ

^{Twenty-Seven || 11th of April || 170 cm. || First Class}

A ᴘ ᴘ ᴇ ᴀ ʀ ᴀ ɴ ᴄ ᴇ

The poise and title of SOLDIER seems to have rolled off her shoulders and fallen to the wayside, leaving a waifish and excessively girly silhouette that lits about the shadows with a skipping gait in a world here and yet not wholly here; a dance among the fantastical; reminiscent of a pixie intoxicated. To focus on the girl illuminated is to see her clearly, but wandering or shaded eyes are graced with a haze about her form that licks at the air with a maddening lack of cohesion, one of many peculiarities inherited. Wardrobe of opportunity, though rarely afforded, is youthfully feminine: lace, ruffles and hues of cerise, lavender and periwinkle, with a particular affinity for grandiose furs that recall adolescence in her mother’s wardrobe. The overall effect is like a porcelain doll out of place, fragile and fading.

A once chestnut mane now dipped in the ink of aeon is sheared to a bob style that did not seem to falter the image, falling messily in raven strands across fair skin lightly dusted with freckles. A fragmented soul mended with aeon too late gazes out of almost colorless pale gray orbs that twitch imperceptibly between vacant, melancholy, calculating, and then back again. It’s the kind of dead stare that incites others to coax with affections, if only to see some light in those pale eyes that appear immune to the inflexions of her features. Features lacking the ocular restraint and displaying too easily stolen emotion; pale pink lips that curl towards dimples and a laugh betraying shared secrets in tune with the hearts of lovers.

Her beauty and virility becomes a juxtaposition akin to her mind, both savage and innocent, when surrounded by the destruction of battle. Lips curl in pensive and somber thought, touching her expression with a cause, and an occasional flicker of bemusement that finally entrances her eyes into a gnawing darkness. Those that had tempted emotion would do well to weep for the ferocity it holds on her bearing, the monster it bequeaths upon the girl.

P s ʏ ᴄ ʜ ᴇ

There is a world that consumes her and it is not our own. While SOLDIER has taught her to remain present there is always a notion about her that belies the struggle to exist and absorb her surroundings. Her facade is one she is well committed too; sweet, innocent, damaged, lost, but there is occasionally a method to her betrayal from the inner yearnings. The veneer was cast to dispel the cruel beast that claws about within. There is meaning in not knowing oneself, but loss in not being truly known.

She is far from opposed to making friends, or even small talk, but most find her to be lackadaisical, quirky or to be blunt, fucking weird. Her access and prescription to drugs on the base has gained her a few "friends", though obviously these relationships are transient in nature. She has a tendency to latch onto specific individuals and dismiss others entirely. At first there seemed to very little rhyme or reason as to how these judgments were made. In time, it was observed that her aeon helps shield her from her apathetic cruelty by teaching her to feed from the emotions of those around her. The observant believe the girl is drawn towards those with intense and lucid emotions; be they poignant or jubilant. The SOLDIER program, as of yet, has seen no negative effects of this emotion syphoning, though her companions are usually chosen with this in mind and personnel with weak constitutions are advised against prolonged contact.

It would not be a stretch to say that her aeon is her best friend, the only one she has truly allowed past her barriers. He dwells in her head and likely knows the girl better than herself. She views the transformation as a boon, unsurprisingly. When one has grown accustomed to madness then madness is the only norm to be known.

B ᴀ ᴄ ᴋ ɢ ʀ ᴏ ᴜ ɴ ᴅ

Amentia was born into a line of excessive wealth and influence. Her mother, an enchanting woman, doted heavily on her only child and was a superb storyteller. They would create castles of silk and her mother’s empyreal voice would weave fantasies about princesses battling demons in a land where magic was paramount. She was six when her mother died. Heartbroken, Amy slipped more and more into their fantasy world. Her father favored to spoil the girl through objects rather than affection and allowed the harmless delusions to continue, viewing her as a child, or not seeing her at all.

Years later the Father brought a new wife and son into their home. Amy seemed pleased to have the company and Father was content to leave them alone while he traveled. But all good things come to an end, and her Father’s realization of this was sudden. He came home to find Amy standing in the foyer, barefoot in a white gown stained with crimson bleeding into soft pinks. He removed a kitchen knife from her hand and scooped her into his arms, battling a mounting hysteria. In a shaky, almost reluctant, voice he asked what had happened. “They were bored and so I helped them get to a better place,” was the beaming cherubs only response. He set her down then, never to touch the girl again. Amentia would never feel remorse for her actions, though she did over the loss of contact.

The whole incident was covered up; any evidence disappeared, along with Amy. Her Uncle was currently pulling for a Regent position in Nuxvar and this scandal, Amentia, could not be allowed to tarnish the family name. The media relayed the fabricated story calling it a burglary and even the people at the Mental Health Institute deigned it improper to discuss, instead choosing to drown the girl in lôtos, a drug that induces sleep with the side of effect of vivid dreams and hallucinations. Had they cared, they would realize this only compounded her previous insanity. Soon she acquired a dependence on the drug, and any attempt to remove it from her system brought on a frightful fit of anhedonia and withdrawal. She was ten.

She lived there for years, there and not there, crawling into her head so that the world within her became more vibrant and encapsulating than anything reality had to offer. It wasn’t until she was 16 that SOLDIER came collecting at the request of her almost forgotten family. SOLDIER proved to be a blessing. They gave her a semblance of sanity and normality, at least a means to grasp at it. They gave her routine and they treated her like everyone else. She was far from the worst case to pass through these halls. Her Father has even written her to tell her how proud he is of her progress, though she wasn’t asked to return home and he never bothered to come visit. She convinced herself these were impossibilities and not the fault of her Father’s affections.

She continued to struggle with alcohol and drug abuse. SOLDIER even chose to expand her arsenal of abuses when they realized that there was a need to quickly remove the effects of her crutches in lieu of battle and training. The doctors assured an easy fix and introduced her to Exsomnis IX; a high grade amphetamine. The average human would surely deteriorate in health with this juxtaposed concoction, but thanks to her aeon infusion her body seems no worse for wear. It is difficult to tell if it has furthered her mental capacities. She still proves to be an effective weapon and so concern has yet to be shown over medicating.

R ᴇ ɢ ᴀ ʟ ɪ ᴀ

Her inherited empathetic nature gives her an almost prophetic sense in battle, an instinct that thrives with or without a centered calm. Due to this she adapts quickly to her opponents. She favors a style that is ultimately rooted in surprise and is not beyond running and drawing the opponent into a situation beneficial to herself or faking an injury to lull the already over-estimated opponent into complacency.

She favors lightweight armor in muted camouflaging tones and has been provided with a thin durable suit that bends reflective light and allows for near perfect concealment in an array of environments. Her weapon of choice and skill is of limited variation; relying heavily upon bo-shuriken that are placed in excess on her thighs, arms, boots and occasionally even used to hold her hair up. After the realization that her blood can have damaging effects when making contact with others she has taken to cutting them across her own flesh and coating their tips. She is currently trying to master the lightweight and ferocious Kpinga and has taken to strapping two of them across her back.

She doesn't hesitate. Ever. True mercy is a thought claimed by sanity, of which she has very little kinship, and instead her own mind sees death as its own mercy; to remove people from the dull and damning reality in which they are blinded by society. She derives a thrill from combat and death, but it subsides when the killing is over. SOLDIER is inclined to favor this reasoning, if only they could remove its application to the home team.

For as long as she can remember there has been another inside her. A monster dwelling within, vying for control and whispering immoral absurdities so she took the introduction of her aeon quite well. He even proved to win out against the other and provide comfort while her body trembled and writhed in sweat through a melodic caress of complex ethereal symphonies. They bonded; both trapped in this reality, misunderstood and sharing a rather loose view on pesky definitions like morality and damnation.

She was occasionally troubled with his captivity which she attempted to alleviate by granting freedoms over her physical being that most SOLDIERs dare not afford their own aeons. Her lack of conviction for control over the aeon and his genetic influence has hindered any further advancement as the SOLDIER program seems weary of her compulsions, and whom truly conceives her actions and thoughts.

T A N T I B U S : ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ᴀᴅᴀᴘᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ғᴀʙʀɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

Often our worst enemy is our fear, the creeping miasma that crawls and burrows destructively between heart and mind, finding true potential and presence as you drift between worlds- nightmares. She beckons these demons from within their keepers imagination, whispering animation and confirmations to new found pets in tones that edge upon the void of sanity and ravishment. They creep forth, cimmerian phantoms tinged in malice. While they lack in capacity to deal sizable damage, they are impervious to receiving and often deter the assaults of enemies.

V E S A N I A : ᴅᴇᴠᴏᴜʀɪɴɢ, ᴀᴘᴀᴛʜʏ, ᴍᴀᴅɴᴇss

Focusing on a chosen enemy mind can send their consciousness into a downward spiral in which madness begins to devour through emotion, memories and sanity. The experience is far from painless. It has been cured with time in some, while others show only minimal improvement after lengthy exposure. The negative effect of this is a sort of absorption on her end, for pieces of soul never truly dissipate.

P R A E D O M O : ᴄᴏɴsᴜᴍᴇ, ᴇᴍᴘᴀᴛʜʏ, sᴜʙᴊᴜɢᴀᴛᴇ

A fog of shadows wells about the girl, consuming only an inch or so of space from the ground but affecting an odd sensation of slithering solidifications just below; a miasma of guardian hood that embraces almost imperceptible tentacles. Should anyone deign to approach the maniacal minx the tentacles are quick to lacerate their flesh and link them to her purpose; temporarily removing their own thoughts/motivations and replacing them with her own. Depending on her mood this can induce an urge to protect or an overwhelming need to curl into a ball and whimper for release. Effects are nullified once contact is broken and no wound remains.

A ᴇ ᴏ ɴ

+ X C A V A I R N || C ᴏ ʟ ᴏ ᴜ ʀ ʟ ᴇ s s & B ʟ ᴀ ᴄ ᴋ

ᴀᴅᴀᴘᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴅᴇᴄᴀʏ, ᴇᴍᴘᴀᴛʜʏ, ᴇɴsʟᴀᴠɪɴɢ.

Initially it’s true visage was an incomprehensible jumble of debate, an evasive camouflage of nothingness and familiarity, as viewers each recalled entirely deviating entities. A repair to cohesion was found through implementing an array of blinding illumination upon the persecuted creature. Exposed was a coherent yet defective amalgamation of nix and psyche; a penumbra of macabre allure. Sharp points and twisted claws weep corrupting toxin and precede degeneration with a myriad of oculus’ that seem to perceive through aura as well as sight. To be unguarded in the presence of such an embodiment is to feel, utterly and inescapably, tinged with dread and some suffering crippling depressive ruminations. The emotions are so woven in proximity that to claim them as your own or the aeons is futile.

...and with creation there would be death and decay, and as beginnings are messy, so shall be the end, for all creation is subject to time and fate, especially the mind…

It’s own intentions are muddled in an impractical translation of other to human; maddening and virulent. It isn’t evil in so far as it’s incomprehensible and noxious; transcending our own ideals of morality and aligning with natural progressions. It speaks in a symphonic lament that recalls something both sinister and intimate in most. Personnel in contact with the aeon are consistently rotated as it seems a reverse Stockholm syndrome often comes into play.

C ᴏ ʀ ᴇ

R A V A G E R

O ᴠ ᴇ ʀ ᴅ ʀ ɪ ᴠ ᴇ

D A E M O N I U M V I S

Limit break induces an appearance of coma on the girl. The essence of Amentia and Xcavairn splinter outward in an all out empathetic assault; entering, enslaving and adapting the bodies of the recently deceased [human or other] within an unknown proximity. If there is no readily available dead then the critically wounded will do. It harkens a process of decay and atrophy, delayed enough to make the husks useful either in an assault or protective capacity.

[♛] 𝓡equiem. // the rise of soldier.

Because games and such HAVE to make sense.

Give the GMs some credit. This was the same thing in the last game, if I remember correctly.

@FantasyChic

I don't think Hellis is trying to get clarification because he expects everything on RPG to make sense. In video games 100% Critical chance is the cap. It means you will hit your target every time. Maybe 300% critical chance means that you will hit your target and are guaranteed to ricochet and also hit two other targets, which would raise other questions, like, are the other two targets guaranteed to be enemies? It's a valid question.

[♛] 𝓡equiem. // the rise of soldier.

<Snipped quote by Noxious>

I still think it means either 30 percent chance to crit, or 300 percent crit damage. The latter makes sense for a sniper.

@Hellis

Dude, it's almost 1 AM, your ass needs to get some sleep.

[edit: I quoted the wrong thing. >.<;]

[♛] 𝓡equiem. // the rise of soldier.

<Snipped quote by Noxious>

I still think it means either 30 percent chance to crit, or 300 percent crit damage. The latter makes sense for a sniper.

@Hellis

And Archer/Sniper tomato potato as Fantasy would say.