psych0pomp

Blades of the Blood Coast

Who could have told Migi that in a few days’ time, she’d be sitting at a table in a busy tavern? Surely, the shackled, stinking, and sore burrahob would have woven a different story for herself, especially when that one fellow burst open from the plague. She tried not to think about it. Much like lice, it’d lead her to scratch, and she didn’t need to do that here. There were too many skin flakes floating around in the air already.

Migi barely paid the goings-on around her any mind as she hoisted the mug with mead to her parched lips and gulped it down like a land bound fish inhaled water. Then she went about chewing on the heel of the bread, stuffing her cheeks in a squirrel-like manner as she did. The others’ keen eyes might have caught more onto what was happening, but hers only saw nourishment.

Her enrapt attention was pulled away by a commotion outside. She took a long drink as she watched heads bob out the window and a man enter with a whole carton of something. Whatever it was, the barmaid seemed absolutely delighted. Migi narrowed her eyes. A secretive shipment that was honestly—she looked around—not that secret. Still, there seemed to be no easy way to get whatever was in the container. Migi wasn’t a stranger to tariffs and bans. She knew all about smuggling and the like. She shouldn’t be so surprised that this far out that the flow of goods and economy hiccupped as hard as a bread-filled drunk. Much like herself if she didn’t pace herself any better.

She sat down her flagon as Raddek found space between them. He spoke of a few things needing to be done in return for rooms. Migi hesitated and gave herself a sniff. She didn’t know if she was up for those sorts of deals, but honestly, they could probably throw her in a well and she’d be primed and rearing to go. It’d been a while, the sails could use a good unfurling.

It was then that Raddek stated what they needed to do to earn those rooms—it was manual labor. Migi scoffed. “I’d rather have my flower plucked than do what sounds boring leg work. But if I must choose one, let’s do the one with beer. I don’t care for some espionage. It’s not like I blend in that easily, well, I do if no one looks down.” She snickered. “I miss the days of exploding things for coin. What I wouldn’t give to see a good fire. The flame. The chaos. The screams of—” she paused “—dried wood letting out their last bits of air.”

Rolls

None

Blades of the Blood Coast

I've been slammed all week with work stuff, and I had seized last night for myself. I was all ready to write a post. And I fell asleep on my couch with laptop in hand. Whelp. I've gotten old. So sorry about that. I had a bit of it written, and I'll try to finish it up and submit it.

Young Justice

Bex’s usually aloof expression broke for a moment as her teammate fought the word “babe” as if it killed his entire family. Oh boy… She had heard that the team was a hodgepodge of life experiences, and she’d heard their attempt at idle conversation. It was obvious that they weren’t the most talented at being “normal,” but this was—hilarious, to say the least. Hey, she was playing nice, and it was being reciprocated. This might be more fun than she’d first thought.

So, now in fake-girlfriend-mode, Bex lifted her arms up to cheer him on. Honestly, she had no idea how he’d do. She could destroy the machine if she wanted, so it wasn’t as if she could be easily impressed. But ding went the bell, and Bex let out a cheer. She even kicked her foot up for good measure, her ponytail waving like a pendulum behind her back. She watched from afar as he almost mechanically took the bear away from the wall of winnings and walked back to give it to her. No, it wasn’t as if he handed it over in a normal manner, more like he was a service robot moving a part from one conveyor line to the other. Shame, Bex noted. She bet he could put those hips to good use.

Still, she scooped up the bear and squeezed it close to her body. She could already feel pieces of thing sloughing off onto her sweatshirt. “You were once Daf’s boyfriend, too? Wow, buddy, you sure do get around. Ever hold Zach’s wand?” She whispered, deciding to get in on this game.

It was then that her pocket buzzed, and she wrangled the massive bear in one arm while she fished her phone out. Glancing over Daphne’s message, she brought the bear up to her face—squeezing it tight into the frame—as she took a selfie with the High Striker in the background. She sent that over. A picture was worth the wasted time she'd spend with words.

“Speaking of which, she just texted. She grabbed some food, how about—“ Bex was interrupted by Daphne’s arrival. It was quite timely. She was with the other one. She narrowed her eyes, trying to remember her name. Fortunately, she didn't have to ponder it too long as Daphne offered up some food. Bex took the basket, trading the bear as she did so. "We're in Gotham, so you know these bad boys have extra heart attack fried into them." She bit into the corndog eyeing Sexy Eeyore. "So, while we're playing pretend. I'm curious, what's everyone's relationship situation? I don't like taking someone's sloppy seconds." She winked.

^{INTERACTION(S) | Daph @dreamingflowers & "Sexy Eeyore" @FunnyGuy & "What's Her Name" @Mistress Dizzy}

Firefly - Second 'Verse

^{What has Rex been up to this entire time?}

Rex woke up; his cheek was hot and somewhat sticky. His mouth was agape, and that was verified by his sore throat and dry tongue. Of course, it said nothing of the headache that thrummed right behind his eyes. He groggily stirred and rolled over, his long arm slapping against flesh. A grunt came out, and the hum of fan blades barely moving the air was the only other sound in the room. He opened his eyes and smacked his lips—mouth tasting like he’d licked sour milk.

The wooden paneled room with its equally wooden flooring was suffocating. A small window gave a hint of the sunlight that was outside behind thick, mauve curtains. The motes of dust danced around as sluggishly as he did. Rex threw a leg over the side of the bed, and his foot connected with what he thought was the ground. Instead, it was a glass bottle. It rolled underneath the arch of his foot and shot out from behind him—sending him into the bedside table. One moment he was catching himself in the mirror and the next his head collided with the sharp edge of the wooden table. He flailed helplessly, grabbing a hold of the curtain. It couldn’t hold his weight and clattered to the ground with him.

The other members of the room awoke, groaning and grunting as they pulled themselves from the thrall of bunched, sweaty sheets. Two heads poked over the side to get a good look at Rex splayed out on the floor, the curtain draped over his long form. “I saw it in the window, and I thought it’d look good on me,” he grunted out, the injury to his head adding to his headache.

One of the figures giggled, her blonde ringlets still angelically curled around her face. Rex didn’t know how she did. Black magic, maybe? The other was an older man who just rolled his eyes and pulled himself up. “Don’t tell me that I have to pay for that as well?” he asked.

“It looks like there are just hooks up there. I should be able to,” Rex started to say as he was pulling himself up. He choked the vomit in his throat down. Concentrate on the task at hand. Thirty-seven times nine is… he ran that math in his head as he steadied himself. While his head throbbed, he was able to crunch the numbers like gears grinding in an old ship. Three-hundred-and thirty-three. Wait? That right? He ran the computation again, grabbing the curtain from the ground and threading it over the hooks. It was as good as new… ish. As he admired it, his tired brain confirmed that was the correct amount. Rex had always been the smart one.

“See,” he said, gesturing towards the curtain. “I told you I could fix it.”

The man already had his pants on and was currently tucking in his shirt. His salt and pepper hair was messy, but the angelic woman was quickly running her fingers through it—as naked as the day she was born. “I suppose. You should just stick with,” he trailed off, waving his hand at the bed loosely, “and leave the higher arts to the ones that it comes naturally to. Isn’t that right, Trinket?” His face lit up as he glanced at the much younger woman. They were a married couple, and he was a prominent salesman of a food distribution company. Apparently, he’d come for—fish. It seemed like something that could be handled through a third party, but Rex figured the man was the sort that enjoyed getting his hands dirty. Rex could attest to that sentiment; his legs were going to hurt for a few days. These sorts of dalliances weren’t really well looked upon in certain societies, and there was always the sort that’d find him and his young wife out. So, why not handle business elsewhere? Get a taste for travel and other things.

Rex didn’t mind, though he hadn’t quite thought that was where his day was going yesterday. He’d finished fixing the logs, changing the numbers up, and tending to some things around the ship before leaving the China Doll to grab a drink. He’d fully intended on coming back to his cabin, but instead, one drink led to two led to six led to the bedroom with this couple. He hoped Cal or the like hadn’t been looking for him. Though, they were bound to have questions. Rex rubbed his sore head, feeling where the goose egg was going to raise up as the day went on. Could he say that someone mugged him?

The man fished out some platinums from the deep pockets of his coat and threw them into the bed. “I like to make sure I show my gratitude,” he said, straightening the collar of his coat. His wife was already dressed, Rex noted. She’d practically slipped into her dress like a fish into the water. It was amazing, really. Trinket was perfectly coifed with a giggle and the smell of roses.

Rex looked around the aftermath of a night of debauchery for his pants to tuck the platinum into. He realized he’d have to drop the mugging story if he planned on pocketing the money. Maybe he was mugged, then he hunted down his assailants and the local law enforcement paid him a pretty coin for their capture? That sounded feasible, right? Rex didn’t care to find backup for his story. He just wanted to find his pants. The sun was… up… and he probably needed to make an appearance at the China Doll lest they think he was dead, or Cal thought he’d abandoned him—again.

“This never happened, by the way,” Trinket said with a smile. She was adjusting her garter belt, and Rex caught that her statement was not just punctuated by words but also a thin blade tucked into the frills. When in the nine hells had she put that back on? Where was it last night? Rex must have been getting lax in his old age. He wanted to applaud the older gentleman. The marriage wasn’t just for arm candy, it was for protection as well.

“What happened? I just got drunk and fell asleep, and you two were nice enough to lend me your room.” Rex smiled, finding his pants, and sliding them on. He glanced down, realizing he’d need to wear something a little less revealing today. There were too many hickeys to say that he’d also fallen into the sea and gotten accosted by the largest of cephalopods.

The man gave his first semblance of emotions as he smiled and winked at Rex. “Right. We’re nothing but good Samaritans, aren’t we Trinket?” She nodded, dropping the hem of her dress, and latching onto his arm. Then they were gone. Just like that, out the door as if no time had lapsed at all. Where, on the other hand, Rex looked as if he’d been in a brawl with the business end of a wet mop.

Using the mirror, he dressed and fixed his hair. He ran a hand over his beard, realizing that he needed to give it a trim. Making the bed and pocketing the platinum, Rex slid out of the room long after the high-born couple had. He slunk down the stairs and out of the inn. Barely anyone was awake, and they surely hadn’t had their coffee to connect the wires on what he’d been up to.

A shower later in the China Doll along with a change of clothes, and Rex was bandaging his head in the makeshift mirror. He’d trimmed his beard and the hair on top of his head and applied some light cologne to get the smell of booze off him—hopefully. He was still more than a little drunk. The best cure for a hangover was always more alcohol. Lucky eyed him out of the shadow of his cage. Rex glanced back, catching that there was the refuse of food that he hadn’t given the bird. “You’re judging me for my actions when I’m not the one showing off my pretty feathers for treats. Who was it? The small one with the clipboard? The pilot? That haggard deckhand? The doctor?” He paused. “Oh. Was it the doctor? You must tell me if it was her. Too much pretty to be shackled with those brains.”

The bird just let out a gravelly noise from his beak.

“Don’t tell me you bit them?” He narrowed his eyes at Lucky. “Nah. You would never. You love treats too much.” He extended his hand, resting it on top of the opened cage door. Lucky took a few sidesteps and nuzzled into his palm. “Sorry, I promise I won’t leave you without company again.” Lucky nibbled his fingers. “I’ll let you pick. But it’s not going to be the pilot.” He nipped Rex’s hand. “Hey, be nice, or it’ll be Cal.”

After some time, Lucky managed to con him into taking him along. He climbed up Rex’s broad shoulder and slid in behind his ear, resting against the crevice between his ear and neck. The bird let out a few happy chirps as Rex pulled his jacket on, creating a nice cozy, resting place for him. Rex also put on a deep purple shirt that he fully buttoned up. It covered most of his neck, and only a sliver of a hickey protruded from the top of it. It was the best he could do without throwing a scarf around his neck, which would just draw suspicion. Now, he’d just look nice for dinner—or whatever time it was. Either way, it wasn’t too late for coffee.

Rex pulled himself up the ladder and into the hallway of the China Doll, making his way to the galley. There he brewed himself a large cup of instant coffee from whatever powered mixture they had. He then sat down at the table to sip it. Unfortunately, he didn’t get very far in before he fell asleep, chin resting on top of his palm. Lucky took that moment to crawl out from his jacket and perch atop his head, ever alert for any intruders.

The Masque of the Dragon || Fantasy Dragons hiding among Humans

Bastia

𝔑𝔞𝔪𝔢

Bastia the Terror - Bastia Aescau

𝔄𝔤𝔢

101 - 28

𝔊𝔢𝔫𝔡𝔢𝔯

Female

𝔇𝔯𝔞𝔤𝔬𝔫 𝔄𝔭𝔭𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔠𝔢

A long, thin dragon with teal scales accompanied with black barbs and blood red highlights. There are hammerhead-like horns that jut out perpendicular from its head, shadowing its blood-red eyes and black teeth. Its wings expand out like a bat's with red spines at the ends for spearing and grappling. There are only two legs on the body that are raptor-like in build. Those fierce talons are rarely seen except when latching onto prey and dragging them to rend their flesh from bone. A long tail, adorned with black spines, spills from its body, coiling and bobbing like an interested cat. Bastia moves fast and without remorse, taking to shadows and ruins with the expertise of any other cloaked hunter.

ℌ𝔲𝔪𝔞𝔫 𝔄𝔭𝔭𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔠𝔢

Bastia is not a dainty veneer of a human woman. She's cut like broken glass, twisting edges that may bring blood if not held correctly. Black, short hair wreaths around her pale, gray-tinged skin. Her face is marred with slivers of red scars and illuminated by porcelain blue eyes. Her lips are full and crooked, but her teeth are straight and white. Her aquiline nose juts out with a smattering of freckles over the bridge. Her body is wreathed in viperous muscles, prominent and not pretty. Her nails are bloody around the edges, and her palms are constantly wrapped in bandages. She clads herself in gothic armor with a seductive cut to allow what feminity she posses to pour out in the way of an ample bosom and strong hips. She wears a sword on one hip, a chain whip on the other, and has a blade tucked into her gauntlet.

𝔓𝔢𝔯𝔰𝔬𝔫𝔞𝔩𝔦𝔱𝔶 𝔗𝔯𝔞𝔦𝔱𝔰

Sardonic and crass define the words that pour from Bastia's lips. Her voice may be a creamy velvet, but its contents are that of the darkest vitriol. She chews and spits out those that she views as weaker than herself. Yet, her pride isn't all-consuming. She'll let anyone prove their worth. Just don't expect her to play fair. Bastia will win no matter the cost, and take her pound of flesh with glee. She's loyal to her friends, however few and far between they are and enjoys keeping those bridges unlit. Quick to drink and laugh, but not in a manner that would be viewed as warm. She's a cold, dark breeze with wit and off-putting charm for days.

𝔐𝔞𝔤𝔦𝔠 & 𝔄𝔟𝔦𝔩𝔦𝔱𝔦𝔢𝔰

𝓗𝓮𝓶𝓪𝓽𝓾𝓻𝓰𝔂 - blood magic - Bastia has the ability to control her own blood. She can empower it to allow her to move faster and be stronger. When it is exposed to air, she has basic psychometric control over it. It can become as sharp as a blade or as bludgeoning as a mace. She can also infect someone else with her own blood if she's able to get into their veins. There she can sap their strength to embolden her own, otherwise, she relies on her own stamina to power herself. So, it's not infinitesimal. She can also sense where her blood is, meaning she can tag someone with it and follow them. In human form, this power is reduced due to her smaller size and lack of as much vitae as she has in her draconic form.
𝓒𝓸𝓶𝓫𝓪𝓽 - guerrilla tactics - In her dragon form, Bastia is a twisty beast that uses her sinewy musculature and sleek body to slide in and out of crevices. She waits and baits her prey forward before attacking. While she wouldn't last long in a pure aerial fight, if she is allowed buildings, cliffs, or other varied terrains--she could become quite a formidable foe. As a human, she is a talented blade user, moving swiftly and sharply towards her foes. She uses her unassuming form to land deadly blows as quickly as she can.

ℌ𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔬𝔯𝔶

Many a mother would whisper tales of the "blood dragons" to their children as they crawled into their bed. They'd encourage them to stay under the sheets all night so they wouldn't be prey to these beasts of dark scales and blood-red eyes. It was an amusing tale and one that was rooted--however flimsily--in truth. "Blood dragons" were the urban cousins of their nature-dwelling brethren. They lived in small nests underneath a bustling city, taking human form almost always to tend to their business. Why be vulnerable out in the wilderness when you could rule the cities of man without their knowledge?

Bastia grew up in the divided Empire of Huldern, using its unrest and dwindling power to hide easily. It was easy to steal away into human dwellings with the promises of cheap labor and a sturdy backbone. At a young age, Bastia took to pocketing whatever went unattended. She refused to live in the squalor of her brethren. Restlessly taking to the streets in glamour during the day and hunting in scales at night. She wasn't content to be akin to a violent alley cat. Unfortunately, that led to her separation from her familial brood at a young age due to a political upheaval that she didn't have the years to understand. She was thrown into the world without much understanding of what it meant to be a dragon. All she knew was how to be a survivor.

The Empire of Huldern didn't make it hard for her to find work. She knew the basics. For a while, she lurked into stables and under the counters of inn kitchens. Bastia refused to shift her form for fear that she'd be found out. Instead, many a year went by without her dropping her glamor. It was in those years that she made sure to constantly move around so no one noticed how slowly she aged. When she got to a point that no one viewed her as a child, she found her calling.

It'd been an accident. Bastia had ducked into an alley to make it to her destination quicker. It was then that a man clubbed her from behind. Everything faded for a moment but came back sharply as blood pooled from her head and raced down her face. Without much control, the droplets became as sharp as knives and she shot them towards the man. One of the droplets managed to get him in the eye. He screamed out in pain, holding it. About that time, the guard came across them. Bastia felt the world close in around her. She knew that she was in trouble. Except... that she wasn't... they actually paid her (well, what was left from their share.) Apparently, the man was a known criminal and had a nice bounty on his head. She then realized she could get money by subduing humans.

As the Empire was in perpetual change, Bastia was able to make a living off this trade. Criminals were numerous when there wasn't a foundation for them to stand on. And Bastia was able to keep moving enough to never rouse suspicion. Though, a tale of her started to be known. How she'd hunt her prey like a fox tracked a wounded rabbit. Though she stayed mostly in human form, she occasionally took to her dragon one to make sure that she never became useless in her natural body.

Bastia had never known many other dragons, but those that she had come across had not taken well to her demeanor. She didn't care, though, her pockets were filled with wealth and she was filled with the thrill of the hunt.

The Masque of the Dragon || Fantasy Dragons hiding among Humans

Submitted for the approval of the Midnight Society the RP.

Bastia

𝔑𝔞𝔪𝔢

Bastia the Terror - Bastia Aescau

𝔄𝔤𝔢

101 - 28

𝔊𝔢𝔫𝔡𝔢𝔯

Female

𝔇𝔯𝔞𝔤𝔬𝔫 𝔄𝔭𝔭𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔠𝔢

A long, thin dragon with teal scales accompanied with black barbs and blood red highlights. There are hammerhead-like horns that jut out perpendicular from its head, shadowing its blood-red eyes and black teeth. Its wings expand out like a bat's with red spines at the ends for spearing and grappling. There are only two legs on the body that are raptor-like in build. Those fierce talons are rarely seen except when latching onto prey and dragging them to rend their flesh from bone. A long tail, adorned with black spines, spills from its body, coiling and bobbing like an interested cat. Bastia moves fast and without remorse, taking to shadows and ruins with the expertise of any other cloaked hunter.

ℌ𝔲𝔪𝔞𝔫 𝔄𝔭𝔭𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔠𝔢

Bastia is not a dainty veneer of a human woman. She's cut like broken glass, twisting edges that may bring blood if not held correctly. Black, short hair wreaths around her pale, gray-tinged skin. Her face is marred with slivers of red scars and illuminated by porcelain blue eyes. Her lips are full and crooked, but her teeth are straight and white. Her aquiline nose juts out with a smattering of freckles over the bridge. Her body is wreathed in viperous muscles, prominent and not pretty. Her nails are bloody around the edges, and her palms are constantly wrapped in bandages. She clads herself in gothic armor with a seductive cut to allow what feminity she posses to pour out in the way of an ample bosom and strong hips. She wears a sword on one hip, a chain whip on the other, and has a blade tucked into her gauntlet.

𝔓𝔢𝔯𝔰𝔬𝔫𝔞𝔩𝔦𝔱𝔶 𝔗𝔯𝔞𝔦𝔱𝔰

Sardonic and crass define the words that pour from Bastia's lips. Her voice may be a creamy velvet, but its contents are that of the darkest vitriol. She chews and spits out those that she views as weaker than herself. Yet, her pride isn't all-consuming. She'll let anyone prove their worth. Just don't expect her to play fair. Bastia will win no matter the cost, and take her pound of flesh with glee. She's loyal to her friends, however few and far between they are and enjoys keeping those bridges unlit. Quick to drink and laugh, but not in a manner that would be viewed as warm. She's a cold, dark breeze with wit and off-putting charm for days.

𝔐𝔞𝔤𝔦𝔠 & 𝔄𝔟𝔦𝔩𝔦𝔱𝔦𝔢𝔰

𝓗𝓮𝓶𝓪𝓽𝓾𝓻𝓰𝔂 - blood magic - Bastia has the ability to control her own blood. She can empower it to allow her to move faster and be stronger. When it is exposed to air, she has basic psychometric control over it. It can become as sharp as a blade or as bludgeoning as a mace. She can also infect someone else with her own blood if she's able to get into their veins. There she can sap their strength to embolden her own, otherwise, she relies on her own stamina to power herself. So, it's not infinitesimal. She can also sense where her blood is, meaning she can tag someone with it and follow them. In human form, this power is reduced due to her smaller size and lack of as much vitae as she has in her draconic form.
𝓒𝓸𝓶𝓫𝓪𝓽 - guerrilla tactics - In her dragon form, Bastia is a twisty beast that uses her sinewy musculature and sleek body to slide in and out of crevices. She waits and baits her prey forward before attacking. While she wouldn't last long in a pure aerial fight, if she is allowed buildings, cliffs, or other varied terrains--she could become quite a formidable foe. As a human, she is a talented blade user, moving swiftly and sharply towards her foes. She uses her unassuming form to land deadly blows as quickly as she can.

ℌ𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔬𝔯𝔶

Many a mother would whisper tales of the "blood dragons" to their children as they crawled into their bed. They'd encourage them to stay under the sheets all night so they wouldn't be prey to these beasts of dark scales and blood-red eyes. It was an amusing tale and one that was rooted--however flimsily--in truth. "Blood dragons" were the urban cousins of their nature-dwelling brethren. They lived in small nests underneath a bustling city, taking human form almost always to tend to their business. Why be vulnerable out in the wilderness when you could rule the cities of man without their knowledge?

Bastia grew up in the divided Empire of Huldern, using its unrest and dwindling power to hide easily. It was easy to steal away into human dwellings with the promises of cheap labor and a sturdy backbone. At a young age, Bastia took to pocketing whatever went unattended. She refused to live in the squalor of her brethren. Restlessly taking to the streets in glamour during the day and hunting in scales at night. She wasn't content to be akin to a violent alley cat. Unfortunately, that led to her separation from her familial brood at a young age due to a political upheaval that she didn't have the years to understand. She was thrown into the world without much understanding of what it meant to be a dragon. All she knew was how to be a survivor.

The Empire of Huldern didn't make it hard for her to find work. She knew the basics. For a while, she lurked into stables and under the counters of inn kitchens. Bastia refused to shift her form for fear that she'd be found out. Instead, many a year went by without her dropping her glamor. It was in those years that she made sure to constantly move around so no one noticed how slowly she aged. When she got to a point that no one viewed her as a child, she found her calling.

It'd been an accident. Bastia had ducked into an alley to make it to her destination quicker. It was then that a man clubbed her from behind. Everything faded for a moment but came back sharply as blood pooled from her head and raced down her face. Without much control, the droplets became as sharp as knives and she shot them towards the man. One of the droplets managed to get him in the eye. He screamed out in pain, holding it. About that time, the guard came across them. Bastia felt the world close in around her. She knew that she was in trouble. Except... that she wasn't... they actually paid her (well, what was left from their share.) Apparently, the man was a known criminal and had a nice bounty on his head. She then realized she could get money by subduing humans.

As the Empire was in perpetual change, Bastia was able to make a living off this trade. Criminals were numerous when there wasn't a foundation for them to stand on. And Bastia was able to keep moving enough to never rouse suspicion. Though, a tale of her started to be known. How she'd hunt her prey like a fox tracked a wounded rabbit. Though she stayed mostly in human form, she occasionally took to her dragon one to make sure that she never became useless in her natural body.

Bastia had never known many other dragons, but those that she had come across had not taken well to her demeanor. She didn't care, though, her pockets were filled with wealth and she was filled with the thrill of the hunt.

Young Justice

Bex kept her opinion to herself when Chippendales popped back. She was here to try to be a part of the team, and he seemed to be the ringleader of this mission. So, she just smirked, mumbling something about his excitement on the male stripper comparison being the same as a chain-smoking, slot-loving Vegas 60-something. Only they thought that “Thunder from Down Under” was something to be impressed by. Bex wasn’t. It was more that she didn’t care for shows of men taking off their clothes but come on—have some Australian pride. She did. Whatever that meant.

Her eyes flitted over the screens and saw herself on a few of the monitors, in pure She Devil fashion. She then fixated on the ones with her other new partner—the one with the sword. Demonslayer. Yeah, Bex liked that name as much as she liked to chew ice chips. Her attention went back to the mission at hand. They were infiltrating the circus. Not interested in giving grubby carnival-lovers a free show, she was fine with just handling the lights. People needed to pay money to see Bex Minogue—and not in some garish, sequined hot mess parading around on stage. She’d leave that to Chippendales and the Bleh-le-bubbies. Hm. That insult was a little too try-hard. She’d have to workshop it.

Bex wasn’t wearing all white to a circus. So, she swiftly changed, having kicked her stuff into a temporary corner. That was probably for the best, considering they were headed to Gotham. A place where no one should be surprised that Batman goes around unseen. Crime could have easily been measured like one does with smog. But it probably did a lot better job of rotting you from the outside in.

She glanced around as they entered, crinkling her nose up at the smell. Porta-potties, fried food, and the unwashed masses—only one appealed to her. Her phone softly dinged, and she fished it out of her back pocket. Bex never brought a purse, anywhere. Yet, she was distracted from seeing who messaged her when she felt a carnival heckler hone in on her. She angled the brim of her hat at the man by the strength tester. Her brow rose, not that he would see or know why.

Bex smiled wildly. “Yeah, come on, babe. Get me one of those stuffed animals. Pwease~” Her inflection went from its usual sardonic tone to that of a love interest in a teenage drama show. “I could never do it on my own.” She figured the hot assassin-boy would probably roll his eyes at her, but she was told to play nice. What was nicer than pretending to be someone’s girlfriend?

She checked her text message about that time. Her lips twisted. 𝚂𝚞𝚛𝚎. 𝚂𝚎𝚡𝚢 𝙴𝚎𝚢𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚣𝚎. 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚐𝚜. 𝚂𝚎𝚎 u. She texted back.

^{INTERACTION(S) | Daph @dreamingflowers & "Sexy Eeyore" @FunnyGuy}

Descension {A Modern God RP}

VELES || GOD OF DEATH & CATTLE

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𝕍𝔼𝕃𝔼𝕊

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𝙄𝘿𝙀𝙉𝙏𝙄𝙏𝙔 & 𝙋𝙀𝙍𝙎𝙊𝙉𝘼

Levi Stocke | #9d947a

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▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅ 𝗧 𝗛 𝗘 𝗗 𝗜 𝗩 𝗜 𝗡 𝗘 𝗧 𝗛 𝗘 𝗗 𝗜 𝗩 𝗜 𝗡 𝗘	xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx	▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅ 𝗧 𝗛 𝗘 𝗠 𝗢 𝗥 𝗧 𝗔 𝗟 𝗧 𝗛 𝗘 𝗠 𝗢 𝗥 𝗧 𝗔 𝗟

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𝗘𝗣𝗜𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗧 x x x 𝗣𝗔𝗡𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗢𝗡 𝗗𝗢𝗠𝗔𝗜𝗡 𝗣𝗢𝗪𝗘𝗥𝗦 xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx	Lord of Beasts, King of the Dead, Enemy of Perun, Master of Magic & Trickery Slavic Underworld, Shepherds, Cattle, & Nature's Chaos 𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐂 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐄𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐅𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 // He has been imagined as a dragon, which in the belief of the pagan Slavs is a chimeric being, a serpent that devours livestock. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx	xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx	𝗔𝗟𝗜𝗔𝗦 𝗥𝗘𝗖𝗢𝗥𝗗𝗘𝗗 𝗔𝗚𝗘 𝗣𝗥𝗢𝗡𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗦 𝗦𝗘𝗫𝗨𝗔𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗬 𝗢𝗖𝗖𝗨𝗣𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡 xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx	Дими́трий медведь 36 he/him/his bisexual xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

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𝐆𝐎𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 & 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃

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𝙈𝙔𝙏𝙃𝙊𝙇𝙊𝙂𝙔 & 𝘽𝙄𝙊𝙂𝙍𝘼𝙋𝙃𝙔

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▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅ 𝗠𝗬𝗧𝗛𝗢𝗟𝗢𝗚𝗬 𝗠𝗬𝗧𝗛𝗢𝗟𝗢𝗚𝗬 You awaken curled into the large root of a tree. The overhang of leaves is thick and the air tastes pure and old. Before you sit a large wooden plate loaded with vegetables, fruits, and dried meats. Next to it is a wooden goblet filled with a dark purple liquid. Standing beyond that is a man that seems to be both old and young, leaning on a long staff with massive horns erupting from his head and a bearskin thrown over his shoulder. He turns as he hears you stir. "Oh good, you awaken." His voice was a deep rumble, not thunder—never thunder—but more like the groan of an ancient tree in a strong wind. "Eat. Drink. And tell me of yourself, my foal." You reach forward and go to ask a question only to find your voice gone. "It'll come back soon. Maybe you could do without talking for while. You, mortals, do love to squawk." Your expression blossoms into surprise. "Fine, I shall go first... "There was child. He was lost in woods on surface. Blond locks and sweet smile were threatened to be pecked away by crows. I found him. In shape of bear, of course. Jyah. Jyah. Don't give me that look. What about this entire place seems natural? Anyway. I took him. I brought him here, to Naiwa. I sat him on my golden throne and named him my son. My Jaryło. Of course, he was not my son by blood. Instead, lost infant was Perun's offspring. Cursed god of sky, thunder, and general shit." Veles spit, it is black like ichor. "He loathed me for calling Jaryło my own. Yet, he left that little bastard in forest. Every time I touched surface, he'd rain lightning down upon me. So, I took to form of bear. It was easier to hide from him. Perun couldn't tell his creatures apart. That's what you get for living so far above mortals you love. "Years passed. As they do. You, mortals, become wrinkly, old, and impotent. But mighty Veles still rules from Nawia. I sewed seeds of chaos for Perun. Laughed at his attempts to smite me down. And when he turned his backs on you mortals, I gave you magic. I returned your cattle. I made rivers flow deep and blue. Anything to make Perun pause. He was supposed to be your mortal's gods. I could take his followers as easily as I could his son." Veles pauses, laying his staff down. "Jaryło grew up. He took wife. He slew winter. He danced in spring and in blood. A good boy. Until he was taken from me. "Great irony, scholars say. I call bullshit. I went across plains, demanding his return. Those mortals that knew much and spoke nothing, I cursed. Disease ravaged them. I spun chaos across lands. But I got too proud. Too foolish. What? Gods can admit when they're wrong. Hindsight is for owls with their wicked heads. Perun finally caught me. He sent lightning down upon me and made sure that I'd return to Nawia. Sit on this throne. Be unable to find Jaryło. So, that's why you are here. "I hear war is brewing up there, but not pitiful mortal one. One between gods. I'm curious. Friends could be made. Bargains struck. Jaryło could be found. But I need to do this not seen." He approaches, kneeling in front of you. The food and drink were knocked aside, you having eaten and drank your fill sometime during his story. He places his massive hands on your cheeks and pulls your gaze up to him. His eyes are dark, eternal, and terrifying. "You're dead, anyway. You shouldn't mind me having stroll in your flesh?"

▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅ 𝗕𝗜𝗢𝗚𝗥𝗔𝗣𝗛𝗬 𝗕𝗜𝗢𝗚𝗥𝗔𝗣𝗛𝗬 "I woke up covered in ash because they thought they could defeat me by burning forest I was hiding in! I laugh. But I remember black. Soot. It covered me. My large hands, smaller. My mighty horns, gone. Something wasn't right. I now was now like mortal. There were gods that never seen ground. Hah! I walked in mortal's homes and taught them magic. I fed them. I walked them into Naiwa. Jyah. Jyah. Stop looking at me like that. We're both drunk..." Veles's turn to mortality was a mixed one. He'd spent a lot of time among the mortals, during the good times and the bad—even if he was what created the bad. Yet, when he was no longer wanted, or if his battles became too hard he could turn into a bear and slip back to Nawia—the underworld. Now he was trapped in the flesh of his own doings and mistakes. He didn't care for the steam that rose from the blood of the battlefield. His plan had always been to find a way to outsmart Perun and retrieve Jaryło. Now, both were a moot point. When the first god died, trying to escape their invisible cage, Veles watched with interest. And his lips twisted as he couldn't see their ghostly visage rise from death. He called out to Nawia, but he heard silence. He tried to shift into a bear, only to find his flimsy flesh unchanged. A god of chaos that had no hand in his own downfall, wasn't a happy one. He cursed the other gods and ventured from them as far as he could. All his plans were on the wind, and he was power and purpose were fleeting. Yet, Veles wasn't purely made of pride and idiocy. As it was said of him: "Like the bear, he is powerful and wise, but he also has the fangs and trickery of the snake. Duality is his nature and survival is his promise." So, he carved an existence in the form of a small shop in London. He found other immigrants from Slavic bloodlines, and he told stories from the homeland. Many a бабушка saught him out when there was disease or death upon their house. They referred to him as a shepherd, not knowing why. He tended to his flock while amassing a small following that became criminal in nature. When he was unfortunately upended and moved to America, he found the fruit of his endeavors actually held up. He could contact his growing connections in London. It was enough to get established in DC before finding himself on the West Coast. The transient nature of their constant upheaval and relocation wasn't something that was hard for Veles to get used to. He was the shepherd to the Underworld, after all. In the shady part of Seattle, he started a butcher shop, importing delicacies from London. He made a name for himself, and the бабушкаs quickly took a liking to him, along with hipsters talking about how "authentic" his sausages were. Slowly, he was building up his blue-collar criminal connections again. If he couldn't seed into the earth with his mighty Underworld, he'd use the figurative one of mortals. The Medved Butcher Shoppe moved more than cuts of meat, and its old-world criminal influence could easily be seen. He could move things in and out of Seattle with a smile and a shot of vodka. Still, Veles takes kindly to the other gods that wish to stop by and share a drink or two with him. His dalliances are no secret.

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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅

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𝙑𝙄𝙍𝙏𝙐𝙀𝙎 & 𝙑𝙄𝘾𝙀𝙎

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xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx	xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 𝗩𝗜𝗥𝗧𝗨𝗘𝗦 x x x 𝗩𝗜𝗖𝗘𝗦 x x x 𝗔𝗠𝗕𝗜𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡𝗦 & 𝗙𝗘𝗔𝗥𝗦	xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Paternal Cunning Giver Voracious Blunt & Crass Shit Starter x 𝐀𝐌𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 // Veles wants to maintain the power he has gained and to grow and nurture it. He hopes to keep his family close, and his enemies closer. Maybe he wishes for a return to godhood, but he isn't so single-minded as others. 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒 // Losing the people he has grown close to, just like he lost his son all those many many centuries ago. He doesn't wish to call enough attention to himself to be beaten or outsmarted. Veles fears his cozy little underworld being ripped away. Also, not a fan of storms. Perun managed to instill that into him.

Blades of the Blood Coast

Migi wouldn’t forget how Lorcan was so quick to throw her to the metaphorical wolves. She’d barely held in an eye roll as the giant man flailed around like a child and pouted out ”but, mommy, they are bad people too.” She sidled close to Falfer as he spoke to her, shrugging at his words. “Maybe they’re paying a toll for the air they’re taking up there.”

Yet, that guard seemed smitten, as everyone was with the gorgeous trickster, and was fine to let them pass. Migi wondered if anyone else had figured it out yet. “Let’s not forget what the tall-folk do for a perky set of chest mounds.” Migi partially wished that she had slid some coin in on that bet. She’d make a killing from the other burrahob’s lack of knowledge about the prisoners. The most useful ones didn’t have any knives up their sleeves. Those that looked like the weak link held the power. Well, except for the rich boy. He was just there to make them all look good. She smirked and moved on with the others as they passed through the threshold and into the city.

Varone elicited a whistle from Migi’s lips as they walked through it. It wasn’t as fancy as some of the cities she had visited, but it was nicer than she thought this horrible area was capable of. Usually, cities set upon by dangers both external and internal were buildings piled on top of buildings until it was an uncomfortable tortoiseshell of population. Here, things seemed to lay out like a nice, expensive rug.

Yet, she hadn’t been kidding when she mentioned wanting to sit and drink. Her feet felt like she’d done the dark rum dance over smoldering coals. Instead, she was sober, fully clothed, and not at all being paid fancy lordlings for her shenanigans. Here, she’d pay someone to be able to participate in the slightest bit of fun. So, she was more than pleased when they found a tavern that didn’t have a set of eyes and an expectant hand guarding the door.

Raddek excused himself to the bar as the others disseminated into the tavern, proper. She followed the eagle-eyed woman and hoisted herself up to a chair. When the girl just ordered some water, Migi gave her an eye. “Didn’t realize that fish walked on land and used swords. Water won’t sustain’ yah unless you’re breathin’ it.” She stood on her chair, catching the attention of the serving woman. “Aye, your cheapest ale that I could be drowned in and a hearty bowl of whatever soup you’re makin’. I’ll throw in extra if you scrape the bottom for all the good bits. Maybe throw in a bread heel or two if you got them laying about. Thank you!” It was probably the nicest that Migi had ever been around them, but then again, she had no reason to be mean to those that were working hard for whatever paltry sum they made. She figured that everyone in the group had been in that situation at one point in time. Why belabor the laborers?

Rolls

Perception: 1+1=2
Migi's tired, ya'll

Descension {A Modern God RP}

ZEUS || GOD OF SKY & THUNDER

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ℤ𝔼𝕌𝕊

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𝙄𝘿𝙀𝙉𝙏𝙄𝙏𝙔 & 𝙋𝙀𝙍𝙎𝙊𝙉𝘼

Berthil Espegren | #573136

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𝐆𝐎𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐊𝐘 & 𝐓𝐇𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑

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𝙈𝙔𝙏𝙃𝙊𝙇𝙊𝙂𝙔 & 𝘽𝙄𝙊𝙂𝙍𝘼𝙋𝙃𝙔

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▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅ 𝗠𝗬𝗧𝗛𝗢𝗟𝗢𝗚𝗬 𝗠𝗬𝗧𝗛𝗢𝗟𝗢𝗚𝗬 Rich Schaeffer leans back, looking at the sky outside. Clouds bubble at the horizon and lightning flits and dances like two manic lovers. He turns his attention back to you, bringing a glass to his lips with a pale, amber liquor in it. His pale blue eyes narrow underneath dark, blond brows. "Have you ever heard of the King of the Gods, Zeus?" He doesn't allow you enough time to answer. "Lighting, thunder, and all that." He laughs. "But the story is a bit deeper... "Son of Cronus and Rhea, fated to be devoured like his siblings—as we all are, in the shadows of our patriarchs. Yet, Rhea was tired of watching her children be consumed in a fury of jealousy and fear. You see, Cronus had learned that his son would be the end of him. It makes you wonder, though. Are we a product of fate pre-destined or one we craft for ourselves? Had Cronus not sought to eat his children, would they not have sought retribution? But I'm getting ahead of myself. "Rhea swapped Zeus out with a rock. Must have been a well-chiseled one for a damn titan to confuse his own son with a stone." Rich laughs, taking another sip. The storm grows closer. "But I digress... Zeus was raised by nymphs under Rhea's protection. Maybe, that had to do with his proclivities. Anyway, when he came of age, he tricked his father into drinking poisoned wine to disgorge his brothers. Which made Zeus now the eldest of his siblings. I don't make the rules, that's just how things worked. Together, with the help of the Cyclopes, they were able to overthrow their father and the other titans. And so, Zeus and his two brothers came into power. "They drew lots. Zeus got the sky. Poseidon the sea. And Hades the Underworld. But if you ask me, one knew that they looked good in that just wet look, and the other had a nose that needed the shadows to tone it down." Thunder rumbles in the distance, playing with his laugh. "Zeus married Hera, his seventh wife technically, and from there rule over Olympus began. But, as you can imagine—all that time spent in hiding, fearing for his life, and then leading his brothers to freedom didn't allow for Zeus to see the world. So, much against his wife's wishes, he did." Rich finishes his drink and flags down the waiter with a bright smile on his perfect teeth. They share a curt nod before he continues. "Then without these dalliances you wouldn't have such wonderful stories about Hercules, Perseus, and the lot... "I'm not excusing his actions, but sometimes in the hopes of getting out from under the shadow of our father, we make ourselves outrageous promises to make every day liveable. But there were consequences..." The waiter brings the drink to the table and looks up. The storm is basically upon you, and yet the rain has yet to begin. "Hera did manage to enact her revenge for all his philandering. Tied him up in a rope with a hundred knots. But as you can imagine, he had loyalty both familial and transactional. Calling upon old friends, he was able to get free, and he set about punishing his wife and those that she consorted with to get revenge. No one on Olympus tried that shit again. "That is far from the end of Zeus's tale, but to get any more particular... you'd be here all night. And I lost the thread of why I started that conversation to begin with. Oh right..." Rich took a long drought and leaned in. "Much like Zeus, I have carved my empire against the nature of my birth, taken care of those that have tried to stop me, and helped any that asked. Yet... unlike Zeus, no one holds me accountable for my fidelity..." The rain begins about the time his fingers find your hand.

▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅ 𝗕𝗜𝗢𝗚𝗥𝗔𝗣𝗛𝗬 𝗕𝗜𝗢𝗚𝗥𝗔𝗣𝗛𝗬 Gone... gone... gone... was the war between the gods. The doomsday that descended upon them with the roar of a dragon had petered out with a whimper. Zeus had only ever known how to defeat his enemies and overcome his powers with cunning and war. Now he was set upon by an entirely different hurdle to vault over. No need for thunderbolts, not that he could conjure the storms to his hands anymore, it was easier to subjugate with knowledge and understanding than power. They stood amidst a battle that was not there's, with weapons they did not hold. So, Zeus would use his words. He was farm from a trickster god, but he had been known for his mercurial nature. Zeus went forward with what he did best, he gathered his family and made plans. Of course, much like on Olympus, not all were happy to listen to him. So, they ventured off to their own horizons. He spent the two years in Italy consuming whatever he could in terms of knowledge. Old habits pushed him into speaking to humans and convincing them of his usefulness. When they moved to Britain, he was more than prepared to let his plans come to fruition. In those days, it was the radio that appealed to the masses. So, he started there. His voice was thick as honey and his words were cloying in a time where the world was trying to gain its footing from WW2. Yet, one might have noted that some of his interviews leaned towards collectors and scholars from the British Museum. His radio personality seemed to be equally interested in the state of the world and the Colussus that was at the museum. "An interesting piece of art," he'd say before moving on. Placing those seeds of thoughts in people's minds was what he was hoping to do. Zeus was always about getting out of rough situations no matter what, and that's where he thrived. But, he did miss the comfort of his palace on top of the world. When they were moved to DC, Zeus had had many lovers and media careers from the ends of where he could venture. America in the early 00s was more than a bit of a culture shock. Yet, there he was in the heart of American politics, Washington DC. Zeus didn't know how long this would last, so he gathered as much influence and patronage as he could. It was easy to stuff politicians, scientists, and journalists in his pockets when one had his charm and looks. Didn't hurt that his knowledge of foreign policies was surprisingly accurate. When they ended up in Seattle, Zeus was more than tired of performing the same old song and dance. The new medium in which he could exert his influence made itself quickly known. No, not the internet even if it was the prominent solution. For a man of his age and clout, he'd have much more luck on television. At the suggestion of a colleague from DC, he spoke with the producers of a local broadcasting company. He started at the bottom, but in the five short years in Seattle, he went from a surprisingly handsome anchor to a full-blown television personality. Seattle Late Night with Rich Schaeffer became a success. His face was on billboards, sides of buses, and televisions. All the while, he kept up with the family that would have anything to do with him. More importantly, he kept his fingers in the pies surrounding the Colossus. If he could solve the reason that they were here, trapped in these forms with their limitations, then the other gods would look at him as a hero once again. No longer pulling his brothers from the belly of their father, but pulling the gods from the useless land of the humans.

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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅

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𝙑𝙄𝙍𝙏𝙐𝙀𝙎 & 𝙑𝙄𝘾𝙀𝙎

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xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx	xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 𝗩𝗜𝗥𝗧𝗨𝗘𝗦 x x x 𝗩𝗜𝗖𝗘𝗦 x x x 𝗔𝗠𝗕𝗜𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡𝗦 & 𝗙𝗘𝗔𝗥𝗦	xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Charismatic Intuitive Brave Narcissitic Lascivious Vengeful x 𝐀𝐌𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 // To sit on the throne that he's made himself without contest. Having that sort of power suits him in more ways than one. Yet, returning back to Olympus is the main goal, but he knows he has all the time in the world to complete that task. Why not revel in the lack of machinations from the other gods? 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒 // In simple: being powerless. Returning to cowering in a cave far from his kingdom is his biggest fear. He didn't fight and fight and fight to lose it all again. He will do anything to maintain his status.