R31GN

Powerbound: A Superhero RP of Epic Proportions! (High Casual)

I'm interested

Ologies: A Study of Arcane Specialists {Paranormal Investigations and more}

@Witch Cat

I'm not 100% sure as I haven't really paid much attention to the investigation crew, but I don't think any of them are a distant ball of flame that seemed to flicker and sputter. Are you thinking of Drake, who's on the other team?

Ologies: A Study of Arcane Specialists {Paranormal Investigations and more}

@Polyphemus@shinigami94@HeirloomRoses@Austronaut@Witch Cat@R31GN@dragonmancer@AdobeFlash@Wraithblade6

Quick survey:

1. Do people want obvious answers for investigation or are you ok with having to guess and search through my posts for clues?

2. Combat team is anyone really opposed to assigning a post order for in combat?

3. Character's favorite animal?

4. Character's favorite movie?

@jasonwolf

1. N/A

2. I can roll with whatever.

3. Toss up between a wolf, a fox, or a weasel. For obvious reasons.

4. The only movie Baron has seen is The Purge. Only been in modern day for a year now, and when he's not studying, he has better things to do than watch movies. He thought it was a wonderful movie, and was slightly disappointed to find that it wasn't a documentary.

Blood Debt (Medieval/Fantasy, Rangers)

On their journey through the Nightwood, Grey was more than happy to be reunited with some of the others of Brand's brood. While Danton was a name and a face that he didn't remember all that well, he had heard tales. Pamil and Krayton he was certainly familiar with, and he had greeted them with open arms. Nothing but tragic was the death of Brand, though it had lead to the reunion of this patchwork family of rangers, so perhaps it was for the better? Only time and the death of Bloody Harold could tell.

A cacophony of violence and death painted itself across Grey's eyes as they tried to focus on the caravan, his subconscious screaming at him to show these men the same mercy that Brand was shown. Or just rip off their heads. The blond ranger shook his head slowly to dispel the imagery, clearing his head with a silent breath. Beneath his dappled brown hood, his eyes narrowed, flicking from side to side as he glanced at his brethren who laid in wait similarly. Beren, Varrick, and Krayton were very near, and he gave them a smile as the convoy approached ever closer. His eyes scanned the foliage for those in the ambush hidden away with bows and arrows. Ashira he was able to pick out of the forest scenery though he might've had less luck had he not known where and what to look for.

He nodded to Loden, trying not to jump in surprise when the ranger came up behind and graced them with wishes of good fortune. "Goddamn rangers, always so quiet." Grey thought to himself, completely understanding the irony of the statement. At times he was truly envious of the ability to move with such speed and stealth -he himself possessed the grace of a dehydrated camel in a snowstorm when it came to moving silently. Even here in the ambush, simply lying it wait, it was near impossible for him to stay still without fidgeting.

When his brothers and sisters let loose their hail of arrows on the guards, dropping many from their horses, Grey charged almost gleefully into the fray. Seeing Beren emerge from cover as well, Grey used the mans bow-fire as cover, weaving through those that Beren dropped from the combat. As he ran, Grey again dropped his cloak, letting it fall from his shoulders to being clasped tightly in one hand. His eyes locked with his target, one of the kings men running to engage with Beren. Taking advantage of the element of surprise, Grey threw his cloak, allowing the brown cloth to entangle itself around the helmet of the mercenary. In a swift motion, Grey pulled out his sword, and slammed the hilt into the head of his adversary. The man crumpled to the floor, losing consciousness almost instantly after the furious blow.

An arrow whizzed by Grey, narrowly missing as it thudded into the ground. His head whipped around to find the man who had shot at him, and locked eyes with a bow-wielding mercenary atop a horse just in time to catch the second arrow in his shoulder. Though his leather armor took most of the force out of the blow, it still penetrated his flesh. Grey growled in response, his damaged arm dropping the dull shortsword. With his good hand, he pulled his simple metal rod from its sheath and threw it underhanded at the man. It flew end over end in the air -a desperate maneuver but somehow it connected perfectly with the stomach of the bowman, winding him and dethroning him from his horse. Perhaps Loden's blessing had been more than just a wish for good fortune in the fight.

Before he could stop to celebrate this maneuver though, another mercenary was upon him. Grey was thrown to the ground by a powerful tackle coming from behind. He responded by throwing his elbow violently into the man's face, knocking him back. Grey took advantage of the momentary disorientation of the man to stand, and moved to pick up Zarall, his sword. Before he could quite reach the weapon, he was faced with a burning pain in his foot. The knife sticking out was fresh with blood, and the mercenary was already getting up. Rather than allow the mercenary to find his footing, Grey brought his forearm down on the man violently, metal sheathed blow knocking him back down. Grey pinned the man, putting one knee on his wrist, the other on his shoulder.

Eliciting a scream of pain from his own mouth, Grey pulled the arrow from his shoulder, and violently stabbed it into the mans hand -piercing flesh, bone, and ground alike. The kings man, it seemed, was far from out of the fight though, as he punched Grey in the face with a fury unmatched. The two scrapped on the ground, returning punches and kicks through their injury. As he bashed the man again and again with his limbs, Grey fought to keep the intrusive thoughts of death from his mind. "Mercy. Life. Forgiveness." Was the mantra he repeated mentally as his metal clad fist fell again and again on the mercenaries face.

@Naril@POOHEAD189@Gunther@NickTrano@AirBender@HeySeuss@Noxious

God Neon

Yeah I'm 100% for the voting. Choosing who to vote for sounds like it's gonna be hard though, haha

Ologies: A Study of Arcane Specialists {Paranormal Investigations and more}

This just in -Baron judges even more.

Ologies: A Study of Arcane Specialists {Paranormal Investigations and more}

Baron mused over the briefing. All in all, nothing he hadn't expected. Honestly boring, and he would've considered it to be a waste of his time if he wasn't getting paid for this. Considering he was on Seph and Markiel's payroll, he had a duty to do as instructed, which meant going with this group, even if they were far from his first picks. Certainly in this field, one couldn't be too picky when it came to coworkers. Those of adequate talent were rare, even rarer those who shared ambition enough to work in tandem. He casually thumbed through his notebook, finding pages with hastily scribbled notes on his (hopefully) temporary comrades as he mentally reviewed them each in turn.

"Jaklo... Wright? Wright. Right. Hunter, right? Something like that, the man is always carrying guns and the like, and I can't say I've ever seen him cast a single spell. Hell of a lot of toys, though. Tolerable, if a bit grating socially. I'll keep him close." Baron thought to himself as his eyes surveyed the young man.

Meeting adjourned, Baron made his way to his desk, pulling open a drawer with his bionic arm. It slid smoothly, revealing the bright white shine of his magnum, reflecting in the light. He took a hold of it in his good arm, turning it side over side. His mind flooded with memories brought by the weapon -the enchantment a gift from a woman he had known for all of a month. Just as quickly as the warm memories flooded his mind, they were dashed by a gory bang from deep within his subconscious, images of nostalgia replaced by the gore of those he had taken shots at. Baron grimaced as he stuffed the pistol back away in the drawer, instead pulling out a set of lustrous blue gems. The octahedral crystals, teeming with energy, moved of almost their own volition up Barons arm along his tattoos. They settled in the areas of high focus on his tattoos, sinking deep into his flesh. His eyes darted briefly to the spot where Drake had been lying earlier, which he had tried oh so very hard to ignore.

"I can't say that he's not talented at what he does, and pyromancy certainly won't hurt in this situation." The Frenchman thought, summing up his positive thoughts for the shifter. "But no grace, no elegance, and honestly I'd rather take intellectual advice from a broken printer. Honestly just the man opening his mouth makes me cringe." He thought, shuddering at the fear of having to hold extended conversation with the wannabe dragon.

Tentacles erupted again from Baron's back as he leaned over one of his spellbooks, searching for a spell he remembered from long ago. As much of his magic, inspired by that of demons, the spell was found written in shaky handwriting with red ink used to highlight the important points. He remembered writing the specifics of the spell, and the sheer agony that the incantation itself brought with apprehension. While channeling raw arcane energy itself fell under the jurisdiction of Diabolists, Baron had all but perfected the art of honing this energy like light through a prism. Baron read through the page thrice before looking away, muttering the incantation under his breath. He was glad that there was no particular rush -he had never quite gotten used to using these situational spells with any haste, and he'd be surprised if it took him any less than ten minutes to successfully perform the spell. As he finished murmuring the incantation, his eyes turned to Atlas.

One of the older among those employed at W&R, though still young in comparison to Baron (technically. The line was always blurred.), Atlas could've been fourteen years old as far as Baron was concerned. "Is there a single magic user in this age that doesn't have the social skills of an emo high schooler? Other than that Max guy. He's got... what is the word? Game?" He pondered. Though Baron had a fairly strong grasp on the conventions of this age, some references and slang were beyond him. If interacting with Drake was cringe worthy, an encounter with Atlas would be nothing less than mortifying.

As arcane energy flowed through Baron's body, he felt a feral flame erupting within his body. Like the sensation when one strikes their 'funny bone', a warm pain flowed through his body, burning at his very soul. Though his entire body tensed and strained in pain, he stood still and silent, not wishing to make a scene. Almost in response to the pain, tentacles pulled out of his body into existence, thrashing violently as they appeared before calming down to a gentle wave. Baron hadn't checked, but he was relatively sure that there were few people near enough his desk to take notice of the momentary weakness. The spell complete, Baron tied the surprisingly small spellbook shut with a ribbon of cloth that wrapped many times around the leather cover -inscribed with a crude image of a smiling man in what seemed to be a wasteland. As the book found itself being shoved to the side by an errant blue tentacle, Baron turned his eyes up as he tried to recall detail of his final teammate. Mithias the vampire.

This one was actually older than Baron, something impressive to say the least. "Fucking Mithias I -I actually don't know too much about this one." That being said, his general demeanor was chivalrous -not a quality that one could ever accuse Baron of possessing, but one he admired in others. Possibly naive, but respectable. For the moment, Baron chose to reserve judgement on this one, hopefully for the better.

As a magical warmth pulsed throughout his body, Baron spent one final moment at his desk before leaving. A locked drawer beneath the one holding his magnum contained his one most valuable possession. Overly careful with the artifact, Baron dug it out of newspaper packing with the ginger touch of a tentacle. The object was attached to his belt, still in it's sheath. Feeling far more complete with the artifact at his side, Baron finally elected to leave his desk and join the others in the basement. All of his gear in hand, the Frenchman had no need to visit the armory or chemical lab. He instead made a beeline for storage, where the portals were to take them to their destination. On his arrival, he saw Jaklo and Atlas waiting already. His tentacles shifted uncomfortably, shifting through an array of colors before finally settling down -the majority shone bright orange as they lazily drifted in and out of existence, while a few could be seen waving in between with a striking blue. He nodded to the two as he approached, taking mental note of Drakes rather rushed exit. He had left about ten minutes ago on some urgent errand. Left the oven on at home, perhaps? In all honesty, Baron wouldn't terribly mind if the shifter didn't show up for the mission.

"It appears we drew the short end of the stick, gentlemen. I don't suppose anyone has some words of... motivation before we get our hands dirty?" He asked with an utterly stony expression, using his tentacles for support as he leaned back.

Ologies: A Study of Arcane Specialists {Paranormal Investigations and more}

<Snipped quote by R31GN>

Got your back, pal.

@Polyphemus

You're a goddamn gem. Thanks, pumpkin

Ologies: A Study of Arcane Specialists {Paranormal Investigations and more}

Hey, uh, I can't seem to find Mithias' CS on the Char page. Anyone have a link to it on the OoC handy?

God Neon

"...The sun has gone down and the moon has come up, and long ago somebody left with the cup, but he's driving and striving and hugging the turns..."

Ramsay sung along as the lights of the city flashed across his half-closed eyelids. Though the way he leaned back in the drivers seat of the van coupled with an utterly bored stare across the road gave him a carefree appearance, his white knuckled grip on the steering wheel betrayed his true mood -agitated to say the least. One hand gripping the wheel like a teenage boy would a porno mag on a lonely night, the other shaking rather violently as it moved from resting on the back of the passenger seat to a gunmetal grey shape lying askew in the seat itself, stroking the cool metal to steel his nerves as much as it was to check that the tool hadn't moved. When his fingers found purchase on the curved grip of the gun, Ramsay's fingers arrested their excited dancing.

At least in comparison to his death-grip on the steering wheel, Ramsay's hold on the MAC-10 was almost casual, his hand allowing the weight of the automatic weapon to angle the barrel down towards the floor. He raised it, turning it over in his hands as he scanned it almost with pride. Certainly nothing special as far as guns go, but a bit different from H10's regular. Ramsay always found having something fully automatic was a hell of a lot easier to aim out the side of a car while driving than the semi-auto peashooters the gang usually carried. Inelegant? Maybe. Inaccurate? More often than not, yeah. Dangerous? Fuck yeah. But in the end, was it effective enough for the job? Honestly probably not, but Ramsay never was a gun guy. No, though Ramsay could tell you everything about a cars make and model just by listening to the engine, he never spent the time to figure out guns. He saw this little guy in a hell of a lot of movies and TV, and that was enough for him.

"..Because he's racing and pacing and plotting the course, he's fighting and biting and riding on his horse..."

Ramsay reached into the cup holder of the van, where a cracked mobile phone rested, blaring his music through speakers that made the music sound like it was run through enough cotton to make a plantation owner jealous. Calloused fingers fumbled across the slick silvery surface of the device until they found the protrusion they were looking for. The sound of the music dimmed to a harsh whisper with a surprisingly heavy bass sound still resounding. From the van ahead, Ramsay heard some muffled shouting and banging. He could only assume the same was happening in the transport ahead of that as well. A light smile shone from his face, dimples standing out stark amidst his stubble. The crew was getting riled up, certainly a good sign.

The lone driver took a brief glance to the back of his van, smile slowly vanishing. No comrades were to be found shouting and screaming for glory and Valhalla in this deathtrap of a tin can. No, Ramsay was accompanied by a far more somber party. Though Ramsay almost always had an odor of gasoline drenching him in lieu of cologne, the smell was even heavier in the air thanks to the rattling conglomeration of cans in the back, each a rusted red color. There was quite likely room for a few crew members to ride along in this makeshift funeral pyre, but Ramsay couldn't quite blame the others for favoring the transports that weren't destined to go up in a fireball. There was no way in hell that he would let the ignition go off prematurely, but hey. Nobody's perfect, or some motivational shit like that.

When the vans reached the AutoMach, Ramsay found himself lagging behind, quite intentionally. His rolling bonfire was parked just out of the way of the fray, but close enough to be accessed easily when they needed it. Ramsay walked stiffly over to the others as the two vans carrying H10 members pulled away. He frowned as he saw the door of one discarded on the floor. He had the strangest feeling that he knew exactly who it was that was responsible for that.

"Fuckin' a, that shit isn't easy to fix." Ramsay muttered to himself as he approached the din and chaos, hands clenching and unclenching uncomfortably. One hand was gripped tight around his fully loaded gun, the other even tighter around a pill. Two twins to the little silver miracle were in capsules around the mans neck, not something he needed to use quite yet. Eyes fixed tightly on the fist containing the pill, Ramsay was distracted as a wide grin found purchase on his face in response to the crescendo of battle cries that erupted from his crew. As men poured through the breach, Ramsay cocked his head briefly in a sort of 'fuck it' gesture, before slamming the pill back. As the effects of Neon took hold over Ramsay, he slipped his bandana up over his nose.

For a moment, Ramsay was completely numb and his vision narrowed like a letterbox film. Even as he squinted to make up for this, he felt the Neon really kick. His vision slowly returned to normal as he felt sheer power running through his skin, felt phantom fingers of his own running up and down every surface around. Every surface, other than himself, that was. He felt the heavy material of his flannel as it flapped behind him like a cape in his own simulated wind, but he wasn't able to exert any of that influence over himself, leaving him numb and, in a way, weaker.

That didn't stop Ramsay, or even put a falter in his step, as he marched on the breach with those of his crew that had yet to make it through. Tonight wasn't a test run for the Neon -nothing short of war, here. A shocked expression quickly turned to a smile as he saw one of the H10 crew (he hoped to god) tearing one of the Breakers up with a goddamn tiger. Approaching the path left behind by his comrades, Ramsay exerted his telekinetic influence on the van door as he walked next to it. As though lifted by a really strong guy, or just two normally strong guys, the hunk of metal lifted itself in the air, forming a moving piece of cover that kept itself just in front of Ramsay. He adjusted his grip on the MAC-10, raising it to eye level when he entered the AutoMach, and resting the barrel atop his cover as a makeshift tripod. Almost instantly on his entrance Ramsay felt bullets ping across the metal surface of his shield. Apparently an attractive target, he ducked his head as a bullet found itself striking a weaker area of the door and piercing directly through.

"Who fucking does that?" He asked himself incredulously. Peeking his head through the shattered glass window of his door, Ramsay locked eyes with the man who had shot at him -apparently just now realizing the ineffectiveness of shooting the man hiding behind cover. "You're shooting at the one guy who has a goddamn shield, you dense motherfucker." He muttered in protest, pulling the shield in closer. As the metal moved ever closer to his body, Ramsay felt his influence increase exponentially. Putting all of his force into it, he launched the makeshift shield at the shooter. He didn't bother to check whether or not the blow was fatal, the satisfying sound of metal colliding with skull was plenty for his aggression. Plus, he had more pressing matters to deal with.

"FUCK YOU." Came a rather creative shout from what Ramsay had thought was empty air. A fist caught him in the jaw, sending a violent vibration throughout his skull.

"At least buy me dinner first, tough guy." Ramsay spat as he recovered, one arm raised defensively. The perpetrator stood in an almost comical boxers stance, head and arms bobbing up and down giving the image of a cheap novelty bobble head figurine. The man spat on the floor, the spit itself sizzling upon impact. As if inspired by this sizzling, the 'boxer' looked down at his hands, which ignited with flame. He did a couple of punches in midair, maybe as an attempt at intimidation? "Neon's a hell of a drug." As his fists moved, fire trailed behind, leaving a line of red hot air that lingered for far longer than it should've. Ramsay raised his gun, only to find the man was now in his face, hitting him hard in the gut. The punch didn't ignite Ramsay, but it sure hurt like a bitch. Another punch quickly came, aimed at his temple, but this time Ramsay was able to get an arm up to block. The sheer force of the punch numbed his arm, and he dropped his gun on the floor with the impact.

"Y'all should've stayed at ho-"

A bullet, piercing through his throat, cut off the taunting voice of fire-fist-guy rather effectively. A fountain of blood ripped out from the wound, eager to find escape. Though his control was rather weak as far out as he had reached, it had been enough to shove that bullet in the right direction, and for that Ramsay was grateful. The immediate threats on his life dispatched of, he ducked down to grab his MAC-10 and knelt behind the cover of a heavy crate, to survey the situation and rest his sore injuries. As Ramsay raised his eyes to peer through the over, he felt his influence of the world around him slowly fade, eventually diminishing to nothing. No more telekinesis shenanigans, unless he wanted to pop more Neon, it seemed. A deep sigh escaped him before he snapped his head down lower in response to a bullet whizzing by his head.