Rockette

[closed]

@Kefka Palazzo - Brilliant as always!

The Spirits Within: Oakridge Chronicles

Great suggestion, and makes a little more sense with the overall nature of the other negative effects.

The Spirits Within: Oakridge Chronicles

_{M O N I K A A B E N D R O T H - F A Y E
◆ Twenty-three. ◆ 6th, September. ◆ 167 cm. ◆ Guardian.
♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕}

_{♛ A P P E A R A N C E}

---

Compiled from a rather courteous selection of genetics, and a blessing of generous categories of fair and dark — rich and pale — and the massive pool from a deposit of myth and lore of both Abendroth and Faye; Monika is impressed to be a beauty of harsh athleticism and discipline. Rigid proportions and posture are gilded and framed by the cadaverous inflection of her palour; a near translucent tone of pallid flesh that is only blemished by the harshness of rigorous training and methods of practice that have forged into the intricacies of being a Guardian. Dissented to stagnation and languorous qualms, and regaled with persistent cardio has afforded Monika with visual, self-endowed perfection by her musculature and fortified prowess by the impart of her inner whorl of spiritual inhabitants. Translated easily to the perfect warrior.

Her countenance of manipulative delicacy hosts harsh eyes of a crystalline blue, a gift from her infamous mother, but without the glowing pain and sorrow of sapphire to make them glimmer — these are the glimpses from the unification of sky and water, boring into a foundation of ice and just as sharp and piercing like the turmoils of winter. Combined with this conviction of icy azure is the most contradicting foundation on Monika’s overall debut: the long mane of black hair that reaches and curls in the minuscule dip of her spine. The practicality of it is lost, and more so gestures to the means of fashion and appeal though the latter is not crucial to her process. Often taming this mass of ebonette appeal into a plait or an elaborate mess about the crown of her head, Monika is noted often for its sheer mass in comparison to her other featurettes; such as her height, her musculature of slender arms and thin shoulders, or even the myriad of scars decorating the expanse of her palms and limbs from the requirements of deadly efficiency incurred from swordsmanship.

Her wardrobe is practical, if anything, and without restraint despite her aforementioned appeal of discipline. Some things need to be given lee way to ensure nothing is hampering in the least, and sporting in the smallest of athletic wears is the common representation Monika dons for, only to be sheathed by grey or white blouses of loose restriction that taper off her shoulders and the common place uniform of black trousers that cinch about her hips and tighten to her thighs and knees before sectioning off just beneath the caps. Being a creature of habit and consistency, as it were, she is seen in little else aside from the requirement of uniform.

_{♛ I D E O L O G Y}

---

It’s universally known that Monika is the reflection of her peers: antithetical, the standing poise and caretaker of fluctuated personalities by the means of spiritual influence and lack of restriction despite military bondage. Where some are oft to be ridiculed as a child, Monika is often berated for being beyond maturity, that her presented attitude is strict, bound, and rigid in that it doesn’t yield to informal injustices and influences of a luxurious mindset. She has a suspicious and offensive nature to her inquires, always questioning against the initial judgment of her peers and betters by speculation that her original impression is not pleased. This settles her standards to be developed to extreme means of near perfection and must uphold to her regulated measures of battle conduct and capability. Due to her inquiring spite, Monika has a difficult time in being impressed or swindled into favour by her various military comrades, this leaves Monika in the assumption that she does not even have sympathy beyond her impressive walls and chasm of emotional discipline, often assumed as cold and dissociated.

Due to the manner in which Monika grew up, by her own childish misconception, she adheres to the belief that she has to be stronger, faster, better — to achieve a standard she has imposed upon her self by the simplest words ever uttered to her during her youth. She religiously follows that she must be the best to protect those dearest to her, a feat that has only been achieved by a selected few. But, just how far can those close to her be when Monika continues to shield herself from the unacceptable concept of failure or weakness. Certain parameters have warped Monika’s desire of self improvement to a desperate, inner need of value and importance; to be worthy and to earn the splendors of life even if she does not personally go out of her way to enjoy them otherwise.

Whilst fortified in a rigid plantation and philosophy of what she should be, rather than what she could by her potential, and inner personality in which remains an entire mystery by deliberate endeavors, Monika only smiles and seems nurturing around her family. And goes to the extremes of protective kinship that alludes to an obligation beyond commonality. It’s only around them that she seems to relax and temper down, however slight that might be.

_{♛ B A C K G R O U N D}

---

Born in the darkness and cold tundra of an Anatolian village, dotted with farms and forgotten, legendary history, the settlement that birthed the infamous Abendroths: Thuringia. Here, the memoirs of Monika Renne Abendroth-Faye are askew in the common conception of childhood carelessness, burdened from the introductory age of impression and inclination to the intricacies of the world. She knew, from the very beginning, that she was different. Though, standing next to her twin, their differences and leagues of development were never the same and whilst they flagged behind, she charged ahead with the silent ruthlessness of a child blessed and very well informed and intuitive of their own advantage. However, to purge her from arrogance, the infamous Magdalena Abendroth — the pale WARG veteran — bent to her daughter and informed her with no less than confusing words that she had to protect everyone: be there for them, guide them, shield them from the ugliness of the world that had burned, scoured, and mocked her before she had been saved. They told her the truth: about their families and ties of Abendroth and Faye curses melded into her very soul, and the soul of her brother. But, salvation rested in the palms of family and friendship, and Monika took that and warped it into the obligation of being better, stronger, and above the means of mediocre and nurture it into a self—torturing need for achievement and exceptional growth to eclipse the infections of her birth rite.

The family was supportive, loving, colourful in the massive unity that it was, despite the shadows that cantered after them. But, Monika only saw this as a need to grow and mature into a certain mold, she sectioned off her emotions, but one particular wicker of empathy could not be kept from her heart. Guilt soured her protective nature, in some way she felt responsible for her late twin's condition and no amount of forgiving and whispered recurrences from her parents could alleviate that blemish on her perfection. Even as a child, young and shadowing his every stumble, she couldn’t keep the sheer agony of being at fault, and thus spurred the near obsession to prove her worth — that despite it all, she had to be the best because of every circumstance laid bare in their connection.

The Calamity didn’t leave much of an impression, a tragedy to mark the pinnacle of growth, but not enough to emotionally tear apart her resolve. They were fortunate that the Calamity Gate was far enough to the East, that they suffered minimal influence until the Dark Zone spread, forcing the family to retreat further North in Anatolia in fear of the increasing Mordrem. It only served to thrust the initial premise of her overall obsession, to rise above the faults of war and exotic combatants as the years increased with muttered tales and anxious reports from the front lines. Though she lost her grandfather and her eldest uncles to the summons, whom later were filed to have become Husks, and taking her mother and father as well to the front lines in pursuit for the infantry. The family didn’t linger on the bereavements and instead found solace in the remaining and the ability to make a difference; or so they claim.

Thus it only seemed natural that Monika was drafted to become a part of Oak Ridge, her induction pre—determined by the involvement of her parents within the academic ranks and the military and the sheer empowerment of the spirits that have retreated into her being.

^{♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕}

_{♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕ ♕}

_{♛ W A R F A R E}

---

[◇] Adapting to the preference of melee warfare in the contingents of military force, Monika’s choice of weapon has fallen away from traditional masses. Where swords were slick, slender, and uniform in their aesthetics, hers was customized to absolute mass and power. Wielded in the slender vices of her hands, the towering, dual-wielded sword known as The Caladbolg preens both unadulterated strength and finesse; elegant and deadly in the unique customization of its’ overall design and as is long as she is tall, extending reach and blade. Her blows fall heavy, sundered from the consistent practice and religiously executed practices of her swordsmanship. Monika’s agility is queerly profound, even wielding such a claymore, singing promises of death and fury and near perfection in the intentions of harm and swift ruin.

The sheer mass of spiritual conglomerate within Monika has often been a pinnacle of observation and juncture of objectified quality and quantity. The benefaction of her birth rite from those of the Abendroth and Faye often favour the strong, their souls literal bedlams of empowered absorption. This curse of assimilation endowed Monika with thick weaves of spirits that naturally seeded themselves within her mind of fortitude, but also effected and plundered the soul of her twin. The result left him underdeveloped and later embezzled his very existence. Thus, Monika’s magnitude of remnants from the Etro exceeds that of traditional Guardians, fostered to extremes of power: so amassed that her methods of magical inclination can underpass into non—existence numbers, or override typical units to measure spiritual aptitude.

<sub>◇ Diamant. [ Ice ] [ Dark ] [ + Reflect ] [ + Protect ] The progression of these spirits amass to two stages, or rather, two forms of provision. In the initial subject, the original is considered entirely passive, embellishing Monika's complexion to behold a peculiar glimmer, surrounding her like lamplight, and the surface blessed with a cold, frigid surface that inflicts her graces of physical touch to be a few degrees below normal circulation. At first, the caresses from her fingers appear slick and cool, however prolonged exposure and concentration grant her pores with lesser degrees of heat until nearly painful and arctic. The secondary premise of these spirits accumulate to splinter across Monika in slivers of ice, reflecting and shimmering like kaleidoscopes of diamond; hardened and deadly in refinement and protection. These splinters and tines eclipse skin and armour alike, usually surfacing upon activation to receiving injury or ill intent from enemies. These spirits adhere and value vigor, loneliness, protection and intensity. They manifest as glimmering, willowy figures of feminine likeness.

◇ Vergeltung. [ Holy ] [ + Empower Lancer ] [ + Dawn ] [ - Vampire ] Both divine and vengeful, these spirits have gathered and swarmed as one to reflect the harsh intricacies of divinity and enlightenment. The light of the good and benevolence can sometimes spear righteous and pain to those that oppose them, and with the swing of her mighty sword, Monika can direct and summon spears of burning, all—consuming energy to target her opponents. Consumed of an all righteous and holy flame that burns with eternal intensity, and also empowers her soul and those eclipsed in the luminescence of her vengeful blow and retribution, empowering her comrades as well. These spirits value divinity, vengeance, absolution, purity, and fortitude. They manifest in the forms of winged creatures with vulpine attributes and the faces of mortals.

◇ Herrlichkeit. [ Dark ] [ + Frenzy ] [ - Curse ] [ - Terror ] [ - Pain ] [ - Imperil ] Submitting to the extremes of power, and ambition, these spirits have unified to a unique severity. Deformed, warped and misconstrued empathy forming from the dregs of loss, woe, and fear. These spirits are harsh and unrelenting, escaping from Monika from the ducts of her eyes, lips, and releasing from the wells of her soul in the apparitions of tentacles, slithering to envelop the enemy in their grasp. They inflict wounds of psychological fear and terror, rather than psychical lashes or wounds. In their wake these spirits will often leave an irritated path of ebony from where they touched, but soon dissipate as the effects sink into their hearts and minds. These spirits value aggression, ambition, savagery, and fear. They manifest as a literal void.</sub>

_{♛ A S P E K T S}

---

_{◇ Lancer.
◇ Vicar.
◇ Sentinel.
◇ Adept.}

_{♛ T R I V I A}

---

_{◇ Theme.
◇ Monika grows her hair in memory of her brother, who often played with it in their youth.
◇ She carries the secondary key of a gold and silver set designed for them both.
◇ Suffers, silently, from routine insomnia and nightmares of guilt.
◇ Her full name is Monika Renee Abendroth-Faye, partially named after her father.
◇ All Abendroth's sired from her grandfather have names that start with the letter "M" - her brother excluded.
◇ Her late brother's name is Reine Moses Abendroth-Faye, partially named after their uncle who was the twin to their mother.}

Ollie Morgenstern.

_{O L L I E M O R G E N S T E R N
◆ Twenty-three. ◆ 16th, January. ◆ 190 cm. ◆ Guardian.
▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲}

_{◆ A P P E A R A N C E}

Fitted with persistent sprucing and delicate tenderizing to his harsh masculinity, Ollie is impressed upon with both labels of brooding sophistication. With a brow that sunders over pools of anxious ebonies and a visage that hosts such deep set eyes, he oft appears contemplative and fixated in a perpetual shadow of gloom. These are purposely laden fixtures to his presentation, of course, for attractions of the seeded thought and heavily fixated thinkers are tend to draw and attract various components that befit and benefit them. Ollie plays well into his appearance and heralds the simpers and smirks of a man well endowed into his own advantage and thickly layers his expressions without hindrance and flaw. His posture is forward and confident, gilded in wiry muscle and sinew corded tight through his musculature that is fed consistent weight of power and spiritual strength. Augmenting his features of a tall stature, Ollie has carefully illustrated the swarthy complexion of his skin with traces of ink and creativity. Each mark of ebonette and feathery greys are framed in the bend and execution of his body, and are well aligned to each detail of his form: artful in their intentions, and leading to a mysterious complexity.

With tresses of a brunette appeal, his wardrobe interchanges through various leagues of fashion, bearing familiar hues of greys and ebonies and tinged with scarlet finery to embellish his debut. Ollie follows through the rapid increases of appeal in cloth to whichever is better fitting to the masses, altering it as much as his expressions, and tending to reflect and mimic rather than construct his own individuality - such suits him rather well.

_{◆ I D E O L O G Y}

Ideally, he’d be a gentleman. Equipped with finesse, smooth intonations, and the accentuating tone of a man befitted to his countenance of gentry and sophistication. Regaled within his spool of phrases and cajoling timbre: the voice that caresses and leaps over chasms of emotional aptitude and differences allows the idealistic chivalric whims of his altruistic nature to preen and glimmer within hopeless caverns. Ideally, he’d be a royal that oozed both exuberance and charm, without censor to his dominion of sublime radiance and cool reflection. It’s a commonly known factor to the wiles of Ollie that he is carefully constructed, illustrated and poised neatly to the judgment and inflection of his peers. A carefully laden portrait that neither bears or allows any fissure to mar the surface of his perfectly fortified armour of reflective, adaptive, glass.

Ollie is a mirror, a pure and unsullied method of feedback that permits him to quickly shift and conduct his facial expressions and pitch of his vocals to a pinnacle of appeal and attraction. He possess a void of masks; the reproduction of his empathy and apathy and habit of silent contemplation and observation of comrades and enemies alike. Each are treated uniquely the same, every individual to grace his debut receives a cursory pass over and probing inquiries until properly labeled and equipped with the appropriate interaction that befits their own personality and qualms. There are very few whom are aware of his rituals of conduct, and such are not to be mistaken that he is wary of honesty and truth. In privacy, Ollie sheds and dismembers into his dissociation and degrees of universal detachment. His perception and overall consensus of cruelty and universal events blend and bleed into an monochromatic discrepancy in comparison to his own disturbances.

As such, laden beneath the glass is a brittle soul, wreathed in bitterness; marginalized at best, reviled and banished at the worst, and doesn’t herald a minuscule impression of sympathy. His heart weighs akin to the depths of a stone and is just as grey and wrought by nature. It crumbles and disperses, permitting him to extremes of savagery and sadistic inclinations to mortals alike, and he doesn't care. He’s the bastard of all bastards that hosts the simpers of charming princes and kings, and wields the complexity of a man who desires death - but will always be denied his rest.

_{◆ B A C K G R O U N D}

The city—state of Aster had no perception or gallant knowledge that they would spawn the existence of Ollie Morgenstern, festooned in ridges and peaks with their security impaled into the bedrock of the mountain of Mattius that loomed above their refinement and wealth. Being snug and secured to the range provided amble trade, gallantry that cantered suit, and provided foundation and fortitude to the universal resources of alloys that Mattius was coveted for. The Regent sired contracts with Nexus Industries to pillage the spires for their bounty, and in recompense Aster prospered, becoming a celebrity of locations within Tenebra. In a natural procession, the Regent seated himself pleasantly in his upper echelon of some hodgepodge formula of nobility and the epitaph of the Deveraux become both beloved and infamous from the muttered musings of the kingpin being some "sell out." Much to his ignorance and wealth, the Regent Deveraux was eclipsed by his increasing dalliances, and in careless juncture, by the conceiving of his numerous brood.

Whilst most were paid for the silence and swore to forsake the claim of succession, it was Ollie's vapid and self torturing, vane obsessed mother that muddled and violated his birth rite by her increasing, psychotic episodes of worthless pining towards her vexation. She mooned and crowed for her misshapen affections until Ollie Morgenstern was left destitute in the dregs of abandonment and to fend for himself while whispers of death and ruin lurked in the eclipse of an increasing parasitic stigmata. Described as some forlorn orphan in the Aster slums, he fended for himself within a community of urchins and would presently deny any affiliation towards his short life of poverty. To this day, he denies all manners of his origins.

But all these intricacies paled and bled into the diluted nightmare of his initial upbringing when he was selected by one Julian Leaonhardt: a man whom sported no business in the slums of Aster, but proclaimed in triumph that he had found just what he was looking for.

Ollie's introduction into Oakridge was thus carried upon the unity of a contract, with his sire securing them position into the academy under various pretenses and intentions. By the leeway of Nexus affiliations, and their own permits to seed themselves within the vastness of Oakridge, Ollie was permitted to cultivate his spiritual aptitude under the careful tutelage of Julian, and it was here he grasped the finesse of masking his empathy and procuring the void of his soul into a fixture of literal glass. He's been a pinnacle of mystery since, gilded by the simpers of a prince, but no less probing to the curious mind that desires to inquire after his affiliation to a certain scientist.

^{▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲}

_{▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲}

_{◆ W A R F A R E}

[◇] Whilst the common preference of the traditional phalanx of military warriors opt for melee weaponry, Ollie has differed away from these consistencies in favour of his own fighting style. His profound psychical stature pales in comparison to comrades stacked and laden with strength and power, as his finesse lies within the agile and rapid performance that his method of battle conduct thus requires. The unique weapon that rests nimbly within his ink laced grasp, the sleek, ebony finish of The Magus Bow glimmers in bounds of translucent energy and true to its customization, responds profoundly to his touch alone. Crafted by the weapon division of his sire's conglomerate, the Magus Bow taps into the reserves of his spiritual manifest, sanctioning the spirits to impart, briefly, to the draw of his bow and to intertwine with the specially crafted arrows. Impacted with speed and accuracy, the Magus Bow never misses its' mark.

Lain in dormant, the spirits that have found refuge in Ollie were initially steeped into slumber, as if originally finding haven within the urchin he denies he once was. And later were brought to fruition by the awakening of his life when he met Julian and was betwixt numerous Guardians and potentials teeming with their own impart of energy. His prominent use of magic has conducted a series of tests and simulations to breach the threshold of his magical endurance, and whilst empowered and endowed by his religious practice and summons, it has presented Ollie as both dangerous and yet brittle by the twist of his very essence being so warped by the mass of spirits within.

<sub>◇ Guntar. [ Dark ] [ - Curse ] [ - Imperil ] A deep pitch of vibration is the sanctioned warning of this spirit, a festering wallow and timbre that bears kinship to the droning hum of extraterrestrial origins. With snaps and fissures of ebony forming to the taut pull of his arm, breaking across skin and bone and glimmering with a circumference of nebulous scarlet to outline the jagged projections. These spirits are aphotic, void like in their lack of light, and harsh in the incredible draw they pull from within their host and infect their enemies. Cinching his fingers tight, into a fist, the spirits gather and pool around his gesture and are capable of being released in rapid succession akin to roaring bullets; effectively willing his arm to be a cannon of energy and aid to his preference of range. These spirits value hostility, sadism, savagery, and solidarity, they manifest in crimson-rimmed apparitions of shallow ebony with non-descriptive faces and slivers of alabaster splintering in mock grins.

◇ Schwarze. [ Dark ] [ Fire ] [ - Meltdown ] [ - Flamestroke ] [ - Nightmare ] A wailing crescendo builds not only in the mind, but also within the heart, and thus Ollie cringes and bears the pain as fire and ash build and swell. Burning ever black and singed with fissures of molten carmine that erupt from within and lash out in a aggressive, jagged flame of blackened fire to sunder his foes and bearing them weak to the dark of his soul. Originally crossing the threshold of release in a torrential and hellacious manner, Ollie can also permit and refine the jagged flame to twine and twirl around his arrows knocked within the Magus Bow; lining the tragic fire into accuracy rather than massive swells. These spirits adhere and achieve leagues of woe, enmity and a deformed concept of penance. Manifesting in the shapes of avians with pooling shadows that bear sweltering heat, they screech terribly in their own indignation be it at friend or foe.

◇ Böse [ Dark ] [ - Pain ] [ - Terror ] [ + Leech ] Boiling in a viscous, foul and churning void of deeply seeded sable that is reminiscent of an oil slick, these spirits gather and swell into apparitions of whirling tendrils of varying leagues of thickness. Resembling a myriad of ligaments of mortal likeness and tentacle life forms, they assemble around his body, usually at the plantation of his stance and lash out in defensive purposes rather than seeking harm and true pain. In the event of contact, they pitch and grasp, tugging and pulling until embracing the enemy in their oil slick infection, absorbing life and delivering pain and agony with bulbous masses tending to cling to skin like a sickly growth. These spirits favour isolation, secrecy, despair and depression, and thus manifest as a man, bent over in terrible sorrow with slick arms bunched around the wispy figure.</sub>

_{◆ A S P E K T S}

_{◇ Ravager.
◇ Synergist.
◇ Saboteur.
◇ Lucky.}

Magdalena Abendroth-Faye.

_{M A G D A L E N A A B E N D R O T H - F A Y E
◆ Forty-six. ◆ 3rd, February. ◆ 157 cm. ◆ Guardian.
▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲}

_{◆ A P P E A R A N C E}

Her debut is impressed with many appellations such as misconstrued, mutated, and suspended; warped by death, woe, and savagery in the fickle wounds of love, family, and pure devotion. Suspended by the correlations of spiritual aptitude and sheer mass of her own ability, Magdalena appears stranded in the visual cues of her younger self, wizened only by the depths of her eyes that are sheer pits of sapphire that blaze an eternal intelligence and keen apathy. Her countenance borders stoic and indifferent, porcelain and unwavering in every faceted possibility of a mortal shell, but fissure and crumble from her acute pain that seems eternal; a constant war within the small frame of a battered soldier. With fair complexion, and nearly translucent blonde hair giving impression to someone delicate, this is additionally compounded by her short stature that brims with both fire and shadow. Her identity seems to waver, often witnessed battered and struggling, an eternal seed of hatred that has long corrupted her presentation. Evidence of her inflections are illustrated in the fine weaves of obsidian taint that stains the blue of her crippling stare, dying the roots of her hair to soot, and staining the beds of her nails and pores that seem consistently warped by sludge and ink.

The beautiful tragedy that once scored both infamy and rumour has been driven to a mere reflection of her former self, begetting the woeful inquires of where the once proud warrior vanished to.

_{◆ I D E O L O G Y}

Apathetic and swathed in a multitude of grey, Magdalena’s ideals and consensus of her surroundings have eternally been muddled, deluged and dreaded in a bland existence. Drowned within a imbued perception of black, she adheres to the belief of predetermined existence, destiny, and Fate. Her worships are pessimistic and sopped in woe and agony, a degree of misfortune embellished in the infections of a curse. She views circumstances and situations with a universal certainty that it has been meant to be and thus must come to pass. The relationship she has cultivated with her spirits are deeply ingrained, enough that the barrier of self and soul have become blended and nonexistent, her methods of communication embellish a sense of Eternity, as if she has lived a thousand lives and seen a thousand deaths, as if she has seen all the evil and dread in the world and wears the misfortune of others and empathy on her shoulders. Whilst impressed as the terrible creature of pain, therein lies the extreme of desire, the qualms of a being that finds purpose in misery and terror, a masochistic adhesive betwixt death and life.

_{◆ B A C K G R O U N D}

It is an inquiry commonly bequeathed of where life and purpose began. Was the initial prologue written in the tundra of Thuringia, or later in Helston where a home of daisy wallpaper and scarlet tulips reined, or did they come to fruition in the Army where tragedy began and found purchase in the grace of a savior? Or, was happiness and life found within the gift of children, where twins were bestowed to a woman who knew nothing but torture and woe, who smiled and wept whilst clutching both babes to her breast. She grieved over their Fate but found a wealth of pride in their own grace. But, Magdalena was never meant for a family, though she was saved by the adoration of her husband, Rene, it was never enough to staunch the flow of destiny in the figures of shadows and molten tears.

Magdalena had reaped an infamous tale within the ranks of the Army, her contingent of companions that had sired root within the town of Helston also bearing their own fame in the fortunes and stories of Guardians. Being among the first and left in the initial terrors of the Calamity, spirits had found succor and sanctuary of her family, her brothers and herself bearing the darkest and most misunderstood swathes of void like existence with remnants of elements corroding their souls even further. At first, the objectives of relief and evacuations had been the intentions, to save all they could from the increasing Mordrem as the Dark Zone increased and swelled, bringing storms and quaking earth in its’ reach. Magdalena oft feared for her children, with Rene constantly fixated in a wrath to keep his family safe, but to also find the remains of the Faye tribe and families that had retreated and vanished entirely when Libra was sanctioned and penned into a state of decay.

The Abendroths were an eternal moniker in the Army, founded by the initiation of Kristoff and his children, a vast family that followed in the falls of his own rite. However, a mission had gone horribly wrong, a critical error and mistake that ended within the tale of a hill of bleached bone and the remnants of a man seated upon the throne of Death. The myriad of fissures within Magdalena had splintered and yawned wider, exposing the abyss if her spirits that would see to her Fate. The curse of her family, the Abendroth’s of wavering dusk and dawn, also fell onto her companions. The entire squadron found death on the impalement of terrible creatures that stole both heart and soul, gained their spirits and left them to rot. Magdalena blamed herself, her body broken and shattered, her heart deadened and forsaken and with her husband having fled back to Anatolia to see to their children and their own life, she herself retreated and left to the Dark Zone, intent on decimating the Modrem that had reaped the lives of her beloveds, but a missive of even further loss illustrated the final infection of her cursed life.

The death of her son.

She could only blame the curse of her own family and that of her husband that had robbed her child of life and potential and sired on so much dissolution, it was no wonder the destiny of something more found fixation in her deeply seeded spirit of necrosis. Her wrath and agony swelled into a terrifying swath of shadow and magmatic wrath, the sin of her anger manifesting into something beyond conception. In the remains of her empathy, scorched earth of blackened soil has been left with the terribly sensation of loss and despair lingering within the stagnant air.

Magdalena has vanished since then, leaving behind a smear on the Abendroth and Faye names, her husband also forsaken elsewhere. Her whereabouts have been unknown for years, but her induction as a Guardian has thus remained with the hopes of a particular general hoping for her return, and a young woman wondering if she yet lives or has long since passed.

^{▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲}

_{▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲}

_{◆ W A R F A R E}

Magdalena once bore a giant circlet as her primary weapon; a massive and bladed Chakram utilized within hand-to-hand combat of brutal elegance. However the sheer mass of her spirits have forsaken psychical combat, relying solely on the powers in her being to see to the intentions of offense and defense. The accumulation of her spirits are so vast and have manifested into physical notions, constant and eternal swathes of shadows and pulsating ruby cores discovered within the gloom of her shadows. Her own persona shadow is a warped pool of ink, moving and fluctuating to the bends of emotions of those around her, and sometimes her own empathy inflections.

<sub>◇ Drache-Zunge. [ Fire ] [ - Meltdown ] [ - Flamestroke ]
Bearing true to the given epitaph, translated to Dragon Tongue: magma coils and pools around her stance in the desired configures she can imagine, brought from within herself -literally from her mouth. The torrent unleashes in a roar and creates a field of disastrous proportions. Once released from her circumference of ashen shadows and clouds, she can no longer control its directory and will do as lava will, travel and destroy all in its wake. The downfall is her inability to sway the released force, the Spirit bidden to do what it pleases.

The second variation is much like the former: the magma spills from her lungs and lips, coiling down from her orifice in hellacious heat, only this time it's to be directly placed upon her opponent. Sometimes concentrated into, quite literally, lava spit. Her saliva can burn and scorch away whichever it touches. This Spirit is perceived to be more volatile in the need to be in close extremities. The downfall is that it often leaves Magdalena vulnerable to be struck and physically impaired in close range. More concentration is needed to form the proper amount of damaging liquid; larger the opponent, harder it is to quantify.

◇ Drache-Note. [ Fire ] [ + Protect ] [ + Shell ]
Once associated as being merely passive, Magdalena's skin is abnormally hot to the touch as if the lava truly lives inside her being. This is actually the fiery spirits that cling to her person at a constant, bringing her temperature up beyond human means of normalcy. While now her skin retains the same heat and boiling extreme that is also has, this once compliant spirit has forged into something stronger, more withstanding and capable of manifesting into physical representation of newly enhanced apparitions. These extreme spirits have conglomerated with the acquired darkness in her soul and heart, taking heed to a devilish and demonic appearance and thus forging into a rather horrifying illustration when activated. It has provided something akin to armour, the molten shadows of her afflictions spew from her pores, hardening across her features much like igneous rock, the placements vary, depending mostly upon where more threats are centralized.

◇ Au. [ Dark ] [ - Poison ] [ - Blind ] [ - Paralysis ]
These spirits of natural origins have been warped and corrupted by her darkness, forming into a tainted serpent that was designed to protect in the initial absorption. It acts much with the former spirit, spewing forth in a poisonous film that coats her enemies and assailants into a choking smog of acrid smells and festering lashes across the skin. The smog its self performs almost sentient, escaping from her body to thwart most assaults designated to harm her.

◇ Schatten. [ Dark ] [ + Dispel ]
The darkness is her escape from reality, in which Magdalena can traverse among the cast shadows from objects and beings. Of course such forms much be present for it to perform correctly, but it's a rather effective evasive tactic and a route of escape. Often though she uses this ability to swarm in close at her assailants to strike them close, be it with her offense spirits and agony or with the magma within. The darkness acts as her retreat from anything and everything, melding into welcome embraces of obsidian cores. Prying herself from these shadows though, as it glissades across her skin like ink, is a rather physical task that varies on how long she has maintained her connection within them.

◇ Empathy. [ Dark ] [ + Dusk ]
This is to say Magdalena, or more so her spirits, are perceptive enough to depict the emotional turmoils of those around her; her shadow - darker than the norm and much more pronounced - will often touch and connect with anything that is alike to its own formation of darkness. This spirit, often misunderstood, has merged with Magdalena in such a way that it effects her obscurity directly. Often it will illustrate what she's truly feeling and refuses to project across her veneer - it will waver in fear, tremble in nervous qualms and dip, spin and weave around her in pure elation. The sentient shadow will often alert her to oncoming danger due to its sensitivity. Empathy is much more than it seems, feeding off of the emotional energy others release unwittingly and are subsequently absorbed into her soul in the terms of empathetic gluttony.

◇ Verzweiflung. [ Dark ] [ - Zombie ] [ - Terror ] [ + Pain ] [ - Imperil ] [ - Nightmare ]
The true woes of her soul have manifested with this Spirit, creating a last resort in her arsenal of potential damages. The darkness releases from her soul and body, reaching out in inky tendrils that cling and fasten to anything they touch. Almost akin to a poisonous sludge in the way it festers across the skin in contact, the darkness quite literally pulls her enemies into a void, covering them, suffocating them in her woe and anguish. This ability is brought from her worst fears and nightmares, coming alive from her doubts and memories and submerging her enemies and potential foes into torture and pain like her very own.</sub>

_{◆ A S P E K T S}

_{◇ Ravager.
◇ Vicar.
◇ Synergist.
◇ Sentinel.}

The Spirits Within: Oakridge Chronicles

@Prisk - I was honestly thinking of some exotic effects whilst creating Monika's spirits, specifically for Herrlichkeit, all of these are negative effects.

Terror - Suffers from temporary immobilization.
Pain - Take increased damage from physical attacks.
Imperil - Take increased damage from magical attacks.

The Spirits Within: Oakridge Chronicles

@DJAtomika - I'm well enough, can't complain. Just the usual busy schedule with work and such, finally managed to bring everything to a decent consistency so I'm not overwhelmed.

The Spirits Within: Oakridge Chronicles

Monika Abendroth-Faye.

_{M O N I K A A B E N D R O T H - F A Y E
◆ Twenty-three. ◆ 6th, September. ◆ 167 cm. ◆ Guardian.
▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲}

_{◆ A P P E A R A N C E}

Compiled from a rather courteous selection of genetics, and a blessing of generous categories of fair and dark — rich and pale — and the massive pool from a deposit of myth and lore of both Abendroth and Faye; Monika is impressed to be a beauty of harsh athleticism and discipline. Rigid proportions and posture are gilded and framed by the cadaverous inflection of her palour; a near translucent tone of pallid flesh that is only blemished by the harshness of rigorous training and methods of practice that have forged into the intricacies of being a Guardian. Dissented to stagnation and languorous qualms, and regaled with persistent cardio has afforded Monika with visual, self-endowed perfection by her musculature and fortified prowess by the impart of her inner whorl of spiritual inhabitants. Translated easily to the perfect warrior.

Her countenance of manipulative delicacy hosts harsh eyes of a crystalline blue, a gift from her infamous mother, but without the glowing pain and sorrow of sapphire to make them glimmer — these are the glimpses from the unification of sky and water, boring into a foundation of ice and just as sharp and piercing like the turmoils of winter. Combined with this conviction of icy azure is the most contradicting foundation on Monika’s overall debut: the long mane of black hair that reaches and curls in the minuscule dip of her spine. The practicality of it is lost, and more so gestures to the means of fashion and appeal though the latter is not crucial to her process. Often taming this mass of ebonette appeal into a plait or an elaborate mess about the crown of her head, Monika is noted often for its sheer mass in comparison to her other featurettes; such as her height, her musculature of slender arms and thin shoulders, or even the myriad of scars decorating the expanse of her palms and limbs from the requirements of deadly efficiency incurred from swordsmanship.

Her wardrobe is practical, if anything, and without restraint despite her aforementioned appeal of discipline. Some things need to be given lee way to ensure nothing is hampering in the least, and sporting in the smallest of athletic wears is the common representation Monika dons for, only to be sheathed by grey or white blouses of loose restriction that taper off her shoulders and the common place uniform of black trousers that cinch about her hips and tighten to her thighs and knees before sectioning off just beneath the caps. Being a creature of habit and consistency, as it were, she is seen in little else aside from the requirement of uniform.

_{◆ I D E O L O G Y}

It’s universally known that Monika is the reflection of her peers: antithetical, the standing poise and caretaker of fluctuated personalities by the means of spiritual influence and lack of restriction despite military bondage. Where some are oft to be ridiculed as a child, Monika is often berated for being beyond maturity, that her presented attitude is strict, bound, and rigid in that it doesn’t yield to informal injustices and influences of a luxurious mindset. She has a suspicious and offensive nature to her inquires, always questioning against the initial judgment of her peers and betters by speculation that her original impression is not pleased. This settles her standards to be developed to extreme means of near perfection and must uphold to her regulated measures of battle conduct and capability. Due to her inquiring spite, Monika has a difficult time in being impressed or swindled into favour by her various military comrades, this leaves Monika in the assumption that she does not even have sympathy beyond her impressive walls and chasm of emotional discipline, often assumed as cold and dissociated.

Due to the manner in which Monika grew up, by her own childish misconception, she adheres to the belief that she has to be stronger, faster, better — to achieve a standard she has imposed upon her self by the simplest words ever uttered to her during her youth. She religiously follows that she must be the best to protect those dearest to her, a feat that has only been achieved by a selected few. But, just how far can those close to her be when Monika continues to shield herself from the unacceptable concept of failure or weakness. Certain parameters have warped Monika’s desire of self improvement to a desperate, inner need of value and importance; to be worthy and to earn the splendors of life even if she does not personally go out of her way to enjoy them otherwise.

Whilst fortified in a rigid plantation and philosophy of what she should be, rather than what she could by her potential, and inner personality in which remains an entire mystery by deliberate endeavors, Monika only smiles and seems nurturing around her family. And goes to the extremes of protective kinship that alludes to an obligation beyond commonality. It’s only around them that she seems to relax and temper down, however slight that might be.

_{◆ B A C K G R O U N D}

Born in the darkness and cold tundra of an Anatolian village, dotted with farms and forgotten, legendary history, the settlement that birthed the infamous Abendroths: Thuringia. Here, the memoirs of Monika Renne Abendroth-Faye are askew in the common conception of childhood carelessness, burdened from the introductory age of impression and inclination to the intricacies of the world. She knew, from the very beginning, that she was different. Though, standing next to her twin, their differences and leagues of development were never the same and whilst they flagged behind, she charged ahead with the silent ruthlessness of a child blessed and very well informed and intuitive of their own advantage. However, to purge her from arrogance, the infamous Magdalena Abendroth — the pale WARG veteran — bent to her daughter and informed her with no less than confusing words that she had to protect everyone: be there for them, guide them, shield them from the ugliness of the world that had burned, scoured, and mocked her before she had been saved. They told her the truth: about their families and ties of Abendroth and Faye curses melded into her very soul, and the soul of her brother. But, salvation rested in the palms of family and friendship, and Monika took that and warped it into the obligation of being better, stronger, and above the means of mediocre and nurture it into a self—torturing need for achievement and exceptional growth to eclipse the infections of her birth rite.

The family was supportive, loving, colourful in the massive unity that it was, despite the shadows that cantered after them. But, Monika only saw this as a need to grow and mature into a certain mold, she sectioned off her emotions, but one particular wicker of empathy could not be kept from her heart. Guilt soured her protective nature, in some way she felt responsible for her late twin's condition and no amount of forgiving and whispered recurrences from her parents could alleviate that blemish on her perfection. Even as a child, young and shadowing his every stumble, she couldn’t keep the sheer agony of being at fault, and thus spurred the near obsession to prove her worth — that despite it all, she had to be the best because of every circumstance laid bare in their connection.

The Calamity didn’t leave much of an impression, a tragedy to mark the pinnacle of growth, but not enough to emotionally tear apart her resolve. They were fortunate that the Calamity Gate was far enough to the East, that they suffered minimal influence until the Dark Zone spread, forcing the family to retreat further North in Anatolia in fear of the increasing Mordrem. It only served to thrust the initial premise of her overall obsession, to rise above the faults of war and exotic combatants as the years increased with muttered tales and anxious reports from the front lines. Though she lost her grandfather and her eldest uncles to the summons, whom later were filed to have become Husks, and taking her mother and father as well to the front lines in pursuit for the infantry. The family didn’t linger on the bereavements and instead found solace in the remaining and the ability to make a difference; or so they claim.

Thus it only seemed natural that Monika was drafted to become a part of Oak Ridge, her induction pre—determined by the involvement of her parents within the academic ranks and the military and the sheer empowerment of the spirits that have retreated into her being.

^{▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲}

_{▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲}

_{◆ W A R F A R E}

[◇] Adapting to the preference of melee warfare in the contingents of military force, Monika’s choice of weapon has fallen away from traditional masses. Where swords were slick, slender, and uniform in their aesthetics, hers was customized to absolute mass and power. Wielded in the slender vices of her hands, the towering, dual-wielded sword known as The Cadalbolg preens both unadulterated strength and finesse; elegant and deadly in the unique customization of its’ overall design and as is long as she is tall, extending reach and blade. Her blows fall heavy, sundered from the consistent practice and religiously executed practices of her swordsmanship. Monika’s agility is queerly profound, even wielding such a claymore, singing promises of death and fury and near perfection in the intentions of harm and swift ruin.

The sheer mass of spiritual conglomerate within Monika has often been a pinnacle of observation and juncture of objectified quality and quantity. The benefaction of her birth rite from those of the Abendroth and Faye often favour the strong, their souls literal bedlams of empowered absorption. This curse of assimilation endowed Monika with thick weaves of spirits that naturally seeded themselves within her mind of fortitude, but also effected and plundered the soul of her twin. The result left him underdeveloped and later embezzled his very existence. Thus, Monika’s magnitude of remnants from the Etro exceeds that of traditional Guardians, fostered to extremes of power: so amassed that her methods of magical inclination can underpass into non—existence numbers, or override typical units to measure spiritual aptitude.

<sub>◇ Diamant. [ Ice ] [ + Reflect ] The progression of these spirit amass to two stages, or rather, two forms of provision. In the initial subject, the original is considered entirely passive, embellishing Monika's complexion to behold a peculiar glimmer, surrounding her like lamplight, and the surface blessed with a cold, frigid surface that inflicts her graces of physical touch to be a few degrees below normal circulation. At first, the caresses from her fingers appear slick and cool, however prolonged exposure and concentration grant her pores with lesser degrees of heat until nearly painful and arctic. The secondary premise of these spirits accumulate to splinter across Monika in slivers of ice, reflecting and shimmering like kaleidoscopes of diamond; hardened and deadly in refinement and protection. These splinters and tines eclipse skin and armour alike, usually surfacing upon activation to receiving injury or ill intent from enemies. These spirits adhere and value vigor, loneliness, protection and intensity. They manifest as glimmering, willowy figures of feminine likeness.

◇ Vergeltung. [ Holy ] [ + Empower ] Both divine and vengeful, these spirits have gathered and swarmed as one to reflect the harsh intricacies of divinity and enlightenment. The light of the good and benevolence can sometimes spear righteous and pain to those that oppose them, and with the swing of her mighty sword, Monika can direct and summon spears of burning, all—consuming energy to target her opponents. Consumed of an all righteous and holy flame that burns with eternal intensity, and also empowers her soul and those eclipsed in the luminescence of her vengeful blow and retribution, empowering her comrades as well. These spirits value justice, retribution, order, and fortitude. They manifest in the forms of winged creatures with feline attributes and the faces of mortals.

◇ Herrlichkeit. [ Dark ] [ - Meltdown ] [ - Curse ] Submitting to the extremes of power, and ambition, these spirits have unified to a unique severity. Deformed, warped and misconstrued empathy forming from the dregs of loss, woe, and fear. These spirits are harsh and unrelenting, escaping from Monika from the ducts of her eyes, lips, and releasing from the wells of her soul in the apparitions of tentacles, slithering to envelop the enemy in their grasp. They inflict wounds of psychological fear and terror, rather than psychical lashes or wounds. In their wake these spirits will often leave an irritated path of ebony from where they touched, but soon dissipate as the effects sink into their hearts and minds. These spirits value aggression, ambition, savagery, and fear. They manifest as a literal void.</sub>

_{◆ A S P E K T S}

_{◇ Lancer.
◇ Vicar.
◇ Sentinel.
◇ Adept.}

The Spirits Within: Oakridge Chronicles

♥

[closed]

All right my dears, I don't usually instruct what you should do. But, to give an idea of what to post for, I'd suggest the SOLDIERS make way to the office where Evangeline and James are located. This way I can post again and we can progress to the Event that leads to the timeskip!

[closed]

SOLDIER Base — Saboteur Centre.

---

Almost twenty—four hours had passed since the departure of the SOLDIER contingent of one hundred fifty—five, pattered and inducted with randomized SOLDIER troops from separate units under the President's order; much to the glowering brow of one particular Sentinel Commander and his wife. And within those twenty—four hours a collective of digital information had been transferred through the frequencies of the Libra Scan system linked directly to the eternal collaborations of the Saboteur's Command Centre. The matrix was a complexity of particular codes that created a whorl of imagery in the presentation of textual evidence to the initial battle in the fields of Luan. Beryl oculi swept in increments over the supplied additions to the Libra Scan, properly assessing the evident threat of the fowl known to roost in the spires of Esper Ridge. A pale brow contoured, however, when the Libra Scan also assessed and calculated the lack of damage and severity when Phantasms — hellacious in their own prowess — seemed to glean over and object to a select few of the SOLDIERS. There was no evidence in the collected arithmetic that broadcast injury, despite the macabre results of sundered infantry and a Behemoth hull damaged.

That is what gave the Saboteur Commander pause.

The muffled whir and whoosh of the hub's solitary door withdrew her attention briefly, familiarity and warmth lightening her eyes to a tranquil cerulean in sequence with the bulbs flickering to life at the sound of dulls thuds and tread.

"How was the meeting?" Magdalena inquired, placing her back against the terminal continuing to process and analyze by the ascending matrix at it calculated through compilations of digital testimony.

"A waste of my time," Rene rejoined, propping his shoulder against azure—coated steel. "It's only from Haziq's and Kim's persistence that I even bothered to attend. Rayne was utterly pissed." His eyes slid over the petite and acute stature of his wife, eyes canted to one side in a curious pass over. "Did you know Ondřej Ó Dubhshláine?"

"I knew of him," she informed in the colour of nonchalance, arachnid fingers sweeping through her blonde fringe. "But not personally. I ran a scan, but only gleaned that he was apart of Aeon Technology. But that's a lost terminology, I took the liberty of researching through the archives but..." Magadalena sighed, a soft whisper of breath bubbling from her lips as her gesture swept over her brow and gathered across the bridge of her slight nose in a delicate pinch of frustration. "I can't gain clearance to anything associated with Aeons. The fact that Rayne was so enraged about Ondřej Ó Dubhshláine's death makes me ponder if there is some underlined connection to his demise and his previous occupation."

Rene scoffed. "Maybe you should have attended that meeting, I just stood there in the back whilst they all tossed shit back and forth, I couldn't make heads or tails of half of the things those scientists were hashing back 'n forth with the Council."

"I would have attended, but I don't want to be too far away from..." She gestured off handily over her slender shoulder, encompassing her entire terminal of the Saboteur Centre. The hub was minuscule, almost stifling and tomb like in the fortifications of steel and technology; ever span of alloy and walls laden with some model of precocious telecommunication. Rene often felt obtuse and gargantuan when he visited his wife, her own diminutive size bore enough testimony to their vast differences, much to the community's diversion. She bore a grin though, a delicate and fragile simper that was reserved just for him, and though brittle on the edges of her bow shaped mouth, it was endearing.

"I understand. But you need to rest, you're no use if you're tired." Rene chastised, his tone gruff, and potentially mistaken as crude, but to her it was of carefully cloaked care and kindness only she was privy to.

"I would, I will, when I figure out what's going on. I don't like these secrets and suspicions suddenly popping up even since I managed to dismantle the hack. In nearly a day, everything we've known is being brought into question. Even this battle information is... off." Magdalena pirouetted on her heel to face and confront her terminal, the screen emblazoned in lapis. "And everything I attempt to research is either blocked or suspiciously barren, even the files of our fellow SOLDIERS. I ran a simple diagnosis over the ones selected for the mission, other than their recent physicals and health records, there is almost nothing for their histories." A swift pass of her palm across the screen maximized the files in question, each SOLDIER individually displayed with their numerical epitaphs glimmering above each profile portrait. "I'm beginning to even doubt the information of their names, ages, and even these health records. It's too neat, proper, as if carefully illustrated for some purpose..."

Rene's brow fell, harsh and broad, his expression one of brooding and foreboding contemplation. "Have you spoken to Kim about this?" He muttered, clipping his voice low to avoid the rage boiling within. Whilst Magdalena sired her company under sabotage and secrets, he disfavoured the inclination of secrecy and lies; you never knew what was real anymore.

"No," she admitted with a sliver of pallid bone against her pout. "I haven't told anyone of what I'm doing in here, Olivia and I briefly discussed our suspicions outside the Council Chambers, but she quickly left after that. I don't know where she is..."

"She wasn't at the meeting." Rene concluded, eyes never leaving the profiles of the SOLDIERS. His gaze flickered, darkened on the pass of Henri's file and swiftly fell onto the blonde whirlwind of cheer and exuberance that was overbearingly bright and searing with her vocals and smiles. A minute passed between his events of scrutiny, every SOLDIER presented bore some kind of connection, a deeply pitted and seeded thread of Fate — this he believed. It could not be considered a coincidence, Rene did not adhere to happenstance. Experience had violated and mutilated that luxury of chance in his life, alongside with torturing Magdalena's complexity of persecution and paranoia.

"Where is Kim now?" She breathed, drawing and severing his glowering fixation on her screen.

"I assume they went back towards the Medical Wing," Rene supplied, carefully watching and observing as she began rapidly tacking in her process of suspension on her terminal, the sheer amount of gates and method of access daunting as she enclosed each of her modules of research and information. Until finally the screen winked to an ebony glow and finally shimmered with the insignia of the Dalmasice government: the crest of a blue whorl.

"Good then, hopefully I'll run into a couple of your favourite scientists as well." Magdalena uttered, ascending up the platforms of her command centre, lights humming to life as she came into near eye level with her husband, peering endlessly into the earthen stare she knew intimately. "Join me? We haven't spent much time together in months."

"Of course."

And the Commanders of Sentinel and Saboteur left, determined to shed light on their suspicions and ominous quarrels.

Mrihl — The Manor

---

She had been gazing vacantly at the martial flex of her hands, palms out, digits splayed, her scrutiny deliberate despite the coating of nylon and metallic woven fibers that protected her dexterous implements. When she realized that she was no longer alone, that was the official sundering of her peculiar, vacant observation, and she slowly twisted her wrists, aligning them almost in perfect horizontal performance in juncture to her forearms despite the strain of sinew. Every satisfactory pop from her impromptu companion made her twitch, the sounds assaulting her ears and nerves, fraying them into queer sensations that spiraled up each of her arms, fingers curling inward to her palms until she thrust her fists down, planting them firmly at her sides.

"Yeah..." Evangeline whispered, meticulous sighs and breaths following, chest rising and falling as she slid her gaze along, peering through the dark, ebony—gold of her fringe of lashes. Exhilaration and terror both masquerading within their hearts and souls, spiraling outward into their intentions and making them ruthless and efficient, yes. . . "It was something, all right." She managed to compound her sigh, carefully accentuating her cadence in favour of smothering her blossoming discomfort from her previous silence and contemplation.

"You kind of lost yourself." She blurted out then, unsure and incapable of discerning if she was referring to herself, or to him. She recalled to the manic laughter and squeals of the Eagle he had torn apart, the communication channel providing the entire unit with evidence to his brief moment of sadistic lunacy. Evangeline studied James carefully. In truth, she had been anticipating Luc to locate her, to follow up on the conversation to formalize a proper stratagem. Or, the rest of the SOLDIER contingent to host a meeting to discuss the battle. Or, the elusive shadow that had yet to return to the Manor, but James was not the one she had been expecting at all. He appeared too casual, too at peace with himself despite the battle — as if he had come to terms with the yielding results of death and ruin.

She had not.

Evangeline had no answer to why the gusts of terrible, slaying wind had spared her and Hally, and yet had flayed apart skin and bone and even damaged the hull of the Behemoth. She should have been damaged, skin should have bled and peeled apart in the manner of separating muscle and veins... She reflected on their first conversation, the official bequeathing of his name accompanied by their eager admissions to battle and the shared exhilaration they shared. But. That battle had been too different.

And that's when she realized she had not thought of Hally at all.

She almost panicked, and if not for James sitting there, natural in his reclining figure and tracing idle figures against the wood, she would have bolted from the office. She silently scolded herself, despair coating her oculi, drowning the respective Heterochromia as her brow contoured and fell, her mind awash in near shame. No wonder she felt off—centre, no wonder. . .

"How are you so calm?" Evangeline inquired, palms flush against the desk suddenly, slapping the wood with a groan and snap of her armour nearly fracturing the furniture, the top briefly shuddering as she leaned forward. "That battle... Did you notice anything strange? Did you see anything?" She continued, her tangent slipping into a frenzied flourish, the blonde Saboteur hovered, drawing closer to impale her bi—coloured stare deep into the depths of his scarlet gaze.

&&𝒓𝒐𝒄𝒌𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒑.

@Blackbeard - That's wonderful, I just needed a theme to orient the effects that I use when making these so they all fit and assemble together properly when you use them. I shall have all these done within the week, or sooner!