Rockette — Roleplayer Guild

O A K R I D G E  A C A D E M Y June 6, Saturday. //Descend onto me.

The ascent of transition was both gradual and remotely lax, a literal peace and array of colours from velvet depths that wedged into greys, feathered ceruleans and finally peaked at the apex of violets swept into swathes of a bisque glimmer. Oblique glances through fringes of ebon were the only recognition she spared from her icy perception, using the pallet of nature to properly gauge time and length; propelling that acknowledgment into a table of scheduled appointments flush against the cognition of her mind. The depths of her thoughts bordered both static and impedance, literally grinding the lobes of her brain into a whorl of conflicting thought: apathy and stoic reserves swelled to the mass of their deployments the further her state of mind ground and chafed. Her countenance remained impassive, but the bank of frigid pools were impaled with slivers of obsidian doubt that clustered behind her perspective until the briefest emote of discomfort contoured both brow and mouth. Lines wove over the slight, and delicate of slope of her nasal as she exhaled, harsh sweeps of breath that whistled through each passage until pallid bone gnashed together in a visage of concentration and lips peeled over their grinding fusion in a self—directed grimace. 

Within her vice, arachnid and splayed over obsidian alloy, the sword of infamy, Caladbolg, was polished to preen and shine. A claymore of its’ reputation and likeness ascended well into the swatches of defamation when concerned to the receptions of sparing. As such was the presented situation, with pre—dawn hours circulating with belated activity of those who rested early and awoke just as punctual despite the frivolous endeavors of the preceding week. Distractions could not be afforded and capability could not be permitted to wane even in the lamplight of jollity and exuberance towards meager celebration.

Monika Abendroth—Faye cemented that philosophy well after all the celebration and graduations, as swift mutter of congratulations had been her only permission to the coquetted affairs that drowned the residences of her Guardian Class. All the components of a brick wall, laden with fissure of ice in the lay had been her constant companion and expression during those days. Whilst her comrades had been celebrating and lolling in their festivities, Monika had already began figuring out the junctures of her career. Studious to the point of boring obligation, and rigid to the point of stalwart stubbornness and refusal, it had not taken long for the missions to glean her interest and favour. Upon the initial advertisement, she had debated internally, considered all possible scenarios with each of the destinations and with a little probing from Cid Dysley [with an utterance that her parents too had directed to the front lines] — Monika had come to completion that her path was meant for none other than the seeded venture of mass warfare. So, she had trained, fortified her constitution further with hours unhampered by buffoonery gambol and required courses, and found within these regiments an eternal partner that she had never given more than a frigid glean.

Ollie Morgenstern stood opposite, the field before them hallograpphic and deliberately elaborate as if they were truly in a field of daffodils and sunflowers that peaked over their respective heights. His exhales were short, precise, the thicket of combat armour barely betraying his repetition of inhales and exhaling sighs as the frigid glower of Monika passed from crown to the plantation of his feet. She endeavored to watch his foot work, the path he took to evade and respond, their parries met with sharp scrapes of metal and shuffling silence, they exchanged conversation from glances alone and jeers were silent in the bend of his usual smirk and pomposity, courtesy of his vain sense of superiority. 

	“Enough dawdle Monika, the day is not ours to waste in this lovely digitization of our paradise.” He drawled, even as his stance shifted, became fixated to one position and he drew both arms up, knocking an arrow with graceful illustration. The physical was not his forte, but ranged projections were the bane of her massive sword. Profoundly agile and slick in her reactions, there was, however, a certain amount of time that panned between ever sweep of her claymore, much to her increasing chagrin the more they sparred.

Her response was silence, as to be expected, but the subtle shift in the play of her musculature and sheen of pallid flesh was enough to signal her response. She was pissed. Ollie released the draw of his bow, the illuminated arrow whistling with deadly accuracy and it sung and spiraled, intended for her shoulder that rolled to flex her grip against the unique hold of her weapon. But a quick upheaval of the Caladbolg sent the arrow careening else where in their field and the fight commenced then on. 

	“Time.” Monika called moments later, an hour having passed within a mere scuffle, her voice was smooth, the inflection betraying naught despite her disheveled appearance. Thick weaves of black clung to her ruddy cheeks, thicker tresses descending down her spine where they had come loose in her erratic plait, and even with perspiration dotting her brow and jaw, she appeared collected. And why she kept up such a mane of void darkness was beyond Ollie’s comprehension as he took her grasp, winced at the cold sting of her usual temperature, and was hauled to his feet with ease.

Monika shook out her hand, dispelling the icy coating of her skin, having registered his grimace at their contact and glanced skyward as a voice pealed through the speakers, signaling the termination of their match. Monika was up by three, she almost smiled at that. 

	“This will be our last time doing this, you know.”
	“What do you mean? I have every intention of returning to Oakridge once we clear a path in the Dark Zone.”
	“What if you don’t make it?”
	“That’s not an option.” Was her retort, though barren of a quip, there was a slight play across her mouth, enough to be taken for confidence and finality as they excited the simulation chamber, even in stride and encumbered in their gear.
	“You sound confident, you think you can will Death away by your force alone? You’re strong, but you’re not that strong.”
	“I know my limitations,” she expressed a frown at that. “But I won’t allow it, not yet.”

Ollie barked, a laugh that vaulted from his chest and nearly sounded sincere if not for the mirror he was projecting in her presence. Monika was difficult to gauge, even more difficult to reflect and mimic, and he found that his usual vices of emotional outputs and vanity were enough to compete with her bland perfection. 

	“That’s interesting, I wonder who else can champion to that.”

It effectively ended their banter, much to Monika’s consistent thoughts of conflicting brooding. She could not effectively estimate what ailed and plagued her, but she could only discern that it was some fact related to the missions at hand, she had taken it upon herself to garner information and those who had already selected and resigned themselves to their own preferences. She found that Ollie was being led to the Nexus Reactor, a predetermined factor by his sire, he proclaimed such under her inquiries, and glossed over any other details she had attempted to garner further. Ollie was adamant in his nature to hardly ever address his Father in conversation, despite the latter’s infamy through the gleam and polish of the Academy. Sanctioned here under contract, Julian Leonhardt was a man who discomforted her in all manners befitting to a basalisk coiled within filth and sweltering darkness. He observed, rather than looked, as if constantly swept up into calculations of serpentine likeness.

She shuddered, and it had nothing to do with the coolness of her skin or the sweat beading at the slope of her neck. Monika dabbed a towel against her skin in retaliation, continuing her lope in tandem with Ollie as soldiers donned in gear and laden with their ruck sacks filed on past. As the traditional army, each had their orders and designations set into literal stone. As Guardians, they had better circumstances, if one could even label their situations as such. Monika toed that border with stoic reservation despite her fortitude and loyalty, but with heavy birth rite and reputation burdened to her, she could perform little else but silent obedience. She championed well to her servitude, being a warrior that accumulated on perfection and finesse and sheer power, and though they had been given luxury of selection, it seemed that in reality it wasn’t that at all. Ollie had already hedged to some affair of Fate and Destiny, but such broad depths of philosophy were lost to her, she believed in her own designation.

With those cognitions in a whorl, the duo encroached the main entrance where the informative boards were displayed and surmised the cluster of Guardians there, some donned in recognition, others faded into mute familiarity whilst Ollie directed them closer. Monika was still garbed in her traditional fashion, athletic wear clinging to ever cleft of her figure with a grey tee pulled over the sparse clothing whilst Ollie had showered, pampered himself into trimming his facial appeal, and poured into the ebony threads of a slick armour woven like a second skin beneath the slight fatigues of, what he called, an archer’s grace. 

“Morning,” Ollie supplied, easily sliding into his new reflection, immediately swept up into a simper of acceptance and open—minded likeness to those that had gathered. Monika’s brow contoured, a reprimand simmering on her tongue as it clicked against bone.

	“We can’t afford meager banter, everyone is deploying soon.” She mused her tresses back in illustration of her words, lifting the heavy mass into a disarrayed mess to ply the threads from her cheeks still tinged with the faintest of coral from her former excursion. “Follow me if you’re heading to the front lines, we’re being transported by land vehicles, as are those for the Nexus Reactor.” Oblique flashes of steelish azure fell on those she knew on first name basis and constant matches, she nodded in their directions, a signal of a greeting if there ever was one from Monika. She wasn’t familiar with the others, other than the occasional rotation of partners, and spared them quick passes of ice laced pooled. Her lashes peeled heavenward at the gargantuan Guardian then, observing from crown to toe, a swift overpass before she nodded in approval. Formidable.

	“I hope you’re for the Hammer,” she breathed, continuing her previous trek and leaving Ollie with the rest, offering nothing of a farewell, despite the mock roll of the latter’s eyes at her frigid departure.

	“Cheery, isn’t she?” He uttered, shifting his weight and jostling the slim finish of the Magus Bow holstered on his spine by suspension units in his attire. “So, who’s for the Reactor, eh? I figure we can head that way as well, don’t want to be too fashionably late.”

The morning begins with a sparring match between Monika and Ollie, with her winning the match. They've already packed and gathered their gear and head to the front gate in their way of heading to their places of departure. [internal monologue jabbing] And finding the rest of the Guardians, Ollie slides easily in a greeting, where Monika claims the need for haste and addresses broadly to those that might be heading to the front lines with her and leaves. Ollie stays behind, attempting at some conversation before suggesting those of the Nexus Reactor move along as well.
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