Sniblet

The Maids Guide to Demon Hunting

Astreya has been in the engine room. Mainly because it was hard to keep her out - she really wasn't allowed in here. She's been spending her time crouched over for a close hands-off inspection of the machinery, interrupted by occasional barks from the ship staff whenever they suspect she's acting too "Krysa-y." Really, one of the staff came over and told her off for acting too Krysa-y. She must've got embarrassed about that term, because she only used it once, and just called Astreya's curiosity about the engine suspicious from then on.

Her ears perk up at the sound of her own language from the intercom. She'd kind of been expecting to be alone here.
"Great," says miss Krysa-y. "Rat! You've gotta go!"
"Yeah, I know," says Astreya. "One more minute."
The staff exchange looks. Better not warn her about being late. Best-case, maybe she gets thrown overboard and they never have to deal with her again.

Well, this is the story she'll tell if asked. Really the staff were quite nice, but that's boring.

Astreya spends a little bit longer bent at the knees and staring silently at a compressor, cupping her chin between her fingers. She's pretty sure she recognizes this design, and it's a design that sucks. Is this an oversight? A cost-saving measure? Do humans really not have anything better? She wishes she could peel this open and be sure that it's as bad as it looks, but she can hardly do that while it's running. From an outside perspective, to those not engaged in her technical review of the airship, the sight of this giant ratwoman in a fluffy maid dress staring at their engine like a crossword puzzle might be comical.

It's less comical when she rises and straightens to her full height again. Depending on the viewer's recent experiences, it might be genuinely frightening, despite the dress, to meet a (mostly) fully-grown Krysa female's eyes from on high. She doesn't mean for it to be.
"All right," she says. "What was it - top deck?"
She is shown the door. It shouldn't take long to find her way.

The Maids Guide to Demon Hunting

Astreya

Error: a suitable ratgirl image was not found!
A blue-eyed Krysa, a little short for her species and sex – still noticeably taller than most humans. Her tousled, curly light-brown hair falls a little further than her shoulders, locks resting on her upper arms. Her left ear is damaged – possibly burned – at the tip. She is smiling brightly and giving the camera a salute.

These three lines are written in Krysa glyphs. The transliterations are not difficult.
Name: Astreya
Gender: ♀
Race: Krysa

The rest of the application is written in human language, but abominable handwriting. The translations are grueling.
Relevant Abilities: I don’t do any housework, but I’m definitely stronger than most of you. I’m also an inventor and an engineer and a chemist and sort of a smith and I’ve dabbled in galvanism.

Tell us about yourself: My sister tells me I should just say (A Krysa glyph representing manic energy) for this. I think she’s joking. But I do things fast and I don’t like to sit still. I’m hard to put down.

Work history: I’m Krysa. We do a lot of science here. My science tends to explode, sometimes on purpose. Don’t worry, though – the explosions are mostly controlled. I’m mostly careful. And anyway, explosions mean progress! They're basically how steam engines work, you know.

Tools you are skilled with: You know how if you focus light it can burn things? I’ve been playing with that lately. I don’t think my prototypes are strong enough, though, so I’ll bring a big hammer and a high-powered shotgun. Do you know what a shotgun is? I can show you if there's something you don't mind me destroying.

Occult Knowledge: I don’t think magic likes me, personally, but I know some designs and materials that it likes. I use it with some of my inventions for energy amping and such. I bet I can guess how your catalysts work.

The Maids Guide to Demon Hunting

I present: the alternative
My sources have not given me very many pictures of vermin women, unfortunately
If I'm doing Krysa lore wrong anywhere let me know

Astreya

Error: a suitable ratgirl image was not found!
A blue-eyed Krysa, a little short for her species and sex – still noticeably taller than most humans. Her tousled, curly light-brown hair falls a little further than her shoulders, locks resting on her upper arms. Her left ear is damaged – possibly burned – at the tip. She is smiling brightly and giving the camera a salute.

These three lines are written in Krysa glyphs. The transliterations are not difficult.
Name: Astreya
Gender: ♀
Race: Krysa

The rest of the application is written in human language, but abominable handwriting. The translations are grueling.
Relevant Abilities: I don’t do any housework, but I’m definitely stronger than most of you. I’m also an inventor and an engineer and a chemist and sort of a smith and I’ve dabbled in galvanism.

Tell us about yourself: My sister tells me I should just say (A Krysa glyph representing manic energy) for this. I think she’s joking. But I do things fast and I don’t like to sit still. I’m hard to put down.

Work history: I’m Krysa. We do a lot of science here. My science tends to explode, sometimes on purpose. Don’t worry, though – the explosions are mostly controlled. I’m mostly careful. And anyway, explosions mean progress! They're basically how steam engines work, you know.

Tools you are skilled with: You know how if you focus light it can burn things? I’ve been playing with that lately. I don’t think my prototypes are strong enough, though, so I’ll bring a big hammer and a high-powered shotgun. Do you know what a shotgun is? I can show you if there's something you don't mind me destroying.

Occult Knowledge: I don’t think magic likes me, personally, but I know some designs and materials that it likes. I use it with some of my inventions for energy amping and such. I bet I can guess how your catalysts work.

The Maids Guide to Demon Hunting

We're now up to three serious faces (and two girls wielding a sword and rifle)
I'm also not sure Illana would fit the tone/purpose of the RP in general given some stuff I have behind the scenes for her

I'll be considering an alternate character submission

The Maids Guide to Demon Hunting

This isn't her writing

(Looks like she's already got the uniform. Her expression is flat and dull, though not tired; in fact, looking at her eyes and body closely, she looks oddly alert - even subtly on edge? - given her domestic surroundings. The picture seems to have been taken without her knowledge.)

Name: Illana Kostava
Gender: Female
Race: Human

Relevant Abilities: Miss Kostava’s domestic skills are exemplary, and she has been trained in them since she was old enough to walk. Whether cooking, cleaning, hairdressing, personal attendance, or correct demonstrations of respect, she has consistently proven the best and most devoted of our staff. My son sometimes spars with her in arms training, and reports that she is nearly competent enough to offer a challenge, though I suspect he downplays her ability.

Tell us about yourself: Miss Kostava is a finely trained young lady. Her extraordinarily reserved demeanor is sometimes off-putting to those not prepared for it, but you need not expect her to speak, act, or emote out of turn at any time. If she does, please, let us know.

Work history: Miss Kostava was entrusted to our family at an infant age to repay a debt, and has served admirably in domestic duties until her current age of 22. We have decided to pass her on to Maison d’Violette to repay your work for humankind.

Tools you are skilled with: My son reports that Miss Kostava has proven most adept wielding a light sword or quarterstaff. In response to the requirement for ranged weapon skill, I have also loaned her my rifle for practice, and I believe that her accuracy at range and finesse in reload drills are indicative of yet another talent of hers.

Occult Knowledge: Our Illana is no witch.

Noble Arms - The ASEAN War [Moved to New Thread]

Her little experience with the woman has taught her that she isn't alone even now, but Qingshe has - apparently - left Hannie at the barracks. She goes inside, trying not to let herself worry too much. Whatever the others are dealing with, they can handle it, she reassures herself - even as she feels that brief tremor in the ground under her - maybe that's from her team, after all. She doesn't know what they're all capable of.

It's all quiet here, empty. No voices, no other people. Her footsteps echo. What is she doing here, besides being safe?

Aching. Everywhere. She still doesn't know what Kirvella did, but evidently it was... exhausting, for a start. But also...
She looks out of the corner of her eye. That patch of singed and torn fabric in her coat. It doesn't hurt. If she doesn't look, if she doesn't touch, it might as well still be her own body.
^{-thing left of you but ice, child.}

She shivers. She's not looking again. She knows it's there and that's too much. Never looking again.
Kirvella's never done that before.
She wants to go home. She wants to go home to mom and- and hide these from her. And not have Kirvella anymore. Just go back on everything. Can't she just go back to when she was too young to remember anything and she wasn't an Arms Master?
"-he's right on the beach at sector D1, if you haven't spotted him already," says her radio.
She dabs at her eyes. She could be anywhere else in the world right now.

Ah, anyway...
Her wandering has taken her to the elevated viewing area of the auditorium. Looking down, it's impossible to see it as a theater anymore. It looks like an evacuation shelter from an apocalypse movie, with the bunk beds unevenly set around, the sandbag piles, the abandoned vendors. Oh - she checks her pockets. She still has her candy. Some. She must've dropped most of it.

She sits down and looks over the silent scene of chaos past with just a few pieces of hard mint candy for company. She's never been so alone in such a broad space before.
So comfortable, on such a solid wooden chair.
Over the course of just a minute, her thoughts slow and disperse into mist. She folds her arms close, lets her head fall to the side and rest on her shoulder. She blinks once, again, slower, and then doesn't reopen her eyes.
It's almost like death, but with less movement.
Hannie has had enough.

The Taygete Project

Sorry, I'm no longer interested in this. Much too slow for me. I'm dropping out.

Perchance! A Persistently Preposterous Perfidy of Petulant Pugilism : Moldovan Masked and Mustachioed Muscle Man from Mount Magora MEETS MOLE-MAN!!!!!

in collaboration with

Interactions: MOLE-MAN@Sniblet, Danger, Danger Fontaine@BangoSkank, MOLE-TRANSLATOR, MOLE-ANNOUNCER, MOLE-MANAGER, Atropine, Guatemala
^{(OOC NOTE: With respect to the GMs, it looks like this RP has gone quite far along without our input. It was a struggle to catch up and decide on our initial move. Next time, it would be appreciated if you could wait on us to formally join instead of blazing 13 posts ahead on your own and then putting us on the spot.)}

For a moment,

it was all quiet in the ring. Tequila Sunrise touched his fingertips to the flippers of General Shenanigans and then there was nothing - silence - a calm, beneath the soft rain of the sprinklers. Audience members found themselves holding their breaths. Even MOLE-MANAGER had the voice ripped from him by the suspension of noise that followed. This lack of sound - this stillness of the air - this muteness...

Then General Shenanigans began to scream. It was a scream unlike any that had yet been heard in this arena. Screams of pain, screams of fear, screams of excitement and bloodlust, none of it compared to the scream now let forth from the cetacean's mouth. This was a scream of power. From their touching appendage-tips began to shine an otherworldly glow of ki energy let free from the combatants' bodies and shared between them. This, as MOLE-MANAGER knew, was fusion - that ancient technique to combine the minds, bodies, and souls of two exceedingly powerful warriors into one. The glow intensified, and soon outshone the flickering, water-shorted electric lighting of the arena. Soon, the burly men-with-arms were invisible in the glare of their own surging power.

Tequila Sunrise met the eyes of his erstwhile partner with a kind of steel in his own. The glory that surrounded them was taking them elsewhere, somewhere that had never existed until they began their dance. Their fused mindscape was realizing itself and consuming their mundane beings. In a moment longer, they would be done, and the real work would begin. All he wanted to see was that General Shenanigans was sure. That this was the way.

General Shenanigans had never been surer of anything, and he let it show in the look he shared with his old enemy. The sight of his eyes could chill the blood, rout a bear, kill any ordinary man where he stood. The determination he showed was cold, beyond cold - hypothermic - cryogenic. If the world were to burn for what they were about to do, they would live untouched, if due only to the strength of the General's conviction.

And with that reassurance, Tequila Sunrise knew it was done.

The shared radiance of the two faded from an eternal flashbang to a mere floodlight, and what stood where they had was an entirely new being.

"HAAAAAAAAAH!"

The newly formed giant roared, bulging muscles rippling with violent fury on a taut leash. Once-dark cetacean eyes aglow with surging ki energy, GENERAL SUNRISE quested about the arena for his first victim. His incredible masculine sensory package led him sniffing the air toward the announcer's booth, where Adenine and Guanine were still doing something terribly unmanly with one another...

_{(OOC NOTE: nothing against the gays)}

Perchance! A Persistently Preposterous Perfidy of Petulant Pugilism : Moldovan Masked and Mustachioed Muscle Man from Mount Magora MEETS MOLE-MAN!!!!!

I have no idea about any actual wrestling people and my internet searches have not proven to me that General Shenanigans is even a real person so I'm going to Take Liberties.

Perchance! A Persistently Preposterous Perfidy of Petulant Pugilism : Moldovan Masked and Mustachioed Muscle Man from Mount Magora MEETS MOLE-MAN!!!!!

MOLE-ANNOUNCER's profound musical sense tells him that this soundscape is getting to be an issue.
Between Just The Two of Us, Glass Shattering, the crowd's screams, MOLE-MAN's screams, his own screams, Danger, Danger Fontaine's screams, The US National Anthem, Entrance of the Gladiators playing just over that, and the 60's Spider-Man cartoon theme blasting from somewhere in the audience, everyone's ears are on the verge of bursting and for what? There's nothing worthwhile to listen to here.
And anyway, Just The Two of Us is almost done. MOLE-ANNOUNCER ejects the CD just short of the end, accidentally freeing Adnauseam and Guarantor at last, and fishes around in his mole-pockets for something else.

"What are you looking for? I might have it," MOLE-TRANSLATOR whispers.

"Dulmnfnt shmm'mn!"

"The Ultimate Showdown. Yes, I borrowed that one, one second." MOLE-TRANSLATOR fishes around in his mole-pockets and extracts another disc, slotting it in directly to join the aural chaos once more. Old Godzilla was hoppin' around Tokyo City like a big playground. The earth feels like it's trembling, but that's probably just all the noise.

*

MOLE-MAN is having the worst day of his life. Between the pain, the audiovisual hallucinations, and the agony, and the delusions, and the rampant noise and flashing lights, he can feel himself beginning to dissociate. His consciousness leaves his rolling, flailing, roaring-screaming body, and tries to go home. The fact that he is homeless has never had less bearing to him. There are plenty of stories about freakish animal-people like him going on murderous rampages and razing cities when pushed to their breaking points, but even a werewolf wouldn't be able to handle this scenario with such blood-soaked dignity.

MOLE-MAN's detached soul trips the alarm on a fire exit on its way out. The fire alarm merely melds into the existing blaring morass, but those paying attention might notice the sudden deluge of the sprinklers.

*

Gonathan, sharing a glance with ABBA, gets on the mic.

"Uh," he says, not having had a plan in mind for what to say. "Who did that? Why are the sprinklers on?"

Adrian gives him a look with a raised eyebrow. "Those come on when there's a fire alarm, Gordon."

"Fire alarm? You mean there's a fire? Isn't that the last thing we need right now?"

"You alright, Gloria? It's not like fires typically wait on our convenience. You know they didn't back in Dallas."

"So, where is it? Where's the fire?"

"How the fuck do you expect me to know that?"

"Well I don't know, Alex, I just thought you might have someplace in mind. I'm rather disinclined to believe that there's really a fire until I've received some kind of evidence."

*

The remaining conscious MOLE-MEN, and several of the normal people, down below, are increasingly panicking at the repeated mentions of fire. MOLE-MANAGER, a being that has been both a MOLE-MAN and a normal person in the past minutes, is absolutely panicking. His wrestler appears to be astral projecting. The enemy wrestler is insane, unpredictable, willing to die to kill his wrestler, as implied by the name of that Two Graves move he supposedly just did. There are too many more wrestlers showing up to make shit get even worse. And the fire thing. MOLE-MANAGER was clearly in way over his head when he signed himself up into a career in wrestling today.

MOLE-MANAGER, occasionally MOLE-MAN manager of MOLE-MAN the MOLE-MAN, overcome by stress, doubles over and begins to vomit into the pit in the ring from which MOLE-MAN had emerged. It's symbolism, see. MOLE-MAN coming out of that pit was what started all of this, so MOLE-MANAGER pukes back into it. If it's too complicated then that's okay.