Supermaxx

Lethe: The Inalienable Dreamless

H E L V E T E

---

The Well of Valdis
12th Day of Autumn, 1088 AD

---

Dry lungs that had not tasted the noxious air in decades were suddenly and violently filled. Desperate intakes of the putrid atmosphere pumped into that ragged body, dragging it kicking and screaming back into the violated world of the living. Rebirth was not a gentle thing for Helvete Solon. It was not the spawning of a new life but rather the rejection of one's peace in the afterlife, forcing it back into a damned plane of existence that it did not wish to live in.

Helvete's bloodshot eyes snapped open as he took in another deep, choking breath. There was a pressure on top of him. Something keeping him from drawing in a full breath that made Helvete panic. In that brief moment of terror, Solon let out a horrific, bestial roar. A sound so ferocious and inhuman that one would never expect it left the lips of a man. He thrashed against the carcasses of long dead man-things, rolling one over his grim-caked face so that it's broken body was dashed against a nearby flesh mound. Solon struggled against his lifeless adversaries, fighting tooth and nail to free himself from that prison of corpses that pinned him down.

In that brief rage, Solon felt the visceral phantom pain of his final moments. That strike of a spear in his heart played within his soul and within his gut. Like some psychotic theater production of the mind, Helvete saw the flames that consumed him right down to the seared marrow. The bodies piled atop him brought back brutal memories of chains and ropes pulling down on his limbs, pinning him in place as an awful play was acted out on his ravaged form.

These memories appeared for but a few, precious seconds. They faded when Helvete managed to wriggle himself free, his lungs allowed to suck in panic-ridden breaths once again. The blessing of freedom allowed Solon to calm his raging heart. Helvete rose into a crouch, his fingers grasping at a rotting woman's hair for support. No longer in danger of suffocating, he could finally take note of his surroundings.

This...this was not his home.

There were no trees. No grass, no fields, no animals. No chirping of the song bird and no lapping of river waters over cool stones. Fields of colorful flowers and rolling hills were replaced by crucified bodies and piles of the dead that reached into the sky. High walls of stone surrounded Solon on every side. Solon immediately felt a rush of anxiety and claustrophobia. The stench of excrement and rotting flesh made Helvete's guts churn, and he felt a distinct desire to vomit. No food rose up in his throat to join the hot, acidic bile that Helvete choked back down.

"What is this place-space?" The druid whispered, his voice cracking.

Other sounds reverberated off the walls and knolls of mortal remains. More voices, much like his own. Solon was not the only thing alive in that hellscape. Instead of a rush of joy at this revelation, all he felt was fear and terror. It was a deeply rooted instinct. "Man-things." He muttered quietly. Deciding it was best to retreat, Solon slowly climbed down the pile of corpses he had awoken on. Nearly slipping several times, it took the crouching forest dweller some time to reach a more stable ground. The 'floor' of more tightly packed dead was easier to traverse.

There, at the bottom of his mountain of carcasses, Helvete found something strangely familiar. A pulsating light, hidden underneath a blown out torso. Swiftly he reached down into the pooled blood, grasping the source of the light. It was sharp and hard, like a jagged rock. Solon tugged at it and found that it was firmly stuck in place. The energy that radiated through his hand on contact with it only enhanced Helvete's curiosity. Glancing about in search of dreaded man-things, Solon began to dig. He drug away bodies and broke at flesh and bone until he had cleared away the surrounding rubbish from his desired object.

It was a dull green gemstone, broken and dirtied, and it looked to be attached to something. Helvete pulled the object from the ground, wrestling free a long, wooden staff. Seven feet in length and with a shaft darkened and seared by flames, Solon felt an odd comfort with it in his hands. A comfort, and...a power. Strength that his aged arms did not know filled his body. A singular word played in his mind as he looked down at the tool. "Oakheart..." The staff's name, perhaps? An incantation of some sort? Or was that his name? Solon was entirely unsure.

His gaze drifted back to the pit he had dug out. Another object had been knocked free from the tightly packed sea of cadavers. Helvete inspected the satchel. The leather was worn and stained with blood, and several holes dotted it's surface. Rummaging through the pack, he found shards of broken glass and- oddly enough- birdseed scattered about inside of it. Two vials of the seed remained intact, though the rest must've been shattered or lost.

As he began to empty the bag of useless things, Helvete discovered another item that piqued his interest. An amulet of silver, rusted and grimy, with a chain that looked like it had seen better days. Solon could make out what appeared to be letters upon it's surface, though they were too scratched and damaged to be made out. This item, like the staff before it, carried traces of power. It was far, far fainter within the necklace, however. Helvete drapped the satchel over his shoulder and the amulet about his neck, happy with his findings.

Now he needed to get out of here.

Helvete attempted to sneak around toward the exterior of the well, planning to search for an exit. His awkward, doubled over gait made for a slow and quiet crawl through the fields of fallen men. Fate's hand was as cruel as ever, however; for on his way forward, Solon found himself face to face with one of those man-things he had heard earlier.

He reacted quickly, bringing the pilfered staff around so that he could hold it defensively before him. "Stay away-back!" Solon hissed. "No fight-hurt. Fight-hurt bad, very bad."

Superboy's Shitty Characters

H E L V E T E

---

The Well of Valdis
12th Day of Autumn, 1088 AD

---

Dry lungs that had not tasted the noxious air in decades were suddenly and violently filled. Desperate intakes of the putrid atmosphere pumped into that ragged body, dragging it kicking and screaming back into the violated world of the living. Rebirth was not a gentle thing for Helvete Solon. It was not the spawning of a new life but rather the rejection of one's peace in the afterlife, forcing it back into a damned plane of existence that it did not wish to live in.

Helvete's bloodshot eyes snapped open as he took in another deep, choking breath. There was a pressure on top of him. Something keeping him from drawing in a full breath that made Helvete panic. In that brief moment of terror, Solon let out a horrific, bestial roar. A sound so ferocious and inhuman that one would never expect it left the lips of a man. He thrashed against the carcasses of long dead man-things, rolling one over his grim-caked face so that it's broken body was dashed against a nearby flesh mound. Solon struggled against his lifeless adversaries, fighting tooth and nail to free himself from that prison of corpses that pinned him down.

In that brief rage, Solon felt the visceral phantom pain of his final moments. That strike of a spear in his heart played within his soul and within his gut. Like some psychotic theater production of the mind, Helvete saw the flames that consumed him right down to the seared marrow. The bodies piled atop him brought back brutal memories of chains and ropes pulling down on his limbs, pinning him in place as an awful play was acted out on his ravaged form.

These memories appeared for but a few, precious seconds. They faded when Helvete managed to wriggle himself free, his lungs allowed to suck in panic-ridden breaths once again. The blessing of freedom allowed Solon to calm his raging heart. Helvete rose into a crouch, his fingers grasping at a rotting woman's hair for support. No longer in danger of suffocating, he could finally take note of his surroundings.

This...this was not his home.

There were no trees. No grass, no fields, no animals. No chirping of the song bird and no lapping of river waters over cool stones. Fields of colorful flowers and rolling hills were replaced by crucified bodies and piles of the dead that reached into the sky. High walls of stone surrounded Solon on every side. Solon immediately felt a rush of anxiety and claustrophobia. The stench of excrement and rotting flesh made Helvete's guts churn, and he felt a distinct desire to vomit. No food rose up in his throat to join the hot, acidic bile that Helvete choked back down.

"What is this place-space?" The druid whispered, his voice cracking.

Other sounds reverberated off the walls and knolls of mortal remains. More voices, much like his own. Solon was not the only thing alive in that hellscape. Instead of a rush of joy at this revelation, all he felt was fear and terror. It was a deeply rooted instinct. "Man-things." He muttered quietly. Deciding it was best to retreat, Solon slowly climbed down the pile of corpses he had awoken on. Nearly slipping several times, it took the crouching forest dweller some time to reach a more stable ground. The 'floor' of more tightly packed dead was easier to traverse.

There, at the bottom of his mountain of carcasses, Helvete found something strangely familiar. A pulsating light, hidden underneath a blown out torso. Swiftly he reached down into the pooled blood, grasping the source of the light. It was sharp and hard, like a jagged rock. Solon tugged at it and found that it was firmly stuck in place. The energy that radiated through his hand on contact with it only enhanced Helvete's curiosity. Glancing about in search of dreaded man-things, Solon began to dig. He drug away bodies and broke at flesh and bone until he had cleared away the surrounding rubbish from his desired object.

It was a dull green gemstone, broken and dirtied, and it looked to be attached to something. Helvete pulled the object from the ground, wrestling free a long, wooden staff. Seven feet in length and with a shaft darkened and seared by flames, Solon felt an odd comfort with it in his hands. A comfort, and...a power. Strength that his aged arms did not know filled his body. A singular word played in his mind as he looked down at the tool. "Oakheart..." The staff's name, perhaps? An incantation of some sort? Or was that his name? Solon was entirely unsure.

His gaze drifted back to the pit he had dug out. Another object had been knocked free from the tightly packed sea of cadavers. Helvete inspected the satchel. The leather was worn and stained with blood, and several holes dotted it's surface. Rummaging through the pack, he found shards of broken glass and- oddly enough- birdseed scattered about inside of it. Two vials of the seed remained intact, though the rest must've been shattered or lost.

As he began to empty the bag of useless things, Helvete discovered another item that piqued his interest. An amulet of silver, rusted and grimy, with a chain that looked like it had seen better days. Solon could make out what appeared to be letters upon it's surface, though they were too scratched and damaged to be made out. This item, like the staff before it, carried traces of power. It was far, far fainter within the necklace, however. Helvete drapped the satchel over his shoulder and the amulet about his neck, happy with his findings.

Now he needed to get out of here.

Helvete attempted to sneak around toward the exterior of the well, planning to search for an exit. His awkward, doubled over gait made for a slow and quiet crawl through the fields of fallen men. Fate's hand was as cruel as ever, however; for on his way forward, Solon found himself face to face with one of those man-things he had heard earlier.

He reacted quickly, bringing the pilfered staff around so that he could hold it defensively before him. "Stay away-back!" Solon hissed. "No fight-hurt. Fight-hurt bad, very bad."

Lethe: The Inalienable Dreamless

H E L V E T E

“Me? One of the hated man-things? Perish the thought, perish the thought! I am one with the Wood, and the Forest is I!”

Character Name

---

Helvete Solon The Wise, of Brightwood

Age

---

Fifty One

Gender

---

Male

Archetype

---

Druid Priest

Moral Conflict

---

As caretaker of the Wood, one of the Druid's duties is to protect nature from those who would do it harm. Helvete, lost in his zeal to defend what mattered the most to him, committed heinous acts against his fellow man- the same people who, ironically, belong to the natural world he's meant to safeguard. In the twisted logic of his mind, men are but parasites. Entities of hate who cannot appreciate the world the gods built, only tearing it apart to fuel their endless wars and bloody conflicts. He sealed himself within the root walls and twisted bark of his homeland, slaying all who so much as entered it, in some horrific crusade to cleanse the natural world of what he saw as leeches and vagabonds.

Physical Description

---

Before his soul passed on and his remains tossed in a ditch to rot, Helvete covered himself in parts of the Forest. A deer's skull was shaped into a rough mask to hide his hideous man-flesh, antlers protruding from his head. A coat of leaves, vines and thickets made him look larger and more menacing to those who trespassed in his home, serving the duel purpose of keeping him warm in the winter.

But all that has become one with the earth once more. All that remains of Helvete's old attire are the tattered clothes he had fashioned from animal hides and linens. Upon his chest is a tightly woven and heavily worn out shirt of Linothorax- armor of cloth, some metal and animal fat. Beneath it lie less protective robes, colored in a mix mash of dark greens and browns, so that he might blend in with his surroundings.

Physically, Helvete is...odd. Once upon a time, he was young and strong. Of strapping muscles and leather-like skin, the Druid survived in a harsh environment with few luxuries provided to him. However, age has weathered his physical might and prowess. His arms and legs have lost a great deal of their original strength, and the old man grows winder more easily than he would like. There's also an awful knot in his back that he just can't seem to knock out. Long, unruly hair of blond is deafened by time's ever shifting sands, gray and white overtaking first his beard and slowly creeping up toward his head.

Full red cheeks are complimented well by the lines and creases brought along by his age. Eyes of deep emerald,
once so bright and hopeful, darkened significantly in the days before his death. Most odd of his look, as strange as it is, are the Druid's ears. They are extended, scarred and pointy, lacking the roundness one might expect. A cruel ritual of magic, meant to stave off the beginning signs of deafness, as well as to further distance himself from his human roots.

How Helvete died is not a mystery to him, or any who look upon him. Scars that could come only from the piercing of a spear cover the area over his heart. Parts of his body are burned, too. Spots of scarred, burned flesh cover his arms, legs, torso and neck. Whatever happened to the priest was a violent affair that he didn't wish to dwell on. It was all on the past, after all! He had a world to save. No time to dwell, no time at all.

Personality Traits

---

The man that rose up from the grave exists in a strange state of halfness. In part he is like he was when he passed from this world: strange in his speech patterns, prone to muttering to himself to hear the sound of someone's voice, and insistent that he is not, in fact, a man. Rather, Helvete believes himself a spirit of the Wood. A wisp of the Forest given form. It's the only explanation for how he hears the trees whisper to him, after all; even if he doesn't understand a lick of what those damned things are saying.

Yet in part, Helvete is also like his old self. Before he fell from grace, his heart consumed by hatred and contempt for the very flesh that hung to his own bones. He holds within his chest the same heart of bright joy and love, particularly for nature, but also for his fellow man. Prone to share nuggets of wisdom he'd learned from the Forest, and ever ready to help any in need. A song exists upon his lips, and he's quick to try and make friends. Though eloquence is lost on him, Helvete loves to speak. To others, to the trees and animals, and to himself- anyone who will listen to him prattle on about whatever topic it is that has captivated his fractured mind.

When presented with the darkest humanity has to offer, that bag of resurrected bones always feels an odd...pressure in his chest. He cannot explain it. Like a knife has been plunged into his heart and set alight. It brings forth feelings that he doesn't enjoy to feel. Cruel, twisted rage is near alien to the old druid, yet he feels it burning in his heart more often than he would like. Solon is afraid of it. Afraid of what it means, and what it might mean if his memories ever return to him.

Attributes

---

"Nature is the great provider!"

A man that has lived in the woods all his life knows more of berries, weeds and deer than he does practically anything else. While Helvete Solon remembers not the name of individual plants, he can tell you from instinct alone what is edible and what should never be put anywhere near the mouth. He knows a monster's den from that of easy prey, and animal tracks are as discernible as text to his old eyes.

"Suck on this frog."

One of the primary needs men had of the druid when he still served them was that of a medicine man. While nothing like those stick up pricks in big cities who could heal wounds with a flourish of the hand and a little magic, Helvete had methods that were...sort of...just as effective! He knew how to cure a cold, treat a fever and the best way to suck poison from a wound. While no master at potion crafting, Helvete knows a few remedies to help quicken the natural healing process.

"Ugly goblin-creep, have at you!"

Though older and more ragged than most of his part, Helvete is not entirely defenseless without his magic. His lessons have been forgotten, the Druid Priest knows his way around a quarterstaff through muscle memory alone. He can beat, bash and twirl with a stick better than your average woodsman. In a fight, Solon much prefers to stand behind men with a little more stamina and strength. However, if something manages to get past them and to him? The druid has it in him to fight back, even if he can't keep it up for very long.

"Come, monster-beasts, taste the fury of the Wood!"

By focusing his magic through his staff, Helvete is able to manipulate the power of Nature to assist him in battle. By his might he is able to cause a pair of Vilespines to sprout up from the ground, directing their poisonous spines to be fired into his foes. Or he might grow a vine out of the wall, commanding it to wrap around the arm of an enemy so that his ally might be spared a deadly stroke of the sword. A small tree may be raised to defend from a hail of arrows, or to knock a group of tightly packed opponents off balance.

As plants obey his words so, too, do some animals. Beasts of the wood, who's wills are small and easily bent, may be persuaded to aid in battle. Creatures of a fierce intellect will resist his call, if they so choose, sometimes even being enraged at the Druid's presumption that he is their master.

It takes a deal of concentration to use magic, especially in greater acts. The more complicated or difficult the spell, the more Solon the Wise must zero in on it. This may make him vulnerable while he is casting due to his lapsed attention, or the Druid may be able to only use that singular ability instead of multiple weaker ones. Magic depletes his stamina as well. If he's too tired, Helvete will be unable to perform most rituals, save for, perhaps, the very easiest of his magics.

Inventory & Equipment

---

"This is my stick. His name is Oakheart."

A seven foot long staff made of Oak, crafted with an expertise that suggested it was an item of some importance. Even the sands of time have done little to unravel it, magic working to preserve it against all odds. There appears to be some fire damage, though the integrity of it's structure isn't compromised too badly by it. At the head of the staff lies a glowing gemstone, it's surface cracked and it's light dimmed, existing as a likely source of power for the Druid. Without the staff in hand, he is unable to focus his magic, so it is assumed the crystal has something to do with it.

"Who uses potion bottles to carry birdseed? Well, me, I guess."

A leather satchel with several holes in it's aging surface was found about the Druid's shoulder when he 'awoke' from the endless sleep. Based on the size of the bag and it's contents, it appears that he'd lost most of what he was carrying in it. However, there did remain a pair of specially crafted bottles within, their surfaces scratched up and ugly, but unbroken. They contained birdseed when Helvete first found them, but he believes they'd be quite useful for holding medicine.

"So unfortunate. I wish I knew what it said.."

An amulet lay about the neck of the old man, it's chain rusted and it's once beautiful surface made ugly by time. The silver necklace once held a runic inscription upon it, though the words had been scratched off, leaving it a mystery to the druid. A weak magical energy can be felt radiating off of it, though it's far too weak to be of any use. Perhaps once upon a time it was an artifact of some importance; now, though, it was little more than a hunk of metal.

Gift of Rebirth

---

"A living statue. No moving, no seeing...what a terrible thing."

The gods, cruel as they are, seek to keep their resurrected warriors safe. When and why it happens, the druid knows not. But at intervals, Helvete finds himself growing horribly cold. Frozen to the touch, even. But a moment later his flesh transforms into granite, shifting in a terrifying and painful fashion. His ability to move is stolen from him, as well his his senses, though he is still 'aware' of himself. The forest wizard is nigh impervious when he's a 'statue,' though the drawbacks make it...less than an enjoyable experience for the man.

Pariah Online | Season One

G R A V E S

---

• Tʜᴇ Dᴜɴɢᴇᴏɴ •

---

A bone chilling breeze swept in from above, rattling the chains that hung down from the vaulted ceiling. Bits of frost gently clung to the darkest corners of the cavernous room as that accursed howling of the wind sent a tingle down the warrior's spine. Graves hadn't noticed just how cold it was in here until he'd stopped moving. He swore it was getting colder with each passing second, too. An irritating fact, considering his character typically neglected to wear a shirt.

Pushing passed the inconsequential fact, he turned his attention to finding a way forward. The longer the party tarried here, the greater the risk of another ambush befalling them. Everyone was of a similar mind: this room felt far too empty for comfort. It was the largest they had encountered thus far by a good margin, and they hadn't encountered significant resistance since the floor burst out from underneath them earlier. This was the perfect place for an attack, so it followed that everyone would be on edge.

Some of them were a little too on edge, with Tessa sounding like she was somewhere between hyperventilating and having an outright panic attack. Graves turned to look in the control mage's direction just in time to witness her snapping one of her ethereal chains like a bullwhip. Her massive, coiling steel slammed harshly against stone all around them, sending forth a cacophonous roar that echoed through the halls for an uncomfortably long time.

Graves froze, the hair on the back of his neck stood on end as he waited, and listened. He expected to hear her crash followed by a chorus of goblin bellows and ogreish howls and the rushing of feet, yet nothing of the sort came. A disturbing silence was all that followed. The tank glared in Tessa's direction, debating whether or not they would lose anything of value if he beat her into unconsciousness. "Nice." He hissed under his breath, his teeth gnashing together as he held back a torrent of curses and shouts.

While the rest of the party was close to losing it, one member decided to break away from the main contingent. Ochre approached the stream of strange liquid that ran throughout the crypt, that curious spark in his eye. He could see that the channel flowed with a strange consistency. It was not as liquid as it appeared from a distance. Whatever odd concoction filled the trench stuck together like glue, churning like a living body but not quite flowing. The closer he got to the stuff, the colder the air about Ochre became, up until his breath was visible beside it.

The ogre's tooth touched the blue substance, and immediately became stuck within it. Frost rapidly crept up the enamel, approaching Ochre's fingers with frozen intent and a frightening speed. If he didn't remove his hand from the tooth, Ochre would quickly find his fingers encased in several layers of ice so cold that it burned flesh.

The atmosphere in the room shifted. The temperature plummeted as the wind picked up, it's ghostly howl violently shaking and rattling the chains throughout the cavern. Before them, that river of an unknown concoction began to dance. It shook and grew as the liquid almost seemed to come alive with activity. The slimy substance lurched out of the trench, grabbing forth at cool stone as it dragged itself from the channel.

Frost slimes split apart, forming individual entities numbering well into the dozens. Each voluminous blob stood at roughly two feet in height and less than half that in width. They climbed from their resting place, clinging to the floor as they started to crawl toward the nearest living things. Compelled to snuff out the heat in their warm bodies, those icy demons came at them from all sides.

Some clung to the pillars and walls, ascending into the air so that they could leap at the party from above. Others formed grotesque, makeshift limbs from their opaque bodies, using them tear off their own liquid flesh and using those slime balls as projectiles. Wherever they roamed, the slimes left a trail of frost and ice in their wake. Ice that seemed to be spreading independent of the slimes' movements, covering the floor in a slippery obstacle that made moving in certain areas quite difficult for those intrepid heroes.

"Everybody form up!" Graves screamed above the roar of the wind, his throat raw as his heart pounded in his bared chest. They were surrounded on all sides by enemies that would be an absolute bitch to fight with physical attacks. The amount of maneuverable space was quickly drying up as ice formed throughout the room. Worst of all, however, was the frigid air clinging to his pants. "Back to back, make a circle! And for Christ sake, Red, start frying these assholes!"

Superboy's Shitty Characters

G R A V E S

---

• Tʜᴇ Dᴜɴɢᴇᴏɴ •

---

A bone chilling breeze swept in from above, rattling the chains that hung down from the vaulted ceiling. Bits of frost gently clung to the darkest corners of the cavernous room as that accursed howling of the wind sent a tingle down the warrior's spine. Graves hadn't noticed just how cold it was in here until he'd stopped moving. He swore it was getting colder with each passing second, too. An irritating fact, considering his character typically neglected to wear a shirt.

Pushing passed the inconsequential fact, he turned his attention to finding a way forward. The longer the party tarried here, the greater the risk of another ambush befalling them. Everyone was of a similar mind: this room felt far too empty for comfort. It was the largest they had encountered thus far by a good margin, and they hadn't encountered significant resistance since the floor burst out from underneath them earlier. This was the perfect place for an attack, so it followed that everyone would be on edge.

Some of them were a little too on edge, with Tessa sounding like she was somewhere between hyperventilating and having an outright panic attack. Graves turned to look in the control mage's direction just in time to witness her snapping one of her ethereal chains like a bullwhip. Her massive, coiling steel slammed harshly against stone all around them, sending forth a cacophonous roar that echoed through the halls for an uncomfortably long time.

Graves froze, the hair on the back of his neck stood on end as he waited, and listened. He expected to hear her crash followed by a chorus of goblin bellows and ogreish howls and the rushing of feet, yet nothing of the sort came. A disturbing silence was all that followed. The tank glared in Tessa's direction, debating whether or not they would lose anything of value if he beat her into unconsciousness. "Nice." He hissed under his breath, his teeth gnashing together as he held back a torrent of curses and shouts.

While the rest of the party was close to losing it, one member decided to break away from the main contingent. Ochre approached the stream of strange liquid that ran throughout the crypt, that curious spark in his eye. He could see that the channel flowed with a strange consistency. It was not as liquid as it appeared from a distance. Whatever odd concoction filled the trench stuck together like glue, churning like a living body but not quite flowing. The closer he got to the stuff, the colder the air about Ochre became, up until his breath was visible beside it.

The ogre's tooth touched the blue substance, and immediately became stuck within it. Frost rapidly crept up the enamel, approaching Ochre's fingers with frozen intent and a frightening speed. If he didn't remove his hand from the tooth, Ochre would quickly find his fingers encased in several layers of ice so cold that it burned flesh.

The atmosphere in the room shifted. The temperature plummeted as the wind picked up, it's ghostly howl violently shaking and rattling the chains throughout the cavern. Before them, that river of an unknown concoction began to dance. It shook and grew as the liquid almost seemed to come alive with activity. The slimy substance lurched out of the trench, grabbing forth at cool stone as it dragged itself from the channel.

Frost slimes split apart, forming individual entities numbering well into the dozens. Each voluminous blob stood at roughly two feet in height and less than half that in width. They climbed from their resting place, clinging to the floor as they started to crawl toward the nearest living things. Compelled to snuff out the heat in their warm bodies, those icy demons came at them from all sides.

Some clung to the pillars and walls, ascending into the air so that they could leap at the party from above. Others formed grotesque, makeshift limbs from their opaque bodies, using them tear off their own liquid flesh and using those slime balls as projectiles. Wherever they roamed, the slimes left a trail of frost and ice in their wake. Ice that seemed to be spreading independent of the slimes' movements, covering the floor in a slippery obstacle that made moving in certain areas quite difficult for those intrepid heroes.

"Everybody form up!" Graves screamed above the roar of the wind, his throat raw as his heart pounded in his bared chest. They were surrounded on all sides by enemies that would be an absolute bitch to fight with physical attacks. The amount of maneuverable space was quickly drying up as ice formed throughout the room. Worst of all, however, was the frigid air clinging to his pants. "Back to back, make a circle! And for Christ sake, Red, start frying these assholes!"

Age of Rebirth: The Rising Tide [Post-Apocolyptic NRP | Always open]

@NecroKnight I suppose that'd be up to you guys.

Age of Rebirth: The Rising Tide [Post-Apocolyptic NRP | Always open]

I've been super swamped at work recently and haven't been able to adjust to my new shift well at all, and that's left me with a lot less free time than I'd like. I'd like to apologize for holding you up for so long, @NecroKnight, but I'm afraid I think I'll have to step back on this one. I just don't have the time to be active right now.

Age of Rebirth: The Rising Tide [Post-Apocolyptic NRP | Always open]

@Superboy

Your reaaaaaaaly close, wanna colab? mind if I start mentioning some giant fleet in my posts? Like through hear-say in other city states

@Apollo26

I'm currently working on one more collab with NecroKnight, and I've been a bit more busy recently than usual, so I don't think I can handle a second collaboration at the moment, I'm afraid. Buuuut! You're more than welcome to mention gossip and hearsay about the Consortium, and I'll see about getting to you for some interaction as soon as I've wrapped up elsewhere.

Lethe: The Inalienable Dreamless

Superboy's Shitty Characters

Clark Davis - Chief Warrant Officer, Black, Graduated University with a bachelor's degree in Mechanical Engineering. Works aboard the Haven.

Gary Wells - Chief Petty Officer, Caucasian, assists as a nurse and navy corpsman aboard Haven.

Deborah "Debbie" Graham - Seaman, Caucasian, acts as a cook on the Haven.

Warren Marks - Lieutenant Commander, Caucasian, marine officer on the Purgatory.