Dire need of cohesion here. That's for sure. Then again. . . Conflict is oft' interesting.
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Guardian Angel Haruki,
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Fire Emblem. But STILL on a forum.
5 yrs ago
Fire Emblem. BUT ON A FORUM!
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7 yrs ago
Roleplaying is the only thing that gives meaning to my mediocre existence. And cookies too.
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8 yrs ago
Wants to be a saikyou hero.
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Bio
I am a rather middling RPer who likes to believe they are actually at an advanced level. This is of course, nonsense created by my desire to be known as good at something. In otherwords, I'm kinda okay at things and stuff.
Most Recent Posts
Look at all the prissy elves though! Surely they count among the fair-folk.
Damn straight brother!
Hiya there everyone! Just wanted to say that I'm quite interested in this one, and am currently in the process of writing a character, I sense a need for a staunch manly-man to round out the cast. Anywho, I do hope there's room for one more, I realize there's already quite a few applications.
And here I found myself ready to ask that very same question, there's already a sizable cast, I wouldn't dain to make it any more unwieldy, nevertheless I am impressed by the detail that's been gone into, and yet the ultinate simplicity of the proposed RP. I'll certainly put interest forward, as I've not seen another One Piece RP quite as promising. Definitely understand if there isn't room for more though.
I can certainly see potential in this one! I can't say for sure whether I'll join or not, but interested nonetheless.
A flurry of rapid kicks. Booted-heels dug deep in the rain-sodden flesh of their target, again and again. A salvo perhaps to quick for even the S-Rated hero, Golden Eagle, to perceive. The steaming mind of the masked lucha' nearly stagnated, continuously asking a recurrent question, 'how could one be so fast?'
Of course, not all is as it seems.
Crossing his trunk-like limbs in a frail attempt at guard, 'Angelo readies himself as splashes through the forming puddles underfoot herald the blazing McNail sibling. For but a moment, the block is good, brought up to intercept the charge at the most optimal of angles, and yet without even the blink of an eye, a stinging pain erupts from the giant's left side. Had he not even noticed in but an instant? The wild man vanished and now stood with a grin most shit-eating upon the mustachioed man's flank.
'What on Earth?'
One of many queries Michelangelo held of the situation. As yet more attacks ricochet off his mighty physique
'This-a--man. . . He is-a-fast, very-very fast indeedy. . . No, this is not correct. If it were simply speed then surely I could match it.' The gears within are dusty, they shake the cobwebs away and laboriously turn. 'Aha! Teleportation then! It must be, there is nothing more to do then to lead this-a-man's movements!' And with that, the time-worn eyes of the luchadore gleam with victorious intent.
A horrendous explosion of thunder emerges from the ever darkening skies overhead. Calling for yet more legions of water drops to burst of their clouds, thickening the already thick rain. Alongside, the weather swirls into a light mist, or fog, that encroaches, enveloping all as the steady march of liquid cascades across bricks.
It was in this time that 'Angelo believed to find his mark, gathering might within his right arm, ready to swing clumsily at the exact place in which Ferghus would certainly move to. His pattern was prevalent, a kick to the jaw, a right hook to the abdomen, a round-house to the left illium, and finally heaved boot to the lower spine. It was during the bowler-wearing man's second movement, in which our hero would strike.
And so he did, the piston-like fist swiftly actuating toward that exact spot connecting with nought but the falling rain. Before even registering that his blow was not only perceived but even entirely avoided, a fracturing kick brought all of the spent man's attention again toward his left flank. The pattern only continued. . .
'It is impossible! Surely I was-a-absolutely certain 'de man would appear to swi-'
The thought was cut off by yet another pounding upon the back. Staggering the mighty man forward, yet not to the grounds. Still yet he stood, enduring under every heave and blow from the fire-headed ruffian. With conviction to see it to the end, whatever end. So again, 'Angelo's eyes focused, upon every move, yet not the attack's follow through.
It was perhaps in one of these most arduous moments in which a vague something could be realized. A minor flash of understanding, the only clue. At every analyzed movement, the very same could be witnessed, a man-shaped hole through both fog and rain for but only a second in the instant of Ferghus' apparent vanishment.
Clue enough to try something rash. The blooded and broken luchadore fished deep in a trench of a pocket, producing a flawless white handkerchief, at the moment of jaw being blasted by yet another impermeable kick. With dignity, 'Angelo so stood tall, wiping the crimson gushing from his lips, before haphazardly discarding the large cloth to his left. In the same instant, his powerful right flew in, to the second move of Ferghus' bias. . .
"Don'tcha learn big man, your attacks jus' won't work on me! Eheehehee!"
The elder brother laughed with ever such confidence, as all of his willpower focused on one instance. One single second of the turning clock, Ferghus himself robs the universe of yet another moment, crystallizing that fragment of time in which all things wind to a solitary halt.
Every droplet remained stationary, perceived almost as if a streaking or dash of dull colour, through which Ferghus moved with all haste, swerving around the frozen fist, moving on to his next position of attack. The man readied his right leg, swinging it around toward his target's flank one more time. Picture the shock from which his confidence melted away, as the remaining cannon limb, gently-obfuscated by a stained cloth fluttering by, drew in to his perception, at the instant of the next tick of the clock.
A momentous fist, rocketed into Ferghus' slack-jaw, crumbling his attempt at attack, carrying the man off his own wobbly stance. Following through, cracking bone and cartilage, sending a shockwave through the fog at the impact, temporarily disrupting the local fall of water. Sending a limp body sailing across wet grounds with audible thumps, tailing abaft his own blood.
The McNail Brother is defeated.
In Ferghus' next perceived moment, he was staring down that ox of a man, held tight in a grasp from even which he could not escape. The fire-headed man spat teeth from his bloodied maw.
"Ya gonna end it. . . Or what?"
He enfeebled to say, though his words were callous, without a hint of remorse or regret.
Michelangelo pondered for a moment, but he did not need to, through calm, accented words he responded, "Of course not, it is-a-already over. A prospective hero would never cause harm unwanting."
"HERO?!" Ferghus spat again, this time into the masked face the victor. "Ye say you'd never cause unnecessary harm?! RICH! Where were you high and mighty do'gooder types when one of your ilk were beating the ever-loving piss outta our middle brother!?"
Water rushed down the face of the broken man in 'Angelo's hold, draining away the red with his conviction.
"WHY'S LITTLE IAN DEAD IN A DAMNED DITCH, 'N THE ONE RESPONSIBLE GETTIN' FUCKIN' PRAISE FER IT!" He screamed his heart out, what was left of his energy drained away in those final words, drifting him off from consciousness.
'Angelo was left in the rainfall, as thunderous sounds returned to his perception. solemnly he spoke, "Like wolf in 'de sheep's clothing, there are-a-those who would masquerade as heroes in 'de association, perhaps they are-a-worse still than even 'de villains. . . Accept my most sincerest apology Mister McNail."
With that, the trench-coated luchadore slung the man over a shoulder, and gazed down the way, beckoning that arrow-faced oddball and the merwoman as well, whilst his staggered movements drove toward the great association threshold.
Of course, not all is as it seems.
Crossing his trunk-like limbs in a frail attempt at guard, 'Angelo readies himself as splashes through the forming puddles underfoot herald the blazing McNail sibling. For but a moment, the block is good, brought up to intercept the charge at the most optimal of angles, and yet without even the blink of an eye, a stinging pain erupts from the giant's left side. Had he not even noticed in but an instant? The wild man vanished and now stood with a grin most shit-eating upon the mustachioed man's flank.
'What on Earth?'
One of many queries Michelangelo held of the situation. As yet more attacks ricochet off his mighty physique
'This-a--man. . . He is-a-fast, very-very fast indeedy. . . No, this is not correct. If it were simply speed then surely I could match it.' The gears within are dusty, they shake the cobwebs away and laboriously turn. 'Aha! Teleportation then! It must be, there is nothing more to do then to lead this-a-man's movements!' And with that, the time-worn eyes of the luchadore gleam with victorious intent.
~~~ KA-KRACK ~~~
A horrendous explosion of thunder emerges from the ever darkening skies overhead. Calling for yet more legions of water drops to burst of their clouds, thickening the already thick rain. Alongside, the weather swirls into a light mist, or fog, that encroaches, enveloping all as the steady march of liquid cascades across bricks.
It was in this time that 'Angelo believed to find his mark, gathering might within his right arm, ready to swing clumsily at the exact place in which Ferghus would certainly move to. His pattern was prevalent, a kick to the jaw, a right hook to the abdomen, a round-house to the left illium, and finally heaved boot to the lower spine. It was during the bowler-wearing man's second movement, in which our hero would strike.
And so he did, the piston-like fist swiftly actuating toward that exact spot connecting with nought but the falling rain. Before even registering that his blow was not only perceived but even entirely avoided, a fracturing kick brought all of the spent man's attention again toward his left flank. The pattern only continued. . .
'It is impossible! Surely I was-a-absolutely certain 'de man would appear to swi-'
The thought was cut off by yet another pounding upon the back. Staggering the mighty man forward, yet not to the grounds. Still yet he stood, enduring under every heave and blow from the fire-headed ruffian. With conviction to see it to the end, whatever end. So again, 'Angelo's eyes focused, upon every move, yet not the attack's follow through.
It was perhaps in one of these most arduous moments in which a vague something could be realized. A minor flash of understanding, the only clue. At every analyzed movement, the very same could be witnessed, a man-shaped hole through both fog and rain for but only a second in the instant of Ferghus' apparent vanishment.
Clue enough to try something rash. The blooded and broken luchadore fished deep in a trench of a pocket, producing a flawless white handkerchief, at the moment of jaw being blasted by yet another impermeable kick. With dignity, 'Angelo so stood tall, wiping the crimson gushing from his lips, before haphazardly discarding the large cloth to his left. In the same instant, his powerful right flew in, to the second move of Ferghus' bias. . .
---------------
"Don'tcha learn big man, your attacks jus' won't work on me! Eheehehee!"
The elder brother laughed with ever such confidence, as all of his willpower focused on one instance. One single second of the turning clock, Ferghus himself robs the universe of yet another moment, crystallizing that fragment of time in which all things wind to a solitary halt.
Every droplet remained stationary, perceived almost as if a streaking or dash of dull colour, through which Ferghus moved with all haste, swerving around the frozen fist, moving on to his next position of attack. The man readied his right leg, swinging it around toward his target's flank one more time. Picture the shock from which his confidence melted away, as the remaining cannon limb, gently-obfuscated by a stained cloth fluttering by, drew in to his perception, at the instant of the next tick of the clock.
~~~ WHAM ~~~
A momentous fist, rocketed into Ferghus' slack-jaw, crumbling his attempt at attack, carrying the man off his own wobbly stance. Following through, cracking bone and cartilage, sending a shockwave through the fog at the impact, temporarily disrupting the local fall of water. Sending a limp body sailing across wet grounds with audible thumps, tailing abaft his own blood.
The McNail Brother is defeated.
---------------
In Ferghus' next perceived moment, he was staring down that ox of a man, held tight in a grasp from even which he could not escape. The fire-headed man spat teeth from his bloodied maw.
"Ya gonna end it. . . Or what?"
He enfeebled to say, though his words were callous, without a hint of remorse or regret.
Michelangelo pondered for a moment, but he did not need to, through calm, accented words he responded, "Of course not, it is-a-already over. A prospective hero would never cause harm unwanting."
"HERO?!" Ferghus spat again, this time into the masked face the victor. "Ye say you'd never cause unnecessary harm?! RICH! Where were you high and mighty do'gooder types when one of your ilk were beating the ever-loving piss outta our middle brother!?"
Water rushed down the face of the broken man in 'Angelo's hold, draining away the red with his conviction.
"WHY'S LITTLE IAN DEAD IN A DAMNED DITCH, 'N THE ONE RESPONSIBLE GETTIN' FUCKIN' PRAISE FER IT!" He screamed his heart out, what was left of his energy drained away in those final words, drifting him off from consciousness.
'Angelo was left in the rainfall, as thunderous sounds returned to his perception. solemnly he spoke, "Like wolf in 'de sheep's clothing, there are-a-those who would masquerade as heroes in 'de association, perhaps they are-a-worse still than even 'de villains. . . Accept my most sincerest apology Mister McNail."
With that, the trench-coated luchadore slung the man over a shoulder, and gazed down the way, beckoning that arrow-faced oddball and the merwoman as well, whilst his staggered movements drove toward the great association threshold.
"Step away from 'de doors, they, are my destination."
A cold, accented tone breaks from beneath a groomed mustache, sodden as darkened clouds swirl overhead. A pronged mask of the mightiest luchas envelopes their wearer's deep eyes in darkness. Every stamp of the boot upon the soused cobbled road closed the distance between he and the bowler-hatted young man, whose lanky arms jangled, buried within the pockets of his slacks.
The shorter of the two men simply stared with an expression devoid of any tremblings, as he chewed audibly upon the long finished stick of a pop. Those blue eyes of his nearly dull to a grey as rain patters forth, a contemplative gesture before they burst once more into their brilliant and shining bravado.
"Ya wannabe heroes're all tha same! Confident eegits, confident in their own eegiocy! Hah. . .!"
He breaks out into laughter, using that irritatingly arrogant tone of voice all the while. Seemingly unfazed after gleaning his own sibling's trunk of an arm being utterly blown off in a single fell strike.
"Just ya try sumthin' bigun, see where it gets ye! Ehehehe."
The jumper-clad man adds in a particular fit of infuriating, suddenly after becoming privy to the massive hand affixed atop his stout bowler. From which he beams a sharp glance upward at the giant of a luchadore, tensity pulsating at the share of eyes paired in anger, and those in a certain somberness.
"Please, I have-a-business within 'de walls, do not wish to ask aga-- W-What. . .?!"
It was in that very moment, in which those somber brown eyes adjusted, swinging around wildly. As Michelangelo found himself, his great hand in possession only of a small and round black hat. Without even a blink, the wearer had vanished. And it was within that very same moment, the well-muscled man had felt a blunt force jamming straight into his spine, forcing a struggled gasp to escape, and forward stagger, to which he swung around in surprise.
Surprise, for the was nothing abaft, where he had turned. And yet, in that sliver of time another grating pain erupted upon the inside of his right knee, shocking him to a stumbled kneel. Again did 'Angelo search for his ghosted opponent, perhaps even errant questioning his own sanity in the very same moment. The only memento to tell of the irate man's previous existence had been the hat loose in his grasp. But that too vanished in the subsequent second.
In the next, flesh connected to more flesh, as a solid impact burst forth from nothingness against the luchadore's thick jaw, spurting crimson from parted lips. Recoiling, 'Angelo attempted to draw himself from wet grounds, only to at last see the man again. Now twirling that bowler hat upon a finger, as his fiery-hair fell loose, soaking in the downpour.
"Ferghus McNail, nonaya gonna be heroes tah-day."
A cold, accented tone breaks from beneath a groomed mustache, sodden as darkened clouds swirl overhead. A pronged mask of the mightiest luchas envelopes their wearer's deep eyes in darkness. Every stamp of the boot upon the soused cobbled road closed the distance between he and the bowler-hatted young man, whose lanky arms jangled, buried within the pockets of his slacks.
The shorter of the two men simply stared with an expression devoid of any tremblings, as he chewed audibly upon the long finished stick of a pop. Those blue eyes of his nearly dull to a grey as rain patters forth, a contemplative gesture before they burst once more into their brilliant and shining bravado.
"Ya wannabe heroes're all tha same! Confident eegits, confident in their own eegiocy! Hah. . .!"
He breaks out into laughter, using that irritatingly arrogant tone of voice all the while. Seemingly unfazed after gleaning his own sibling's trunk of an arm being utterly blown off in a single fell strike.
"Just ya try sumthin' bigun, see where it gets ye! Ehehehe."
The jumper-clad man adds in a particular fit of infuriating, suddenly after becoming privy to the massive hand affixed atop his stout bowler. From which he beams a sharp glance upward at the giant of a luchadore, tensity pulsating at the share of eyes paired in anger, and those in a certain somberness.
"Please, I have-a-business within 'de walls, do not wish to ask aga-- W-What. . .?!"
It was in that very moment, in which those somber brown eyes adjusted, swinging around wildly. As Michelangelo found himself, his great hand in possession only of a small and round black hat. Without even a blink, the wearer had vanished. And it was within that very same moment, the well-muscled man had felt a blunt force jamming straight into his spine, forcing a struggled gasp to escape, and forward stagger, to which he swung around in surprise.
Surprise, for the was nothing abaft, where he had turned. And yet, in that sliver of time another grating pain erupted upon the inside of his right knee, shocking him to a stumbled kneel. Again did 'Angelo search for his ghosted opponent, perhaps even errant questioning his own sanity in the very same moment. The only memento to tell of the irate man's previous existence had been the hat loose in his grasp. But that too vanished in the subsequent second.
In the next, flesh connected to more flesh, as a solid impact burst forth from nothingness against the luchadore's thick jaw, spurting crimson from parted lips. Recoiling, 'Angelo attempted to draw himself from wet grounds, only to at last see the man again. Now twirling that bowler hat upon a finger, as his fiery-hair fell loose, soaking in the downpour.
"Ferghus McNail, nonaya gonna be heroes tah-day."
Sorry for being a bit slow to the punch friends, I've had to put down my faithful hound, and well its just drawn some will to write outta me. But that's the way things go I suppose.
Don't you guys worry one bit though, my drive'll be back and better than ever! Loving these relationships you all got going on, top notch.
Don't you guys worry one bit though, my drive'll be back and better than ever! Loving these relationships you all got going on, top notch.
Ahhahaha! The RP has begun has it? My hope had almost dropped for some ominous reason. But no avail! I am glad, here's faith for it not to be dropped after the first few posts. I'll think about old Fergus and what's going on, though I might get his relationships sorted before I do.
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