Exceptional P2TM RP Posts

[Nightkill the Emperor]

Basically, these are the rules:

If you find an utterly exceptional and amazing IC post in an rp, you can quote it and put it here. It can be funny, heartwarming, tearjerking, whatever. It just needs to be fantastic in your point of view. And don't quote your own posts, that's just bad form. And go ahead and tell people when they've been quoted.

In all of the many, many, many, infinitely many universes in our little sector of existence, there is a single constant; whenever there is a Lewis Jameson, he must ruin the moment for a young lesbian couple.

This has manifested itself in many strange ways through time and space. For example, in one particular universe, Lewis was wandering through ancient China, searching for the Emperor's son whom he had been hired (with alcohol) to kill, when he stopped to take a rest at a local inn. He went up the stairs and towards the rooms, but entered the wrong one, and barged in on two Chinese lesbians named Yoko and Uni about to kiss. They were executed immediately, because this particular universe was an ancient Chinese Buddhist theocracy with severely conservative laws, but, conversely, jetpacks and robots with katanas, which are technically Japanese. Elsewhere, Lewis was a frog who found his daughter going far beyond friendship with her best friend on his lily pad. In another, more popular universe, Lewis, a teacher at Elfen High on his first day, when he interrupted a certain bisexual hybrid creature thing making the moves on her victim. This thing had weird blood and robot parts, though, so that was OK, he guessed. She was also a rapist, but, at Elfen High, that wasn't exactly surprising.

This universe's Lewis filled his duty by barging into Sarina and Rayne's room, his breath (and blood) wreaking of whiskey and his face red with tears. He had been drinking again.

"I'm so alone!" he bemoaned, collapsing on the ground without noticing the other occupants of the room.

Ivy stared for a few moments, unbeliving eyes staring at the events that unfolded.

And then she heard her child cry. It was alive. She had...Richard had...

She looked off into space for a few moments, and then she burst into tears, clutching Calliel to her.

"It's going to be okay. It's all going to be okay. It's...it's all okay. God, Calliel...it's okay. For once...it's all okay." she choked, burying her head in his chest, crying tears of...relief? She was exhausted, bruised, and broken...but it was all okay. It was going to be okay. She and Calliel could...their child was alive. It was almost impossible for her to believe, really. Just a few moments before, she had been on the verge of...oh, god, she wouldn't have really done that, would she? No, that...tha - it didn't matter. She hadn't done it. Everything would be okay.

Drawing slowly away from Calliel, she shakily took a few steps over to her child, and tenderly lifted him up, cradling it in her arms. She paused for a moment, staring down, and then she smiled. She felt genuinely at peace, for the first time in...she couldn't even remember. It had been almost two years. Two hellish years. After everything - Heaven, Hell, and everything in between - and, for once, it was all okay.

And she would be fine.

She looked down at her child for a moment. He was crying vigorously, his red face wailing. Pressing a soothing finger to his lips, she cradled him gently in her arms, rocking him peacefully back and forth. After a few moments, the crying subsided, and Ivy smiled faintly, breathing a silent sigh of relief. Gently, she laid the sleeping child on her bed, and then stood. She looked down at him for a few moments, enjoying the quiet, and then she looked back up at Calliel.

"I...I think I'll name him Richard." she said quietly, beaming up at Calliel. "Is that okay?"

Calliel smiled a perfect smile - of course he did.

"Ivy...of course it is. I don't care. As long as you're happy. And...Ivy, I just want you to know...I said this on our wedding day, but I'll say it again. I am with you. I will carry you through it all. I won't leave you, I will catch you every time. I promise you that no matter what happens, you won't be alone." he said, hugging her deeply. "I love you, Ivy Green. I am here and so are you."

"Actually, Calliel...it's Ivy Michaelson now." she replied, grinning slightly, wiping tears from her tearstreaked face.

And then she kissed him, throwing her arms around his neck.

------------

"So...it's all worked out?" said Calliel, pacing back and forth, hands clasped together, the wind tussling his blond hair.

He looked slightly unsure of what was going on, really. Ivy had told him that they were getting a real house, and...it was confusing to him. Humans were still so confusing. It had been just a few days since the war had ended, and it had all happened so quickly.

"Yes, Calliel," Ivy replied briefly, throwing a box roughly into the back of the convertible, "it's all worked out. We've got a place to live, it's nice, out in the country, the rent on it is already paid, and we can stay there. Together. Crowley's paying for it. He's...well, I still don't know what to think about Crowley." she said briefly, picking up another box, staggering under its weight. "He's still, well, Crowley, but...well, somewhere inside, he has a genuinely kind heart. Somewhere."

Calliel looked over at her. She looked beautiful. To him, at least. Her hair was a disorganized mess of green and white, blowing everywhere in the wind. She was wearing a white collared shirt with a nice red vest over it, a long red skirt trailing down her legs, and, to him, she was the most beautiful woman in the entire world.

"Come on, Calliel, we're going now." she called to him, pulling open the driver's side door. "I...we'll actually live now, Calliel. We'll live a normal life. Like normal married couples do. Can you imagine that? Normal. I can't wait. It'll be fun!" she said enthusiastically, turning the keys in the ignition.

He looked at her questioningly for a moment.

"Ivy, you've only been in school for...a year. You're still young. Don't you want to keep going to school? Isn't that what humans do?"

Ivy shuddered.

"No." she said firmly, clasping both of her hands on the wheel. "I...I'd like to learn and know more, Calliel...but I have eternity for that. We...we'll be young forever, Calliel. A million years could pass, and I wouldn't age a single day. I...I don't know geometry, or calculus, or much at all, really, but...Calliel, that's not important to me. I just want to be happy. I just want to be with you."

Calliel still looked slightly confused.

"But...Ivy, back at the hospital...Richard said that you should talk to Michael. He said that Michael had answers. Don't you want answers?"

Ivy laughed, slightly exasperated and rather amused at the same time.

"Calliel, I don't care. I honestly don't care. I don't care how you made me pregnant, or whether I'm still a virgin or not, or how everything happened, or what was going on...I just want a happy ending. With you. Come on and get in the car, would you? I'd like to unload all of this stuff before night falls, really, and we'll need to be leaving soon."

"I understand, Ivy. I just wanted to know. Just making sure."

"I don't blame you, Calliel."

Smiling, Calliel climbed into the passenger seat.

"Wait," he said, pausing bluntly, concern painted on his perfect face, "do you know how to drive?"

Ivy grinned.

"You'll find out." she said, and then she gunned the engines.

----------

The sky was a dark red and there was screaming. Screams of pain and occasionally of joy. And there was blood in the air.

A tired man looked down at her, his features perfect like every angel. "Who are you?" he asked her bluntly, a sword in his hand. "I do not have time to waste."

"My name is Mary, sir. Soldier under Michael's command. Ready for orders."

"You are a liar." the angel said simply. "You are a human. We would never allow a human to serve as a soldier of such caliber. And you do not know that Michael has left Heavensgate?" he asked. "Why, you are a liar. And I know of liars. You will follow me, human and liar. And we will punish you and make you repent for your sins." he replied serenely and earnestly.

And she was forced to a wall. A burning wall.

Ivy tried to pull away from the wall, which was quickly growing warmer and warmer - in fact, enough to scald in burn. The angel, of course, was much stronger, and she was unable to move a single inch a way - and the temperature increased. She could smell the back of the veil starting to smoke, and the wall pressed through the fabric of the robe, starting to scald her back. She stood there, motionless and silent, as the wall grew warmer and warmer, until it was like being pressed against metal in the middle of a desert. Imagine being set on fire, but not actually being set alight - and that would be exactly how it felt. She cringed in pain as it burnt into her, reducing almost the entire back of the robe to ashes, and tried desperately not to scream as it scorched into her back, burning and scalding her horribly.

And then the pain was simply too much - it burnt like fire, and it was hell. Anything would be better than this. She gasped, desperately trying to push away from the wall.

"I'll tell you the truth! I'll tell you everything!" she screamed in desperation, struggling to push away from the fiery wall behind her, as it roasted into her, at an unthinkably hot temperature now. "Please, just let me go! Stop!" she screeched, feeling agony for yet another time. "My name is Ivy, I'm from Heavensgate, I serve under Archangel Raphael, please let me go!" she shrieked, tears streaming down her face, as the wall continued to burn.

"Please stop!" she sobbed, screaming in pain, writhing as the flame burnt into her.

"Please, just let me go! I'll tell you everything!" she choked, crying loudly, tears streaming down her cheeks, and then...

She opened her eyes. Her back was aflame - the scars lit like candles - she was...

She was in a bedroom.

In her house.

It was late at night - she could hear crickets chirping outside - Richard was sleeping next to her - and Calliel's arms were holding her close.

"Ivy." he said nervously, "what's wrong? Please tell me what is wrong. Please be okay." he begged, pain visible in his eyes. "You were screaming. Are you hurt?"

Ivy continued crying for a few moments, and then she gradually stopped, her breathing broken and punctuated with sobs.

"I...I'm fine, it was just a dream, it's okay, it's all okay, I'm fine, it's okay, it's all okay, it was just a dream." she said rapidly, breathing quickly, her body shaking. "It was just a dream."

"Ivy." said Calliel firmly, looking over her, "you're hurt."

Ivy shook her head, wiping tears away, still quivering slightly.

"No, it's okay, I'm fine, don't be worried, it was just a nightmare. That was all." she insisted shakily, a few last tinges of pain shooting through her back. Calliel stared at her for a few moments, and then he sighed.

"Ivy...I am with you. I will carry you through it all. I won't leave you. I will catch you every time. I promise you that no matter what happens, you won't be alone." he said, hugging her close to him. "I love you, Ivy. I am here and so are you."

"I know." she said quietly, closing her eyes. "And that's why I'm okay."

-----------

"So, Calliel," said Ivy cheerfully, running a comb through her green hair, sitting across the porch table from Calliel, "there's some news I need to tell you today."

Calliel looked up from the newspaper he was reading. He loved reading newspapers. It was fascinating. Humans were fascinating. It had been a few months now, and, still, every day, they surprised him. He didn't think he'd ever quite understand them fully, but that was okay. Some things were better if you didn't understand them all the way. Like emotions. He thanked the Lord every day for those. They were...wonderful. Staring into Ivy's eyes, he looked at her for a few moments - god, he loved her. She was the world to him. And he knew that to her, he was the same.

"Yes?" he said, taking a sip of coffee.

"Well," she continued nervously, idly messing around with a piece of vine in her hands, "there are some people we'll be meeting soon, and they're kind of important to me, and I think you'll like them."

"Friends of yours?" questioned Calliel, fascinated.

"Actually...Calliel, I found my parents. After I died, they moved, and of course I didn't know. I visited our home when I came back from Heavensgate - it was the first thing I did...and they weren't there. The people who lived their said that the previous owners had died, but...well, it's a bit of a long story, but they're alive. They're still alive." she said, beaming at him, smiling brightly. "So...today, I received a call, and..."

She sighed.

"I have a lot to explain to them. It's...it's going to take a while. It's going to take a very long time." she said frankly, setting her fork down, chewing the last of the sandwich she was eating.

"I'm sure they'll understand." Calliel replied reassuringly.

"Oh, I'm sure they will." she said, rising from her chair, picking up the dishes off the table. As she walked towards the door, she paused, looking wistfully off into the sunset for a few moments.

"Calliel," she said calmly, "I love you."

Pulling his chair out, he walked over to her side, looking over the balcony with her at the falling son. The wind tousled their hair, flapping the folds of Ivy's white dress in its breath. Calliel smiled as he looked into the horizon. There was a few minutes of silence, and they both watched as the red rays of the sun set into the east, fading slowly away, sliding into night's embrace.

"I love you, Ivy Green. I am here, and so are you."

"I will carry you through it all. I won't leave you. I will catch you every time." she replied, pulling him into a close embrace.

"And I promise you that no matter what happens, you won't be alone."

[Grenartia]

Alix followed the group clustered around Michael into the infirmary. The facility, housed inside a classic-style Nissen hut, wasn't very roomy, but it was well-maintained, with about a dozen separate bed-containing alcoves, six to a side, separated off from each other by dun-colored sheeting to allow a measure of privacy. The insides were dimly and harshly lit by naked bulbs, throwing huge shadows on the wooden walls and immediately making Alix feel like it was the dead of night rather than midmorning.

Michael was quickly rushed to one of the far alcoves, where she could hear him being deposited on one of the beds. Alix approached the nurse on duty at the entrance station.
"I'm Flight Lieutenant Noble, of 319 Squadron. I was hoping I could check in with some of our people who are in here - that's Flight Lieutenant Arnold, Flying Officer Talbot, and Captain Page."

The nurse looked offhandedly at some documents on a clipboard. "Oh yes. Right, well, if it's a debriefing or something like that you're after, Arnold and Talbot should be all right for it. But Page...now's not a good time."
Her stomach lurched. "Oh no...how bad is it? I mean, will he-"
The nurse cut her off. "It's not his injuries, necessarily. He'll be better in a while, as far as we can tell - his arm's all set and they're treating the rest of his injuries as best they can. It's just that, well...with all the lacerations and breakages and other injuries he's got right now, we had to give him some pretty heavy medication to calm him down."
"Like what?"

The nurse leaned in. "The doctors felt that morphine was justified. Not a lot of it, but it's fairly potent, and with his body in the state it's in, a little goes a very long way."
Alix nodded. At least he's probably not in pain, I guess... "So I don't suppose...he's in any condition to talk right now."
The nurse shook her head. "Not at all. I think he's sleeping it off now, but it was bad earlier."
"How bad?"
That elicited a half-serious, half-mirthful look. "When it started to take effect, he rolled over onto his pillow, and then asked us what he termed a 'two-part question', very, very seriously. First, whether or not his pillow was made of marshmallow, and second, if the answer to the first question was yes, if he could eat it."
Alix tried not to giggle - it really wasn't funny, but she couldn't help it. "Oh dear..."

The nurse kept going."...And when we told him in no uncertain terms that it was not made of marshmallow, he started crying. Well, I say crying, but it was really sort of bawling, in that he kept trying to say something, but it all just came out as blubbery sobs. Don't see that one too often."
"God...that sounds like some powerful stuff."
"Indeed. Thankfully, he was distracted by some dust motes a few seconds later, so that cleared itself up very quickly. But like I said, Talbot and Arnold should be all right - they're in those two spots on that side of the room. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to go check in with Flight Lieutenant Marsden to see if he needs any help with our new arrival."

As she got up to leave, Alix approached the two alcoves, each marked with a note signifying who was in which. She internally shrugged to herself and decided to just pick one at random. Knocking at the flap, she pushed it aside and entered Pat's little room.

[Nightkill the Emperor]

Hey, you know what else is hilarious?

The war happening about four feet away from all the hijinks.

"Fuck!" one member of the bear infantry cried as a demon tore his leg off with his bare hands.

The response? Another infantryman tore the demon's head off with his bear hands.

"Goddamn it," the first bear cried, grabbing his stump, "Kill me! oh, fuck, just end it!"

"No," the other infantryman said stubbornly, "we are bears. We do not give in. We rip off giving in's balls and smash them into its bitch face."

"I don't want to be a bear!" the first cried.

"Someone's got to," his comrade insisted. With a mighty growl, the second bear hefted the injured onto his shoulders, supporting him on his hind paws. He bolted across the battlefield, leaping over slobbering zombies and screaming demons, dodging bullets and swords, his mind clear and full of purpose.

As the Pani camps appeared on the horizon, the second bear allowed himself the beginnings of a smile. He'd saved an ally, a fellow bear. As far he was concerned, he was a hero.

Suddenly, there was a loud pop, and an explosive threw shrapnel into his right hip. He grunted and stumbled, but remained resolute. With a good deal of effort, he continued to limp towards the camp, heaving. Panting. Struggling.

But, no, he wouldn't give up. He was a bear. A soldier. His only job, only use, was to win. And, goddamn it, if he had to lose a leg or even die to do it, he'd lose two.

After a few moments, however, he tripped and slammed his face into the dirt. He looked up hopelessly. His limbs weren't just on fire, they had melted. He couldn't breath. His heart was beating faster than light. He was dead.

A soft light washed over him.

"My Patriarch," he murmured, "tell me... tell me we are victorious..."

He closed his eyes tight and waited for it to go black.

After five minutes, he opened them to find himself in the infirmary.

"Wizards," he spat.

"Play nice," demanded Forestburner, acting High General of the Fifth and Seventh Legions, "We've lost too many to die for a stupid bitch grunt to give it, too."

The infantryman snorted and turned away from Forestburner. The General sighed heavily and looked about. This battle hadn't gone as he would have liked at all. He collected himself and strolled out into the camps, where a group of fresh soldiers waited. They were, despite themselves, cowering.

"This won't do," Forestburner murmured to himself, "This won't do at all."

He sighed heavily and advanced to the front of the crowd, grabbing a rather large rock and slamming it into the ground. It cracked into four pieces and made a rather loud noise, getting the bears' attention.

"What the fuck are you doing?!" he snapped, "Have you lost your balls?! THIS IS WAR! You've lived your whole lives for this! Is it not what you wanted to be, hm? Too hard? Too scary?"

"Let us be, boss," one of the bolder soldiers requested.

Smack.

"This is bullshit!" he roared, "We're here to fight!"

"We can't win," another voice cried, "It's hopeless. We can't even kill them."

Forestburner grimaced thoughtfully.

"Maybe we can't," he replied, "Maybe we've lost. But we're not here to sit down and lose, are we? We're here to win. Even if it doesn't work, what other option is there? Running? You think you can run from them? You think you can surrender? They do not have a SINGLE fiber of mercy in their bodies! We either die fighting or die losing."

A murmur.

"I sent a letter to the Council," Forestburner lied, "I asked them for reinforcements last week. Do you know how they replied?

Dys is not a priority.

Dys is not a priority. Dys is not a priority. If Dys is not, what is? Dys is an unyielding foe. An indescribable evil. They will never, ever cease. They will never, ever stop. They will not rest until all of our world is theirs. Not until all of our world has been engulfed by hellfire. If we leave Dys today, Dys will find us. They will return when we are weakest, they will return when we expect it, and they will return to crush us. They will not flee. They know no weakness. No fear. No pity. I assure you, my brothers, if we leave today and live, we will not survive tomorrow. Nor will our children. We die today so that no one else has to tomorrow.

They also say, Leave Elfen High to burn. Shall we leave Elfen High to burn?"

Another murmur.

"My friends, many have died today," Forestburner continued, "We have lost three of our greatest heroes in this war. Our Lord Slotheater died in an attempt to end Dys. Shall we let Dys live and Slotheater fade?"

"No," was the halfhearted answer.

"My friends," Forestburner said, "Our first king Polarbeard - our founder, our hero, our greatest representative - died. For what?"

"Lewis Jameson," was the interested answer.

"And shall we let Jameson go unavenged and Polarbeard fade?" Forestburner demanded.

"No!" was the response.

"My friends!" Forestburner shouted, "Our new king Lewis Jameson - he who Polarbeard died for - is himself fallen! For what?!"

"Elfen High!"

"What?!"

"Elfen High!"

"WHAT?!"

"ELFEN HIGH?!"

"Shall we let Elfen High burn?! Shall we let Lewis Jameson fade?!"

"NO!"

"WHAT SHALL WE DO?!"

"WE SHALL FIGHT!"

"FOR?!"

"FOR ELFEN HIGH AND LEWIS JAMESON!"

"FOR ELFEN HIGH AND LEWIS JAMESON!"

"FOR ELFEN HIGH AND LEWIS JAMESON!"

"GO! FOR ELFEN HIGH AND LEWIS JAMESON!"

There was a roar and the bears charged. Forestburner smiled to himself.

"Don't fuck this up, Crowley," he laughed to himself.

[Nightkill the Emperor]

The following is an editorial from The Burning Stone (Hunter's in Hell, too), a pro-demonic newspaper in Heavensgate, published a week before a police raid found pornography and drug paraphernalia on site and closed the paper down. Not long after, the editor of the newspaper was beaten to death by a pro-angelic mob.

Heaven and Hell: The Border of Angel and Demon
by C. Jones

When I was young, the slums of Heavensgate were safe. Well, not safe, not for others. But for me? I was a beggar king.

I grew up in the Southwest District, which most people know better simply as the "Sooth'est" (Heavensgate accents have always been a peculiarity) and know it as such only through papers such as this or the occasional rhetoric from conservative angelic politicians who dig it up as an example of the depravity of the demonic race. Don't get me wrong - it was pretty damn awful, to drop the image the Stone has been trying to build as a classy paper. My family was a family of immigrants, moved to Heavensgate to avoid the Famines. They expected a prosperous land, a land of saints, a land ruled by angels. Instead, they found hot and toxic cement - as hot and toxic as the sulfur of human legend - and thronging streets full of vagabonds. Our home was a shack, shared by three families, in a row of shacks shared by even more. You can tell how prosperous a town is based on how tall a town is; in my late teens, the ceiling was more of a hat. Oh, I mentioned streets earlier, I take that back. They were dirt paths splattered with shit, piss, and rotting food thrown from merchant carts. A surprisingly small amount of that refuse came from animals.The usual day involved picking said rotting food from said piss and shit, snacking on it, watching a gang fight, running from the neighborhood bully, pickpocketing some lost angels, and catching the train to school, where I would then covertly repeat said routine will pretending to study.

I grew up in a part of the Sooth'est that belonged to the Red Sulfies. Oh, ostensibly, the entire Sooth'est belongs to Raphael, but Sooth'esterners know the truth - the District was torn in a bloody civil war between the Sulfies and their rival gang, the Blackblood Brothers. The Sulfies and Blackbloods no longer exist, not in the bosoms of the young men who fight these causes into existences at least. Some new terrors reign over here now - I couldn't tell you who, it rarely comes to my attention. It's strange how, as you grow, you realize that the most important thing to you but a moment ago was really just a petty game. I am deeply saddened to admit that I personally ensured a good deal of Blackbloods never got to have that revelation. I was inaugurated into our little organization at age twelve when I beat the shit out of a Blackblood for trying to steal my rotting fruit. It, at first, had nothing to do with gangs, but when I met them, it very suddenly did. By age 16, I had risen in the ranks of the gang - I wasn't the guy (though that's nebulous in a gang), but I was certainly a guy. It was a good life, for a demon in the slums - I used to be harassed because my mom was a "witchfucker" (I myself being a half-human), but now I ruled. I got fresh food. I got women. I got power. I was the neighborhood bully now.

Anyways, that was me. I ruled the slums. Once I left to become a soldier, I missed it. I didn't miss the slums, no, I missed being a Sulfie. I didn't like being in a gang, I liked being a Sulfie. Being a god. Despite myself, I'm still wistful for it. The slums, while still hell (with a lowercase "h"), were my hell.

And they're gone now. The slums I love are one of many casualties in the Angels' War. Once again, we are the barrier between the angels and their foes. It began with Lucifer, who hid amongst us to escape his brother. This War is merely another manifestation of the angels' dualistic bigotry; demons are to be hated and purged, but are to be spared and enslaved. One must simply look at the geography of Heavensgate to see how little they care - we demons, in our starving ghetto, were the first to be assailed by Azazel's army. We were wrapped around Heavensgate like a suit of living, screaming armor. We cried out as the demons forced themselves into our homes, as they took our women and killed our children. The angels did nothing. We attempted to fight back, but our malnourished and untrained young men were slain with the arms of man. The angels did nothing. The invaders plowed through our lives and destroyed them, leaving in their wake destitute carnage and shattered corpses. The angels only reacted when the armies were on their doorstep, where upon they thoroughly smashed their enemy and defended their homes. Could they not have defended ours?

I saw much heroism in my brethren and the humans of Elfen High, but solely cowardice and hatred in the angels. THey care nothing for the demon race beyond pack mules and wage slaves. Many think of us as mere parasites, sucking away the lifeblood of Heavensgate. I assure you, Lord Raphael, I do not want to drain your blood - I want to spill it more than anything. I want my blade buried in your chest.

Why did this war have to happen? It didn't. It didn't at all. The angels simply despised Azazel and allowed the ISSR - a human government-approved research station gone rogue and turned terrorist - to threaten his territory. Azazel was a terrible, terrible man and I rejoice in his death, but he was no danger to me and my family until the angels poked at him, then fled behind their wall of innocent flesh. I saw brother turn against brother, father against son. We should not be fighting each other - we are demons, they are angels. It is as simple as that. Azazel's demons are just the same as Raphael's - slaves. We must band together, my brothers, and we must rise against our oppressors. I do not want war, though I badly want justice. It is too soon. We have lost too many lives. Raphael, I beg you. Set us free. Give us land. We will never drain your blood again. We want simple agrarian lives, demonic lives. We do not want angelic lives. We want freedom, not war. Free us from your chains and we shall not strike back nor gorge ourselves on your food ever again.

We are not Heavensgate. We are demons. I want simply to return to my ancestral lands, which the angels stole from me before I was born, and live as my ancestors did. I want Heavensgate to have never happened, but I will forgive its existence if mine will be forgiven in turn. I just want a home for demons, not for angels; one last vestige of the Golden Age. You can name it after yourself if it pleases you, Raphael. You'd get more out of that than keeping us here.

End the violence. End the tyranny. End the angels.

[The Norrland]

Emperor Gojong came upon this news, very frightened.
"Oh dear, GOD himself must have MODified the situation! How will we ever win when the Japanese troops are so quick and impossibly fast and superior in every way?"
His assistant shook his head.
"Jeonah, they must have a powerful METAbolism, as they seem to be able to predict our moves as a chess master wins at GAMING"
Gojong nodded in agreement.
"What a shame."

By Yalos.

[Nightkill the Emperor]

Emperor Gojong came upon this news, very frightened.
"Oh dear, GOD himself must have MODified the situation! How will we ever win when the Japanese troops are so quick and impossibly fast and superior in every way?"
His assistant shook his head.
"Jeonah, they must have a powerful METAbolism, as they seem to be able to predict our moves as a chess master wins at GAMING"
Gojong nodded in agreement.
"What a shame."

By Yalos.

Quote it, show the thread it came from.

[Alleniana]

le tag

Emperor Gojong came upon this news, very frightened.
"Oh dear, GOD himself must have MODified the situation! How will we ever win when the Japanese troops are so quick and impossibly fast and superior in every way?"
His assistant shook his head.
"Jeonah, they must have a powerful METAbolism, as they seem to be able to predict our moves as a chess master wins at GAMING"
Gojong nodded in agreement.
"What a shame."

By Yalos.

Quote it, show the thread it came from.

I'll come to the rescue here: viewtopic.php?f=31&t=264149&p=16950493&#p16950493

snip

[Constaniana]

"Yes, it's a nice little carving," the boy said. Kroisoto sat in nervous silence for a few moments, wondering whether to open up to this stranger. Eric seemed a pleasant old fellow, and there couldn't be much harm in explaining a brief dream he had.

"It's...a bad memory. I try to avoid thinking about them, but sometimes fragments of them pop back up into my thoughts," the blueblood began. "I only grew up with my mother-I think my father died in the war, though mother didn't talk too much about him. Too painful, you see. She tried raising me as best she could, but it was hard on our scraggy little farm, which was honestly more of a glorified vegetable patch. I lost her when I was around 7, and got taken in by a kind peasant family. This was all in the months before Ulfrüs's uprising nine years ago, and when his army came through my adopted family got caught in the path of that traitor's soldiers," Kroisoto abruptly stopped speaking, taking a few deep breaths to calm himself down before continuing the explanation. "I remember all the rain..." Jonah's antics caught the boy's attention after that, giving him an opportunity to avoid explaining the saddest part of his life any further. He stood up, cautiously walking towards Jonah.

Richard and Aldraniri both stopped talking and eating to look at the fallen nature elemental with a baffled expression on their faces.

"Is he drunk? He does seem to be falling down a lot and there's some bizarre stink coming off of him," Aldraniri inquired.

"Nah, I don't think he's drunk. He was too coordinated with trying to steal that bag, and as far as I'm aware booze only makes your breath smell funny. Maybe he got some weird foreign herbs or something..." Richard answered.

"Herbs? What, like mint or basil?" The boy asked, puzzled.

"Err....something like that, kid," the foreigner replied, deciding to let the lad keep his innocence a bit longer.

"Some foreign cultures cultivate a particular herb called hemp, Sir Kroisoto. It has various uses, but is mostly well known for its psycho-active effects. Usually, hemp is made into fine joints to be smoked, or chopped down and inserted in food, even! It is said to bring a sense of internal peace to whoever makes use of it, albeit it does have its fair share of counter-effects. That said, hemp is only one of the many exotic herbs grown in other continents." Charlie explained, emerging from her sleeping place.

"...that said, I believe we should check that boy and see if he is hurt or unconscious."

Sherlock Holmes with magic and boobs explaining what pot is in a heroic fantasy RP.

[Cerillium]

Part One

The little wooden bird in Klaus’ cuckoo clock appeared eight times from behind his little door. Each two-tone treble softly echoed in the bedroom where Minerva lay fast asleep, but they didn’t rouse her. Her eyes darted from side to side under her eyelids and her breathing remained rapid, punctuated by the memories haunting her dreams.



The notes blended with the throaty bark of heavy weaponry discharging lethal rounds. Ash and the stench of vaporized bodies chocked the sinuses and lungs and Minerva coughed and spat out a blackened glob of phlegm before covering her mouth again with her respirator mask.

“Will, SITREP?”

Her second in command crawled over bleached, brittle bones, head low to avoid the constant barrage of fire that was literally boring a new tunnel into the bedrock at their backs. They’d been suppressed behind for nearly an hour after gaining the first subfloor of the old Vafflehelm city hall. Nothing stood between them and their enemy except the armor-encased corpses of their fallen companions and the heavy, bloated bodies of dead plague daemons. Yet the defensive assault against them never let up, never gave them room to breathe, never stopped ringing in their ears and chipping away at their mental fortitude.

“Klaus has taken the east wing upstairs.” Wills’ voice cracked as he shouted over the madness around them. “His forces are making for the shafts as planned. We’ve lost twenty three lads since my last report. Captain, we’re dying here.”

A low growl escaped her and her mouth curled into a sneer beneath her mask. “I’m well aware that we’re being slaughtered, Will. We’ve got to keep them entertained until those shafts are secured.”

“The lads don’t see it that way. If only Charumati-“

The back of Minerva’s hand connected with Will’s temple and rocked his head to the side. “Pass that along to the lads. We can’t afford to lose faith now.” She turned her face away, leaving Will to groan as the cruel sting slowly metamorphosed into an arousing surge of energy that left him hard and sent scintillating waves through the mental tether to the rest of the lads. Pain is pleasure.

A distant explosion shook debris from the ceiling. It was followed by another, and then another, each growing closer to the current battleground. The deadly rounds pinning Minerva and her lads sputtered and then settled to a trickle as their enemy attempted to determine the source of this new noise. The final explosion sundered the far wall. Heavy stone pierced the daemons closest to it, dispelling them from the dimension. The remaining host screamed in terror as the flaming corpse of a Bloodletter hurtled towards them. The burning thing struck the ground and crushed a hundred men before skipping across its path of flight to topple those mutated Marine knuckle-draggers foolish enough to gape at the change in their fortune.

The battle-scarred form of Charumati Thriller emerged through the haze and momentarily became silhouetted by the harsh white light pooling into the room from behind her. No one dared to fire at so handy a target, however; the bitch avatar of Lust had arrived and would soon stretch out a feral claw to claim their souls.

There was no levity in Charumati’s expression, nor mercy in her eyes. Her heady emotional state claimed the memory of her fallen husband as its genesis and the sorrow and despair within her had mutated into a blinding hatred for her brother, Atosh. These were that turncoat’s men. These were his daemons and the last of his Astartes.

Her tiny form descended from the rubble. Skulls crushed under her armored feet. Her helmet was gone as were her weapons but Charumati paid little heed to her compromised state. Her eyes only saw the filth which dared to bring harm to her cultists and to assassinate her mate in cowardly fashion.

“Fuck,” Minerva gave voice to the horror that had momentarily seized friend and foe alike. Her hand clasped onto Will’s mask and she used it to drag him down to the bloodstained floor.

“You sons of whores,” Charumati growled. Her tiny breasts heaved and her body shook. “You sons of whores and depravity. You took him from me.”

Her fists curled into balls. “YOU TOOK HIM FROM OUR CHILDREN!”

It was her cultists who first felt it. The wave of misery assailed their hearts and caused tears to emerge from dusty ducts. Their voices rose as one into an anguished wail and they clutched their chests to ward off the pain. Charumati fed on this reverberated grief; it doubled, then tripled, then became magnified beyond measure by her factions’ despondency. She sculpted it into a blistering pulse that tore flesh from bone and smelted the metal around her. Brains boiled within skulls until the pressure blew the craniums outward in a red and grey spray of cooked tissue. Dust settled. Silence reigned.

“You will all die,” her lips murmured the words as gently as a lover would whisper promised dreams in the dead of night, “I loved him, you see. He was my heart’s song.”

Minerva rose and peered over the now-cooked carcass of the plague daemon which had served as cover only moments before. Charumati had been merciful and spared her lads. She bowed to the avatar, a gesture she seldom did in the thousand years of service to her. “What are your orders, Mistress?”

Charumati closed her eyes. Her face, grime-coated and wet from freshly shed tears, lifted towards the ceiling. She gathered her thoughts and listened to the echos along the tether. “Klaus has reached the shafts.”

Her delicate brow furrowed. She turned her head towards her cultist leader. “He won’t make the lower levels in time, Minerva. It’s up to us to close the portal before more of Atosh’s daemons gain entry to this dimension.”

“A suicidal mission if ever I heard of one,” Minerva quipped. She quickly relieved Will of his extra magazines. “Will, take the injured back to the surface. The rest of you lot, come with me or go with him. I won’t demand your blood spilt over futility.”

Will left with very few men in tow. The rest made their peace with the world and soon fell in line behind Minerva.



The little wooden doors shut fast and the cuckoo came to rest inside his clock. Minerva groaned and turned onto her side, the pillow quickly absorbing the beads of sweat that had blossomed upon her brow.

Part Two - The memory continues

The pyroclastic cloud ripped through the narrow passage, feeding upon the oxygen and consuming everything in its wake. Charumati and her forces were far enough back to avoid the flames but the rolling heat withered the lungs and cooked the flesh of the men on point and they collapsed. Those who were fortunate enough to be further behind faced mortal peril as bits of plaster and wood tore away to crucify them where they stood. Fine ash shrouded the fallen in white blankets, committing them to the fate shared by those unfortunate souls of Pompeii nearly two thousand years ago. The corridor darkened to midnight hue and several of the lads behind her cried out in fear.

Charumati was all too aware of her surroundings. The sweet- stale sweat rising from the lad’s dead bodies and the surreal coppery taste permeating the air to caress the sides of her tongue, causing it to curl back to stem the flow of saliva gathering under it. Her eyes didn’t need to pierce the darkness, not when her nose and ears hissed dark tidings of what lie ahead.

“Minerva,” scant light reflected off Charumati’s cheek as she turned it towards her cultist leader, “Tell the lads to fall back. This is no place for flesh and bone.”

Minerva set her jaw and relayed the order through the tether. It was Christmas Eve. How many lads had already died? How many wives and lovers and children were standing by their drains in anticipation of a cheerful greeting and warm embrace that would never arrive? The lads behind protested their dismissal but Captain Blackwater was not to be disobeyed. They retreated, begrudgingly, to hold the entrance.

Charumati progressed forward and Minerva fell in step with her. “You need to fall back as well,” the god growled.

“All that I am and all that I’ve seen are because of Purna,” Minerva replied.” You fashioned her from spider webs and dandelion tuffs, or so she teases me. We won’t abandon you now. I’m more than her host. I’m your eternal friend.”

“A friend I won’t have die beside me. Return to Klaus. He-“

“It was Klaus who insisted I see this through with you. And it was Ogoti who blessed me before battle. Don’t banish me, Charumati; don’t dishonor the promise I made to them.”
Charumati opened her mouth to protest but both females’ heads swiveled towards the blackness. A harsh churning sound echoed down the passageway. It wasn’t the heavy tread of a Dreadnaught. It was the foreboding knock of heavy talons striking the ground with each step taken by a Greater Daemon. There was more than one set of feet, however. Minerva closed her eyes, drew in a bolstering breath and steeled herself.

“They come,” Charumati whispered.

The hairs along the back of Minerva’s neck stood on end as the footfalls thudded nearer in the dark. These were the final moments. This was the pause before the crushing press. The cultist leader studied Charumati’s face, which was thrown in profile as she stared ahead of them. Minerva wanted to whisk her away, to tell her that she didn’t have to do this, to beg her to let Bielefeld and the world fall.

The footfalls became a death knell.

[Dukats]

Gili Rinir
Pius Castle, Parus-thal
late summer

Gili had his hood down allowing the sun to hit his entire face. Most of the time only half of his face was exposed to the sunlight, but when his hood was up it creped people out cause they couldn't see his eye or some of his expressions. Gili had been at the castle for a week now and you could tell it was late summer, the days were cooler and not as hot as the others have been. Fall was coming and then winter and winter was harsh along the way for some odd reason. Gili was sitting on a bench in the castle courtyard, it was beautiful several rows of flowers and highly crafted stone steps lead up to the castle's interior. The place was full of color and other nobles form the local area talking to one another, guards were patrolling the area as well. The liked to call themselves Royal guard, but the Rangers were the true royal guards. Rangers and the guards were not on the best terms thanks to that falsehood, but the rangers made sure the guards knew who they were fucking with. Many pranks have been pulled over the years and more will come over the years as well. But with recent rumors of movement along the wall all pranks have stopped and everyone was on edge just waiting to see what was going to happen. That is why Gili was here to finalize the plan to see what was going on, most of it had been planed a week ago but they had to wait on a few people who had arrived today. Gili looked straight ahead and saw Evelene the king's daughter approaching, she was twenty-three years old and he was twenty-five years old. They had known each other since they were kids. Plus the two teased each other constantly. She was only a few inches shorter than Gili was.

Evelene was wearing a long white dress that swayed across the ground as he walked, it was almost goddess like, "So Ranger, loose your cool with the guards yet? Most of you would have shot one by now and we all know how much you all hate royalty, specifically the royal guards. They all get on everyone nerves, they always think they are in charge of security and that is only true when no ranger is present in the castle. But I cant believe you been here for a week ranger, this is the longest you have stayed here for almost thirteen years. You don't visit much and your always busy you damn Rangers," Chuckled Evelene as she smiled and winked at Gili and he almost broke his cool by smiling. He looked back up at the sky for a moment and saw an eagle fly over head. That was a good sign for most people, but Gili wasn't one to believe in omens and superstition. But most people did and he always made a joke about that for them. Then he looked back at his childhood friend, her hair when she was a child was blonde but now it had turned to a light brown. He stood up locked her arm with his and started to walk towards the castle.

"Ha, loose my cool when have I ever done that," Chuckled Gili as he made a vulgar hand gesture at one of the guard. "Besides, who said I haven't shot one of them or if I was ever sane? I mean who thinks we are not insane after all we are rangers and we do incredibly stupid stuff sometimes. But who says I am not insane and yeah its been a long time since I have been here what almost a year." Chuckled Gili as he winked at her as he stopped in front of the door that lead inside the castle. "Well you can thank your father for that, we have been waiting for the others to arrive before we finalized the planning for the expedition. Plus all I know is they are important for this mission and that there are four of them. Plus with the rumors about recent events near the wall has all the Rangers on edge and we need to sort it out soon. So if you want to talk in private I will be in my quarters in about half an hour." Informed Gili as he unlocked his arm from hers and walked into the castle.

Gili walked down the main hall and then entered the door on his right and entered the map room. The king and four other men who were no doubt rangers were around him, "Hail my king, so I take it that these are the late arrivals we have been waiting on." Said Gili as he saluted the king then saluted the rangers next to him before joining the men at the table. The whole table was covered in maps and several maps had red lines showing a route on them. No doubt plans for the expedition into hostile territory for three days and deep behind their lines enough to tell if there was any hostile troop movements. The king was looking over several papers which was probably manifests for the trip full of supplies and he hated his steward doing them as he always got ale stains on them.

The king finally looked up and replied, "Ah Gili I was wondering where you had run off too. Well meet your team and as you can tell they are rangers; plus they know you are in charge of this mission and they all know the risks they are taking. So no need to scare them off or do anything along the lines of that. But as you can see a three day trip behind hostile lines and then a day trip along our controlled area of the wall that isn't officially recognized or know by other forces. I don't like the rumors of a force being near any part of the wall and I don't want a war on my door step if I can help it." Then he slid the papers off the table and into a chest and shut it. "This will be your route straight through this area of the wall and up and over from their you will start your trek though the terrain and look for hostile armies along the wall. Now if you will excuse me, I have important business to attend to." Informed the king as he walked out of the room and the other rangers did as well. Gili was the only one in the room now and he was going to study the course on the map so they wouldn't get lost along the way on the trip through hostile lands.

After twenty minutes of a long study session he left the room to head to his room. No doubt that Evelene was there waiting for him by now, she almost spent every waking minute with him when he was here. Gili had grown accustom to it and it didn't bother him. He walked to the guest wing on the east side of the castle which had a view of the ocean which was a long ways off. When he walked into the wing there were multiple guards stationed at either end of the wing which was normal. Also servants were going about their chores, most of them were cleaning the floor or the vacant room which was strange since he was the only guest in the wing. Most of the servants were girls and some were singing as they worked, most of the men worked in the armory or they worked as servers for guests during feasts. But nothing was out of the ordinary though there were just more servants than normal which wasn't a problem cause they knew not to walk into a room unannounced or they would be punished by the head servant and who know what happens after that.

Gili walked to his door and opened it and revealed that Evelene was sitting on his bed. He walked in and shut the door before walked over to the bed and sitting down next to her. "So Gili, I take it you are preparing to leave in a few days for this mission?" Asked Evelene as she leaned up against him. He put his arm on her shoulder before speaking and then thought for a good minute. This is going to be a long trip. then he focused back in and saw Evelene looking up at him. He looked around the room and then looked outside the window and saw several men training at the training grounds. Evelene then stopped leaning on him and now was looking around the room trying to figure out what Gili was looking at.

"Yeah, we are going to leave in three days and the trip will take a week to complete what we are doing maybe longer if we run into trouble with any bandits or an army that we happen to stumble across. Plus with a force a long the way, that would send every kingdom to war to protect itself and gain control of the wall. The West and the east would on a full scale conflict like none that has ever seen before," informed Gili as he felt Evelene's hand on top of his and felt her lips against his. Gili froze up after she had stopped, he had been caught off guard and he felt his cheeks get warm and blush.

"Come on Gili, we both know we have feeling for each other and my father has his suspicions about it as well," informed Evelene as Gili unfroze and nodded in agreement. "Well I must be going, I will be back later. I must attend to my duties as a princess of the kingdom and deal with things that need to be done." Chuckled Evelene as she left the room and left Gili alone in the room. He took off his boots and weapons and armor then he laid down on the bed and covered himself up with the sheets and fell sound asleep.

[Cerillium]

It's a scene from November and not a solitary post. Sue me. These two players weave magic together. A character relationship nearly a year in the making. Two people struggling with feelings for someone far removed from their own faction; one forbidden to love at all. Love rather than lust and the usual puerile sex found in RP. Characters still haven't had their first kiss. Aw.

The day was overcast so far, as they crossed the road and arrived back at the wall alongside which they'd spent some time. A lone seagull waddled over, before deciding the two newcomers weren't going to leave any food and wandering off behind a small dune.

Chrys closed her eyes against the sudden cold, and when she opened them again they were a stark white with the barest tinge of blue. The air roiled around her, keeping the chill out - a better choice, she thought, than giving Hans the wrong idea by sealing herself inside her armor. This was uncharted ground and she was determined not to do anything that might upset a balance. The celebrations of life were one thing, formalized rites that they were. This choice that lay before her now was quite another.

Yet in thinking Hans' speech over, there was one thing that stuck in her mind. Somewhere along the way, his love for her had just happened. Fate. She had a chance to learn, to grow. Spirit. And all things ended at some point; they lost nothing by taking a chance. Faith.

"I think...I'd like to give the idea of 'us' a try, if you don't mind," she confessed, her voice gaining strength as she went along. "But not right away, at least. I'd need to talk to my mate first."

There was a pause. She slid off the wall and landed in the sand. Her forearms moved as she appeared to brush the grains into a small heap. A bright, incandescent glow and a sudden flash of heat came from in front of her, though what she was doing was blocked from Hans' sight until she turned around. In her hands was a freshly blown, still sparkling golden flower that dimmed as it cooled in the winter air.

"For you. This could go well, or badly, but either way, you should have this, if only to remind yourself that we were comrades at least for a time. This is who I am. A golden flower."

She sat back on her heels and waited, anxious despite herself, for his response.

How long ago had that Zalgofest been? She’d leaped off a Segway and tackled him, and then he tackled her. That’s how it started, innocent and unintentional one warm night in August. Piles of stuffed toys, and laughter, and her shoes flying in opposite directions. More laughter and then a quick escape to his room for socks.

Socks.

Socks gave way to Oktoberfest and grey cardigan sweaters and roasted chestnuts. It was on that stone wall that he realized he had forgotten to be human. It was there that he’d healed from the intense grief caused by losing his brother. It was there that he’d fallen in love.

That wall! It was a backdrop of his life. The morning sun bathed the concrete and sand and captured the natural golden highlights in Chrys’ hair. It was only fitting that the wall be part of the sadness. She’d brought him here to leave no room for doubt, and if it were to end it was only fitting that the wall be part of it.

He felt as though he were riding into a battle which would end in window’s tears. The ocean’s lonely song echoed his heart’s sentiments. Not even the cold seemed to touch him. A warrior never quells in the face of danger, however. A warrior stood fast and saw his mission through to the end. He’d faced many deadly things (with fall less fear and dread!) and he prepared himself to face this as well.

She began to open her mouth and his mind inserted a half dozen statements he felt she would make but none of his imaginings could have prepared him for the actual words that tumbled out.

” I think...I'd like to give the idea of 'us' a try, if you don't mind.”

The ocean’s roar and the gull’s cry vanished, or perhaps they were just drowned out by the sudden explosion that had rocked his skull and chest. Anything else she said immediately after was inconsequential. No, it didn’t need to be right away… he’d wait a lifetime for his vivacious battle maiden. He’d wait an eternity until she was ready to beckon him to her side.

She slid from the wall and worked a magic no less intensive than the one she’d worked on his heart one October evening. She held up a flower forged from sand and time. His eyes fastened upon the fragile treasure and then on her own bare hands... hands that should have been encased in protective armor. His sadness hadn’t blocked out the cold. She had somehow made the air warmer. Had she done this to avoid casting an impenetrable shell over herself?

He worked quickly to unfasten his jacket buttons and then placed the warm wool over her shoulders as he knelt in the sand before her.

His hands cupped her own and brought the flower closer to eye level. It glistened between them in the morning light, a golden treasure which captured Chrys’ image at various angles. His eyes traveled beyond it to look into her frosty blue irises. He found his voice.

“I am German, a follower of the Teutonic set. We strongly believe in Wyrd. This is the connection of forces from the past, the present and the future… fate, or personal destiny, manifest. All things happen for a reason, Chrys. This chance we take together could go well or badly, but something has allowed us to be comrades, at least for a time, and for that I am most grateful.”

His gaze settled again on the cooling sculpture. “This is you, a golden flower.”

His fingers curled gently around the edges of her hands and he peered at her face again. “This is me, holding you and hoping to protect you from ever being shattered by careless wind or motion.”

The seagull took flight, as the sun's rays pierced the clouds and stirred up the air enough to help it keep aloft. Warmth pervaded Chrys, gliding along just underneath her skin, or so it seemed. So strange and new a feeling that Hans' words stirred in her, so different from that which had passed, centuries ago, between herself and Dia. The big man had struck sparks with her, and yet there had been times when he had been her trusted confidant as well. After time spent as partners, they'd become partners. With Hans, it was much different. Much easier; like slipping into a warm bath. And this, then, she supposed, was the first foot into the tub.

Her lean, elfin features softened. The growing heat bubbling up from Hans' words and reflecting back from his coat spoke to her on the most primal level. This wasn't at all what she expected. Easy, so easy, and so seductively, sublimely right - like the sirens of old.

"Your beliefs...they're so much a match for mine," she breathed in wonder. "How..."

Her eyes dropped for a moment to the sand, then snapped back up. Lost for words, she could only feel, in that moment, and so she did. Warmth, warmth, always warmth. The texture of his hands on hers, and the smooth surface of the delicate crystal under her fingers. The thick, soft wool draped over her arms.

"How?"

He was puzzled by her question. He knew very little about the Conservators' beliefs except that they seemed tied into Fate and Time. He'd never confirmed if it was the deities themselves or simply a philosophy. Yet how to answer her? Did she believe as he did? Had she come by her belief similarly to his own search for knowledge?

His mind thought upon his own life, prior to joining. The Thule Society, Rudolf Hess and his mentor, Professor Karl Haushofer, the Nazi fascination with the occult and Teutonic gods, and the Nazi party itself. Hans was never given a chance to choose his beliefs. They'd been chosen for him and he'd followed because that was the only way to avoid the truly dire things in life. His subsequent recruitment by Klaus had changed his life, and forged in him a deeper understanding of ancient Teutonic thought. Klaus had liberated him and simultaneously preserved him from turning into a monster far more sinister than a daemon host or agent of Chaos.

It was Klaus who taught him the truth about these beliefs. That Chaos was what it was, that gods were real but not as intrusive as people imagined, and that all the universe was governed by Fate. Not the god. The force which was woven by various gods who claimed it as their discipline, be it Fate or Plotter or a host of others from various pantheons. It was Wyrd... fate, personal destiny, that which all men are bound to unless something radical changes their course or takes them before destiny could be achieved.

These were things best discussed by a glowing fire and over mugs of hot tea. They were part of the magic of long winter nights. Kneeling on a beach wasn't conducive to such conversations. Hans' eyes met Chrys' own.

"One day, I'll tell you my story," he murmured. "It's not all beautiful. Some is shameful. Most is good. You will tell me yours, yes? We'll discover each other. But not now, and not here."

He rose, gently pulling her up with him and taking care to not allow the flower to drop.

When did the sun come out? Has the world always been this beautiful?

No. Truly, the world didn't exist until she'd stepped into it. It was a cold and barren place without her. The veracity of the moment filled his heart with a joy he'd never known could exist... she'd promised to give them a try. She wished to reciprocate his love. If she hadn't been there, Hans knew he would have run down the street yowling in joy and punching the air in triumph. He reigned himself in, however.

Barely.

His smile widened slowly, making him appear more than just a little mischievous. His hands tenderly lifted the flower from her own and he slipped it into a jacket pocket before adjusting it onto her shoulders better. Hammerspace pockets were wonderfully secure.

Mirth broke through and he impulsively plucked her from the sand, lifting her high and twirling around with her. A joyous cry broke from him to mix with his laughter. He set her down again and kissed her forehead. "I'm alive. You've breathed life back into me. I'm alive!"

[Nightkill the Emperor]

That's damn good.

[Cerillium]

A bit of Gio humor/interplay between her characters. Conversation between a godling and a MLP character who had been sucked into the PLverse.

http://forum.nationstates.net/viewtopic.php?p=17113688#p17113688 (by Giovenith)
Willow merely nodded along with most of what Sterling had said, letting the unicorn go on uninterrupted. Everything he said was true, from the madness of Discord, to the observation of the princesses' willingness to allow the local 'Element girls', as he personally called them, to handle things lately. As far as Willow knew for sure, they just happened to be six normal mares, though he wondered on several occasions if they possessed some sort of political status that simply wasn't spoken of.

Giovenith paused for a moment to consider some of the things the ponies had said. "... Eat gems, huh? That's quite funny, as I do almost the complete opposite." The godling arched over without warning and began to make horrendous little hacking/hissing sounds, at first similar to a cat trying to cough up a hairball, but slowly became darker and with more pronounced hissing.

What the Tartarus was she doing?

"Are you sick or something?" asked Willow, not bothering to hide his squeamish disgust. Did all hyoo-muns do this? Since Giovenith didn't answer him, the pegasus took the opportunity to scoot backward and just let her do whatever it was she was doing.

The hacking eventually stopped with a retch-inducing spit-up sound, as the girl spat a large blob from her mouth into her hand, then grabbed Willow's front leg/arm and placed the drippy blob in his hoof.

"There you go. See? Dragon pearls," explained Giovenith casually, as if it was perfectly normal and dandy to go placing goop into other's gripping limbs. In the goop there were however, indeed, five multicolored little pearls. "The dragons I know make those kinds of gem, and don't eat any kind. There are lots of types of dragons though, so you probably just have a different one."

Willow just stared in semi-horror at the glob and pearls in his hoof, mouth ajar.

"... Willow?" prodded Giovenith, waving her hand in front of the pony with no results. "Willy-Willy-Willoooooooooow!"

"... Uuuuurrrrrgggh," groaned Willow, finally snapping out of his shocked stupor, and shakily scraping the gunk off. "What was that?!"

"I told I'm a godling, and dragons are an associated creature, so I can do that."

"But it... why... how... that doesn't... I..."

Willow knew that didn't make sense, but he didn't know how it didn't make sense, which didn't make any further sense... nothing made sense! Uggh... now he couldn't stop recalling the haunting voice of Discord in his head. 'Make sense, oh, now what fun is there in making sense?' had been what the Draconaquis spirit had chuckled out during his corruption of Ponyville, just about right before he'd used Willow and several other ponies as bowling pins (that stood up as the ball rolled away, then were knocked over again, and again, and again, and again, and again...)

"And as for this individual you call, 'Discord'..." began Giovenith.

Oh boy.

"I do hope you can understand some of the other residents here, who could, say... arguably fall into the same category," Giovenith looked to the side a bit, contemplating the right words to gently deliver the necessary information.

"Category...?" repeated Willow, wiping the last of the moistness off on his sweater. "What do you mean by category?"

"Chaos. The Ones who are it, and use it, probably in not entirely the same fashion as your Discord. Mostly everyone has their own unique flair to what they do, you know?" breathed Giovenith nonchalantly, puffing her bangs from her eyes. "I'm sure you'll meet them eventually. You've already met one, the kindly man on the steps who called you gentleponies, remember?"

"Him?" said Willow, looking from side to side, attempting to sort out all this new information. "But... I don't understand. He seemed normal."

"Aw, Willow," Giovenith tilted her head and rested her chin upon her loosely folded hands, looking disappointed. "We're both artists, yes? I would think you should know better than to judge things by what they initially seem. I assure you that he is very, very kind, and will not torture you for fun as this Discord did, but many of the people here... hm, well it's a bit tricky to explain. You've stepped into a world where there are less restrictions on leaning about certain truths, I guess would be a good way to put it, for now. It's always 'for now.' And anyway, you said it was my turn to ask questions."

For what was not the first time, Giovenith was scaring Willow. But it was fear of a different breed that iced his blood this time around, it had a name that lurked in some previously unnoticed shadow the pony could not penetrate, yet teasingly danced on the frays of his conscious. Perhaps it only stayed there because he didn't truly want to know. Willow didn't ever want to be at the mercy of anything like Discord again, so Giovenith's remarks that there was something of a similar kind lurking about this home of her's did nothing if not horrify him. He remembered the warnings of Rudolf, which seemed to grow heavier and heavier the longer they walked in this place. For someone so bright and whimsical in nature, Giovenith seemed to be but a piece in a very complicated, demented existence, one that she was apparently adapted quite well to... Willow wanted to ask himself what this said about her, but actively pushed away the question, not wanting to give up trust in one of the few hyoo-muns that they seemed to be able to give it to.

"... I-I see." That was all the pegasus could give.

"Do you?" Giovenith giggled the question.

Willow didn't answer.

It was a rhetorical one anyway, as Giovenith continued: "Anyway, please tell me if you can, what about the pretty pictures on your flanks? The things you call Cutie Marks. Are you born with them?"

[Cerillium]

That's damn good.

I was floored when I read it. Hoping it inspires more to look at the thrill of the chase rather than the victory party.

[Cerillium]

A collab between Warp (aka Aeten) and Swith, but Warp did the majority of the detail writing. Swith insists her only contribution was Tipper's reaction shots. Still, 40K takes on warped meaning (no pun intended) with some of our players.

What stands out in my mind is Warp's style. He's a hardcore 40K RPer and plays his Chaos Astartes as brutally-minded. Blood, cracked bones, the desolation of foes on a battlefield, disemboweling for shits and grins. Satan lifts up his hind leg and shits out something savage and that's Warp's character.

Then something odd happens to our fearless player. He discovers he's gifted in other ways. Warp's been cranking out some potent posts. This one is my favorite so far due to the amount of thought he put into crafting the scene.

Colab between Aeten/Warpspace and Swith Witherward.
(Volturius and Tipper)

It hung in the void of space, demanding the vision of all. Against the cold, bleak shadow of space there stood a giant, a massive blue orb orbiting in a black sea of nothingness. Swirling tides of matter screamed across the giant’s surface, conjuring up maelstroms so great in power and size that any Earthly equivalent would not only be dwarfed, but barely noticeable at all- swallowed up by the howling winds on the giant’s surface. And not only the surface, as the near entirety of the globe was consumed in eternal howling storms and currents of hydrogen gas that tore anything that dared breach its atmosphere to shreds. The Jovian world wound its way around its elderly parent, an ancient star whose magnificence had long faded and was insignificant compared to the gas giant it hosted.

The old star was not the only heavenly body to host a share of objects in the grip of the depression it made in space- around the gas giant orbited twenty miniature planets. Each was of a unique composition or environment- upon which evidence of civilization lay. Mining operations covered the surface of several planetoids- supported by great space-craft in permanent orbit of the respective moon. Ships ferrying resources between all the planetoids buzzed around the void of space surrounding the gas giant and the numerous planetoids locked in orbit. The activity seemed to center around one specific planetoid- the hive of the bee-like industry developed within the system. Normally, one would pass the moon off as an insignificant wasteland. To the naked eye it was a barren wasteland- a frozen hell-hole devoid of any significant resources save water and the elements that composed it. Yet it was the point upon which the entire industry turned. Ships came in, locking into large space stations in orbit of the frozen world before then dispatching smaller craft that seemed to vanish in the ice and snow.

But Volturius was no mortal, and his vision was not of one. Despite it being kilometers off in the distance, Volturius’ squinting gifts of the Night Haunter could discern piston-like devices embedded in the surface the planet. While even his eyes had difficulty making out specific details due to the incredible distance from the ship and the natural glare created by light fully deflecting off the ice of the moon- he could see the tiny black spots that were freighters descending into oblivion in circular shaped devices that presumably led deep into the moon.

Taking a step away from the ‘glass’ window of the observation deck, Volturius took several paces backwards from clear dome of the observation deck and down to a depressed dais in the center of the room. Normally used as a public room on the ship for the best view of space and the Immaterium in warp transit- Volturius had ordered it converted into personal quarters for himself and Tipper. Where there once was a largely barren room, it was now cluttered with living space and respective furniture at the center of the sunken dais- at the very precise center was a circular bed with leather pillows of suspicious origins.

Tipper currently was propped up on the left hand side of the bed, immersed in a small book of old Terran legends- supported by her inflated abdomen which was now doubling as a pillow. During the voyage through the warp (which had been noticeably smoothed compared to any other warp jump Volturius had experienced- although it likely helps when the will of a Chaos God goes with you), he’d taken effort to familiarize Tipper with basic reading and writing, or at least reading at this point. He supplied visual images of the book at times for his blind mate, but largely left her to form mental images by physically feeling the raised letters of the book due her always being mesmerized whenever he provided examples of what clear sight was.

Finding the squinted attempts of distinguishing the activity of the ice-world’s surface to be tiresome and the constant glare of the host star to be painful- Volturius ceded fully the view and dropped onto the bed besides the psyker. The Chaos Astartes sorted through the various images of the system that were unmarred by the blinding light of the Star (at least for one of Curze’s sons) and dropped them into Tipper’s mind over the connection.

“The Warp transit’s over, although you already felt it. We’re in-system, circling around a cluster of planetoids that I suspect the main city’s located in.”

Volturius then lightly prodded Tipper’s bulged belly with a folded knuckle of a wing’s thumb, able to feel the tiny vibrations of an additional heart that had developed recently.

“How far along would you plot it? It’s only been of recent that it developed a heartbeat. Has the child developed a mind yet? Our child?”

Volturius was still confused by the notion of fatherhood. Previously it had merely been a curious mortal function he’d never even thought nor believed would apply to him or any other astartes. While his biological father was a Chaos Space Marine, he’d never known the requirements for such a possibility for an Astartes began and ended at being a cultist of Slaanesh. Surprisingly easy compared to the complex and often confusing biology of an Astartes. He still hadn’t the faintest clue what it would look like or how it would even grow.

“Not long now. A few month’s more. The time of coming is Slaanesh’s will and not governed by any biological clock.” Tipper’s eyes had closed in order to better appreciate the myriad of images conveyed to her. She shifted her body to capitalize on the heat radiating from him.

Tipper had become more mellowed as her pregnancy advanced, and more prone to inward reflection rather than outward sampling of the energies surrounding her. Volturius’ patient instruction had opened up new opportunities and her mind‘s eye savored the images formed as her fingertips passed along the delicate raised edges of words.

Her mind was ever on the gift growing within her, that minute and dependent being that held the promise of a greater future. He was to be named Sejanus and one day his hand would bring glory to his sire and his god. For now, however, he was hers to keep and nurture. She would see all his first actions, from first breath to first steps and more.

The mystery surrounding his procreation wasn’t lost on Tipper. Her hands as she sought out her mate’s wing and gently pried a long finger to better enfold herself in the webbing between digits. She entwined her thoughts with his own and impishly cracked open the secret door to motherhood to allow Volturius to experience the tangibility of the life harboring within her. There weren’t structured thoughts yet, not as humans know them. Rather, it was a sense of primal needs being met and of placid existence without distress. She would guide that mind as it developed, but not to fill it with rhetoric or bend it to her ways. Her ministrations would be far less intrusive: this is joy, this is sorrow, this is fear, this is resolution.

“Our new home’s surface seems a bit barren,” she brought the conversation around to dwell upon the imagines he’s shared. The prospect of living on such a moon didn’t perturb her. It was the womb from which would be born a new chapter. Tipper empathized with the celestial body and saw it as an analogy of her own life. Her surface was equally beautiful and there was perfection to be found due to the blessings bestowed upon her by Slaanesh. It was what was underneath that surface that mattered most. The moon seemed an insignificant wasteland indeed, just as Tipper was an insignificant blind woman. Potential was always underestimated.

“When can we land? You’ve spoiled me with this observation deck. I’m curious to see what opulence awaits us.” Truthfully, Tipper would be content with a cardboard box in the rain so long as she had Volturius to share it with.

“Soon. We’re within the gravitational field and whatever transport our escorts will use can be prepped and launcher without fear of hijinks involving the gravitational field created by the jovian planet and its multitude of moons. I’d guess that one of the mortal crew should be
contacting us within thirty minutes or even less.” The Astartes answered, still somewhat impressed by the status of the mortal crew, which was military grade that would have not looked out of place during the Great Crusade itself if the stories his father had told were true. Unlike some Slaanesh cultists, the crew actually paid close attention to their jobs and executed them with precision instead of letting their attention be consumed by debauchery in the form of feasts and harems.

Tipper eased herself from the bed and approached the window. Pink and lavender material gently rustled as she moved, the gown itself designed to augment her form as well as give alluring attention to her state of pregnancy. Her eyes didn’t register the scene as Volturius’ had. Instead, she sensed the churning emotions binding the ship’s crew together as they worked in tandem; there was a lethal harmony in how they conducted themselves.

She turned to speak but was interrupted by a soft chime. One of the greater ranked officers of the ship had personally come to collect them- flanked by two strange offensively equipped crewman. The officer was dressed in carapace armor (as were all officers on the ship) of a greater cut than suits commonly found on Storm Troopers of the Guard. A rich purpley blue comprised the majority of the armor’s color, supplemented by a brass lining that snaked into an outline of the armor. At the center, the brass coiled and spun into the Mark of Slaanesh- the fusion of the symbols of mankind’s two genders. Denoting the officer’s standing were two items, his pauldrons had a solid brass top layer that draped down his shoulders. Secondly, he wore a short cape, hand-dyed a rich purple from a rare species of slug that lived on the frozen world below them.

His appearance drew little attention compared to his companions. They were what eyes gravitated to for their alien appearance. They were human, or at least were at some point in their lives. For now, they lacked a mouth or a nose, and they had not drawn a breath for well over a decade. They weren’t servitors, rather they were of Chaos, mutated by the will of Slaanesh. Where they once breathed, a great silver speaker now rested on fused jaws- generating a constant haunting stream of music of what seemed to be bells. As they were not now in combat or communicating with their superiors, the music was subdued to a lower tone, but the strange chime of their inner workings continued to pour forth from their metallic maws.

The musical twins each carried a great pole-axe, a good head larger than they were, it stood up to Volturius’ chin and towered over Tipper. The Chaos Astartes quickly noted that the pole-axes were tipped at the end with what looked like a poten lasgun, the trigger for which ran down on a raised line of the pole-axe’s handle to the middle of the arm- on which laid a pressure-sensitive pad.

“They’re not for you. Doctrine dictates precious wards be escorted by our elite-”

The officer paused for a second, his head tilting slightly so he could directly lock eyes with Volturius. The Astartes found some respect for the mortal to not have the slightest shred of fear or look of intimidation on his face- simply formal addressal. The officer was either fearless or a fool, and Volturius leaned to the former.

“-even if they are more than capable of protecting themselves. I realize you likely take annoyance at the thought, but think of them as guides for the city. They’ll take you where you need to go and their appearance ensures none shall hassle you lest they be incredibly ignorant of the city’s workings.”

Volturius grunted at acceptance of the guards, thinking the guards could at least serve as extra eyes for Tipper. He still however moved to grab his weapons that he had brought on the journey- his old trophy combi-melta and his plasma pistol (which inexplicably keeps popping up despite being destroyed twice)- only to find that they were missing. Volturius quickly snapped his view back to the group to see that the two guards had already grabbed his weapons and were stuffing them into sacks. The officer, wishing to prevent any maiming of the guards (who cost more than himself), quickly stepped between the Astartes’ path to the mutants.

“You won’t be needing those anymore. While we do note sentimental attachment to weapons and thus will keep them intact for use by you later as a trophy or passing on to a fellow warrior- you will be outfitted in the city several days from now. Superior armor and weapons will be manufactured to your needs- our industry dates to the days of Long Night fused with the arcane knowledge of Hereteks.”

The officer then paused, visibly looking in the direction of Tipper, particularly her engorged belly and the developing embryo within swimming in its soup of nutrients.

“And be passed down to worthy inheritors such as your child.” The cultist officer nodded in the direction of Tipper, and more specifically, her bloated belly that held a developing human swimming through an ocean of embryonic fluids.

The officer finally looked around the room, searching for details that might spark his memory for anything else that needed to be added to the notations. His search vain and finding nothing, the man clapped his hands against the ceramic armor encasing his thighs and rocked on the balls of his heels to solidify the point that time was now being wasted.

“If there are no objections, please follow my lead my lords, the shuttle waits prepped in the hangar to bring you down to the planet. I apologize for any lacking of lavish accommodations, but the Arvus is the safest craft available for transport- but there will be an escort of fighter craft.”

Tipper regarded the man with a mix of curiosity and excitement but held no doubt regarding his words. She slipped from her mate’s side to gather her heavy cloak and a satchel for her book.

“I am ready,” she smiled and settled her hand against Volturius’ hip. “Lead and I shall follow.”

The officer nodded and signaled the two guards to follow their lead with the smallest of twitches from his hands- currently held clasped behind his back as he marched forward. The guards promptly followed the officer into the elevator with Volturius and Tipper held in between the two. The group wound their way through the cavern-like walkways of the human-built cruiser. Where normal ships of human build were dark, grim locations of rusted pipes and gears, this ship had the appearance of an ornate cathedral. The officer led them through tunnels laced with gold-encrusted walls and clear metal stained like glass depicting the past glories of Chaos- the fall of the Eldar upon the birth of Slaanesh, the raiding of Terra and mortal wounding of the False Emperor, and the now current eternal endless war upon the Imperium’s borders by the Black Crusades of Abaddon that unified Chaos under a single banner. Volturius even paused briefly upon noticing an ornate scene of the Drop-Site Massacre of Isstvaan V during the Horus Heresy, including actions of the Night Lords.

However, time was fleeting, and even with Volturius’ formidable appearance, the officer was willing to drag him to the shuttle if need be. So they passed through further great dedications to times of old and the current luxury of this cultist group with lavish temple-like great hulls in the center of ship as journeyed for the hangar. Purple banners of Slaanesh were apologetically smacked aside from their step and great carving works of marble were ignored- there would be time later to study the pieces.

After for what seemed like hours of adventuring through an endless maze of artwork and relics that would leer over the grandeur of galleries as the Louvre, Volturius and Tipper were finally on their way to the surface of the ice-world. Along with the guards, Volturius and Tipper were practically packed into the small craft as it was kicked out of the hangar of the ship and into a downward flight.

Soon, more great recordings of history would be added to the endless galleries on the ship on new stories forged on the world below.

[G-Tech Corporation]

Ymira could no longer clearly 'see' what was happening beyond the confines of the planet's atmosphere. Her smooth black skin had boiled away, replaced instead with her bare, gunmetal grey armour-plating that was still glowing near her noise as she blasted toward the planet surface on the more dangerous side of hypersonic. Her sensors and com receivers, once so very sensitive, had both been badly heat-warped during her re-entry. She could no longer feel the air around her - it all felt numb.

But she didn't care, not one bit.

Her focus was on weaving between the mushroom clouds on her descent, the face of the planet rushing up to meet her, on the rampaging sea of flowmetal consuming the world, and the faint, dwindling humanoid life-signs still clinging to life somewhere down on the surface of their once world.

Despite it all though, the return signal from her mystery ship rang through in a powerful, crystalline pureness that defied the nuclear inferno erupting around her, and her own self-inflicted injuries. And it was everything she'd dreamed it would be.

Code: Select all

Why hello. You seem to be entering the atmosphere of a planet I'm... interacting... with now. I recommend you withdraw, for your own preservation.

And while the form was there, that simple message sparked rage inside her.

Code: Select all

Interacting!?

She didn't even bother to send her response as a single transmission. She didn't bother to control the signal strength on her response to, or to encrypt it, or even restrict it to a tight beam. It was simply as raw and viscerally powerful a datasignal as she could still manage.

Code: Select all

Define "interacting"!?

She terminated the message datastream with a sloppy, irritated flourish that indicated her attention was elsewhere.

She didn't wait for a reply, and she answered her own question but in another transmitted datastream that communicated in something other than words...

A couple embracing under the under the light of a full moon
The singing of birds in springtime...

She reached out into the dusty nuclear clouds through her sensors, feeling the barren land and flowmetal beneath her. But there was no life down there, the humanoid life signs that had been there just fractions of a moment before vanished.. The last screams of the living beneath Ymira's shadow had already uttered their last. There was nothing down there now but the ghosts of the dead, and living metal.

On her visuals, through the dust and clouds, she spotted a lone dismembered corpse surrounded by constructs with no targets left to butcher.

Without a thought, Ymira lashed out with her main armament, throwing a force-shielded slug into the group of constructs below at relativistic speeds.

She didn't care about the fact she might have just precipidated an 'incident' with a potentially advanced space faring empire.
She didn't care about the fact it really didn't accomplish anything - that those people were now dead and she'd been too slow to save them.
She didn't care that the fireball engulfed her, blasting off pieces of her hull plating.
She didn't care that all that was left there now was a crater.

None of it mattered to her right now - really all she could think about was how angry she was and how much she wished she were still capable of crying.

Instead, her gravitic drives flared and strained to keep her airborne even as she pulled herself out of her dive, and urging her forward on a new course. Out there, ahead of her somewhere she could still feel the light of those still living, still grimly striving somewhere amidst all this death.

All around though she could feel pockets of life, slowly vanishing, one after another. She changed course again and again. In sheer frustration she rained annihilation from the sky into the flowmetal formations she tore past at breakneck speed.

...Bees on a flower petal, sipping nectar, spreading the plants seed as it flies away
A lone figure, standing on a hilltop, staring up at the sky, sillouetted in long shadows cast under the pall of a dying star...

Leveling out only a few dozen meters above the ground, Ymira blasted over the seas of living metal automatons beneath her. She didn't make any attempt to avoid them. She wanted them to see her scorched form, to experience the air-blast as she skirted their heads at hypersonic speeds, and the feel the fury of her gravitic engines as her passing uprooted trees, and buildings and scattered those flowmetal monstrosities like so much confetti in her wake; no differently than the broken works and broken bodies of the dead victims that lay around them.

...A puppy, licking a laughing child's face.
Two starships, in space, diving together into the dimensional void, becoming briefly as one.

She angrily terminated that transmission too. She wasn't even sure what it was she expected whoever was up there to understand. These were such simple things, such simple impressions, the very essence and joy of what it was to be alive. And yet it was lost on whoever was up there, she suspected, if it weren't none of this would ever be happening.

There, ahead. Ymira thought.
The broken landscape, cities, rivers and towns raced beneath her in a blur. But there was still life out there, humanoid life, ahead. Alive. Still grimly hanging on in spite of it all.

Code: Select all

I'll show you what "interacting" is.
//End communication.

Ymira gave one final pulse of her engines with one last firing of her com system, tipping herself up to gain altitude and bleed off speed. Then she cut her main engines. As she sailed above the last hill, and high up into the sky, she got a clear optical read on the little group of survivors. A farmhouse - really more of a thatch roofed hut - surrounded in a ring of flowmetal glinting under the darkening sky.

She watched the ring closing all too quickly while she glided overhead. Ymira[i/] rolled onto her final approach, and as one last, defiant gesture she ejected her entire on-board security complement of assault drones over the forests and fields overrun with constructs.

Her own 'constructs' roared overhead toward the farmhouse - their fusion-thrusters lit the landscape from horizon to horizon in a light as brilliant as lighting. Their targeting systems tagged and fired upon the sea of flowmetal automatons in their thousands.

But there were just so many. Even though [i]Ymira's drones' weapons - firing rounds tipped by force-fields designed to penetrate any shielding or armour at asteroid-impact speeds -cut cratered swathes into the landscape like buzzsaws...but there was so much flowmetal, and so few of them. This was never the sort of combat a shipboard detail was meant for. Their limited magazines ran low, and one by one, ran out.

And the ring continued to close.

The beleagured survivors - the last of their kind - peered, terrified, out of their hut at the what was unfolding around them.

The sky was filled with clouds as black as night, through which filtered the sickly red fires of a burning, dying world.

The wind around them blasted hot air, and dust in angry swirls under the force of Ymira's thrusters as she glided in overhead above their home. They held one another as the roof of their hut buckled and then was blasted away along with the very walls around them like so much tissue-paper by the howling winds.

All around them was a circle of dark shadows, and glinting steel barely visible through swirling torrents of dust.
And all around them other figures fell from the sky, one by one.
Their ammunition expended, Ymira's drones interposed themselves in a ring of their own between these simple tribesmen - primitive by their own people's standards - and the circle of eldritch horror from another dimension meant to be their extinction.

These people may not have been the most sophisticated technologically, but when they saw this all arrayed before them, they understood viscerally what it meant:

This was it. This was the end of everything. The end of the world.

As the drones prepared to make their last stand, one Ymira detached with a thought, and sent to collect the huddled survivors - six of them, clothed in rags - and return them to her waiting deployment-bay and her cycling FTL drives.

They recoiled at the approach of the hulking armoured assault platform, Ymira sought to reassure them with calming words, but realized - suddenly - she had no idea what sort of language these obscure tribes-people might speak. There were no tricks of technology she could use here, no shortcuts, and no time to go through the entire databank of possible language constructs...

Ymira saw their terror staring into the optical sensors of her drone; a face not entirely unlike, she reflected, those of their destroyers. In desperation, she flickered the unit's holocamera to life, picturing the group of them clinging to the hull of the drone as it lifted them to safety.

They stared back uncomprehendingly.

I recall Demi as having a particularly beautiful response to my snuffing out of a civilization in the future.

[Dukats]

Ras,Rascia

King Dušan wanted to put in power the law book he wrote before he left for Ellisa.In the largest churh in Rascia the churh of Saint Peter and Paul.All nobles and religious figures attended.

(Image)
(Image)
(Image)

The foreword is as follows: "We enact this Law by our Orthodox Synod, by His Holiness the Patriarch Kir Joanikije together with all the Archbishops and Clergy, small and great, and by me, the true-believing King Stefan Uroš IV Dušan Nemanjić, and all the Lords, small and great, of this our Kingdom"

Some of the laws:
On Tax on Taking Possession: And on tax on taking possession, let it be thus: the tax on land to the clerk, 3 perpers, on a village, 3 perpers, on a mill, 3 perpers, on a district, 3 perpers on eah village, one perper, on a mare, 6 dinars, on a head of cattle, 4 dinars, on a sheep 2 dinars.
For Straying: If any mans cattle trespass on corn, or a vineyard, or a meadow in error, let him pay for this straying what the valuers assess. But if he trespass intentionally, let him pay the straying and six oxen.
On Fiefs: No one is free to sell or buy a fief who does not own a patrimonial estate. No one is authorized to subject fief-lands to the Church; if he subject them, let it not be valid.
On Insult: A lord who insults and disgraces a lesser lord shall pay 100 perpers, and a lesser lord who insult a lord, shall pay 100 perpers and be beaten with sticks.And if a lord or a lesser lord insult a commoner, let him pay 100 perpers; and if a commoner insult a lord or a lesser lord, let him pay 100 perpers and be singed.
On Poor Women: Any poor woman unable to litigate or defend herself shall choose an attorney Who shall speak on her behalf. The poorest hemp-spinstress shall be as free as a priest shall.
On Prisoners: Whoso escapeth from prison to the Royal Court, be he a serf of the Crown, or of the Church, or of a nobleman, shall by the act itself be set free; should he be bearing any gifts for the man to whom he hath escaped, he shall return them to the man from whom he hath escaped. Whoso escapeth from the prison at our Royal Court to the patriarchal court shall be set free; also shall be set free any man who escapeth from the patriarchal prison to the Royal Court. Also, should any one give shelter to a man from a foreign land, and that man be a fugitive from his master of from justice holding our royal letter of clemency, said letter shall not be contested; should he hold no such letter, he shall be returned wherefrom he hath escaped.

Many articles regarded the Church's status, thus supplementing the existing canon law texts. The Church received a very privileged position, on the whole, though it was given the duty of charity in no uncertain terms: "And in all churches the poor shall be fed ... and should any one fail to feed them, be he Metropolitan, bishop, or abbot, he shall be deprived of his office".

[Nightkill the Emperor]

Ras,Rascia

King Dušan wanted to put in power the law book he wrote before he left for Ellisa.In the largest churh in Rascia the churh of Saint Peter and Paul.All nobles and religious figures attended.

(Image)
(Image)
(Image)

The foreword is as follows: "We enact this Law by our Orthodox Synod, by His Holiness the Patriarch Kir Joanikije together with all the Archbishops and Clergy, small and great, and by me, the true-believing King Stefan Uroš IV Dušan Nemanjić, and all the Lords, small and great, of this our Kingdom"

Some of the laws:
On Tax on Taking Possession: And on tax on taking possession, let it be thus: the tax on land to the clerk, 3 perpers, on a village, 3 perpers, on a mill, 3 perpers, on a district, 3 perpers on eah village, one perper, on a mare, 6 dinars, on a head of cattle, 4 dinars, on a sheep 2 dinars.
For Straying: If any mans cattle trespass on corn, or a vineyard, or a meadow in error, let him pay for this straying what the valuers assess. But if he trespass intentionally, let him pay the straying and six oxen.
On Fiefs: No one is free to sell or buy a fief who does not own a patrimonial estate. No one is authorized to subject fief-lands to the Church; if he subject them, let it not be valid.
On Insult: A lord who insults and disgraces a lesser lord shall pay 100 perpers, and a lesser lord who insult a lord, shall pay 100 perpers and be beaten with sticks.And if a lord or a lesser lord insult a commoner, let him pay 100 perpers; and if a commoner insult a lord or a lesser lord, let him pay 100 perpers and be singed.
On Poor Women: Any poor woman unable to litigate or defend herself shall choose an attorney Who shall speak on her behalf. The poorest hemp-spinstress shall be as free as a priest shall.
On Prisoners: Whoso escapeth from prison to the Royal Court, be he a serf of the Crown, or of the Church, or of a nobleman, shall by the act itself be set free; should he be bearing any gifts for the man to whom he hath escaped, he shall return them to the man from whom he hath escaped. Whoso escapeth from the prison at our Royal Court to the patriarchal court shall be set free; also shall be set free any man who escapeth from the patriarchal prison to the Royal Court. Also, should any one give shelter to a man from a foreign land, and that man be a fugitive from his master of from justice holding our royal letter of clemency, said letter shall not be contested; should he hold no such letter, he shall be returned wherefrom he hath escaped.

Many articles regarded the Church's status, thus supplementing the existing canon law texts. The Church received a very privileged position, on the whole, though it was given the duty of charity in no uncertain terms: "And in all churches the poor shall be fed ... and should any one fail to feed them, be he Metropolitan, bishop, or abbot, he shall be deprived of his office".

Who wrote it? Link in the post.

[Swith Witherward]

I'm not tooting my own horn here. Rather, I'm showcasing a kid who went from asterisk play (*runs*, *hits*) and one-liner (one sentence!) posts to full blown writing. He, like his character, was a bit of a "noob asshat" back in the day. He was nominated for a P2TM of the year award for most improved.

Although this is a collaboration, very little was done by me other than my own paragraphs and some basic correction. His writing shows that he's mastered reading for content and honed the skills needed to carry a prolonged scene and flesh out a three-dimensional character. Not bad for a kid who hated to read more than three sentences in a post! We challenged him to stretch himself and the result has been pleasantly surprising. Kudos to Bran.

Anyway, I'm posting it here because I'm hoping to inspire other players who are new to RP or writing, as well as to remind experienced players that those annoying noobs are the next generation and, if challenged, can exceed our expectations. Bran taught me this valuable lesson. I'm thankful for it.

(For those who aren't familiar with "collabs": PL has become a breeding ground for them. Two or more players participate in a scene via Google Docs. It spares the thread endless one-liner dialog posts and forced fluff.)

Collab w/Swith

KNOCK, KNOCK

Minerva gasped and bolted upright, the blankets scattering as she flailed and thrashed her way out of her dream. She clutched her chest and felt her heart pounding deep within. Her fiery mane was a dank bird’s nest of sweat soaked hair and she pulled stray strands from her face with a trembling hand.

“Wait a minute,” she called, “Just… wait.”

She plucked her bathrobe from a chair and slipped it on as she crossed the darkened apartment. The door opened to reveal Bran on the doorstep.

He felt a bit regretful upon noting Minerva’s appearance; she looked dreadful under the bright foyer light. Her eyes were entrenched by dark circles which stood out against her deathly pale skin. Her face, normally flawless in beauty, seemed careworn now with small wrinkles adorning her brow and the corners of her eyes.

She assessed him equally in kind as he stood there in his normal attire, a red trench coat that had somehow made it with him through all these adventures and times at the apartment. He smiled, but just barely.

Minerva could practically taste the sorrow that hung about soul in a persistent cloud. He was grieving. Here was a young man who knew Charumati only as Swith, and he loved her for her simplicity and kindness. That bright light had been stolen from his world, even as it had been stolen from Minerva’s. She sighed in understanding.

Bran, for his part, wanted to see if his friend wanted to share a drink or two.

“Come in, Bran. I’ll put on the kettle.”

“Much thanks,” the former conscript replied. He wasn’t really expected anywhere, so he’d decided on staying in.

She stepped aside to allow him through the door and then she bustled about the kitchen while he respectfully removed his shoes to not track any dirt upon the carpet. She emerged moments later with a tea tray.

“Alright, what’s on your mind, luv,” Minerva poured out the bitter brew and settled into a chair. “You normally don’t come all the down here looking for me.”

Bran bowed his head as the woman presented the tea to him. He sat across from her in a chair he happened to find his backside in once she sat down too. He looked around the room, confirming that they were alone, not knowing if he was barging in on a party or something.

“Just . . . Just wanted to talk about some stuff,” he sighed, looking down at himself.

“I’m all ears,” she replied. Truth be told, his arrival had awoken her from the haunting memories of that final battle. It wasn’t something she wished to revisit again any time soon. Visiting with Bran was a perfect reason to stay awake.

“About Swith,” Bran said, shrugging sadly as he watched the walls of the room, looking off into space as he imagined what he wanted to say. “I’ve - I’ve just been depressed as of late. I mean, I know my family is there for me, but there’s a hole in my life now.” His mind reflected on his biological mother and the loss of another parent. To him though, and maybe not Yoshi, Swith wasn’t a mother. She was his best friend.

Minerva’s cup clattered back into its saucer. Her head bowed. “It’s not right,” she retorted bitterly. “It’s all Atosh’s fault. Fucking bastard. She should have lived longer, outlived us. She hadn’t any choice. It was the only thing that could have stopped him. She wasn’t willing to die for nothing, but her desire to protect us all outweighed even her quest to restore Thriller.”

The words had tumbled out in a rush. Minerva folded her hands and settled them into her lap.
The peculiar gesture, so different from her normally assertive body language, made her seem like a lost child. “I don’t know what he’ll think when he wakes up. Thriller, I mean. It’s… just not fair. Not to you, not to him. Not to any of us.”

“Well, I see Thriller as my friend too.” Bran nodded, open to the idea of getting through it together. He took in Minerva’s sudden outburst too, nodding at the idea. He remembered Atosh a bit from the recent excursion to his homeland. Atosh was the bad guy though.

“Klaus said she went out in a way we’d all be proud of, and I want to think that she was thinking of us all through it,” he folded his hands in his lap, still somewhat beat from the whole thing. “I just feel . . . Worthless? I know I shouldn’t, with my family, but I do.”

“How on earth can you feel worthless?”

“Eh,” Bran verbally shrugged. “I . . . She was my first real friend, almost a year and a half ago.”

“Have you ever wondered what it was like to be long-lived?” Minerva poured out more tea. “To be like a cultist or a conservator? Some say that longevity or even immortality is good. It’s not. The hardest challenge is knowing that the people we befriend today will age and die long before we do. Some cultists choose to remain isolated to avoid this pain. Others accept that nothing and no one lives forever. They go out and befriend people because they crave that interaction in their lives. They enrich those people’s lives and their own life is enriched. You enriched her life, Bran. She’d hate for you to be depressed over her passing.”

Looking up at this, Bran nodded slightly in understanding. Minerva made sense and it was something that he thought Swith would tell him had she still been around.

“It’s just hard, the first few days of knowing. I’ve been feeling shitty, but I guess it’s going to get better now, now that I know that,” he said, taking a quick sip of his tea.

“You also didn’t get much closure,” Minerva advised. “No one has, really. We still have to go through probate, although I was hoping Thriller would be revived by then. The will needs reading and some things need distribution.”

“I’d much rather not know,” the former conscript shrugged. The knowledge that Swith was dead, and had died in battle, was much more simpler than knowing each and every detail. “But yes, the will won’t be easy for me, I guess.”

The harsh bitterness of the tea coupled with the memory of her nightmare caused Minerva’s lips to form into a thin line. She set the cup down again and surveyed the man. “You’re made of stern stuff, Mr. Nikanor. You’ll get through this and be a better man for it.”

That was the real thing Bran needed to know, and now that someone else had confirmed it, he smiled, painfully though; his heart still ached from the realization that Swith was gone forever. She wouldn’t see Tolya’s first steps or be there to watch Rachelle blossom into a woman.

“At least she got to be a grandmother, eh?” He chuckled.

“Aye,” Minerva laughed in kind.

A moment of silence passed between them, although it wasn’t uncomfortable or strained. Each reflected on their inner thoughts as they sipped their tea.

“So, I don’t know if I ever learned, but when did you first meet Swith?” Bran wanted to know at least that much. “We could grab a drink at Chaos over it if you want.”

Minerva lit one of her odd cigarettes and blew out the match. “I won’t be going to Chaos, mostly because I’m in a dreadful state, what with my hair and all.”

She settled back in her chair. “I’m not certain how much of my history you know, and you might know very little. I don’t even know where to begin, unless it’s at the very end, which was my death. It wasn’t pretty and I’d rather not go into particulars except to say that Purna had been keeping her eye on me for a while and had been drawn to the violence behind the circumstances.

“Purna is my inner daemon, of course. She was formed by Swith and contains a fraction of her essence. I wasn’t prepared to receive her, however. It was Klaus who conducted the bond, and for years I thought he’d done it to torment me. Actually, it wasn’t until recently that I found out he did it because he was in love with me and couldn’t stand the thought of losing me.”

She pulled a draw from the cigarette and tried to sort out a few more pieces. “I suppose I met Swith through Purna. She used her true name back then: Charumati. She hadn’t much experience with the modern world and relied upon her cultists to be her eyes and ears. She called to me not shortly after Purna settled into me, and I went. I didn’t have much of a choice.

“I suppose you could say that she and I have had a long relationship. We’ve spilled blood together, and shed tears during times of sorrow. I loved her. I miss her. I dream about her.”

Minerva stubbed the cigarette out and brushed stray hair from her face. There wasn’t any sense in drudging up those dreams.

She regarded his sweet and gentle face. He was an innocent soul, so mild natured. There were mysteries about him. “What about you? I’ve heard bits and pieces from Swith, but how did you meet her? I can’t imagine she was too collected back then. She frequently dipped her toe in the world when she was bored, often posing as a scientist or healer but, from what I’ve gathered, she wasn’t expecting to return to this dimension anytime soon. We hadn’t even realized she was here until months later. Did you really summon her and bind her to a promise?”

How did he meet Swith? That was one of his oldest memories of the apartment, besides being tied down to his bed by one of the Bones brothers, since he really didn’t know what else to call them. But Swith was one of the first happy memories of his time here, in the very building he was standing in right now.

“I was a paranoid asshat back then. First words I exchange with Swith were “Come in, please don’t kill me.” and that was that, but I’m trying to recall the time we became real friends, unless it did start with those paranoid words.”

She brought poptarts and scotch, enough to garner the trust of the conscript way back then, and he eventually let her in after she claimed she was too tired to kill anyone. If that was a joke, Bran never caught on to it, and was a bit worried his entire time.

“Don’t rightly remember much after that, although I do recall saving the life of a good friend that day with her, and then the rest is history? She bunked with me for a few months, and that’s where we became friends.” He said, smiling at the blissful thoughts of the years passed, dredging up the fun times, and eventually, the bad, like getting hit by a train . . .

That wasn’t fun, but Swith was still there for him. Her home was still the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

Minerva laughed. “That sounds just like her. I’m surprised she didn’t eat your liver on the first night!”

The cultist leader held up a finger as if to say, wait and disappeared into a bedroom. She emerged moments later with a small bundle wrapped up in a purple silk scarf.

“Here it is,” she set the bundle on the table. “It’s not much, but she’d set it aside for you should anything happen to her. I was supposed to wait until the will was read, but maybe this is the better time for it.”

Inside was a small snow globe set on a humble silver pedestal. The scene captured inside was very simple as well: two figurines, one curled up in a bed while the other sat at the foot with her chin propped on her hand. Minerva gave it a shake and the glittery snow swirled. However, accompanying that snow, if not part of it, was Swith’s silvery laughter mixed with Bran’s deeper chortle. The laughter died away as the particles settled and then, ever so softly, a hum came from the globe. It was the lullaby she’d sung to soothe away his nightmares every night for so very long. The figure rose from the bed and knelt beside the sleeping form, gently brushing his hair from his face before resuming her protective watch at the end of the bed. The song faded and the globe grew still once more.


Minerva didn’t understand the scene but the activities within awoke her own memories. These were the good ones shared between two females who had overcome much in their lives. Minerva trembled and, for the first time since Swith’s passing, allowed herself to sob.

“Oh god, I hurt so much.” She wrapped Bran in a tight embrace as if holding him would blight out all the wrongs in the world and hold the nightmares at bay. He understood her sorrow, and shared in the same heartache.. She knew he wouldn’t think less of her for it.

Telling himself he wouldn’t shed any tears over Swith’s death was a big fat lie. There was no getting away from tears after Bran saw what Swith had left for them.

Minerva might not understand the meaning of the whole scene, playing out in the snow globe that immortalized the friendship between them. It would last longer than Bran was around, he thought. Maybe even longer than Swith. The sheer simplistic scene held so much emotion, so much memory.

The nightmares were gone.

“I know,” he sighed, failing to hold back tears himself. “I know,” the conscript repeated, rubbing his friend’s back.


They remained that way a while, two companions unburdening their hearts without worry of being thought of as weak for their tears. It was cleansing and necessary.

At last, Minerva pulled away and apologized for the snot on his shoulder. She wiped her tears, chuckling. “You know, I’ve kept you far too long. I fear we’ve missed midnight. Happy New Year, Bran.”

“I suppose you have, and I’d rather not deplete your supply of tea, Miss Minerva,” Bran replied cordially. He supposed it was about time to get out of the place and head home, or wherever the apartment would see fit to take him to. “It’s alright, I’d spend all night talking about Swith, midnight or not, you know? Well. I guess I’d better be out.”

With the last words, Bran moved in for one more tender hug, holding back a few straggling tears as he did, before withdrawing again.

One last nod indicated his exit, and he donned his shoes, picked up the snow globe that he felt oh-so-lucky to have received, and left for bed.

Minerva leaned on the door jamb and watched him make his way up the stairs.

“Happy New Year, Bran,” she murmured. She closed the door and retired to her bedroom.

[Ayreonia]

Here, have some funny from an ultimately tragic character.

Striding into town on foot, Zee drew even more attention than his apparel was already contributing for. Transport was essential around these parts, whether you hired someone or had your own, but Zee didn't need transport; his legs would never tire, and that wasn't some build up to some lone ranger-esque drivel, Zee's legs were harder than tempered steel and powered by a small, self-sustainable power source.

Gazing around through his goggles, Zee noticed the staring denizens.

"Ah, a welcoming party! You shouldn't have!" He shrieked in amusement, approaching a woman that was holding her child. Zee took the baby from her hands. "A strange idea for a gift, but now that my band of minions has met their demise I will need new recruits!"

The baby screamed, as did the woman, frantically pulling Zee's arm to no avail.

"He's a bit on the small side, though. Unfortunately I have no vacant spots for someone with his specifications." Zee said before handing back the baby, subduing the commotion that was drawing onlookers. Innocently he turned around and walked away, only to be grabbed firmly by his shoulder by a rather rowdy looking fella.

"I think you and I have a problem"

"I'm sorry. Take this tea as a sign of my solidarity"

Moments later the man lied squirming on the ground, hands covering his face that had just been doused in scalding hot tea. Zee shrugged and moved on, his path of destiny crossing with that of a young child, who passed on a scrap of paper with something scribbled on it. The handwriting was godawful, and he could only make out the destination and a few odd words.

"If this information is correct, I'm going to take a trip on a yacht!"

And thus Zee found his way to Lou's, after several detours. Walking in with a piece of cake and a severed left arm, he sat down and raised the arm to hail one of the servers.

"I'd like to fence this cake, and I'm looking for a man named Bi Pant"

"...or Oipant?" He muttered, pulling out the scrap of paper, which now featured a bloodstain.

[Karelli]

I'm admittly awful at rping, i'm stuck in some kind of permanent writer's block.

[Nightkill the Emperor]

I'm admittly awful at rping, i'm stuck in some kind of permanent writer's block.

Then discuss that at the Cafe, and you'll get a bunch of people up and ready to help. But this isn't the place to discuss it.

[The Star Corporation]

Hey, you know what else is hilarious?

The war happening about four feet away from all the hijinks.

"Fuck!" one member of the bear infantry cried as a demon tore his leg off with his bare hands.

The response? Another infantryman tore the demon's head off with his bear hands.

"Goddamn it," the first bear cried, grabbing his stump, "Kill me! oh, fuck, just end it!"

"No," the other infantryman said stubbornly, "we are bears. We do not give in. We rip off giving in's balls and smash them into its bitch face."

"I don't want to be a bear!" the first cried.

"Someone's got to," his comrade insisted. With a mighty growl, the second bear hefted the injured onto his shoulders, supporting him on his hind paws. He bolted across the battlefield, leaping over slobbering zombies and screaming demons, dodging bullets and swords, his mind clear and full of purpose.

As the Pani camps appeared on the horizon, the second bear allowed himself the beginnings of a smile. He'd saved an ally, a fellow bear. As far he was concerned, he was a hero.

Suddenly, there was a loud pop, and an explosive threw shrapnel into his right hip. He grunted and stumbled, but remained resolute. With a good deal of effort, he continued to limp towards the camp, heaving. Panting. Struggling.

But, no, he wouldn't give up. He was a bear. A soldier. His only job, only use, was to win. And, goddamn it, if he had to lose a leg or even die to do it, he'd lose two.

After a few moments, however, he tripped and slammed his face into the dirt. He looked up hopelessly. His limbs weren't just on fire, they had melted. He couldn't breath. His heart was beating faster than light. He was dead.

A soft light washed over him.

"My Patriarch," he murmured, "tell me... tell me we are victorious..."

He closed his eyes tight and waited for it to go black.

After five minutes, he opened them to find himself in the infirmary.

"Wizards," he spat.

"Play nice," demanded Forestburner, acting High General of the Fifth and Seventh Legions, "We've lost too many to die for a stupid bitch grunt to give it, too."

The infantryman snorted and turned away from Forestburner. The General sighed heavily and looked about. This battle hadn't gone as he would have liked at all. He collected himself and strolled out into the camps, where a group of fresh soldiers waited. They were, despite themselves, cowering.

"This won't do," Forestburner murmured to himself, "This won't do at all."

He sighed heavily and advanced to the front of the crowd, grabbing a rather large rock and slamming it into the ground. It cracked into four pieces and made a rather loud noise, getting the bears' attention.

"What the fuck are you doing?!" he snapped, "Have you lost your balls?! THIS IS WAR! You've lived your whole lives for this! Is it not what you wanted to be, hm? Too hard? Too scary?"

"Let us be, boss," one of the bolder soldiers requested.

Smack.

"This is bullshit!" he roared, "We're here to fight!"

"We can't win," another voice cried, "It's hopeless. We can't even kill them."

Forestburner grimaced thoughtfully.

"Maybe we can't," he replied, "Maybe we've lost. But we're not here to sit down and lose, are we? We're here to win. Even if it doesn't work, what other option is there? Running? You think you can run from them? You think you can surrender? They do not have a SINGLE fiber of mercy in their bodies! We either die fighting or die losing."

A murmur.

"I sent a letter to the Council," Forestburner lied, "I asked them for reinforcements last week. Do you know how they replied?

Dys is not a priority.

Dys is not a priority. Dys is not a priority. If Dys is not, what is? Dys is an unyielding foe. An indescribable evil. They will never, ever cease. They will never, ever stop. They will not rest until all of our world is theirs. Not until all of our world has been engulfed by hellfire. If we leave Dys today, Dys will find us. They will return when we are weakest, they will return when we expect it, and they will return to crush us. They will not flee. They know no weakness. No fear. No pity. I assure you, my brothers, if we leave today and live, we will not survive tomorrow. Nor will our children. We die today so that no one else has to tomorrow.

They also say, Leave Elfen High to burn. Shall we leave Elfen High to burn?"

Another murmur.

"My friends, many have died today," Forestburner continued, "We have lost three of our greatest heroes in this war. Our Lord Slotheater died in an attempt to end Dys. Shall we let Dys live and Slotheater fade?"

"No," was the halfhearted answer.

"My friends," Forestburner said, "Our first king Polarbeard - our founder, our hero, our greatest representative - died. For what?"

"Lewis Jameson," was the interested answer.

"And shall we let Jameson go unavenged and Polarbeard fade?" Forestburner demanded.

"No!" was the response.

"My friends!" Forestburner shouted, "Our new king Lewis Jameson - he who Polarbeard died for - is himself fallen! For what?!"

"Elfen High!"

"What?!"

"Elfen High!"

"WHAT?!"

"ELFEN HIGH?!"

"Shall we let Elfen High burn?! Shall we let Lewis Jameson fade?!"

"NO!"

"WHAT SHALL WE DO?!"

"WE SHALL FIGHT!"

"FOR?!"

"FOR ELFEN HIGH AND LEWIS JAMESON!"

"FOR ELFEN HIGH AND LEWIS JAMESON!"

"FOR ELFEN HIGH AND LEWIS JAMESON!"

"GO! FOR ELFEN HIGH AND LEWIS JAMESON!"

There was a roar and the bears charged. Forestburner smiled to himself.

"Don't fuck this up, Crowley," he laughed to himself.

Scary.

[Jessjohnesik]

I'll bring Wyethalania's post here tomorrow.

[Cerillium]

It was what could only be described as a palace, one of sickly grandeur filled with odd and even offensive decorations of both the lewd and arcane natures. Akin to the most lavish temples and palaces of Ancient Rome yet with its own strange style cultivated by all followers of the Dark Prince. Segmented marble pillars spiraled into the ceiling with no applied sense to them, as if they had organically grown into existence or been sung into shape by architects who cracked open the knowledge of the Black Library, the hallowed library of the favored creations of the Old Ones. Chronicled across the kilometer tall pillars were near endless depictions of excess in all forms- infinite feasts of the damned and glorious duels from both the aeon-old past and the infinite possibilities of all futures. Keen eyes were aware there was much more to these engravings filled with sickly silver- for under scrutinizing eyes the figures moved with life of their own. Fragments of those depicted, both doomed and damned to endlessly relive their greatest affronts to human morality simultaneously in the past and present as all causality was torn asunder by the might of Slaanesh- the Dark Prince, Prince of Pleasure and Lord of Excess. His chosen would never know misery, nor sanity or isolation. For in its amoral arms only happiness would be found with all consequences applied purely to its enemies. Pain was in the past for all those dedicated to the Prince's path, merely pure pleasure and ecstasy awaited those who accepted the embrace of the God of the Immaterium.

Stepping through a writhing mass of cultists best left unsubscribed, Volturius relished moral nihilism. Pure freedom was what resulted, all cares and taboos were shredded and left abandoned by the demigod long ago, dead from both traumatic experience and the natural craving of power all Astartes coveted. The only true bonds he even held were the natural ones to all of his kin in service to Chaos and his patron god, and his mate and the child she was soon due to bear him. Swimming in his thoughts while walking through the temple and stepping over another mass of cultists, he supposed this practical monogamy was odd for a champion of Slaanesh (all hints of humility were lost on him after the treatment he was receiving, his days as an aspiring champion were long-passed), although it was also the natural of result of the priestess simply being perfect in everything save sanity, which no follower of Chaos could ever lay claim to. Unlike naive serfs he was familiar with from his service in his old Warband, she was wise enough to know exactly how an demigod such as himself ticked without drawing his ire through offensive ignorance. Especially as of now, as Tipper had been mentally fused with him, and he was certain the psyker was busy intercepting these musings as they spawned in his brain- if not even before. Even with his old kin, flesh and blood both biologically and spiritually, were not entirely trustworthy before his alienation. The brotherhood between them did indeed exist, but it wasn't completely trustworthy. Even with his greatest allies and dearest brothers, the Chaos Astartes had always kept one eye on his shoulder, watching for the silver glitter of knives.

With Tipper however, it was completely different. If anything, he enjoyed the simple ability to invest every ounce of trust without the slightest fear of any repercussion. Even now it still felt strange, complete trust was even incomprehensible to some Chaos Astartes, even some of his former brothers. The idea that they could equally throw dice into anything without any hesitation or fear was intoxicating and alien. Just put simply, it was good. It was better than any prior bond shared with a brother, it was reliable.

Volturius now rounded a diverging hallway from the main great hall of the temple, snapping left for the path that led to his personal "quarters", better described as a palace to itself. The size of the first four stories of the apartment building, it too was lavishly decorated- albeit with more arcane items wrought into reality by sorcerer-artisans from the matter of the warp. Even Volturius, who once lived in fairly spartan conditions and previously eschewed ornate decorations, adored the hall gifted to himself and Tipper. Crafted to meet their mutual desires, the room itself was its own eldritch environment. Stepping from the warmth of the rest of the temple, the temperature of their hall was frigid in comparison- water crystals encrusted the cold marble of supporting pillars and beautifully carved ice sculptures of twisted daemons ran along the length of the hall. Just as the cold air hung tightly in the great hall, so did the banners of Volturius' newly-founded Chapter. A rich mixture of purples and blues, the tapestries appeared to be sewn from the psychedelic colored gases of Nebulae. On them they bore the chosen icon of Volturius' Chapter, the Eye of Slaanesh. A great serpentine eye mounted on multiple sets of curved horns, the cornea of which was a shifting eldritch rainbow of color that poured forth a fountain of emotions to gifted true sight by the Dark Prince, exalting all emotions in those capable of perceiving its full rapturous glory. At the center of the eyes was the pupil, a blazing sliver of onyx that contrasted the eldritch rainbow of the warp with utter oblivion- the perfect imagery for the Chapter dubbed "The Soul Reavers" and their brutal art.

But Volturius was getting ahead of himself. The full creation of the Chapter was a dreadfully long decade away- the gene seed harvested from his progenoid glands had to mature for a perfect crop before it could be cloned as necessary with the technology of Old Night. His children would indeed rise to be a perfect scalpel for his patron lord to wield, but the gene seed needed to be cloned and matured, and his neophytes schooled in warfare. The task would be a long and arduous one, but its reward unmeasurable.