The Harlequin

[color=darkslategrey][font=gothic]I have only one thing to say... The Hervey Bay characterisation was perfect.[/font][/color]

[COLOR=darkslategrey][FONT=gothic]Bruises were interesting things. They were like life, in a way. A swirl of darkness that slowly faded to a sickly green. Prod them, they slide away, only to come straight back. Leeches sucked them clear. They were inflicted in a twisted mix of hate and love. Bruises were never quite the same, no matter how many you saw. In the old days, the bad days, the days when the shells rained down and men walked with gas masks in one hand, I saw a lot of bruises. In his time working in Otaku City, I've seen even more. Bruises, black eyes, splints... I've seen a lot of injuries, though they're rarely fresh. I've never seen someone pained by them though. Only a dull acquiescence, and even sometimes a warped acceptance. The only pain I ever see, I see in people eyes. I can see a lot of it now. She's a pretty young thing, no more than 8. Still far, far too preciously young to have learned the realities of life yet. I intend to show her some of them tonight, as only I in Otaku City can. She looked up at him, her deep, liquid eyes rippling my reflection over her unshed tears. What I see makes me sigh. Prematurely aged by 28, with tight lines around his eyes, and the wary set of someone who keeps still and quiet because to do otherwise was to make oneself a target. I never picked that up during the war. No, it was my time here, with these people, with my new activities, that lent me that cast. At my sigh, she hugs herself close. Her arms are so pale, so flawless. In a few short years, they'll be marred by those thin, vertical scars I'm so used to spotting. It's almost a reflex by now. Her hands are twisting in her little blue dress, the callouses on the back of her knuckles telling me her skinniness isn't just due to a lack of food. She's bulimic, and has been for nearly a year, if I'm right. She's scared. Scared of going home, scared of staying here, scared of me, scared that I'll hurt her. She doesn't know how right she is. I sigh again, and sit down. She takes the chair opposite me, relaxing slightly at the sight of the coffee table separating us. I catch her eye, smile slightly, and lean back, crossing my arms. She holds my gaze a moment, and drops it. She's used to showing submission. That won't help her here, not at all. When she doesn't look back up, I lean forward, and finally start to speak. "Your name is Sara, isn't it little one?" She looks up, and nods, hesitantly. I wasn't really asking. I know her well. I've watched her for months now. I knew her elder sister, I knew her mother, and I knew the reason why her relations were no longer with her. "Do you know who I am?" "...Mr Kastor?" I smile, warmly now. She knows who I am. She knows she's not here by chance. That's good. It makes things easier. "You can call me Vadim. I'm only Mr Kastor to people I don't know." "But if you don't know them, how do they know what to call you?" My smile widens. She's sharper than either her sister or her mother. It might help her. It might not. That entirely depends on how the next fifty five minutes go. She'll cry, she'll scream, she'll suffer like she never has before, even in this city. At the end of it, she'll come out either broken or a new person, and not even I can control which. I answer her question with a shrug, and move straight to business. "Sara....What you do, when you put your fingers down your throat... Do you know why you do it? Do you know what makes you do it?" Living in Otaku City is tough. You do what you can to survive. Quite often that involves hurting people. I pride myself on my ability to hurt people. In my soldiering days, I hurt people with guns, and knives, and even my hands. Now, I use my mind. I make people see what they don't want to see about themselves. I take them to the brink of collapse, and sometimes back again. I make them see the dirty ugly truth about this place, and I make them see that there really is something better out there; that what's happened to them isn't fair or just or good. Sometimes that hurts them the most of all. Being an ex-soldier in a city worse than any warzone is tough. Being a psychologist here is even tougher.[/FONT][/COLOR]

[color=Purple][font=Century Gothic]Didn't think I'd be back here.... Anyway, I don't really have time to write anything off the top of my head, but I probably should mention I handled the Battle Arena for a while there....I don't remember any of the time frames though. Also, I may be a little biased, but I feel Latham Adatym should get a mention. Even if it was a ridiculous collection of mainly incomprehensible descriptions of ....something, it was rather extensive, particularly for an rpg started by somebody who'd never posted anything before. Also, I can probably provide a few details on my wonderful old friend cloricus at some point...I'll see what I can come up with. [/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=darkslategray]OOC: Post much? Well, that had done a rather neat job of tearing it. In one of his more typical displays, Lynch was the first out of the room, walking quickly and muttering to himself about something in a thick enough dialect it was likely nigh incomprehensible. Which was probably a good thing, given that his disconnected ramblings included one or two personal comments that were likely best not to air. The noise was such a familiar background entity that he had no trouble tracking the footsteps that followed after his. Larce was quiet on his feet, impressively so, but he didn't quite seem to have the knack of lift his foot without a breaking a slight suction on the hard floors. Lynch picked up his pace slightly, turning off a side corridor rather than head straight back to his quarters. A slightly muffled exchange behind him revealed that while Larce may have been slightly surprised by this, everyone else was unconcerned. He had something of a dilemma on his hands, and he needed some privacy to think it over. He could work out from the outset that Larce's entire approach was slightly forced, and simply wouldn't work well with the team. If he wasn't acting naturally, the strain would eventually shift to resentment, and there wasn't that much that was worse than a superior who wasn't fond of you, and was perfectly capable of ordering you to walk into a building full of angry, weapon bearing people with few compunctions about summary knee cappings...Well, there were a few things, now that he thought about it, like that hooker in New Orleans after it turned out the mission-based credit card you'd been given had expired...but that was neither here nor there. On top of Larce's personal issues with the situation, there was also the fact that being treated in such a cavalier fashion was going to rub several people raw. Lynch was quite willing to watch the byplay that would no doubt ensue, and he was fairly confident that failing some rather major complications, he'd come out of it rather unscathed, but he was quite happy with the general status quo that existed in his life, and he figured anything that had the potential to result in the widescale destruction of several parts of a major city had a fair chance of disrupting that. To varying extents, the team were strong minded, pragmatic, independent operators. They followed the chain of command, but in the field, they were all experienced enough to know that sometimes the mission simply went to hell, and the only way to salvage it was to snatch opportunity as it came. If anything happened to jeopardise the original parameters this time around, Lynch was fairly certain everybody would blame Larce for his approach, and they'd all start taking matters into their own hands. Which would likely end up with himself, Boom and Larce wandering right into a very hostile situation, and have Bon Bon getting an itchy trigger finger. The upshot being that a lot of people would get killed, and it would likely be very public, and very messy. Lynch might have thought that "Operation Silent Fox" was a dodgy idea, but things were precarious enough as it was without a major fiasco right at the outset. Breaking out of and into one's own building was occasionally challenging, but that was okay. A minute or two, an air duct, and some scaling later, he was quite comfortable perched on a rather narrow window sill a floor up from where he should be, calmly scribing a note entailing exactly why that approach was a bad idea, with a concise psychological assessment of all concerned parties, a hurried example, and a recommendation or two, all posed from an entirely anonymous perspective, in a rather strange scrawl. Lynch fervently hoped Larce went to the effort of having the handwriting analysed. He was quite certain it would cause some confusion to find out the note had been written by one Washington Irving. Falsifying hand writing wasn't too hard. Finding somebody good to emulate was. And the note lay neatly rolled up on Larce's bed, with Lynch back out the window, just before Larce's footsteps could be faintly heard outside. Lynch made it back to his quarters without anyone noticing him, but he had a welcoming party waiting for him. Boom, unsurprisingly, was the first to question him. "So, what did you do to him? Break anything vital?" "Nothing, yet. Just a few recommendations." Lynch's reply came back clipped. He wasn't too surprised that the others had tagged his intention to say something to Larce, but he was mildly disappointed that they'd misinterpreted why he wanted to say anything at all. Threatening a superior over a difference in work ethics simply wasn't his style. Sidestepping the raised eyebrows and implict questions, he slipped into his room, closed the door, and started mentally working out how of the standard equipment he'd actually give in and use, and how much he'd either discard or replace with his own variants. The first thing to go was the issued body armour. It was too constricting for his tastes, and he had his own, far more mobile set. As he debated the pros and cons of various automatic weapons, Lynch absently wondered if the simple fact that the note couldn't be traced easily would tie it to him. He suspected that was the case, but if there was no proof, he could play the tacit angle as much as he liked. Games within games. Just the way he liked it.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=darkslategray]OOC:To make up for the lateness, I'm turning the brightness on my monitor up so it seems, to me at least, extra shiny. I recommend you all do the same. Larce was a dabbler. It might not have been immediately apparent what exactly he dabbled in, but it was obvious, to Lynch at least, right from the outset that he'd strayed over the line of the law. Anybody who's first reaction upon walking into the room was to look for potential exit strategies, and who payed as much attention to people's hands as their eyes, was obviously used to being hunted. And he wasn't a ghost. They were too easy to spot. Flawless acting skills are all well and good, but they do tend to stand out where they shouldn't, if you know what you're looking for. Larce didn't have the complete control to have been transfered from intelligence. Equally obvious was the fact that he wasn't part of Lynch's ...rarified profession. The simple fact that there was a reaction, even if it was only a slight dilation of the pupils, to the mention of violence implied a level of discomfort that simply didn't appear in a trained asassin, sanctioned or otherwise. Of course, it was possible he was a sadist, but tracking the pulse in his neck hadn't revealed any elevation, so that was unlikely. Lynch decided this one was definitely the avoidance type. Computer crime or blue collar fraud was a possibility, but those types were rarely practiced enough at running, and they normally didn't end up in situations like this. Of course, it took some considered thought to work out another instance when criminals had ended up in a situation like this. Lynch didn't include himself in that. But he was sure it had happened nevertheless. Eventually, the kicker came from Larce himself. As he leaned over to elaborate on some likely irrelevant point or another to Bon Bon, who didn't seem overly thrilled with her rather less than substantial role, Larce instinctively used Bon Bon's raised arms to mask his own hands. A visual block that was really rather smooth, innocuous if you didn't know what you were looking for, but a dead give away if you did. "Larce" (and Lynch thought the call sign should have told him from the first) was one of those people born with an insatiable curiousity about what other people have in their pockets. Lynch wasn't particularly bothered by the fact that Larce was some kind of thief. An assassin with moral scruples was kind of a joke. There were things that were right and wrong to other people, Lynch was sure, but really, something was either a good idea or a bad idea. It was ramifications that counted, not some higher minded intention. Meaning that if Larce was willing to make this work, he wouldn't bother Lynch too much. Of course, should he feel a light tug on his pocket, or find that his room's inventory tended to show a slight fluctuation, he might have to take steps, but that was a game left for another day. At the moment, Lynch had two concerns. Firstly, and the most important, to his mind at least, was whether or not to share his information with the rest of the team. Chances are they might well work it out for themselves. He was interested to see how long it would take them. On the other hand, telling them would give him an opportunity to see an unadultered reaction. It would probably unsettle Larce too. Which could make things interesting, and possibly even lead to his disappearance. This isn't to say Lynch was at all disloyal to the rest of the squad. It was simply that he dismissed a lot of things as ultimately unimportant. To date, he knew, no one else had managed to figure out the standard that he used to determine that, but that didn't bother him. For now, he'd keep silent, he decided. It would hardly be fair to off balance the team and Larce even more with his revelations, and Lynch was honestly curious as to how well Larce would do. The second, and far less important concern, was the mission. Though it was obvious everyone else was less than impressed by the arrangement, Lynch wasn't too bothered. Having a sniper as backup had always been simply because they worked well together, not because he thought he needed the cover. If it was enough of an issue that he couldn't skulk into a place, chances are the situation would call for Boom's specialised talents more than Bon Bon's anyway. The way things normally worked in such operations, Lynch's initial, silent assult (normally with knives, Lynch preferred them to guns) lead to people running away, right into Bon Bon's sights. If he had to kill those people himself, so be it. Assuming there was any killing to actually do. Lynch suspected that the briefing Larce had received took a different slant to the one he delivered. Chances were, the original one had involved a lot more concentration. Larce seemed to be trying to pass things off as an intelligence gathering operation, with a little bit of a flash-bang as a distraction. Lynch didn't really have a problem with guns or explosives, and they certainly were useful on occasion, he just felt they lacked a personal touch. He might have been slightly biased in that regard though. He figured it quite possible Larce would agree there. The man had obviously been trained with weapons, or else he wouldn't be here, but Lynch wasn't sure whether the aversion to violence was universal, or just a problem with guns. It probably didn't matter, given just how indirect they were expected to be. Walking softly and carrying a sharp knife seemed to be the marching orders, gor now at least. This "Operation Silent Fox" suggested a more long term approach to things however. Which meant Larce might be forced to change tact sometime soon. Which could be interesting to watch. A few seconds deliberation on the "operation", and he silently counted it a good thing he wasn't interested in bragging to people. It would be terribly hard to be proud of being a part of something with such a terrible name.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=darkslategray]You know, I'd originally planned an elaborate and etymologically opulent apology as to why I hadn't posted. I think the scare tactics hit too well. [font=Trebuchet MS][b]Name:[/b] Orrin Fey (Orrin deriving from a root meaning Oak Valley, Fey deriving from a root meaning Raven) [b]Callsign:[/b] Lynch [b] Age:[/b]33 [b]Team Position:[/b] Stealth/assassination, and sometime team counsellor. [b]Bio:[/b] Irish born, Irish bred. Orrin was born into a quasi-typical Irish-Catholic family, with two older brothers, and a twin sister, in the [/font]South Armagh region.[font=Trebuchet MS] A slightly whimsical twist in fate had previously rendered his father Director Of Intelligence for the IRA a few years a previous, and it was this fact that shaped much of Orrin's early life. Most young boys normally had a toy gun or two to play with when they were five. Orrin trained with Kalishnikovs and Soviet[/font] made DShk machine guns[font=Trebuchet MS], though the heavier weapon, given it's normal anti-air applications, was markedly impractical for a boy his size. But, that's what he did. His oldest brother was already an active member of the IRA, and his next oldest brother was also in training. His sister, Orlaith, opted not to enter the family business, a decision that elevated her in the eyes of her family, rather than diminishing her. As well as their rather curious recreational habits, the Fey's were also another rarity for a family of that size (Orrin and Orlaith's parents went on to have two other children), a very much less than sedentary lot. Due to the dangers of staying in one place too long, Orrin's family moved around, though they returned to the South Armagh area at least once a year. Orrin's life during this time was fairly trying, to say the least. Trust is a commodity earned through time in areas like that, and the constant moves meant the children rarely had time to establish friends, relying on each other for companionship. Unable to talk about their home lives or weekend activities, they tended to avoid speaking much at all unless pressed. And in Orrin's case, "pressed" normally indicated taunts. Considering Orrin was well aware he could show up anytime he wanted with an automatic weapon and end things quite quickly he was, to put it mildly, a little irritated that other children treated him so harshly. So, inevitably, fists tended to answer words. Being one person faced against a group tends to not yield preferable results though, so Orrin suffered quite a few early beatings before finally learning to defend himself. At the age of nine, he started practicing martial arts. It was another year, however, before he managed to start giving as good as he got. There were a lot of black eyes in that period of time, and once a broken arm. These incidents were treated stoically by his family. After all, two and sometimes three members of the family wandered around at night risking being shot on a regular basis. During one long, harrowing year, where he lived in what passed for a small city, and there were enough other children to make things difficult, and no countryside to hide in on weekends, Orrin spent his hours outside school dodging packs, having to learn quickly how to hide and sneak around. Orrin's mundane schooling continued as well. He was a bright, but not exceptional student in most areas. In his religion classes however, he excelled. While there were elements of indoctrination and memorisation, there were also wide ranging and in-depth discussion, ranging from ethics, to human nature, to philosophy. Orrin had seen human nature at its worst, and in the case of his sister, at its best. He understood how people thought on an instinctive level, it seemed. Instinctive wasn't the case, of course, but he pretended it was to everyone except Orlaith. In actual fact, everytime they moved to a new area, Orrin quickly located a practicing psychologist or counsellor, and booked sessions. As such, he had quite an understanding of professional analysis techniques and the like. Quite an odd mix, in total, learning how people work from inside their head, and learning how people work by riddling them with bullets or blowing them up, then being free to examine their insides if one so chooses. That was pretty much life for Orrin until he turned fifteen. Moving back to their sometime home, he expected another difficult readjustment, even though some of the people in the area were starting to recognise them, for a brief period, then moving on. It wasn't, however, to be. The year was 1987. His father, in the post of Director of Intelligence, had master-minded a raid involving two cells that went terribly wrong. The eight men were ambushed and killed by the SAS, and civilian injuries were sustained. The other sticking point was that the SAS fired first. Pre-meditation and foreknowledge were obvious. Unfortunately, that lead several factions to accuse Orrin's father of duplicity. Unbeknownst to those factions, the British had actually intercepted a phone call pertaining to the attack. The civil injuries raised as much outcry as the killing of the eight men did, and faced with bad publicity, the British also went looking for someone to blame. So they, too, fixated on Orrin's father. Faced with rather dire prospects should he remain in Ireland, the family emigrated to America. Of course, on arrival, more than the typical customs officers greeted them. A curious thing happened then though. The cold-eyed NSA men who picked them up talked for a long time with Orrin's father, then released them. Whatever deal was struck, they were apparently allowed to stay. The family ended up in New Orleans, blending in well in the multi-cultural city, with its already strong Irish-Catholic population. If Orrin had throught Irish schools gave him a bad time, America was a nightmare. Being a short kid at the time, and, oddly, in a predominantly American school, he quickly earned the nickname "Leprauchaun", the usual feat of ingenuity typical of the unintelligent, insecure aggressive teenagers who think they have something to prove. Orrin went back to his psychology and martial arts, and whipped his tormentors into a blind rage, then left them prostrate until they stopped bothering him, but his exertions weren't finished. Having long hair, pale skin, and the bluest of eyes, Orlaith was becoming quite an attractive females. And didn't that just cause all sorts of problems... Ruckus and rampage notwithstanding, the pair eventually graduated, which left Orrin at something of a loss. Unable to really work out what to do with his life, he entered university and studied psychology for a while, before finding that the aimlessness of university (not to mention the level of work ethic required), didn't suit him. After a year and a half of that, however, he was given new direction. New directions, really. His father was contacted by the American military. The British, in light of the ruling that they'd violated human rights by not conducting a thorough investigation into the killing of the eight IRA members that had precipitated the Fey's flight, were importuning America for extradition. The American military, however, sensed opportunity, and, pragmatic as ever, went for it. Given the family's rather myriad talents, they were willing to ignore the request, in return for the one of the Fey's lending their talents to the military. Not really much of a choice. Given that his two older brothers had already settled down, and one of them married, and Orrin didn't really have anything better to do, he volunteered. Orrin's "training" was something of a farce. He could outshoot, outfight, and in many cases outlead the people trying to instruct him. Given his knowledge of the human mind, he had little trouble appealing to people in such a way that they gave him their all, and as such, he was generally placed as squad leader in group exercises. Rather than being ridiculed for his differences, here he was praised for them. And soldiers, as a rule, ask few questions when they know they aren't wanted. All this had a curious effect on Orrin. He found, much to his surprise, that the close camaradarie strained more than the thoughtless taunts and abuse did. He preferred solitude. Being able to look deeper than surface level emotions meant that in close company, he was inevitably reacting to what people really thought, which tended to cause a lot of strain. As such, he started bending his training towards more solitary pursuits. He didn't have the perfect accuracy at long range to become a sniper, and he still relished the thrill of hand to hand combat anyway. Eventually, when his abilities attracted even more notice, he was started on the RRR training program. Here, there were things to learn. His combat abilities needed very little refinement, but he learnt any number of other interesting things too. A myriad of ways to kill people when it wasn't polite to do so, infiltration techniques ranging from the ancient Nin-jitsu to penetrating bank vaults, and other such generally less than legal skills. His ability to determine how his targets would think and react gave him an enviable edge. Eventually, he was placed in the 3R unit he currently serves with. The rest, as they say, is history. Orrin's call sign, "Lynch", pertains to David Lynch, the director. During a training exercise, a minor combat operation in which Orrin's squad of near recruits faced off against a squad of more experienced soldiers lead by his main instructor, Orrin was found to, apparently, be lying asleep, propped against a tree. The entire enemy squad surrounded him after careful surveillance, and the instructor, a Major by rank, promptly kicked him awake and demanded to know what kind of soldier he thought he was, to have apparently fallen asleep while scouting. Orrin simply smiled, and told the man that "The owls are not what they seem". Most of the squad just stared at him for that odd statement, the Major had the presence of mind to look up. The rest of Orrin's squad was sequestered in the tree, the nice, concealing cameoflage having up until now down a very nice job of hiding them. They were also, in an interesting turn of events, pointing their weapons at the Major and his men. When asked about the line he'd responded with, Orrin explained it was from a show called Twin Peaks, a rather odd piece of television created by David Lynch. The name stuck. Not American by birth, and having seen enough of the world to have few ideals, Orrin is hardly a patriot. He is, however, completely commited to his family, particularly Orlaith. After all his training, Orrin could probably evade capture should be ever tire of military service. His family, however, would rapidly be sent back to Ireland. His father and brother would be arrested, and the rest of his family under threat from hardline IRA factions. As such, Orrin devotes himself to his work with little concern for personal safety. [[b]Backstory] [/b]There was, as they say, something to be said for standing still. You could blend in with a crowd, slip from shadow to shadow, or under the cover of darkness, you could disable security cameras or rely false footage, you could disable security guards...Even if you were the size of a plane, you could paint yourself black, get yourself reshaped, and slip through radar. Being invisible was an art. And despite all that, it was amazing how little people noticed you if you just stood still. At the moment, Orrin was standing very, very still. Admittedly, the room was dark, and he was in shadow, but given he was less than ten feet away from the other occupants in the room, any movement would presage discovery, and that, in short, would be painful. There were four people in the room, three people who knew that meeting like this, with these people, in this place, could be a death sentence if the wrong people found out. Unfortunately for them, the wrong people have long ears, and sentence had already been passed, and now stood in the same room as them. There was little the four men had in common, other than the kind of gleam in the eye that unerring marks the whacko on public transport that other commuters avoid. This gleam was a little more shiny though. The glacial scintillation that marked a true psychopath. The men were, in fact, leaders of four para-military groups operating in some of the more volatile Southern states. On the surface, they lead normal lives in normal communities. They were archetypal weekend warriors though. Orrin knew them all well, both their public and private lives, though he'd never spoken to them, never even laid eyes on any of them before sidling out of the alcove that had sheltered him prior to their arrival. He'd studied every report on them, had copies of their diaries made, even read the comments teachers had made about them and references employers had provided them. They all had names, though Orrin refered to them in his own private way. [i]Cower.[/i] The man was a consumate door mat, had been all his life. Abused as a child, pushed around, he fostered the kind of vicious discontent that leads to schoolyard massacres and domestic violence. Orrin knew that was a thin veneer over a morass of insecurity and fear. The right words, in the same drunken slur his father used when he beat him, would leave the man prostrate and whimpering like a child. Orrin sometimes enjoying doing that kind of thing to people. Unfortunately, that wouldn't be possible at the moment. Anyway, with his grandoise visions of revenge filling his head, the man wouldn't break as easily as he normally would. This was his chance to get back at the society that kicked him everytime he fell down. He'd still break though. They always do. [i]Catamite.[/i] A true Bible Belt Christian. He believed everything he did, and more importantly, everything he planned to do, was God's will, and any who said otherwise were evidently sinners needing to be cleansed. Unable to be reasoned with, with sanctimonious self righteousness ringing in every drawled syllable, the man had started his career in a big white tent on the side of the road. Like most evangelists who decided the morally bereft needed cleansing though, the man had his secret vices. He'd twisted himself around almost enough to believe the children he used for release fitted into God's plan, but his secret shame could still unman him if applied correctly. [i]Blood-lust[/i] If ever there was a model for the Medieval berserker, this man was it. The kind of man who bought a semi-automatic for hunting, just because he couldn't stand the thought of putting only only bullet in an animal. The kind of desire for pain that only came from a tortured past. An odd kind of Stockholm Syndrome, confronted with enough cruelty, a person eventually becomes what they hate most. Orrin was aware of the scars and pocked burn marks that graced the man's back. Although murderous, and, as Orrin knew, possessing a few bodies buried under his house, the vestiges of morality inside him, combined with a long standing fear of being caught, would leave him terrified if, say, a cop happened to pull him over for a breath test. A compulsive and exact obeyer of the law, except for the murders. Perhaps recompense, some sense of balance. The last of them, [i]Starry-eyes[/i], was a slightly different case. Convinced by the inflammatory rhetoric he heard and spoke, he believed the government was corrupt, the corporations were corrupt, the environment was being sacraficed for money and power, and authority was ruthless and could not be trusted. He regretted what he was about to do, but considered it necessary. Unsure whether he would go down as a villian or martyr in the history books, he constantly agonised internally over the course they'd planned and the men he'd planned it with. Only his convictions drove him forward. Orrin pitied him, in a way. He knew firsthand that the man was right. The revolution, however, was not now. Maybe later. Their plan was simple, and it hinged on one fact that a lot of people, particularly the CIA and their ilk, stepped carefully around admitting. If you have enough people willing to die, it's ridiculously easy to assassinate a president. You get enough people with guns and bombs and no fear for their own safety, and the target in a public place, and no security force on earth will be able to stop you. It only takes one lucky shot. Unless, of course, some heartless, murderous government wraith sneaks in to your secret meeting and dispatches your leaders before any kind of agreement can be reached, at the same time the FBI pick up the rest of your more rabid members. Orrin sympathised, he really did. But he had a job to do. And while he would have enjoyed verbally making these people squirm, that wasn't an option available to him. And since the alarm on his watch just vibrated ( wouldn't do to have it beep, would it?), he'd just been informed that the rest of the operation had been carried out. They'd wanted the main body of offenders picked up, on the very off chance that Orrin failed and the ringleaders had a chance to escape and warn their followers. Orrin took that precaution as offensive, but his opinion hadn't been asked, and he'd been smart enough not to give it. It was, however, time to get to work, if he wanted to be cliché about it. And, peversely, he did. Moving slowly and soundlessly, he unsheathed his weapons of choice for these killings. A pair of short, blackened combat swords. Rather than the typical double bladed style, these were more similar to wakazashis, and expertly balanced, despite the fact that the hilt of each weapon was only marginally rounder than the blades, and no crosspiece was present. They were Orrin's personal weapons, made for quick, in close kills and easy concealment. The men stood in a loose square, with Orrin's vantage point placing him about six feet back from the centre of one of the "walls" of the square. Not an ideal position, but it afforded him the chance to introduce a little flair. He dove forward into a quick roll, swords in hand. Coming to his feet, he stepped foward and lashed out with both blades, horizontal forehand strokes that opened twin lines across the throats of Catamite and Starry-eyed. Spinning 180 degrees, even as his swords continued through and up to cross into an x above him, Orrin continued his motion in the same direction, stepping backwards this time, with twin backhand stroke that left two more cut throats, and him standing with his blades by his sides, critically surveying the results of his work. The last seconds, as always, were revealing. If you really wanted to get to know someone, you either surrounded them with either death or sex. People at their most primal were people at their most revealed. Catamite looked like he wasn't sure whether to rail against God for betraying him, or thank the Devil for ending his predation. Cower looked almost resigned, like he'd expected this to happen. Blood-lust looked merely angry. Starry-eyed, even in the last moments of life, stared at him accusingly, like he was the conspiracy theorist's Black Ops murderer out to protect the nation and more importantly, those controlling it, at any cost. Which, unfortunately, he was. Orrin shook his head and turned away, cleaning his blades and resheathing them with an ease that bespoke long practice. His part was over. After he'd been given sufficient time to disappear, others would come and remove Blood-lust's body, and any sign it was ever there. Afterwards, a search of his house would reveal the victims buried there, all tortured, and eventually killed with slashed throats, and a knife matching the weapon that killed these three men would also be discovered. Nobody holds all their secrets through a death like that. Not the one doing the dying, nor the one who administered the fatal strike. Orrin's secrets might have only been revealed to himself through that passage, but revealed they were. Every time he did something like this, and every time he allowed himself to think about it, the more he realised he enjoyed his work. To somebody trained to understand motivation and the subconscious, that wasn't as disconcerting a notion as it should have been. He knew he wouldn't end up a psychopath killing for fun and profit. He might, however, end up an American patriot...And that notion really chilled his blood. Shaking his head, Orrin left, issued a few quick reassurances to the soft enquiries directed to him by the rest of the team outside, and allowed them to lead him off into the night, following a pre-arranged withdrawl plan. He could have disappeared anywhere in this city, but he was expected back. Orlaith floated back into mind. Orrin thought for a moment about the girl who'd refused to take up arms for country and family, and scolded him when he'd defended her honour at school. Reconciling her pacifict nature with the work he'd done tonight wasn't easy. But it was possible. And that was he dealt with these days. Not easy, just possible. There was a sense of proud competence in that, one he knew that the rest of the team, a group of people he knew as well as he knew his family, agreed. It's good to be good.[/font][/color] [/font]

[font=gothic][color=darkslategray]I'm going to stand out a bit here and state that I actually prefer Mezmerize to their earlier albums, mainly on the basis that it's more experimental, which I consider to be a lot more interesting, and like on Steal This Album, they've really started showing the guitar talents in a lot more effective way. Sure, the standout tracks don't necessarily equal the standouts off earlier albums, such as Peephole or what not, but as an overall album, I definitely think it's the best to date.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=darkslategray][i]Having come back to the inn to find Oniur already in residence, so to speak, Morrslaed slid the glass into the common room and walked around the back. Hunched up in his cloak, he was appeared just another derelict walking into an alley. The supposedly inconspicuous guards hadn't noticed him on the way in. They didn't notice him on the way out either. There was no way they were going to notice Shikyo, of course. He wasn't particularly fond of her cloak, he preferred keeping her much closer than that. He could still pinpoint where she was, but not having the visual contact perturbed him. Not that he'd let it show to anyone but her, as with most things about the two of them. He half figured she continued using it to underscore some kind of subtle point. Before Onuir could come outside and start cauterwauling to the guards about their disappearance, a circuitous route took Morrslaed and attendent invisible to the opposite side of the street behind the men-at arms. Casually walking up behind them, he drove a fist into a kidney, turned, and walked off. He got about five steps before the shock wore off and the guards started chasing them. He felt Shikyo step aside and stay out of it, which was fine with him, since he didn't want to have to worry about her and evade the men without killing too many of them. He'd start injuring them if they lost interest, of course, but at the moment he wanted them alive and vocal. Immediately setting a pace that would force them to work without flagging, except for the particularly fat corporal, he lead them into the bazaar, and the pursuit was immediately picked up by several other men at arms. A few more several paces in front of him turned to capture him, only to have Morrslaed flip right over them and continue. Darting into the first tavern, he snatched up a tankard and hurled it across the room at an off-duty halberdier, causing the man to erupt in a howl of curses and draw steel, several other guards following suit. Immediately running out, Morrslaed repeated the process in several other taverns up and down the street, avoiding the clumsy attempts to grab him and the few stray crossbow bolts with ease. Eventually he had in excess of one hundred men chasing him, and he figured that was enough. He now turned his attentions to the various stalls, particularly the more prosperous ones, and weaved his way through them, his less agile pursuers overturning carts and tables in their haste and anger. Slowing occasionally to throw the odd taunt, Morrslaed led them around for a quarter of an hour or so, just up and down the main street, before vaulting onto a stall roof and from there into a third story window. He was out of the building and away before most of men at arms released he'd even left. With the bazaar in chaos, merchants importuning shrilly for recompense, and looters out in force, there'd be far too much going on for the next few days from the guards to be worrying about him. Just the kind of personal headache he liked to deliver to positions of authority. Turning his mind to more important matters, he made his way back to the inn, but could find no sign of Shikyo. Fighting down momentary panic, Morrslaed took a deep breath and slouched against the wall of the alley, pulling his hood down a little further and simply waiting. About fifteen minutes later, a soft voice murmured "Miss me?" in his ear. Morrslaed visibly sagged with relief. He never would have chanced such a public display had Shikyo been visible, but with no one to make the connection, he was content to let the extent of his feelings show. Even with her invisible, he had no trouble seeking out her hand and grasping it tightly, unwilling to separate himself from her for another period just quite yet. Still, they had work to do, and no doubt at least one of the guards had started to circulate a description of him. It would make life interesting for a while.[/font][/color][/i]

[font=gothic][color=darkslategray][i]Normally the first one up, being the slightly more paranoid one, Morrslaed was unsurprised to find Shikyo calmly beside him, her even breathing natural beyond the extent that even one as practiced as they could fake. Without disturbing that measured meter in the slightest, or even ruffling the covers appreciably, Morrslaed rose and dressed, taking care that the various weapons he frequented were in positions that wouldn't vivisect him should he sit down. He'd seen it happen, and even though he didn't find it neccessary to augment his weapons with poison, it was still good practice. He slipped out, locking the door behind him. The lock was nothing that any footpad worth their salt couldn't defeat in a matter of seconds, but the noise that would create would be enough. Drawing his hood slightly further down, he descended the stairs to find the barkeep just opening up. The man tossed him a jaundiced look, no doubt due to Morrslaed's cavalier treatment of him last night.[/i] Barkeep: Care for a drink yet? Morrslaed: Amontillado. [i]With a slight start of surprise, the barkeep shook his head and ambled over to the counter, leaning across and uncorking a bottle, while fumbling for a glass with his other hand. Morrslaed accepted the drink with a nod and the flick of a few coins, and downed it in one. Looking critically at the stained and dusty glass, washed clean by the two streamlines of alcohol, one in and one out, it occured to him there was probably a better use for it.[/i] Morrslaed: Mind if I borrow this? [i]The barkeep simply snorted and waved him off, given that most of his patrons drank from tankards or flagons, and that that was the first time in years that a bottle of anything had had to be uncorked. This wasn't the most sophisticated joint. It also made Morrslaed slightly curious as to whether he'd misjudged the weight of one of the coins he flicked at the barkeep. For an assassin and criminal, he had quite an objection to coin filing. It made things difficult when he couldn't be damned actually looking at the money he was using. Tucking the glass into his cloak, Morrslaed stalked outside, swearing softly as the morning light proved a little brighter than he had expected. The bazaar was already busy and crowded, though from what he could see, the illict bargainings had wrapped up a little earlier than usual. That wasn't really a problem, since the person he was after was technically an honest businessman. About as honest as anyone in this city. He kept his eyes more on the floors of the alleyways he passed than anything else, not being particularly concerned with the morning denizens of the street. Eventually spying what he wanted, he put the glass he'd acquired to use and continued on his way. The entrance to Sali Dabu's Emporium was slightly off the main street, requiring a bit of a cut across what appeared to be a large open field. It was basically to give the crossbowmen watching the store a clear target, but Morrslaed wouldn't have been concerned about them even if he wasn't known enough not to be bothered. He should have been anyway. The characteristic heavy twang of the crossbow rang out to his left, so he spun right, a shuriken arcing out from his left hand to impact the windlass, his right hand removing the crossbow bolt from the air. His characteristic weapon was still quivering when he completed the spin, which was identification enough for one of the "concealed" bowmen to stick his head up.[/i] "New guy...we don't expect him to last long" [i]Morrslaed new very well that was an invitation, but decided to ignore it, offering the man a wry smile and nod, and continuing on his way. As soon as he entered the hovel that served Sali Dabu as a storefront, he knew things had changed since he'd been here last. Several heavies lounged around nonchantly, whereas before Dabu had never bothered with extra security. Still, his eyes lit up when he saw Morrslaed, something unexpected, that nevertheless had him fingering the glass in his cloak. One of the thugs walked up to him, a hand on the billy club in his belt.[/i] "We're closed" [i]Morrslaed just looked at him. Then disembowled him with a katal, completing the motion cleanly enough that he only had to take one step back to avoid the mess. Returning his katal to its normal position, he dropped the next with a spinning heel. He retracted that leg before dropping it, then stabbed it out to shatter the knee of a third. Using that impact as a spring board, he smashed the tip of his boot into the fourth's temple, then pulled his heel back into the back of the third's neck, a task made easier by the fact that that one was now down on his remaining good knee gasping. With four of his fellows down, three of them with one leg that hadn't touched the ground since being lifted, the last two decided it would be best to leave. The crossbowmen outside disagreed with them, apparently. Dabu just shrugged ruefully.[/i] Dabu: A new gang. Haven't been around more than two months. Morrslaed: What are they bothering you for? Dabu: They found out somewhere I do a sideline in information. [i]Information wasn't really a sideline for Dabu, the store was infact a collection of esoteric books and lore. But the information Dabu referred to generally revolved around street politics more than anything else.[/i] Morrslaed: I've got a single name for you. Kasuka. [i]Dabu's face went white, which was a pretty neat trick for someone who was naturally as dark as him. Morrslaed expected as such, even given his gratitude for removing the thugs. Pulling the glass out of his pocket, Morrslaed slammed it down on Dabu's hand. The scorpion inside was normally more than capable of killing in seconds, but at the moment its tail was trapped by the glass. Dabu was deathly afraid of scorpions, but was clearminded enough to know that moving his hand would simply release it. The black arachnid skittered its legs, digging small pinpricks into Dabu's hand.[/i] Dabu: You haven't gotten particularly nicer. Morrslaed: There are four unconscious or dead people in the room that would agree with you, but that's a fairly moot issue, since if any of them open their mouth, I'll take their tongue out at the root. You're rather lucky in that regard, since I don't like trying to decipher your writing, I need you to talk. [i]Morrslaed smiled, and took his hand off the glass. Dabu's quivering made it rock, not quite enough to dislodge it though. Enough to get the point across though.[/font][/color][/i]

[font=gothic][color=darkslategray][i]Far more impassive than his actions indicated he actually was, Morrslaed delicately flicked sand off his katals (OOC: Katals, not katanas...) and returned to the horses, the battle-experienced beasts requiring merely a touch to calm them. Eyeing Shikyo as she also returned, his words were measured, revealing more curiousity that the irritation that such cadence would usually entail. A quick scouting of the gates had revealed the current watchman was certainly not in their pay, and that the wall itself posed no difficulty. The chase to the city hadn't aroused attention, their pace being far less than they could have pushed, were they not expecting a trap.[/i] Morrslead: You don't truly believe that was her defense, do you? Shikyo: Of course not. The blunderer would never serve. Morrslaed: Which means we wasted time running her, and for naught. No doubt she'll have gone to ground by now. Shikyo: We will find her. Morrslaed: The place is a rabbit warren inhabited by vipers, more than a few of which would be happy to see us fall. Shikyo: Yet very few who would dare to work against us. Morrslead: Perhaps not directly. But abetting a runaway? If causing a caravan to disappear just before a checkpoint, and reappear just afterwards, miles from the city, is an easy feat to these, than one girl will pose them no difficulty. Shikyo: Having reservations? Morrslaed: Merely painting a worst case scenario. Chances are, whoever she was running to is in there, not out here waiting in ambush. Shikyo: And if that one was more than he seemed? Morrslead: Not a problem. For now, we'll need somewhere to picket the horses. [i]Another half an hour saw the horses tethered in a box gully, with enough water present to stop them from immediate dessication. If all went well, they'd be back to reclaim them rather soon, and there was plenty of forage available, and none of it green enough to give them colic. The walk back to the city took little time, both Morrslaed and Shikyo being experienced desert travellers, well used to the shifting sands, and having little need to conceal themselves with night coming on, and a slight wind provided enough sandspray to blur their image without discomfort. The watchmen on the walls made regular rounds, torches appearing as minor coronas drifting along the top of the wall before fading back into the mists of sand. From a distance, the city appeared much more impregnable then they knew it was. At least a score of smugglers routes existed in various positions in and out, and chances are they could scale a wall and be inside before a guard could notice. Even if one did, he wouldn't have the chance to sound any kind of alarm. Still, it was best to keep these kinds of things quiet. A charcoaled grapnel whipped silently upwards, the ends evoking a slight click as they dug into the porous, sedimentary rocks of the wall. Morrslaed stepped back, letting Shikyo ascend first, running admiring fingertips down her side as she did so. Her obsidian flank almost thrilled under the light touch, the tingle in his fingers providing ample distraction for the moment he allowed it too. And maybe just a little more... Hooking the bottom of the rope in a loop around his foot, Morrslaed took a single hand on the strand and ran upwards, using his free hand to coil the rope as he climbed. Without bothering to glance left or right, he vaulted straight over when he reached the top, shoulder rolling to his feet when he hit the ground, the grapnel wrapped around his shoulder again. They'd chosen a good place to enter, a smoky back alley just off the seedier end of the bazaar, the hearthrob of any trading community, particularly a desert bound one such as this. He and Shinkyo drew their cloaks around them, common enough with the sandy wind that even the high walls failed to stop from teasing through the city streets. Their appearances were well known to the populace at large, but there were enough connected ones around here to ensure they'd be well marked if they walked openly. Which, for most other jobs, they'd be willing to do, confident that few would dare act against them, and those few would easily dealt with. As it had been, a hundred times before. But given that they had yet to determine exactly who this girl would turn to for aid, Morrslaed judged it best that they remain anonymous for the moment, and let that unknown benefactor tip his hand. Aware that such games appealed to the obscurist in him, Shinkyo allowed him his fun. He'd make it up to her at some point. The level of hawkers certainly hadn't changed, nor had the quality of the goods, and many of the experienced were still present on the streets. Several knew faces seemed to have comandeered minor respect in certain quarters, but they'd both seen a thousand bravos rise and fall in the crime controlled streets of the bazaar, where guild alliance counted far more than individual skill. A universal rule to which they were the happy, glaring exception. The skill of the cutpurses hadn't changed either. Morrslaed had the waif's wrist in an iron grip before the grasping fingers had actually reached his pocket. This one had potential, he'd almost dismissed the touch. Looking down, a child of 12 greeted his eyes for a second, then looked away in abject terror. For a second Morrslaed thought he'd been recognised, but realised she was likely scared just due to the pressure on her wrist. Unwilling to attract attention, Morrslaed released her, gesturing impatiently for her to be off when she hesitated, shock at her survival momentarily overcoming the instinct to flee. Very few in this city, stranger or otherwise, were this forgiving. Morrslaed turned back to Shinkyo, who had an eyebrow arched.[/i] Shinkyo: And if the girl wasn't in fact simply a street urchin? Morrslaed: There are 52 bones in an adult human's hand. In someone has young as her, there might be as many as sixty. Shinkyo: Meaning? Morrslaed: When I decide to start breaking things, I have a lot of options. [i]With a low laugh, Shinkyo lead him aside, leaving the main strip of the bazaar behind for the moment, into the darker alleys were they were more familiar with the denizens. There was lodging, at least, to be found this night, before any work could be done.[/i][/color][/font]

[font=gothic][color=darkslategray]You know, just given our previous rpgs, you might want to consider adjusting that rating....I don't think it'll quite cover it somehow. [color=indigo] Name: Morrslaed Age: 25 Race: Human Class: Assassin Height: 6" Weight: 140 lbs Eye color: Grey Hair Color White Short Bio: Born in a caravanseri on the fringe of the desert to a whore and a camel drover, Morrslaed wasn't considered a useful child. Born an albino, and unable to tolerate any extended period under the desert sun, he had little to contribute to the inn he was born in, or to his father, and contributing to his mother's work didn't exactly strike his fancy, though it did occasionally spark in interest in some of his mother's clients. Learning how to run was an important lesson in Morrslaed's childhood. The unfortunate part was that there really wasn't anywhere to run, except into the desert. Being a rather contrary natured individual however, and despite his condition, that's where he ran. After one such incident, he was found staggering around, suffering heat stroke and delirious, by a group of desert nomads. Being a rather primitive sort, and pragmatic to boot, they saw more use in a ten year old boy than those at the inn, so Morrslaed fell in with them. Not that he was given much of a choice in the matter, mind you. Years of skulking around the inn payed off with the nomads, as most of their hunting was done by moonlight, with sneaking up on the creatures of the desert a vital part. Though his initial training consisted of spears and slings, once he turned 15, and was considered a man by the tribe, he was indoctrinated into the other time honoured ritual among desert tribes...Raiding. Quickly finding that caravan guards tended to have better weapons than nomads, Morrslaed made a point of appropriating whatever he could, working out how to use it, then deciding whether to discard it or not. By 20, a veteran of hundreds of skirmishes, he was proficient with most blades, and had introduced the nomads to bows, actually finding the tough desert trees made far more powerful short range recurves than the bows they captured, though the couldn't equal the range or stopping power of longbows. Two years after that, he left the tribe after picking a fight with the wrong member of a trading expedition, who turned out to be a female assassin who ended up having quite a few tricks to teach him. Since then, well...That's what we're here to find out. Equipment: Twin katals, several throwing daggers Armor : Black leather, with a white overwrap, leather braces and vambraces. [/color][/color][/font]

[font=gothic][color=darkslategray]Well, I may as well throw something into the ring. I'm bisexual, I'm a slut, I'm open to, and have done, just about everything (I have a few limits), and I know several bisexuals who are exactly the same. Mind you, we all went to the same parties, so that could have helped. My family's fine with it, it's common knowledge, and I have absolutely no care what people think about me. Not to say this any kind of marker for the normal experience or anything, but I would agree that bisexuals are often described as sluts, or "greedy" around here, and I have to say it's accurate in my experience. Anybody want to have a problem with that?[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=darkslategray]Liam gets to be a QUT bum with Prowse. For those interested, Ravenstorture was accepted into Biomedical Science at UQ, though she's deferring for a year. I should be getting my acceptance into the same course tomorrow, though I'm doing it immediately. Unfortunately, I have to live on campus though...[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=darkslategray]Damn...Any other time I'd love to take a shot at running it, but you're not the only a hectic daily schedule. Last term, last year of school...Painful.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=darkslategray][i]"Redemption. Retribution. They are one and the same, a silver thread shot through blackness. The blackness is my soul, though behind it looms the light that welcomes when the past is rectified-"[/i] "Etc, etc. Why are you still here? And put that down, you'll hurt yourself." [i]Kjaeric R'al Xei sighed, and lowered his hand, claws curving gracefully to rest on the much pitted leather that bespoke many a musing and mournful pose. He alighted from his roof top perch, looking reproachfully at the other speaker, his heart bleak in his eyes, his hair flowing out behind him, blood red cape whipping around him despite the complete lack of wind.[/i] "You disturb me again Vincent, and still understanding eludes me like spiderweb threads, visible only when your light chooses to illuminate them, but covering me, inescapably, nevertheless." [i]Vincent rolled his eyes, slightly amused that his replacement goth idol was doing so well, partly in sympathy for the people that had had to put up with him for years. He wasn't really too concerned about his charge though, since they wouldn't really be running on a time frame until that aggravating monotone shouter with the grey hair and eye patch got her "Time Junctioning" machine up and running. Having spent many years with Cid, Vincent had seen dodgery machinery to every extent, but this had to take the cake. Of course, it was actually just a time travel machine, and something of a plane hopper as well, but they had to name things oddly here. Just another secret to add onto Kjaeric R'al Xei's broken, tragic past full of unspeakable horror and misdeeds, leaving him full of secrets and the need for redemption. Of course, Vincent had set half of it up, being a lot better at that kind of thing than Kjaeric was, but that was another thing. Kjaeric rose and spun, flicking his cape out, the corner missing Vincent's eye by the width of an interposed hand. Sighing, Vincent remembered he had to give some kind of cryptic advice, a harbinger of some dreadful fate awaiting his charge.[/i] "Remember, the demons within you do not sleep, and your redemption waits not in your soul, but in your body. Blood runs true, yet another fate lies in store for you. Form is not spirit, but yours must be both. Go in blood, come back in both." [i]Kjaeric nodded, once, and turned, walking away in apparent slow motion, one of the hardest tricks to teach someone to do conviningly. Mainly in terms of getting your boots to echo properly. Like every other melodramatic, melancholy action, Kjaeric managed it perfectly. As if that wasn't enough, he was actually alright in a fight as well. Which was a good thing, given the hell house. Hardly a fitting opponent, in fact one of the most ridiculous possible, but Kjaeric was taking himself seriously enough for the both of them. His speed gauge flashing full in front of his eyes, he ducked under a lazy bomb and drove his claws in several times. Not even bothering to look at the damage, he walked away, feeling his experience increase and a small amount of extra weight in one of the many extra-dimensional pockets that were requisite of all people in his profession. Most people used them to pull things like huge sword out from at random intervals. The alternatives weren't pleasant. Kjaeric used them for various other things, since his weapons were fairly light. At the moment, there was a small menagerie of ice weasels in one of them. But that was another matter. Stepping into the machine, and hearing "RUN", and a slight bump, and "Ouch, that hurt, ya know?", the world shifted, swirled into a spiral that froze for a second, and then he woke up somewhere else.[/font][/color][/i]

[font=gothic][color=darkslategray][i]A nasty suspicion was starting to dawn. Kael had been following the path downwards for about an hour, and the darkness was starting to gain a slight incarnadine infusion. The tunnel curled slightly, a spiral, and at the bottom of that spiral was a likely molten environment. Kael didn't know many beings that lived in such places, but he did know one individual rather well, and he wasn't sure whether he should sharpen his words or his sword for the meeting. Aggravating creature, his father, nearly as much so as himself, should he choose to be honest about it. Which he doubted he would. At last coming into a large subterranen chamber, Kael rolled his eyes knowingly. Surrounded by a veritable lava sea, a small rocky islet rose majesticly, and reclined on top of it was a colossal drake. Kael knew him rather well.[/i] "Why the extensive rigamarole?" "You had a couple of reservations of first. I thought it would be best to let them simmer for a while." "So just how many hours was I walking around in an illusory desert for?" "Only six or seven. The rest of it was real" [i]Kael considered that a moment. His father must have been feeling generous, or impatient. Normally it would have been about a week. Perhaps it would be best to get to the heart of it quickly, and leave off stabbing his father in the eye until later.[/i] "So, again, why all this?" "Alright. This time, try to remember some of the things I tell you..." [i]Of course, he didn't actually say anything. He just flicked a stream of lazy thought towards his son. Kael caught several visions, a bit of history, and the names "Koryu" and "Hoshi". After taking a few minutes to internalise and make sense of it all, he turned to his father in disgust, and, reminding him that more of his blood flowed true than he'd like to think, walked across the air over the lava sea to the rocky island. He father flicked his serpentine neck, conceding the point with ill grace.[/i] "What the hell for? And why me? We've never been bothered to involve ourselves in the Gods' struggles before. What's changed?" "Well, this time it may just be neccessary. Our presence may be required to tip the balance to favour whatever side's asendence will benefit us. At the moment, that rests with Koryu, but should that change, I'll let you know." "Alright. For now. But why aren't you, or Xvirran, or someone else doing it? It would certainly be more effective." "Because I am an elemental drake, Xvirran, much as your cousin annoys me, mainly because of his similarity to you, is the spawn of a Trueblood dragon, and you are a lowly genasi. You get to do what you're told." "That's hardly been an issue before, and wouldn't be now, given what's at stake." [i]His father hissed, a sound like a steam canister being punctured and raised his head, eyes flashing, swaying ominously.[/i] "Amusing, and offensive, as the concept is, Xvirran, myself and the others are ...limited... by the lack of human blood. That will be neccessary, to varying extents, in the upcoming confrontation. Pure blood will not serve, nor would it be allowed." "...You do realise that does cause me to realise you've been playing fast and loose with the facts about Xvirran's parentage." "A fact you'll learn no more about, and keep to yourself. You can go now." [i]Kael spun on his heel and left, this time striding straight across the lava, just to get in the final point. A slight stirring behind him warned him that leaving a little quicker would be a good idea. He wasn't quite up to the idea of facing his father right now, since he wasn't sure about just how much of his surroundings was real, and how much illusion. His thoughts turned back to his "mission" as the lava cave faded behind him. Logic dictated that finding those involved was the first priority, and the second priority was finding out what was important enough to break millenia of non-involvement on the draconic part. Despite what his father said, he had a feeling he could still get a couple of old acquaintances involved in this, mainly in intelligence gathering. There was more going on here than he'd been told, and he wanted to find out what. Just to be a pain in the ass, basically. He emerged from the cave, with a now fully open rock face, and walked back out into the desert. Disappointingly smaller than last time he'd seen it.[/font][/color][/i]

[font=gothic][color=darkslategray]Name: Kjaeric R'al Xei Age: 34 Sex: Male Class: Monk/Assassin/various other all rounders to get the minority groups who still haven't gotten over how cool special effects makes martial arts. Equip: Ridiculously nasty looking blades inexplicably used in conjunction with a very impressive looking but ultimately impractical martial arts style. Magic: A bit of black, mainly because black is cool. Special Ability: Transform. Turns into a series of generally illogical and biologially ridiculous creatures that seem much more ineffectual than they really should be. Experience Level: Four. For balancing the game's purpose, and making sure the hero is the all round strongest and coolest character (except to those minority groups mentioned above) previous experience is basically ignored. Appearance: Well, we had to get the goths and the freaks in some how. Typical tall, pale thin goth in black and dark crimson. Great for bisexuals and straights alike, assuming you like the type. Don't worry, he does. Personality: Typically morose, morbid, apathetic, disdainful, cynically amusing, yet somehow still partially deferential to the hero and commited to the group, and with a small store of appropriately motivational heroic quotes to be ladled out at plot building cut scenes before whichever final boss has reared its ugly, or really attractive, head. Biography: Has undergone every possible catastrophe multiple times over, including scientific experimentation, abudction by non terrestrials, and being a street mime. If it's odd or kinky, he's done it... There needs to be a sexual subtext somewhere, and it always seems to get lumped in with the minority character.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=darkslategray][i]His trackless step still easy, despite the hours he'd spent out here, Kael cast an irritated glance at the sun, aggravated that his abilities failed to extend to dealing with the temperature. He could certainly ignore it if he had to, but having to was starting to grow tedious. Stopping for a second, he considered what he could actually do, and decided that despite the overkill factor, it was probably worth it. Concentrating, Kael lowered the air pressure around him on a huge scale, something like a hundred yard radius, forming a cylinder equal to that high. It wasn't actually that difficult, not when the air was this hot anyway. And along those lines, he directed waves of heat, one of the few abilities he had outside the sphere of air, into the section of high pressure above the quasi-evacuated area he'd created. Rather than suck back into the low pressure area, the heat caused the particles above his cylinder to rise upwards rapidly, vapourising no small number of them at the same time. Kael braced himself and released his will. Sure enough, a rush of cooler air flew over him. So his theory worked, but sifting sand out of the air would be tedious. Tampering with natural laws was probably not the best option here. Sighing, Kael assumed his wyvern form and spiralled upwards. From his vantage point, he had a much better, though hardly encouraging, view of the desert. Asiding the peaks on the horizons, the only landmark he could see was a small rocky outcrop a couple of miles away. There was no sign of outward habitation, though he thought he could make out something resembling an alcove in the rock that could house anything. A couple of minutes flying later, the heat bothering him much less in this reptilian, endothermic form, and the rock feature was below him. There was certainly a low cave like opening in the rock, and was probably worth investigating, even if only for a place for a quick meal. Landing, he resumed his own form with some relief, and cautiously ducked his head down to take a look, his hand on his sword. After a low spur of rock, the cave op to a height where he could comfortably stand, though most normal people wouldn't be able to. Slipping easily in, he stood up and looked around, not particularly bothered by the relative darkness. Interestingly enough, there was a metal door embedded, at a 45 degree angle, on the inner face. Without much thought, or particular concern, for the consequences, he walked over and knocked. Even more interestingly, that action caused the rock face behind him to shudder and fall, leaving him theoretically entombed. The door did open though.[/I] "...That's never happened before."[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=darkslategray]Linken Park? Green Day? ....I think I'll leave it at that. [i]One of the unfortunate features of predictable geography was that it was always slightly worse than one expected. Except in this case. Normally, the non coast side of mountain would descend into a grassy plain for a while, then peter out. This one went straight to desert. Not that Kael objected to cooked sand or anything, it just got stuck in his teeth. Actually, the only objection to Kael had to deserts was the monotony. And one of the more monotonous things about deserts was that anything his size was automatically looked on as a food source. Meaning that right now, he had some serious dissuading to do. By hand, preferable. A rather typical grey worm, not particularly large for its kind, had decided burying itself under where Kael had been walking, and then attempting the terrestial equivalent of a shark's normal attack would be a good idea. It becomes rapidly less intelligent when the reactions of the target are measured in picoseconds (that's 10^-12 for all you non science students). Not even bothering to leap to the side, Kael just slid backwards slightly with the dislodged sand, landing on the tip of the worm's open maw. From the head that emerged, the creature was less than thirty feet in length, hardly a worry. With a rather impressive display, the creature heaved itself high enough to fully launch its full length from the sand, and crash down heavily in a dust cloud that momentarily turned the world brown. Kael moved with the worm, staying on its back as it landed, and flicking his sword into his hand. Feeling his weight, the worm started to roll, forcing Kael to flip off to the left. Rather oddly for its kind, the worm swivelled its head around to look at him, then sidewinded its way in the opposite direction, something he'd never seen them do before. When it got to about a hundred feet away, it stopped and reversed direction, straightening so that it was again basically charging towards him. Stupid move, but it hadn't gotten the point the first time. Judgement was hardly a problem in his case, so with almost laconic ease, he sidestepped to the right and brought the blade up obliquely, cutting into the corner of the creature's mouth. Before it had even started to slow itself, he spun, catlike, and delivered a back hand blow with his right that dug in, and used the worm's momentum to cut a three foot gash out of its side, that ended with a sharp hook upwards as Kael spun his blade out. Kael thought things were going rather well, but it was at that point he found out why the worm had learnt to sidewind. Being about two feet away actually came close to testing him. A curious effect of the sinuous movement was that he could simply move into the section of the worm that was "retracted", or hadn't slipped sideways yet in terms of that move unit, meaning he didn't have to run directly away from it to avoid being crushed. Eventually, the idiotic thing grew as tired of it as he did, and stopped, swivelling its head around to level a baleful, if mindless, gaze, and snap at him. The effect was rather spoiled by the fact that half of its face was hanging off its jaw. Trying a new tactic, the thing coiled up onto its back end, weaving its head around a good twenty feet in the air. Again, the creature was attempting to rely on speed, something that really didn't work against its current opponent. As it attempted to drop onto him, he rolled left, sweeping his sword upwards, and giving the thing a similar cut to the other side of its head. This time, as it charged into the sand, it didn't stop. Kael stood up on the balls of his feet, but no subtle vibrations signified the worm would try again. Best decision it ever made no doubt. It was at that point he realised how the worm had detected him. Sighing at the necessity for what passed, by his standards, as prudence, he wound a slight, no more than a few millimetres thick, pocket of air around his boots. Admittedly, that air was dense enough to hold the weight of your average boulder, but it was still compressable enough (and that took all sorts of interesting rearrangements) to seem like a wind touching the surface of the sand, meaning he wouldn't be bothered by quasi-subterranean predators again. Staring out at the bleak sand with something akin to resignation tempered only by his natural apathy, he trudged off. At least he didn't have to worry about sandstorms.[/font][/color][/i]

[font=gothic][color=darkslategray][i]All things considered, it was rather windy for this time of year. Had most being taken reflection at that point, they probably would have attributed the word "gale" to the situation, with an admitted degree of accuracy. Not being most beings, Kael wasn't particularly bothered by the wind. He damn well better not be bothered by it. It was his fault it was like this anyway. Unless one considered that he didn't actually want to be here, at which point one really should append blame to the reason Kael was actually here. Which was to say his wayward father. As reclusive as Kael was, seeing him after more than 30 years was something of a shock. Seeing that he was just as acidic wasn't too surprising. The worst part of the entire situation was that he had decided that Kael had something to do, but typically didn't give details. All he had to do was end up in the lowlands, or at least lower than his current altitude, more vagueness there, and what he "had to do" would come back to him. What back to him meant, he wasn't quite sure. There were times when Kael was quite morbidly certain that his father had a few odd ancestors of his own, and he wouldn't be surprised to trace his geneaology back to Loki, at that, in one of his more peverse moments. There were advantages to his situation though, the current one he was exercising was his wyvern form. A vicious winged drake, about ten feet in length without the tail, and with a wingspan twenty feet across. No front leg, as his shoulders formed into his wings, though there were claws present there, and pound for pound, his shoulders were more massively developed than even a greater dragon. And not surprising. The cheating bastards used magic to aid them in flying. Besides, he'd trade an unpredictable facility for spewing fire for the rather useful poison tipped sting on his tail, especially in this situation. Exactly what this situation was, where here was, and why Kael found it so neccessary for it to be so windy was a matter half a step removed from exactly what he was meant to be doing. Which was why Kael was less than happy. Not that he had any particular eagerness to go about his idiotic task, but rather that his father, and attendant other sentients, tended to take a dim view of this kind of thing. The problem was the humans. As usual. More precisely, the problem was the missiles. A small whirlind had taken care of the arrows, but some idiot in that pathetic excuse for a fortress had some skill with a ballista, and in his current form, Kael couldn't dredge up a large enough wind to deal with that. So he was reduced to simply avoiding them, not a difficult task, but not one he could perform while attempting to fly away. Evidently used to dealing with dragonkind, the ballista was protected by a heavy metal covering, fire scarred but still strong. However, they weren't familiar enough with dragonkind to realise that wyverns tended to look down on humans to the point of ignoring them, unless they were hungrier than usual. This was however getting tedious. As the next massive bolt, a spear nearly as long as his tail, flew towards him, Kael banked ever to slightly, so that the bolt flew just over his shoulder. Lashing upwards, he impaled the bolt in mid flight with his tail. He jolted for a second, before his powerful wings managed to counter the bolt's momentum. Allowing himself to fall for a second, he flicked one wing tip up and hit the back of the bolt, spinning it around so the point was forward. Bet they'd never seen that before. Assuming a position something like that of a riled scorpion, which was more than slightly ridiculous, he acknowledged, he dipped forward slightly and flicked his tail forward with a whipcrack retort. The metal casing above the ballista was equipped to deal with the fire of a dragon. It had a little more trouble resisting a quarter ton spear falling point first from several hundred feet up. And when you consider that the tip of that spear had been engineered to penetrate the scales of foresaid drake, how much trouble would one suppose it had with a simple bit of human engineered metal. Not a lot. There was a rather satisfying crunch that could be heard at his altitude, even over the wind, which he casually dispelled. He swooped over the castle for a moment, letting out a harsh cry, tinged with more amusement than anything else, before sweeping off. Idiotic humans not having any understanding of the real world. Never mind he had some human blood in his veins, Kael still didn't have a lot of respect for any of them he'd met so far. He was heading east, simply because when he'd tried west, he'd run up against enough stonewalls to realise something was less than subtly telling him to try something else. However, he'd been away long enough that he wasn't quite sure where he was, so stopping at the next village and assuming his natural form was probably a good idea. For all his good ideas were normally worth.[/font][/color][/i]

[font=gothic][color=darkslategray]I'm not playing Lacroix. Don't even ask. Name: Kael Sinivarian Apparent Age: 47, equivalent of human 16, Eyes: Storm clouds, basically. Hair: Grey, falls past his shoulders, tied back, though it's hardly neccessary. Sex: Male. Elemental Affinity: Wind Race: Effectively human, actually genasi. A Genasi is the offspring of a human and an elemental. They have a natural affinity for both the element and its manifestation. Genasi differ according to element. Specifically for air genasi, they tend to be aloof, though laconic and occasionally mercurial. Physically, they're fast, very fast, no matter what kind of encumberance seems to be holding them down. Other than that, they're not that special. Class: "Sword saint". Front line combat creatures, but ones that rely on speed. Wear no armour, and use only a single weapon, one that they train with almost exclusively. Primary Weapon: Half sword. Not a weapon of great stature, about three and a half feet in total length. One and a half feet of that is hilt, which is leather bound steel. No crosspiece. The other two foot is blade. The blade angles thickens angles forward slightly about two thirds of the way up, with a slight curve. Closer to a ninjato or sabre than a scimitar, by any means. The blade is a mainly grey metal with dizzying black designs wound through the cloudlike appearance. Very slightly hooked point. Air affinity, divides pressure zones (the relevance of that is explained below) Secondary Weapons: None. Spells: (Wind) Tempest: Tornado, gale or slight breeze. Whatever suits the situation. (Wind) Denial: A wonderfully efficient spell executed through the use of his weapon. By enforcing an area of low air pressure around himself, he can greatly reduce the effectiveness of an opponent's movements, avoid missiles, that kind of thing. If he wants to be even worse about it, a simply looping motion creates an area of enforced low pressure around the opponent's head. Breathing rapidly becomes difficult. (Wind) Avatar: The absolute quintessence of speed, agility and deadliness is the wyvern, and his father's blood allows him to assume that form, though he is not truly a dual creature as would be a shapeshifter. Also, the wyvern form assumed is just that, without any kind of magical enhancement. (Wind/Fire) Redemption: Not pretty. Superheats all the air within a confined space (say, on a cellular level), which causes it to expand, making it invariably painful even to creatures normally immune to fire. Completely ruins anything resembling a homeostatic equilibrium too. In dire circumstances, the air can be superheated into plasma, meaning you get a complete vacuum in the affected area, albeit one with enough energy to immediately immolate anything unfortunate enough to be a channel. That one has some incovenient side effects. (At this point it must be mentioned that Kael was under suspicion for several cases of "spontaneous combustion" for quite a while) Appearance: About five foot tall, the height actually an advantage in his style of fighting. Very thin, probably weighs about 100 pounds, though he's stronger than he looks. Hair and eyes mentioned as above. Tends to wear loose black pants and a black shirt with grey flowing designs on it, tight around the torso, looser around the shoulders, down to just past his elbow. Wears a pair of black fingerless gloves that cut off at the first knuckle and the back of the wrist. The only form of armour he wears is a pair of black leather bracers on his forearms, and they don't see a lot of use in that function. Personality: Dry, cynical, sardonic and sometimes acerbic.Changes moods quickly, though according to logical reasons (to him). Tends to base decisions on logic, and has no use for notions of morality or right and wrong. Idiocy in any form tends to aggravate the hell out of him. (Not to be confused with occasional directed insanity) Apparent Biography: His father was an elemental drake, his mother a simple human. His father's blood conferred him enough power to be left alone, and his mother's blood the anonymity not to be that remarkable, as he favours his mother in looks. After a fairly unremarkable child hood, he spent most of his life in the mountains, working out the intrinsics of his bloodline. After receiving a rather sobering visit from his annoyed father, he was firmly told to stop wasting time and start doing what he was supposed to. Since he actually has no idea what that is, he's wandering around in an attempt to find out.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=darkslategray]Having a vague storyline idea is good, simply so you know where to push the rpg if it starts to stall. However, having a very set storyline in your head often fails, unless you're in very close contact with all the participants. And then people are hesitant to post because they don't want to ruin the storyline (the main reason for rpg deaths, in my studied opinion). Just letting things run doesn't really work either though, as it often degenerates into either filler posts that eventually trail off, or, given the type of rpg a series of fights or romances that don't really go anywhere. Another note in this regard is that I'm yet to see an rpg where the creator plays a "DM" style role really work that well. So I'm very interested to see how Torment turns out.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=darkslategray]Hmmm. I remember that damn AL incident mentioned, simply because I was the one that had to deal with it...I find it amazing that people think the threat to spar somebody over the internet would actually intimidate someone, too. MaxSonic. Now how many times did end up having to be metaphorically shot in the kneecaps? Another thing Warlock's post made me remember were the Reploid rpgs he Flash started. I jumped on the bandwagon a little late in that regard, but still had a lot of fun. Another great spam fest was the My Picture forum...that gave rise to quite a few problems I believe. Though, reading ReFlux's posts, I remember the one great negative about moderating the Battle Area. Reading through rap battles is very, very tedious.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=darkslategray]Ah. Memories. Probably the best being Latham Adatym. First rpg I was ever in, and the reason I joined the boards, at that. There were only five of us, Ravenstorture, Raiha, RicoTranzrig, LiamC2 and myself (Cloricus was in there for a short while...and the arguments that ensued from that were nearly as good as the ones mentioned below), but we still got it up to 400 posts, and managed to end it semi coherently. A lot of fun that. SYF. Liam's wonderchild, the third incarnation recently died. I was only the last one, but they all make great reading. Liam doesn't really get a lot of credit for it, but he's done quite a few great rpgs. Online: Another World. One of James' early attempts at revolutionising the Adventure Arena (or whatever it was called back then)...we even had little avatars for our characters. It was damn good, but suffered and untimely death. Pity. The ES Clan, or whatever they called themselves. A group I was marginally affilliated with, they tended to make for great adventuring company. The wonderful debates that used to crop up in Otaku Lounge. Before the threads started getting done to death, you used to be able to get into a very heated debate in nearly every thread running. Cloricus and I used turn every thread we posted in into an argument, which annoyed the hell out of the mods at the time, as I remember, but it was fun. Rae (Lady Asphxia) and Dark_Apocalyps's newbie poaching. The day Mnemolth decided to absent himself semi-permanently was also a rather happy event. Though, his rpg writing competition (I can't even remember what it was called), was rather fun...until he made us write poetry, and only one person graced him with a reply. It kind of died after that. And mainly just the good old days when I had enough time to partipate in a score or so or rpgs and spars. The only real negatives I can think off handedly were moderating the recruitment forum (There are a lot of stupid people out there), and having to deal with a lot of Taylor Hewwit's early posts. That was really, really trying.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=darkslategray]Name: Katrina Age: 23 Sex: Female Appearance: Katrina stands 5"10, and is rather slender for that height, about 65 kg (140 odd pounds, for the rest of you). Evidently, she has a less than solid build, but she's hardly the pencil thin thing one expects. A few athletic style hobbies have left a considerable amount of wiry muscle on her. Despite her lifestyle, she's rather pale skinned, except for a few freckles on the backs of her shoulders. They don't seem to go away, much to her annoyance. Her hair is a deep auburn, and atypically straight, falling to a few inches past her shoulders, and normally worn tied back. Her eyes are a washed out grey, and this appearance is heightened by the thin rimmed glasses she wears, an unfortunate contribution to the "scientist" look. Dresses for comfort, rather appearance. In this case, a pair of black cotton deckhands pants, basically very baggy cotton pants, kind of similar to the traditional samuri things. Black long sleeved T-shirt, with white celtic designs down the sleeves and in the centre of her back. Tight leather fingerless gloves extend two inches past her wrist. Wears a pair of combat boots. Background: Katrina was born in Queensland, Australia. A very normal child, except for a lack of interest in the social aspects of life most teenage girls find fascinating. She was never awkward, or naive, she simply wasn't interested. This was in main due to the fact that Australia has an unfortunately high percentage of rednecks, football jocks, and other such aggravations comprising the population of that age. Instead, she devoted her time to reading, her studies, and the intellectual semantics surrounding anything not on the ABC or SBS (It's an Australian thing).Fairly intelligent, she did well at school, though hardly exceptional, except to her family. Her parents had decent jobs, but they'd hardly gotten them based on intellect. Her older brother wasn't stupid, but spent more time playing around with exotic weapons and more exotic callgirls than using his mind. Though he was nice enough to teach Katrina a bit of karate here and there. Anyway, after highschool, she start university, doing a course in Biotechnology, and was five years into that when somebody decided, probably her father, that running off overseas would be a good idea. Now, Katrina hadn't been living at home anyway, and had seen her family maybe three times a year at most, but her father still decided that she was coming along. And, to her dismay, they were going to the US. Hardly her idea of an improvement, but she was sure she could find some kind of decent university over there where she could finish her masters. Instead, she ended up in Ottawa. Apparently, the only thing interesting to do here would be to analyse the dead remains of the town's tolerance for cynical foreigners.... Equipment: None. No pockets, and she couldn't be bothered carrying a bag. Miscellaneous: Generally rather laconic, she's often pretty cynical, mainly about the "state of the world". She has little tolerance for illogical behaviour, emotional behaviour, stupidity, and basically any other conclusion one wouldn't come to if they put their mind to it. She never gets emotional, she's actually rather jaded. Doesn't like water or spiders. The first she can get past, but she really, really doesn't like spiders.[/font][/color]