The Harlequin

[font=gothic][color=indigo][I]Quin glanced at Jonathan. Not having a lot of experience in that area, and more to the point not having a lot of inclination or interest, he simply turned away and surveyed the surrounding area, his blade, a three foot flamberge, spinning from its baldric to his hands and back, more an excersise designed to keep fingers limber rather than the result of any nervousness....or murderous psychopathicity. Quin followed a simple philosophy: Sociopathic apathy. He'd kill you if he cared. Well, that established, he was certainly willing to sit there and wait. That captain might come back, after all.[/I] OOC: You tell me to post, but you didn't leave me a lot to work with.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=indigo]OOC: I suppose the much hunted demon had better show up. IC: [I]Kynjaka watched the priestess, not particularly concerned. Despite the fact that she was certainly more powerful than any other he had yet to run into, and the fact that she could probably, though it would sure as hell take a lot, banish him, and perhaps even subdue him. But that didn't seem to be her intent. Simply because she approached him on his grounds. Not that he'd done anything to make them his grounds, but she didn't know that. He sniffed the air warily, the inborn sensitivity to magic going off like a siren in his head. Nevertheless, as the priestess approached, the ward smacked into him. He snarled, and centered himself, and the ward washed through him, leaving him bound by the barrier she had erected. No doubt he could have, uninterrupted, done something about it, but she had to work that in. A banespell. Pain in the ***.... She spoke spitefully, in some rather esoteric language he had no experience in. Which was saying something. But then, she did purr at him afterwards, so it was quite probably gibberish. He shrugged his massive shoulders and spun his flamberge into a steady swipe designed to rip the body apart at slightly under the neck. She blocked with the wolf-head staff, which promptly attempted to bite the blade. He looked at it curiously, then in amusement as it shied away from the raspy surface. The more interesting part was that she had resisted the strike. He continued putting pressure on anyway, and they both stood there, in a form of equilibrium.[/I] Kynjaka: How long would you prefer to do this for? "Until you're willing to talk." Kynjaka: What have you got priestess.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=indigo][I]Ilmiwyrth gritted his teeth, thankfully she was interested in things other than those involving his mouth. He found himself crushed against her, and wasn't objecting. He twisted his broken wrist sharply, cutting skin open with bone. She watched in fascination as he grimly wrenched, the bone protruding out of the skin. She gasped, and he smiled slowly at her, before running it down her face. OOC: Would post more, but have to leave.[/font][/color][/I]

[font=gothic][color=indigo]OOC: There's nothing wrong with licking random people....Not to my knowledge anyway... IC: [I]Qyrain was lead into the library, but not into Miles' study. He and the captain followed curiously as they were lead past it, into another smaller room, which Qyrain would have sworn looked like a closet. Miles suddenly stopped thoughtfully, then opened the door.[/I] Miles: Do you have any jurisdiction in Formello? Captain: I don'th think so, why- [I]Miles abruptly kicked him back, and yanked Qyrain into the room. When they stepped out, they were in the much more familiar library at Formello.[/I] Qyrain: He's not going to be happy... Miles: And we have far more important problems at the moment. Qyrain: How true. Such as that damn horse.... Miles: It'll end up here. Trust me. And I'll tell you about the horse later. [I]Qyrain wasn't sure whether he wanted to hear it or not, all things considered.[/font][/color][/I]

[font=gothic][color=indigo]OOC: Can I just make a note people...I DO NOT want my damn scimitars! Not for any reason! Okay? There's a reason I stopped using them, and that reason is that I'm quite sick of basing my character on Drizzt (which is obviously what I did, back when I was annoying, new, and less than creative). So please allow my my piece of mind, and leave my damn scimitars out of this. And in that vein... IC: [I]Lacroix looked down at him, shaking his head. He looked up to Raven, who seemed fine. Lacroix took a quick series of glances at the other people, who seemed completely at loss at what to do, other than drag him. Lacroix, always fairly short with this being in question, was not so hesitant about dragging him. He took the pack off his back, and ripped the leather thongs off. The make-shift lashings were quite effectively tied around Ryth's ankles. Lacroix kicked his pack off the road. It spilled open, revealing nothing but a scimitar. Eve caught his arm and pointed. Lacroix looked her in the eyes, and smiled deeply. Eve let go, satisfied. Lacroix, now rather happy with himself, picked up the lashings, and rather effortlessly dragged Ryth along. By the ankles. His head scraping across the ground. He got about ten metres, with everyone staring, some in horror, some in amusement, some in complete and utter apathy, when Eve simply sighed, glared at him balefully and walked up, cutting the straps with a procured dagger. Ryth, who Lacroix had carrying with the leather thongs over his shoulder, had all the fun of experiencing everything from the shoulders down, or perhaps up, hitting the ground with a loud thump. There were a few muffled giggles at that...Lacroix sighed in disgust. He again knelt down, this time with his hands over Ryth's eyes. Ryth's body disappeared, and Lacroix turned his hands over, holding a perfectly spherical piece of obsidian in his hands.[/I] Lacroix: Basically, he's in the middle of a non-existant plane of existance. Eve: Shouldn't that kill him. Lacroix: Technically, yes. But considering that his physical body doesn't really anything when his spirit is stuck inside a small rock, then he'll stay alive until I'm ready for him to come back. Eve: If you accidently lose that piece of obsidian... Lacroix: Then you and your lackeys can try and kill me later. For now, we have somewhere to be.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=indigo]It means that if you don't consign conversations like that to PMs, threads get closed. Please edit your posts, rather than repost, when you do actually write something, as well.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=indigo]And I do this sometimes: If this thread continues to be nothing but a series of one-line, often irrelevant posts, it will get closed. And then you can have people PM you for sign ups, which is what you should have done in the first place, all things considered. [/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=indigo]If that one way or another includes the page of random conversation we get here, then no you won't. It is no way required the members write a string of posts about being patient. It just makes me have to read them, and I tend to prefer not to have to do that. Thank you. [/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=indigo]I like it...asiding the last line. I don't really get the ring reference...[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=indigo]Are you intending to set that one to music? It has potential...And it's not even poxy this time.hehehe....[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=indigo][I]He poured her own life, ironic, into her mouth, leaving her choking at the rank taste, and the sheer volume he inflicted upon her. He smiled again, though it was a little dazed with the pleasure adn pain he inflicted and received, and grabbed her ankles, pulling her bent knees away from her, forcing her into a far more...constricting....position. Forcing them both to feel what he did to her with far greater clarity. He absently wondered just how much punishment her pelvis could take...He'd already cracked a rib. A few more bones certainly wouldn't be too much more effort. He decided to leave off the bludgeoning, and reconcentrate on the piercing, opening up three lighter, but quick, wounds in her stomach. As she gasped, he reared up, stiffening his thumbs. He plunged downwards, sinking them nearly an inch into her shoulder cavities. She gave a ear-shattering shriek, and collapsed back, whether unconscious or tranced was unknown.[/font][/color][/I]

[font=gothic][color=indigo]OOC: Hmmm. We've had death, blood, sex, war and pain. I guess that leaves only severe and ultimately painful torture. Why, you want me to take care of it? I'd be honoured.... IC: [I]Kynjaka reached his own cavern, a relatively small niche set forty or so feet up the walls of the greater cave. The small opening in the rock face started with a mere crevice that widened quite sharply, but a long-forgotten quake had shaken some of the rock down into the bottom of the deep crack, and years of weathering had created a floor. The cave was a mere thirteen feet high, Kynjaka could easily touch the roof, and it extended only twenty feet back. It was, however, almost completely inaccessible naturally. When Kynjaka had first retreated to the Underdark, and fallen in with Khalith and his crew, this cave had been a dimly seen blot behind a veritable wall of stalactites. Now, several of those stalatcites had been removed. However, there was still a quite effective maze that needed to be traversed, while concentrating on remaining airborne. And it was now tagged with various detection spells, for both magic and for presence, whether it be physical or astral. Kynjaka, with his natural wings, had no trouble reaching the cave, and would have simply broken the stalactites away if he had. The cave walls were smooth, and were lit with a single, suspended globe of faerie fire, appearing like a will-o-the-wisp in the otherwise impenetrable darkness. Inside the small alcove, was housed the few meager possessions he required. None of the mortal comforts. Merely a stand for Ryvkaileir, an obsidian bowl for scrying and blood rituals, and a few manacles, currently occupied. A certain neccessity. Kynjaka knelt down, examing his current captive. A small, dog-like demon, sent by one of the balor to ascertain his whereabouts. Its regenerative abilities made it somewhat perfect for Kynjaka's frustrations. And, today as every other day, Kynjaka found this mortal realm frustrating. The potential for untold death and wanton ravaging of mortals was within a fingertip's grasp, a hair trigger at times, but so abstract things held him back. Abstract things... A city full of drow...His own kind....The Spider Goddess. Such simple inhibitions. Kynjaka involuntarily snarled, elicting a whimper from the small demon. A mere four foot imp-like thing, not fit to be a familiar to an adept. Not a drow adept anyway, who would certainly not risk his life with such a dangerous and unpredictable cipher like an easily familiar. Kynjaka stood and turned away. He'd deal with the creature, perhaps permanently, in a few minutes. He'd danced on the edge of banishing the pitiful wretch for days, leaving it a quivering mass of nerve, at both the banishment and the punishment that would be inflicted by whatever greater Abyss-spawn sent it here. For now, Kynjaka focused on the ball of faerie fire. Purple, the amethyst of his eyes under light, it appeared a tightly compacted ball of swirling energy, rather than the fey, winking mist-like glow of normal faerie fire. Truly told, this particular spark of force was enough to bore a ten foot hole in the cave wall, should Kynjaka have felt like throwing it. It was more than enough to destroy flesh of any kind. Which was why he kept it. A rather effective, rather innocous, sentinel, not subject to disloyalty or ...accidents. More than once he'd found charred remains upon his return. The ball of light hung motionless, asiding the constant convection currents within its radiant sphere. But this time, no vagrant ash graced his floor. Either his guard had been far more thorough than usual, or he had not been disturbed. And that idea was by neccessity, by the very mores of survival in this pace, completely absurd. Kynjaka narrowed his dark eyes, and retreived his serpentine-bladed sword. It was common for most drow to enspell protection, in the forms of warding runes or ensorcelled guardians. And it was even more common for drow to key in the grounding of the spell into their weapons. It was a reliable way of unbinding, as the paranoid dark elves never left home without their weapons. Kynjaka lunged, and the ball skipped side. A single sideswing caught it, and it fizzled out in a concatenation of violet sparks. Kynjaka immediately spun to face the exit, catching the attackers offguard. Kynjaka never keyed that release ward into his spells. He left home without his weapon far too often to ever pass for drow. Confronted by an enraged glabrezu, more than one of the furtive assassins, most likely engaged in some ill-thought out punitive gesture, hung back. There were six of them, wraith-like shadows in the darkness, lit only by Kynjaka's otherworldly vision. No doubt they saw in heat spectrum, and the glowing demon would present an easy target. Several bolts, from wicked pistol crossbows, flooded into Kynjaka's body, all perfect strikes. But the poison that made the weapons so deadly, so infamous, proved useless against the demon's arcane protections and extra-planar constitution. Kynjaka smiled, his fangs appearing as black rents in infrared vision. He swept forward, hurling the flamberge at his first opponent. The drow, a barely flickering form, was thrown against one of the walls, impaled and shuddering his last life onto Kynjaka's wicked weapon, but the demon spared no moment to give thanks that the blade had not tumbled over the edge. He concentrated on the next brave killer, who wielded two short swords, an unusual choice for the proud drow, who preferred to show off their skill with two longer weapons. Kynjaka leant back, and sent one panther-clawed foot lashing forward. The simple front kick met a series of devilishly fast parries and counterstrikes, and managed to draw blood through some arcane purpose. Kynjaka threw that massive foot to the side, knocked one of the drow's blade out of position. One weapon very nearly sundered, the remarkably agile elf could only avoid the snake quick strikes of Kynjaka's four arm. At last, one of Kynjaka's drow like hands closed on the runt's shoulder, and lifted him. A savage tearing with his teeth, and the drow's head hung by an exposed spinal column. The other four leapt on him, short daggers piercing him, leaving him feeling like he'd been hit by a barbed chain, so precise and in line were the thrusts. He staggered, and the drow pressed viciously, knowing that this advantage was their only hope. Behind them, the small demon held captive squealed with delight, hoping his tormentor would be overcome. Kynjaka sent him a look that traced icy fingers into its murky soul. Kynjaka regained his masterful equilibrium, and simply shook the now frantic elves off like a dog shaking off water. A backhand with a panther-claw ended the battle for one of the elves, as chain mail hit stone, ribs hit mail, and internal organs splattered against the inside of the elf's chest cavity. Another sharp kick sent the fourth elf over the edge. His mouth could be seen working rapidly in a levitation spell, but his head struck one of the stalatcites, and the backlash of miscast magic destroyed his concentration, seconds before the ground destroyed his bone structure... Two drow remaining, one nervous, one vengeful. The vengeful one ran forward, a long kasurigama twirled around his head. Kynjaka slid sideways, raising one leg in a side kick as he did so. The drow stumbled and fell. His remaining accomplice looked in surprise, for the blow had appeared to miss. Kynjaka gave him a look to quell balefire, and raised his foot. His dew claw dripped blood. The sidekick had torn the elf's throat out. Kynjaka stepped back, picked up the body, and with a contemptuous flick of his wrist, sent both drow hurtling out of his cave. The survivor enacted his levitation spell with more success than his predeccessor. Kynjaka allowed him to. The chances of him returning where somewhat minimal. The chances of him being remotely effective if he did were even less. Kynjaka slowed his un-neccessary breath, and cleaned up his lair, removing the remaining corpses. The lesser fiend whimpered, knowing retributation would be painful. Kynjaka ignored it a moment, taking stock of his injuries. No doubt the blades in question that had sown agony through his body were enchanted, but whether specific extra-planar destroying dwoemers were placed on them were yet uncertain. He held up one bleeding arm, and looked closely at the wound. His matter was dissapating, so he needed not worry about specific bane spells. Which meant healing was mere hours away...depending on how quickly he finished the imp-like fiend. He slowly recentred his attention, the creature's fear bleeding into its aura unconditionally, leaving it an emotional wreck. If Kynjaka set it free right now, it would die nevertheless, simply of fright. Kynjaka moved forward and again knelt in front of it. This time, he put his two humanoid hands together, and unfolded them so that their palms were up. In his hands now glowed a long-stemmed rose of purple light. The symbol for dark love on the surface, with the lesser known, esoteric symbolism of death haunting those who received it in an intangible but undeniably soul-shattering way. The rose was many-thorned, indeed appeared too spiked to be natural. Of course it wasn't, being nothing more than a bundle of ley-energy, but it nevertheless mimiced the deathtrap flower in every other way. Kynjaka prised the demon's mouth open, twirling the rose between the fingers of one hand. He looked down, what could have been sympathy in his eyes. He reversed the rose, and placed it stem first in the creature's throat. It gurgled as the thorns scraped downwards, and whimpered even more, but the true fun was yet to come. Kynjaka's hand caressed the throat of the being in front of him, before abruptly tightening. The creature's oesophagus tightened in involuntary response, sending spikes deep into the sensitive tissue. It screamed, even without breath. Kynjaka casually yanked it out, carrying with it black bile that seared the rock. Kynjaka stood, dispassionate, as the creature writhed. At last, he grew tired of its worthless thrashing, and pinned it in place. His panther claws started at the middle top of the thing's collarbone, and slit downwards. Even as it squawked, Kynjaka peeled the skin away in strips. Muscle now lay exposed. Kynjaka stretched his panther claws to their full extend, and placed a hand over each ribcage. Each claw played lightly over the muscle between the ribs, light enough to promise, light enough not to hurt yet. The beast understood quickly, and held its breath. A lesser being, it could not do this for very long, and holding its breath was actually the most painful thing it could have done. For when it was forced to gasp for air, the muscled shuddered. They drew inwards, past the in-curved with almost no damage, but as they expanded again, the caught and tore. So desperate was the creature's need for breath that it continued anyway, ripping its muscles apart, asphyxiating it even more. Kynjaka watched, black and crimson fluid entwining in a dark play of pooling and being sprayed across the room. The creature's pain resonated throughout the room, overshadowing even the low screams. More blood and bile came forth, seeping now to a trickle. The fascination Kynjaka had once held was long gone, replaced by an almost analytical contempt. The being would die soon, no matter what. Kynjaka removed the manacles that bound the wasted being, and again spun energy into physical matter. A series of thin hooks tied to string, much like those used to catch fish by surface dwellers, appeared, in a vast multitude. Using his mind, Kynjaka affixed many of them to the wall, and promptly hung the beast on them. Hundreds of small hooks piercing every part of its body. As it writhed about, they ripped further. Kynjaka allowed himself a slight smile, knowing he offered the creature a choice. Either stay still, and let the hooks effectively crucify him, or give in to the firestorm of agony that whipped across sensory limits with the ferocity and unpredicability of a thunderstorm. If he did give in, the hooks would tear his skin off. An obvious fate, but one that took immense will power to avoid. Kynjaka was startled out of sadistic reverie by Khalith's voice down below. He took one last look at the minor demon, and turned away, walking to the cavern mouth and floating down. Just before he reached the floor, a despairing, wrenching cry, quickly followed by a sound much like papyrus being torn into strips, echoed out from above him. Kynjaka's fanged grin intensified. The weak-willed creature had given in. He returned his attention to Khalith, assuming the drow leader wanted an explanation for the sudden spray of blood and crypt fodder. Kynjaka gave him a succinct answer, and Khalith merely shrugged. He obviously had more important news. And when it came, it wasn't really a surprise.[/I] Khalith: I recommend, by demonic friend, you moderate your activities. There is a fifty thousand ada reward on your head. Kynjaka: Hardly flattering. Who's offering? Khalith: The city as a whole. [I]Khalith's voice was grim, an unusual trait for the unshakable mercenary. As one who dealt with all parties at once and played them off to his own benefit, Khalith had no aversion to killing stakes. But the unified might of the drow city was not killing. It was obliteration. Kynjaka whistled in appreciation. The drow city never worked as a collective whole. That [b]was[/b] flattering.[/font][/color][/I]

[font=gothic][color=indigo][I]Ilmiwyrth was quite willing to be distracted. He kissed her back, softer than she most likely wanted, but she wasn't putting a lot of effort in either. Still, he wasn't complaining. At the moment, attaining breath was far more important. They were joined in more ways than merely tongues anyway. And that joining was taking quite a bit of Ilmiwyrth's attention at the moment... Enough so that when she tightened her grip on his neck, he was in no position to object. The lack of initial struggle, combined with the sudden lack of oxygen when there was a more than ample need for it, robbed the strength from his limbs. However, she had to deal with his weight bearing down on her. She seemed more than willing to deal with it though. He freed his mouth from her quasi-insistant grip and gasped for air, throwing her arm off. As he looked into her eyes, he recognised her action as provocation, a way of inspiring further pain from him. He was more than willing to oblige.[/font][/color][/I]

[font=gothic][color=indigo][i]Vyrim absently squinted at the sky, attempting to orientate himself by the newly risen stars. From where he thought he was, they had to go east. But then, going east would quite probably end up with them heading in the entirely wrong direction. Not that, all things considered, that would be all that much of a problem. After all, "home" was a fairly general term. When he thought about it, the place they'd come from was somewhat ....appetising, but a change, he had lived their a few decades now, would be welcome. And he'd need to do some serious ....relaxing with Raeven for quite a while afterwards. He wondered whether pointing them in the wrong direction would prove to be a fish idea. He attempted to remember the last map he'd seen, but realised that he had no idea where this place was anyway, so a map was useless. So, technically speaking, if he chose north, south, east or west at random, he had a theoretical one in four chance of getting it wrong, assuming they wanted to go somewhere different to where they'd come from, so three out of four directions held something new, interesting, probably painful, and perhaps slightly tasty....[/font][/color][/I]

[font=gothic][color=indigo]On your side of the world, you still use the imperial system, among other colossal blunders....so your side of the world ain't counting for much. I'd just like inform people of two facts. The "word" went....well....and Raiha's stateroom isn't all it's cracked up to be...*cough*shabby*cough*.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=indigo][I]Kynjaka, known to most mortals simply as the Night Hunter, hung like his namesake bat off a great stalactite. Below him, an incribed circle pulsed with rapidly darkening faerie fire. The light was still quite bright, asiding the spots where it was darkened with the drow blood of one Val'Shagress, of a lesser clan. The wench had, in her audacity, attempted to bind him to her will. She had of couse, travelled far from home, so as not to be caught doing so. She obviously preferred not to have any rival clans aware of her bid for power. That, of course, had meant that she had not been in the enspelled protection of her own home. This was about the ninth time something like this had happened. Again, Kynjaka had been forced to defend his autonomy. Not that he minded tearing apart overly brave or stupid priestesses, more than once in his existance Loloth had visted the Abyss and made things...difficult for his kind, but he suspected that Loloth would again make things difficult for him should he continue his slaughter. Unless, of course, she delighted in watching her priestesses think up inventive ways to trap him. That was surprisingly likely. At last, what he had waited for had come to pass. An overambitious eldest daughter, with her complement of elite drow guards, strode into the circle. Kynjaka could see her eyes, glowing with the heat spectrum she was viewing, pass over first her surroundings, and then him, completely oblivious to his presence. She swore, lilting elven dialect stretched into sheer rage. Kynjaka smiled to himself, and withdrew his claws from the stalactite, spinning in the air to land on his feet.[/I] Kynjaka: My dear? There is some problem? [I]The female started, and attacked him, a fine edged sword deflected by far sharper claws. The soldiers unhesitatingly attacked. Dark elves, they were practiced at fighting demons, and feared far more the wrath of a priestess. Kynjaka fended them off a moment with his hands, before extracting his flamberge from its sheath. The seven foot blade came around, struck the perfect parry executed by a female weilding twin long swords. Kynjaka's blade crashed through like she's never raised a limb in defense, and cleaved her nearly in twain. He jerked it free and spun, a backhand slash decapitating the priestess. At that, the others fled. Kynjaka pursued one of them anyway, taking to the air, gliding over her, and letting her run full into his extended paws, the pantherish set. He lifted her and smiled.[/I] Kynjaka: Ah, the things I could do with you. [I]The drow's eyes burned red at the mere notion, but Kynjaka merely laughed, and extended his claws. More than two inches long, they had no trouble piercing several internal organs. The drow shuddered, and died in his grasp. Kynjaka shook his head, and when he next looked around, he was back at the mercenary encampment. A voice behind him, one from Khalith, the leader of the ground, caused him to turn.[/I] Khalith: Again? Kynjaka: Yes. These mortals test my patience. Khalith: Be wise, Night Hunter. Let you fury bide. To bring Loloth down upon you would do you no good. Kynjaka: Aye Khalith, I know. But it vexes me, to have to constantly reinforce that I will not be enslaved! [I]The last was delivered as a resounding yell. The other drow all automatically spun, and relaxed instantly. That level of reaction was required in this place. Kynjaka stalked away, to his own private cavern, his flamberge still dripping blood behind him.[/font][/color][/I]

[font=gothic][color=indigo][I]Vyrim, rather than simply blow his way out as previously suggested, wrapped himself and Raeven in liquid stone,bubbling and somehow clear, and moved as silently through the halls as possible, Raeven using her keen memory to lead them unerringly to the exit. He was rather tempted to let the stone tent solidify.... The only encountered one guard, who was too surprised at the sight of moving rock to do much. Vyrim simply moved so that he was inside the pillar of liquid stone and solidified it. He then re-liquified it and kept walking. The man fell, dead, behind them. The doors were unguarded. When Vyrim stepped outside, he realised why. They stood in high altitude. And despite that, the sand around them appeared hot enough to scaled. They stood exposed on a sharply rising peak, a mammoth pinnacle of rock that proudly existed in the middle of a swarm of sand and death. The desert around them was immense, the heat waves rising off the sand obscuring any real judge of distance, but Vyrim could tell that trekking out of here would take at least a week. No wonder these people were so tough. They had to be, to survive here. The mountain itself was almost sheer in most places, and a careful touch to the stone revealed that it was too hot to touch. There was only one likely path, and that was guarded. Vyrim motioned to Raeven, and they edged around to the far side of the complex, giving Vyrim a sobering view of just how harsh this wasteland was. He walked gingerly up to one of the edges, trying to find one that wasn't straight down. When he found one, he concentrated again, and turned the rock into another viscous mass. He motioned to Raeven, and they lay down, and the rock-sled moved downwards, carrying them with it.[/I] Raeven: How do you do this? Vyrim: Well, it's actually a mix of earth, fire and water. Fire to make the rock molten, earth to keep the molten rock with the consistancy and solidity of rock, and water to cool it down. Raeven: You cool it and heat it at the same time? Vyrim: It's a difficult balancing act. Raeven: So this doesn't help. [I]She kissed him slowly. Vyrim moaned in appreciation, but didn't let her continue. They reached the bottom in fairly short order, and quickly started to walk away, before any kind of chase could be mounted. When they were around 100 metres away, under the pounding sun, Raeven stopped Vyrim. Her voice was quiet.[/I] Raeven: I wanted to destroy that place. [I]Vyrim grinned at her rogueishly, and turned back to the mountain.[/I] Vyrim: Did they ever tell you that mountain is volcanic...Which is why it smells like sulphur so much. Raeven: What has that to do with- Vyrim: - Watch and learn my love. [I]He closed his eyes and knelt, hand to the ground. For nearly an hour, he stayed there, leaving Raeven to endure the blistering heat. At last, Vyrim stood up, strangely refreshed, not to mention limber, for an hour without moving. Raeven simply glared at him.[/I] Vyrim: Turns out this place wouldn't have lasted a year longer anyway, but I got it to hurry up anyway. Raeven: What are you talking about? [I]She appeared to start to say more, but was cut off by a loud tremor. She rolled her eyes, apparently used to them. She started to grow nervous however, when after a minute it hadn't subsided, in fact, it was intensifying.[/I] Raeven: What in hell did you do! Vyrim: This area is so barren because there is a major fault line along here, and there is a lot of magma much closer to the surface than normal. If it ever got overcast here, you'd notice the sand was hotter than the air. It's a freak of geography that can't really go on long anyway. It was going to well up and burst that volcano quite soon anyway. I just hurried it up...which means the explosion will be less controlled. Raeven: You told the earth what to do? Vyrim: No, I lied to it and said that I was here on behalf of the druids, and that this was the preferred course of action. Raeven: And if the earth mentions it to the druids? Vyrim: Then they'll agree with me. [I]They retreated quite a way back, and sat down to wait. The shaking took about half an hour, and when it was done, the sand was rapidly cooling. They looked to the mountain, which appeared to be quivering. When it blew, it surprised even Vyrim. The mountain simply ceased to exist. The sonic boom that took its place deafened them even at this distance, and raised a huge duststorm. Vyrim raised his hand, and a shield of air deflecting the worst of the stinging particles. Magma erupted in a stream hundreds of metres high, and struck earth as close as twenty metres away from them. Raeven and Vyrim were thrown to the ground, and they both crawled away, awed and frightened. They didn't look behind them. There certainly wasn't anything left.[/I] Vyrim: I think I won't do that again. [/font][/color]

[QUOTE][i]Originally posted by Dragon Warrior [/i] [B]OOC: Do I dare post in this? XD [/B][/QUOTE] [font=gothic][color=indigo]Not if you post like that. Please, you know how to write good rpgs posts, please do so. This thread is giving me such a headache, I think I'll headbut the keyboard now...lol.[/font][/color]

[QUOTE][i]Originally posted by James [/i] [B][color=#707875]Sometimes I think we are too ready to look past the basic meaning of the word -- and I think most of us agree that it's not a [i]bad[/i] word; only low quality posts feed that impression.[/color] [/B][/QUOTE] [font=gothic][color=indigo]Well, as a person who (and Raven can attest to this), has to remind people multiple times a day about post quality, I'm still a little cynical. However, considering Raiha and Rico put up with Raven and myself, I'm willing to give most of them the benefit of the doubt... Unfortunately, in my area, I get proved wrong a little regularly. Oh well. I'll live.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=indigo][I]The light in her eyes, so similar to the light that appeared just before death, was a spark to Ilmiwyrth. A spark the inspired further pain. A spark that told him everything he was doing was right. A spark that told him what he did to her now would remain with her....But whether as a fond memory or as a scar was yet to be seen... The sheer number of ways he could scar her appealed to him. He raised his hand and slashed downwards, hard, without stopping his other motions. His nails opened a thin, but deep, cut. It started at her right shoulder, went down over the top of her right breast, and terminated on the left side of her stomach. He traced the cut with his tongue, letting the blood arouse him even further.[/font][/color][/I]

[font=gothic][color=indigo][I]The man in front of him, Siodhan, merely stood there, amused. Vyrim understood why when suddenly Raeven was dragged in, and chained to where he had hung. He turned to the man who had brought her in. That one left, rather quickly. He quickly assessed Raeven. She seemed more or less fine. He slowly nodded to her, and turned back. Now Siodhan was in a fighting stance. Front leg 45degree in front of him, straight. Other leg curled behind him. Fingers stretched and stiff. Tiger stance. Vyrim simply put one foot behind the other a decent amount, and raised both hands, keeping his hands loose.[/I] Siodhan: Your lack of discipline will kill you. Vyrim: Perhaps. [I]Siodhan was the first to move. He sprang forward into the air, spinning and kick out with his right leg. Vyrim simply stepped back. Siodhan landed easily, but didn't relent. He came in quickly with a front kick the melded, liquidine, into a turning kick. Vyrim again merely stepped back.[/I] Siodhan: If you don't attack, you can't win. Vyrim: True. [I]Puzzled by the response, Siodhan came in cautiously. He flicked a left jab, pulled back, shot another, faster one out, and putting his weight behind the move, sent a right arm palm strike towards Vyrim. This time, as Vyrim stepped back, he spun. His right leg came up in an outer crescent, lightning fast. The blow took Siodhan in the head, Siodhan's hand striking Vyrim's thigh. Vyrim axed his foot downwards, and tucked it under Siodhan's shoulder, trapping his arm. He abruptly straightened, and with a huge crack, Siodhan's arm was wrenched out of its socket. Admirably, he didn't scream. He pulled away, breathing strained, and dropped into another stance. Vyrim took a single step and leapt. He spun, a left sidekick and a right back kick in the air, both striking Siodhan in the chest. He stumbled back, winded. Vyrim landed and continued to spin, a spinning hook took snapping Siodhan's head to one side. Vyrim touched ground with his foot and skipped forward, a palm strike to the chin glazing Siodhan's eyes. From there, he took a single step left, and brought his leg up in an amazingly flexible twisting kick the took the back of Siodhan's neck. Siodhan fell, unconscious. Vyrim made no movement...merely waited.[/font][/color][/I]

[font=gothic][color=indigo]OOC: Well, I'm still laughing at the whole thing. But then, no one was ever all that happy about that fact, so I'll shut up about it. IC: [I]Lacroix folded his arms and rolled his eyes. His weight was transferred ever so slightly to one hip...Lacroix's most dangerous pose...The pose where he was bored out of his mind, and in no way happy about it. Of course, most of the people here didn't know that.[/I] Lacroix: As the only person here who has been to both, one of them regularly, and I'll let you work it out yourself exactly which one in question that is, I can quite firmly establish that I in no way care, and will most likely end up going to whichever one everyone decides not to, simply on the grounds that I have more ....contacts in both realms, and am quite capable of utilising them to keep myself in a position where most of the denizens in either realm will be quite happy to be rather ...pliable. [I]Eve sighed in exasperation.[/I] Eve: Can't you ever do anything the easy way? [I]Lacroix threw a point glance to Ryth. Eve understood instantly. The overly melodramatic, I will protect everyone and what not attitude, especially when Lacroix was easily capable of taking care of himself, had also walked a thin line between simply annoying Lacroix, or having him laugh in either amusement of contempt at it. Eve shook her head at Lacroix's reticience to say anymore, and turned to everyone else. Lacroix sighed in disgust and walked away. He'd calm down and come back in five or ten minutes, when everyone had finished yelling at each other for whatever stupid reason. He'd live, either way. This was already getting tedious. He absently wondered if he could prevail on Ilmiwyrth to give them all some ...hardening.[/font][/color][/I]

[font=gothic][color=indigo]Hmmm. Well people, I'm afraid to say that posts of less than, say, seven lines (that's obviously not an official figure, but you get the point), are considered spam in the adventure arena. So, for not only the sake of quality, but also description, character/storyline development, can we have more effort in posts please?[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=indigo][I]Qyrain reached the city without incident, a completely unprecedented feat in Exile history, most likely. The guards were even more on edge than normal, especially at seeing his less than dead white skin. Surface dwellers were not uncommon anymore, but they weren't really accepted by die hard Exile inhabitants. Then, of course, someone recognised him. The cries of "Qyrain!" echoed around the walls, as soldiers formed up around him in a tight square, civilians backing away with indecent haste. A slate-eyed captain moved the soldier's pikes away and stepped slowly, cautiously forward, a slight hand gesture waving off the archers Qyrain knew would be in place.[/I] "You've got a lot of gall, coming back here." [I]Qyrain raised his hands slowly, in what was meant to be a pacifying gesture. For a man reputed to have killed hundreds with his hands alone, it probably wasn't the best course of action. Some more nervous than usual recruit lost his grip, and the arrow twanged out, its ashwood shaft making a low hum in the air that was unique to that kind of wood. Qyrain spun, a single strike deflecting the missile. Soldiers tightened their grips on their pikes....The bow was quickly reloaded. The captain in the square drew his sword in a desperate scream of steel. Qyrain raised his hands above his head and turned very, very slowly around. The horse promptly tripped him. Even as Qyrain hit the ground, an over eager solider lunged forward with his pike, only to have kicked away by the horse. Shamefaced, he stepped back. Qyrain got to his feet, allowed the horse a half glare, and spoke quietly to the captain.[/I] Qyrain: I'm not here for a fight, as my horse so aptly demonstrated. I'm here because the world is screwed. [I]That elicted a half laugh, until another figure pushed through. An elderly man, clad in blue robes. Qyrain recognised him. His name was Miles, and he was one of Exile's more powerful wizards.[/I] Miles: What do you know, butcher? Qyrain: I know magic is causing a lot of strange effects. More to the point, I know why. [I]Miles gestured for the soldiers to stand down, and they did so, albeitly grudgingly. Miles motioned for Qyrain to follow, and left. The captain trailed along, as did the horse. As its shod hooves struck stone to a crisp sound, Miles stopped abruptly and turned, looking at the horse very sharply.[/I] Miles: What the hell are you doing here? [I]The horse almost looked embarrassed. Miles turned back with a sound of disgust, a reproving look for Qyrain, and continued walking. Qyrain vowed then and there to get the full story on that horse, no matter what else happened.[/font][/color][/I]

[font=gothic][color=indigo]Logan, playing mod is also rather discouraged. So, your post was, technically, spam as well. Just use the report post button, and let everything run a little more smoothly.[/font][/color]