Forums » Forum Games » Describe an interaction with the character above.

Preferably IC.

As a morally ambiguous fellow, it would depend on which side of the battle lines is Marcus. Will he stand against Veria and protect innocent villagers from being enslaved by her? Or perhaps he is a mercenary and is actively assisting her in her conquests?

Either way, I can see him underestimating her because of her stature even if he's her ally, and they will more than likely cross blades one way or another.

Whilst the gnomish slaver would certainly come across as quaint, Marcus doesn't apportion his judgement to stature but rather deeds, he is foremost a tactician and strategist and it would be a very novice assertation to make assumptions of her capacities without any observation, as David Hume once said, "A wise man apportions his belief to the evidence" and so too does the Knight Legator. The moral ambiguity however is certainly an apt judgement, there's hardly anything she could do or has done that he hasn't already seen before and his actions are motivated more by political or diplomatic forethought typically towards a decision where there's a benefit for his party or person, either in material terms or through repute. Marcus isn't concerned with minuscule subjective notions such as morality, he would prefer to look at the bigger picture. The matters of thought are left to jurors and scholars, the legion is concerned with blood and steel.

As for the possibility of conflict, perhaps, I feel like he would make his conclusions after studying her mindset and ethos. He would prefer not killing her if it came to blows because there is much to be learned from a slaver with regards to notions of discipline, he does need a warden for prisoners of war who are made serfs for the legion. It is indeed most likely they'd meet upon a field of battle either on the same side or against one another, the fates should decide what happens then but i suppose both know the consequences of defeat are severe.

"Hold yer' ground, lad! Let's see if yaer decorative swords holds up in a real fight."

The forsaken forests around them howled with a damned chorus of forlorn roars and an insurmountable frenzy - the looming shadows came alive, pinpoints of glowing amber eyes and snapping jaws dancing in the darkness. These cursed beasts would know no pacification save for the taste of fresh gore upon their jagged fangs, maddened by the haunting moon that hung full in the cloudless sky. It was lunar insanity, a terrible sickness that turned even the most noble of men into wretched hounds and threw them directly into the throes of hysteria.

For these mindless fiends, there was only one cure. Execution.

Crowley knew not of who this strangely dressed knight was, but frivolous social nuances such as introductions mattered naught when their lives were at stake. In this cruel world, there were only two parties: the hunters, and the hunted. Let those demons come. Let them be the final line of defense between an endless tide of evil incarnate and the innocent souls cowering in their homes; this was their duty, and nothing but his own death would stop him from fulfilling that.

May this be their last stand. Standing back to back with the nameless warrior, the grimacing hunter brandished a fine flintlock pistol in one hand, and trusty hatchet in the other. The hellions around them encroached further, a ravenous pack of wolves closing in upon defenseless prey with no method of escape. Crowley cocked his weapon, aiming it directly between the soulless orbs of their closest enemy. Tonight, they would not be prey.

They would be the hunters.

"Hope yer' ready for 'em. Y'aren't gettin' out of this one without a brawl."

And with the firing of a single bullet, the world around them transformed into a bloody, desperate battle to the very end.

(I may or may not have misunderstood the "IC" part, but I still had fun anyways. )

(Alls well if you had one, and it was a marvelous read - Next person to post should refer to the character above)

It wounded him, to do this. In all his time as a priest and scribe, it had never become easier to bring bad news. To comfort the grieving, give hope to the lost; that was the call of his kind, and dutifully, he tried to obey. But sometimes, there was little comfort or hope to give. Only gentle words, and apologetic eyes.

And if it hurt him, he could only imagine what pain it must bring to the man before him. He looked exhausted, weary beyond reckoning. By Dael's guess, his days were spent hunting for answers, begging for hope. His nights, in the restless grip of the condition he had come seeking to cure.

The young man dipped his head, voice soft as he presented the three thin volumes he had managed to find.

"There are few writings on the condition with which you are afflicted, I am afraid. Many fear it, or would see such knowledge burned. These offer speculations and second-hand accounts, but I am afraid that..."

He hesitated. In those eyes, he feared he saw the final shreds of a man clinging to his former self. He feared to sever those threads. To send him plummetting into despair.

"... I, I am afraid that these volumes do not contain a certain cure. But I shall look again." Perhaps he had missed something in the Archives. Perhaps he could even scry, use some magics to find a way to help this lost soul. Wasn't that his duty? This man had spent his days battling monsters that would devour someone like him. It was only right someone help him, in turn. "Please, wait here a little longer."

Fingers dancing across the spines of some books, Connor hummed underneath his breath as his mimd danced from corner to corner, wondering which tome to take. Of course, it ended with a mumbled 'bugger it all', before the man took one seemingly at random. He swore again a few moments later when it was, presumably, what he wasn't looking for.

Clearly putting effort into thankless ends, Connor knew when was a good time to stop. Instead, he put the book back on the shelf and exited the aisle, looking for something-- someone-- else.

Catching sight of the nearest person he could find in the telltale dark blue robes, the hunter knocked on the shelf, before clearing his throat.

"'Scuse me," He started with a lowered voice, mostly because the scribe seemed like he'd snap of Connor so much as breathed on him wrong, and least of all, they were in the bloody archives. "Could you point me to any books that have anything about local wildlife, here? Like a beastiary, or shit like that?"

The arch-legator would be occupied with signing documents and viewing treatises in his office, putting dark ink upon the rough paper with his quill as he went on making records and signing documents, occasionally placing a wax seal on a particularly noteworthy document all whilst his smoking pipe laid between his lips as slow wisps of smoke arose from it, heavy steps were heard across the boards, causing his to divert his gaze from the desk to the doorway, he explicitly stated he would not tend to any more visitors or guests for the rest of the day, but then Connor was never really one for rules was he. The adventurer prime, the hero with no fault, a blithering idiot yet so good at what he did that no one could possibly deny him for his skills.

Marcus was only slightly thankful that this menace was on their side, but it was both a blessing and a curse having to deal with him, that boy needed a whipping nonetheless Connor kept quite a few imperial nobles sleeping peaceably whilst robbing sleep from quite a few others, and Marcus had the unfortunate duty of dealing with the man, whose company he found far more insufferable than that of his sister, particularly after that incident involving " accidentally " burning Marc's prized gryphon pelt and hunting trophies.

" Gods give me patience, not this uncouth bastard again " Marc grumbled his expression turning all the more stern able to tell who it was just from the distinct pattern of footing connor had as he tended to tap his feet quite often, as Connor barged into the room, inviting himself in evidently Marcus feigned an expression of surprise " Ah, lord stanfeld, how wonderful... pray thee, to what do i owe the pleasure of your visitation at this fine hour when even the craftsmen's stations have gone silent and even the street dogs have sought slumber. "

Geist often used many words to describe the people around him, and most of the time they spilled out like a spring from the earth, with neither bidding nor control from his part. It simply happens. Like a moth drawn to flickering flame, so is Geist to suffering and tragedy; this, he could not help.

So he sat in front of the arch-legator's seat as he ate his shank of roast lamb at dinner, bore the unamused look he wore and tried to smile behind his mask in return, forgetting that no one could see his expressions save for a twinkling in Geist's scarlet eyes.

"Hello." He said, as the Arch-Legator no doubt started to draw something from his belt. A thunk, and a dagger landed itself between Geist's splayed fingers on the table. This did not deter him one bit.

"How has your day been? Have you been eating well?"

She knew who he was.
That rare tale had not been lost on Brucus, given her upbringing with a pair of lore enthusiasts. She and her sister had heard a story every night of all their lives, it took little more than a glance for her to know who he was, and what had drawn him to her humble dwelling. Initial reaction? Reflexive fury as she ignored the shadow at the edge of her property, aggressively going about the morning routine. This crumbled soon after to fear, eroding on into distress. The sun was setting when at last the pressured pearl of acceptance was exposed. "I'm not ready." Her arms were folded, mouth welded into a terrific grimace upon approach. She glowered terribly at the grim portent sitting on a stump outside the fence. His tranquility only fed her frustration. "You can't have it, so leave." When training dogs, it was important to never back down, to never waver. It was harder to hold his stare for very long. "I need my anger. I need this... this knot, holding me together. If you take that from me, I don't know who I'll be." The bold, fearless front threatened to crumble; who was she without the motivation of outrage? Opening up would weaken her, make her vulnerable, she was sure of it.

It's the nature of vultures to circle a wounded creature.



Caromes along the taffeta skirts of mist hemming in the forest. Disembodied and distant.

Then closer:


An innocuous voice that means to unpick the warden at the very seams, get a look at the cut of her teeth, a feel for the velveteen slip of her soul.

Vulnerability is a snagged yarn that smiles widely, a proverbial cat's cradle between the patient, spindly gloved hands of a pale trickster haunting the woods.

With acrid rains a-whipping on the fogged windows of the otherwise unassuming uptown cafe, Randle wasn't too eager to see himself out; but that sure as hell didn't mean that he was enjoying himself. All these rich folks, each in a suit or dress stiffer and pricier than the former.. just dragging his pauperized tail past their cocktail-loaded tables felt like a walk of shame.

Alas, he of course would've never had to spend the evening in this highbrowed locale if it wasn't for her: the arctic-haired dame by the bar, eyes a brilliant red like garnets. He'd heard of her through whispers, rumors that he'd picked off the grapevine. This particular dame, called a trickster by a great many of his contacts, seemed to wear her elegant secrecy like the Mayor's missus did her glossy pearls. Speaking from experience, Randle knew that could only mean one thing: dames like these were trouble. And that was exactly why he was here.

"You got quite a taste for charming refuges, I'll give ya that-" Sooner than his low, grumbling voice came the herbal fume of his cigarillo; wary of his tone, Randle leaned onto the counter next the mysterious woman, a subtle lop-sided smile glistening on his muzzle. "Painfully in contrast to the situation that brought me here. Well, seeing that I'm about the only underdressed fella in this building, I got a strange feeling that ya already know who I am, and what I've come to ya for." It was funny how judging a book by its cover, at least in a physical sense, had played such a prominent role in this case: just like Randle assumed that his inside man had shared with this POI of sort of 'person' she was to look out for, he too had depended on his knowledge of the red-browed dame's unique traits to filter her out from the eloquent masses. "Of course, I think we both know that business like this is best discussed on a drink. Anything I can get ya?" Oh, good Goddess, he could hear his battered ol' wallet scream out in pain..

delete please, I am muppet

"What have you got in your mouth!?"

These were the last words Rene heard before he scrambled over the chainlink fence separating the alleyway from another connected to the street heading away from the robotic feline. He did not need another run in with the detective! Why did they keep bumping into each other and WHY during his hunting time??

Rushing down the alleyway barefoot the scruffy man dressed in little more than an oversized T-shirt and swim trunks looked horribly out of place in the middle of a busy city during winter time.

Darting into the crowd he prayed that he'd be able to shake his guy off his tail, trying his best not to crash into pedestrians more interested in their phones than where they are going or who they may bump into. Looking over his shoulder he snarled to himself, Randle just didn't give up! he was a thorn in Rene's side almost constantly these days! why wouldn't he just leave him alone!?

Through the crowds and into the city park, hopping up and over the edge of the bridge and into the lake below. It didn't help that the frantic nature of his escape scared those he rushed past, leaving a trail of scared bystanders behind him.

Rene likes to eat people. So does Merkava. Except... he is not so keen on doing it for no reason. Stalking down the poor man from the sky, the shadowy black figure seemed to loom around every corner, waiting for Rene to assume he was safe. The last thing Rene would witness as he was cornered in a one-way alleyway were the two hands that stretched to grab him, as his head would be filled with a strange voice. "Why do you not surrender? Senseless killings do not bring me joy. Surely, you must appreciate the weight I am forced to bear. This body hungers... perhaps you shall witness how it feels to be consumed..." and with that, Merkava chomped on Rene, and he was never to be seen again.

Zeno kept his distance. Normally he did so to respect one's boundaries. This time, he was weary.

Merkava was one who enjoyed devouring others. Fortunately for Zeno, having a partially-artificial body made him far less appetizing than he looked. While Zeno did not think the beast in front of him would consume his remains, he was still concerned the monster would attack him.

"You confuse me," Zeno stated aloud. "You have no reason to eat live people. And just because you prefer eating the evil ones, doesn't make it right. You are still taking a life. In the end, you are no better than they are. You are evil."

Zeno did not drop his guard, but his position shifted to something slightly less defensive. "The universe is much more accepting of monsters like us. You have no reason to act like one."

Zeno reluctantly offered a hand. "There is much better food out there, too. There are easier ways to sate your hunger than relying on nothing but instinct."

A breath of steam escaped from his jaws. "Please. I know you are better than this."

Zeno did not say anything more, and judging by the anxious shifting of his weight from one foot to the other, he was prepared to leave. Zeno knew, deep down, that he probably couldn't change Merkava if he didn't want to. Zeno has no control over others.
Oh well. It was worth a shot.

(I'm sorry I need to respond to this)

He looked down at Zeno. "I wasn't always this... monster" he said in Zeno's mind. "I was once a human like many others. With the freedom to go out in the day, and be seen by others" he added as he crouched down a small bit. "My body forces me to eat, I have no self-control over the fit of rage that comes if I do not sate my hungers." he added as he crouched further down to meet Zeno's eye level. "I will never be accepted into a normal society. I forget my past, I have already lost my humanity. I serve my bestial body, devouring as my instincts command." he said as he then sit up, turning his back to Zeno. "Keep whatever sense of humanity or civilness in you. As I have long lost mine."

Friends came in many shapes and sizes. They could be found anywhere, even in the most obscure locations. One such location? A gloomy, one-way alley, littered with garbage and decorated with empty clotheslines up above. The closest paintjob the walls would ever receive were the crudely-sprayed pieces of graffiti. The sky was but a black, murky shadow, leaving only the nearest street lamp to do the work of lighting up the alleyway.

Drawn to the voices of new friends, like a moth to an open flame, Patches had descended down the cracked cement path, minding the puddles along the way, all the way down to the end of the alleyway.

Nobody was here.

Patches could've sworn someone, or something, was here just a moment ago. "Hellooooo?" They cried, a hand delicately curled around the plastic loop of their pullstring. "Is anybody theeerrrreee?"

No response. It looked as if whatever was speaking minutes prior had moved on.

Unsatisfied with this outcome, Patches left the alleyway and continued down the street in search of people to interact with...

Not much escaped Amu's gaze and the tiny disturbing rag doll was no exception. The massive sphinx would trot at a leisurely pace before descending onto Patches, standing behind and above them and staring. Tail swayed side to side and a quiet purring emitted from the feline creature. Without a word, she'd lean down and grab the rag doll by the scruff and lift them into the air. Tail up proud and feathers puffed out, Amu would trot off pleased with her capture.

"An' what in tarnation might you be, huh?" were the words first spoken to the many-eyed womanly beast. Rather than terror and awe, nothing short of disdain radiated off of Mad Madina's sun-baked ol' face, growing even more sour as she looked up and down the freaky hybrid's body. "'Nuff eyes t'keep an entire scraprat colony supervised an' a bossom big enough to crush a boulder with- gods be darned, whoever called you into existence was havin' one hell of a looney time.." Stance wide, the ragged tips of her longcoat fluttering in the dusty breeze- even from a humble few meters away, Madina could almost see her and the sunset's reflection in Amu's biggest eyes. "..unfortunately for ye, so was the bedarnest sucko that created 'tis here bounty."

750,000 Federal Zancers, Dead or Alive. Right there it was on black and white. No matter how in touch Amu might've been with the themes of time and fate, hers had been sealed the moment Mad Madina had happened upon her. Sure, the sphinx was a fair bit heavier than the average crime lord that the bounty hunter usually turned in, but that had never stopped her before. Her dear client would have the beast-lady's head, come what may.

"Now, I reckon you's a wise ol' broad who knows that arguin' with the messenger will gain you a rather stupid obituary- so why don't ya lift those pretty sacks off the sand for me and come along neatly," Mad Madina scowled, hand at the ready to either draw her piece or launch the chain net attached to the cannon on her guntruck. Although old and hazy, age hadn't brought a single tinge of gentle remorse into her eyes.