- Invitation Status
- Posting Speed
- 1-3 posts per day
- One post per day
- 1-3 posts per week
- Writing Levels
- Intermediate
- Adept
- Advanced
- Preferred Character Gender
- No Preferences
- Genres
- Anything that actually has, you know, a good plot. I prefer RPs with fantastical elements, however, so generally, a bit of fantasy goes a long way.
Unfeeling fingers pressed against the hole in his side, eliciting a twisted grimace. The pain kept him awake, but the pain brought him closer to death. He was no RONIN, after all, and his drones were all lost now, crippled by power greater than his. An undying bastard that walked through every improvised trap he made with impunity. But even like that, even with a Praetorian tracing his steps, he made it. No regrets now. He did all that he needed to do. The shouting, the fighting, the chaos. All the rioting was his. Enough madness to paralyze the CLERICs and slow the PALADINs.
Hah.
"No regrets, Rubel," he repeated, through blood-tinted teeth, "No regrets."
Slumped against a dumpster, surrounded by grime and human refuse, the SERAPHIM slowly, painfully lowered himself onto the ground. Everything hurt, but it wouldn't matter now. What he knew couldn't fall into the hands of the enemy. Knowing what he did about the PRAETORIANs, even living was dangerous now. And he could feel it in his bones regardless. They were coming. There was no escape. He had already won, and he didn't want to give them a chance to tie the score.
Verdant eyes slid to the phone in his hands, before he began to clench it. Robotic strength fought against metal and plastic, and eventually, the latter gave way. With a crunch and a snap, the military-grade phone was reduced to scrap, broken circuitry joining the collection of garbage already present around him. Good. The last line was severed. The last connection broken. The last of his feelings…
"Just come home!"
…extinguished.
Later, Tia.
Nothing remained in those clear eyes as they turned towards the third window to the right on the sixth floor of an abandoned factory.
"Do it."
By the time his eyes registered the flash, Rubel was already dead.
…
A cartridge was ejected from the SVD sniper rifle, before two gloved fingers picked it up, pocketing the evidence. At a distance of seven hundred meters away, the White Death looked at her handiwork with her own eyes. At the splotch of fresh color on a wall too far away to see.
This was all she was good at now, wasn't she? Her hands were shaking again. Her nerves were a mess again. All that effort, all those battles, all of her screams, and here she was, assisting the suicides of those she thought of as her comrades.
A shudder passed through her, and before she could think, the flask was already at her lips, promising oblivion within its aluminum bottom.
Ah, she was so fucked up.
Was this the pessimist speaking now, the one that continued to exist even once the fear had been seared away? Yes, yes it was. As commotion built around him, Arata remained at Valkyrie's work desk. He touched the mouse. Clicked it. Destroyed a block of terrain. That was all, wasn't it?
The Godfather had orders once more. They were done with this mind-numbing tranquility now, the date of their next operation decided apparently by some rioting in the districts after a provocative video was aired. Strange. Was rioting actually that much of a problem, when the PRAETORIANs could put an end to this with a single demonstration of ultimate power? Was it so easy for them to forget how terrifying, how awe-inspiring, how completely INVINCIBLE King was when he was merely playing with them? Did Crusader even see that hellish landscape? Did he even comprehend it?
Eresh understood. For better or worse, she had been kept as a pet to that red-haired demigod. Knew how much of a nightmare he was. Knew that there were four others that were just as frightening. FEARLESS killed two. That was a fact. But now the four knew who they were up against. Knew their limits and knew their strengths.
Hope. Such a fragile thing, built up on the lies one told themselves.
Lionheart ignored the statements and questions made. The mission was clear. The path was simple. No saving, no pretending. Just destroying everything that was in their way until…
"Gaia and Tear should be switched around," the young NOAH said flatly, boldly, "Conceptual destruction is useless for fortifying a position, while puppetry is too slow for a quick attack."
Branded irises fixed their gaze upon Godfather.
"If the plans clearly indicate a method of destroying this superweapon they've been developing, why on earth would they forgo heavily protecting it? Riots can be handled by Clerics alone. The Praetorians won't be bothered at all by squabbles with rabble."