Purg

Oh hey you guys still do things around here? Neat.

I've never particularly been a fan of stats in RPs, though since I do a lot of tabletop gaming lately, I guess I can see the draw of it. Still, multiplayer writing is already confusing enough with each person having their own motivations and schemes brewing, and stats can occasionally inhibit some of the best things I remember reading in RPs from happening, so, in my opinion, it's best to just kinda hang around with mature people who won't try to break the story with bigger, stronger, more magical characters, and working out how the fights are going to end if it looks like a stalemate is incoming. Also statless RPs usually are easier to sign-up for, so I'm going to count that as a point in their favor.

He laughed. The sound was unnatural and terrible to his ears, but he couldn't stop himself. The conversation in the common room had struck him as worthless at first but this girl... Naive, and from her tone, she had no idea. He stood, swaying a bit, and walked to the table. He didn't honestly mean to, but his hand came down forcefully - he could feel eyes on him, and not just from the table he was interrupting. "The righteous? Good? The goddess?" He shook his head. "I'm not sure you've ever dealt with demons, miss, but no one triumphed in the great war, and if the rumors are true - if the darkness stalks the world still - then no one can triumph now. I'd think that Jerdon, and the town down the road that doesn't exist anymore, would be more than enough evidence of that. They're forces beyond mortal strength, with forms more numerous than we can comprehend. They can walk among us, they can crush us without any thought to it, they can raise the very dead to fight against us, in my experience. If the goddess is even watching from the heavens, then she's just as malevolent as the demons beneath are, or else she'd certainly send us help. Meaningful help, none of this 'working through us' nonsense that her believers always seem to pull when faced with adversity." He turned to the others sitting around the table. "You should stop her before she starts in with such foolish speech again," he said, making his way back to his comfortable seat at the bar, his energy almost drained again.

I imagine you're still making inky black dark brooding misunderstood characters with amnesia?

RAGUNI

He groaned as he woke up, his perpetual headache treating him poorly already. Apparently the night had passed in a dreamless haze of sleep and barely-noticeable consciousness, bringing another day to drink away. Words, animals, smells, footsteps, light - the world had already woken up and forgotten he existed. He didn't mind that anymore - he preferred it, in fact. He picked himself up - his Trombe was already standing in the stall, a bag of oats hung for him to eat from. The horse regarded him with a blank look, nuzzling him through the wool padding before returning to its feedbag. He wasn't sure which of the stable boys had brought it - had he been awake when it was delivered, he would have paid him, rather than the innkeeper - but he was grateful for the gesture. The child from the night before stood, apparently shocked, in front of the man called Altion. Had he slept out here as well? Perhaps they had more in common than he had first thought. "All women are crazy, little one," he said as he stepped out of the stall, pulling the thick wool padding off and tossing it into the stall, revealing threadbare clothes with holes worn into the elbows and knees. He had always planned on mending them, but his skill was with a blade, not a needle. Speaking of blades, it occurred to him that he would need to sharpen his own. He reached into the stall to grab the massive sword, longer than the child before him was tall, and carefully placed the sheath across his back. "Indeed, all adults are. Remember, stay young." "But in the meantime, I wonder if you could do something for a strange drunk. I've... neglected my Trombe, I'm afraid. You don't owe me anything, but... Well, if you decide to do anything for him, I'd be certain to pay you for your trouble. You don't have to decide now. I'll be... well, I won't be hard to find." He left the stables slowly, leaving the child and the boy playing soldier to each other. He shaded his eyes with his hand as he went to evade the light directly - his headache was bad enough without staring straight into the sun. The relative darkness of the bar awaited.

The child went back into the stables and didn't return. He hadn't seen him in there in the first place - it was likely that he, like Sethor, had been sleeping in with the animals. If he knew one of the travelers, though, then he wasn't one of the stable boys that the inn kept - perhaps he was a squire, then, as he had once been, long ago. He could remember more of those days than any other - preparing horses, helping to armor the knights he served. More often than not, he helped remove it from their corpses as well. The war had not been kind to those who fought it. Each day he had made his peace with the goddess, expecting to die like so many others around him. And yet, through it all, somehow, he had lived. He hadn't been unscathed, physically or mentally, of course, but he still had blood flowing through his veins - many of the knights he had served and the squires he had been friends with couldn't share in that luck. People entered, and then left the stables - one more with them on the way out than had entered. He heard the briefest snatches of conversation - a prisoner, one that some of them didn't agree with keeping. He wasn't about to get involved. With less people in the stables, and the chill of the night cutting through his wool padding, he turned back to the building. There was the child, asleep next to a pegasus - he could've sworn the creature gave him a reproachful glance. He watched the boy for a moment before retiring to his own horse's stall. The charger was asleep, and didn't even notice his presence. Trombe. That had been its name, long ago, when he believed names to be an important aspect of a horse's character. Named after a mythical steed of unmatched agility. Now it was a weary, heavy-footed veteran. Time changed so many things. He settled against his Trombe, closing his eyes and sighing. With any luck, he would evade any more dreams tonight.

Sethor paused. Altion... the armored boy from before, he supposed. He nodded - the process of heartbreak was not a mystery to him. What he hadn't experienced personally, he had seen in friends and comrades long forgotten. The child looked as though he was worried that what he had said was wrong, or perhaps he was used to physical reprimands for his words. Sethor was a drunk, and he was a man without hope, he would freely admit - but he was not a typically violent person. His sword and his training, he would bear only for defensive purposes. And he would definitely not use them to strike an innocent child. "If he wishes to be sad, then that's his own decision. For some people... sadness is really the only thing left to them, after everything else is gone." He shook his head - it was faint, but there was the hint of a weary smile. "And I'll have to agree with you - adults are a confusing and troublesome lot. You should stay a child, as long as you can."

He turned. Someone had followed him - a stable boy? Perhaps. He supposed he shouldn't simply ignore the question - he had nothing against children, just childishness in adults. He nodded slowly. "I... am alright," he murmured gently. "I had a bad dream. Memories I'd... rather have forgotten, but can't seem to lose track of. But nothing else - you don't have to worry about a strange drunk, little one." He heard something that nearly drove him into a panic, an aftereffect of the dream - noises, from inside the stables. He calmed himself, trying to explain to his shattered nerves that it was almost certainly just one of the several animals kept inside, and not more of those... things. He still found himself wanting his blade, though - it sat inside, next to his steed, and the pile of discarded armor. He pushed the darkness from his mind, for the moment - there was nothing that could harm him in this settlement. He... They were all safe here. The only things that could hurt him lived in his past.

They practically filled the inn. The travelers looked weary - some of them appeared to be injured as well, although they seemed to have at least one healer with them, or else the wounds were simply old enough to have healed naturally - but they still appeared to have a spark within them. Not like him, then. Not yet, at least. He stood up slowly, gripping the bar to steady himself until he found his balance. He was tired, and didn't wish to be held hostage in this place by conversations of heroes- and heroines-to-be, of discussions of the past and future that still held tones of hope and opportunity. Those delusions had long left his head. He staggered through the doorway, dodging an odd look from the barman, and made his way to the stables. The night would be cool - he had no room, but he would still sleep inside. Proud animals of war and travel met his eyes. The boys that worked for the innkeeper were almost finished tending to them - there was one, though, that looked out of place. He supposed he couldn't judge, but it wasn't something he could find himself ignoring. A young man, clad in plate armor, much like his own. He was probably one of the travelers, decades younger than himself - he had the same naivety that Sethor imagined he had found an endless quantity of before. But his spark was smoldering - a man wounded, dejected and downtrodden. A kindred spirit. "Better to come to terms with how the world works while you're young than to be old and deluded," he offered to the young man, before retiring to the same stable his horse was already kneeling for a night's rest. It regarded him, matching his own weariness in its eyes. He removed his plates, left only with wool padding he wore underneath, and leaned against the warmth of his only comrade left. Within minutes, he settled into a fitful slumber. No dreams came to him. Not at first. Shrieking. Crackling. The sounds of steel on flesh, muddled shouts. His eyes shot open, he stood, his hand already on the hilt of his blade. He drew it quickly, unsure of the cause of all the noise. Fires blazed around him, smoke blocking his vision. Through the haze, he could see others, like himself, fighting... things. He wasn't sure what they were, didn't know if he wanted to. He quickly circled around the flames, just in time to see the last of the armored men fall. Twisted mockeries of the human form, missing flesh over their ribs, their skulls visible through wounds and tears. Their fingers were bent into sharp claws that had torn away armor from flesh, and blood dripped from their teeth. He stepped back, unsure of what he could do. There were too many of them to fight - he would never survive. He wanted to flee, tried to will his body away - he felt his arms rise involuntarily, his feet pounded on the ground as his blade fell against one, two creatures. He could feel the claws through the gaps in his plate, slashes across his cheeks, but he couldn't stop. Bleeding, exhausted, he planted his blade in the crimson mud. He felt... tired, wearier than he ever knew he could be. He fell to his knees, unable to support himself - his hands still gripped the hilt of his sword. He couldn't release it - just as he couldn't stop himself from entering the fray, he couldn't will his fingers to release the blade, although he knew it was for a different reason. He felt his eyelids grow heavy. He doubted that he'd ever open them again. He leaned forward with a start, his hand already flying to his cheek. A scar that bore the appearance of claws - he didn't know why that memory had come flooding back. He grunted in displeasure as he rose, patting his mount's head gently. The same chill that he hadn't wanted to sleep in would serve to calm him down. He stumbled past the young man from before - he had only been asleep for the fewest moments, even if it had felt like much longer - and out into the open air. Unsure of where to go, he leaned against the stable wall, shaking his head, as though to shake the dream and the memory from his mind.

The Dancing Dove. The name had caught his attention as he had entered a day ago. Unusual. Names didn't matter anymore. So long as there was a warm hearth and a steady supply of drink, he no longer cared. This didn't bode well - he should have taken this oddity as a sign and gone on to the next town, but he had grown weary of the road once again. He had decided to stay here, for a day, perhaps two, before he moved on. By the end of the first night, he had forgotten that idea. Strong liquor had clouded his mind, and he had found a warm seat at the bar. He had been here before, he thought - perhaps when he had been an aspiring hero. The barman didn't recognize him, or if he did, he held his tongue. That was for the best - the days when he had been a traveling blade with more purpose than to keep himself hydrated were long, long past, and if anyone thought to remind him of then... He shook his head as he downed another glass. Forgetting was the only important thing. Apparently a settlement to the east had been destroyed by some strange sorcery. Were he a younger man, he would have headed to Altenau already, to search for survivors. Not anymore. Not everyone could be saved, he came to realize. Rare were the times where his sword was drawn to save anyone but himself - he still found himself accosted by bandits and other threats, occasionally, but there weren't many who could keep pace with his old horse or block his strikes. As a young man, he had overextended himself, tried to save all he thought needed it. He had been defeated, betrayed, struck down more times than he cared to count. He wouldn't be again, if he could help it. In his haze he noticed the innkeeper leave after sharing some shouted words with his apparent niece. A mass of travelers, or refugees. They could stay here. He shook his head. He should have already left.

He slumped over the bar, his head pounding. From too much? Or too little? He couldn't remember if this was the start or the end of a binge, didn't want to think. The noises all melded together into a low hum, only aggravating the pain in the center of his skull more. He stood haggardly, swaying towards the door. The night air was cool, and the silence would be oppressive, if it weren't exactly what he sought. He stumbled towards the back of the tavern, taking shelter underneath the protecting branches of a nearby tree. He pulled the straps of the sheath on his back off, laying the massive sword beside him as he braced himself on the thick trunk, no worries in his mind of someone trying to take it while he slept. His head nodded forward onto his chest, though he was asleep before the action had finished. Laughter. Light and clear, like the ringing of a crystal bell, as opposed to the harsh gritting noise he had grown accustomed to as he fought or drank. With a struggle, he raised his head and willed his eyes open. He didn't see the source of the noise at first, only saw the gray, pre-dawn skies and the swirling mists around him. He craned his neck, and caught sight of movement - a small child, running alongside a cart passing the tavern. The girl held her skirt above her feet as she ran through the sparse grass, excited about something, while her weary guardians drove the tired horses forward. Traveling through the night, barely arriving to a new town before morning broke, and yet the barest hints of smiles were worn on the faces of the couple, the young woman squeezing her lover's hand above the hem of a blanket wrapped around their legs. He smiled as well, involuntarily. Had he ever been that happy? Probably. No, undoubtedly, he had. It was ancient history, but it was there, hidden behind layers of pain. He rose, grabbing the cold sword and replacing it on his back. It was about time to move on, he had been here for nearly a week. He stretched, groaned as his joints cracked in protest. He made his way to a stable not far from the tavern, and turned into one of the stalls. A tired horse, once a proud charger, now as old and tired as its rider, stood, ready to leave as well. He readied it for the journey. He didn't know where he would go - he never did - but it would be better than staying here. He left as the sun rose, journeying back into the frontier once more.

He had always seen himself as lucky. Too young to fight against the terrible demons of the past, fit enough to fight against those that would hurt the innocent. But he was never skilled enough, never strong enough, to fight the scores of men and women he often came across. He had learned how to be independent, how to bandage his own wounds, even when that seemed impossible, even when he could barely stay conscious. But he had always kept trying, always kept his chin up, tried to find the bright side of things. In victory, he made friends, fell in love a few times, even thought he had found a home, somewhere to belong. It was all wasted potential. Time that he could never recover, vitality spilled onto the soil with his blood. He had nothing, now - no honor, no spark, nothing to show for his life but scars and memories he would rather forget. The drinks helped, but he could still recall every defeat, every loss he had felt. His life had amounted to the last gulp in his glass - short and unsatisfying. He set the mug back down on the counter. By now the bartender had learned to simply refill it, and the money would come without words. The man, who had been here every night, and most days, too, for the past two weeks, seemed to prefer it that way, and so long as coins were slid across to him, well, the bartender didn't mind, either. Some people came to pour out their troubles - others came to have more poured into them. The man went to work on emptying his only companion, the coarse, tasteless liquid the only comfort in a world that was populated by darkness and disappointment. He would move on to another place soon - another town, with another tavern. They were the only places he could stay, as sacred and necessary as the breath of the goddess. But for now, he would stay in his seat, turned away from all the others here, and drink. It was all he ever did now. It was all he had left in his life. It was all he wanted.

I'd say no, but Snowy would deny my intentions anyways, so no comment. But this way I can post one-shot stories in LoAF if I care to without getting modded. (assuming I get approved) APPROVAL, SETHOR LEVELS UP (+105 exp) Takes Miracle skill.

And now for something completely different. Name: Sethor Age: Late 30s, possibly already in his 40s. Gender: Male Appearance: A tall, broad man with a weathered face. Wears armor that was once a gleaming silver, but has now tarnished to a dull gray. Eyes are a dull brown, hair is also brown, turning gray at the temples. Is definitely out of place to see him without a bottle of some form of alcohol in his hands. Personality: Tired. Tired of fighting, of war, of trying to be a hero. Element: Ice Class: (Armor) Knight Level: 2.05 Stats: HP: 4 STR: 3 SKL: 3 SPD: 2 Luck: 2 Def: 4 Res: 2 Simplified stats: HP: 12 STR: 3 Hit: 3 Evade: 3 DEF/RES: 5/2 Weapons: A zweihander that can only be carried on his back. Skills: Name: Lance Slayer Activation: Passive Effect: Reverses the effect of the Weapon Triangle. Swords gain WTA over lances, and a WTD to axes and so on. Doubles the effects of having WTA advantage, a sword gains +2 Damage and causes -2 Hit. Does not work with Weapon Triangle Neutral weapons. Name: Pavise Activation: Start of round. Effect: Forfeits battle phase for 50% damage reduction. Name: Miracle Activation: Passive Effect: Once per battle, you may automatically succeed on a saving roll. Backstory: As a young man, he was a squire, in training to fight the demonic hordes invading the lands. After the Lord of Azure Flames was sealed away by the six heroes, he first attempted to join them in rebuilding the world. But there were still men of cruelty and wicked blades that called the lands their own. Instead of seeking to follow his idols, he donned the armor of a fallen knight, and began to try to fight for his own notion of justice. One boy, though, can make no difference - he spent years losing just as many battles as he won, barely surviving the beatings on several occasions. The longer this went on, the more calloused and withdrawn he grew, until, within the last decade, he renounced his mercenary status, which had always been something of a joke in any case. He's taken to occupying bar stools in his time - he's had so much to drink within the last few years that his senses of taste and smell have been more deadened by the drink than by his age.

I JUST TOTALLY FINALIZED MY DECISION ON THIS RP. Pass.

Clearly you should never sleep, ever.

About time, really. I've been suggesting this since I realized that instead of just an idiot, Psych was just a bad troll.

THEY'RE ALL SECRETLY FRIGHTENED OF YOU Some of them not-so-secretly.

Would be happy to be the other side of your team, Kanami, but I'm pretty sure that if I join, someone else would go through hell and high water to assert himself as that slot, so, meh. That said, still uncertain if joining, etc. Also wouldn't it be easier to do messages through, I dunno, the PM system here on SF?

"Glad to see we agree that they're all insane," Dom muttered silently, unsure of if the woman in the shadow could hear him. It was certainly advantageous to have the archfiend that the Keeparch cultists worshiped, but having a demon with them... He knew better than to voice such objections in front of a being in control of shadow and ice. If she stayed with Darrian... He would have to watch him. Perhaps she had the capable of possessing another form. Perhaps he should find a legitimate priest, instead of these insane practitioners. "At the risk of ruining the fun, I'd rather find the others than continue our walk. With this new..." He paused, unsure of what to call what had just happened. "This new development," he finally decided, "we shouldn't stay in Keeparch for too much longer. Stark and Yuki just left - they shouldn't have gotten too far, and perhaps our new, ah, friend could have attracted their attention." He couldn't shake the feeling of impending doom ever since the fiend had been summoned. He hoped that they wouldn't have to deal with it for too much longer - they had already been through so much just to get here.

"... They're summoning a demon." It dawned on him, the stories and tales that surrounded demons. Pain, suffering, unrivaled acts of brutality and sadism - and unlike gods and angels, he could believe that demons existed, having seen monsters and worse in his travels. Fargo hadn't seemed to grasp what was about to happen, naivety or perhaps insanity clouding the true nature of this place. Darrian hadn't reacted yet, either - with only the three of them, against the priests inside and the demon they intended to summon... They wouldn't be able to survive, even if all of the others were here. "We must leave." He turned back to the doorway, then to the others. "Now."

Dom didn't particularly like the way that this Archrival was looking at Yuki, and, as he thought that Stark probably agreed with him, the man led her away. He had seemed to be restraining excitement about something, but it appeared the business was between them. That left him, Fargo, and Darrian with the strange man within the holy arch. He shook his head at the man's zealotry, careful to not allow himself to show his discontent with the place - it could be a dangerous mistake.

Hm, have a seat right there. Yeah, just pull one from that table, they're not using it. Now, you say you're looking for someone, yeah? Oh, the Butcher. Yeah, yeah, I've heard of him. Quite the monster, from what the rumors say. Here, a drink, on me, we'll sit here and talk for a bit, and then you can be on your way. What've I heard? What, are you crazy? You're really out to get him, hm. I've seen a lot of people go after him, never met another one of them again. Dunno if they ever found him, or if he found them first - to my knowledge, though, he's still out there, being a boogieman and finding new ways to make normal folks retch. I dunno, doesn't seem like someone that I'd want to chase after myself, but I won't dissuade you. Ah, that's some good ale. Now, let's see, what do I know about him... Wasn't always a killer, let's start with that. Used to be an actual butcher, apparently, in some sleepy little town - no one knows which one for sure, but that's besides the point. Had a wife, a couple of boys, pretty normal life. No one knows for sure what happened to him - maybe he sold some poisoned meat, went insane from grief. Maybe his wife was cheating on him, went crazy with rage. Or maybe, maybe he was just one of those rare individuals who had spent a life as a normal person, going to church, raising his kids, and something inside him snapped. Won't ever be su- oh, of course I'll take another drink, honey, thank you. Now, where was I? Oh, right. Nah, no one knows why he did it, and I doubt anyone ever will. But the neighbors checked because of the screams from his wife. They found... a terrible scene. The boys were both gone, on the floor, too many cuts to count. The blood was everywhere. His wife... Well, she was still alive, barely, sobbing, bleeding from... a lot. She wasn't going to make it, it was obvious. She was too scared, in too much pain to talk about what had happened, and then she was gone too. He had already gone - took his cleavers, his cloak, and nothing else. No one saw him leave, but there were small traces of blood leading out through the gate, just as fresh as the rest of it. They were glad he was gone, after all that - buried his family, destroyed the house, because no one would want to live there anyways, and kept an eye out for him. He never came back, but he found other places to show up. Always blood and fear left in his wake - parents don't let their children out past dark, travelers became xenophobic and trusting only those they knew personally. And still, the Butcher found his way into homes, churches, anywhere people thought they were safe. Guardsmen couldn't stop him, hunters couldn't find him, soldiers couldn't slay him - a killer without purpose, without guilt. He stopped a few months ago, as far as anyone knows, but that hasn't stopped anyone from fearing him, or, in your case, I guess, looking for him. Nah, no more drinks for me. What, you're going already? Ah, such a shame, this place is so comfortable. Yeah, sure, why not? I'll come with you, see what's true of all that story if we find him. Don't forget your cloak, it's cold out there. Glad for those drinks now, can't feel the wind cut through to the bones anymore. Nah, I don't mind leaving now, better to get out before the snow blocks too much. Never know where he could've found himself. Hm, I dunno where we are either. All these pine trees look the same, you know? Snow's getting heavier too, we should find a place to shelter. Or maybe these branches will be good enough. Well, this is a fine mess. Trapped in a blizzard, hunting after a murderer that no one's caught or even hurt, as far as anyone knows... This isn't going to end well for either of us. Oh well. Hm, these? Why, they're just cleavers. You hadn't noticed them before? Dunno how you missed three feet of steel on each hip, but, I don't mind. You didn't notice a lot of things, really. I mean, really, someone knows that much about the Butcher, and you don't suspect a thing? I dunno who died, but you must not have been an adventurer before then. Really it's a shame - you were a cute little lady, I'll admit, but you should've known better than to chase after monsters. I'll let you learn this lesson, before your hunt ends. Monsters aren't some strange creatures out in the story books or things that mommies and daddies have to look under the beds or in the closets. They can hide wherever they want, look like anyone, because they are anyone. I'll remind you, carve the lesson into your skin, so you won't ever forget it. Monsters are you and me.

Too many elements overcomplicate things.