- Location
- Brazil
[X] Take Gahm up on his offer and go out for drinks later. You're not much of a drinker and you don't really know any of his friends, but you could stand to get some air right now.
Shadowrun: Imugi
[X] Stay in. Cuddle up with Emil and relax. Rent a movie on the trideo. Maybe order delivery, you have at least a dozen complimentary menus you haven't really looked through.
- Pronouns
- They/Them
[X] You don't feel like staying in but you're not really in the mood for socializing. Catch a sim, maybe a movie depending. Pick up some takeout on the way back if you feel like it.
I'm interested in Sims, what can I say?
I'm interested in Sims, what can I say?
- Location
- Canada
[X] Take Gahm up on his offer and go out for drinks later. You're not much of a drinker and you don't really know any of his friends, but you could stand to get some air right now.
New characters go!
New characters go!
- Location
- Italy
[X] Stay in. Cuddle up with Emil and relax. Rent a movie on the trideo. Maybe order delivery, you have at least a dozen complimentary menus you haven't really looked through.
As if cuddling the fluffly fox wouldn't be a priority.
As if cuddling the fluffly fox wouldn't be a priority.
[X] Take Gahm up on his offer and go out for drinks later. You're not much of a drinker and you don't really know any of his friends, but you could stand to get some air right now.
Can take bullets. Cannot take booze
Can take bullets. Cannot take booze
[X] Take Gahm up on his offer and go out for drinks later. You're not much of a drinker and you don't really know any of his friends, but you could stand to get some air right now.
Prologue Part Five: Human Garbage
TenfoldShields
Lounging on a Hoard of Words
- Pronouns
- He/Him
You spend an hour just tidying up. Cleaning out Emil's litterbox, doing the dishes left over in the sink with your fox rolling on the ground, trying to get his jaw around your ankles. Absently checking your PDA, opening the meetup info Gahm forwarded to you "if you change your mind". You boot up your terminal, check the latest out of Japan (Transys broadcast on relief efforts, statement by Ryumyo's rep of choice, an article on Imperial Marines pulling out of the Philippines, Peru, and North Australia complete with glossy stills). You browse the shows on your trideo and find nothing you like. You check your PDA again, eye to the time. Still forty five minutes to go.
If, you know, you were going.
You play with Emil, bouncing his ball off the window and watching him chase it. A red and black, fiery streak of fur darting along the ground. He catches it, brings it back. Catches it, brings it back. Gnaws at it, drops it, and trots over to the doorway. You snag a bag of shrimp flavored crackers and Emil's leash. Night has fallen in full and the storm rumbles above. You take him for a walk through the rain-soaked corridors of your building; the moisture laden wind tugging at your hastily thrown on jacket, slipping beneath the collar and up under the hem.
Down narrow stairwells, nearly naked concrete awash in cool blue light. Through the covered causeways; shadows stretching and dancing as clouds race across the sky. The towers across the canyon-street obscured now and then by a ragged shroud of fog; reduced to a hazy outline and so many blurred, blotchy points of illumination. Fishy chips crunch between your teeth, taking the edge off of your hunger. You wonder if there's someone else across the vast gulf, over the river of fast-flowing steel. You wonder if they're walking and looking back and wondering too. Emil stops and whines, looking up at you with big green eyes. You hoist him up, hold near the edge of the guardbarrier and let him sniff the currents. He pants happily. You arm cinched tight across his chest, keeping him from squirming away. Fear and sudden anxiety suddenly sitting high in your chest.
But...the wind does feel good on your face. And there's something primal, something atavistic about standing on the brink of the storm; rain sheeting through to dampen your face. The roiling skies above painted shades of faded orange by light pollution, laced with multicolored glow from the buildings. Tiger-hide, tiger-hide and electric fire. You don't think you can stay in on a night like this. Stay in and just listen to the rain drum against the window. Stay in and fall asleep on the couch, watching reruns of Korean soaps you don't really understand and UCAS-streamed shows you don't really like.
You turn, tugging Emil away from the railing against his plaintive mewls. Pausing for a second as you look out, as you look down. The ground so far below you, lines of headlights wreathed in fog. For a second you imagine what it'd be like to slip over the railing. To jump, to fall, to fly for a few, brief, heartpounding seconds before the ground rushed up to meet you.
You step away from the edge.
You check your PDA one last time as you fill up Emil's water bowl and crack a can of wetfood for him. Stroking his sleek neck as he greedily chows down. Pulling a little bag of chewy faux-fruit snacks out of the pantry. Setting one down next to his bowl, just a little treat, but he's earned it. You're going to spoil him rotten eventually.
You change from the comparatively clean grey-black shirt and Black Turtle fatigues you had stashed in your locker, into one of your few sets of actual street clothes. The hooded black jacket with the circuit patterns, red undershirt with some printed, geometric design. Dark jeans and running shoes. You brush your hair back, glaring at the red tips in the mirror. You briefly wonder why you don't have more shirts that have brighter colors. Then you remember that you do, they just all look ugly on you.
You take the tram into Togko Plaza proper. The crowds still working their way through the mass produced market stalls and syndicated shops. Everything sleek and glossy, slick and wet from the rain. Some people carry fiber optic edged umbrellas, some curved plastic domes; each a little riot of color against the black. You pass teams of Knight Errant officers on duty. Their half-cloaks damp from the deluge. You have a brief flash of pity for the poor fuckers working the late shift.
It takes a bit of walking but it's not hard to find the Oh-seong Meat House. You can smell the savory scent and hear the raucous laughter at least a hundred yards down the street. It's warm inside, packed nearly wall to wall with security-types. You see more than a few Black Turtle shirts around and abruptly feel self-conscious as the host shows you in. Hot circular, silvery grates at the table. Dishes of raw meat and little bowls of sauce. Smoke curling up to the ceiling, highlighted by the neon.
"Hey the Anglo made it!" And Gahm is just there, close cropped beard shot through with grey and his hair drawn back in a loose bun. His breath is sweet and chemical-harsh; like he's been knocking back bottles of rubbing alcohol. You wince on the inside. Liver already girding itself for the ordeal ahead. Gahm guides you to a seat at a table already piled high with ribs. Eggs and beef cooking on the grill. He goes around in order and introduces you to his friends. Baik, a brawny orc in a tank top and casually undone jacket, her collar unbuttoned and the flaps spread wide over her shoulders. Ai, a sullen, sour faced man with a thin, ropey scar from his chin to ear. And Howan. A younger man, about your age. Built a little broader, a bit heavier in the cheekbones and with much better hair.
You promptly forget all their names.
"And this is-" Gahm points to you with a stainless steel chopstick.
"Esser." You say, somewhat limply. "My name's Esser."
"Ah, yeah, the Anglo Gahm's been going on about." Scar says, eyes sweeping over your frame from chest to chin.
"Oh, uh, I'm actually German. Father and mother both. I was just born and raised in the UCAS."
Scar looks at you blandly as if to say, "so?" and you drop your eyes to the table. Trying to find some salvation in the browning imitation beef.
Gahm pours you a beer and a smaller of some clear, colorless liquid. Soju you think it's called. Seven months in Pyongyang and you've managed to avoid the very worst of employee nights out. Drinking the bare minimum and speaking only when spoken to. Fading into the black and grey press that inevitably forms around the brass. Just there enough that you can't be criticized for being unsocial. Never active enough to ever been in danger of being social.
"Drop it in the drink."
"...What? Like-"
"Yeah. Just like that."
You watch somewhat dubiously as your glass foams and bubbles, under Gahm's encouraging eye you raise it to your lips and tilt it back and-
Realize that you have made a terrible, terrible, mistake.
The taste is sharp enough to cut glass. You feel the veins in your eyes widening, feel it burning as it rushes down your throat. You try not to gag. You seize on the qi, seize on your training and try not to choke. Gahm slaps your shoulder, you catch what might have been a compliment through the fuzz in your head. The imperceptible tension relaxes somewhat. Gahm motions for you to fill up Scar's cup. You do.
"Take some food man! For fuck's sake." You do. "And try the sauce."
And you do.
And then the games start.
Simple at first: recite numbers in ascending order. You recite the wrong numbers. There's a chuckle and a snort as you drink. New game, recite new numbers. You pick the right numbers. They all laugh as you drink again, flush rising in your cheeks. Gahm's slinging you shots of soju like a practiced bartender. After the third glass of straight soju you stop noticing the acrid bite. The meal helps. The meat is greasy and savory and all but explodes on your tongue. Dripping in juices and marinade.
"...S'not soy?"
"Nope! Vat grown, it's uh...shit what's it-"
"Cloned." Ork Lady says, her voice like gravel.
"Yeah! Cloned!" Gahm says agreeably. You nod, also agreeably, as you chow down. Everyone seems very agreeable and you're actually having a good time despite yourself. More games. Lining up a row of soju cups to fall into a row of beers. Little trick set ups. You're not really sure if anyone's winning or losing, everyone's drinking anyway.
"Who's most likely to have a thing for trolls?" Scar asks. Everyone points to Gahm with their chopsticks. He chortles into his drink.
"Who's most likely to have been the school pretty boy?" Younger Guy asks. Everyone points to you. You drink. The flush in your cheeks having less to do with the booze now. Gahm gestures at you to take a crack at it, you mull it over as you fill Scar's glass with more beer. Trying to think through the pleasant humming, buzzing in your head.
"Who's most likely to...uh. Have a thing for older women?" Snickering. Stainless steel chopsticks pointed at Younger Guy, it's his turn to blush now.
The rest of the time at the BBQ-house passes in a blur.
As does karaoke, mercifully.
Mostly.
"I'll be your circuit boy" you sing into the microphone, actual tears in your eyes. The taste of dried squid and candy on your tongue. "If you'll be my cyber-girl. Dance with you on the cutting edge, awoho~."
Ork lady matches you, her voice a rich baritone. Scar and Gahm and Younger Guy clap along and laugh riotously. Comfortably ensconced in pink plastic booths, plates of snackfood littering the table before them.
Street shops. Another bar. Another stop.
Soju. Beer. Soju. Black noodles. Soju. Oysters.
Soju, soju, soju.
Your qi laps inside your veins like a placid sea. It's rubbing alcohol all the way down. You're not really sure the time when you finally do end up back at your apartment, a good natured Gahm supporting your weight. Burly arm like an oak beam draped over your shoulders. You wave him off with a half-slurred apology and what might have been a thank you as he vanishes around the corner with a mock salute. You blearily check your PDA, squinting to make sure the little alarm icon is lit up for the morning. You fumble out your keycard. You drop it. You scrape it off the ground unsteadily, slap it against the reader, and stagger in. Emil is there to greet you as the door swings shut; rubbing against your shins and mewling for attention. You reach down to scritch his ears as you shed your clothes and the alcohol reek. Stripping down to your underwear, taking a few uncertain steps towards the shower before going "fuck it" and sprawling out over your couch. Wearily tugging a folded up, space-age blanket over your bare back.
Emil hops up and curls up next to you. A warm, furry weight against your ribs. You grin at him, eyes burning with unshed tears as you tug a pillow under your head.
"I am human garbage." You say with the utmost confidence.
And then you're out like a light.
Wakefulness has an ebb and a flow to it. Like the wash of the tides, the pull of the surf. Your head feels like it's stuffed with gritty cotton. Your stomach roils. Your nerves are scraped raw and there's an awful, awful ringing. You push yourself up into a crouch, cringing at your aching muscles. Gagging at the taste of your own breath, it feels like you could hold a match to your lips and you'd breathe blue flame. The noise mercifully cuts out and you slump back down with a grateful groan.
Only for it to start again a second later. Coming from the general vicinity of your pants.
You force yourself to your feet and stumble towards the noise. Emil sleepily rolling into the warm hollow left by your body. You fumble for your PDA in the dark. Pulling it free just as the alert dies again. You tap the icon and squint at the screen.
[Missed Alerts: 3]
[CODE: BLACK]
[ALL ON-CALL PERSONNEL REPORT TO ASSIGNED RALLY CENTERS]
[YOU ARE DESIGNATED AS: ON-CALL PERSONNEL]
Your gut turns to ice. Jagged, glacial shards that stab at your stomach lining. That crawl their way up your throat, icing the tender tissue as they go.
"Oh God, oh God oh shit. Fuck." You stagger, the room spinning as you lurch towards your clothes. No, no no no. You've already missed three you're already late you can't miss any more. You'll just change anyway. Shit. Shit.
You hit the door at a stumbling run, the night air cold on your fever-hot skin. Slapping the elevator button, hitting it again, and again. All but throwing yourself into it, innards squirming as it descends. Bleary eyes watching as the numbers tick down, the tram-station drawing closer.
Focus. You need to focus. You're in no shape to fight right now. You need to relax, meditate and let your qi properly circulate.
Shame you're shit at that.
[ ] Focus, think of a forest. Relaxing and soothing. Empty save for you, comfortable isolation in a little slice of imaginary green. The perfect daydream for a city-kid like you.
[ ] Focus, think of a flame. Hungry and powerful. Think of it growing, blooming and blossoming into wild red petals. Consuming your exhaustion and your lingering intoxication.
[ ] Focus, think of the earth. Stoic and fertile. Rich in new possibilities and yet firmly anchored in the practicality of the present. Optimistic, full of potential, and amazingly stable.
[ ] Focus, think of metal. Hard and unyielding. Industrious and dangerous, honed into a killing edge; refined by razor focus. A living weapon. Fueled by utter self-confidence.
[ ] Focus, think of a river. Fast flowing and fluid. It winds through you, courses through your body. Washing away your impurities, your fear, all that it requires is that you be open.
If, you know, you were going.
You play with Emil, bouncing his ball off the window and watching him chase it. A red and black, fiery streak of fur darting along the ground. He catches it, brings it back. Catches it, brings it back. Gnaws at it, drops it, and trots over to the doorway. You snag a bag of shrimp flavored crackers and Emil's leash. Night has fallen in full and the storm rumbles above. You take him for a walk through the rain-soaked corridors of your building; the moisture laden wind tugging at your hastily thrown on jacket, slipping beneath the collar and up under the hem.
Down narrow stairwells, nearly naked concrete awash in cool blue light. Through the covered causeways; shadows stretching and dancing as clouds race across the sky. The towers across the canyon-street obscured now and then by a ragged shroud of fog; reduced to a hazy outline and so many blurred, blotchy points of illumination. Fishy chips crunch between your teeth, taking the edge off of your hunger. You wonder if there's someone else across the vast gulf, over the river of fast-flowing steel. You wonder if they're walking and looking back and wondering too. Emil stops and whines, looking up at you with big green eyes. You hoist him up, hold near the edge of the guardbarrier and let him sniff the currents. He pants happily. You arm cinched tight across his chest, keeping him from squirming away. Fear and sudden anxiety suddenly sitting high in your chest.
But...the wind does feel good on your face. And there's something primal, something atavistic about standing on the brink of the storm; rain sheeting through to dampen your face. The roiling skies above painted shades of faded orange by light pollution, laced with multicolored glow from the buildings. Tiger-hide, tiger-hide and electric fire. You don't think you can stay in on a night like this. Stay in and just listen to the rain drum against the window. Stay in and fall asleep on the couch, watching reruns of Korean soaps you don't really understand and UCAS-streamed shows you don't really like.
You turn, tugging Emil away from the railing against his plaintive mewls. Pausing for a second as you look out, as you look down. The ground so far below you, lines of headlights wreathed in fog. For a second you imagine what it'd be like to slip over the railing. To jump, to fall, to fly for a few, brief, heartpounding seconds before the ground rushed up to meet you.
You step away from the edge.
You check your PDA one last time as you fill up Emil's water bowl and crack a can of wetfood for him. Stroking his sleek neck as he greedily chows down. Pulling a little bag of chewy faux-fruit snacks out of the pantry. Setting one down next to his bowl, just a little treat, but he's earned it. You're going to spoil him rotten eventually.
You change from the comparatively clean grey-black shirt and Black Turtle fatigues you had stashed in your locker, into one of your few sets of actual street clothes. The hooded black jacket with the circuit patterns, red undershirt with some printed, geometric design. Dark jeans and running shoes. You brush your hair back, glaring at the red tips in the mirror. You briefly wonder why you don't have more shirts that have brighter colors. Then you remember that you do, they just all look ugly on you.
You take the tram into Togko Plaza proper. The crowds still working their way through the mass produced market stalls and syndicated shops. Everything sleek and glossy, slick and wet from the rain. Some people carry fiber optic edged umbrellas, some curved plastic domes; each a little riot of color against the black. You pass teams of Knight Errant officers on duty. Their half-cloaks damp from the deluge. You have a brief flash of pity for the poor fuckers working the late shift.
It takes a bit of walking but it's not hard to find the Oh-seong Meat House. You can smell the savory scent and hear the raucous laughter at least a hundred yards down the street. It's warm inside, packed nearly wall to wall with security-types. You see more than a few Black Turtle shirts around and abruptly feel self-conscious as the host shows you in. Hot circular, silvery grates at the table. Dishes of raw meat and little bowls of sauce. Smoke curling up to the ceiling, highlighted by the neon.
"Hey the Anglo made it!" And Gahm is just there, close cropped beard shot through with grey and his hair drawn back in a loose bun. His breath is sweet and chemical-harsh; like he's been knocking back bottles of rubbing alcohol. You wince on the inside. Liver already girding itself for the ordeal ahead. Gahm guides you to a seat at a table already piled high with ribs. Eggs and beef cooking on the grill. He goes around in order and introduces you to his friends. Baik, a brawny orc in a tank top and casually undone jacket, her collar unbuttoned and the flaps spread wide over her shoulders. Ai, a sullen, sour faced man with a thin, ropey scar from his chin to ear. And Howan. A younger man, about your age. Built a little broader, a bit heavier in the cheekbones and with much better hair.
You promptly forget all their names.
"And this is-" Gahm points to you with a stainless steel chopstick.
"Esser." You say, somewhat limply. "My name's Esser."
"Ah, yeah, the Anglo Gahm's been going on about." Scar says, eyes sweeping over your frame from chest to chin.
"Oh, uh, I'm actually German. Father and mother both. I was just born and raised in the UCAS."
Scar looks at you blandly as if to say, "so?" and you drop your eyes to the table. Trying to find some salvation in the browning imitation beef.
Gahm pours you a beer and a smaller of some clear, colorless liquid. Soju you think it's called. Seven months in Pyongyang and you've managed to avoid the very worst of employee nights out. Drinking the bare minimum and speaking only when spoken to. Fading into the black and grey press that inevitably forms around the brass. Just there enough that you can't be criticized for being unsocial. Never active enough to ever been in danger of being social.
"Drop it in the drink."
"...What? Like-"
"Yeah. Just like that."
You watch somewhat dubiously as your glass foams and bubbles, under Gahm's encouraging eye you raise it to your lips and tilt it back and-
Realize that you have made a terrible, terrible, mistake.
The taste is sharp enough to cut glass. You feel the veins in your eyes widening, feel it burning as it rushes down your throat. You try not to gag. You seize on the qi, seize on your training and try not to choke. Gahm slaps your shoulder, you catch what might have been a compliment through the fuzz in your head. The imperceptible tension relaxes somewhat. Gahm motions for you to fill up Scar's cup. You do.
"Take some food man! For fuck's sake." You do. "And try the sauce."
And you do.
And then the games start.
Simple at first: recite numbers in ascending order. You recite the wrong numbers. There's a chuckle and a snort as you drink. New game, recite new numbers. You pick the right numbers. They all laugh as you drink again, flush rising in your cheeks. Gahm's slinging you shots of soju like a practiced bartender. After the third glass of straight soju you stop noticing the acrid bite. The meal helps. The meat is greasy and savory and all but explodes on your tongue. Dripping in juices and marinade.
"...S'not soy?"
"Nope! Vat grown, it's uh...shit what's it-"
"Cloned." Ork Lady says, her voice like gravel.
"Yeah! Cloned!" Gahm says agreeably. You nod, also agreeably, as you chow down. Everyone seems very agreeable and you're actually having a good time despite yourself. More games. Lining up a row of soju cups to fall into a row of beers. Little trick set ups. You're not really sure if anyone's winning or losing, everyone's drinking anyway.
"Who's most likely to have a thing for trolls?" Scar asks. Everyone points to Gahm with their chopsticks. He chortles into his drink.
"Who's most likely to have been the school pretty boy?" Younger Guy asks. Everyone points to you. You drink. The flush in your cheeks having less to do with the booze now. Gahm gestures at you to take a crack at it, you mull it over as you fill Scar's glass with more beer. Trying to think through the pleasant humming, buzzing in your head.
"Who's most likely to...uh. Have a thing for older women?" Snickering. Stainless steel chopsticks pointed at Younger Guy, it's his turn to blush now.
The rest of the time at the BBQ-house passes in a blur.
As does karaoke, mercifully.
Mostly.
"I'll be your circuit boy" you sing into the microphone, actual tears in your eyes. The taste of dried squid and candy on your tongue. "If you'll be my cyber-girl. Dance with you on the cutting edge, awoho~."
Ork lady matches you, her voice a rich baritone. Scar and Gahm and Younger Guy clap along and laugh riotously. Comfortably ensconced in pink plastic booths, plates of snackfood littering the table before them.
Street shops. Another bar. Another stop.
Soju. Beer. Soju. Black noodles. Soju. Oysters.
Soju, soju, soju.
Your qi laps inside your veins like a placid sea. It's rubbing alcohol all the way down. You're not really sure the time when you finally do end up back at your apartment, a good natured Gahm supporting your weight. Burly arm like an oak beam draped over your shoulders. You wave him off with a half-slurred apology and what might have been a thank you as he vanishes around the corner with a mock salute. You blearily check your PDA, squinting to make sure the little alarm icon is lit up for the morning. You fumble out your keycard. You drop it. You scrape it off the ground unsteadily, slap it against the reader, and stagger in. Emil is there to greet you as the door swings shut; rubbing against your shins and mewling for attention. You reach down to scritch his ears as you shed your clothes and the alcohol reek. Stripping down to your underwear, taking a few uncertain steps towards the shower before going "fuck it" and sprawling out over your couch. Wearily tugging a folded up, space-age blanket over your bare back.
Emil hops up and curls up next to you. A warm, furry weight against your ribs. You grin at him, eyes burning with unshed tears as you tug a pillow under your head.
"I am human garbage." You say with the utmost confidence.
And then you're out like a light.
Wakefulness has an ebb and a flow to it. Like the wash of the tides, the pull of the surf. Your head feels like it's stuffed with gritty cotton. Your stomach roils. Your nerves are scraped raw and there's an awful, awful ringing. You push yourself up into a crouch, cringing at your aching muscles. Gagging at the taste of your own breath, it feels like you could hold a match to your lips and you'd breathe blue flame. The noise mercifully cuts out and you slump back down with a grateful groan.
Only for it to start again a second later. Coming from the general vicinity of your pants.
You force yourself to your feet and stumble towards the noise. Emil sleepily rolling into the warm hollow left by your body. You fumble for your PDA in the dark. Pulling it free just as the alert dies again. You tap the icon and squint at the screen.
[Missed Alerts: 3]
[CODE: BLACK]
[ALL ON-CALL PERSONNEL REPORT TO ASSIGNED RALLY CENTERS]
[YOU ARE DESIGNATED AS: ON-CALL PERSONNEL]
Your gut turns to ice. Jagged, glacial shards that stab at your stomach lining. That crawl their way up your throat, icing the tender tissue as they go.
"Oh God, oh God oh shit. Fuck." You stagger, the room spinning as you lurch towards your clothes. No, no no no. You've already missed three you're already late you can't miss any more. You'll just change anyway. Shit. Shit.
You hit the door at a stumbling run, the night air cold on your fever-hot skin. Slapping the elevator button, hitting it again, and again. All but throwing yourself into it, innards squirming as it descends. Bleary eyes watching as the numbers tick down, the tram-station drawing closer.
Focus. You need to focus. You're in no shape to fight right now. You need to relax, meditate and let your qi properly circulate.
Shame you're shit at that.
[ ] Focus, think of a forest. Relaxing and soothing. Empty save for you, comfortable isolation in a little slice of imaginary green. The perfect daydream for a city-kid like you.
[ ] Focus, think of a flame. Hungry and powerful. Think of it growing, blooming and blossoming into wild red petals. Consuming your exhaustion and your lingering intoxication.
[ ] Focus, think of the earth. Stoic and fertile. Rich in new possibilities and yet firmly anchored in the practicality of the present. Optimistic, full of potential, and amazingly stable.
[ ] Focus, think of metal. Hard and unyielding. Industrious and dangerous, honed into a killing edge; refined by razor focus. A living weapon. Fueled by utter self-confidence.
[ ] Focus, think of a river. Fast flowing and fluid. It winds through you, courses through your body. Washing away your impurities, your fear, all that it requires is that you be open.
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ZerbanDaGreat
Daemon Noble of D E M O G R A P H I C S
- Pronouns
- They/them
[Sounds of non-stop infinite ass-dumping.]
DO YOU SEE WHAT HAPPENS, VOTERS? DO YOU SEE WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU GO OUT KOREA-DRINKING!?
MOTHERFUCKING SHADOWRUNNERS PROBABLY BROKE IN AND FOUND A NANITE PLAGUE OR SOMETHING SO NOW THERE'S GREY GOO EVERYWHERE EATING EVERYTHING I HOPE YOU'RE HAPPY
[X] Focus, think of a river. Fast flowing and fluid. It winds through you, courses through your body. Washing away your impurities, your fear, all that it requires is that you be open.
I feel like this is the best bet for Christoph to get functional quick. A 'drunken master' sort of thing? I dunno, seems like it'll be a lot more effective at working through a hangover than just RAGH MY WILL IS IRON or anything.
Speaking of which I see the five Asian elements there! Neato!
[X] Focus, think of a river. Fast flowing and fluid. It winds through you, courses through your body. Washing away your impurities, your fear, all that it requires is that you be open.
Washing away impurities and fear seems to be functionally very similar to Fire's consumption of intoxication (just described differently cuz using the same words is boring), but with the added benefit that it's not described as 'hungry'. Hunger is rarely a positive personality adjective.
Also, people always think of Fire when combat and/or magic-y stuff comes up in Fantasy. I'm happy to choose something else.
Washing away impurities and fear seems to be functionally very similar to Fire's consumption of intoxication (just described differently cuz using the same words is boring), but with the added benefit that it's not described as 'hungry'. Hunger is rarely a positive personality adjective.
Also, people always think of Fire when combat and/or magic-y stuff comes up in Fantasy. I'm happy to choose something else.
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- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Focus, think of metal. Hard and unyielding. Industrious and dangerous, honed into a killing edge; refined by razor focus. A living weapon. Fueled by utter self-confidence.
RULES OF NATURE
RULES OF NATURE
- Location
- St. Petersburg
I am pretty happy not to be in the first batch of redshirts.
[X] Focus, think of metal. Hard and unyielding. Industrious and dangerous, honed into a killing edge; refined by razor focus. A living weapon. Fueled by utter self-confidence.
In our place, I would be thinking of another metal...
Let's roll.
SirLagginton
Shadow Cabal Caerbannog Bun-Bun
- Location
- Arrrghhh
[X] Focus, think of metal. Hard and unyielding. Industrious and dangerous, honed into a killing edge; refined by razor focus. A living weapon. Fueled by utter self-confidence.
[X] Focus, think of metal. Hard and unyielding. Industrious and dangerous, honed into a killing edge; refined by razor focus. A living weapon. Fueled by utter self-confidence.
XkaliburRage
Perpetual Procrastinator
[X] Focus, think of metal. Hard and unyielding. Industrious and dangerous, honed into a killing edge; refined by razor focus. A living weapon. Fueled by utter self-confidence.
Eh, it was worth it!
Eh, it was worth it!