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MATURE RPG


May, 2010... Fantasy became reality. Worlds overlay for the briefest moment. Outworlders became stranded on earth as more than half the human populace vanished. Our World, our universe, was transformed.

Fiction is now reality. Humans and those now bound to this world will either learn to coexist, or battle for supremecy.

ALL SITE ACTIVITY

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  1. Last week
  2. Ryan Harker

    Chasing Ghosts

    Ryan’s evening had been derailed from his original plan. He had come to the occult’s shop for information and out of curiosity for the arcane black market. Now he found himself having a discussion that no one ever wanted to have. This was going to be a longer night than he had anticipated. Harker found himself alone with Rorye within the “Book of Kells.” Her staff’s attention to her desires was acute, almost to an ominous degree. When the shop keeper pulled out her fine spirits and delicate glassware the entire store vacated. The lights seemed to dim, the “open” sign faced inward, and the fire had been reinvigorated. Glasses clanked together as she placed them on the tray beside the crystal bottles. Ryan wasn’t very cultured. He eyed the unlabeled bottles cautiously. He had heard of absinthe in the past, but the closest he had come to drinking anything like it was Everclear. A decision he later regretted. He had told the woman his real name, and only drank the whiskey after she had. A loved one of Alistar or not, that was the extent of his trust. He would watch her drink from the mysterious bottles before he partook in the spirits himself. For now, he would stick with whiskey. “Nobody checks on me, never have, never need to.” While she spoke, Ryan refreshed his coffee with another spill of whiskey. “I was just an informant, I didn’t go to the Christmas parties.” Ryan noted her use of the present tense when discussing Alistar earlier, and her use of the past tense when discussing her relationship to ARMA. She believed her connection to ARMA was in the past, yet held out hope for Alistar’s future. She was in denial on both counts. Her cynical satire a deflection from the reality she refused to accept. The woman’s body language suggested she was uncomfortable with where the conversation was going. It was to Ryan’s surprise when she had pulled out the fancy drinks and continued the conversation. Deep down she must have known it was one she needed to have. “Jesus Christ,” he thought to himself. This wasn’t a discussion he was comfortable with having either. “Is this the part where you remind me not to leak ARMA secrets?” Rorye quipped. She misunderstood his intentions. He wasn’t there to ensure she safeguarded ARMA’s secrets. If he believed she truly represented a threat to ARMA, he would already have taken more extreme measures. This was her second mention of him “taking her decoder ring,” or “leaking secrets.” Coupling those comments with her past tense phrases he deduced she wanted to break ties with ARMA. Did she really think it would be that easy? “I think you’re misinterpreting my intentions,” Ryan said before taking another sip from his coffee. He grinned at the taste. The beverage was more like coffee flavored whiskey at this point. “I’m not here to make sure you keep ARMA’s secrets.” He studied her expression for a moment before he continued, “I am sincerely checking on you.” The Cloak operative set his drink down on the table and stood up straight. The fire was warm and from the look of things he would be here for a while. Might as well make himself comfortable. He removed his jacket as he spoke, setting it on the counter beside him. “I’m sure you made enemies when you threw in with ARMA. How long do you think it will be before they realize Alistar’s gone, and he’s not coming back?” A black long sleeve shirt, and the agent’s arsenal had been revealed when he removed his coat. Gun holstered on his right thigh, magazines bristled along his belt, small grenade satchel on his left hip, and two long blades were sheathed on his vest. He hoped the weaponry wouldn’t be off-putting. She knew who he was and what he represented. However, he also knew he was considerably more equipped than the typical ARMA agent. Harker found a chair and seated himself at the counter. He picked up his drink and again let his arms rest the counter’s surface. Once more he locked eyes with Rorye. Curious. Inquisitive. He wasn’t certain how she would respond to his inquiry, or if she believed his intentions. More than anything else, he wondered if she would speak honestly. He took another taste from his “coffee” and readied himself for more sarcastic deflections.
  3. Ryan Harker

    Begin to Be

    Harker had pinned Del Santo into a no-win situation. The public venue provided some protection from overt actions from the Order and from ARMA. However, the magus was still a wanted fugitive as far the Order and law enforcement were concerned. His only safeguard had been ARMA, and he had turned his back on them. If a confrontation took place between the two assassins, it would likely end badly for Del Santo. If Harker killed the fugitive cleanly, he would be a hero ARMA agent. If the altercation ended with civilian casualties, there was nothing to connect the agent to ARMA. The rogue magus would be fighting another unknown killer in a cathedral, and the loss of life would be his fault. If Del Santo killed Harker, it would be a hero agent killed by a ruthless fugitive. Harker might not win, but no matter what Del Santo lost. Harker had the upper hand, at least for now. The advantage came at an immense risk; as it often did for Cloak operatives. No back up, no support, just a single agent in the field. Frequently ARMA covert agents had to gamble with their own lives in order accomplish their missions. There was a reason Cloak had such consistent casualty rates when compared to ARMA’s other divisions. The bet Ryan had placed now was that he could duel the rogue assassin and win. Because if Del Santo killed the agent quietly, as he was known to do, no one would even come looking for the body. Harker watched the Vicar leave out of the corner of his eye. A brave old man, he had to give him that. The magus bid the clergyman farewell, casting a glare to Harker before returning to his work at the altar. The chapel had cleared out, the two men were alone. Ryan mildly surprised at the man’s calm when he spoke. “What can I do for you?” “You have a grievance with the Order of the First Light, and I can appreciate that.” Ryan’s tone was different from Rhome’s. Both were calm, but Rhome’s words felt calculated, controlled. Ryan spoke casually as if addressing a friend at work. “Truth be told, I can’t stand the hypocritical extremists any more than you.” “I’ve killed more than my fair share of them.” Harker said with a smirk. “You’re on a warpath, but there is a time, a place, and a way to accomplish your mission.” Ryan shook his head in disapproval but kept his eyes on the priest. “You’re trying to send a message, but you’re going about it the wrong way.” “I can help you,” Harker’s offer was sincere. “but my help comes with conditions.”
  4. Rorye Shannon-Kearney

    Chasing Ghosts

    Lashes lowered slightly, she wasn't the most subtle of creatures, and she preferred to let people know she wasn't the one to fall for or take bullshit. That's how she'd stayed alive so long with her unusual after hours black market dealings. With an off the street customer though? Never, she was a gracious angel. He wasn't an off the street customer though... His glance around was noted. Sensitive perhaps. People thought her candle on a "fake" vampire skull was a fun novelty. Not many could feel it's weirdness. Interesting. “Ryan, Ryan Harker.” Never heard of him. Not surprising, she wasn't the "joining" type. Other than Alistair, his sister Cassandra and her boyfriend Alec, she didn't know many. She liked it that way. "Nice to meet you Ryan," she held out her hand, glint of a flat bluish metal ring on her middle finger dusting across his fingertips as she slid her hand into his to shake once. Intentional. If he was sensitive, Red's containment ring might catch his attention. Would he mention it? Probably not. “Alistar and I weren’t exactly friends" She settled in, both hands on the coffee cup to soak up it's warmth. Weren't. Past tense. She hated this shit. Not having contact with ARMA kept that twinkle of hope alive. Expression wasn't particularly hidden; not annoyed, but not happy either as she stared at the coffee in her cup a moment. “But we were brothers.” She took a drink, surveying her shop a moment. "Alistair takes care of his own, protective to a fault. I don't doubt he feels the same about you." She wasn't going to buy into the gone and dead game. He may be, but she didn't have to acknowledge it. “I have been a Soldier a long, long time. I have lost a lot of brothers…” The dark lashes narrowed again, what exactly was this? An intervention? “There is a code, if one of your brothers doesn’t make it back, you’re supposed to look after their families." Fucking hell... “You’re supposed to look after their loved ones.” Side of her lip curled into a smirk. She finished the coffee and set the mug back on the tea tray. Time to break out the big guns for this conversation. “So Rorye, has anyone else from ARMA been checking in on you?” She flipped a small key ring from her back pocket as she slid off the stool and moved to an ornate, dark cabinet behind the counter. Thumb flipped to a small skeleton key on the set to unlock it and lift the top. Smokey, silver decorated oddly shaped glass bottles with opaque green, red and even amber liquid inside were nestled like treasure. Arranged on a glass bottom tray, she lifted them out and set it directly next to the other on the counter. As if on cue, one of her employees quietly moved down the stairs and flipped off the sign, turning a placket that pointed to enter through the tea house. They returned up the stairs and closed the door to the shop, effectively closing them off. Pulling out the absinthe was some kind of signal for privacy, discretion a well oiled routine. Without the clink and murmur of conversation in the tea house, the small shop was a muffled silence, crackling fireplace in the library room now audible. "Nobody checks on me. Never have, never need to." She set two glasses on the tray. No time like the present to break up with ARMA. "I was just an informant, I didn't go to the Christmas parties." The sense of humor and playful cynicism was familiar- she'd given the ARMA commander a run for his money. "Is the part where you remind me not to leak ARMA secrets?" Two absinthe spoons and two sugar cubes found their way to the tray as well. Whether or not he chose to partake, she at least needed something more than whiskey for this conversation. Especially if he kept poking about Alistair... oddly enough she wasn't ready for these questions. Nobody should hahave be to deal with something like this twice in a lifetime.
  5. Ryan Harker

    Chasing Ghosts

    “Did you now?” The shopkeeper had leaned in closer. A tingling sensation brushed the back of Harker’s neck, sending a faint chill down his spine. He resisted the urge to shudder. The altered human’s sixth sense had perked gently. He wasn’t in immediate danger, but it loomed nearby. Casually he glanced over his shoulder in either direction, taking another sip from his cup to veil his survey of the room. There was no one else around… only her. “And who are you exactly?” There was a slight edge to the woman’s tone. Her expression remained friendly, but her natural movements ceased. Once more her eyes felt piercing. There was more to her than she was letting on. Ryan had distinct impression that her ARMA file was intentionally missing information. Harker’s first instinct was to lie. Normally he would have and without a second thought. Yet, now he felt compelled to tell the truth. Not because of anything specific to Rorye, but out of a sense of duty to Alistar’s loved one. “Ryan,” The agent smiled and held out his hand. “Ryan Harker.” “Alistar and I weren’t exactly friends,” said Ryan. A true statement. Alistar probably knew of Harker and his missions, but their personal interactions were limited to passing nods of acknowledgement at ARMA headquarters. Ryan’s gaze shifted down to the coffee cup he held in his hands. The playfulness in his demeanor replaced by a somber sigh. “But we were brothers.” The ARMA operative looked to Rorye and then back to his coffee mug. “I have been a Soldier a long, long time. I have lost a lot of brothers…” Ryan shifted his stare back up to the woman before him. “There is a code, if one of your brothers doesn’t make it back, you’re supposed to look after their families." He paused for a moment, thinking back to a time before the Resonance. Returning to the present he said, “you’re supposed to look after their loved ones.” Ryan knew the answer to the question he was about to ask. ARMA has been fighting wars on multiple fronts for years. Doing everything in its power to protect the people and maintain its legitimacy as an organization. Simple, important, but overlooked traditions sometimes slipped through the cracks. “So Rorye, has anyone else from ARMA been checking in on you?” Harker had a feeling the woman could handle herself, but this wasn’t about that. She had probably made enemies when she sided with ARMA. Refusing to deal to their enemies, providing the organization information, risking her own wellbeing to assist with locating dangerous artifacts. Then to have her loved one taken. Though most of this was deduction, Ryan suspected she had given much to the cause. And after all her sacrifice, what had she been left with? This wasn’t how Soldiers honored their fallen. This wouldn’t be how ARMA did either.
  6. Rorye Shannon-Kearney

    Chasing Ghosts

    Whiskey drinker eh? Brow quirked slightly, he was either a pretender or a legit connoisseur. After a few more loaded coffees she'd know that much. Her blood was pure Scot, she could drink anyone under the table. “Like I said, business and pleasure are hard to keep separate these days.” Blink was slow. Mhm. The sly counter lean prompted her to also lean in slightly. She resisted the urge to decide whether or not he needed a throat punch. ARMA were almost always cocky, but they could also be adorable... mostly. Two reasons to be here? Well then. “First, I am here to see if anything new has hit the streets that could be useful to me, or cause problems for ARMA.” "Always," she took another drink as he seemed to switch gears. “Second, I came to check on you.” Candle twinkled in the chamberstick on the skull behind her. God damn it, she resisted the urge to glance at it. "Did you now?" she said. "And who are you exactly?" There was still quite an amiable expression on her features, sultry even... but a hidden edge licked the air with electricity. The feeling right before a cobra struck was poignant, and she was waiting patiently for the right answer to decide whether or not to go for the jugular.
  7. Rhome Del Santo

    Begin to Be

    (Note for future reference- the NPC priests in the church are fearless.) If he'd heard the man, he didn't indicate it, reaching again to the top of the shelves to retrieve empty small glass cylinders. The tin discs on the bottom contained a smidge of wax and the charred remnants of a wick, clinking as he pulled them out. Guns didn't concern him. They were a weak man's weapon. Gauche. Crass. Worthless really. What he was concerned with was completely the opposite; the miniscule expression that flickered across the Vicar's face. He'd been impatient with the Italian before, but this was different. On the surface, the old man was kind, nodding to the visitor even though the ruler of this castle had every right to throw him out on his ass. He would probably call the cops after he left the two and returned to the small chapel. One didn't walk into a cathedral, especially now, and flash a weapon. That was enough to cause a catastrophic press nightmare. Not the Order? Really? By the time the visitor stated the obvious, the Italian was miles ahead. Of course he wasn't the Order. Never. They would never risk this, they had an elegance, as evil as it was. Vanguard, almost as careful. The unseen threat, had already tried and failed. They were very quiet at the moment. Hired. Or ARMA, though to be so brash was uncharacteristic of the group. They still had some semblance of public decorum, perhaps not. "Please, I have this," the Italian said to the older man as he knealt to retrieve candles from the smaller box. "It's fine." The older man didn't move. The Italian looked at the floor a moment, sigh soft, then pushed up and approached. It was immediately evident how tall the magus was, and how frail the Vicar stood. Hands rested on his shoulders gently. "Non erit finis. Perfici istam sermone aliqua proponamus," the magus said. (I'll be fine. Finish your sermon.) "Nihil." (No.) "Est finis. Mihi crede," he insisted. (It's fine. Trust me.) The Vicar's lips pressed into a thin line, and he finally nodded, reaching up to put his palms on Rhome's cheeks. "Dominus vobiscum." There was a flicker of a smile in the Italian's eyes, melancholy. The Vicar's eyes were kind, but intent virulent as they slid to the visitor. He nodded to the Italian again and returned to his work in the small side chapel. The magus returned to his work, how many moments ticked by he didn't count. It was irrelevant. The world didn't give him enough credit. The man had threatened the only person he held dear, the fact his flesh was still attached to his bones was out of pure courtesy. It didn't matter how brash, armed, or whatever -whoever- he was. The magus was unique. Death from his hand, could come from anywhere in the most sadistic of ways. That's what the Order had exploited, and they were going to sugger for that and all the atrocities they'd done. He was planning on bringing down the Order. Suicidal? Definitely. "What can I do for you." His voice, was everything most didn't expect it to be. Calm, quiet, kind. Intelligent. Unafraid. It was the first time the mercurial silver looked at the man, if only briefly, then back to his polishing. The first row was complete. He took a moment, striking a match and lighting the first one, the flame to which the rest would be lit. A fire magus that used matches, the world was a strange place. Glass clinked softly as he continued cleaning one by one.
  8. THE WILD SIDEThe line between right and wrong is blurred. In the vast expanse of this strange land, you may find an array of different stories; from the clan cats to the Roamers, to the Wolves, to the Regals and to the Eindrides. Deciding which side you're on may be easy, but, deciding what to believe is the hard part. As the Wolves are being hunted, the Regals are being feared, and the Roamers are being accused, everyone has their secrets. Everyone has their faults even the Clan cats. No two canines are alike just as no two felines are the same, each group makes up their own laws believing their ways and customs are superior to another; that their way of life is the only way to prosper. Joining a pack or clan could very well lead to your success or demise. Everywhere you turn a new enemy faces you, baring their teeth at your neck, everywhere you look, there's betrayal, heartbreak, and war. To make matters worse, Mother Nature is cruel. Her unforgiving manner has no time to care who you are or what you've been through. Your decisions decide the outcome as the seasons change, as well as your loyalties. This is a third person roleplay site with account per person, with a small twist; There are no humans and we support Warrior cat roleplay as well as a Canine roleplay! Don't worry if you only like one as these two animals will never meet in roleplay Enter above or click Here to go to our referral page for prizes!
  9. Ryan Harker

    Chasing Ghosts

    “Mhm.” The woman leaned back in her seat, dark almond eyes felt like they were trying to see through him. Ryan set his cup down on the counter and plucked the whiskey bottle from the tray provided. The agent flashed his hostess a sly grin. He added a sizeable splash to his coffee, filing the cup to just below the brim. Setting the bottle down, Harker picked up his cup and placed it to his lips. “ARMA business?” Rorye asked as he sipped from the mug. He winced happily and then let out a soft, blissful gasp. The drink was strong, but it wasn’t the coffee. She had already deduced he was from ARMA. She was smart, he would wager clever even. Perhaps she recognized him from around ARMA as well. “Do I need to turn in my decoder ring?” She teased, her tone warmer than her eyes had felt just a moment earlier. “Or, are you here for something else?” The inquiry was inviting. Harker was surprised she had shown such hospitality so close to the day's end. He suppressed his desire to assess her motives, and instead focused on answering her question. “Like I said, business and pleasure are hard to keep separate these days.” Ryan leaned forward on the counter, resting his elbows on its surface. He cupped the coffee in his gloved hands. Ocean blue eyes meeting Rorye’s chocolate hues. “I’m here for two reasons I suppose.” Ryan savored another sip of his coffee, “First, I am here to see if anything new has hit the streets that could be useful to me, or cause problems for ARMA.” He paused for a second. Considering how to phrase his next words. Alistar was dead. ARMA was finally coming to accept this fact. A fact Ryan had come to accept just a couple months after his disappearance. No Soldier goes missing in action for over a year and is found alive. Surely, Roryre had come to this realization as well. Ryan wanted to know how she was handling life but risked opening old wounds. A risk he would take cautiously. Especially, since he still didn’t know the full extent of their relationship. “Second, I came to check on you.”
  10. Just an FYI- going out of town for work until Monday, so posting will be a bit slower for my chars.

  11. Ryan Harker

    Begin to Be

    “Father del Santo does not hold confession until the evenings.” Another priest had entered the hall through a side passage. This one was much younger, and he carried stacked boxes of votive candles in his arms. Ryan recognized him from the picture in his file. Rhome Del Santo, rogue assassin of the First Order. “But maybe I can help you.” Del Santo seemed genuinely unbothered by Harker’s appearance at the church. The magus kneeled before the church altar, presenting his back to the Cloak operative. Then, as if in a therapeutic trance, the priest began cleaning the vigil candles. One by one. Ryan could end the rogue’s life before anyone else in the room had a chance to act. His draw from the holster was without match, and at this distance even a novice could aim true. He wondered if Rhome welcomed death, or if he just falsely believed Harker wouldn’t kill him in a house of the Lord. Perhaps the priest was a fanatic. Believing himself an instrument of God, and thus protected from the unrighteous. Or, maybe he was just that arrogant. The ARMA agent glanced back to the elder Vicar. His hand glided along the edge of his coat, sweeping back the garment to reveal the pistol holstered on his right thigh. “Please leave us father, I would like to speak to the priest alone.” Ryan walked forward and seated himself in the pew directly behind the church caretaker. There was an audible “click” as he drew back the hammer on his double action pistol. He rest the weapon on his lap, it’s barrel pointed at the priest, his finger pressed to the now featherlight trigger. The operative spoke calmly, “I’m not from the Order.” He smirked at his own triteness, “and as cliché as it sounds, if I wanted to kill you, you’d already be dead.” A conversation between two professional killers was about ensue. Such discussions were usually quite civilized… until the killing started.
  12. Earlier
  13. Matteo Carducci

    CLASH OF THE TITANS

    “And if I said none of the above?” Then I have to wonder if you are up to no good.. Smirk again had that devilish charm. For all the polish of the Bakkhos "uniform" of mob perfect suiting, the man's rough around the edges, thrill seeking persona bled out into his aura. Matteo had a natural magnetism that made him perfect for heading up such a huge venture as Satyr. Dark liquor came up again, light bouncing to catch its amber glint in his eyes as he sipped the rim watching the cheers ripple through the entire club. The energy manipulator got cocky, letting himself get too close and therefore hammered by the hulk. The cloaked form thrown halfway across the ring in a heap. Fight might be coming to a close if Kirren couldn’t get back on his feet and toss a bomb at the freight train roaring his way. The Capo couldn’t complain, this had been the longest clocked fight to date. It gave real hope that this Clash of the Titans series would really bring in the hauls. “Honestly I was invited by a friend, but he wandered off. So since I was already here I decided me and the bar should get better acquainted. “ Gaze slid over to her as she hopped up onto the barstool, chuckle dark and rich in his chest. Bar always makes the best acquaintance. "So far it’s turning out to be a pretty good decision. How about you?" He was used to flirtations…. lots of flirtations. "I’m guessing you’re not here for any of those either." Chuckle bubbled up again like rum in his chest as he noted her surprise at her empty glass. She had acquainted herself a bit too much with the bar it seemed. If she wasn’t careful, she would make an easy mark if someone was looking to warm their bed. Warm tones rolled from his tongue as head shook gently. I am here for them all of course. The glass drew up to his lips as the smirk danced across them again, feline focused gaze watching the monitor again as the elemental saved his own hide with only a breath to spare. The attack messy and disoriented but at least managing to throw the tank off his course to hit the cage instead of the man that was still struggling to get to his feet. The Capo suspected the elemental had only prolonged the inevitable, the guy's bell had been rung too hard that last time, he wasn’t getting his wits or legs about him quick enough. Amber watched the newcomer as he came to the bar as if he owned it. Cloak caught his trained eye. Someone had come in with his weapons still in tact. The Capo was a bit annoyed that this hadnt been caught at security, unless the guy was NYPD… the blues were allowed in with weapons to show they were legit, but this guy didn’t feel like a blue. Flick of the pupils to the heavyweights at the door was all that was needed to ensure the man was now tagged by the entire Bakkhos security. Smile returned to the woman next to him. You need another… Glancing over his shoulder he nodded to the Champion behind the bar to refill her again.
  14. Rhome Del Santo

    Begin to Be

    Sometimes being a priest, was harder. He’d gone through the entirety of the storage room. Starting on one side to find more votives, then finding something else, that led to something else, then something else, six hours later the entire storage room was reorganized and mentally catalogued. He dusted off his cassock, lifting both boxes, glass clinking in them quietly. Some of the votive glass cylinders needed replacing as well and he’d found beautiful new ones, the top box full of votive candles being balanced by his chin. Steps were nimble, each foot placed carefully. Worn steps, long cassock, double boxes, chin balancing one, somewhere in-between he heard the doors boom shut in the building above, making a mental note on the never-ending checklist of to-do’s to keep the place running. Seems fixing the tension on the hinges had been on there already. Damn. It was his name spoken that drew the busy list making to a fine pinpoint. He didn’t have to look to see everything, or listen to know exactly how many were in the vast building. It just flicked on, like some damnable curse that couldn’t be purged no matter what he did; training beaten over and over into a shattered mind that would think for him. Stepping through a small side door, the balancing continued, using his heel to quietly close the door behind him and continue his path down the shadowed side to the vestibule under the old choir loft. Despite the imposing stature of the new occupant, the world didn’t cease turning and he had to get these boxes to their destination before he dropped them. “Father del Santo does not hold confessions until the evening,” he said quietly, answering the need with calm. Silver eyes flicked to the older Vicar emerging from the small transept chapel. He knew the Vicar was intending to work his charm on the newcomer, but the magus had cut him off at the pass. With all the times the man had hidden him from the world, it made him wonder if he really was the old priest he claimed to be and not someone like him before the world came to an end. Such was life, and the magus was actually more approachable than the boogeyman ARMA made him out to be. He took orders from no one. Not anymore. People just couldn't seem to leave him alone. Vanguard. Order. The unseen threat. They knew he was here, it had been ages since he'd heard a whisper from any of them. Why now? “But maybe I can help you,” the quivering of the glass was urgent and he lifted his chin, balancing to set them carefully on the floor next to the shelf of flickering candles. He began to carefully collect the empty ones off the shelf, moving the flickering lit ones toward the back and opening the top box. A small hand towel was pulled out, and he began to wipe the soot from each empty votive glass. One by one. This was going to take forever. He had the patience.
  15. Rorye Shannon-Kearney

    Chasing Ghosts

    “Of course,” Brow quirked briefly at the answer, amiable or just trying to placate? Interesting. Here’s to interesting. “These days it feels hard tell one from the other.” “That’s because you don’t put enough whisky in your coffee.” Lips curled upward at her own quip, soft footsteps shuffling up the few steps into the tea house addition. Behind the counter she added a refresher to hers and poured him a fresh one. True to form, she reached into the cupboard above it and splashed something into hers, then actually made up a small tea tray. His mug, her mug, interesting looking fancy-pants sugars and cream… “Aw fuck it,” she said under her breath and clinked the small whisky bottle on the tray too. He might like whisky. He might like it black. Cream. Sugar. Who the fuck knew these days. New customer, better to be prepared. Trot down the few steps was light. She set the tray on the main counter where she’d been sitting and handed him the cup. “Thank you,” “Anytime. Help yourself, cheers,” she tapped her mug against the whisky bottle and took a drink, wrapping her hands around hers for the warmth. The fireplace in the library room needed to be stoked. “It’s Royre, right?” "Mhm," she nodded, sitting back on her stool, lips pursed and eyes a bit cynically curious. There were no qualms about studying him. He was ARMA, sure, but she didn’t know which one of the many flavors this one was. She'd never paid enough attention to learn them all. “ARMA business?” she asked quietly, taking another drink from her mug. “Do I have to turn in my secret decoder ring?” The quip was amused, but warm. She hadn’t been in contact with them since the young gentleman came in with his intriguing item. Since then, old regulars of the not-ARMA-friendly variety had been pressing to resume business. She wasn’t sure if the white knights were keeping tabs on her like that. Honestly, she didn’t give two shits if they were. “Or, are you here for something else?” she took another drink, settling in for what seemed to be shaping up as a rather interesting conversation.
  16. Ryan Harker

    Begin to Be

    Ryan parked his car on the street to the front of St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Polished onyx paint, dark leather interior, matte black accents, the 2010 Dodge Challenger was something of a rarity these days. It was the last year the muscle car was produced before the first Resonance. 5.7 Liter V-8 engine, race track suspension, the machine wasn’t the fastest on the street, but she could certainly hold her own. There were no plates on the car, no vin, no identifying marks on any kind. It was one of several vehicles Harker used for work, but this was his favorite. The sable clad operative emerged from Challenger’s driver side, adjusting his coat before gently closing the car door. Harker was armed with his usual weaponry; Sig 226, portable wards, enchanted blades, and extra magazines of enchanted munitions. He wasn’t looking for a fight today, but considering the type of creature he intended to confront… he was certainly ready for one. Ryan paused for a moment to breathe in the fresh morning air. Then he made his way toward the church. His coat swayed as me strode calmly through the church’s courtyard. His head swiveled as he assessed the environment. The stone around him felt tired, it had seen better days. When he reached the entrance doors, he gripped the handles with worn leather gloves and pulled them open. The ARMA agent stepped into the chapel’s main hall and allowed the doors to slam shut behind him. The bang of metal and wood echoed throughout the corridor. Ryan stood motionless for a short time. An ominous figure standing in the church door’s shadow, he invited the stares that fell upon him. It was not his intent to be hidden. He wanted them to feel his looming presence, he wanted them to be afraid. He was here to send a message. Harker walked purposefully down the church’s center aisle. He had nearly made it to the alter before one of the priests mounted the courage to approach him. “Can I help you my son?” inquired the old cleric, a hint of apprehension in his voice. “I’m here to see father Del Santo,” Ryan’s eyes were piercing and his tone cold. “I need to make a confession.”
  17. CANON ALPHA SEARCH UNDERWAY
  18. New Member Handbook - Requests - Advertise
  19. Ryan Harker

    Chasing Ghosts

    “Always new and interesting, but never free, even for flattery,” the shopkeeper replied, turning her attention to Ryan. For a moment, he was taken away by her beauty. Even with her hair in a braid and bundled in a comfortable sweater, the fact she wasn’t trying made the allure feel even more genuine. “Of course,” Ryan said with a nod of his head. “Something for business or personal use?” Rorye asked. The woman was acting nonchalant on the surface, but Harker suspected thoughts were racing through her mind. She was almost too at ease with his appearance. It felt like an act. The agent wondered if he was just being paranoid. Always looking beyond the surface. Occasionally, chasing ghosts. Phantoms created by his own pessimism and hyper attention to detail. Ryan braced his hands against the counter and stood up straight, letting out a sigh, “These days it feels hard tell one from the other.” “Coffee?” Rorye picked up her coffee cup and turned away from him. “Its on the house,” she said over her shoulder as she moved toward the café adjoining the store. “Yes please.” Harker waited for her to return. He looked about the store, staying near the counter and making sure to keep the woman in sight. His thoughts wondered. Alistar had been missing for nearly a year. Surely, if Royre had any connection to his disappearance it would have been discovered by now. Fighting past his cynicism, Ryan thought for a moment about the impact the disappearance likely had on her. If they were together, had anyone from ARMA reached out to her? The operative thought back to his time as a Soldier in the United States Army. The vows he and his brothers had made to each other. A promise to look after loved ones, should some of them never make it home. Had anyone done that for Alistar? For her? Ryan gave Royre a gentle smile as she returned to the counter with coffee in hand. “Thank you,” he said taking the cup from her. His curiosity getting the better of him, “It’s Royre, right?”
  20. *beats laptop and internet* why, why, why must you keep dropping my connection

  21. Rorye Shannon-Kearney

    Chasing Ghosts

    Halfway through the next cup, the heel of her hand slid over the ledger with ease as she did her books for the week, cursive barely readable to anyone but herself. Everything was always by hand, she didn’t trust computers anymore. Punching a few buttons on the register to pop out the drawer she went back to writing, hitching her heel up on the rung of her the stool when the glittering chimes of the door sounded. She was an attentive host, but she wasn’t a nosy one, preferring to let visitors shop themselves. This one, was familiar. On the rare occasion she had visited Alistair at headquarters to bring lunch and usually a beer, she’d seen this one. Great. Fucking great. On the eve of quitting the team, the team shows up. She closed the drawer with a quiet click. Pencil slid behind her ear as she pulled her hair over her left shoulder and braided it quickly into a thick plait, tossing it back behind her again. Cold air from the outside prompted her to slide on a comfortably frayed large knit gray cardigan over her silky deep blue tunic, the sleeves long enough to reach her fingertips. Oversized and bohemian, it was her favorite and it definitely showed. Brow quirked at his greeting, but her expression was amiable, pencil plucked from behind her ear to continue the book keeping. Eraser tapped as she paused. “Always new and interesting, but never free, even for flattery,” she said quietly with a soft smile, sliding off the stool and closing the ledger to put it under the counter. “Something for business or personal use?” The question was a logical one. She knew who he was associated with. Every ARMA member also had their own personal interests too. It was a thing with them. Always in search of a bigger, faster, stronger weapon. “Coffee?” she asked as she picked up her coffee cup to go retrieve the third refresher from the small cafe on the other side of the shop, “It’s on the house.” She was going to add some whiskey to hers. ARMA here meant a problem, a complicated need, a complaint, essentially a long night.
  22. Ryan Harker

    Chasing Ghosts

    Ryan knew he could go to ARMA for all his supernatural supply needs, but he enjoyed touring the local occult shops throughout the city. Often, he could find intriguing trinkets or amusing charms, and occasionally he stumbled upon items of true magical merit. Another benefit of visiting such establishments was to maintain relationships with the shopkeepers. They were privy to much within the supernatural realm and often overlooked by the major players. Eyes and ears of the magus community can be an invaluable asset for a covert operative. Ryan walked casually into the “Book of Kells,” the bell at the front door chimed excitedly as he crossed the threshold. The hunter’s attire fit naturally in the shop’s mystic ambience. A long black jacket, dark garments, and black boots; all were aged from travel and war. His brown hair was short and kempt, but not clean cut. A days’ worth of scruff still clung to the agent’s face. Blue eyes nonchalantly scanned the business as he made his way to the counter. Harker recognized the beauty behind the counter, though they had only ever spoken in passing. Rorye had been an associate of ARMA’s for some time. Rumor had it she was romantically involved with the faction’s founder before his disappearance. Ryan hadn’t been tasked with finding Alistar, but if he had been, she would be a good place to start. He wondered if ARMA was even keeping tabs on her these days. “Hey gorgeous,” Harker said with a warm smile. He leaned against the front desk as he spoke, crossing his hands one over the other. A familiar face was likely all he was to her. “Anything new or exciting in stock?”
  23. Ryan Harker

    CLASH OF THE TITANS

    The Satyr Stadium was unlike anything else in New York. Harker had been in awe the first time he had visited the venue. The sheer size of the of the arena, the intricate spells woven into its structure, the security measures emplaced; it took a lot of clout to establish something of this magnitude in one of the most prominent cities in the world. Of course, the stadium was owned and operated as a “legitimate” business by the Bakkos criminal syndicate; which made its existence even more impressive. The Satyr Stadium represented a Bakkos foothold in the city, ground that Law Enforcement agencies would likely never take back. Harker strode calmly through the crowd on the pavilions second level. He was draped by a long, black leather coat. Its material swayed naturally with every casual step, but concealed beneath it was an arsenal of weapons designed to combat the supernatural. The ARMA operative’s attire was aged, giving his black undervest, pants, and tactical boots a rugged, less uniform appearance. Before the Resonance such an outfit might have drawn attention, but these days such an ensemble was not uncommon amongst magus, marauders, and the like. Ryan’s blue eyes surveyed the rotunda as he seated himself at a table near the bar. He had no interest in the fight. He was here for work, or that’s what he told himself at least. It had been some time since he had received any specific orders from ARMA leadership. Without a defined task, he was forced to find his own way to contribute to cause. This was a recon mission. The stadium was hosting a hi-profile event. Several of Bakkos’ key players were in attendance. ARMA intelligence also suggested the venue was a likely target for terrorist attack from multiple extremist groups. Harker was at the stadium to see how all the players interacted, and to see which groups might show to reconnoiter the event for their own purposes. Harker leaned back in his seat. A hand donned with a fingerless glove casually rubbed the brown scruff on his chin. He watched as two Bakkos gangsters descended from their VIP lounge to walk amongst the commoners beneath them. One was Matteo Carducci, Bakkos “baby boss” and owner of the Satyr Stadium. He was joined by Thomas Gallo, Bakkos fight champion and owner of another one of the syndicates “legitimate” business fronts. Both gangsters were dangerous men. ARMA was aware of their criminal activity. However, the organization the Bakkos established within the criminal underworld actually reduced crime in New York. So long as they continued to serve that purpose, and didn’t stray too far from the path, they would be safe from ARMA. Out of the corner of his eye Ryan saw a woman who appeared to be assessing the venues security. A ball cap hid her face, but the jacket and jeans she wore did little to hide her slender figure. She was an attractive woman. She tried to look inconspicuous, but she loitered near doors and entrances, seemingly to check if they were secure. She wasn’t Bakkos security. Her casual dress was far too relaxed for their “professional” standards. When Ryan finally caught a peek from under the brim of her hat, her face seemed familiar. After a moment he recognized her as an NYPD officer, maybe from the 10th precinct but he wasn’t certain. The Arma operative had seen her around more than once, back when he worked for the department. A man came through one of the pavilion doors quite suddenly, nearly knocking the poor girl down. Harker ginned lightly. Words were exchanged between the two and the man walked away. At first Harker thought nothing of it. There was nothing extraordinary about the man initially. However, as he pressed through the crowd he moved with a purpose. The man made a straight line for the bar, his eyes trained on the bartender standing behind it. Again, this by itself was nothing extraordinary. The man glided across a balcony full of cheering fans, without slowing down, and without so much as brushing into another person. To a trained observer like Harker, that was extraordinary. This appeared to catch the attention of the cop as well. Because after a moment she moved to join the man at the bar. Purple shirt, gray slacks, the man looked like he belonged in the VIP lounge. Ryan doubted the peace officer knew what the man was, or even the danger she might be in… but he did. The operative couldn’t identify the exact kind of creature that sat beside her, but he had hunted enough to know supernatural when he saw it. Harker glanced back at Carducci. The Bakkos baby was chatting up another girl at the bar. Based on their body language, he quickly determined the engagement was not work related. Sharp eyes did another sweep of the balcony. Finding nothing of note, Harker rose slowly to his feet and made his way to the bar. It seemed like the place to be. Ryan took the seat beside Raeden, opposite from Kai. As he gripped the barstool he became acutely aware of the woman’s gaze. She interested him, but he always got nervous when talking to beautiful women. He had seen the horrors of war, fought countless battles, faced unspeakable evils, and even now he was surrounded by a thousand threats that could kill him. Yet, in that moment, the little Asian woman sitting beside him, she was the scariest thing in the entire coliseum. “I’ll have what she’s having,” Ryan said as he sat down. He looked down at Raeden’s coffee and gave a lighthearted frown. “Working huh?” His ocean blue eyes met hers and he smiled. All the while he remained keenly aware of both were-creatures joining them at the bar.
  24. Rhome Del Santo

    Begin to Be

    He'd not lost his penchant for silence, it had been beaten into his core by the Vatican, but even before the world fell apart he'd been quiet and kind. Unassuming. Cups didn't make a noise as he moved them, coffee poured without a splash. He'd heard the Vicar several moments ago making his way to the small kitchen to get his breakfast. The old man's movements had changed over the last six months, gate had slowed, breath was more labored. The assassin studied things most people didn't, and he knew the Vicar was either getting significantly weaker, or something was wrong. The old man wouldn't hear of it though, and the thought of losing the only one who believed in him even after he found out he was essentially the devil broke the magus' heart. Rhome was by far the youngest in the building, the aging half-dozen that lived there with him had clustered together after the Resonance destroyed their own buildings. Strength in numbers he supposed. He was their caretaker now, and of the building by proxy. Errands. Repairs. Even laundry on some occasions. The building was equipped to withstand so much, and it mostly had. He'd almost finished rebuilding the side courtyard that had been destroyed by the Resonance. He'd also replaced the eaves on the alley after he'd melted them to rain molten metal down on several aggressive idiots bent on harassing a fellow fugitive. There was a protective streak a mile wide buried in him, but it was a compass without a north. Those within his immediate daily life were easy to know, those outside... he never knew who to trust, so they all were enemies. The Vicar was carrying something, hooking it on the top of the door as he came in. Rhome reached up to button his shirt collar, the formal dress donned in favor of the clothes he wore outside and under the cathedral the night before. Inside, here in the sacred space, he was seen a priest. He could pretend he was a good man. *npc* Paper collar too, the seated Vicar said quietly as Rhome placed coffee on the small table in front of him. Blink was quiet from the gray eyes up at the hanging coat. It was a cassock. He'd given up his vows, but the Vicar kept insisting. Lips opened to protest, again, but the older man's finger came up to stop him. *npc* Argue with me after I've had my coffee. In the meantime, collar, and that. Older man nodded toward the clothing. Rhome paused. He hadn't worn a cassock since the Vatican. *npc* I know it will fit, you have no excuse. The Vicar sighed softly after a long drink of coffee. *npc* You're just worried if you wear it the girls won't be able to tell us apart. Smile was slight, he was fiddling with his paper collar, "it's just..." *npc* Just nothing. You are here, you are family, I will not treat you like an outsider. Older man put the newspaper down on the table he'd brought with him. It was from yesterday. Rhome could only make out part of the headline because it was folded, but it was a story about the magus murders. He reached up and pulled the cassock from the hanger, sliding it onto his shoulders and beginning the buttons. *npc* I will tell you this until you believe it, you are still a priest because I say so. I can forgive sin, remember? You also need to stop working so hard in the courtyard. Healing knuckles hurt. He swallowed softly, yah those were hard to explain.... smoothing the front of the cassock before flexing the brazen knuckles. Moving toward the sink, the long coat swished, resulting sound jolting electricity up his spine. There was an honest to god flinch, vaulting him into another place and another time. Making that noise would have gotten him beaten at the Vatican. Assassins made no noise. Turn back after dropping off a spoon had found the footing drilled into his muscles. His movement now was eerily silent again. He didn't like this thing, irritation squashed because it made the Vicar happy. "I'm bringing votive candles up from storage today. We don't have many left, I have to find somewhere that has more. I'll clean the shelves too." The Vicar nodded, taking another sip of coffee as he opened up the paper. He caught the headline as he left the kitchen to retrieve the votives from storage downstairs. It was his doing. The paper. That headline. One more Order magus had been assassinated. This one had fought fiercely, but a well placed double strike into the spleen and then between the ribs had been simple. The pattern from his Order signet ring burned into the man's flesh had been just an extra. A message, to those that would listen.
  25. Rhome Del Santo

    Begin to Be

    St. Patrick's Cathedral Vaults and Catacombs 2-14-22 3am That tiny little thing on those whistles… the plastic… those leather half circles with the tiny piece of metal and a tambour of plastic that you could put on your tongue like a wafer and press to your palate. The high pitched whistle they could squeal was piercing, penetrating through your sinuses like a fire alarm, itching the center of your brain like whipping rain against a window of tissue paper until it popped. It was all he could think, hear, see, feel- that vicious searing sound crescendo through his every sense. Gasp was immediate, the uncontrolled reaction unusual as the world that had spiraled to a pinpoint of focus was broken by some shred of consciousness from somewhere. His hand was on fire, and the dirt floor room was vibrating, fist closing to stave the blood. He snapped the towel from around his neck and swathed it over the flames to extinguish them and muffle the blood that had almost just created something catastrophic. Breath seethed through his teeth at the first look of the split knuckles, then the ancient load bearing beam he’d been hitting. Wood was also spattered with his blood, quickly wiped off as well. His blood was like gasoline. Once he bled, his spark could ignite a firestorm. When his consciousness this time had fallen into seizure and errored, he’d no idea. Meditation was not new to him, physical training and focus were not new to him. Together, was most definitely not new; it was what gave him the intense control he had. This crack was getting bigger, and he was starting to lose longer moments of time. Under recent intense reflection, he had pinpointed it just to before the binding, before he walked into enemy territory of his own free will. His consciousness had bucked even the strongest of cuffs, and ever since then there had been a tiny leak in his brain. Enough to drip over years, testing his patience, his sanity… breaking open a crack that was swiftly destabilizing an already volatile mix of skills and magic. He could see his past so clearly before the Resonance. His hell after. Then numbness as he was a machine, and now. Now was this person he didn’t recognize. He was calculating, and angry. An angel on one shoulder, and a devil on the other. The angel he knew and still loathed, but this devil was seductive and unknown. Now as this person in the deep bowels of the cathedral where even the Vicar didn’t go, he was training again. Why? A deeply thought out plan. Physical training was at the forefront, his specialty was quiet and slick death. He needed to inflict more damage, be able to take more damage. The more damage he took, the crack would split further apart. The more he focused on it, the angrier he became, the angrier he became the more darkness flashed in his field of vision. Somewhere else, something else, and he couldn’t hit hard enough to make it either go away- or find the white rabbit. In the wane electric light of old brick, dirt floors and cement tombs, he just kept hitting, letting the fire flush up from his feet and over his form as his hands fell to his sides and chest heaved before it extinguished. Growl preceded the heels of his hands smacking together and palms thrust forward, the fierce blade of flame from his hands turning almost white as it scorched a brick wall, extinguishing as quickly as his temper tantrum had started. Knees hit the floor and he fell to sit, pushing himself back against the wall with the heels of his Tims. Elbows rested on his knees as he tried to knead the tension out of his skull. It felt like he was splitting apart, and all he wanted was another throat to cut. Or a world to burn.
  26. Working on post & PM replies today. Sorry for delay - only mobile 3 days of the week.

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    MODERN FANTASY COLLABORATIVE WRITING RP CATERING TO OLDER PLAYERS (25+) WITH A SLOWER, MORE RELAXED PACE. IN 2010, THE WORLD DRASTICALLY & PERMANENTLY CHANGED BY WHAT BECAME KNOWN AS THE MULTIVERSE RESONANCE EVENT. IN A SINGLE BREATH, OUR WORLD CROSSED WITH AN UNKNOWN NUMBER OF ALTERNATE UNIVERSES, BLEEDING INTO EACH OTHER. EARTH WAS SUDDENLY A REALM OF MAGIC AND MONSTERS. THE STORY IS CENTERED IN NEW YORK CITY BUT EXTENDS ACROSS THE WORLD. IT BLENDS A VARIETY OF GENRES; A MOSAIC OF OVERLAPPING REALMS INCLUDING ELVES, LYCANTHROPES, ALTERED HUMANS AND,OF COURSE, MAGIC.  

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