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Found 6 results

  1. Rhome Del Santo

    Let the Master Answer

    Just after Dark February 11, 2021 Alley near the old Western Union building Blood was hot. So was his breath. As it quivered in and out of his chest, in came the frigid air… out came the anger of a devil. A thousand devils. Cerberus. Hell, Satan himself; in every tradition, in every faith, every level of purgatory and hell tangled tightly into a frayed knot that was breaking free. He was a ghost whose presence would reverberate across the globe, the building pressure finally bubbling to a volcanic tirade, one small droplet of blood from his finger splashing on the broken asphalt. Thera. Santarini. Vesuvius, the tales from his childhood, his home and corner of the world. A man that had played as a boy in what was left of dormant volcanic caves a harbinger of what would inevitably come when the world broke apart and skinned the callus from a man that had been made into something unthinkable. A man that needed to cleanse the world of the evil that created him. He finally blinked, lifting a palm to look at the red peppering his fingers that everyone always assumed was so bright. It wasn’t. Hot, sticky… leaving yellowish smears as it ran from skin and dried. The assassin was always so clean, meticulous, humane. This was just, just brutal. Hand was shaking. He’d never stayed, never longer than to whisper a gentle last rite over those that had been marked and he’d taken without question. That was a lifetime ago, a life that required of him total conformity and discretion. Now, one last cough from his target curdled stringy blood from the man’s lips, then crackled wheezing as he watched him die. It had been ragged, vicious, unrefined and effectively violent. Water magus unprepared for a magus that didn't need his power to kill. The same bloody fingers curled tightly into a fist, a signet ring so fragile against his burgeoning heat on cue threatening to cave entirely molten as he pressed it against the side of the man’s throat… leaving the brand of the Order in a scalded bubble of flesh. A conundrum for the law that would find the murdered Order magus; the third in as many weeks. Credentials were always left scattered over the magus' chest. The Order signet branded into skin above a throat so deeply cut it was almost severed to the spine. Starting with the "army", the foot soldiers, to flush the generals out of their offices and onto the streets. Out of the Long Lines and into his fire. For a moment, his soul felt at peace until the vitriolic rush of native tongue hissed forth... È la fonte della mia energia e il mio legame con tutti coloro che così toccato Noise woke his senses from the rush of justice, the ghost in the gray hoodie moving suddenly with the agility of a gymnast to kick off a dumpster and catch the bottom of a fire escape- the vertical leap almost impossible, but made with the ease of a trained killer. Up the fire escape, to disappear onto the rooftops and into the urban tangle that was New York. This was only the beginning... ((Translation/Italian- the third line of the Oath of the Order of Light; "It is the source of my power, and my bond to all those so touched."))
  2. Clariee Donya

    Thrive in Spite

    July 28, 2019 ARMA HQ building - Old Federal Reserve New York City, NY “Make up your mind that no matter what comes your way, no matter how difficult, no matter how unfair, you will do more than simply survive. You will thrive in spite of it.” -Joel Osteen Clariee had been back in New York for a few days now, but she was playing it cool. Three years was a long time, but it was the absolute soonest she could return without suspicions running high. Funny how the shortest stint of time in New York during the uprising put her own good name in question for so long thereafter. Pizdets, all of it, total bullshit but that was bureaucracy for you. They sent her to the lion’s den just before supper because of one minor incident back home in Moscow. The lion’s den being New York, Supper being the ARMA uprising, and the minor incident… her putting a senior officer of the Order in a coma for stealing her grandfather’s key-chain. Semantics really. None of it was by her design, she was a victim of fate, and she’d been paying for it ever since. Playing the Order’s Shestiorka for the last three years, just to prove she wasn’t tainted from her time under Alistair Greene’s command. Clariee leaned back in her chair at one of New York’s best kept secrets: a dying café outside of Tribeca. Finally, a moment to herself. Being everyone’s prison bitch back in Moscow just to prove her loyalty to the Order only gave her reason to work thrice as hard at sharpening her metal. She hadn’t had a moment to herself in all that time. Clariee put a cigarette in her mouth and lit it. A habit she acquired in the last year or so, something for her nerves and sanity. She gave a heedy drag and a gratifying exhale, and that was all it took for one of the barista’s to run over and tell her the café was non-smoking. Clariee pretended not to understand her English, but the bitch just pointed to the no smoking sign on the wall. Well shit. Clariee rolled her eyes and grabbed her purse. The barista waited for Clariee to put the cigarette out but Clariee wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction. Clar needed it more. She stood up with her things and rudely huffed a cloud of smoke into the woman’s face. The annoyed coffee peddler’s eyes glowed an angry orange, but Clariee didn’t flinch. A little show of anger wasn’t going to get under her skin. She reached across the table for her cup and let herself out. At the door she turned to blow one more billowing mouthful of smoke indoors before letting it swing shut. Whatever. She was the only customer; no wonder they couldn’t keep business afloat. They were chasing out paying patrons. Dumbasses. Clariee continued to enjoy her fag as she walked down Broadway. She was only a few blocks away from the HQ building and felt safe knowing that whoever had kept eyes on her return to NY had given up watching her boring daily routine. The low-level First Light jockey had taken to playing crabs at a casino nearby around this time of the evening when Clariee usually returned to her hotel room and soaked in the tub for a good hour. Figuring out who was shadowing her was easy (if not insulting, what a worthless tool, she must have done grade A work convincing the Order she was anything but sympathetic to the insurgence). Getting the tracer on him not as simple, but once the task was complete she’d come to know his patterns as well as he knew hers. And now was her chance. She had an hour to get in and out and she wasn’t going to waste it. She had intel that needed passed to Greene, in person. All other methods of sliding info under the table had been exhausted. She might not have been their most reliable asset, but what was reliable about living in the enemy’s house, eating the enemy’s food and sleeping in the enemy's bed? Yea, she’d had to do that a few times too. She wasn’t proud, but neither was she ashamed. She understood the world for what it was, ever a realist and she knew that getting shit done wasn’t a pretty job. You couldn’t win a clean fight when you were up against people who only fought dirty. Luckily, she was from their side of the fence, and she was able and ready to be the bastard that the dreamers couldn’t bring themselves to be. The American Dream, to be the hero, the good guy, to live righteously in a world of unrighteousness. Clariee sucked the poison stick down to the filter and dropped the butt on the street without pausing. It was nice to be back.
  3. Clariee Donya

    3 Days & Dead

    Following Thrive in Spite | Backdating to July 31, 2019 “If your life was complete, you'd be dead.” ― Joshua Wisenbaker Well that was unexpected. Clariee toed the body with her boot and lit up a fag. She took a deep drag, held it in for a few counts, then released the smoke on a long.... drawn out exhale. "Good thing I already made up my mind." And that her decision coincided with this little coincidence. Her baby-sitter was dead in central park. And to her own surprise, she wasn't the one who killed him. Was that irony? Guess it depends on who actually had. She'd taken special pains to get a message to the great and powerful Oz Alistair, and she hoped he'd find an opportunity to meet her in the park. She had come to a decision about where she wanted to live (and the fact that she most certainly wanted to live, period.) With the noose tightening around her neck as her compatriots in the Order grew more suspicious, accusing their outliers of leaks, she didn't need a history lesson to tell her how this witch hunt would fair in her case. "At least now I can speak English," she sighed, regaling the dead with her arguments in favor of her final decision. There was no one else around to listen to her self-assurance. She kept listing reasons as to why this was for the best, but it was hard to believe. The mind told her this was right, but her heart ached for what was wrong.... Home. Russia. The motherland. Don't roll your eyes, to her it meant something. Even in this dystopian reality, even someone as coldhearted as she was could mourn. Deciding she'd spent enough time hanging around his corpse, she flicked her cigarette downhill toward the more cultivated running path/walking trail, and began the careful descent from the man-made hill behind which the newly-departed was resting in pieces. Less than 1600 yards away she came to the Bethesda Terrace and fountain and sat down at the waters edge. It was a warm day out. She turned her face up to the sunlight, her eyelids closing behind the darkly tinted glasses. She'd spend the next four hours here if she had to, waiting for someone to find her, either to her benefit or otherwise. There was a large body of water at her back that could fuel an all out battle if it came down to her life or another Orderly's. On the flipside, it was a nice place to relax until a rep from ARMA joined her with the latest from their leadership (if not their leadership himself.)
  4. Wesley Evans

    Ephemeral

    Frantic whispers dulled down to an even less audible whimper as the sound of shuffled feet and wood grew closer. The whispers came from three of the lowest ranked magi Wesley could find; the only ARMA members he could get away with convincing to do his bidding. Two weeks after the explosion that took his brother's life and the incident that left him with a punctured abdomen and several broken ribs, Wesley still felt as though he wasn't 100% despite the efforts of the medical team at HQ's disposal. Mended bones and flesh didn't take as long as it could have without mystical means, but he still felt pain as he walked. Against the wishes of the healers and higher ranked officials he checked himself out of the med-ward early and, with the aid of a wooden cane and a hampered gait, set off to investigate the bombing site on his own. Of course the others investigated the rubble long before his recovery and were understanding enough that they allowed Wes to review their findings afterwards, but it wasn't enough to dissuade him. He needed to find out for himself. So he searched. The first day he did so on his own; just a shovel and his bare hands. The next day he "liberated" one of the necromancy specialists from their station to try to sense out where his brother's corpse may lie, but to no avail. So he brought more, even going as far as to bring some of his brother's belongings to grant a better understanding of his soul... to aid in feeling him out... and still nothing. Today was no different. No one could find a body, yet no one could find proof of his death in the form of residual mana imprinted on the surroundings from the passing of his soul; like a ghast or a ghost. Something that could be considered concrete proof of his death in the absence of an actual body. Leaning on his cane Wesley pivoted back to look over the concerned comrades he'd convinced to follow him again. Days ago they all felt obligated to help in order to ease Wesley's suffering, but now their concern was for his mental state. He had to come to terms with his brother's death eventually, and the sooner the better. But if he wanted his investigation to continue, he had to convince them that he was okay, lest they interfere. "Okay. That's enough. Thanks for all your help but... I can finally accept that he's gone." They looked back at each other for a moment, curious as to whether they should heed his words before eventually walking back to the van that they all rode in to the site. Wesley followed. The ride was a slow and quiet one as no one wanted to cause an emotional outbreak from Wesley. Hours later in the library Wesley turned in the texts he borrowed on dowsing, zombification, necromancy, and séance before heading back home. Before exiting the building a notification on his phone notified him of an email, which he hurried to read. It was again higher ranked officials turning down his request for access to more classified texts on forbidden spells, the fourth time in 4 days. The only way he would acquire access to info of the sort he was looking for was if he could personally persuade a higher ranked official to look the other way or better yet, provide him the resources he was looking for by using their own clearance. So the next day he made his way back to the fallen casino sight alone, and left Alec a voice message requesting his presence. Speaking to him at the scene of the crime would no doubt have more of an effect than in a crowded, camera-watched ARMA HQ. The message was short and sweet as not to seem too emotionally charged. It read: "Important info concerning investigation. Waiting at casino bombing site." He hoped that he would come alone, but couldn't ask him to without tipping him off. And he couldn't call him, lest his friend hear the concern in his voice. So he awaited his response to the text, his stomach turning with each passing second.
  5. Rhome Del Santo

    Good Night, and Good Luck

    October 22, 2017 Evening ARMA Headquarters Cold. Bitter and unending cold. Gritty assignments, surrounded by constant death. Hiding. Moving. Changing. Living alone as always. Juxtaposed with the incredible light and joy of spending time with someone who only knew him as a lie. It wasn’t a lie… he wasn’t a lie. There had been a human within him once, not a mindless killer. The crack had started almost a year ago, the increasing demands driving a wedge in his sanity, only one person keeping his thoughts on the straight and narrow. He couldn’t lie to her anymore. The breach of trust was unforgivable. If he came clean and they killed him anyway, at least he had purged his soul before answering for his actions. She had to know, and he couldn’t keep the secret any longer. It would never be right, could it? Whatever he chose to do afterward, pending his survival, would be without chains or guilt. The building had been under his surveillance for a while, thick with contemplation how to make it right. Decision had been made. Hood was pulled closer around his features, pushing into the stairwell of the roof access, footsteps a death knell as he took them two at a time then jumped to the next landing. He didn’t rely only on his abilities as a magus, the man was nearly unbreakable. A lion on a leash. The leash had been broken. No pause, no falter in his step to cross the street, a beeline straight to the ARMA doors, blade athame pulled and sliced across his palm to release his blood to the air- blade returned to its sheath after wiped on his hoodie sleeve. He was primed to die, not before he got to speak with her... it would be a hell of a fight. Exhale pushed outward, a long seethe as the air around him became a furious flurry of quivering heat, the street’s cool temperature fogging as he wicked the moisture from it with the inferno building off his skin. Paint seared and bubbled from cars as he passed. Dry cracks splintered behind him as he walked toward the front doors, already feeling the wards pushing back at him, no doubt those inside could feel his pushing back. Air was becoming too thick to move in, a linebacker pushing against a football sled. He made it past the main door inside before the ambient protective power of dozens of unified mages disallowed another step… knees hitting the floor, hands pulling back his hood so any cameras could get a clear shot of his face, fingers intertwining behind his neck in an unarmed surrender. Inferno burned from his core, sweltering the immediate air around him in a defensive warning of hell. Normally pale gray eyes were white with heat, gaze straight ahead. [santo]I have killed twenty six of your people. I know who the next targets are. I need to speak to Cassandra Greene. I will ONLY speak to Cassandra Greene.[/santo] Lashes closed, unmoving as the furl of heat suddenly released, the silence before a storm. Waiting for death, or… for life.
  6. Eris London

    Secrets, Lies and Saving Lives

    January 24th, 2108 A bit after last call... the old 'diamond district' God she’d been gorgeous, and tasted even sweeter, a lick of alcohol still lingering in her blood from the wife of a potential client. He was such a douche canoe, perks with the flights? Fuck that. Sent them home, met the wife later for drinks. Lips quirked at what had happened next. Fun night. It was rare the vampire went out on her own to deal bigger business than flight prospects, but this was not something that Ahanu, or even Toby would be helpful for. Mouse, well… she was already on the job in her own special way. Numbers and such. The girl could get anything, including leads on phone numbers that were hard to get, able to also sound like a damsel in distress when she really wanted too… warping the signal just enough to make it seem real. Tonight, nothing was real, down to the soft peach curls that tickled the front of her collar bone. It had been too much of a temptation not to take on her dinner’s persona. She rarely did anyone else but Reid, but these were special circumstances where the lingering power prior to her infection had been an incredible boon instead of a curse. Doing deals with the devil held their own bit of danger, and not knowing exactly who she was or even what she looked like would always be to her advantage. Unless he fried her ass, then she would just have to kill him. Shame. She really wanted to avoid that, especially with what she was trying to accomplish. Phone snapped closed, the much curvier body than she was used to swaying just a bit underneath her black Italian suit at her lazy gate into the alleyway, Proenza peep toes baring the incredibly cute toes sans polish. Cheeks were freshly flushed, several feeds absolutely necessary for the danger she was putting herself into. There were needs greater than her comfort level though at stake- the explosions merely a week ago. It was her territory, it was her problem, and she was incredibly pissed. It was time to stop chasing ambulances and time to start preventing dipshits from thinking they were in charge. If that included killing motherfuckers that pulled this shit, so be it. She’d ripped their heads off herself, in a discrete… not revealing the existence of vampires or the Nation way of course. Motion was almost invisible, form launched to a first floor fire escape about twelve feet from the ground to sit quietly and wait for the call to be answered. There was no ladder up to where she was sitting except for the lever within her reach that would lower it to street level and allow someone to climb up. For later maybe. Location had been chosen carefully. Deserted, quiet, enough light to see with human eyes. The older ornate brick buildings were day businesses, at night, closed. The privacy was necessary for such a delicate ‘conversation’, granted it remained a conversation and not a knockdown, drag out fight. It could not be over the phone, she would not knock on Arma's front door, or tolerate his lackies at his side. She had left hers at home, and that was unprecedented. This was for his ears, and his ears only. He would either be receptive, or not. Compact opened as she checked the berry colored lipstick. She personally didn’t wear it often, but on this mug… good god. Smirk was light, closing it and tucking it back in her inner jacket pocket, it had been a fun night so far. Legs crossed at the knee, calves sliding together. She would ride this persona suit more often, it felt wonderful. Hands set on either side of her hips to grip the edge of the escape, well aware she was sitting on a ton of metal. It was for her advantage, not his. A tip in his favor to remind her not to break his neck if he pissed her off. With a call to Arma and a fake emergency complaint about an Order asshole assaulting an Arma operative, the names were few that would show up. If it wasn’t the right one, she was a ghost. If it was… let the games begin. He was known for being a feisty one, then again so was she. If she had to kidnap and hogtie the man to get him to listen, so be it.

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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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