BZPRPG - Ta-Wahi

[Silvan Haven]

Kale Ironshaper- Fowadi- Ta-wahi- Island- Treasure Quest

 

IC: As disks started to fly fro the Fowadi Kale nodded in satisfaction and gave the wheel a spin, bringing the the metal covered behemoth around so that they would be able to give the pirates a proper broadside when the time came.

 

If anyone was watching they would have been able to see a predatory grin start to steal over the Toa's face.

[Snelly]

IC: Mekana

 

Mekana started giggling.

[Relapse]

IC: (Kol)

 

The Matoran, realizing how worthless he was from this range above deck, began climbing the mast, aiming to reach the crow's nest.

[25K Now!]

IC: Ophaim

 

"Have you cracked?"

[Ghosthands]

OOC: 'Vika boarders, to move things along, I'm bunnying those of you who haven't already moved. Just gonna get you up onto the enemy ship.

 

IC (Lohkar)

 

As the last of the boarding team's feet left the deck to the buzz of grapple-cables, and the 'Vika's aft just passed that of the enemy ship, Lohkar fired. The mechanical grapnel-claw shot out across the widening gap between the two ships, and clamped onto the wood.

 

The reel-in yanked Lohkar and Zmija off their feet, the latter attached by nothing more than the Lesterin's arm around her waist - but the wiry pirate's grip was stronger than it looked, and she did not fall. For a few seconds, they were flying through the air - and then they shot through the handy grenade-created hole, and onto the vessel's gun deck.

[Vezok's Friend]

IC: It helps that I can spin my saw to deflect some. It helps that I'm not anchored and free to be blown back without additional damage.

 

You know what doesn't help? The jet getting past and hitting my chest with barely-diminished force. My breastplates are out of commission and my pecs have been sullied by the horrors of aqua pura. Besides that, I'm blown back a bit. I land on my feet with the practice of my life and tut towards her ugly face. Evolution doesn't hurt that any more than my sense of the Earth does. I am one adaptive mother######er.

 

Gotta give her credit, though, that staff and that water are both annoying as all ######. I'm faster, stronger, and tougher than her, but as long as she's got those, all my advantages can really do is allow me to chip away at her resistance until she gets tired. How am I supposed to adapt to anything that boring-###### way? There must be something I can do to penetrate her defense more quickly. Looks like she recovered faster than usual, so quakes are out of the question. Perhaps another weapon in the equation will do the trick.

 

Dropping one hand to Mr. Manpurse, I grab a wifey and whip her out, then give her a twist and chuck her at the little Toa. Grinning, I charge in on her heels with saw swinging diagonally left-right across her, the most powerful stroke.

 

IC:

 

Okay, this is getting intense... Leah thought, who was quickly back on her feet. The Piraka managed to land on his feet and despite the damage to his armor, he showed no sign of slowing down. He did take a few seconds to fiddle around his satchel again though, pulling out...

 

Ah, Karzhani...

 

The explosive was aimed in her direction, the Skakdi hot on its trail, saw raised once more. Was he going to charge into his own grenade's explosion? If he was, the Toa of water didn't want to partake in the experience. She jumped, hand outstretched to intercept the grenade, using her legs to throw herself into a spinning motion. The last grenade had taken several seconds to blow up, a delayed reaction so it wouldn't blow up in the wielder's face. She just needed to catch it deftly enough...yes!

 

Her fingers wrapped around the explosive. Using the momentum of her legs and her mid-air twisted position to build up the strength for the return-throw, her body became like a spiral spring, hurling the grenade right back at the charging Reidak.

 

Return to sender.

 

OOC: I did not react to the saw-strike yet because...well, the grenade came first. Not sure if the plan was to have Reidak charge into that explosions and survive due to adaptability, but anyway, the ball's (grenade, actually) is in your court. Not sure how much time is left for that delayed explosion either.

[shadow pridak money gang]

IC:

"You know, used to be, we were getting plagued by Rahi, Rahkshi, Shadow Toa, primordial beings of super-id and unspeakable darkness, and not drooling, inane street thugs with teamwork issues," Reordin Maru opined, flicking his right wrist casually and turning Zaktan's Jitter Sphere into a firecracker that went off with a loud pop! The green Skakdi snarled in annoyance, and his smirk gained a new edge.

"God help me, but I think I'm starting to miss those days."

Underneath his snark, his five senses roared out in warning. Being hot-blooded and cocksure was a charge regularly left at Reo's doorstep, but he had Kopaka's cool caution now, and once or twice he'd found himself stopping to think where once he would have charged, unrelenting and proud. His new edge mixed well with his years of work in urban combat and peacekeeping, and lent him chances to correct missteps that once he would have made without a second thought. For example, while waiting for Korero to teleport him, he'd nearly slipped on the Muaka hide jacket that he'd worn to the battle for the Hive at Le-Wahi, fighting alongside the men and women of Pala-Koro. Only in the split second between Korero's disappearance and reappearance in his spartan quarters had he reconsidered - Ta-Koro was hot and Reordin was speedy; the jacket would have slowed upper body, made his strikes slower to come by and his defenses more awkward against the strain of fabric; the fur by the collar and inside the sleeves only served to insulate him, diverting precious elemental energy towards keeping him cool.

His trip through the alleys and up the rooftops had allowed him an edge he once would not have sought; while he jumped and crept, he scouted out the locations of the other Maru - at least, the Maru he could find - and any structures the Piraka had gotten to first. Fresh in his mind was the memory of the battle in Le-Wahi, where Sulov and his fearless Ussalry men had been forced to trudge through the jungle and meander about on the left flank, inevitably charging into a trap when the second wave of Rama spilled out to attack the Sanctum Guard. He would not allow such a mistake to go down again.

The corpse of the Lavapool Inn had become a smoke fountain, which Korero was working on diverting even now; in the second it had taken Reo to climb the wall he watched the smoke become fingers, long and elegant and reaching into the ground floor. One of the Piraka had engineered some kind of fan on the fly, because the smoke was clearly blowing back out the front door, but Korero was imbued with the elemental powers of Lewa, and his technique was clearly winning out over the crude, improvised machinery of the Skakdi. He would have celebrated, or crowed silently to himself in approval, had he not seen the sick emerald tinge to the smoke blowing back up towards Korero. His mind made the connection to the sphere the green Skakdi had fired him. Toxin, he thought instantly, mind racing back to a headstrong, creative Ko-Matoran using tranquilizers in an oiled Madu to neutralize Turaga Nuju long ago. The thought brought a grim smile to his face. Somehow, he doubted the Skakdi's toxin had the same philanthropic intent.

And then Zaktan was on him.

He began by firing two more of those Spheres at the Toa Maru of Ice; Reordin nimbly dodged the one and used his Tauhaka to alter the contents of the second sphere on the fly. When it made glancing contact with the inside of his right thigh, a sweet, thick jam the same dark color of blood started to streak down the gleaming surface of his armor. Reordin closed the distance and made his first push on Zaktan's left, where he wielded the empty launcher. The green Skakdi's launcher was ungainly and heavy, which slowed him, but the brute force would have still sent his head spinning daintily off his shoulders if Reordin had ducked under it. Zaktan spun as well, aiming to rend Reordin's neck and chest. The Piraka kept the Maru dancing, pushing him back seven feet away from the center of the rooftop. The edge of the ceiling and the alley became closer with every dodge. To swing the momentum away again, Reordin brought up the end of his ice axe and hooked the sharp edge on the vices that were designed into the end of the Piraka's weapon. He pulled his wrist back, like he was cracking a whip, trying to yank the weapon from Zaktan's grasp - and the golden scissor became incorporeal; Reordin's rib cage barely avoided being skewered when he regained control of his arm and caught Zaktan's wrist in the crook of his left arm, diverting the blow.

All the same, the Piraka still had him on the ropes, so Reordin took advantage of his momentary physical advantage and juked hard, releasing Zaktan's wrist only when it started to bend unnaturally. The Piraka began to turn, and the bull he'd been waiting for finally lowered its horns and charged. Still hovering precariously, inches above the roof, Reo snapped his foot back - and the climbing spike affixed to his heel tore into the tender side of Zaktan's knee. The green Piraka cursed, and his voice was menacing to hear - ten thousand serpents hissing in wrath, all at the insolent deputy of the Toa Maru. For a moment, he thought he saw Zaktan shimmer like a mirage, and wondered if perhaps the air was starting to get as thick and lurid in the heat and smoke as it was over by the Lavapool. Then he remembered the scissor, and how it had become corporeal and incorporeal, moving as fluidly as Leah. This is no normal Skakdi, Reordin Maru realized for the first time. What are we fighting?

By then Zaktan had recovered, though, and Reo had no time to consider the question before the scissor was moving again, as quick and deadly as the Toa Maru's own hands.

Their dance was as free-form as the air, and deadly as the smoke that pooled in the streets below them.

-Tyler

[Emzee]

IC: Saeren

 

He followed close behind Svero, his eyes roaming over the area looking for wounded. He'd heard in his rush out of the hospital that most of the Koro had been evacuated, but there would always be those who stayed behind for the fight and those who'd been left behind because of the same. His eyes fell on a teal Matoran making her way towards the Hospital. He put one hand to the a strap on his pack and called out, "Are you injured?"

IC: Wokiya – Ta-Koro; near hospital

 

The intrepid reporter looked at her graze incredulously. It ran across the side and back of her calf, and it looked more grisly than it actually was.

 

“Hardly. This is nothing; I'm a reporter, y'know,” Wokiya quipped, “But sure. I was planning to visit the hospital anyway. Memories can fade faster than you think, and we have to uncover the truth”

 

She walked towards the Toa for a few steps before she stopped abruptly.

 

“Treatment’s free, right?”

[25K Now!]

IC: Lasinia

 

"Plan, Blue-Guy?!"

[Simulacrum]

-IC:-

 

 

"Hence it comes that all armed prophets have been victorious, and all unarmed prophets have been destroyed."

-Niccolò Machiavellia, The Prince (c. 1513 C.E.)

 

 

The revenants of the slain writhe in my presence, gnashing their rotten, broken teeth as they scream my name with the ferocity of a legion of zealots. Gaze upon Hakann, they cry, decayed lips cracking and melting and breaking as their hollow chants pierce my mind like the incision of a thousand needles, gangrenous eyes rolling in their decomposing sockets as they intone the cries of the abused. Gaze upon the destroyer, Lord of Chaos, raser of flesh, annihilator, spawn of the infernal abyss; view his hypocrisy, the duality of Abaddon- I reach outward with unfaltering hands to snap their maggot-infested necks, and they disappear back into their graves, broken limbs and shattered skulls collapsing into the detritus of Ta-Koro, the ash and smoke and crumbling stone that litters these despicable streets.

 

As their moans vanish into the flat air of a city conscious of boding, I stride through the shadows of the Koro's outer limits, satchel (naturally occupied with all the tools of agony a degenerate of my stature could ever desire) impacting softly against my thigh with every step. As I, still within the safety of shadow, reach the edge of an alley, I hover in the wake of the slowly mobilising Guard, whose resolute determination to reclaim eluding prey evokes a distinctly advantageous peripheral cecity to villains yet announced. I pause in the shade of a derelict alley, observing the multitude of them jog heavily past; they trot and bluster in a manner so very comparable to an assemblage of children hunting for Taku in the shadow of the Muaka, so blissful in their imagined bravery and resolve, serene in their unbeknown vulnerability. Their blood will taste that much more saccharine on my lips, their flesh so inordinately saporous, now that is has been potentiated with the poetic nature of their coming fate.

 

Ah, ludicrous me, I do believe I am getting ahead of myself. The clever, cunning man has naught but an indefinite plan, occupied with appropriately tactical reactions to unexpected occurrences; as such, I am answering to emotion in place of reason in the formation of these fantasies. So, if you please, forgive my ramblings; I always get sentimental when Carnage and Death rear their dual pulchritudinous capita, offering me the shrieks of the innocent with lustful smiles and sultry stares (I will admit; overtures of a vehement nature induce a certain arousal within my mental recesses, stimulation the likes of which are rarely seen outside of Vezok's tantrums). I implore that you do not, despite the loquacious nature of my speech, think me hopelessly romantic; all metaphors offered are more truthful than I surmise you expect.

 

But I digress; the fires of Ta-Koro are quivering; its guards are scrambling, and its stones are disintegrating in the face of a mere jailbreak. This is truly a moment veritably ideal for the unveiling of the actual nature of my person, the instant wherein a new eon begins, millennia baptised in the blood of thousands, and adorned with the flesh of the innocent. I have so very much to do, and so little noteworthy opposition, a monolith assailed by particularly feeble zephyrs. As such, perhaps it is time indeed to make my presence known, to release the majesty and glory of my person unto the unconsciously awaiting crowds. This is the City of Fire, or so their signs and souvenirs proclaim, but I can not forbear testing its capacity to counter a true firestorm, a conflagration of unvanquishable wrath. We shall see how high these derisory Guards hold their masked heads when all they hold dear is burning, how intrepid they are when every component of their idyllic lives is christened in blood and basked in flame. I have much to teach this miserable aggregation of the asinine on the true nature of fear; they have been subjected to little more than the lowliest shadows and the slightest of foes. I shall be this island's Pale Rider, with suffering and death my subjects, double-edged sword in hand, and my form that of one like a flame; the consumer, destroyer, an exact iconoclast without equal.

 

Where does an iconoclast commence his devastation of the beloved, you ask? The location of greatest emotional, economic, or perhaps medicinal importance? I'm afraid there will be no rewards for correct responses; if it is not apparent already where one strikes to createdread (in place of an economic state characterised by low levels of trade and investment, and momentary panic, respectively), I doubt you have the tendency to become as gloriously destructive a person as myself. Dread is the state of being afraid; it is a response to events that are ominous, frightening, not economically inhibiting or possibly painful to your person. When you are in the shadows of a moonless night, and you feel the breath of a Muaka upon your neck; that is dread. The knife blade resting lightly on the skin's edge, the breath in the darkness, the whispered word; these are the tools of an artisan of fear, a master of the horrifying. Such a person would choose a location of religious or otherwise highly emotional importance as their initial target, a location of great emotional dependency. As such, I believe my location is already decided.

 

As the outskirts of the Koro's heart vanish into the dust and ash, I reach the entrance of the trail, and find it guarded, a Toa in grey and black armour, hand on sword hilt, accompanied by Matoran, armed with a reduced blade of otherwise similar construction. Their stares, filled with fear and nervousness half-hidden beneath false resolve, swivel to meet mine as I approach, timing my advance whilst patrolling squadrons are absent. “Sir, this is an area of strategical importance; no visitors allowed while maximum security precautions are being taken,” his voice is thick with the stupidity of the confident, eyes squinted in their unwarranted seriousness. Weapons seemingly inactive and held much like the numerous non-Guard aspirational heroes I've observed, with beautiful faux ineptitude, I respond with the gracelessness I've found in all residents of the Koro. 

 

“Alright, alright,” I respond with acceptably realistic levels of friendliness and caution, stopping midstride, “I wouldn't want to bother any officers,” and, as they relax slightly, I fire two combat-reflex-examining blasts from my Lava Launcher in rapid succession at at a very close range. Their responses prove their relative conflict-reaction adequacy; Toa dives in a desperate attempt to dodge the testing offensive, successfully saving himself from possession of a liquefied encephalon, whilst the Matoran nimbly sidesteps, and doltishly resolves to charge with ferocity far exceeding her ability. She begins her attempt at combat with the maladroit hurling of a dagger, easily deflected with my Zamor Launcher, and then rushes in for mêlée with her petite gladius. A facile front kick connects with her thorax, driving her onto her back with a cacophanic gasp induced from impact-forced exhalation, before I turn to face the no doubt recovered Toa. He addresses my bequeathed attention with the conjuration and projection of a metallic spike, aimed to impale my abdomen. I circumvent the attempt at transfixation with an admittedly gadarene sidestep, which he abuses in an attempt to skewer me with his blade. I swivel in perfect response, before melting his sword-wielding hand with a well-timed blast as he attempts to recover from the overextension.

 

The Toa staggers dazedly as his companion resumes an offensive, hoping to benefit from the misfortune of her comrade. She begins with a slash from her dagger, that I allow to lightly scratch my abodmen as I pivot to meet her, which I riposte with a vicious backhand, shattering her Kanohi and sending her tumbling to the ground before she can recover from my spatial invasion. This allows me to end the weary combat with a consecutive lava blast, leaving her neck a smoldering mass of unrecognisable material. The Toa, now apparently able to cope with his injury, attempts elemental asphyxiation, singular hand outstretched in a farcical pantomime of rage. He falters as his companion's sword, so easily procured from before my feet, punctures his abdomen, at which he gazes in horror, mouth open, eyes wide, before attempting a panicked elemental displacement of my cervical structure. For a moment, it feels as if my neck is being luxated (albeit poorly, in an expectedly inept manner), then the Zamor passes through his sternum and into the thoracic cavity, and he crumples gawkily, mouth agape and lachrymal glands producing twin piteous rivers. Opponents defeated, I am free to continue my journey, after scrupulously disposing of the deceased Matoran, twitching Toa (following the force-feeding of said Toa his own blade), and all pertaining evidence in the Lava River directly ahead.

 

As I follow the twisting trail, I find myself sauntering through the darkness, following a road veritably less travelled, shadowing the paths snaking from the farthest reaches of Ta-Koro into the ineluctable night of the adjacent wilderness. The rocky outcroppings and hoodoos guide me along the shadowed road, featureless towers in the eternal dark, sentries whose watch is eternal and yet without action. At the rise of a particularly erose mountain path, I find myself greeted with the view of Ta-Kini, resident shrine and temple, a hebetudinous flame within the void of desolation, illuminating naught but starless sky and formless earth.

 

The chapel is in possession of a simple construction; central temple, surrounded by statues of an idealistic Toa, and guarded by two jaded Matoran, diminutive Yari in hand. As I briefly pause in further observation of the temple's distance from Ta-Koro, which is splayed out to my left, directly beyond and below the cliffside that composes half of this mountainous trail's surroundings, an explosion occurs within the centre of the city, a brilliant fulmination of vermilion and burnt orange that devours all other lights within its radius. I wisely continue my faltering for a moment longer, and view a singular Toa exit the shrine's central structure, stare briefly at the flames, and then retreat back inside.

 

Geographical Information procured, I move into position, following the mountain path until it curves out of the shrine's sight, and then climbing upwards onto a hazardous series of outcroppings, which I traverse with the utmost stealth. The blackened, jagged stone precipices lead to directly behind the temple, where I nimbly drop, as silent as the finest of predators. After a moment of silence, to ensure neither the Matoran nor the Toa noticed my approach, I sneak to directly behind the two Matoran, deliberate in maintaining silence.

 

As I reach their location, I suddenly bullrush outwards with a barrage from both weapons, incapicitating the closest, initial target with a calculated blast from the Launcher, leaving what once was an acetabulofemoral joint little more than smoldering flesh and blackened metal. As the initial target collapses inelegantly, the Jitter Sphere target rolls away from the speeding projectile, hastily sluing to a stop to avoid falling over the cliff edge. After rendering the crippled Matoran exanimate with a successive blast, I continue the charge, firing another lava blast to coerce him into more backwards crawling, complimenting the repulsion with a vicious kick, sending him rolling onto his side. He attempts to scuttle to his feet, drawing a knife as he does so, and finds himself greeted with the sight of a mere metre between him and the cliff's drop-off.

 

He turns and attempts to begin an avid offensive, thrusting and feinting in a display of half-adequate knife-wielding skills (in the presence of a master, little is truly satisfactory). After several moments of his blustering attempts at pushes and offensives (resulting in only a trickle of blood flowing weakly from my forearm), he attempts a thoracic puncture, resulting in momentary, but highly dangerous, vulnerability. I, but of course, capitalise upon this with the seizing and shattering of the knife-wielding hand's carpals and proximal phalanges, followed immediately by his assumption of a kneeling position. He attempts a destabilising low kick, which contacts my ankles with a dull thud and little affect (being capable of switching balance from individual pedal extremities is an oft unappreciated skill in combat), and I take advantage of his vulnerability to strike his exposed vertebral column with the Lava Launcher's claw, prostrating his abject form. To insure an absence of further opposition, I crush his miserable head into the ground with a submaxilla-shattering stomp, taking care to irreparably damage both pharynx and larynx with my heel. He flails desperately in an attempt to escape, apparently surviving the initial attempt at facial disintegration, so I am forced to grip his cranium tighter, crunching down with greater force. His majorly muffled groans grow higher in pitch, fingers twitching helplessly. I release my foot before the twitching ceases, and nonchalantly kick him, decimetre by agonising decimetre, to the cliff's edge, though refraining from sending his miserable form tumbling over the precipice.

 

I pause for a moment to appreciate his ruined face, now covered with blood and the broken shards of his Kanohi; his singular operational eye stares into mine for a moment, searching irrationally for the smallest trace of clemency. I send him tumbling to awaiting death with the politest of smiles, pausing patiently until I perceive the sound of his connection with the hissing lava below. After disposing of the other corpse in the same fashion, and pocketing the foolhardy Matoran's knife, I continue, cautious in case the Toa within noticed my resplendently executed dual deliverance from flesh's restrictions.

 

All but one opponent eliminated, I creep to the entrance of the structure, silent as the scythe of Death, borne of the wings of night, a spectre composed of shadowed crimson and possessing iniquitous designs. Lava Launcher holstered (on occasion, I admittedly savour the possibility of challenging defiance), I calmly, albeit rapidly, cross the threshold, observing the entirety of my surroundings between steps. The interior of the shrine is occupied by only a singular Guard, knuckles white and eyes shifting, unkempt armour lacking decoration suggesting lower rank. I supposed such poor quality of security (Five? I have destroyed legions; this is hardly worthy of my time) is justified; after all, who would visit a shrine when both a prisoner has escaped and an explosion has occurred? What manner of the strange and disturbed would pray to their gods and heroes when they could bestow a hand onto their living brothers-in-spirit, and what sort of criminal would attack it? There is nothing worth value, no wealth or precious materials, only the hopes and fears of an entire city, the prayers of a people forged in pain. What sort of person, indeed.

 

I cross a majority of the distance betwixt us in two measured strides; her eyes widen on the first footfall, and my personal attachment to the ground vanishes on the second, revealing her possession of gravitiational control. I quickly hurl my recently acquired knife at her vulnerable chest, which she foolishly focuses entirely upon in desperation (revealing telekinetic abilities as well), saving herself from a relatively painless death. Before she realises her error, I traverse the mere meter between us in a single step, fist careening out in a vicious, zygomatic-shattering strike. She is surprisingly capable of stopping that as well, but fails to consider my other limbs. In a fluid, singular motion, my unhindered left hand reaches out, plucking the Kanohi from her face like an overripe fruit, right leg striking into hers with utterly devastating force, sending her to the ground with a surprised gasp. She rolls and attempts to draw her sword, but forgets my ability to move as well; I grasp the radiocarpal joint of the hand clenching the sword hilt as she rises to a singular knee, and drive my knee into her confused face. A moment later, she is lying on the uneven stone ground, trying her best not to let her grunts and moans develop into screams as she nurses a severely fractured wrist (and possibly fractured par orbitalis and squama frontalis), eyes wide as they stare at the shards of what once was a Matatu resting in my left hand. I crouch down onto the balls of my feet, lightly resting my right manus over her unbroken hand, and stare flatly, no grin stretching my mouth, no manic fire burning in my crimson eyes.

 

“Tell me, little Toa,” the words are vehemently primal and yet alluringly suave, rumbling as they labour to remove themselves from my rima oris, hammering themselves into the listener's tympanic membrane with the force of Reidak's fists, and yet never exceeding the volume of a whisper, as subtle in their power as the artisan who molds them. She stares in fear, her horror feeding the whispered menace that slithers from my nonpareil lips, unwisely refraining from moving, utterly captivated by the debonnaire terror pouring from the mouth of god himself, “by what miserable title do your associates refer to your person?”

 

Momentary silence, succeeded immediately by a scream (If my audio receptors are functioning correctly, I do believe she exceeded the coloratura soprano range, an average reaction for the unintiated to agony), and then answer, uttered periodically between grunts of pain. I sit in silence for a moment, release her mangled left hand, and then rise, an emperor staring down upon the groveling subject at the foot of his throne.

 

“Patunga,” I walk around the shrine slowly, tasting the word, infusing its essence into the stone I calmly observe, impressing it into the charms and sacrifices I inspect. By the third ingemination, I reach the sealed Suva, an empty husk once containing divine power, a pitiful sepulchre of this hero's struggle for greatness. “Enlighten me, Patunga, if you will: who is this great deity, worthy of a shrine of this magnitude? What name shall his denomination cry and scream in its moment of need?”

 

“You're wrong,” each syllable is a struggle, exquisitely tinctured with anguish. I turn, and find her staring at me through inundated eyes, struggling to get to her feet. “He's not a god; he's Tahu, our hero. He walked into the darkness,” she appears more confident now, as she rises to one knee, mangled hands awkward at her side, “and he never came out. He was willing to sacrifice for us, and we in return sacrifice for him.”

 

I saunter to her, composed and unconcerned with the laggard rise. “Very impressive,” at last, I grace her with the beauty of my smile, the controlled, polite tightening of the lips that has sent a gelid sliver of fear into the hearts of my countless victims. “Most can scarcely negotiate the expulsion of a trinity of words when suffering, and yet you berate. Alas, I perceive that you do not appreciate the nature of your current situation.” the lurid sound of two patella collapsing inwards in quick succession fills the air around us, as does an accompanying shriek, and Patunga resumes her repose upon the stone.

 

“Do you care to be elucidated upon what I've noticed concerning heroes, your little men and women like Tahu?” I lightly rest a foot (coincidentally the same used to demolish her knee-joints) onto one of the mangled hands, and tighten my smile, leaning inwards until my face is uncomfortable close, filling the entirety of her vision. “Their appearance is directly contiguous with a rise in destruction, death, and anguish. When they don their inane armour and masks, and wave their little swords and declare themselves leaders, saviours, their enemies get furious. You have beholden the horrors I discuss. Tell me, Patunga, what magnitude of people were obliterated in the Rahkshi attacks, when your brave men and women decided to vex Makuta, so that you might be saved? How many innocents were slaughtered for the liberation, how many lives ruined for the vindication of your morals?”

 

“I can see your frown, your disbelief, your righteous indignation. Oh, my dear Patunga, you adjudicate my speech as false far too quickly. You are a guard, are you not? Tell me, when a murderer stalks the alleys and moonlit streets of this city, how is the crime rate affected? There is no need to speak; the answer is clear to all. The crime rate plummets. Criminals are not witless, contrary to popular opinion; they would not risk being caught during their transgression and tried as the killer who has captured the imagination and hearts of the populace. They remain silent, and wait until the murderer is incarcerated before resuming their decadence.”

 

As I whisper the syllables with the gracility befitting my person, my eyes glow vivid crimson, infused with the heat of my passion, my grin a flash of brilliant ivory mere centimetres from the horrified eyes of my victim. As I speak, I trace Patunga's jawline with the bladed claw of the Lava Launcher, slowing as I reach her mouth, and place one talon onto her tongue.

 

“In this way, even a murderer saves lives, albeit indirectly,” pausing, I seize her face with my free hand, letting the talon sink into the flesh of her mouth, creating a slight drippage of blood. “So tell me, little Guard, does it dismay you, to know that your heroes have conduced more destruction and suffering than the criminals you prosecute?” As I speak, she slowly moves her free hand, no doubt believing herself furtive. As I finish the last sentence, I remove the Launcher from her mouth, and in a singular movement, puncture the offending hand, centimetres from the hilt of a dagger, affixing her miserable manus with the stone it now bleeds so profusely upon.

 

For a moment, I sit in silence and stare at her with the utmost disgust, as she continues her stare of affright, and I retract my trusty Launcher, placing it into my satchel with a tired air. “Oh, Patunga, I tire of our disceptation. You are quite simply not gratifying to speak with; your argue and you sniffle, and, by far worst of all, your attempts to struggle to safety are so tepid, it is truly unbearable.” As I stare down at her, my eyes slowly lose their lustre, assuaged into emotional phlegm by her consternation. The claws of my foot flex around her broken fingers, forcing her to humorously attempt (and fail) abegnation of a torment-induced skreigh.

 

“Where is your hero now, Patunga? Where are your gods? Have they abandoned you in your time of gravest need?” I arise once more, my smile transfixed upon my countenance, the mask of a performer in an ancient tragedy, emotions transcendent into the realm of annul. As I press the entirety of my weight upon the injured hand, her arm stiffens in a desperate attempt to stop the agony. As she squalls desperately, I draw a long, thin obsidian knife designed and balanced for flaying, letting it dance along my fingers as I speak, a blur of iron hilt and extrusive igneous rock blade. As she watches the blade with dread reverence, I continue, my frozen, porcelain smile remarkably similar to the knowing grin of the maxillae.

 

“I'm afraid this conversation has come to an end, ye fiddling, fatuous Guard," she jactitates with the panic unique to the doomed as I draw her closer, until her broken form is adpressed to mine, increasing in her frightened madness as I bequeath a kiss upon her whitened lips, tongue resting lightly on her clenched teeth. I smile at her attempt at chastity, dislocate her left hand's index and annualry digits, and finish the grandiloquent tirade. "I desire your comprehension on a certain matter ere we commence; I am going to spifflicate your miserable flesh, but only in due time. When the blood is running, and your entrails lay displayed before you like so many coiled, crimson serpents, you will look into my eyes, like so many of your successors, and you will beg silently for the smallest indication of mercy. You will find none.”

 

Conversation finished, I began the excruciating process of victim preparation, my nerves calm and my movements deft amidst the symphony of screaming and sobs, and my ivory smile remaining ever bright, a clenched beau idéal. Truly, it has been too long since these blood-soaked fingers have danced their lissome adagio, the waltz of the flesh.

 

 

*   *   *

 

The cold, aloof light of distant stars hides behind the smog produced by Ta-Koro's miserable industry, afraid to behold the glory of my magnum opus displayed within the debased shrine. I stalk the streets of Ta-Koro as the heavens watch in terror, a predator waiting for potential prey to make fatal mistakes, Typhon amidst the charred ruins of Olympus. Yet, like all who conquer, I feel myself growing blasé in the face of this city's impending destruction; certain victory rewards no ecstasy. Perhaps it is time to rejoin my companions on their quest of fools; they are entirely too useful to ignore, too powerful to ridicule, and so gloriously destructive, that abandoning their company always seems a poor strategical decision in hindsight. As such, I do believe it is time for to prepare for a welcoming committee considerably less enjoyable than a legion of angered Guards.

 

-(NPC-Written Document)-

 

Ta-Koro Guard HQ Official Crime Scene Report

Officers involved: Inspector Titiro Mataara, Constable Pakaru, Constable Manatu

 

This report is a description of the state of Ta-Kini, upon the arrival of Inspector Mataara, Constable Pakaru, and Constable Manatu, following the location's designated law enforcement officers failure to report. Upon my initial realising of the drastic nature of the events that occurred, we palisaded and examined the crime scene in further detail. The commanding officer of the unit, as well as her designated lieutenant, both of which were positioned at entrance to the trail, and two reserve constables are yet to be found; suggestions that their bodies and all pertaining evidence has been disposed of within the lava river are rational but unproven, due to the extremely frustratingly clean nature that the crime scene, as far as those four particular victims are concerned, possesses. The semi-circle of six statues, located on the north side of the structure, dedicated to Tahu and his procural of the six Great Kanohi were extensively vandilised and damaged; each statue was melted, deformed and stylised to the point of unidentifiableness, all marked with     and in possession of twin tear-esque lines of blood running from eye sockets to chin. This blood belonged to Constable Patunga, whose body we discovered within the shrine.

 

The Constable was completely stripped of any objects Psychometry-users could use, as was the case of the entirety of the shrine's interior. The extent of the savagery conducted upon her person was of a magnitude rarely seen; when we entered the shrine, we were greeted with the sight of her suspended from the ceiling, feet impaled on two wall-mounted hooks used for the suspension of thurible. Immediate observations made it sadly clear that she had been vertically bisected through the central body mass to the sternum, with initial forensics suggesting the use of the jagged stone sword possessed by one of the outside statues. Both hands and both knees suffered extreme fractures and violence, meaning her placement from hooks would be of the utmost agony, and her forearms, calves, hands, and feet were completely and unusually expertly flayed. The facial area suffered intense violence, including the removal of several sensory reception organs. Intestines, several organs located in the thoracic cavity, tongue, eyes, teeth, and skin were all laid on appointed places of offerings or otherwise symbolically significant locations within the shrine.

 

Initial forensics heavily suggests the perpetrator of this murder conducted the torture to last as long as possible, indicating sadism on part of the culprit. It is of note that the fatal bisection was performed in a manner so that blood flow continued into the head, preventing the victim from dying during the activity until the torturer so wished, yet another indication of gluttonous sadism in place of even slightly efficient murder. If left in this condition, the Constable most likely died of blood loss or circulatory shock after a short time, which we assume is the case, seeing how no “mercy killing” marks such as throat-slitting or the like is noticeable.

 

The rest of the shrine is, as aforementioned, barren of items of any sort, once again most likely intended to frustrate our attempts at Psychometry confirmation of events. Much like the stylised nature of the statues' deformations on the north side of the shrine, the interior of the shrine was also partially melted and covered with symbols and less definable designs of an iniquitous, disturbing and morbid nature. The Suva is of particular note, for its defacement was of a rather unsettlingly pathologic kind; I don't believe I can currently describe it in the level of detail required. I do believe all superiors will want to witness it for themselves, for the sake of a lucid understanding of the severity of our situation.

 

Will report in detail when/if other bodies are found or further information is obtained,

Inspector Mataara

 

 

"Thus the man who is responsive to artistic stimuli reacts to the reality of dreams as does the philosopher to the reality of existence; he observes closely, and he enjoys his observation: for it is out of these images that he interprets life, out of these processes that he trains himself for life."

-Friedrich Nietzsche, The Birth of Tragedy (1872 C.E.)

 

OOC: I'd like to thank Gravity, Tyler, and Lord Snark/Alex for their critique and improvement of this post; without their confirmation of its adequateness, I doubt I would have posted it (and the finished product is largely their input). Now, as I'm sure we all desire, back to posts less than three thousand words in length; consider my walls of text successful destroyed.

Edited February 6, 2015 by L'Etranger

[Nuju Metru]

OOC: This and other posts in the Reordin/Zaktan fight include instances of autohitting. This is because Ty and I trust each other as writers and have given one another explicit permission to take some liberties in the progression of our fight. Don’t try this at home, unless you and your opponent player(s) have come to a similar agreement.

 

IC:

The Skakdi and the Toa didn’t say words; they opted instead to speak with their blades.

 

The Toa was very fast – the wound on Zaktan’s knee was proof enough of that – and his magnetic fluidity in combat, which belied his brittle element, was admittedly unexpected. Considering the showy bravado with which this Toa of Ice had engaged him, Zaktan was passively intrigued by his enemy’s complete metamorphosis from empty braggart (bragging was almost always a bluffing mechanism; Zaktan had outmatched many braggarts simply by ignoring their puffed chests) to efficient duelist. It was as if, under the heat of Zaktan’s cool ferocity, an external façade of the Toa had melted, reducing him to someone entirely different, someone who would survive at any cost, and who knew the value of his energy. Zaktan dismissed the possibility of a strategy of over-exertion.

 

The Kanohi on the Toa’s face was one he’d never seen, so Zaktan was sure that it was this mask that’d given the Toa the unexpected ability to alter Zaktan’s spheres midair, change the ground beneath his own feet. It probably would have been just as easy for a Toa this fast to dodge the sphere; to have changed it was a superfluity. This was how the enemy’s initial overconfidence had cost him; immediately upon beginning to battle, Zaktan had been aware of his partner’s special ability. Zaktan, meanwhile, had only briefly hinted at his own trump card, and at a time when for a less agile opponent, the result would have been disemboweling. Though Zaktan never counted on uncertainties, it was entirely possible that, at the speed with which he and this Toa were fighting, the Toa hadn’t realized the scope of Zaktan’s particularity.

 

A feinted nick of Zaktan’s scissor coerced Reordin to parry above his head emptily with one ice axe; Reordin’s second axe was there in time to catch Zaktan’s real strike, which twirled out of the ruse, on his other side, but Zaktan had more than one appendage. While Reordin chopped down with the feint-cover axe, Zaktan scythed his flat foot low around Reordin’s forward ankle, jerking it towards himself so that the Toa of Ice lost his balance and, his downward strike missing its mark, stumbled closer to Zaktan. Zaktan slammed into the Toa’s open, proximate gut with the three prongs of his Zamor Launcher, bruising Reordin and shoving him still closer to the edge of the terrace.

 

Before Reordin could recover total footing, Zaktan pressed on. From one knee, Reordin fended off slash after expert slash of the scissor. With the prong at the end of his weapon, Zaktan snared the hook of one of the axes, pulling it up above Reordin. Reordin slashed at Zaktan’s open midriff with his other blade; to his great surprise, the sharp pick of the ice axe passed through Zaktan’s body with as much resistance as it would’ve passed through air. The force of what should have been a debilitating blow, transferred unfettered through Zaktan, carried Reordin over to the side. Reordin also found that, as he lost balance once more, the caught pick of his other ice axe was no longer a secure fulcrum for his tumble, and before he could stop himself, he was falling fully to earth.

 

Zaktan’s sword, solid once again, followed Reordin’s neck down. If Zaktan had his way, his scissor would hit the rooftop before Reordin did.

Edited June 6, 2014 by Nuju Metru

[Constructelf]

IC Turo

Back to patrolling. So far, five unsubs had been located. Two were holing tgemselves up in the ruined remains of the Lavapool inn with no indication that theybweould ever emerge. Two were in a brawl with three of the Maru, fighting the powerful toa on equal footing. Brief glimpses of the fifth crossed Turo's eyes, as a toa of ice danced with a mist-like warrior. "But where was the sixth?"

 

The sixth was nowhere to be found, but something did catch Tyro's interest out of the corner of his eye. A dead body-one of Turo's colleagues (not that he cared)-had been offered up as a grotesque offering to the now-defaced statue of Tahu. "Never liked it anyway," he quipped to himself, as he literally leapt into action. This was as good a lead as he was going to get if this was indeed the handiwork of the sixth and final unsub; if not, then it was worth looking into anyways. "If reports are correct, this one should be red..."

Edited June 6, 2014 by Last Son Amakusa

[25K Now!]

IC: Ril

 

Ril dropped to Roshinua's side, the eyepatch-wearing Toa of Fire rising from his crouch to stand confidently next to his colleague. Behind him arrived a group of crossbow-wielders, four in total. He had followed through quite quickly with the other Toa's demand, having immediately dragged any of his fellow guards he could find to assist in their defence of the village. While it was clear that the attackers were highly dangerous, Ril doubted that they could tear through Ta-koro's forces like butter.

 

"Any sign?" he asked with a low voice.

[Snelly]

IC: Mekana - Hospital -

 

Mekana hid her face under the sheets, continuing to giggle and otherwise make strange noises.

[25K Now!]

IC: Ophaim

 

"Painkillers affecting you?"

[Snelly]

IC: Mekana - Hospital -

 

"No! I just think your face looks funny!" She said through the sheets.

[25K Now!]

IC: Ophaim

 

"I do not understand."

[Snelly]

IC: Mekana - Hospital -

 

Mekana's head poked out of the sheets, she looked very out of it, the way she stared at Ophaim blankly.

 

"Your face! Dur." She started to giggle again.

[25K Now!]

IC: Ophaim

 

"Right."

[Relapse]

IC: (Roshinua)

 

"None yet," he said, relief obvious in his voice, but we'll be ready when they get here. We're going to burn them to the ground."

[25K Now!]

IC: Ril

 

Ril cracked his knuckles. "Yeah yeah. Just make sure we don't burn the village down in the process."

[Onaku]

IC: Dia

The gang finally reached the underground highway, and Dia turned her chair around to face her companions. "If there are any second thoughts or doubts, I'd like to hear them now before we head any further. I'm determined to get Ankarya back, what ever the cost, and I want to be sure that I have your support..." Dia looked from one to the other, waiting for their response.

[25K Now!]

IC: Elysi

 

"When we get out of this, Zelvin, you're buying me a drink."

[Geardirector]

IC: Zelvin (Ta-Koro)

 

"Acknowledged"

[25K Now!]

IC: Elysi

 

"Thanks."

[Relapse]

IC: (Roshinua)

Eleven long-range weapons officers. One detective. And Ril.

 

"I can't make any promises."

[25K Now!]

IC: Ril

 

"Tch. I know you. You're careful."

[Akavakaku]

IC Jrahann

 

Jrahann let out a slow breath through her teeth upon hearing Dia's request. The Skakdi forge assistant was not worth Jrahann's life. Dia had caught her in a trap, whether or not it was intentional. If she didn't swear her unconditional aid to the rescue mission, Dia could easily choose to leave her behind.

So Jrahann decided to lie. "You have my support, protosmith." If it came to it, Jrahann felt confident she could turn back on the promise and escape safely.

Edited June 6, 2014 by Akavakaku

[Geardirector]

IC: Elysi

 

"Thanks."

 

IC: Zelvin (Ta-Koro)

 

"Consider it a predetermined gesture of thanks for what's about to commence" Zelvin replied with a nod.

 

"Because I have a feeling that'll be warranted by today's end"

[25K Now!]

IC: Elysi

 

"Too bad the Lavapool's gone. Could've used a drink from there."

[shadow pridak money gang]

IC:

 

Derived of footing, Reordin made a snap decision and went for the only pivot he could find - Zaktan himself. With the green Piraka's sword hurtling down above his head, his opponent had no choice but to become tangible once again; when he saw Zaktan shimmer, like a gemstone in the sun, the Toa Maru of Ice reached out with his left hand and caught Zaktan's right calf in a tight grip. Desperately his fingers sought the wound that his climbing spike had made earlier, and luck smiled on him. His middle and ring fingers dug into the wound deeply and gouged; the sword swung backwards and connected uselessly with the ground to the right of the Piraka's foot. Zaktan's scream was a chorus, ten thousand agonized shouts that only intensified when icy hooks ripped the wound open further. It would have hamstrung a normal person, but Zaktan merely separated into a swarm again. Reordin took the opportunity to dart to his feet, quick as a breeze. When Zaktan reformed, Reordin was already behind his back, and slapped the flat of one ice axe against the base of Zaktan's ridged spine.

 

For the first time since the fight began, the Piraka faltered momentarily. The Toa's quick, moderate strikes were keeping him on his toes, unsure when to mobilize or when to separate, and when he did mobilize the Toa would be at his side or on his back, hitting with his axes, hitting with his palms, hitting with his feet. Where Reo's blows would bite, little dashes of ice and frost signed his signature, and soon they spotted Zaktan's ankles, back, and diaphragm, streaking his gold-and-green armor with ivory. Finally, Zaktan had enough.

 

When Reordin went to strike at his unprotected side, he swung with all the weight of his left shoulder, blunting the Ice Toa in the ribs with force that would surely bruise. He struck with his Scissors; the left prong looked half an icicle from several of Reordin's parries, but it was still sharp enough to bifurcate and if not for the successful parry with his axes he may well have fallen to the roof in two pieces. Zaktan's body shook, suddenly grainy, and his two side prongs stretched out in golden mist around Reordin's axes. They were quick; they were minute; they were fatal.

 

They were just what Reo had been waiting for.

 

His axes moved in wide, sweeping arcs outwards, and from the space where they had met a long white stream of energy blossomed, swallowing the thousands of particles that had made up Zaktan's scissor and wrist in a block of ice. It would not last long, that much was clear; condensation already dripped and sizzled on the rooftops of acrid Ta-Koro, but Zaktan had to reform himself before the chunk of ice fell to the ground, taking his hand with it. But with the use of his elemental energy, there was a sudden chill in the air that would have forced him back together anyway. Zaktan knew, as Reordin knew, that living things grouped together in the cold, and that there was a ploy here, but the Piraka was quick and strong, and he would rather fend off the Toa of Ice than risk fighting with one hand flash frozen on the ground against the fierce, trained soldier Toa, even for a few moments. When he pieced back together, he was sneering. The ice dripped to the ground and sizzled again, and Zaktan could have easily flicked it against the roof or even fought with the block as a weapon, as Reidak or Hakann would have been wont to do, but then he noticed the streaks of white that Reordin had left across his armor melting away, becoming shades of green against his armor. His sneer almost grew wider and uglier, but the Toa Maru's feral smile made him look for a disparity. He found it short enough.

 

The ice was melting on Zaktan's hand, condensation dripping and sizzling. Streaks of green were running down Zaktan's armor, down ankles and back and chest and right hand; finally Zaktan understood why the Toa of Ice had waited to be sure his were particles forced together by the sudden chill in the air and the minor requirement of a working right hand. The streaks were not the lustrous emerald highlights of Zaktan's armor.

 

They were the sickly green of acid.

 

-Tyler

[Mr. Lightning Bolt]

IC Jrahann

 

Jrahann let out a slow breath through her teeth upon hearing Dia's request. The Skakdi forge assistant was not worth Jrahann's life. Dia had caught her in a trap, whether or not it was intentional. If she didn't swear her unconditional aid to the rescue mission, Dia could easily choose to leave her behind.

So Jrahann decided to lie. "You have my support, protosmith." If it came to it, Jrahann felt confident she could turn back on the promise and escape safely.

 

IC Asuno:

Asuno couldn't help but smile at Jrahann's pledge of support. He was prepared for her to bail in the future, but he hoped wholeheartedly that she'd continue to help, especially with him in tow, because he knew he was going to help all he could. After all, she let him have the disc launcher.

"I sure hope she does have your support, my dear," Asuno responded, "because I dont want you anywhere but with me. I'm in all the way. Let's move!"

 

OOC: Sorry I didn't respond as soon as I could have. I was busy playing GoW3 for the past three days.

Edited June 8, 2014 by Mr. Lightning Bolt

[Onaku]

IC: Dia

Dia nodded, seemingly satisfied with the responses she received, but she wasn't so stupid that she'd trust two complete strangers with her life. Either way, the only one she knew she could count on was herself, and if she could rescue her, Ankarya. "Alright, let's go. It's a long, winding, cramped and quite unpleasant road to Le-Wahi." With those words, she set off into the tunnel.

 

OOC: Dia to Le-Wahi

[Nuju Metru]

IC:

Zaktan unformed himself immediately upon his realization that the ice Reordin had spread upon him for the past few moments was turning to acid. The lime liquid, no longer supported by a solid body, easily sieved through Zaktan and fell to the rooftop; the block of ice-acid, no longer attached to Zaktan’s form, fell to the ground and, weakened by the Ta-Koro heat and the corrosive acid Reordin had turned its runoff into, cracked on impact. The green and gold swarm, which had been shaped as a Skakdi only a thought before, promptly rocketed into the air, extracting as much of itself as it could through the cracked block of ice as it did so. Zaktan’s Zamor Launcher, and another small object, clattered to the ground as he ascended.

 

Reordin, faced with a fully dissolved Zaktan for the first time, tried to duplicate the feat that had imprisoned Zaktan’s hand. He fired ice elemental energy at the rising cloud, but without success, for Zaktan’s buzzing horde evaded his frosty projectiles midair like a fly would evade an impending palm. As the Zaktan cloud lowered towards a proximate rooftop, Reordin sprinted to the edge of his roof and took a skillful leap, knees tucked, across the alley to join his foe there.

 

In midair, Reordin realized that he’d made a mistake.

 

Almost instantaneously, and far faster than Reordin could have expected, the vague cloud reformed fully into Zaktan – or, nearly fully; there was still the gouge in his knee, and now streaks of corrosion from the acid – and aimed its reconstructed head at him. The Skakdi’s eyes blazed, and broiling beams erupted forth to Reordin. Even before he’d instinctually summoned an ice shield, one of the lasers grazed his shoulder and left a scorched line. Distracted by the flare of pain, Reordin finished his jump without grace, smashing into his own ice shield as he landed on the new roof.

 

Zaktan was already gone; a cloud again, he’d returned to duel’s original roof. Avoiding the puddle of acid that now ate away at the ground, Zaktan stomped down on the thoroughly melted block of ice with his good leg, finishing it and thus allowing what remained of his damaged particles therein to return to the swarm. He bent to pick up his abandoned Zamor Launcher and the vial of Antidermis, simultaneously ducking an icy shot from Reordin. As Reordin returned, this time creating an ice bridge before him (jumping hadn’t done him much good), Zaktan again employed his Laser Vision, forcing Reordin to approach behind a shield of ice that melted rapidly beneath the concentrated light.

 

When Reordin transmuted the front of his shield into a mirror, Zaktan promptly ceased – the reflected laser barely missing his arm – and fired a Jitter Sphere instead. Reordin raised the shield to protect himself, and the noxious green sphere burst on impact, releasing its glowing gas near the region of Reordin’s head. At the same time as Zaktan shot his sphere, Reordin caught one of Zaktan’s feet in the same block of ice his enemy had smashed moments before. Zaktan didn’t bother trying to muscle his way out of the ice; his foot simply dissolved, flowing like grains of sand out of its mold, and reformed outside its frozen confinement. Zaktan’s disentanglement barely bought Reordin enough time to make it back to the first rooftop.

 

Zaktan, despite his limp, approached like a bladed tempest, and Reordin was forced to use his ice axes again. The Skakdi and the Toa exchanged a few clanging strokes, but after just a few moves in their whiplash death-dance, Reordin was aware of a stinging in his forearm. Had one of the prongs of Zaktan’s scissor caught him without his notice? It was a minor injury, and Reordin dismissed it, for he was too focused on merely holding his own against the flashing golden blades to be distracted by something so trifling. But just a few weapon-clashes later, when he parried a strike aimed at his shin, Reordin felt a similar, more serious wound appear on his leg, and surprise and pain almost made him buckle beneath Zaktan’s next slash, a particularly savage overcut. How had that happened?

 

Before Reordin could figure out his wounds, Zaktan’s eyes flared red again, this time aiming to melt Reordin’s face at close proximity.

[Zox Tomana]

IC: Saeren

 

“Treatment’s free, right?”

 

"Of course." Saeren swung his backpack off and closed the distance to the Matoran, going down on a knee to be at eye level with her. "Let me see that leg and I'll be done in a trice, but unfortunately," he pulled out cloth dressings and a wrap of adhesive strips, "I don't have anything on me to clean up the blood."

[25K Now!]

IC: Elysi

 

"So, you a fan of Kolhii?"

[Hitoshura]

IC: Ryzen

 

I woke up. Yes, I did. I've left the village for a bit now, and now I have no idea how long I've been here. Maybe I should go so I actually have something to do...like get a job, perhaps. I think about my location, maybe going to Ga waht could work. Maybe that's where I'll go.

[Void Emissary]

IC:

 

"Right so ... any ideas on how we can nab the stone that's currently underneath the giant, angry scorpion?"

 

IC:

 

I soared through the sky on jet streams and air masses and landed on the deck of the enemy's ship, where I found myself surrounded by several of the pirating world's filthiest and foulest representatives standing to attention. Their steel had been drawn from their scabbards, and their gazes had been drawn towards the handsome mother###### with the black coat and the snide grin and the skills that were gonna send them running back to their Captain in disgrace; though, they may not have known me by reputation. The name "Gunner" didn't circulate quite like it used to, I'm afraid.

 

It was most certainly time to rectify that.

 

"Welp," I said, raising an eyebrow, "I guess now would as good a time as ever for you lot to surrender, now wouldn't it?"

 

IC:

 

"Pirates, eh?"

 

The brim of his hat fluttered in the wind, casting wavering shadows across Rynekk's face as he watched the slow approach of the trio of ships. With calculated precision he watched the iron disks crash into the water below, sending up bursts of sea spray. His mouth was a thin scar across his face, curving upwards ever-so-slightly as he began estimating proper trajectories for projectiles hoping to send ships down into the dark.

 

"Time to hunt."

 

The Toa stepped back, and like a Muaka shoots its head out to catch prey, his fist rocketed forwards, sending a pyramid of stone shooting across towards the closest ship. He repeated the action, again and again, sending bolts of hard, unyielding rock soaring through the air in a deadly hail.

 

-Void

[Franco]

IC: I'm running in there at maximum speed. The cold, hard saw of reality is headed for her face. The grenade is being directed away, maintaining the tenets of her foolish code while keeping her occupied-

 

-Or, evidently, while chucking it back at me.

 

I flick it to the side, stopping and swiveling to present a smaller target. End result: a boatload of shrapnel in my armor and an awful lot of pain. Of course, I've got grander topics on my mind.

 

"I thought your kind didn't kill, little Toa," I comment, returning to the initial plan of charging her with the same overpowering diagonal. I might as well try to wear her down.

[25K Now!]

IC: Lasinia

 

"Gunner, come up with a one-liner for me!"