The Harlequin

[font=gothic][color=crimson].....Alright. That's enough. What the HELL does "GOMEN" mean?[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=crimson]Yeah, I don't get it either. I'll tell you what though, I was planning on saying you deserved the poll victory more than me, but then the bloody poll, which was, last we both saw, [I]closed[/I] with you on four and myself on three, showing us both on four....Most confused.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=crimson]Eric Draven is the main character from The Crow. Now that is good.... If you, or anyone else, twins Lacroix. I shall get him (Lacroix), to hunt you down and make a lot of sarcastic comments before doing something evil, probably involving the blunt end of a fork to the eye....Mwahahaha....any respect I may have garnered over my stay at OB just went out the window, didn't it? Congratulations on the pop. contest win, by the way. Who won the vote thing? I'd count, but I'm lazy.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=crimson]OOC: Welcome oh great and evil one, etc. Whatever. IC: [I]Rali leant back on his bed, absently through knives at the walll opposite. The small inn he stayed in had been roughed up enough the night before that a few extra scratches wouldn't matter. Rali disapproved of killing people without payment normally. Normally didn't extend to having a bottle broken over his back. Of course, the idiot hadn't counted on a snap kick to the jaw followed up with a rising elbow. His friends hadn't counted on the loud crack his neck made when it broke, and the bartender probably didn't count on Rali killing the two guards that tried to attack him with their own swords. But life was like that. People get annoyed at you, tried to kill you, and then you fed their weapons to them. Occasionally hilt first, just to be cruel and unusual. Cruel and unusual was a forté of Rali's... Countless assassinations, countless splatters of blood on his hands. Each one unique, each one a work of art in its own way. Ah, there had been a mistake or two, but that had only been overkill. Kill the people in the room means kill the people in the room, even if the man was hosting a small party... Burn it all meant burn it all. Rali told all his employers that same thing when something like that happened. Don't say what you don't mean because I'm likely to believe it. Then promptly had to take his fee out of their skin, quite close to the bone, when they decided to tell him that he had agreed to do the job without pay. He didn't care anymore though. He was firmly convinced that the various races were finally populous enough that a small massacre here and there was not only survivable, but also warranted. And let's face, he loved the notoriety, and he didn't realy have anything better to do.[/font][/color][/I]

[font=gothic][color=crimson]Rali: From what I've seen, they don't have much trouble catching you. Lethe: You didn't try to kill me on sight, did you? Rali: Well, actually yes, but my telepathic murdering ability is somewhat lacking these days... [I]Lethe looked at him in almost bewilderment for a moment. Lythanoids were never exactly known for their sense of humour. When she finally worked out that it was, indeed, a joke, she gave a slight laugh, still looking at him in confusion. Rali was somewhat more amused. Unfortunately, it wasn't his joke that was amusing him. He spoke cheerfully nonetheless.[/I] Rali: I once won a bar brawl with a Capoblean though. [I]Lethe looked at him suspiciously, fairly certain he was being absurd.[/I] Lethe: Aren't those creatures basically the strongest thing on the planet pound for pound? Rali: Yes. [I]He blithe answer was all she got. They continued along for a good minute before she at last gave in.[/I] Lethe: Alright, how'd you do it? Rali: Waited for it to grab me, then poked it in the eye... [I]He held up his taloned fingers, stabbing the air for demonstration.[/I] Lethe: You sad, sad being. Rali: Fun though.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=crimson][I]Vichante turned on to his side, resting his head in his hand, his arm forming a triangle. There was a long moment of silence before he answered. His voice was unconcerned, he seemed somehow unfazed by the entire situation. Almost as if he often woke with people pointing weapons at him. Actually, now that he thought about it...[/I] Vichante: I have not the peace, the serenity you speak of, true. But there is something deeper, something that is paradoxically more profound. Lifé: Oh? [I]Vichante sank back down into the bed, and his next word was a whisper. It was forced, driven outwards, like it was some parasite that needed to be expelled for growth. Catharsis in a single word. "Oblivion". They lay in silence a while, Lifé showing no signs of moving anytime soon, Vichante showing no signs of voicing any kind of objection. He merely stared at the ceiling, lost as it was in the pale darkness. She stared at the reflection of moonlight on his pale skin, thinking thoughts that Vichante had not the inclination to decipher. Vichante turned his head slightly, giving her one last, searching glance. A sudden rakish upturning of his lips flashed across his face and was gone, then he turned back, eyes slowly closing. Within seconds, he was asleep, his body stiffening ever so slightly as his dreams encompassed his mind.[/font][/color][/I]

[font=gothic][color=crimson]........You read my spars? *Cowers* God damn it! I thought I was the one meant to ....do...the stalking....or ....maybe it was.....something else. Yeah, that's the ticket, something else... Poe hey? I'm very good with that. In fact, that's probably the second best compliment anyone has ever given me. (The best was when some dickhead at school started calling me Eric Draven, and thought he was insulting me...ah, profuse laughter) Who is this Neverwhere you speak of by? I'll have to read it. If there's a character something like Lacroix, I need to do some serious revamping.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=crimson]And my dear Raiha, I'm still better at sarcasm than you... God damn it JC, why the hell another musician?[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=crimson]I know basically nothing about cars, and don't give a damn, but I think if it came down to it I'd prefer to be driving a Subaru WRX.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=crimson]If they'd known what they were doing they could have... Over here (Australia), guns laws are damn strict. There's very, very little you can legally own now. But that's only in the fireams department. Just this week, there was a case of two teenage school girls getting severely injured by a teenage male armed with a crossbow. That one bolt went [I]through[/I] the first girl's chest, into the other one's leg. And that wasn't a top of the line crossbow by any means. Increasing gun laws might stop some accidental deaths, but if someone really wants to kill someone, it's incredibly easily to do so. In a country where you can't own most firearms, and have to store the ones you do own in a dismantled state, a 13 year old with a bit of money can by a lethal weapon over the phone without anyone else knowing about it. Increasing gun laws probably won't do much. Making it harder to get a gun probably would.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=crimson]Name: Yvonne Dara'nei Nickname: Aurora Age: 17 Appearance: She's a *****, and dresses like it, mainly because she's originally from a city called Dharrkin, from way up north (Think Prague), which is basically the home of metal music. She's five foot nine, and slender. Skin is typically white, and unblemished, asiding the artifical stuff. Hair is black, chin length, worn free. Wears gothic make up, dark lips, darkened eye hollows, with extended lines spiralling out to cover most of her face in an intricate design (the lines are tatooed, the hollows have to be artificially darkened). Has multiple ear piercings, and two lip studs. Tends to wear either black cotton jeans or a very short black skirt. Sleevless, low cut black midriff top. Don't ask how she doesn't get sunburnt, it doesn't seem to work. Eyes are a pale, washed out blue. Tribal designs tatooed up both forearms, a strange almost cloudlike design between her shoulder blades, which gives her her nickname. Character Sketch: Moved into town a few months ago, and hasn't adjusted yet. The initial reaction she got was the idea that she was one vicious *****, and she did everything she could to make sure people knew that that wasn't just a rumour. Basically, she doesn't like the people down here. They're not her type. She's a very private person, and doesn't take well to anyone's intrusion. Or to any male who thinks they know what is good for her. Back home, she was a lot more relaxed, and tended to get along with anyone, male or female. Here, she confines her activities to the very few people who suit her tastes, and earn her trust. Which takes quiet a bit. She's intelligent, poetic, independant and absolutely devoted to the notion of her own divinity. Occasionally depressed, constant family problems, and a peer group full of people who don't like her have done nothing to dissuade her from being herself. She tends to carry a butterfly knife, with a kris blade. (I'm watching Face/Off, if anyone's wondering where that came from...) She's had to use it a few times. No murders, but a few serious injuries.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=crimson][I]Rali snorted in derision.[/I] Rali: Why? Because we tend to snarl a fair bit? Lethe: It's better than chirping. Rali: Oh, you'd get on well with a vislithian. Lethe: Oh? Rali: Six legged, scaled, horned cat. Poisonous stinging tail. About 12 feet long, and half that high. Doesn't take well to being disturbed. They do speak, but tend just to snarl. It gets the point across. Lethe: Ah the Elcrinth Way... What would we ever do without it. Rali: Who cares. Most people up here don't know about it. Most people down there don't know about up here. If they ever mingle, then things get nasty. Lethe: I'm assuming you're speaking from experience? [I]Rali gave a metallic chuckle before replying.[/I] Rali: Let's just say I've had a few things lick my ear...most of them thirty feet long and fanged. And then one of them was six feet tall and fanged, and hungry for something slightly different. Bastard had one hell of a sore throat. Lethe: You're talking about a vampyre, I assume? [I]Rali opened his out to reveal pointed teeth. He ran a long, reptilian tongue over them, in a very, very strange looking motion.[/I] Rali: What else is there these days. Dead things just keep coming back into vogue.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=crimson]Vichante: And you can stop thinking about that blade suddenly relocating itself, to a position of closer proximity to certain vital organs of mine... Lifé: Ah, but it's more tantalizing than anything else you have to offer. [I]She smiled at him, arching an eyebrow. He bent his head forward slightly, cocking it to one side. He grinned back, eyes wide. His voice was soft, amused, insane.[/I] Vichante: You wouldn't like the results. [I]Another dark wyrm crawled out of his pupil. He raised a hand up to his eye and wiped it away. It crawled along his finger, no longer writhing. He shook it off, where it fell to the floor. As soon as it touched the wood, it ballooned into a snakelike creature nearly two feet long. The strange, malformed head reared up and snarled at Vichante, before it darted out and latched onto his leg. As the blood flew over its grossly deformed maw, Vichante let out a booming laugh. As the blood hit the ground, more strange snakes appeared. He held out his hand, a harsh incantation running over his tongue. The snakes shimmered, and drew themselves up, staring at the cleric the way a cobra stares at a snake charmer. Or the way it stares at a mouse... He beckoned them in, and they came. The crawled up his legs, over his torso, back into his dark eyes. Sucked back into the hell they sought to escape from. Vichante looked back at Lifé. She didn't seem too impressed.[/I] Vichante: Spilling a lot of blood would be inconvenient. [I]He turned away, walking out the door. Before he closed it, he paused, and made one final comment.[/I] Vichante: Dhirak has no especial ill will towards Aerin, but any stay of clemence is bound by harsh restrictions. [I]With that he left, returning to his own room, and firmly bolting the door behind him. His chain mace rested beside his bed, several other weapons nearby. He thew off his heavy cloak, and removed his shirt. He threw himself onto the bed, folding his arms behind his head. He lay staring at the ceiling a long time before he was sucked into darkness.[/font][/color][/I]

[font=gothic][color=crimson]Last bloody time I listen when he yells Fetch at me... Now where did I put that spare stick?[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=crimson]Who was your first kiss? Raven, of course. And strangely enough, she's the only person... How old were you? 14. How was it? Messy...then we got practiced. What were the circumstances? (Where, Time, etc): My place, we were alone, first time we'd actually "seen" each other. It was a few weeks after we stopped the whole threatening to kill each other thing... What was your Worst/Best Kiss?: Worst kiss I can't quite remember, but it was probably when Luci (Raven) got a little enthusiatic and nearly split my lip open...Best would have been any number of others.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=crimson]Well, since we're talking about logging in whatever direction you feel like it....The other day, at school, I was bored as hell in IPT so I took a quick trip to OB...and got Cloricus's account. Cloricus, who was unfortunately sitting next to me, and I just looked at it for a while, logged out multiple times, and revisted the site, getting his account each time. Then, it did log out, and I logged in. Then, I hit the Profile link...and got Cloricus's profile. Most annoying. I'm not really sure what happened, but I think that because all the computers are networked, and run through one internet connection, it was using cookies placed by another computer (the one next to me that he was at), and signing in through those. Am I right in assuming that? Because being Cloricus sucks, and I don't want to do it if I don't have to.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=crimson]OOC: I'd offer an excuse for lateness, but I don't care. And I'd like to point out it's about damn time someone put in a fight scene. "Aiken was always a small, quiet village. A good village, full of good people. Wasn't it Burman?". [I]Acantha, giving Burman an opening, neatly removed the need for her to say anything at all. She well knew that given the slightest opportunity, Burman would talk himself hoarse. Burman's immediate affirmation, and immediate expounding, focusing on some long dead pioneer by the name of Burman, just coincidentally, was almost uninterruptable. Even minor politicians seemed to be able to talk fast on their feet... And with someone like Burman, that was a lot of feet to be talking on, and a lot of inertia to compensate for to make any kind of speed... Lacroix assumed that that the eventual product of Burman's speech would be the edification of Aiken, the Burman name, and most specifically, the current holder of that name. All couched in well meaning, utterly idiotic rhetoric that bore only the slightest resemblance to reality. Lacroix didn't follow most of the dialogue, interspersed as it was with random questions. Percy in particular seemed interested, asking quite a few questions about minute details involved in the town's founding, even though he had to speak over the mayor to get them in Unfortunately, Burman was more than happy to answer them, leading to multiple tangents within tangents, that even more unfortunately always lead back to how good a town Aiken was, and how good its inhabitants, at which point Burman always modestly layed a hand on his chest and thanked Aiken for allowing him to be born there for some reason, also were. Lacroix, instead, watched Acantha. She sat with her head slightly bowed, probably to hide her glazed eyes. Relee, Tylenia and Alex were showing no interest at all, and staring at random parts of the ceiling, Percy was fascinated, Xii was struggling to maintain the polite fiction she gave a damn, and Jice was inspected the other patrons...particularly the younger, female ones. Dharin came up and served another round of drinks, giving everyone another convenient target to stare at. Burman was truly reaching a new level of pomposity, nearly in proportion with the level of rotundity he had reached... Interestingly, Dharin winked at Acantha before he left. A spark in interest lit her eyes, and she winked back. Definitely an avenue worth exploring... As she looked up, she noticed Lacroix's interest, and her eyes hardened visibly. He gave her a wolfish grin, and raised her glass almost imperceptibly to her. She didn't deign to offer any kind of response. The intervention was fortuitous, else Burman's slip up would have been missed. He was rambling on, again, about the good citizen of Aiken, in what appeared, thankfully, to be some kind of summary.[/I] "We're good, decent folk. Family folk. We're kind, hardworking, honest. We've had our share of troubles, and we have our darker elements that occasionally interfere with our life...-" "-The area is occasionally subject to floods, and other adverse weather conditions, you know.". [I]Acantha's interjection was so smooth that it was barely remarkable. And as it served to shut Burman up in what looked to be almost abject contrition, everyone was simply too thankful to complain, or even take note of it. Lacroix took a quick glance at Dharin. The man was again wiping a tankard, but his knuckles were showing white as he gripped it. From Lacroix's position leaning against the wall, he could see Acantha's hand, as she dug her nails into her own leg, quite hard from what he could see. Sure, Burman did tend to belabour the point, but that was no need to eviscerate him. Or maybe it was. Lacroix cheerfully would have done so. But then, as a monk that worshiped the very concept of death, that was unsurprised. Acantha, picking up, started to explain how a nearby river could rise quite rapidly when inundated with spring runoff. She stopped talking after a minute or so, before it became too obvious she knew absolutely nothing about rivers. She yawned theatrically, and Burman immediately turned to her in sympathy, taking her by the hand and leading her outside. As they reached the door, stepping gingerly over the still wet ground, Burman called back over his shoulder "Come to my house tomorrow, and we shall discuss further how to help the good citizens of Aiken". Lacroix stared out the door for a long moment. Behind, Alex muttered "You lapdog", and received a spontaneous round of applause. They started to drift off, the table quickly becoming cramped. No one really noticed when Lacroix wheeled around abruptly and strode into the darker corner of the common room. The man sitting at one of the few tables looked up briefly, as Lacroix leant across the table, glaring at him. He took a longer look when the intervening table was suddenly thrown out of the way. The man looked at Lacroix in a strangely guilty fashion. Lacroix's gaze was fixated on the orb the man had held concealed under the table. Black wisps of smoke drifted into it, coming from two sources. The doorway, unsurprisingly enough, and Lacroix. The man stood up, and made a move to leave, trying to tuck the orb away under his cloak. Lacroix's hand shot out, and wrapped itself around the man's throat. He pushed him back until he was against the wall.[/I] "Drop the Draw Ball, and I'll be a little more civilised.". Lacroix's voice was almost friendly, but it was obvious he wasn't open to compromise. The man sighed, and withdrew his hand. Lacroix let him go, and stepped back. "You know what happens when one of your kind attempts to siphon off energy from a monk of my order. We always know about it. And you know what we tend to do to your kind too. So why the hell did you attempt it?" "The energy was so abundant-" "-Lacroix, what do you think you are doing?", Tylenia interjected somewhat forcibly. The man turned to her, grateful for the assistance. Lacroix subsided, leaning against the wall and muttering to himself. "My name is Ryan Schezar." "Tylenia. What exactly was going on?" "Well, I'm what's called a Streamer." [I]The others had gathered around, most of them glaring at Lacroix. He rolled his eyes, and tossed them all a rakish grin, gesturing for Ryan to continue.[/I] "We draw on necrotic energy to reshape time, averting catastrophes and the like-" "You steal energy from the very fount of existence and use it to remake the world as you see fit, often to your benefit, and thus endanger the cycle of existence as a whole.". There was a strange venom in Lacroix's voice, giving the impression of some kind of long standing vendetta. "But we save potentially thousands of lives". Ryan's voice was almost pleading. "And thus try and deny everything its rightful passing and recreation.". Lacroix's tone didn't show him as willing to brook argument. There was an uncomfortable silence before someone at last asked a question. Percy, with his inquisitive nature. "So what is it you Streamers do?" "Well, we tap into the time flow, and when several a majority of streams of possibility point to widespread disaster, we alter it, melding other flows into an outcome more desirable for humanity as a whole.". Lacroix started to fire off another denunciation when Xii gave him a fierce look. He swore, and stalked over to talk to Dharin, in conjunction with another drink. "Why does Lacroix have such a problem with you? Have you met him before?" This from Relee. Ryan shifted uncomfortably a bit, before responding in a reluctant tone. He responded at all only because he'd rather his version of the story to be the initial one told than Lacroix's. "This Lacroix, as you call him, is a monk. He is a monk of The Order Of The Eldritch Heart, as they style themselves, an order that is concerned with the arcane, the esoteric, side of the universe. One thing they have uncovered is that everything is not only transitory, but also self renewing. Everything dies, even that which would not be considering alive in the first place, and becomes something knew. But before it becomes something knew, it exists as pure energy, which is what we tap into. Lacroix's order holds that by tapping into, and extracting that energy, we are threatening the regrowth of the entire universe. But you have to understand, this regrowth takes place over a colossal time period, a time period that life on this planet will not endure to see the end of. But Lacroix's order looks at things on a far broader scale, and doesn't except that life here is more important than some grand cycle of energy. The other problem is that Lacroix's order harnesses a form of that energy, combined with a spiritual energy known as ki, within their own meditations, making them a constant vessel for necrotic energy basically. They merely allow it to flow through them, rather than seek to extract it, thus do not diminish it. They do not understand that what we seek to achieve cannot be done by such limited resources. But anyway, they tend to kill us on sight, when they find us, thinking it fitting that we serve to help restore the balance we have upset. And they destroy Draw Balls without the slightest compunction." "Draw Balls?". Alex sounded fairly bored with the entire thing. People didn't like each other, people died, everyday life, get over it. "We store energy in them. When I felt the pulsating aura around this place, I just had to activate it, knowing that it would be a great benefit to my kind. I was unaware that Lacroix was what he was." [I]This was greeted with prompt silence. Everyone had more or less picked up on the fact that Ryan had been drawing energy from Calonice's death. And nobody was willing to come to terms with it, except maybe Lacroix, who was still at the bar downing amontillado at a heroic rate, and not showing too many effects. His face was pretty grim, but that was nothing new. Dharin simply gave up counting, and wandered over to the group, asking whether they'd prefer to stay here or return to the house on the outskirts of town. Given previous events, no one was really willing to walk outside again, so they all gracefully accepted. When they left, Lacroix was still drinking like a man set on driving himself to unconsciousness. Excepting Lacroix, they all rose early. He didn't rise at all. Xii knocked on his door, and received a string of curses for her trouble. Some of them really quite inventive. She merely assumed he was suffering one hell of a hangover and went downstairs, where the others were being entertained by Jice. The minstrel was obviously enjoying the situation. In actuality, Lacroix was pacing. He had an obligation to destroy the Draw Ball, not to mention Ryan, but right now one of his kind would prove useful. So while the others toured the small Village, spending most of their time at the markets, Lacroix stayed in his room, refusing to speak to even Dharin. Luckily, he was unable to get drunk...otherwise he would be suffering that hangover... He returned to the world an hour before dusk, when informed that they were leaving for Burman's house. He came out reluctantly, glaring at Jice, who had happened to be the one voted into dragging him out. Lacroix didn't need much dragging, stumping down the stairs in a very truculent fashion. They left quickly, no one saying a word to the disgruntled monk. Apparently, the idea that moderation was for monks really, really didn't apply here. Burman's house was a large manse on the outskirts of town. There was already a raucous din coming from inside, making it obvious that they were not the only guests. A clever ploy on Acantha's part no doubt. They were ushered in by a servant, strange fare for a small town. This was showing all the signs of a baronial party, not a small hosting by a village mayor. Aiken apparently did have a social life. They were seated at a single table, with a place to spare, no doubt in case Dharin had decided to come along. They were far from the Mayor, who, beside the inanely smiling Acantha, was talking to a group of unwashed looking men, most likely farmers, about something that seemed to be earthshakingly important. Or maybe that was just Burman. Most likely. The topic of conversation quickly turned to how exactly Burman managed to obtain the position of mayor in the first place. Within a few minutes, aided in main by Jice's long practice at such things, and Ryan's desire to keep the conversation moving so he didn't have to look at Lacroix, the kind of light banter one would expect at a party had ensued. Another servant came over, bearing a tray of drinks. He placed them down, and asked the guests if everything was in order. Normal waiter behavior. As he finished, he looked down at Lacroix, peering deep into his eyes. He nodded a few times, as if finally understanding a difficult problem.And whipped out a knife, attempting to slice open Lacroix's throat. Lacroix's hand shot up, the blade dancing off his the bony ridge of his forearm. He rolled backwards out of his chair, coming easily to his feet, in a fighting stance. He smiled nastily at the attacker, who dropped into an identical stance, still holding the knife. Lacroix leapt forward, right leg stabbing out into a sidekick. The man knocked him aside to his right. Lacroix landed on his outstretched leg first, his left leg coming to rest further forward than his right. From that position, he twisted, right hand coming around in a bridgehand strike. The man held his knifehand up to block. Lacroix shot his reactionary hand forward in a midsection punch. It struck the assailants solar plexus, knocking him a few feet back. Lacroix took a step forward with his left foot, then spun right. As the man stabbed outwards, Lacroix's right leg came up in an outer crescent. His foot crashed across the man's face, the knife blade slapping into Lacroix's thigh. As Lacroix's feet got inside the man's guard, he brought it down, and tucked his foot in under the man's armpit, effectively trapping his entire arm. Lacroix pivoted slightly so that his heel was on the man's ribs...and kicked out. The man screamed as his arm was ripped out of his socket. Lacroix untwisted his leg, spinning left. As soon as his right leg touched the ground, he brought his left up in a spinning heel kick that took the man in the temple, staggering him. Lacroix completed his spin and stood motionless for a moment. The man didn't fall down. Lacroix stepped forward, right leg coming up in an inner crescent that again hit the man's face. Lacroix's let his leg continue all the way to the ground, and then came forward in a stepping sidekick that struck the man's sternum and ribs to the sound of splintering bone. The man flew a good ten feet until he struck the wall and slumped. In the sudden silence, his watery, bubbling gasps that spoke of death and little else were clearly audible. He shuddered once more, and died. Lacroix strode over, and started rummaging around his person. He found a nondescript leather purse, drawstring pulled tightly and knotted quite firmly. He eventually had to yank it open and break the string. Inside with a ring, made of some strange dark metal. It was twisted, appearing to be made of strands of metal that fit together only by accident, completely random in form. Lacroix reached up to his neck and pulled out a necklace, an almost identical ring hanging from the end of it. He looked around, visibly worried.[/I] "This ring appears to belong to my order, but it does not speak of any energies imprinted upon it, so it cannot be so. What concerns me now is not that someone tried to assassinate me, my order tries to all the time, but that someone should seek to blame the order for my death. All things considered, that is definitely a cause for concern." [I]Ryan, in particular, looked worried, but that was probably because they were speaking of more people who wanted to kill him turning up...Lacroix, noticing the silence, gestured for the revelry to continue, and strangely enough, it did so. Lacroix returned to his table, absently examining the knife. Not poisoned, thankfully enough.He looked at the others, the happiest expression they'd seen so far plastered onto his face.[/I] "Where would be without random assassination attempts?" OOC: Alright then, my votes go to LA, Sara, and myself. LA, in main because I liked the feel of the post, particularly the ending, Sara, for basically the same reason, and myself because I simply feel it to hold more opportunities than Ryan's or Mitch's. Apologies to you both.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=crimson][I]Flynn slouched back in the chair, bored out of his mind. The teacher was once again explaining the difference between aerobic and anaerobic respiration. For what had to be the seventh time that period. And most likely to the same person. He had lost track about fifteen minutes ago. He was like that in Biology. Mainly because he was acing the damn subject without a problem. If only he could do that in Physics... He'd bother studying...but well, he couldn't be bothered. That was the main problem. The other problems were that he was convinced that Physics was the devil, making his teacher a Satanist, that he was god, making him unalterably opposed, that Physics was simply the art of getting common sense and trying to screw it up because you had nothing better to do, and lastly that very single part of physics was the concept of physics realising that it was the aforementioned screwing up of common sense, and digging itself a hole. It was digging itself a grave to bury itself in, and Newtons laws and whatnot were simply excess dirt that got thrown up. Flynn had severe problems with Physics...most of them intentional.[/font][/color][/I]

[font=gothic][color=crimson]Now why would I do that? I'll get myself a reason for multiple killings, worry not. It may, no will, be a little convulted though...[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=crimson][I]The cold, and a certain blase outlook on life, kept the arrival of the woman from being too momentous. The patrons turned back to their slightly warm cloaks and untouched tankards, frowning slightly as the woman actually drank hers. Vichante gestured to the barkeep, ordering a drink for himself. It was of a far inferior quality to what he was used to, but sacrafices had to be made. This sacrafice just didn't scream enough... The woman looked around the room, eyeing the patrons with an almost obvious derison. Vichante gathered himself up, drawing back into himself, and her inital inspection missed him. Having sounded out the potential threat, she returned to her drink. He could see the muscles slowly relax, the wiresprung body slowly uncoiling. He could almost see the pulse in her necks slow. Vichante knew a lot about the way people worked. It was part of the reason he was what he was. Because he didn't work, and all his life he had had that impressed upon him. Vichante, absorbed in his study, let the haze around him slip slightly, coming back into physical focus. The woman looked around a second or so later, her eyes coming almost immediately to rest upon him. She met his gaze calmly, a questioning eyebrow raised. A dark wyrm chose that moment to crawl out of his pupils. She started, but didn't seem scared. A unique one this creature, very unique. A possible interesting. A possible hinderance. Maybe even a possible threat. Vichante's hand absently rubbed the wellworn haft of his heavy chain mace. Mentally, darker corners of his mind started to awaken. If neccessity arose, not a threat for long. Dhirak's will for this place would not be so easily thwarted.[/font][/color][/I]

[font=gothic][color=crimson][I]Rali loped along beside the horse, his long stride easily keeping pace for now. He cast the occasional glance at the rider, as one or another random thoughts struck his mind. Mainly something along the lines of scientific interest. And confusion. Firstly, this rider, whoever they were, had spoken, and in his language. Secondly, they hadn't been outrightly hostile. Something a denizen of the Elcrinth Way was less than familar with... He brooded over that for a while, and decided to take the easier option first.[/I] Rali: When did you enter the Elcrinth Way? And how did you survive? Lethe: Hmmm? Rali: How otherwise do you speak our language. I am the seventh member of my race to reach the surface, and I've stayed longer than any other. And that was years ago. Long before any now alive were born, if I am any judge of you surface dweller's mentality. [I]Lethe gave a soft laugh, but didn't reply. More than used to silence, Rali made no prompt, and let the matter rest. He took another glance at the map. The dots appeared to be chasing each other. He sighed. Again. These surface dwellers had the strangest senses of humour.[/font][/color][/I]

[font=gothic][color=crimson]OOC: You made me make the thread, so you can just live with whatever jumps out of my head...Apologies in advance Just another random note: If you aren't the Harlequin or Raiha, then you'd better have a damn good reason for posting here. If you are the Harlequin, please PM me and tell me what the hell is going on... IC: [I]The wind seemed to determined to get inside. The inn shook slightly with the thunder, flashed in and out of darkness with the lightning, and rattled under the pounding rain. The wind however, it gave no purchase, no matter its insistence. The patrons huddled into their cloaks in the glum knowledge that the crotchety old inn would eventually lose the battle, and were making sure the inital onslaught was not the one that vanquished them. The fire tried to reassure them, tried to boast of its own virility and strength, but with its quavering, puttering spurts of flames, it wasn't fooling anyone. The innkeeper had given up tryin to attract people into actually drinking anything. Many of them, sitting motionless for hours, were still holding their first tankard, untouched. Not even tasted. But sitting there, without one, had seemed wrong, and they wanted the comfort of the familiar, well worn grip of the handle, so all had bought one. The inn, you see, was the warmest place in the village. And on Bitternight, in the middle of Winter, when the cold could well kill, being in the warmest place in the village was scant, perhaps even cold, comfort. Pun unintended. The village itself, placed as it was in the foothills of Mount Rabashii, was surrounded by dire conditions as a given. The foothills faded quickly, breaking into the Serpent's Sands, an almost impassable desert. A freak valley on their eastern side, sloping back into to the mountain that sometimes sheltered, sometimes broke, them was home to lush vegetation. Caught between three climates that should not be able to coexist, the village of Weirat was a place of extremes. Which was why Vicante Amphrael sat, alone, on the upper floor of the inn, perusing over a typically dusty tome, his eyes narrowing slightly when the text's crazed author had the teremity, the outright audacity, to disagree with him. Which was quite often. But Vichante lived in eternal hope. Hope of darkness. Hope of retribution. Hope of decay, destruction, death. Hope, ultimately, of oblivion. His patron, Dhirak, was the embodiment of that hope. Dhirak, god, or perhaps demon, of Corruption. Dhirak, the Soul Fire. Dhirak, the Lost. Dhirak, the Despoiler. Dhirak. A Prince of the Abyss risen, no elevated, to godhood, by the sins and festering evil inherent in mortals. Dhirak. The god that Vichante Amphrael was a cleric to. He was an intermediary, a messanger. A harbringer. Which is why, as Vichante sat reading, when the tome told him the Dhirak had been contained by the Host, that deluded pantheon of gods and goddesses that sheltered mortals from their own well deserved destruction, Vichante could do nothing but laugh. His harsh, almost racking mirth fled quickly, replaced with an inhuman emptiness that few ever acquired. Few were so blessed with waking oblivion. He lay the tome aside, the pages sending a small duststorm scurrying to the safety of an inanimate, sedentary, object. He stood up slowly, his chilled muscles feeling the burn as blood started cycling faster. Very quickly, the cold was gone. The other villagers might have envied him, had the price not been so severe. Outwardly, Vichante cut a figure. An imposing one. Not from any physical size or strength, but through a sheer measure of leashed force. Vichante as two inches over six foot, and nearly a third that across the shoulders. His waist was narrow, his torso defined without being bulky. In fact, his ribs showed through in many places. His arms and legs were muscular, but the muscles hid themselves until required, a wiry strength that was easy to underestimate. He was a large skeleton, that had not fufilled its potential for physical prowess. The well made, and oft-used chain mace at his side spoke different. As did the lithe grace with which he moved. As did his cultured, yet chilling voice. As did his touched eyes. His face was grey. Many thought it an affectation, along the lines of a rouged noble. His face was naturally grey, the hollows of his eyes and his lips darkened to black. The eyes themselves were nightmarish. At first they seemed quite normal, even if slightly too white to be normal. Pale blue irises, normal pupil, slightly dilated. Nothing unusual. If one watched for a while though, a small black line crawled out of the pupil, snaking its way, like a leech, across the iris, out over the white, before fading into it. The line writhed. Like it was in pain. Like it sought escape from whatever hell existed in Vichante's head, and was pulled back through its only medium of escape. Another natural sign. A sign that marked him out as one apart. His hair, raven black and strangely silky, fell down around his face in a thick mass, almost feminine in appearance. The only hint of softness about him. Vichante interlocked his fingers and stretched to his full height, until his joints popped. The wind howled outside his window again, as it did every other window in the village. All sorts of strangers inhabited this disparate place, outcasts from normal society. All survivors of something. Many came broken, many came bent. Living in a fosaken place like Weirat, optimism, innocence, never lasted long. But then, few who came were ever innocent. But even from people like this, the scum of civilisation, Vichante had to hide his real purpose. A sense of honour permeated this place. A sense of defiance. Weirat's inhabitants had eked out the harshest existence imaginable, and were more than willing to defend it from any threat, whether raging desert nomads, the civilised kingdoms to the west and south, or a cleric of the infernal in the upper rooms of their only inn...[/font][/color][/I]

[font=gothic][color=crimson]I'm sure he will. Everyone else won't though... Apparently, its less alcoholic than breast milk in some cases...[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=crimson]Yeah, its basically pychic powers, direct mental manipulation, as opposed to magic. That basically the only important difference, application differs only a little, and then only in certain schools.[/font][/color]

[font=gothic][color=crimson]I'd just like to point out that there are also several "higher" organisms that haven't evolved over millions of years. A lot of your insect eating animals, anteaters, those crazy things beginning with P that I can't pronounce, much less spell, and a few species of insect hunting bats. They don't need to evolve, so they didn't. But yeah, the Israel Palestine issue was based on religion. It transcends that now.[/font][/color]