He was no stranger to the world ending. Nor the difficulties that came with 'banding together'. Still, he had been doing what he could for his own part, with his own professional standing on the island, currently. It had...Somewhat worked. He did not find he was the best at recruiting people to a cause, even if those, once recruited, would have no issues following his lead.

And after days of recruitment, he allowed himself to worry after Steven once more. A message was sent while his back was turned:

[text] I will meet you shortly.

Before he continued on his way. It was already dusk, and Steven shouldn't have left just yet while still giving the man more freedom shortly. Moving into an alleyway, the encroaching darkness obfuscates the purple haze coming off the person walking toward him, but it can hardly obfuscate the familiar silhouette approaching-

...

...

The fight that occurred is at minimum, bloody. The damage to the buildings nearby was not destructive, but indicated combat in a closed space between two strong figures.

Only a single hulking figure remains at the end, drenched in red. The smell would be enough to entice any Unholy with a penchant or appetite for blood would be drawn for miles.

And yet the man in holy garb does not move further from the spot, standing still.

@scarrfaze

★ --;; The garden is quiet.

It's getting later in the evening, anyway, the general sounds of footsteps on the nearby road fading as the throngs that traipsed its newly-softened surface thin into a slow trickle, the sun giving dominion to its counterpart. It's easier on Vash's eyes this way, still hidden behind tinted glass, so much more sensitive now than they had been. It's not the smartest of judgements, being out reds and oranges fade to deep purple in the sky-- not with the frightened whispers he'd been picking up from passerby, nor with the eerie flames hovering off in the distance.

Lantern sitting off to the side, Vash sits cross-legged in the grass, nose buried in the tome on his lap. Much trial and error had been had when creating the ward around the house, the gentle dotting of mushrooms giving it a wide circumference far more challenging to conjure than he'd thought they would be-- more than a few of his eyebrow hairs having payed the price for his hubris.

The ward's not strong enough now though. At least, not compared to what Vash wants for it. For now, it serves as more of a one-way mirror than anything; sound and light fail to escape it, leaving any curious eyes that didn't already know what they were looking for with nothing but another grove of trees to grace their sights. It needs to be stronger, if it's going to keep anyone else safe. Despite his own ignoring of fearful whispering, he's bound and determined to figure out a way to keep more people safe within his hand-crafted borders. There's got to be a way to fortify things somewhere in here, surely.

Soft footfalls of boots against grass, the complete absence of light in their wake, don't register above the sound of leaves rustling in the evening wind, above the intensity of his focus. Not until it's in range, at least; until wild blue eyes whip around to meet their mirror. The tome lies forgotten on the ground, and the sound of bodies crashing into flower bushes remains muffled behind invisible curtains.

@punishercross

"Look, all I'm saying is that if you see a 'me' walking around menacingly or whatever, just, uh. Either destroy that me or go another direction entirely, okay?"

For someone with all the current speed, strength, and raw intimidation of a restless ghost, Anda's fantastical form sure did look stressed! As if to accentuate, there are small rocks kicking up all around them, and the empath switches radically between being corporeal and not.

"It's freaky, okay!? First there's a bunch of fighting and now we have other copies of us running around? I don't like to fight anyway, maybe defeating the shadow Anda will be super easy."

...If it's that easy, why stress about it.

@hellslight

The inability to speak beyond a whisper dampens even the best attempts at making a point. Miriam is a bit stuck here, troubled by a persistent individual who seems well misinformed on her own ability. The bandaging and her scratching voice have to do with a good deal of it, and she finds herself growing more and more frustrated as her hushed argument continues with someone she does not know. 

“Damn it!” At her wits end, Miriam’s voice grows a touch louder, a squeak the most she can do as her hand slams against her leg. “Don’t you fucking get it. I am a god. Not a plant. So you can bug right off with all of that before I show you how god-like I can be. Leave your bullshit out of it.” 

Her powers flash, a semi-intentional effort to prove her point. Spines and flowers, and the haze of neurotoxin that her flowers seem to generate at times. The stranger does no more than cough and sputter, Miriam on her toes to try and pull herself taller, despite being a near foot shorter. Thankfully, they skitter off, and she’s left with both the oleanders, and these new flowers, yellow and with no form found in a book. Something new.

“Does anyone else want to have this argument?” She rasps that bit out, a hand on her hip and the other waving away poison. A less than human stranger gets a raised brow. “Or are we done with that?” 

@ferroics

Tatsumaki moved through the air with ease, doing her best to destroy any creature that attempted to fly as she was in order to cause trouble. While she could not stop the out-pouring of monsters that hailed from the sky, she could do her best to remove as many of them as she could. What was left would slip through to the people fighting below, and though Tatsumaki was hardly the type to help others, she supposed it was her duty as a hero to lighten the load for those working hard beneath her.

However, upon swooping down in order to better assess the situation below her, Tatsumaki had not expected to see a young man flying through the air. The two of them almost collided, and she paused in mid-air in shock. A red-headed boy, she noted, one that was strong enough to jump higher than a normal human. That was reckless, and more importantly, he had nearly gotten in her way. She watched him land on his feet, but she was already annoyed with his behavior, and could not allow him to get away without an earful.

“You there, you brat!”

“Watch where you’re jumping around! Don’t get in my way again!”

@swordette

       “ you shouldn’t be here. ” 

        it came out of their throat as a gravelly hiss; a voice that wasn’t their own and never would be. their voice was usually monotone and more calm than they actually were, this mockery of their voice was just... menacing. aggressive. it made a word of caution sound like a threat, no doubt bolstered by their hideous appearance. murderbot had never been vain, they hadn’t really given much thought to their appearance since they preferred to hide the majority of themself under armor - but this? 

        --- this was like something out of a crummy fantasy-horror film on the entertainment feeds back home. they had no weapons, and without all their systems, they felt more isolated than ever. at least in the city before...all of this, they’d had their recordings of sanctuary moon to comfort them.

        but ... even murderbot had a hard time taking their distress out on a child - who seemed equally as lost as they were, if not physically, then emotionally too. the pinpricks of gold light that were their ‘eyes’ briefly darted to look around the young human ( or, what they assumed was a human ) to check for any sign of hostile company. there were other monsters than them residing here, after all. “ ... are you alone? ” again, it sounded much harsher and menacing than they meant. “ you should go back to the city. ”

        “ there’s ‘monsters’ here. ” they added, a mixture of bitter and sarcastic.

name: roswell

age: babey

race: still an earth elemental! 

allegiance: xalphina

physical description: [ roswell looks the same, taken from my stats page ] at first glance, roswell would appear to be an exceedingly tall and wide person wearing a suit of armor. what might appear to be thick red blood seeps from their armor occasionally, when it is actually only red clay - the only material that makes up their ‘body’. on their shoulder, a small red bird ( vermillion flycatcher ) sits - acting as their voice and an extension of their body. if roswell is questioned on which one is being spoken to ( the bird or the figure in armor), roswell states that they don’t understand why there should be a distinction, as they see both the armored clay figure and the bird as their body and both work in tandem. 

roswell is large and heavy enough to make clanking sounds with every step they take, and are known for breaking ordinary chairs when sitting in them - to the point of having multiple broken chairs in their office. roswell also has a small deputy’s star and a western ‘cowboy’ style hat on their armored body, and an even smaller bandanna on the bird part of them. a faint, almost unnoticeable yellow glow emanates from their body, and perceptive magic-users are described as immediately getting the sense that roswell is extremely powerful.

magic: barrier, ice, blessing

weapons: a wooden spear

There’s something to be said for unassuming forms. Chuck had been hiding, curled up into herself and lurking in shadowy places. It was better this way, easier to conceal her too tall self among the low light. There was little finding her there, not unless you were specifically searching. However, someone, no one real, manages it, and the mist and the blurry form frightens her enough to cry out.

Granted, that shout of fright turns out to be a snarl that rips from her throat, a baring of teeth and a shriek without its normal venom tearing apart any decent sense of hearing. The mist flees, and she’s left trembling.

“S-Sorry. Is anyone there?”

@deceivior

The song of healing still rung through his head.  The faint echos reminding him of what it took for him to get to this point.  Shadow was past moping about it, but the thoughts still lingered in the back of his mind: the want to heal.  He forgot how long he’d been sitting in this tree, or if anyone else had joined him on the forest floor.  Shadow didn’t care to check.

As the night drew on, the omen looming over this continent was a constant reminder to the city’s residence their mission.  Shadow wouldn’t forget.  Not again.  The Unholy yawned softly, he figured he had wandered off on his own for long enough.  Maybe he should rejoin his friend, or even get some shuteye.

Shadow pushed himself off of the trunk, oh so gracefully landing gently in the grass.  His feet making a soft: tup!  When they touched the ground.  He was about to start walking but he felt someone watching him.  If this were an enemy, this would be easy, he thought.

Ready to draw his sword, Shadow turned himself around.  His smug expression turned into a more confused one when the moonbeams gave him a hint of who might be in front of him.

“Vio...?”  His voice rang quietly after a long moment of silence from both parties.  Shadow wasn’t sure if this was some trick, by goddesses, he hoped it was.  He wasn’t ready for this.  The different emotions had already started to well up in his gut, whether the person in front of him was really Vio or not.  Just the very thought that the other was in front of him was beginning to overwhelm him, to say the least.

@ombraventi

Finally, Octavo thought, an arsenal of magical instruments was at his disposal.  With all of the strife going on, he looked crazy just plucking at strings.  But, as his song began, it was enough to put any surrounding enemies in a trance and confuse them.

He took a step back to pull his baton from his cummerbund, but bumped into someone.  Last he’d checked, no one had been behind him.  Octavo glanced, and what the conductor found was a now irate wind mage.

“If you’re going to just stand there and shoot the breeze.  May I suggest you go somewhere else?”  He wanted to mess with the mage, but ultimately knew that would get this no where.

“If you’ll excuse me, I have a show to put on.  My audience is captivated.”

A f(riend)ox in need!

@lackofoxxygen

Oh! He’s missed father’s day!

Gregg’s father was one of two sacks of garbage in the parental line. A shame. The fox sadly doesn’t have time to curse his parents out or he’d spend an hour doing so under his breath... or at the top of his lungs. Who’d stop him, really? Not a damn person, that’s who, he hardly know’s where he is! The forest bordering Xalphina, probably... he saw some flashy magical stuff earlier. That’s enough to convince him of his whereabouts for now, at least. He’s been searching the forests for dry leaves he can bundle up into sacks he totally got legally.

These past few days have gone well! He’s been ignoring the voice that sounds all too close to Angus for his liking. Chances are obtaining the lamp oil is going to be... twice as hard though. He doesn’t have the dust for it and that leads to only ONE suggestion.

Gregg is gonna fucking steal it obviously he still hasn’t gotten word back on whether or not the weed he took to the queen was good. He’s definitely not going to resort to just stabbing the hand this time, that wasn’t good enough for protection - it felt small and ineffective. Fire, though... fire is always painful. The question is from who? Where? Which kingdom could have the most? How much is eno--

A rustle of leaves. A few twigs snap.

A fucking knife directly in his back.

He knows the blade, sharp - but still dull... it’s fucking wooden! The pain forces Gregg to reflex and slam his elbow directly into his assailants face. He turns to see just who the fucker is when he comes face to face... with his face. Made of purple mist and not a lot of details, but it’s impossible to miss the fact that he just got stabbed by himself. He’s got the knife in his back still, and now’s a good time as any to fucking hoof it. Adrenaline pumping and confusion dawning on him, he’s not taking anymore time to question anything; the fox knows he’s gotta get a fucking move on. Xalphina may have an issue with his kingdom but he doesn’t have a choice in this moment, all he can do is run for the nearest bit of civilization and hope to god anyone can help.

Here’s hoping that leather he’s got on didn’t let the blade slip in too deeply. Bleeding is already one worry, he can’t spare the time to think about what else might happen. If this is a show of what’s to come, he’ll get the oil immediately after this has blown over -- if he survives.

@existentialismee    ——  planned thread !

Unfiltered adrenaline spurs them on, courses fiercely through the veins of their unholy body while the battle continues to rage. The demonic dragons thrive, at home in combat and triumphant from the power again bestowed to them, for no longer are they useless, stripped wrongfully of their natural prowess. Such strength is befitting to them — THEY, the twin beasts whom humanity and monstrosity alike feared — and together they thrum with renewed energy, feeling closer to their prime since what has been far too long. It would not be wrong to name what fuels them as arrogance, but as they see it... where is any harm in that? A little fun is necessary every once in awhile, is it not? And if they can blow off some steam by assisting a dire cause, then truly can they be blamed? Of course not. Certainly Ashton, the one from which they borrow this form, won’t fault them for that. Right? Right. No problem. So with abandon they take down reaper after reaper, comfortable in being left to their own devices. But chance is an extraordinary thing indeed, and as fate would have it, the two encounter a familiar face in the chaos. They know this human — sufficiently well, in fact — though a meeting of this circumstance, for lack of a better term, is a first. He stands a short distance to their left, seemingly unaware of their presence, while onto him one of those wicked creatures advances. It is uncertain which of the two entities reacts first, but instinct sends them leaping forward, and then —— Shwing! Duel blades catch its imminent strike by the claw, consequent to pushing it back. The fiend staggers in momentary confusion, and this familiar silhouette, the body that bears wyvern's curse on his shoulders, takes battle stance between them. “ You. The human called ‘Watanuki.’ ”    Crimson and cobalt eyes glance over shoulder to look upon him, aglow in a way that is unmistakably supernatural. The face that belongs not to them grins, flashing a set of razor sharp canines that would be otherwise absent.   “ Shall we handle this together? ”

fantasia war info!! ( .... 2!!)

art under the cut!

'roo didn't you already make this post' yeah im changing it 'we're several weeks into the event' shhh. shuh.

anyway reworking vash into being faekin, specifically he looks kinda like a moth! he's pretty benevolent for a fae-- he'll only sometimes pull a few light hearted pranks ... !! however, he still very much lives in what is currently yela alora, so there are often mean/questioning looks being thrown his way-- though it's nothing he's not used to already! he cans till very much be found sticking his nose where it doesn't belong in other people's business in some attempt at being helpful, but it's even more up in the air than usual if they'll actually accept any of his help.

as usual, vash continues to be stressed about other folks fighting all the time and will most likely constantly be sticking his nose in places where it most certainly doesn’t belong in an attempt to quell any sort of nastiness. even though he lives in what is now yela alora, you’ll most definitely catch him snooping in other kingdoms, regardless of the lack of warm welcome he might receive [it’s not like he’s not used to it anyway…!!]

he still has his guns– both the Colt and the one in his prosthetic arm, but as a fae is largely going to rely on magic.

although all magic currently listed is available, i think he’ll be more capable using it in a more support class role and primarily using his usual fare for more dps. things like awaken, paralysis, sleep, charm, and levitate [ this would be flight but. well. his wing. ] are more his style, though i think he would also be particularly adept at blessing as an offense. others are possible, but he’s not very good at them. [although i do have some ideas for healing spell usage. hehe.]

as usual, vash continues to be stressed about other folks fighting all the time and will most likely constantly be sticking his nose in places where it most certainly doesn’t belong in an attempt to quell any sort of nastiness. even though he lives in what is now yela alora, you’ll most definitely catch him snooping in other kingdoms, regardless of the lack of warm welcome he might receive [it’s not like he’s not used to it anyway…!!]

And I repeat: Why did things keep going to shit immediately after Travis made a leap in his character development? Sure, both the man in question and yours truly knew that it was almost 100% mere meta-coincidence (and a hilarious one, in my opinion). The mods couldn’t be doing this on purpose, right? But at the same time, Travis couldn’t shake the feeling of being downright cursed. Not like it would be the first time writers conspired against him... 

Eh, whatever. What happened happened, and things were definitely happening. 

A familiar, otherworldly voice warning him (and everyone else from Spirale) to band together for the rematch with the Beast (or, as it was now called, the Demon Lord). An army of shadowy copies - “Mist Walkers/Reapers,” the NPCs called them. Mindless, merciless mirrors of the roleplay cast, intent on merging with the originals, wiping their memories and souls, and assimilating them into this Fantasia-land proper. 

Oh, and killing anyone else who tried to get in the Reaper’s way. 

Travis knew everything would turn out alright. Of course, it would. This time, anyways. But even so, this was serious business. Very serious. Rosa had needed to step out of the medieval apartment - “To get supplies,” she’d said, but they both knew it was to find a remote place to smoke, to pretend that things were normal for even a second. And Travis couldn’t blame her for the anxiety. He, himself, couldn’t find it in himself to lower his guard; Even for a moment, even as the draconic assassin lounged in an antique armchair, petting Jeane, rambling about nothing to no one. 

He had this. But- 

It all took a minute. 

The front door flew off its hinges, drop-kicked through the air by a purple-trailing manifestation of Travis Touchdown, circa No More Heroes 2. Without mercy, without a moment of hesitation, the Mist Walker then springboarded directly towards our hero, Rose Nasty already ignited - already swinging. In desperate response, after a nanosecond of shock, our Travis threw Jeane off his lap (she’d be fine), leaned back, unleashed his own beam katanas to block. 

The clash, if it’d been caught on film, would’ve lasted a single frame. In less than an instant, Travis was hitting the floor rolling (both in reflex and pain), the back of his neck was spewing blood from an attempted decapitation, and the Mist Walker was already rushing through the destroyed armchair for a follow-up stab. 

The results of a Dark Step, at their finest. The potential of Travis Touchdown, when nothing held him back from the will to kill. Not even the thrill of a fight. In hindsight, this silent Reaper was nothing more than a player-controlled avatar. A fitting challenge for a man who’d just realized he didn’t have to be the protagonist, anymore, wouldn’t you say? 

Travis wouldn’t say. He couldn’t say; Couldn’t speak. Too busy fighting for his life and soul. 

It was truly a dance of death, imperceptible to even the most well-trained eye. With every strike, a deflection. With every deflection, a counterstrike. Rinse. Repeat. Throw in a crushing hand-to-hand blow, every now and then. Use Dark steps sparingly, as they were limited in number. 

The very setting was indirectly being sliced apart and set ablaze by the speed/power of the combatants, by the heat of their beam katanas. (Jeane was still fine.) It should have been a battle of equals, in every way. Same stats, same skills, same primary weaponry. But our Travis had a different body; Wings and a tail that he still didn’t fully know how to control - or, rather, how to protect. And once both Rose Nasty sets happened to simultaneously ran out of battery? Once Travis was dropping his pair, reaching for the Nightmare Knight’s gifted scabbard, swinging forward, thinking he had this in the bag? 

He soon discovered the Mist Walker had the more reliable sword in reserve.  

The Blood Berry. 

Travis didn’t succumb to a moment of sentimental weakness (out of remembrance for his iconic weapon), or anything like that. The scabbard, the Nightshade, was simply too slow in materializing its fog, in forming a full blade. If it’d been faster, maybe it could’ve caught the Mist Walker’s head before “he” ducked under and around, swung upwards.

But that’s not how the story went. 

Half of a dragon’s wing flew through the air. Pain seized control of Travis Touchdown, just long enough for his copy to transition into a two-handed chop. The beam of light came down like a guillotine… and a left hand was promptly dismembered. Blood everywhere - pain everywhere. Travis could barely perceive his clone winding up the finisher, as he himself fell to his knees. 

The fight was over, in the blink of an eye. 

The fight was over, in an open-mouthed scream. One that unleashed a thin, Godzilla-inspired blast of ice magic, precisely aimed at the Mist Walker’s hands. The impact lasted an instant. Light filled the room like a flashbang. And once it died back down? 

Travis knew he’d won. 

Allow me to explain, now that the action’s finally taken a pause. 

A final burst of heroic willpower (something Travis had that his adversary didn’t) had taken over. He’d just finally accepted who he was, and this motherfucker thought it could make him forget all of that? No way. No chance! 

But will alone wouldn’t have saved the day. Not with two powerless beam katanas by his feet, and an enchanted scabbard gripped by a disembodied hand. But that’s where the key advantage came in: the (temporary) magical prowess that this clone could have never seen coming. 

And even if it had one last Dark Step enabled, and was able to get it off? As long as the ice beam scored its mark, and the deep freeze took hold, it was checkmate. The burning heat of the beam katana (as well as the fire spreading around them) would wind up melting the ice, sure. 

But melted ice was water. 

And water made beam katanas short out. 

Back to the fight. 

Travis, shaking, gritting his teeth, still managed to stand to his feet, grab a Rose Nasty hilt off the floor. He still managed to turn to his Mist Walker, gripped in the paralysis of electrocution. And he still managed to charge his beam katana’s battery, charge its power to the max...

And swing. Again, and again, and again, and again- Yelling, screaming in wrath, pain, and triumph. 

It was over in a minute. 

The Mist Walker (and its copy of the Blood Berry) dissipated, hacked into un-bleeding pieces. And as for Travis Touchdown? He collapsed, curled up on the ruined floor, adrenaline giving out to shuddering and cursing. If he heard the concerned mewls of Jeane, or noticed the arrival/first-aid-attention of Rosa (“I leave you alone for five minutes-”)?

He gave no indication. 

Everything would turn out alright. But goddamn, if it wouldn’t suck, beforehand.

She’s been eyeing the tree for some time, sitting some distance from it and every so often, whispering to the plant like it might have something to say to her. It’s an odd sight, a person talking to a try like she’s having some sort of cathartic conversation. Though, perhaps being a plant person makes it just a little less weird. 

“There’s something wrong with this place,” she mutters that much, wrist deep in the soil. “Something just, wrong on the smallest level. Like this place is rejecting something inside itself.” 

Maybe it’s just the anxiety of something coming. 

Flying well above ground level, the small woman wove in and out of the dense greenery that the forests’ trees were adorned with. It was easy for her maneuver around such a complicated space, despite her currently agitated state.

“You scum!”

Tatsumaki had been shouting for several minutes now, her tone sharpening as she verbally lashed out at her opponent. While she could not easily see them due to the cover of night and added darkness that the forest created, Tatsumaki was able to get a sense of where that person was hiding. Their few assaults assisted her in pinning them down, as well.

Whoever this stranger was, the hero had little desire to let them roam freely throughout the forest. They were causing trouble in the forest, on top of attacking her, and she could not allow either to continue. As angry as she had become, she did not even want to force this person out of her territory, but rather catch and punish them as she saw fit. They would simply receive what they deserved, that was how Tatsumaki saw the situation.

The sound of rustling in the underbrush caught her immediate attention and Tatsumaki paused in mid-air. A swipe of her hand was all that was necessary for her to cast a spell in the sound’s direction. Poison, she thought, fitting for a snake hiding in the grass.

Confidant that she had hit her target, Tatsumaki lowered herself a few feet. She only had a few minutes longer until she could no longer utilize her telekinesis in order to fly, but, she believed that she would not need much longer in order to deal with her opponent.

“Come out already, you coward!”