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Lightsnowe

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About Lightsnowe

  • Rank
    The Sloth
  • Birthday 04/28/1988

RP Related

  • Main Character
    Rhode Lightsnowe
  • Server
    Jenova
  • Time zone
    UTC-5

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  1. Disorganized, undisciplined. A hierarchy determined by age at its heights, and strength down in its dregs. Asimenios' knowledge of the fishmans and what desperate acts of vandalism sufficed for their culture was scant and unreliable, but it didn't take an Inquisitor to observe the small interactions. Elders pontificated and stroked their tentacle beards, making a grand show of aged consideration. The younger ones watched this display with open greed, hungry for the long-off and probably unlikely day they too would make big fish choices for the school. I do not know you, fish-folk.
  2. Owl and Kit did their best statue impressions, while the boss took his time. Giving the pink-haired cyclops the once-twice over. If he was impressed by her audacity, it didn't show. The chilly impatience of her stare lost much of its sting in the presence of his tranquil gaze, like an icicle melting away before its sharp length could pierce the unsuspecting skulls below. An apt metaphor; left to its own devices this particular little sliver of frozen nature would undoubtedly stab somebody, for fun or profit who is to say. Inquisitor Bloodwing was if nothing else pragmatic. The other members of
  3. 'Hng,' the noble Au'ra had delivered in response to his companion's awakening. Followed soon by a clever 'Mmmmmngggh'. Truly a paragon of silver-tongued repartee, Asimenios rumbled like a displeased cavern. He'd slept sitting upright, for the few hours he'd managed. He was slumped when D'hez got to him, though in those vulnerable and blurry pre-wakened moments time moved oddly. By the time Asime had -actually- woken up, or at least approximated coherency, the bard and his lovely birb had already taken to the trail. Luckily, he didn't catch D'hezrel's devastatingly awful pun, else the morning m
  4. They moved in on her then. Abruptly, silently. One from across the bustling pub, winding like a displaced shadow between passing patrons. The other from behind a support column, drifting like morning mist. Forgettable, and forgotten. In an instant they were upon her, one blink and the vacant spaces at her little table filled with two unwelcome occupants. Two chairs shrieked as they were drawn, two figures clanked upon them. They were nearly identical, grey and a dull hunter green swathes of cloth and scarf-like ornamentation coiled around coal black chain. The plates of armor cover
  5. ‘Never say never,’ Papa always told me. ‘Never becomes again. And you’ll soon be stuck saying, I hope that doesn’t happen again!’ That was Papa for you. Unfathomable. Dropping one last kernel of wisdom before disappearing forever. It was his last, greatest mystery. Left behind for me to unravel and puzzle over and even now I can’t make sense of it. Something to do with accepting anything as possible, no matter how outlandish. The notion had some sense about it, touched by the warm wisdom I remember him by. Still. There were some things I swore I’d never see, or do, or f
  6. The woodlands were not his domain. The further D’hezrel guided him, the more clear that became. One passing shrub was for all intents no different than any other, an entire congregation of looming trees indistinguishable from one another to Asime’s untrained eye. Which is not to say the morose fighter disliked the forest. Quite the opposite, in fact. There was a gravity to its silence he could appreciate. Everything in its proper place, each twig or piney needle serving some specific purpose, though their intricacies escaped him. The woods were a fine reprieve from the meaningless noise of the
  7. They were just three voyagers, ambling along the winding road. D’hez took point, and good thing too as Asimenios Dies’Irae would have marched them right back to the inn from which they’d departed. The stoic fighter had a sense of direction, but only just a sense. He could navigate his way out of a blanket, perhaps. Or a paper box, provided the walls could be punched through. He’d lapsed into a comfortable, companionable hush as the miles marched by. Layla’s crunching footsteps, guided by powerful avian legs, metered out a steady drumbeat. D’hezrel busied himself with the mysterious
  8. Little drifting ribbons of smoke twisted and coiled in the air, brushed away by the delicate broom of a small maiden of a breeze. The occasional leaf plucked itself from above, came spirally down in lazy circles before coming to rest on the forest’s floor. Asimenios stared a withering hole through D’hezrel, his jaw slackened and his scaled brows taut. It was a miserable tale. The frequency of its like in these ages made it no easier to swallow. Vivid of imagination, the Au’ra could see the blood pooling on that favored inn’s floors, feel the sharp prick of the cold knife against th
  9. Gradually, steadily, he got his lungs back. The heaving and huffing diminished to a more nasley sniff, the great rise and fall of his powerful chest easing down as to be imperceptible. In not so many words, Asimenios designated this a proper time for a brief respite. Prying fingers probed his sturdy travel pack for something particular, and eventually plucked out an exquisitely carved pipe. A little baggie materialized from somewhere, Asime pinched out a generous heap of greenish hue and was soon exhaling a thin streamer of smoke from between unhappy, pursed lips. He regarded D’hez
  10. 'Oh good, you've made it,' Asime snarked, twisting underneath a devastatingly wide club-swing. 'I've got this fiend on its last legs, but figured you wanted the last hit.' In truth, heaving and bleeding from a handful of minor scrapes, the Au'ra was not faring well at all. He found even his finely honed stamina was threatening to deplete. A chilly numb was spreading from heart to limbs, and his chest couldn't seem to hold its air with any rhythm or steadiness. He'd been worn out before, he'd experienced what it was to be exhausted but still require the steely will to stand and figh
  11. 'Ex-cellent shot man,' Asimenios exclaimed with an enthusiastic fist pump. 'Two points, House Saephica!' He mimed the efforts of some excited referee, awarding accolades and praise to the rightful champion. Even so far as to cup hands over his scowling lips to mimic the approving hiss of a distant, cheering crowd. The Au'ra seemed pleased with himself. It must have been the adrenaline. More creatures announced by burbling guttural sounds emerged, were summarily put down. Asimenios wavered in uncharacteristic hesitation. Displaying an uncanny amount of insight, D'hez assured him he
  12. Established stories are usually off-limits, but in terms of what COULD happen anything goes. I remember the WoW community being -very- strict on what is and isn't permitted by DA RULES and they needed a constant reminder that gatekeeping went out the window the same day space goats came crashing down from space on their city/ship. Avoid being the love child of Y'shtola and Urianger, anything else is fair game. The stranger the better, if you can pull it off believably. Be an inter-dimensional wanderer, tossed from game to game, why the hell not. Just be interesting.
  13. The simple command to ready himself was the last attention Asimenios paid to his guide, diverting his full attention to the foreign creatures shambling in alarming numbers from the cover of the forest. Their movements were erratic and inefficient, and though guided by no obvious means of sight or sound they seemed drawn to the living. Having some small experience with the un-living, he presumed there may have been some greater hand controlling the small company of oozey hosts from elsewhere. His head turned this way and that, trying to assess some pattern to their movements that would betray t
  14. Moving out into the gently sloping pathways extending beyond the small pub, Asimenios shrugged his cloak against the coming afternoon chill. The movement of his concealed arms cast a pair of ripples through the thick material. Its frayed hem twisted and mangled, hanging just about the knee. He frowned thoughtfully up at the descending sun whilst D'hez delivered his own little self-pep talk. The youthful minstrel clearly eager to begin a new adventure, he was simply vibrating with enthusiasm. It was nearly contagious. When D'hezrel introduced Layla, the stoic noble foun
  15. Ah. Transparent, yes. But not without his own cleverness. ‘Low cunning’, isn’t that what you called it? How derisive. There is plenty of cunning in this one, and nothing low about it. Asime had affected a fond sort-of smile while D’hezrel attended to his appetite. An effortless wave of the hand dismissed the expected string of thanks bubbling forth from the bard. While Asimenios did not at all doubt his sincerity or gratitude, he could find no esteem in having merely provided what the kingdom should have provided some time ago: stability. No man aught be cast out to the
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