Rounds: 3
Time Limit: N/A
Word Limit: 800
Post Order: Sans --> Athena
Location: Resturaunt/Bar
Win Condition: Official Judge Ruling

Intro posts will not be part of judging.

Eurgh…

Why…

Why is it so dark? Man, I swear if I actually kicked the bucket this time, I’m all up and quitting. Like, donezo, that’s all she wrote. I ain’t gonna get back up if I keep getting knocked down.

Or should I? Man, I don’t remember how that dumb saying goes. I can’t really...think straight. It sure would be all kinds of motherfucking beneficial if I could actually, you know, see. I guess maybe I could try what worked last time. Ya’know, like, opening my eyes. If it ain’t broke, don’t er, break it. Yeah.

Man, whatever.

I flutter flap my eyes until the sleep is gone and I can see. I kinda wish that I couldn’t. I’m trapped in a hella small box of a room. The roof was hella low. Man, it might be eight by eight. MAYBE. Shit is hella cramped and I don’t like it one bit. On top of that shit, it’s STILL kinda dark in this bitch, even with my eyes all open for viewin’. I uh, I don’t do good in low light situations, man. Even though Alternia like, didn’t even have sun and we all lived underground. I don’t much like the darkness. Kinda makes me start seeing some motherfuckin’ things. Like, thing things. If that makes sense? Nah, probably doesn’t. That uh…That stuff, the slime. It made that better, sometimes. Couldn’t see the thingy things. Guess that’s another reason I was so, er, embroiled. With the stuff. The slime.

Look, I’m all up and trying to just distract my motherfuckin’ self. Brainstormin’ so hard about all this messed up mess cain’t end good.

A billow of fog escapes from my piehole. Heh. I don’t know where I ended up, but it’s cold. Miraculous though. I kick back against the stonely wall. Shit is cold. And...Sticky? This wack-ass wall is sticky as hell.

“Bleh!”

I push off of the... thing that supports the ceiling. Yeah, the wall. That. I hope none of that sticky shit got on my honk-ass shirt. A little apprehensively, I drag my pointer finger all up and down the wall. I feel some kinda biznasty residue stick-stuff coat my gray finger. Also a little apprehensively, I wave my finger in front of my nose, catchin’ a little sniffsie.

Wh-

That acrid, yet bitter-sweet smell.

It is in this moment that I notice this disgustingly addictive smell assault my nose from all directions. It’s fillin’ this room it’s all around I can’t even think dude it’s motherfucking all over the damn place I’m just now recognizing it. I catch a twitch in my left eye. I catch my bottom lip in between my teeth. I start to catch. Just, catch. I’ll be catchin’ death in second if I don’t get my junky ass out of this motherfucking room.

Without a second thought but with a terrified yell, I slam my shoulder into the opposite wall. There ain’t no door there, there ain’t no door anywhere in this boxed hell. I don’t think there are any doors out of any hell in the first place. No escape. I can’t escape this shit, Not even by going to another universe. This green demon is going to follow me until the day I motherfucking croak. But I’ll be damned if that stops me. I bang on all four walls until my shoulders, my fists, my feet, my head, my entire body is throbbing.

And then I stop for a minute. And then I notice something. And then I can’t deal with it.

I’m standing about ankle deep in a viscous green slop sort of sludge. It’s so bright green it practically glows in the low-light. But man all those words is good words: green, bright, glows. This shit ain’t good, this is slime this ain’t good. I get even more out of it. Even though I’m absoposilutely my hands and my arms and my head are all already banged up and bruised and battered, I keep banging, I keep trying to bash down a door that ain’t even there.

This shit is-

The slime it’s fucking filling up this motherfucking room I can’t-

It’s at my waist it’s-

Them tears are coming now. I don’t want this, I don’t I don’t I don’t. Where am I, dude? Where’s Adam? Where’s Kar-Bro? I got this nasty, evil shit all over my hands and my fingers and I don’t want it I don’t. I’m banging my stupid head against a wall now. Hard. I can’t use my hands, they’ve already been tainted by that sickly, demonic shit. Maybe if I hit my head hard enough against the wall, one of them will crack. If the wall cracks, then the slime will leak out and I’ll be okay, I can find a way out of here and I can find Karkat and we’ll be okay. Maybe my head will bust open. Hell, slime will probably leak out of that too. Might hurry up the process. Might make this a little less excruciating. Maybe other things will crawl out of the crack in my skull. Maybe the things I was thinking about. Maybe I’ll fall into the crack and never climb out. Maybe it’ll just fucking keep my thoughts the hell away from me.

At one point, my head does bust open, a smattering of violet, fruity smelling blood giving me some more face paint. Can’t tell the blood from the tears. Not that it matters. It’ll just be all up and swallowed up by the Sopor in a couple more minutes. Swallowed up and devoured and never seen from again. Lost in that endless, abyssal, verdant sea.

It’s at my neck now. Everything hurts. I can feel that poison shit seeping into the cuts and bruises on my body. It burns like acid. But at the same time, it feels so good. It soothes. It comforts. It keeps me calm and clear, but muddled and frustrated at the same time. I hate it. I love it.

I lift my head as high I can. I gotta keep my face above this nasty shit. I got to. But at the same time my mouth is so dry, it’s aching for just a taste, just a sip, just a slurp. I can’t let it swallow me. I can’t, I won’t I-

Green. All I can see is Green.

Character name:

Aadibah

Character source:

Original

Character history:

Abstract

Aadibah is born in the year 2000 to a Muslim family in the United Arab Emirates, advances in STEM education and practically skips high school. Joins the UAE airforce at almost 19 years old, and is stationed around the middle east and even Mediterranean as only a mechanic for a few years before the city of Beirut, Lebanon is assaulted by Syrian forces and she sees combat for the first time. Word by email to an officer explains that the UAE itself has been invaded, and the garrison flies back to assist. Upon arriving, all of the country except for the city of Al Ain has been taken by an unknown entity. Upon landing, the remaining UAE military explains that they suspect the Chinese and Russians are involved. An armor and infantry convoy with civilians moves out to Saham, where the air fleet lands and explains to the local Omani garrison that Russia and China are invading. It is here that a Russian aircraft carrier attempts to lay siege to the city, but is taken by Aadibah’s troops. The combined Omani and UAE troops move further inland to the capitol of Muscat, holding up there. At some point an American fleet comes in from the East, unable to return home through the Pacific due to a Chinese blockade. They bring reports of the outbreak of World War III, and request fuel and supplies, but are denied. A deal is struck for them to help defend the city against an inevitable invasion. About a month later, the invasion comes, with combined Russian and Chinese Navy and ground infantry and armor. The city is successfully defended, but the trio of military forces is forced to move inland, abandoning their fleet and rigging them to blow. The force moves further and further inland, eventually campaigning against and defeating Syria and taking down Assad. It is at this point that no one can doubt Aadibah as the leader of a new war effort. After defeating Assad’s forces at Jordan and Israel, but before the invasion of Syria itself. Aadibah also successfully unites the Sunni and Shiite tribes, and forms a new, peaceful Islamic state after taking Syria, spanning the Arabian Peninsula. For the next year, she continues fighting encroaching Russian forces in the middle east, at some point being shot down while flying near Iran, and suddenly waking up to a being that calls itself “Omni”.
During all of this, however, Aadibah was incredibly reliant on the development and use of a power suit design that she created. During her defense of the Omani cities she initially developed a power arm and eventual skeleton that enhanced the user’s speed and strength by detecting and taking on work load and making it bearable for the user. Throughout Aadibah’s military career she continued to improve upon and build multiple suits which utilized specialized equipment for certain situations, though her initial skeletal design was her default suit for combat. Before her disappearance near the Iranian border, she was able to create a full-body armor that was powered by a miniature nuclear reactor, wielding nuclear weaponry and having its own propulsion systems. As her most advanced design yet, she code named the suit “Gabriel” and was only able to deploy it once.

Physical Description: (originals only)

Modelled off this woman: <!-- m --><a class="postlink" href="http://photography.nationalgeographic.com/staticfiles/NGS/Shared/StaticFiles/Photography/Images/Content/afghan-girl-portrait-article-phot-127438-in.jpg">http://photography.nationalgeographic.c ... 438-in.jpg</a><!-- m -->

Except hair is kept cut short at neck length, and left (her left) front tooth is chipped. Has a scar running from collar bone, up the neck, ending at her left ear.
Came into the Omniverse wearing old and worn out military fatigues, sand brown keffiyeh around her neck, typical modern helmet with fish netting holding notes with prayers written on them. Her boots are wrapped in duck tape and stitched together. Olive drab cargo pants and jacket have numerous holes and burns, jacket is almost always zipped up. Only has a dirty olive drab short sleeved shirt over white tank top underneath jacket. Sleeves of jacket are typically rolled up. Has elbow and knee pads and shin guards made of tough artificial leather. Usually wears a sand brown ammunition vest over her jacket, along with a military backpack. Dirty brown gloves with the fingers cut off, and thick padding on the knuckles. She is incredibly physically fit, and can almost be described as “manly”. 5 foot 9 inches, roughly 200 pounds.
Concerning the power-suit, the typical exo-skeleton or "travelling suit" that Aadibah wears is compact enough to sit under neath her first layer of clothing.

Stats:

ATK: 4
DEF: 2
SPD: 3
TEC: 1

Starting Proficiencies:

Physical Strength, Ranged Proficiency. -2000 OM

Starting Powers:

Super Speed, Basic Super Jumping. -1300 OM

Starting Moves:

Stock AK-47 (-300 OM) -300 OM

AK-47

Quite literally just firing her AK-47 assault rifle. Always full-automatic. No attachments or modifications. Balances rate of fire with damage per round.

Tier 1 Super Move, Utility, “Emergency Depressurization”

Aadibah expels compressed and heated gasses from her pneumatic systems, creating an incredibly opaque cloud of gas in a radius of seven meters. Anyone with standard human-like vision will not be able to see anything past three meters, only silhouettes at two meters, and compete (but still fuzzy) vision at one meter. This effect on visibility lasts five minutes, and for 45 seconds after use Aadibah’s stats are halved while the suit re-pressurizes. Enhanced speed and strength are disabled during this time. (-600 OM)

Halved Stats

After expelling the pressure that allowed Aadibah’s suit to enhance her strength and speed, the suit no longer has the “fuel” necessary to do so. Its only capabilities until it can re-pressurize are eliminating its own weight.

Items

Communicator (-200 OM)
600 OM remaining.

I confirm that I have read and agreed to the Rules of Conduct.

I confirm that I, Aadibah, have read and agreed to Rules of Conduct on Omniverse RPG.

Where did you find us?

Browsing for a new roleplay site.

:yohoho:

Yo, so this is a totally optional, NON-MECHANICALLY ENFORCED, COMPLETELY OPTIONAL PARTICIPATION idea.

Basically, it's a PvP flag. It says, "I would prefer to," or "I would prefer NOT to" participate in random site PvP. This is NOT an excuse to bitch and whine if somebody attacks you, you're just letting people know your PREFERENCE so that they can choose whether or not to ignore it.

If you would like to participate in this project, know that if you're carrying Artefacts, you should automatically flag yourself GREEN. The only way anyone else can get those items is to fight you for them, and having them circulate between friends is almost as bad as one person having it all to themselves. Either share the love with somebody else, or realize that somebody's probably gonna want to fight you for it.

Just copy the PvP flag you want into your Profile somewhere visible, preferably near the top. Don't whine to people about your flag status if is hidden by a Spoiler tag or at the bottom of your Roster. 

If you're opting in to this little program, please post that you are participating here! I'll try to keep an active list going with your status by editing this post. 

No promises on me keeping up, but if you post here people can at least Search for your status.


Code:

Quote:

PvP FLAG: RED
Please message me before you attack my character or assault my base! Thanks!

Quote:

PvP FLAG: GREEN
I won't mind if you attack my character or base with little to no warning!

So I am mostly done reading through the rules and information stuff on this site, but I'm confused considering my character unique power which is controllable good luck and bad luck. I wasn't sure what to categorize this as, since its more of a roll of a dice from I guess whoever he'd be fighting, probably using this <!-- m --><a class="postlink" href="http://www.roll-dice-online.com/">http://www.roll-dice-online.com/</a><!-- m --> and rolling a 20 sided die once. The way I planned on describing it would bee this.

"Felix's luck can affect him when he uses it against someone else, via roll of a 20 sided die by the person he's fighting. For example, if Felix attacks someone using his bad luck, the die must be rolled. If it lands on 1~6 to 8~10, Felix suffers bad luck for some time. If it lands on 11~12 or 14~20, Felix gains good luck for some time.

HOWEVER, if the die lands on 7 or 13, Felix suffers good luck or bad luck respectively, regardless if they're in the areas for the opposite amount of luck.

Felix's luck is both a gift and a curse, its strong in its attack and strong in its negative effects. Thus making it a gamble everytime its used."

So, I didn't see anything like this in the powers section, so I wasn't sure what its cost would be for purchasing it. It'd probably also have a usage limit during a fight, like one or twice. Can an admin/mod determine how much OM I'd pay for this?

Purchases for Clownpiece go here.

Current post count: (your current post count, viewable below your avatar)
Current Earned OM: (your current Earned OM, viewable next to your posts)
Current Spent OM: (total, viewable on your roster)
Buying: (whatever it is you want to buy. If purchasing a move you MUST link to the approval). Cost: (the cost) OM
New Spent OM in category: (your new total spent on Moves, Powers or whatever it was you bought)
New Overall Spent OM: (your total Spent OM after the purchase)

All moves must be approved here before purchase.

This is just some philosophical thought that has crossed my mind as of recently, with the whole Camelot Colosseum tournament going on as well as me playing a few HotS matches. Also, I just may have been bored :awesome:
Note that I am detailing my own, very biased view on this, so well... if you want to argue against me you're welcome to, but don't take personal offense in what I say.
Note2: This is NOT meant to relate to the recent faction wars issues in any way. That's a different matter as a whole. Just in case someone comes along and wonders.

But, my question is: do you play games (especially competitive games) to win, to improve, "for fun" or why else?

I myself should say, I play to have fun. I realize that competitive games are... well, competitive. If you win you'll feel awesome, and if you lose... it kind of depends on your mindset.
I don't mean to judge, but people who play to win also tend to be the people who refuse to lose - the best example being the infamous League of Legends community, where the game is always either won thanks to you, or lost due to your teammates being bad. On the flip side, people who play competitively probably invest more effort into the game and become pro players eventually.
Playing to improve is also good, of course! But I dislike taking it too far, where you struggle to optimize your skill to get better, even if you have to move out of your comfort zone for it. I've seen many people do this, and more often than not they actually play better than me, but I don't know if they really enjoy it.

As a result I'm thinking that, because you have a rough 50/50 chance of winning in total when it comes to playing ANY competitive game, sport or whatever, you should start at zero. Don't take something for granted, don't think "I am getting into this ranked match/tournament fight/whatever else and I will win it easy-peasy." Because you might not win, and you'll be disappointed, or worse. Instead, enjoy everything you get.
Some examples:
Omniverse fight loss
Play2Win player: "ARRGH I CAN'T HAVE LOST I SHOULD HAVE WON THIS IS NOT FAIR THE JUDGE IS BIASED!" :rage:
Play4Fun player:"Hey, I did my best, I was outmatched, but I came close! I did quite well I think, and I believe that I can improve. Next time I'll get even better! Congratulations on your win, enemy player. You earned it!" :yay:
Omniverse fight win
Play2Win player: "I won. Pshh, was hardly a challenge anyway. I knew I'd win, I'm the best after all, Shakespeare's got nothing on my posts." mug:
Play4Fun player: "What, I won? Woah, this is amazing! I didn't think I'd win. Hey, I really enjoyed that, I hope the other person did too." :yay:

MOBAs, CoD, TF2 - anything competitive which ends with a winning and a losing team - Loss
Play2Win player: "What the hell? Why did we lose? My team is idiots, they didn't follow my lead, goddamnit, I should be way higher, this is unfair, I'm reporting everyone else for making us lose! Not damn gg, we didn't win so it's not a good game!" :rage:
Play4Fun player: "Oh, we lost? How? Oh right, I see, their strategy worked out when we weren't paying attention. Haha, that was a good one, they're really good players! But hey, we tried and it was a good match. I hope I can get to their level. We did our best, good game everyone!" :awesome:

Same games, Win
Play2Win player: "Cool, I won. Yeah, not my team, me! I did all the plays and carried those scrubs, they should thank me. Ungrateful idiots, thinking they helped. I better move on and win some more. GG ez-pz noobs." frogc00l
Play4Fun player: "Woah! We won this! This game was so much fun, we did great efforts as a team and those two players were really good. I hope I can get on their level some day. GG everyone, was fun!" :pink:

So yes, I don't know... am I being biased or even naive for thinking like this? And what's your way of playing?

Caught in a landslide
No escape from reality;

Open your eyes
Look up to the skies and see—

Crowley opens his eyes.

As his luck would have it, there isn't much to see; just a lot of blank nothingness that stings his eyes enough that he actually has to blink a few times in a convulsive way that makes it seem as if he is attempting to clear an entire wooden stake out of his tear ducts. Invisible drums in his skull and quivering air be blessed, he isn’t about to go stumbling about blindly when he has no blinking clue as of to where he is.

It had started out as any ordinary day should. Ordinary in the sense that there were no Antichrists to be transported, no meteors hurtling towards the earth, and certainly no infuriated Dukes of Hell barging through the front door of his building to drag him down to face a whole long list of folks who would be very interested in wearing his intestines about their necks in accordance with the latest seasonal fashions.

He had received a call earlier that morning, too, which made the day slightly less ordinary than usual. Things had returned to normal levels of ordinariness once Crowley had finally answered to find out just who was calling, but that little dip in the normality of the demon’s life is a far cry from what he is experiencing now.

Nonetheless, Crowley had answered the phone. He was strewn across his lounge chair at the time, staring blankly up at the tiny little grains meticulously etched into his ceiling. Crowley had a tendency to do that when he was feeling a bit more philosophical than usual, but in that particular instance he wasn’t thinking much of anything that held any value. His limbs dangled over the side of the cushion, considering.

It was Aziraphale who had called.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said. Crowley perked up a little. It was kind of embarrassing, if he was being honest with himself. Which he hardly ever was. In an effort to preserve his ego, Crowley assumed the most bored tone possible to ask the angel why on earth he was calling at such an early hour for.

The angel had then gone on to say something about going out to eat lunch together, to which Crowley heartily accepted after a few minutes of trying to remember where his sunglasses were.

Soon after hanging up the phone, which might as well have been a child’s plastic toy with how Crowley disinterestedly chucked it across the room, the demon swung his legs over the side of the seat with a huff. He got to his feet in a slow way that made it seem as if he were exerting some great, momentous effort to do so, while in all truth he really wasn’t at all bothered by this sudden change in his busy schedule for the day. Hell runs a tight operation, after all.

The fact that his schedule was actually as sparklingly spotless as a hospital’s shiny linoleum floor can be overlooked.

In any case, Crowley started to move about his pleasant little residence with a puttering air about him, behaving as if he actually had dozens and dozens of important things going on at once: watering the houseplants and tossing all manners of threats at them; poking at the sink which was empty save for one sudsy dish covered in last week’s takeaway; sweeping his dark hair back so that it was tastefully sleek and taking a good long look in the mirror subsequently, even peeling his lip back to check that nothing was wedged in-between his immaculate teeth.

He was almost out the door when the world he knew was unexpectedly swept out from under his feet— sort of like a terrible magic trick that involves a tablecloth and a whole mess of silverware and wineglasses, but infinitely worse.

It should be remembered that angels are very otherworldly. So otherworldly, in fact, with all their many eyes and wings and limbs and halos burning brighter than any solar flare and approximately the size of Jupiter, that they actually operate on a whole separate plane of thought that those born of the mortal coil cannot even begin to fathom.

Oh, they might make a grand show of acting human by landing in an undignified heap after tripping over the curb or stumbling drunkenly into moving traffic mumbling about green flying saucers, but the thing is that they are never quite as caught up in the human mindset as they feign to be. Even for fallen angels, it’s rather hard to claim to be a singularity when you’ve got all of Hell looming over your shoulder all day long. The only way in which this dynamic is different for the goody two-shoes angels is that this looming figure sometimes gives them a cheery pat on the back and occasionally a lollipop.

So, there Crowley was, in a place so dark that he couldn’t see much of anything. Which was quite a feat, to say the very least, as Hell usually has the lights on so dim that he would often find himself tripping all over the place in the dark.

He attempted to say something sensible along the lines of, “Why’s it so dark?”, but the words just couldn’t seem to get the right amount of oomph to get from his brain past his lips. This was around the time when a smiling face appeared from the murky black that continued to fluctuate around him, which wasn’t reassuring in the slightest. The being began to speak to Crowley and wave glowing balls of energy around, seeming quite pleased with itself and its captive audience.

The whole thing was pretty indecent, if you asked Crowley— especially since the pale white being speaking to him didn’t appear to be wearing any pants. Didn’t seem bloody right to babble on about something at someone when they couldn’t say anything back. He was so frustrated with his inability to speak that he settled for flipping the bird at his captor until the whole thing was over and done with.

That one-sided conversation really couldn’t have ended fast enough, although the new plane of existence Crowley found himself standing on wasn’t much of an improvement.

The decorators of this place must be terrible, Crowley reasoned, looking up, then down, and then all around. Or underpaid.

The stark white land around him, expanding towards a seamless horizon in all directions, was far too bright for his tastes. Brighter than that time Crowley fell asleep in the backroom of the angel’s bookshop with a absurd amount of alcohol in his system and the angel flipped the overhanging light on. That bright.

The existence of earthen ground beneath his feet did not even seem to be a reasonable probability anymore. When he glanced down to check, snakeskin shoes cast in startling reddish-brown relief in the painfully luminous area, there wasn’t a speck of soil to be had.

A frown curling his lips downwards, Crowley took a look around at his more immediate surroundings. It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen them before, it was just that he had finally caved and decided to grace them with his full attention. Naturally.

As stated before, for reasons unknown, he was no longer in his cozy abode with its nice carpeting and embroidered dish towels. Crowley didn’t even do his dishes to begin with, but it was still gone and that alone really niggled at him.

Whoever this Omni is better have a reason behind all this, Crowley thought. Then, he thought a little more. What’s the point in having a lift if it doesn’t go anywhere?

It was a very reasonable question to ask, I’ll have you know. Crowley turned to regard the shiny glass platform that spindled with reflective light towards the presumed heavens; the tinted shades over his eyes glinted as his head craned back to better accommodate the contraption’s immense height.

Movement, slow and unsteady like a newborn deer trying to gain control of its knobby knees, flounders about in his peripheral vision. There were plenty of colors, all blurred and fuzzy as he peered over at them out of the corner of his eye. Texture and form were there, too, but he ignored that in favor of drawing a general conclusion.

This ragtag group is waiting in line for that deathtrap, Crowley mused, totally ignoring the fact that he had quite liked most elevation devices due to his express lack of desire to do much of anything. In short, laziness. Selective activity, he would insist to Aziraphale.

But, then again, Crowley wasn’t one for lines. Or waiting. Or trans-dimensional displacement. Yet, here he was.

The thing about Crowley, however, despite all of his innumerable shortcomings in infernalness and in his line of demonic work, was that he had conviction. And right then, with a displeased look on his face and his jacket all rumpled from being dragged into some strange dimension against his will, Crowley was feeling an emotion so focused and intent upon one unlucky subject that it should be nigh incomprehensible to the mortal mind. Kind of like cats to dog people.

Crowley, to say the very least, was pissed. Pissed at this blank dimension, at the crowded people waiting in line for the elevator that went absolutely nowhere, at his lack of embroidered dish towels, and, most importantly, he was utterly furious with himself.

His head mostly cooled off after a while of glaring at the elevator, mostly because it took him all of five minutes to recognize that the elevator was, in all honesty, no longer an elevator. This was just plain silly, because he had already committed to near-photographic memory the location and dimensions of a rather nice and accurate elevator, but there he was glaring balefully at some dumb fountain with elegantly curved stallions rearing up among leaping shafts of puttering water.

“Well, shit.” Crowley hissed. That wasn’t a right thing for an elevator to go and do, transmuting into a fountain like that. It just wasn’t right.

An unexpected peal of laughter rose up in his breast, like fizzy and fine golden-pale champagne. Crowley blinked once at the fountain, because he must have truly been off his rocker if that whole situation had been even remotely funny to him.

After a moment more of staring blandly at the fountain, as if willing it to go on and change shape one more time, Crowley seemed to realize this. His eyes fled to the wristwatch on his arm, then, and he judged that he had spent far too much time hanging around in one place. With a huff and a shrug of his shoulders, Crowley tucked his hands into the pockets of his jacket and strode off in a random direction. He even whistled lightly under his breath.

Might as well roll with the punches, the demon thought, still trying to discern if there was anything of substance fluttering about in the distance. There wasn’t, but he still made a nice effort to look for anything of interested while he walked.

The rest of his long trek across the Nexus was hardly eventful, and filled with a large amount of thinking. Thinking about what that Omni fellow had said, what the future might hold for him, and whether or not he could locate a nice local to slither into and imbibe heavy amounts of alcohol in.

Needless to say, Crowley’s priorities were most definitely in the right place for most of that journey. Still, it was all pretty boring and filled with repetitive motions and steps, and wouldn’t you like to get to something much more interesting? I bet you would. Let’s go with that route, shall we?

The swanky fellow in the snakeskin shoes and with the preposterously handsome countenance perceived something in the middle distance after a very long time of walking. He knew just how long he had been walking, too, for he was wearing an expensive golden-inlaid watch that he had checked about every sixth step across the entirety of the Nexus, but he didn’t much care to reiterate the time to himself when there was something much more interesting taking shape before him.

There were roughly three armored persons dressed up in whitish gear standing around some kind of swirling portal. Crowley wondered what they were even doing, standing around like that, all in military fashion. It wasn’t as if there was anything remotely dangerous skulking about the steadily illuminated expanse behind him. He would have seen something, at the very least.

One of their whitish helmets turned towards him. A crackle of radio static or something of the like resonated waveringly in the air, like the crinkling of dry leaves in a silent redwood forest. Crowley hunched his shoulders and sauntered over, casting a long look over his shoulder as if to check for whomever else they might be looking at.

He realized, with a small hiccup of unease in his throat, that he might be one of the somethings that they were watching out for. Whatever must be behind that portal has got to be good.

“Hey,” Crowley said in greeting, straightening up once he had gotten within ten paces of the trio of watchmen. He squinted at them through his dark sunglasses, a thought wriggling about at the back of his mind in some semblance of recognition. “Er.”

They started speaking among themselves, hard-glinting masks bobbing around as they regard him. Crowley felt plenty awkward, and so he dug his hands even further into his pockets while he waited for them to get over whatever verbal mountain was preventing the group from directly addressing him. He also gave up on maintaining perfect posture and once again ducked his head down in-between his shoulders.

Finally, one of the group approached him. He then proceeded to talk about something Crowley didn’t much care about.

“Blah blah blah,” he said. “Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah.”

See? He just didn’t care.

Beyond that, however, the number one life hack in Hell is that if someone bothers you, you hack them to bits. End of story. Thankfully, even as the soldier guy in the shiny armor continued to pester him about something or other, codes and equipment and regulations, ugh, the only hacking Crowley did was blessedly psychological. He did make a rather big show of turning his face towards the sky, though, a heavy sigh on his lips, as if to seek the answer to some great question there.

Shockingly enough, an answer did manifest itself in Crowley’s mind, with such sudden and brilliant clarity that the demon could have gladly wept for joy if he were not so preoccupied with basking in its majesty. He could just— pop on down to Hell, slip through an infinitesimal crack in the grand scheme of things, and figure out what’s going on, all in the blink of an eye. It would just take a little focus, maybe some hocus-pocus, and he would be able to arrive right at the source of the problem after some tactful snooping.

It was then that Crowley did something which he hadn’t thought to do earlier, which was just drop right in-between a few metaphysical planes and land himself on the most infernal and fiery layer. Unfortunately, there was some kind of wonky interference that ricocheted all kinds of incorrect quantum mechanics back at him from all available directions in tremendous waves of algorithms and squiggly chalk figures, and it wasn’t long before Crowley simply passed out from the sudden change with nary a whimper.

The thing about angels and their whole operating on a separate plane of existence gig is that they are really, really good at mathematics. They read advanced textbooks of a university edition like the Sunday paper, hot off the press. Now demons, or more specifically fallen angels, are of angel stock, and most are devilishly good when it comes to maths. This same attribute does not extend to human souls that have been corrupted into demonic entities, predictably, so most algebra teachers are not, in fact, of Hellish make.

Still, it should come as no surprise to anyone that this sudden flip between basic earthly physics to some kind of baby-rattled pancake of complete and utter nonsense took quite a toll on Crowley.

This, as in right now and how this whole story began, is when Crowley opens his eyes. He is splayed out right on his back, and he notes with some panicked feelings leaping about in his gut that his shades are frazzled somewhere around his hairline rather than securely upon his face. After floundering about for a moment for them, he is quick to shove them back atop his noticeably arched nose. The second thing he notices from his prone position is that one of the armed guards from earlier is leaning over him.

“Oh. He’s not dead, see?” There is a noticeable hint of disappointment in the person’s voice, as if this might have really livened up their day. He backs off a few steps as Crowley starts to mumble some nearly unintelligible stream of numbers under his breath.

Crowley sits up and regrets it almost immediately. Painful pinpricks of pure pernicious pain cavort about in his skull, like a dozen little elves with pointy-toed shoes have decided to have a merry get-together up there. Well, jingle his bells, Crowley isn’t about to let that keep him down. Especially with all these strange and unfamiliar people hanging around.

The niggling thought from earlier returns to the forefront of his mind, and the demon sits up and squints suspiciously at the dodgy guard nearest to him, dark slitted pupils just visible over the arch of his sunglasses. They’re from some kind of film, he just knows it. Something about space and politicking in it. Now, if only he could remember the name. Star Trek?

Forehead crinkling dramatically, Crowley shakes his head to clear it of any further painful discomfort, which doesn’t exactly work out well and only serves to compound the throbbing in his skull. Whatever, he’ll figure out the name of the film later. Right now he’s got business to attend to.

“You lot wouldn’t happen to know where Hell’s gone, would you?” Crowley asks, getting totteringly to his feet and making a huge show of brushing imaginary dust off of his cuffs. When he ceases these demonstrations and finally glances up, there are three sets of eyes fixed firmly upon him.

Silence. Crowley begins to wonder if he’ll start having to do some kind of interpretive dance in a desperate bid to get his point across, because one of these three has to be the linchpin of this operation. At last, one of them speaks, although he couldn’t say which with the funny masks they are wearing.

“You mean the Underverse?”

A bit of a hiss creeps into his voice at this juncture, but he can’t quite bring himself to tone it down. “Listen, pal, whatever you want to call it; Hell, the Pit, Hades, I literally couldn’t care less. The fact of the matter is, this universe’s math is all wrong and I can’t seem to get a bead on it. Where’s it gone?”

“Uh, it’s where it’s always been. You want to go… there?”

Crowley sniffs, crossing his arms over his chest defensively. Finally, they’re getting somewhere! Magic him up some butternut squash and Cinderella is definitely going to go to the ball tonight. Or to Hell. Whichever pathway works itself out first.

“It’s not where it’s always been! Just… look. Point me in the right direction, and I’ll be out of your hair. Fair deal?”

The assorted group of Stormtroopers who have been gathered here today look appraisingly at the obviously stark raving mad man who has been gesticulating wildly about in the air, trying to describe horrors unimaginable with a tremendous waggling of his eyebrows and ridiculously complex hand motions. A few beats of silence pass until someone gets a bright idea.

“It’s that way,” one daring fella points in the polar opposite direction across the Nexus, where the gate to Camelot is located. He can hear his buddies stifling their snickers behind him, and this only spurs him on, albeit a tad too rambunctiously. “Has a few guys in fancy medieval garb roaming around the gate. Don’t listen to anything they say, it’s definitely Hell.”

Crowley nods once, satisfied with this new information. You would think a demon would be better at picking up on blatantly obvious lies. With an assured look on his face, he turns on his heel and strides off towards Camelot. Not that he’d know that.

Muffled snickers peter out behind him, gradually fading away into nothing as he once again crosses the empty white of the Nexus.

Mmkay. According to miranda's story, Her family's sword is renamed after it gains a new wielder. I've never been good at naming things, so i'd like a little help with this one.

I also have a basic shape i've drawn in mspaint (below) if im not particularly clear in my description

http://staffseargant.deviantart.com/art/...-259189918



??? (Requires Physical Strength): This sword passed down generation after generation down her family line, and previously named frostbite by her brother, is a large, double "edged" broadsword at 6 feet in length and 6 inches in width. Despite its rather plain appearance, one can clearly notice its lack of a proper edge. In the edge's place is a slot. the cutting edge is housed inside the sword by mechanical workings. If she were to twist the handle the sharp edge would be released and the sword would increase in width to a foot. The two halves of the bladespring out revealing a bit of its mechanical interior with a large black gemstone placed in the center of the blade just above the hilt. From about two feet from the tip the blade is split leaving a a gap four inches wide leading to a chevron-shaped blade in the middle of the sword. Typically a ceremonial blade marking the wielder as the proper head of the Frost family, however the mysterious and miraculous nature of the Omniverse makes the weapon viable.

Although it was more or less a symbol of Miranda's family, its original uses were dark. Back when the family was fairly large in capacity, branches of the family would make an attempt to wipe out other contenders for the family "Throne". The loser[s] of these internal disputes would be set upon a stone table facing upward (or downward if that were the loser's choice) and the sword would be slammed down in a guillotine-like fashion. Dedication to this prized blade has led to its downfall with Miranda frost (and her brother) being the final heirs to their empty family responsibilities. Of course she wishes to revive that family here in the omniverse and have it become a ruling faction inside the Ashen Steppes

Quote: continuation from : The arrival of the Noah, Part 1