10-25-2015, 08:01 PM
A thousand-million shifting granules of sand play out around the Peregrine Mendicant after her departure from the Nexus. Her chalk-colored feet sink into the unstable ground lightly despite her impulsively reckless entrance, as if she has passed through an ordinary doorway rather than a spiraling portal.
When she looks upwards, great whorls of a gorgeous, intense blue flecked here and there with smoky orange spread across the sky like cream trickling languidly into chestnut-brown coffee. The air is clear and drier than a crypt left in peace for centuries. Great mounds of sand like the tumultuous swells of an ocean spread out in all directions, the heat shimmering in waves above them.
Ah, she says, admiring the lovely scenery.
AHHH! she exclaims, hardly an instant later, as a small human child causes her to stumble somewhat after knocking into her with their tiny little elbows. The startled carapacian barely has more than a few moments to regain her footing before whoever had shoved against her is gone, eagerly snapped up by the portal behind her.
The mailwoman is still feeling rather befuddled as several well-armed men approach, a number of reasonably intimidating weapons swinging from their belts. Sun-warmed metal glints in the light. She doesn’t bother counting how many of them there are, instead choosing to simply get the hell out of their way. They seem pretty tough, full of mangrit and gumption. PM doesn’t feel up to messing with that sort of nonsense quite yet.
They are apparently in hot pursuit of this child and do not pay her any mind as they, too, are swallowed up by the light of the Nexus. PM blinks after them for a moment, as confused as can be, when she feels something sift through the sand and press lightly against her foot. Curious, she peers down at the sand between her toes.
Oh! the Peregrine Mendicant coos, plucking up a rather dusty old envelope. It scratches lightly against her chalky carapace, catching on her fingers in odd spots where the material has been frayed. Humming delightedly, she flips it over in her hands, watching as the sun runs smoothly across the edges of the brown paper and casts it in an almost rosy light. She reads the recipient’s name.
“To whoemvre ti may concierge—" PM stops reading right there, because as a simple Parcel Mistress the contents of this letter should not, in fact, concern her. Besides that, the letter is written in what appears to be a child’s scrawl, loose bits of dirt embedded here and there on the small packet. Or maybe those are ironic pixels— she is not certain.
There is also no sender. PM is only mildly deterred by this; the fact that this letter is exceptionally vague should be of no serious import to a Parcel Mistress. She will not fail in this most noble of tasks. She will find whomever this letter concerns— concierges.
Her eyes shining with glee, the Peregrine Mendicant goes to tuck the letter into her satchel only to find that she does not yet have one swinging dutifully over her shoulder. Oh dear. This is a worrying state of affairs, indeed.
Pinching her fingers together in frustration, PM waves the letter in the air and gesticulates wildly about her head with it, tromping her feet a little for a more palpable effect. Once she has had her moment of inherent absurdity, however, PM ceases her ridiculous flailing. Silliness notwithstanding, PM acknowledges that she will have to use this Omnilium substance to create a new mailbag. Otherwise, this letter might be damaged by foul weather or scurrilous fiends!
Hmm… she muses to herself, the digits of her hands tapping lightly together. Suddenly, she crosses and snaps her fingers, the sharp sound crackling through the sweltering, breathless air. A-ha!
The carapacian considers the task of using Omnilium to summon her mailbag and mail carrier’s cap with a cautious line of thought that shrinks not from the impossible, but rather from the harmful and treacherous. Perhaps she should remove herself from so obvious a place of travel— if this Omnilium is so useful and valuable, there will likely be those who will want to take it for their own. But where to go?
Squinting against the sunlight and tugging her tattered hood a bit snugger around her face, the Peregrine Mendicant looks out over the horizon. There appears to be a small settlement a ways off, amongst the odd tree or shrubbery dotted here and there across the landscape like little specks of mottled green against windswept dust. Or, you know. Plants in a desert.
Weirdly elaborate descriptions aside, PM spots a choice tree on the horizon to do some summoning under. Yes, this tree will do nicely— it has several low-hanging boughs that would provide an acceptable amount of cool shade for her to rest her feet under, and there does not appear to be any puny princethieves skulking about in the shadows. Perfect.
After tucking the letter into a spare fold of her wrappings, PM sets off at an unruffled gait for the tree’s shade. She reaches it a short while later, the bends of her clothing casting long shadows over her pale carapace once she steps into the dim light. Small bits of shadow trickle over her frame in the shape of clustered branches and measly twigs. Her shell clinks lightly as she sits down upon the sand; it is uncomfortably warm, so much so that she can feel it even through the thick covering of her carapace.
Well, here she is. Best get right down to it, before anything potentially disastrous occurs. With another wary glance around, PM cups her palms together, feeling remarkably idiotic until a soft, fluttering glow appears between them, seeming much like a trapped firefly. As she slowly brings them apart to better examine this strange light, an array of prismatic colour glimmers over her claws, like gossamer paper twirling on a stick at a festival.
Wonderful, she remarks, errant gleams playing across her smooth features. Now, on to the actual summoning. Her satchel will have to come first, of course, as it is the most important part of her ensemble. The amorphous lightshow immediately shifts to accommodate this, bulging into such a greater size that PM has to eventually ease herself backwards a ways to better regard it. After scarcely four minutes have passed, the glow of the Omnilium fades and PM has a lovely yellow-coloured satchel lying across her lap, made up of a coarse, stalwart material.
Claws clicking together with glee, the Peregrine Mendicant slings the bag’s strap over her shoulder and slips the single letter under the top flap. Fantastic! Now for her mailperson’s cap. This is undoubtedly the second most important object that she requires, for it indicates to any wandering passerby that she has no time for their finicky shenanigans.
Like with her mail-carrying bag, the fascinating, shimmering display of bulbous Omnilium manifests itself between her claws, this time in a much smaller amount. It takes hardly a minute or two for her faithful blue cap to appear, and when it does PM is quick to snatch it up in her hands and place it ceremoniously upon her head.
Liberty. Reason. Justice. Civility. Edification. Perfection.
MAIL.
Yes, well. Ahem.
Anyways, now that she has her navy blue cap settled nicely atop her head far better than any crown ever could, PM thinks that she might just need a weapon to defend herself with. In the event of a raid on her collection of parcels and neatly-tucked envelopes, that is. The problem is, there are two possible weapons for her to choose from. One is the Regisword, sharpened and undoubtedly deadly, given to her by the Archagent of Derse. The other, unfortunately, would be the Ring, complete with the pearly Orbs Fourfold. WV's Ring. The one which he was supposed to don to save them all, and which she instead wore in a cutthroat flight of vengeance and untamed fury.
When it comes right down to it, she would choose the Regisword any day. The Omnilium summoning takes quite a spell longer this time, but soon enough she is holding the shiny black weapon aloft by its hilt, the blade glinting intimidatingly in the sunlight. Without sparing any more precious time to strike a heroic pose or goof off, PM slides the sword into her mailbag with the letter she must deliver, a faint svwoop marking its disappearance. Her dark eyes then slide to the village settled a fair distance away, gaze contemplative.
With a slight spring to her step hindered only slightly by the heavy sword in her pack, the Peregrine Mendicant sets off towards the village of Carrefore.
When she looks upwards, great whorls of a gorgeous, intense blue flecked here and there with smoky orange spread across the sky like cream trickling languidly into chestnut-brown coffee. The air is clear and drier than a crypt left in peace for centuries. Great mounds of sand like the tumultuous swells of an ocean spread out in all directions, the heat shimmering in waves above them.
Ah, she says, admiring the lovely scenery.
AHHH! she exclaims, hardly an instant later, as a small human child causes her to stumble somewhat after knocking into her with their tiny little elbows. The startled carapacian barely has more than a few moments to regain her footing before whoever had shoved against her is gone, eagerly snapped up by the portal behind her.
The mailwoman is still feeling rather befuddled as several well-armed men approach, a number of reasonably intimidating weapons swinging from their belts. Sun-warmed metal glints in the light. She doesn’t bother counting how many of them there are, instead choosing to simply get the hell out of their way. They seem pretty tough, full of mangrit and gumption. PM doesn’t feel up to messing with that sort of nonsense quite yet.
They are apparently in hot pursuit of this child and do not pay her any mind as they, too, are swallowed up by the light of the Nexus. PM blinks after them for a moment, as confused as can be, when she feels something sift through the sand and press lightly against her foot. Curious, she peers down at the sand between her toes.
Oh! the Peregrine Mendicant coos, plucking up a rather dusty old envelope. It scratches lightly against her chalky carapace, catching on her fingers in odd spots where the material has been frayed. Humming delightedly, she flips it over in her hands, watching as the sun runs smoothly across the edges of the brown paper and casts it in an almost rosy light. She reads the recipient’s name.
“To whoemvre ti may concierge—" PM stops reading right there, because as a simple Parcel Mistress the contents of this letter should not, in fact, concern her. Besides that, the letter is written in what appears to be a child’s scrawl, loose bits of dirt embedded here and there on the small packet. Or maybe those are ironic pixels— she is not certain.
There is also no sender. PM is only mildly deterred by this; the fact that this letter is exceptionally vague should be of no serious import to a Parcel Mistress. She will not fail in this most noble of tasks. She will find whomever this letter concerns— concierges.
Her eyes shining with glee, the Peregrine Mendicant goes to tuck the letter into her satchel only to find that she does not yet have one swinging dutifully over her shoulder. Oh dear. This is a worrying state of affairs, indeed.
Pinching her fingers together in frustration, PM waves the letter in the air and gesticulates wildly about her head with it, tromping her feet a little for a more palpable effect. Once she has had her moment of inherent absurdity, however, PM ceases her ridiculous flailing. Silliness notwithstanding, PM acknowledges that she will have to use this Omnilium substance to create a new mailbag. Otherwise, this letter might be damaged by foul weather or scurrilous fiends!
Hmm… she muses to herself, the digits of her hands tapping lightly together. Suddenly, she crosses and snaps her fingers, the sharp sound crackling through the sweltering, breathless air. A-ha!
The carapacian considers the task of using Omnilium to summon her mailbag and mail carrier’s cap with a cautious line of thought that shrinks not from the impossible, but rather from the harmful and treacherous. Perhaps she should remove herself from so obvious a place of travel— if this Omnilium is so useful and valuable, there will likely be those who will want to take it for their own. But where to go?
Squinting against the sunlight and tugging her tattered hood a bit snugger around her face, the Peregrine Mendicant looks out over the horizon. There appears to be a small settlement a ways off, amongst the odd tree or shrubbery dotted here and there across the landscape like little specks of mottled green against windswept dust. Or, you know. Plants in a desert.
Weirdly elaborate descriptions aside, PM spots a choice tree on the horizon to do some summoning under. Yes, this tree will do nicely— it has several low-hanging boughs that would provide an acceptable amount of cool shade for her to rest her feet under, and there does not appear to be any puny princethieves skulking about in the shadows. Perfect.
After tucking the letter into a spare fold of her wrappings, PM sets off at an unruffled gait for the tree’s shade. She reaches it a short while later, the bends of her clothing casting long shadows over her pale carapace once she steps into the dim light. Small bits of shadow trickle over her frame in the shape of clustered branches and measly twigs. Her shell clinks lightly as she sits down upon the sand; it is uncomfortably warm, so much so that she can feel it even through the thick covering of her carapace.
Well, here she is. Best get right down to it, before anything potentially disastrous occurs. With another wary glance around, PM cups her palms together, feeling remarkably idiotic until a soft, fluttering glow appears between them, seeming much like a trapped firefly. As she slowly brings them apart to better examine this strange light, an array of prismatic colour glimmers over her claws, like gossamer paper twirling on a stick at a festival.
Wonderful, she remarks, errant gleams playing across her smooth features. Now, on to the actual summoning. Her satchel will have to come first, of course, as it is the most important part of her ensemble. The amorphous lightshow immediately shifts to accommodate this, bulging into such a greater size that PM has to eventually ease herself backwards a ways to better regard it. After scarcely four minutes have passed, the glow of the Omnilium fades and PM has a lovely yellow-coloured satchel lying across her lap, made up of a coarse, stalwart material.
Claws clicking together with glee, the Peregrine Mendicant slings the bag’s strap over her shoulder and slips the single letter under the top flap. Fantastic! Now for her mailperson’s cap. This is undoubtedly the second most important object that she requires, for it indicates to any wandering passerby that she has no time for their finicky shenanigans.
Like with her mail-carrying bag, the fascinating, shimmering display of bulbous Omnilium manifests itself between her claws, this time in a much smaller amount. It takes hardly a minute or two for her faithful blue cap to appear, and when it does PM is quick to snatch it up in her hands and place it ceremoniously upon her head.
Quote:
![[Image: 00896.gif]](http://cdn.mspaintadventures.com/storyfiles/hs2/00896.gif)
Liberty. Reason. Justice. Civility. Edification. Perfection.
MAIL.
Yes, well. Ahem.
Anyways, now that she has her navy blue cap settled nicely atop her head far better than any crown ever could, PM thinks that she might just need a weapon to defend herself with. In the event of a raid on her collection of parcels and neatly-tucked envelopes, that is. The problem is, there are two possible weapons for her to choose from. One is the Regisword, sharpened and undoubtedly deadly, given to her by the Archagent of Derse. The other, unfortunately, would be the Ring, complete with the pearly Orbs Fourfold. WV's Ring. The one which he was supposed to don to save them all, and which she instead wore in a cutthroat flight of vengeance and untamed fury.
When it comes right down to it, she would choose the Regisword any day. The Omnilium summoning takes quite a spell longer this time, but soon enough she is holding the shiny black weapon aloft by its hilt, the blade glinting intimidatingly in the sunlight. Without sparing any more precious time to strike a heroic pose or goof off, PM slides the sword into her mailbag with the letter she must deliver, a faint svwoop marking its disappearance. Her dark eyes then slide to the village settled a fair distance away, gaze contemplative.
With a slight spring to her step hindered only slightly by the heavy sword in her pack, the Peregrine Mendicant sets off towards the village of Carrefore.
![[Image: 18yM1ww.gif]](http://i.imgur.com/18yM1ww.gif)
She's a Killer Queen!
Gunpowder, gelatine, dynamite with a laser beam,
Guaranteed to blow your mind!
- "Killer Queen", Queen