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Moments before Otis left, he turned his head around one hundred and eighty degrees to address Lorelai and Tsurara sequentially. “Ok. Lilies don’t come in packs.”

And before much else could be said, he had shot off again, perfectly at home with the sprawling roads and densely-packed storefronts of Arcture. It had been a couple years since he’s seen the city, but not much has changed. Magical advertisements still flooded the senses, while contraptions that followed no scientific laws propelled the residents of the city through cobble-stone streets. Overhead, Otis caught the familiar silhouette of someone annoying, but brushed off any of his thoughts regarding the ninja as he entered the guild properly.

The process, thankfully, was painless.

His curiosity however, could not be ignored.

“The team at the island?” Otis’s eyes shone with a feverish light. “I’ve produced an artifact similar to this before, though more for divining locations than for enabling indirect identification verification. Which island? Which team?”

It was clear that the Strigidae had no intention of moving once he received his answer, but once he did, he had no intention of lingering either. The Tournament of the Long Hall had been another event he was curious in, an opportunity to perform field tests on a variety of different opponents in a safe environment, while also showcasing his creations to a wider audience. Approaching and reading through the entirety of the information board in three seconds flat, Otis considered his odds, considered his competition, and pulled out his gun. There were adjustments to be made. There were actions to be taken. And most importantly?

“Registration finished, Lorelai?”

He needed to rank up if he wanted access to the good stuff.

“Let’s hunt.”

At least they're all unique in how they're ageless~
In -FV- 5 days ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
If his premonition had marked anyone else but Runa in the diner as the target of Victoria’s sudden attack, perhaps Tian-Gui would have interrupted. He didn’t need Jin-Sun or Iphie to overreact, after all, and Kyouko…well, an idol needed to protect her face, even if she could reverse time and just revert it back to normal. But Runa was the target, so he sat back and focused his thoughts on the other question.


Mason had said his granddaughter was a fan of the Final V, but here, she seemed to be portraying the attitude of a hater rather than a fan. She showed up late, complained about their lack of security, and then tried to attack them, only giving up when that attack (oh, a Whitestone Pillar?) failed to have any effect. If Mason had no reason to lie, then…

Tian-Gui smacked his fist against his palm.

“Oh, did you want to join the support team, Victoria?”
Hopefully there aren't any glaring lore inconsistencies here.

“A pleasant gift is preferred over coinage upon matter’s end,” Isidore responded curtly, coyly. In this world on decline, with expectations of far-reaching travels, a monetary reward was only an anchor, after all. “I accept.” How much was 50 silver? Instinct told him that gold was valued higher than silver, and jewels were valued higher than gold, but perhaps they simply lacked gold veins here, or lacked the technology to mine them. His gaze briefly shot around the grand throne room, searching for signs of that golden luster. He should’ve asked Sorcha about the currency here in more depth or gathered that sort of information from Otti.

Well, it mattered not. After rolling it over his knuckles briefly, the dark-haired youth slipped the Dusk Ring onto his left pinky finger, clenching and unclenching his fist to get a sense as to its fit.

“A conversation,” he spoke, turning to face Nesherit once more, “with Rullphana will take the entirety of these three days. Continue, Prince.”
Mmm, I'll bite.


The moment Sofron’s wound closed while she pulled out her dagger was the moment that Klava knew she was fucked. Of course someone who diamond flames would have other tricks up his sleeve too. She just hadn’t thought he had an auto-healing card to play.
It was a misplay then, but not one that she’d regret.

As the man’s hands clamped over her thigh, as words left his own mouth that she couldn’t properly hear, the melting snowwoman of an esper had only one word to say.


Sofron’s hands pushed through a sheet of snow as Klava teleported back down the hallway, landing in a crouched position atop the catering cart. Even through the adrenaline, the toll of flat-out tanking the full effects of Balewulf agonized her, enough so that it would hurt more to wipe the tears out of her eyes than to keep enduring the sting of tear gas. But the fight didn’t stop just on account of her pain, and the grind didn’t stop either. If it was up to Apollo to give Sofron his funeral rites, then it was up to Klava to make sure that Protector stopped wasting time on mooks and started getting the job done. Through blurred vision, she made out the silhouette of the armored hulk jumping down into the hole that the Cobra Gang had blasted and inched her way towards the hole as well. Her feet were burning now, smouldering against the ashes of the hallway, but those were all momentary pains, all temporary distractions. When she detransformed, everything would be fine. She was used to this.

She has become used to this.

Klava closed her eyes, trying to give them as much of a break as she could as she pressed her index finger between her brows. Wish, melody, chant, prayer, cause, effect.

Amidst gunfire beneath and the crackling all around, no words could be heard from her blistered lips.

But power accumulated regardless, and as Protector went for her killing strokes, Klava forced her eyes open, granting her a split-second of clarity before tears and smoke scarred her vision again. The beam, pure as moonlight reflecting off of freshly fallen snow, shot downwards, towards the only person who wasn’t dressed like a goon.

Towards the King, the Cobra.
With most having had their meals and their initial conversations squared away, the attention of the students naturally turned towards the dance floor. Franz Steiner, despite being a rat, a murderer, and a scam, had put on a mean display of dance skills on the open space, somehow not looking out of place despite the lack of a lady in his arms. There was something admirable about the confidence of the man, undoubtedly, a self-assuredness that made others hesitant to be the second act…until Inti joined in with his own off-kilter interpretation of Occidental-Abya-Yalan fusion dance. That drew more than a couple chuckles out of the observers, most of them wondering who that kid even was, but while the Austrian’s dance was beautiful, the Aztec’s dance was compelling. And when a couple of shitfaced teens crashed into the dance floor following Inti’s routine, demanding perhaps one of the most hilariously satirical orchestrations of the 16th century?

Well, who wouldn’t skip out on an opportunity to dunk on those islanders with an outsized ego?

Brass instruments blared out brightly, echoing throughout the opera hall with the bombast of artillery, as more than a couple drunk Polymaths, in lieu of accidentally causing a catastrophe with their specializations, sang in off-kilter unison with Kalil instead, some with more vulgar interpretation of the lyrics than others. Above in the private boxes, those that fancied themselves more aristocratic sneered or giggled at the display, while those who sat at the dining tables at the back were forced to endure the cacophony they were surrounded in. Hearing damage may not be a complete possibility, but if that elephant-faced Egoist joined in, perhaps no one would be leaving the party without blown-out eardrums. Still, this amount of merry-making may have been expected out of Polymaths who suddenly found themselves free to do as they wished, to mingle with who they wished. So many of them had been tied to academies and parents, governments and wellwishers. But here in Bermuda, surrounded only by their peers? For many, this was the first true night of freedom that they’ve had, not to pursue their own designs, but to act out in socially irresponsible manners.

And with a crescendo of instruments and voices, the song ended, leaving them all breathless.

In that lapse of concentration, in the caesura of youthful restlessness, a man, beard well-trimmed and hair swept back, stepped out from the orchestra of mechanical musicians, his presence commanding, his features a handsome mix of Oriental and Occidental. A few shrill gasps sounded from those more musically-inclined amongst the Polymaths; one particularly-enthused lady even fainted on the spot. For he was Ling-Ling Zamloch, a violinist with international fame, whose talents had seen him perform all across the world. His right hand could control a bow with near-molecular precision, while his left hand could strike the strings at speeds that easily surpassed machinery, all whilst maintaining his humanity. And now, he was here? Some may have dreamt of it, some may have thought it possible, but none had expected that such a humanistic artisan of the musical crafts would be performing for them in-person!

For a moment, the middle-aged man stood, eyes lowered in heart-wrenching contemplation.

Seconds ticked by, the lights in the room slowly concentrating upon him.

And then, bathed in luminescence, he let out a rare smile.

“Would the real Franz Steiner please stand up?”

One finger crooked, beckoning the prodigy of prodigies, the Universal Genius who needed to sacrifice nothing to attain his Formulization.

It was never a challenge that the Austrian boy could back down from, and in Ling-Ling’s shadow emerged a second violin. Twin Stradivariuses, crafted of warm wood and polished by the hands of a master luthier. Seconds stretched on to eternity as two musicians tuned their instruments, the notes honing like the sharpening of blades before a battle, while one of the waiters assembled a stand upon which sheet music was provided to Franz.

‘Danse Macabre, an arrangement for two.’

The genius youth met the gaze of the untouched apex and in unison, they raised their violins.

It has begun.

Thirty minutes remained until the end of the night.

By the time someone cracked a joke about Silver Gate's silver gate for the third time, Otis had to consciously restrain himself from shooting them. If there was one thing he hated more than losing, if there was one thing he hated more than the unknown, it was repetition. Especially vocalized repetition for the purpose of some immature sense of humor. But, alas, murder was not a solution while within polite society, doubly so when going through customs. Outside of a host of electronics and the terabyte-sized USB he used to keep all his personal research notes though, the Strigidae had nothing to bring with him back home. This was neither a triumphant return nor a family occasion, after all. This was still him coming back 'home' solely for business.

And in this case, what he was here was for materials. Earth, as scientifically advanced as it was, had materials that were generally much less varied in arcane purpose than Arcanis, and while Otis could make do with bullets, the battle in Kyoto reminded him that he needed more than just bullets. He needed more guns. More options. More power. An answer to harnessing the power of the bell that jingled in the patterned pouch that hung from his hips.

Of course, being an Arcanis native, most of what Mayble said fell on deaf ears and Otis spent the entire speech staring a hole into her mouth, waiting for it to finally close for good. The instant she concluded, he strode off, bold and cold as always. He had spent six years of his life in Arcture, studying first to catch up to others his age, then studying to surpass them in knowledge scientific and domestic. He knew these streets like the stitching of his pockets, and he had no need for weapons or armor either. Ignoring the customs officer who looked absolutely flabbergasted why someone would turn down what was essentially free money, the Strigidae stepped out into the daylight, into the fresh air, of the world that was his home.

He allowed himself one second to get the sentiment out of his system, before making a beeline towards the Adventurer's Guild, through the grand doors, to the line up, and finally, for the guild receptionist.

The clack of his badge against polished wood sounded clearly over the hubbub of conversation.

"Otis Tan Arillo, of Clan Strigidae." Clear words, tinged with youthful audacity. "I'm here to hunt."
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