Multiple Settings 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓥𝓪𝓷𝓰𝓾𝓪𝓻𝓭 (Main Thread)

[Hell0NHighWater]

↽LOCATION⇁‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎↽VIBES⇁
Bishop Manor; Trapdoor Room‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎Better Than Me


↽INTERACTIONS⇁‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎↽OOC⇁
BELIAL. ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎Oop I tried
wickedlittlecritta L0ck0n ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎
noonshine ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎‎‏

⑈ Valentin Auclair ⑈​

Valentin quirked a brow, lifting his gaze from the cup in his hands to Roman presenting more of a hypothesis than an actual inquiry. A smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth, but he didn’t say anything immediately. Content to let his gaze roam across his figure for a moment before returning his attention to the spout—streaming what he hoped was vodka into the chalice.

He cut the tap and rose to his feet just in time for Vasilis to pledge her support. Val’s smile grew a bit sharper as he brought the cup towards his lips, “Oh, good. I am glad we all agree destruction is the best method.”

The rancid sweetness suddenly coating his taste buds made him wish he made better life decisions. Without a second thought he spit the rest of the offending liquid on the ground and then promptly dumped the rest of what was in his cup out. Features compressed into a glower, he took a moment to shake the porcelain container before chucking it to some unknown corner of the room. Too concerned with his own disgust and disappointment, he didn’t notice Vasilis kicking at the spout on her barrel until it tore off—spewing grossly sweet liquid across the floor.

“Oh la vache!” He exclaimed, springing away quickly in an attempt to avoid getting his socks wet.

Val shuffled beside the barrel he had been using with a wicked curve to his lips and a devious gleam in his eyes. He didn’t need much more prompting. Instantly following Vasilis’ example, he began to violently kick at the nozzle until the wood splintered and the liquid inside came pouring out. Grinning, Val shoved a piece of his hair back out of his face as he watched the contents of both barrels pool together. A smidge breathless, he snapped a brief thumbs up before gesturing to the third barrel. “Last one, oui?”

Valentin gave the wood an almost affectionate slap before snapping his gaze up to the rest of the mages gathered in this extremely tiny room. He felt a bead of sweat roll down the side of his face as anxiousness churned his stomach. Desperate not to let it show that the tight space and possibility of rats scurrying about was bothering him, Valentin put on his best 'sales-man' smile. "Does anyone else wish to let out some pent up aggression? I promise, it is very satisfying. Not quite as satisfying as a good lay, but," he shrugged with a little sigh, "Quand on est à Rome, il faut faire comme les Romains."

[/color]

 

[wickedlittlecritta]

Devin Murphy
Location: Bishop Manor Trap Door Room| Mood: About to cause problems on purpose|Interacting with: Val Hell0NHighWater , Sil L0ck0n , Roman noonshine , Kitty BELIAL.

Devin followed Valentin down the trap door, relieved that he didn't seem much worse for the wear from his acquaintance with the floor. He remained perched on the ladder to have a better view of the strange casks that Sil and Valentine immediately decided to break, while Kitty looked on in something like amusement and Roman in something like despair.

Surely the baron had pictured a host of pliant little Bernard Kings when he had envisioned this program. How furious must he be to find it full of Valentin Auclairs and Vasilis Laskirises. But what else could you really expect, if you stopped to think about it for half a second? How many of them would have spent their lives as throwaway children and distrusted adults? It wasn't exactly the ideal recipe for the perfect soldiers.

"Go on, mo chara, snap that right off yourself," Devin called encouragingly to Valentin's offer for someone else to bust open the last spigot. The first two gushed out something that smelled sickeningly floral, and that had tasted vile, judging from Valentin's reaction. "Nothing like a little property damage after dinner, huh?" he asked, wrapping an arm more securely around the ladder as he shuffled down a rung to get a slightly closer view, while still giving himself an extra couple of inches over everyone else's heads. He had no idea where any of this was supposed to lead, but he liked watching them break things.

It's gonna take you people years to recover from all of the damage​

 

[Cashi]

MOOD: Cautious--maybe even a little more comfortable

LOCATION: The room on the other side of the fireplace

two

MENTIONS: Hell0NHighWater

two

TAGS:
BELIAL. idalie StormWolf

two

TL;DR: Ilya makes a decision and snickers at Roland

two

Ilya

If the Winter Palace wasn’t built in a day, then this variety of mages that fit together like a mismatched jigsaw puzzle wouldn’t become a unit in one either. They had barely known each other a few hours, and infighting was to be expected as all players got comfortable with one another and knew where to stop stepping on toes. Some relationships had progressed further and more easily than others yet already foes were being sized up and measured.
Someone had even already fainted.

The dread that accompanied the idea of alighting down those stairs with the two women and the fire-spitting man was only slightly more than the dread of turning to his left and following the Lady Isolde, the man with the cane, and the cowboy under the fireplace.
It’s no use to have two water mages in one room, he rationalised, brushing any remains of ice from the mantel as the witchfinder pet ducked through the hole. It would make more sense to be separated.
He hesitated, scuffing a shoe against the worn but richly elaborate rug in the room, as one-by-one the rest of the Vanguard filed out of their starting area. Even the Frenchman--Val--had made up his scattered mind and opted for the stairs (after rousing from his dead faint).
Ilya chuckled at his own unintended pun--dead faint--and pushed off of the mantel, crouching over to squeeze into the next room through a hole that was clearly never intended to accommodate his 230 pound frame.
The ripping noise made him freeze halfway through to the next room, and Ilya closed his eyes in an attempt at maintaining patience, a muscle jumping in his cheek as he clenched his teeth.
So the jacket can withstand my throwing a table, but God forbid I bend over, he thought acidly.
Regardless, he pushed through, carefully stepping over the iron gate at the heart of the fireplace, and stood up to his full height once on the other side (after a quick check to ascertain the rip hadn’t been his pants).
He opened his mouth to say something to the people assembled, but nothing helpful or meaningful came to mind, and Ilya was still at the threshold of deciding whether or not being friends with these people was even advantageous in the long run.
So he clicked his mouth shut and watched Roland tie a cloth around his eyes and set off down the hallway--only to have a door swing open just before him as Isolde’s cry echoed off the walls.
Ilya’s imagination pre-empted him as he could see in his mind’s eyes Roland heading straight first into the door and rebounding, maybe even falling on his ass. The snicker he tried to smother with a cough was undeniable and reverberated through the room.
”Good reflexes, Cowboy.”

We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars

code by valen t.

​

Spoiler: Easy on the Eyes

If the Winter Palace wasn’t built in a day, then this variety of mages that fit together like a mismatched jigsaw puzzle wouldn’t become a unit in one either. They had barely known each other a few hours, and infighting was to be expected as all players got comfortable with one another and knew where to stop stepping on toes. Some relationships had progressed further and more easily than others yet already foes were being sized up and measured.
Someone had even already fainted.

The dread that accompanied the idea of alighting down those stairs with the two women and the fire-spitting man was only slightly more than the dread of turning to his left and following the Lady Isolde, the man with the cane, and the cowboy under the fireplace.
It’s no use to have two water mages in one room, he rationalised, brushing any remains of ice from the mantel as the witchfinder pet ducked through the hole. It would make more sense to be separated.
He hesitated, scuffing a shoe against the worn but richly elaborate rug in the room, as one-by-one the rest of the Vanguard filed out of their starting area. Even the Frenchman--Val--had made up his scattered mind and opted for the stairs (after rousing from his dead faint).
Ilya chuckled at his own unintended pun--dead faint--and pushed off of the mantel, crouching over to squeeze into the next room through a hole that was clearly never intended to accommodate his 230 pound frame.
The ripping noise made him freeze halfway through to the next room, and Ilya closed his eyes in an attempt at maintaining patience, a muscle jumping in his cheek as he clenched his teeth.
So the jacket can withstand my throwing a table, but God forbid I bend over, he thought acidly.
Regardless, he pushed through, carefully stepping over the iron gate at the heart of the fireplace, and stood up to his full height once on the other side (after a quick check to ascertain the rip hadn’t been his pants).
He opened his mouth to say something to the people assembled, but nothing helpful or meaningful came to mind, and Ilya was still at the threshold of deciding whether or not being friends with these people was even advantageous in the long run.
So he clicked his mouth shut and watched Roland tie a cloth around his eyes and set off down the hallway--only to have a door swing open just before him as Isolde’s cry echoed off the walls.
Ilya’s imagination pre-empted him as he could see in his mind’s eyes Roland heading straight first into the door and rebounding, maybe even falling on his ass. The snicker he tried to smother with a cough was undeniable and reverberated through the room.
”Good reflexes, Cowboy.”

​

​

 

[Sylvio]

Delvin Connelly

Delvin remained silent the whole time, it was times like these where he just wanted to sit back and watch chaos unfurl before his very eyes. This was by far some of the best entertainment he thought he could ever have beside his military days. The unwanted destruction and the constant odd coupling. When the trapdoor opened, Delvin's face was written with glee once the mages had descended down the trapdoor. Odds were it probably meant certain death. The baron seemed like the type of scum to put them in a gauntlet of death just for the fun of it. But the atmosphere and ambience from his colleagues just made everything so lighthearted he didn't really seem to care. He knew Devin was probably having more fun than he was, the mischievous bugger that he was.

But as the group descended down to the chamber of caskets littering the room, Delvin couldn't help but walk up to one while Sil and Valentine insisted on breaking said caskets. Using a lose piece of debris from the floor, Delvin punctured one of the caskets which was enough to create a stream to flow out of it. Delvin picked up the casket and put it above his head consuming an unnecessary amount than what was probably recommended. Clearly he ignored the cups before him to actually drink the stuff but he had a thirst to quench. Eventually Delvin choked on some of it in disgust and got some on his face and hair. He threw the casket to the side as it broke into pieces. "Oh my god that shite's foul." Delvin was able to usher before hacking up a lung. He could feel the taste of flowers and expensive perfume filling his mouth. He liked sweet drinks every now and then but whatever this was, was on some other plane that Delvin's tastebuds would never want to experience again.

"I'm probably gonna need a good lay when we're done with this bollocks." Delvin said in light of Valentine's comment, trying to sell the caskets to the other after Delvin started to shake from the disgusting flavor of whatever that liquid was made of. Delvin took a casket to use as a seat to sit this one out. He genuinely just wanted something to quench his thirst. "Forget the lay some water would be grand." He said before breathing heavily.

mood: thirsty for drinks and chaos | location: Bishop Manor Trapdoor room | tags: wickedlittlecritta Cashi Hell0NHighWater L0ck0n noonshine BELIAL.

code: @s e v e n

 

[noonshine]

ROMAN GRAVES

Regret, it was instant, the second he watched Vasilis' expression shift to some sort of (miss)understanding. Truly, he thought she was going to patter over and twist all the spouts to let the liquid drain- although he would have liked to talk more about what they thought the clue meant some action may be a necessity to get them out of the room.



“That was not-” he was cut short, watching the woman in the ill fitting suit kick of the nozzle to one of the casks, essentially perfuming them all for the rest of their lives with the fumes of the liquid that poured out, a shifting scraping sound came from the bottom of that barrel as the liquid drained. “That was not an instruction, Miss Laskaris!” Something told him he had spoken those words too quietly.



Suddenly Valentin had flung one of the porcelain cups, it shattered in the corner, and Roman nearly jumped out of his skin- then the second barrel was kicked as well, another unnecessary bout of destruction. “For God’s sake-” Roman eyed Devin as he encouraged the breaking of the third one,which he was going to suggest they just turn the spout until Delvin joined in on the barrel breaking. Delvin- who also guzzled far too much of the liquid than could have been healthy by holding the barrel over his head in one of the most ludicrous and foul displays of attempted alcoholic consumption Roman had ever had the displeasure of witnessing. It couldn’t have even been a drinkable alcohol, considering Valentin had tossed it aside so quickly. When Delvin tipped it back there was a peculiar sort of thunk that came from inside the barrel, but Roman, in that moment, did not think much of the noise.



He was completely unable to force down a smile- it was ridiculous to watch them all go about their peculiar methods of exploration. Endearing, but in the way stray cats were delightful and charming to watch even when they were rolling about in filth.



“Destruction is not the best metho-” silence fell over him as he watched the liquid roll behind the casks, and instead of just puddling at the corner, it seemed to drain where the bricks of the wall and floor met, but only in a space the size of a door. “I stand corrected,” he chirped, making his way to inspect the possible doorway. “There is something here,” he said, feeling over the bricks, “but how to get to it?”

TEMPLATE © BOKEH​

 

[idalie]

Location: Baron's Manor, Room Two
Interactions: BELIAL. StormWolf Cashi
Mentions: The Gang

Bernard King​

Watching the young Irish boy and his uppity acquaintance, he stopped himself from going any further for argument's sake. Make no misconception however, his blood bubbled with uncomfortable, quiet rage that could only mourn the men who may die to such brash action in the coming weeks.

Bernard had always suffered from a certain imposter syndrome; it was the knowledge he had been born to breathe the coal soot off the factory floor, the weight of his German name, and the uncertain bonds he’d formed with a family that was not his to own. Isolde made that clear nowadays, without Beatrice there was nothing to tie them together, except for the pity that Baron Bishop had bestowed him. In all things, he was a traitor by nature. If the public or parliament ever discovered such origins, it would be irredeemable damnation.

Stooping to pick up the cane which had clattered to the ground in the heat of the moment, King plucked his folded handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit and cleaned the handle methodically. God knows what would be on the floor after the small rampage of useless mages, all of whom seemed more bark than bite and about as fearsome as a chocolate fire poker. Save for the Russian.

After he and Isolde had stolen glances of the dossiers, a late-night espionage mission headed by curiosity, he had thought that those with military records would be more apt. Granted, being shelled day and night took its toll on the nerves and the nights he’d spent lying on his back in no man’s land were some he’d rather not recall.

Tucking away the folded square of cloth and taking the cane in a fist, he glanced to Roland’s mention with a slight nod as Isa dived, a little too merrily, in front of the line. There was still puzzles ahead and with that, the group split - all for the better in his opinion. One he might not express to have held, but such was the way it worked. Ducking behind Isolde and shouldering through the small fireplace path, they emerged into the long and undoubtedly treacherous hallway with another mission statement before them.

Isolde’s own eyes would zip towards him in their flustered nature, Bernard arching his brow lazily as if to question whether they were seeking reassurance or avoiding the Columbian’s stare. It was possible he could retract his statements from earlier and beg the other group to take him since it looked as if she had maintained her unhealthy obsession with the Cowboy, appropriately nicknamed by their Russian colleague.

“Normal parlour games? If Baron Bishop can, he will. Limited only by Taboos, or at least, that we know of.”

Roland took the first blindfold and stepped out into the field of play with Isolde’s guiding voice and into a - quite literal - trap door. Ilya's unconvincing cough only fuelled Bernard's badly disguised smirk.

“So, Isolde, were you always such a natural navigator?" He dryly quipped, expecting a cuff to the back of the head.

 

[StormWolf]

Location: The Room II

Interactions: BELIAL. , Cashi

Mentions: idalie
Collaboration with BELIAL.

Roland MacCann​

Though blinded by the slip of fabric over his eyes, there was something in the air that could be felt in the air. An electric tension, like when a dark cloud, pregnant with the promise of a storm, looms on the horizon. The chill of a predator looking directly in your eyes. The wandering gaze of someone's attention upon your person. Roland was happy for the blindfold covering his own ears and nose as he felt a prickling of heat upon his freckled flesh. Shadows striped his jawline as he clenched his teeth in an effort to stifle a grin. They were supposed to be professionals, as the Lady had said, and with the less-than-inspiring display from the others, Roland felt the pressure of unseen, uncaring eyes upon them.

If they failed, if he failed, then Roland's future was cast into the unknown, at the mercy of those who held the sway of debt and contract over him.

Squaring his shoulders and assuming a balanced poise that toed the line between dancer and pugilist, Roland proceeded down the path as instructed. Aged floorboards creaked under his weight with every step, some primal part of Roland's brain expecting every sound to be the spring of some dastardly trap. His hands were steady, but for the trigger finger on his right hand, which twitched ever so faintly.

At least nothing is on fire... Roland thought to himself just as Isolde cried out. Roland's stance shifted, his hands shooting up into a defensive boxer's stance and taking on an overall pantherish countenance. Whatever the trigger mechanism was, Roland heard the click, the groan of hinges, and the whoosh of air displaced. Shuffling back with his head low and guarded by his arms, Roland felt the narrow space between him and whatever it was that had engaged to his left. His heart thundered in his ears, but his breathing was steady.

It was the Russian who spoke first, and Roland was surprised that the fellow had the capacity to make a sardonic quip.

"You should see me juggle, Peril," he said through clenched teeth. Taking a few deep breaths, he straightened into his previous posture with a gradual un-clenching, knuckles and joints popping slightly as pressure eased.

"Whenever y'all are ready to continue..."

“Keep ahead now, Mr. MacCann! I’ll try to… give advanced warning,” Isolde whimpered.

Roland tilted his head to Isolde’s voice, bobbing his head sharply in understanding before moving forward once again under the guidance of those who still possessed all of their faculties. Once again, Roland pushed ahead by the guidance of Isolde, and what he expected would be the peanut gallery of Russian and German.

A mere few steps after the first obstacle, there was the clattering of a trap door opening from the ceiling. From it began to descend a rather large bundle, something wrapped in a dark, felt blanket.

“Ahead! Move ahead quickly!” Isolde shrieked. Immediately, Roland fell back into a familiar trench-run posture, keeping on the same axis as he dashed forward with a clatter behind and around him. Various objects fell from the blanket, some lighter than others. The harder things tumbled onto the floor, some disappearing into the holes on either side of the narrow pathway. The lighter objects seemed to be foam cut outs, of the sort. The heavier ones, well, were painted over. Something scored Roland along the shoulder, but there was nothing he could do about it now. The only way forward was through.

“This is entirely too stressful, are you alright Mr. MacCann?” Isolde called out; worry tinting her voice. “You’re nearly there!”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ve h--”

Not even a single step later and another door on the left swung open.

“Another door! On your left!”

Hearing the warning and once again feeling the shift in the air, Roland switched his forward foot back one long step, feeling the breath of the trap caress his cheek with the smell of aged wood varnish and dust.

The third door, another on the left, swings out no two steps past the last one.

“Again! On your left! This is ridiculous,” Isolde shouted, this time more annoyed. Under better circumstances, Roland would have found the exasperation in her voice charming. For now, Roland’s screaming muscles could only echo her sentiment as Roland narrowly missed a step, nearly stumbled, and had to resort to pushing off against the last door to keep from falling. The force of the impact spun him in a pirouette until his boot came down with a thunderous boom, anchoring Roland against the floor once again. The whole ordeal, without being able to visually orient himself, was dizzying.

But the final door seemed to be the last, cautious stepping avoiding any more traps to be rigged.

“I believe you’re at the end, Mr. MacCann! The lever is just to your right, it should reset the traps and fix the floor for us.”

“Whew! I certainly hope so,” he muttered, shaking out his smarting forearms and tingling hands. It was like getting smacked with a paddle again, but way worse. Venturing ahead, Roland groped blindly for the lever, giving it a firm tug with the satisfying, muffled motion of mechanisms unseen.

“Am I free to remove the blindfold, or am I to remain an invalid for the duration of this endeavor?”

 

[wickedlittlecritta]

Devin Murphy
Location: Bishop Manor Trap Door Room| Mood: About to cause problems on purpose|Interacting with: Val Hell0NHighWater , Sil L0ck0n , Roman noonshine , Kitty BELIAL.

From his vantage point on the ladder, Devin could clearly see the liquid roll across the floor and beneath the wall. Sloped floor? Drain on the other side?

What ever it was, that was their way through and out of these obnoxious puzzles.

"Well, if we want to do the thing nicely, I suppose Delvin could move the bricks," Devin said to Roman. "Or I could huff and puff and blow the house down, as it were." He paused. "I think I like that option better. Let's blow the house down and get out of here."

It's gonna take you people years to recover from all of the damage​

 

[BELIAL.]

Location: Room 3
Interactions: Sil, Roman, Valentin, Delvin, Devin,
Mentions: L0ck0n noonshine wickedlittlecritta Hell0NHighWater

Kitty Maclerie​

Kitty pursed her lips in thought, tapping the chin in thought as she gazed to the others. Yes, the paper was definitely talking about the barrels. The Baron, a crazy Englishman now that Kitty had had a moment to decide, trapped them in these awful little rooms... for what? To flail about, knocking heads? Drinking strange liquid? Probably drugged by the uppities anyway, just for their amusement. Everyone who didn't fit the mold of ideal, English soldier was in this room. Well, except for the pretty ninny with the fire breath.

He suggested emptying the casks to see if they would make a stream. Kitty clicked her tongue, pointing her finger at the man. "Now thas a brilliant idea if ah've ever heard un," Kitty said with a big smile to the man. "Really show those uppities how we feel aboot their minted liquor." She threw a wicked smile to the others, but watched in a bit of absent curiosity as some of the others went to sip from the casks. Kitty wouldn't trust it as far as she could throw the casks themselves, and simply posed to watch the reaction.

She expected something, but not the outright disgust the others had. Raising her eyebrows, she knocked shoulders with Roman. "No need to worry aboot Uncle Jakey an the others then. Maybe you've got the clue, Richie."

The mischief within Kitty was only ignited when Vasilis stomped on the tap of the cask. Her eyes glittered with excitement, watching the liquid sputter then spill out. The red-head held a hand to her mouth, nearly masking the cackle from behind her lips.

"Go ahead an break the 'ole feckin' thing as your at it!" Kitty hollered to Sil, cheering on her fellow female. Valentin broke his next, Kitty whooping and hollering again. "Yeah, stick it to 'em Uncle Jakey!" The porcelain cup flying against the wall made her jump again, newfound joy within her chest. This was much better than boring parlor games. She didn't pity whatever the others were doing. It clearly didn't compare.

The casks seemed to be quite full of the liquid, spilling onto the ground and running over the laces and heels of the participants. Caught up in it, Kitty happily stepped forward to face the final cask. She jerked her thumb to Delvin, dissatisfied with the small puncture he had done. "Outta the way, ah got money to spill.

"I got this 'un, hens. Watch and learn from a pro-fession-al," Kitty said to the others, grinning madly. She pushed her hands forward, toward the cask. Squeezing her eyes shut, grounding her feet in her heels, she took a deep breath before quickly and viciously pulling her arms back, with her fists still pointed to the cask. The liquid from inside burst forward, breaking through the tap, and spilling from the cracks in the wood. It lapped onto the ground, Kitty staring with frizzy curls and a wide smile.

She noticed Roman head to the wall, and hastily pulled her skirts to head toward him. Dropping to a squat, she put two fingers at the barely visible crack at the bottom. She followed it best she could, using the very edge of her nail to try and feel for a break in the texture. Peering at the bricks, she nodded along. Looking back at Devin as he spoke, Kitty nodded again.

"Go fer it then, dunno how muchofa breeze is going burst the bricks. You get tired there, lad, I'll do my own trickery. Water 'as a funny way of gettin' in the wee cracks," Kitty raised her eyebrows, pursing her lips again and crossing her hands behind her back. Standing back, she gestured for Devin to do his thing.

 

[L0ck0n]

Vasilis Laskaris

"Those who preserve, shall win."

Sil chuckled at how ecstatic Signora Maclerie was at her successfully breaking the nozzle. Unbuckling the suit she had on Sil took the jacket off, and adjusted the cuffs of her sleeved blouse. Winking to the fellow female mage she watched as Valentin broke the nozzle off of the other barrel. Watching him do so, and seeing how Signora Maclerie was cheering them on Sil smirked. It was amusing for her to be in a situation where they could break shit, but for a split second she wondered what their audience was thinking; fearful, let down possibly, and a whole lot of surprises.

Shaking her head at the offer to break the last barrel she turned to Signore Graves to see if he was going to have a go at it. Sil held in a laugh, and she immediately turned to keep from giving away that she was laughing at his reaction to the situation. Letting a few snickers escape Sil watched as Roman was practically having a breakdown at their attempt to cause as much havoc as possible. She could admit, it was a rash decision to tear apart the nozzle the way she did. There was the idea to be civil and open each nozzle individually to let the liquid pour from the barrels, but that idea had a flaw. The nozzle was only so big, and she did not want to stand there staring at every person she would rather not be in this small room with. She was sure the guy who could see ghosts thought the same. She could tell he was either uncomfortable, or exhausted from all of this. It could be both, but she couldn’t tell which it was. He was good at hiding it, but not perfect. Glancing in his direction Sil looked back to Roman whose demeanor changed from irritated to a sort of curiosity. The situation had changed when he realized his idea, and her execution, led them to success. “And what is this about destruction not being the answer, Signore Graves?” Sil teased. “A THANK YOU would be nice. Just so you know.”

Turning behind them to the young boy that entered the small room she raised her hand to shine a better light in his direction. “Ei, tu, picciriddu, vieni ad aiutare- Ah,” She caught herself speaking straight italian, and corrected what she had said. “Hey you, boy, come he-” Before she could finish what she had said the man who sat across from her at dinner had decided to pick up the last unbroken barrel. Whipping her head around toward him to try and protest against the idea Sil wrinkled her nose in disgust to what he did. She covered her mouth on instinct from remembering how the small sip of that nasty liquid had tasted. “Stùpitu…”

Without letting a minute pass Signora Maclerie decided to show the boys how it was to be done. With a wide grin on Sil’s face she decided to pay her back for the encouragement. “Ay, show these ragazzi how it’s done!” Whistling, and clapping as the water spewed out of the barrel Sil was surprised as to what type of mage she was. It may have been the hair, or how vivacious Signora Maclerie acted but Sil mistook her for another fire mage. To have such a vibrant person for a water mage...the night was full of surprises.

Letting the others inspect the newfound discovery, Sil stood back as they considered different ideas for getting out. At least, they hoped this was gonna be the way out. The sparks from the light source she was able to have was starting to dull. “Uhm, can we find out how to get out pretty soon? The champagne is wearing off…” she trailed off as she focused to brighten the light source by attempting to use magic. If the light was wearing off then that meant she would be able to use her magic, but it would be useless in this situation. Her magic wasn't offensive, or even defensive for that matter.

Sil looked around the room for possible ideas as to how to get out. “What if, maybe, we throw those barrels at that weak spot there? Ya’ think that will work?”

Mood: Excitement, Destructive, Concerned | Location: Trap Door Room | Tag: BELIAL.
noonshine
Hell0NHighWater
wickedlittlecritta
Sylvio

coded by weldherwings.

 

[BELIAL.]

Location: Baron's Manor || Room 2
Interactions: Bernard, Roland, Ilya
Mentions: idalie StormWolf Cashi

Isolde Bishop​

Her heart had nearly burst from her chest during the whole ordeal. While she wasn't sure what sort of fate would have befallen Roland, it wouldn't have been a comfortable one. Still, she prided herself on at least attempting to help the man across. There was only so much she, Bernard and Ilya could have done, anyway. The man was on his own-- save for the chorus of voices chirping and shouting to guide him. If this was some sort of trust, or communication building exercise, it felt a bit childish. If she knew one thing about the battlefront, it was that there wasn't going to be wandering halls and falling debris or doors opening to certain death. But then again, judging by the way the group had reacted earlier, she was sure that the childish affairs were more to test the waters than launch them directly into things.

But knowing her Uncle, they'd no doubt be in the fray sooner rather than later. All of this was for show, like some sort of zoo exhibit, no doubt. While they were capable (or semi-capable from the way she judged the others), this Vanguard experiment was also backed by important shareholders and Parliament members. She'd heard that the Press would be given access to a lot of the Vanguard's downtime, perhaps to relate them to the people in a way. She didn't mind if it meant that mages would be treated equally, finally. Or at least some recognition that they weren't magic-hurling monsters. Not like how the Witchfinders, and history, portrayed them as anyhow.

"Yes, you're more than fine to remove the blindfold. You're safe enough. Hopefully there's no other tricks in this room," she said to Roland, but looked around a bit apprehensively. Was a giant tube of fire going to descend on them? Where the walls going to close in?

She didn't want to think about the latter. More so to avoid the anxious spiraling that could--or could not-- happen.

Rather, when Roland pulled the lever, the floor seemed to rise. The holes in the ground filled with rising, or sliding, wood. The floor appeared to be normal, enough. There was a slow click as things snapped into place. Isolde dared to edge forward, toward the once treacherous walk.

"It would have been quite the excitement if we all had to go. But then again, perhaps there's some lesson about trust and sacrifice here. You must be quite lucky, Mr. MacCann," she said to him, a small grin on her face. "You're as dexterous as a cat! Is it something they feed you New Columbians?" She didn't want to make a snide mention about the mages being the ones who had led him through, not misleading him through it. Just as easily, any of them could have shouted for a wrong direction. Just to have seen him fall.

Isolde could be petty, but she would not risk her skin like that now. And yet...

She moved across, picking up haste in the fear that some trap would spring or a door would open. She kicked away a few of the debris that had fallen earlier, making her way toward the door. She sized up Roland once she was there, pursing her lips. The same wicked thought she'd pushed away earlier came back like a venomous sting.

"I suppose you should be grateful that we mages didn't direct you to an open door, or into the pits. I'd hate to see you use your gun... from a hole in the ground," she said with a narrow gaze. She looked to the holster once more, clicking her tongue. She felt a bit of anger, laced with annoyance, grip her heart. Sparing her gaze from burning his, she opted to reach for the door knob. It seemed easy enough. Perhaps this really was the end of things.

Swiftly opening the door, she opted to brace for anything that much lurch or jump out. Rather, there wasn't a thing. Just a dark room. From the light that spilled in from their current standing, she could see that it was a brick walled room. This door was one of two, with another located on the far wall. This door had a large lock-- waiting for the right key.

She looked to the others. "I think... this feels like the end of things. If we stay here, there's light. That room is awfully dark. I can conjure some flames, but I can't guarantee they won't leap into someone's lap. What do we think?"

 

[wickedlittlecritta]

Devin Murphy
Location: Bishop Manor Trap Door Room| Mood: About to cause problems on purpose|Interacting with: Val Hell0NHighWater , Sil L0ck0n , Roman noonshine , Kitty BELIAL.

Once, Devin had overheard someone say of his maternal grandfather that, "Conor Callaghan can be relied on to do anything, provided you told him not to do it first." Devin wasn't sure how like Conor Callaghan he'd grown up to be, but that, at least, they had in common. And when Kitty called his powers a breeze, Devin straightened up on the ladder, offended.

"A breeze? Is that how little you think of my work, cailín?" He tsked, one hand on his chest. "Watch your heads."

When he thought of strong winds, he thought of storms rolling in from the Atlantic, battering the shutters, tearing at roofs. You didn't get winds like them inland.

You did get them in this basement when he put his mind to it, the air above him whirling in a miniature hurricane to generate speed before howling off to the bricked up door to careen into it. Devin grinned smugly at the roar of wind above them. Even if they shouted, it would be hard to hear anyone over it.

It's gonna take you people years to recover from all of the damage​

 

[Hell0NHighWater]

↽LOCATION⇁‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎↽VIBES⇁
Bishop Manor; Trapdoor Room‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎Le Velo Pour Deux


↽INTERACTIONS⇁‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎↽OOC⇁
BELIAL. ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎Oop I tried
wickedlittlecritta L0ck0n ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎
noonshine Sylvio ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎‎‏

⑈ Valentin Auclair ⑈​

The cold brick around him was stationary, yet it closed in on him all the same. With each tense breath he forced himself not to hyperventilate on the stagnant air. The key to preventing his anxiety from escalating into all out panic was a simple trick and one that he employed frequently. Focus on something else long enough and the compulsion to burst into tears or scream as loud as humanly possible would rest patiently on the backburner of his mind. For the moment, that focus rested entirely on the man whose muscles looked to be carved from stone--lifting one of those barrels over his head as if it weighed no more than a sack of flour.

Valentin watched the liquid drain into Delvin’s mouth with a disgusted crinkle to his nose. He had drank some questionable beverages in his lifetime, but even he had enough sense not to guzzle something that certainly wasn’t alcohol and reminded him of hydrogen cyanide. Eyeing the man as he plopped the barrel back to the ground, Val swore for a second that he thought he heard something rattling around inside the wood. Chuckling softly, Valentin shook his head as he shifted closer to the barrel and grumbled, “You and me both, mon homme.”

Pulling a cigarette out of the pack, Val jammed it between his lips as he squatted next to the barrel Delvin had dropped. It was still oozing liquid. Glancing up at Devin hanging from the latter like some kind of monkey was amusing enough to pull a titter from his throat. Val grinned at the mention of property damage before his gaze was pulled back to the barrel.

_"Inside--"

A chill slithered down his spine and he squeezed his eyes shut. Once his heartbeat returned to normal he opened them again and took a look at the gaping hole where the spout used to be. Valentin gagged on the sickly sweet smell as he stuck a hand inside, blindly searching for whatever could have made the noise he had heard. His fingers grazed against something metal and he instantly grabbed it, pulling his hand from the barrel to stare blankly at a key.

Valentin jumped at the violent sound of wood cracking, almost dropping the key in his hand as he staggered away from the barrel that had abruptly decided to combust. His jaw went slack and his eyes went wide, astonished blue irises snapping to the woman with crimson hair. Had she done that? His brows drew together as a perplexed expression washed over his features.

_{"--another key, imbécile."}

Val pursed his lips and shot a dirty look over his shoulder, expecting to see a ghost but was instead greeted by the sight of Roman Graves feeling up a brick wall. Rolling his eyes, Val slipped the key into the same pocket that held his cigarettes and made his way over to the other two barrels. Placing his hands on his hips, he tongued his cigarette as his gaze darted between each barrel. “Which one?” Val questioned before pointing to the one on the left, “This one?”

_"Non--"

Nodding, Valentin turned to the barrel on the right. Kitty had smashed it good enough to create a gap wide enough for him to slip his hand through. Once again, his fingers brushed against something metal. Snatching the object, he pulled his hand out of the barrel to look at another key. A glib smirk hitched his mouth into a slant and just as he parted his lips to share his findings the tiny area he had spent so much time not focusing on suddenly became a wind tunnel. Knocked back on his ass, he cursed as the second key flew from his hands and skidded across the floor. Val drove after it, clumsily pawing at the ground as he tried to catch the key that was caught not only by the wind, but by the river of mysterious liquid as well.

Frantic, Valentin looked up to scream something at Vasilis but the tumultuous wind ate the words as if they had never been spoken to begin with.

_"--key"

Curling his hand into a fist, Valentin’s breathing ran ragged as the impression of running footprints danced across the river of mystery. The liquid rose suddenly, as if someone had slid, and a key was hoisted into the air by an invisible hand. A shadow of a man without a head flickered in the light of Vasilis’ illumination, holding a key in a triumphant pose.

Staggering to his feet, Valentin reached his hand out with his eyes squeezed shut--waiting for the key to be delivered to his palm. The shadow was gone in the blink of an eye and the key was nestled safely in Valentin’s iron grip.


[/color]

 

[Cashi]

(Smol post)

MOOD: Amused but not amused but then amused again

LOCATION: Booby-trap room

two

MENTIONS: idalie

two

TAGS:
BELIAL. StormWolf

two

TL;DR: See: Mood

two

Ilya

Ilya's icy grin has begun to fall as Roland cleared the first obstacle, and by the time the cowboy had reached the other end, mostly unscathed, Ilya's face has reassumed its dark, closed grimace. "Impressed" was not a sentiment Ilya had ever been keen on having about the New Columbian. However, he had to hand it to the man, the distinct fighter's stance had kept him light on his toes, his reflexes sharp and senses outside of sight honed from what Ilya could only assume was either training or experience. Or both. The lady Isolde seemed much more the concerning party as she crossed the floor, now free of bombardments and traps, and stood in front of Roland. Ilya followed suit, long, slow strides with his long legs carrying him over the floor harmlessly, where only moments before Roland had danced over it, light as a feather.
He caught up to the pair as Isolde made her sly comment, and Ilya turned his face to the side, pressing a thumb to the side of his mouth to hide the very slight upward curl of a lip as she spoke out loud what he had been thinking. All taunting and teasing aside, this man was a pet to the witchfinder general, the man who had almost single-handedly been the cause of so much grief in Ilya's life; not only Ilya's, but the lives of any and all mages who had had the misfortune to cross his path. Roland's support of a man so hellbent on genocide would always leave a foul taste in his mouth.
So he said nothing, only wiped the grin away and dropped his hand back into his pocket, watching as Isolde then moved to open the door. The interior was dark, but the light from their current room spilled through the open doorway and showed another door at the end of the next room. Ilya cast a glance back to the room they had just crossed, eyeing the floor and doors mistrustfully. He looked forward again, beyond the open door, then fixed Isolde with a firm stare. He opened his mouth, then looked away and cleared his throat, instead finding the the locked door to set his gaze on.
"I do not trust this room. It is..." he cast one last glance back to the spot in the ceiling where the trap section had sprung, dropping various debris over a blindfolded Roland and forcing him to make a rapid lunge out of the way. "Sneaky."
He gestured with his free arm through the open door.
"I am better--no, ehhhh better betting room is this one. Da?"

We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars

code by valen t.

​

Spoiler: Easy on the Eyes

Ilya's icy grin has begun to fall as Roland cleared the first obstacle, and by the time the cowboy had reached the other end, mostly unscathed, Ilya's face has reassumed its dark, closed grimace. "Impressed" was not a sentiment Ilya had ever been keen on having about the New Columbian. However, he had to hand it to the man, the distinct fighter's stance had kept him light on his toes, his reflexes sharp and senses outside of sight honed from what Ilya could only assume was either training or experience. Or both. The lady Isolde seemed much more the concerning party as she crossed the floor, now free of bombardments and traps, and stood in front of Roland. Ilya followed suit, long, slow strides with his long legs carrying him over the floor harmlessly, where only moments before Roland had danced over it, light as a feather.
He caught up to the pair as Isolde made her sly comment, and Ilya turned his face to the side, pressing a thumb to the side of his mouth to hide the very slight upward curl of a lip as she spoke out loud what he had been thinking. All taunting and teasing aside, this man was a pet to the witchfinder general, the man who had almost single-handedly been the cause of so much grief in Ilya's life; not only Ilya's, but the lives of any and all mages who had had the misfortune to cross his path. Roland's support of a man so hellbent on genocide would always leave a foul taste in his mouth.
So he said nothing, only wiped the grin away and dropped his hand back into his pocket, watching as Isolde then moved to open the door. The interior was dark, but the light from their current room spilled through the open doorway and showed another door at the end of the next room. Ilya cast a glance back to the room they had just crossed, eyeing the floor and doors mistrustfully. He looked forward again, beyond the open door, then fixed Isolde with a firm stare. He opened his mouth, then looked away and cleared his throat, instead finding the the locked door to set his gaze on.
"I do not trust this room. It is..." he cast one last glance back to the spot in the ceiling where the trap section had sprung, dropping various debris over a blindfolded Roland and forcing him to make a rapid lunge out of the way. "Sneaky."
He gestured with his free arm through the open door.
"I am better--no, ehhhh better betting room is this one. Da?"

​

​

 

[L0ck0n]

Vasilis Laskaris

"Those who persevere, shall win."

Letting the others use their brains to handle the puzzle to get out Sil turned her attention to Valentin. She was not sure what he was doing, but she watched as he stuck his hand into the first barrel. Che cazzo…? Narrowing her eyes to try to focus on what exactly he was doing Sil slowly inched the hand that held the lighted sparks in his direction. Careful not to signal to Valentin that she was watching him she wondered what possessed him to do what he was doing… Or if he was actually being possessed, which wasn’t a far-fetched idea in her opinion. She had seen things in her life and had memories of things she hadn’t seen; things that were questionable. But, conjuring ghosts? Not on that list.

The barrel that exploded startled Sil and disrupted her focus on Valentin. Pulling her hand away from the situation she looked to see what the young ragazzo was doing. Like her, he wasn’t doing anything specific to help their situation. Signora Maclerie insisted he help by breaking down whatever they needed to so they could get out, and if they could really do it then all the better. As Valentin continued to do whatever he was focused on doing Sil turned back to him. She had seen a glimpse of a shiny, small object a few seconds earlier, but the explosion of the barrel jolted her focus. Going back to observing him she watched as he interacted with something that wasn’t there. Not sure if he was aware of it, but he came off as someone who talked to himself. Sil tilted her head to the side in confusion. Was there a ghost in this room? Was the Baron's mansion haunted?

Which one? He asked himself and followed with This one?.

A feeling of fear made Sil saccade the room for any sign that a ghost was with them, as if ghosts casually made themselves known. Straightening back up in time to see what Valentin was doing it finally came together. Keys...Just like the room before, they needed keys. How Valentin knew that they were looking for keys was something she didn’t know, but did she want to know? Yes, and no.

Before anything else could happen the ragazzo clinging onto the ladder manipulated wind in a fashion that was more aggressive than she wished. Knocked forward by the wind tunnel that appeared Sil attempted to stay standing, stumbling a few times before finding some footing. The light she was using disappeared when she lost focus, thus leaving them in the dark. After cursing up a storm Sil gritted her teeth as she tried to focus to get the light source back, but there was an iridescent light simmering softly across her hands; a sign that her magic was coming back. “Fottuto idiota! Stronzo!" she yelled, but the wind sucked up everything she was saying. Struggling to create light she was able to create a few more flickers. Those flickers were all she needed to see the silhouette of what looked like a decapitated human body, holding a key in the air. Sils eyes went wide with dismay as her light shone for a few seconds more before completely going out. Anger flowed throughout her body, but also fear. She had never feared the unknown. Not knowing whose memories, or what emotions she would take from someone left her world full of unknown circumstances. But here was something she had never seen. An unknown figure, a ghost, working with Valentin. That angered her. Had her feeling scared... Or was it envy?

Mood: Observer, Concerned, Angry| Location: Trap Door Room | Tag:
Hell0NHighWater
wickedlittlecritta

coded by weldherwings.

 

[BELIAL.]

» the brick door

『 TAGGED 』 wickedlittlecritta L0ck0n noonshine Hell0NHighWater

Devin's disruptive wind storm does more to the room than the inlaid door. Debris flies, lighter objects tossing themselves around the small space and catching a few of the bodies that stand in the room.

But it does the job. The wet liquid sloshing around at their feet, summoned upward by the winds, all head toward the door. The force, maintained in a small room, exerts more force than necessary on the supposed 'door'. While the bricks don't go flying by themselves into the other room, the force from the wind launches the door out, throwing it against the wall where its hinges crack against the strain.

From there, the group can see a dark room, darker than their trap door. A door stands closed on the opposite wall. Another door is slightly cracked open on the far side of the room. This is where the other group is.

code by @Nano

 

[noonshine]

ROMAN GRAVES

The compliment from Miss Macliere was well received, he smiled, bashful, head turning away as he offered a little wave of his hand, “Oh, someone would have gotten it.” That was something he doubted, really, but it was polite to say. He didn’t think one of them would have done anything other than bust up the room. It did not click for him that ‘Richie’ was a teasing nickname- and instead he bubbled out a little “Oh! It’s Roman, not Richard,” secretly very pleased by the comradery that was the shoulder bump- it surprised and delighted him.



She then causes liquid to erupt from one of the barrels, and in a moment of pleasant surprise to see another mage’s power he chuckles- going from agitated and near panic to a bit more relaxed as it all settled, and he was openly teased by Vasilis. However, it was a kind sort of teasing and not at all something that offended him. “Thank you, for doing much more work than you had to,” he chuckled to Laskaris.



The Irishman offered to blow the place down, a joke that, for a moment he found just as much fun in as everything else, a quiet “Oh no, I’m sure there are more civil ways to solve this.” For a moment he thought that Devin, although someone who encouraged chaos was, to him, somewhat likeable- an idea that shifted very quickly in his mind as he saw the tone of the man shift as he was encouraged in a somewhat demeaning but not unkind way by Kitty.



The breeze didn’t turn out to be a breeze at all, and within moments the sound picked up, the movement above them causing a force through the rest of the room that whipped things around in every which way.

The sound was unbearable in the small room- loud enough that it made his eyes water- the pressure change so sudden he could feel an immediate tension behind his eyes.

And through all of it he spotted Valetin looking about the debris which was slowly being picked up by the wind only to reach into one of the casks- a very unexpectedly clever reach from the skeletal figure.



The gawking left him unaware as a drifting piece of debris slammed against his cheek, leaving him reeling in agitation just as the door crumbled- his eyes locked on Devin as he shouted “you insufferable little cretin!” which he himself did not even hear.



Livid, he brings an arm up to press a hand to where he was hit, trudging forward in the wind and rising liquid that also clung to parts of his clothing in splotches. The darkness would be better than whatever nonsense was happening in the windy room.

TEMPLATE © BOKEH​

 

[wickedlittlecritta]

Devin Murphy
Location: Bishop Manor Trap Door Room| Mood: Deeply pleased with himself|Interacting with: Val Hell0NHighWater , Sil L0ck0n , Roman noonshine , Kitty BELIAL.

Once he was sure the door was busted open, Devin let the wind swirl to a halt, dust and debris floating softly down to rest.

"Ta-da!" he said brightly, gesturing with his hand, and then looked at the rather upset assembly below him. "I told you to watch your heads," he said, and could not manage to sound contrite. Instead, he felt perfectly pleased to have been successful, and also to have shown off a little. Being underestimated had its uses, but it was certainly gratifying to set the tone for the cost of underestimating him early, for once.

He slipped off the ladder and strolled through the destruction he'd wrought and followed Roman through the door into the darkness of the next room. "Are there lights in here?" he asked. "Or are we meant to always be fucking around in the dark?"

It's gonna take you people years to recover from all of the damage​

 

[BELIAL.]

SEASON: Middle of Spring

TIME: Eight o'clock in the morning

EVENT/LOCATION: Sparring Training / Training Room

basics

MENTIONS:
idalie
noonshine
Cashi
SavannahSmiles
StormWolf

INT:
wickedlittlecritta
Hell0NHighWater
L0ck0n

tags

TL;DR
Event is gonna be within the beginning of the first three weeks of training for the Vanguard. Sparring each other. Get Swole.

tl;dr

CHAPTER 2

les alliances (et mariage)

The central room joining both puzzle rooms lit up brilliantly, as if a switch had been flicked. Although dim, the hanging light emitted enough to make out the surroundings. The room was quaint, the majority of attention placed on the closed door. It was large and intimidating, with a lock twice the size of a fist, screwed fiercely in place. The wooden door was painted black, and connected to the mighty lock were metallic arms latching the door in place. It was a heavily guarded door. To keep whatever in, or to keep someone out?

As soon as the lights turned on, from behind the trap door group, came four figures. Baron Bishop led this small group, announcing his presence: “It took you all quite long enough. I had bet that it would take another hour, but Miss Adelaide and Captain Vickers seemed to have more faith in you all. You should be thankful for that, it’s probably the only votes of confidence you’re going to get.”

He pardoned himself between the people, making his way toward the mighty door. Although not the tallest person, the Baron held himself with dignity and respect. Shuffling behind him was Edward Michel, grinning and waving to the mages. Adelaide and Vickers nodded respectfully to them.

Standing in front of the door, the Baron swept his gaze to all the others. He lingered not too long on any one face, thrusting out his hand instead. “I believe you have all collected key pieces. Please return them to my hand.”

He waited patiently, nodding to all who gave the pieces to him. He offered no answer to any questions, merely cupping the pieces together and showing it to the group. “Observe,” the man indicated. Swiftly joining his hands together, he shook the bits. In only a few shakes, opening his hands, there revealed a whole key. Smooth lines were all that indicated that the keys had been single, separate entities. Now, they were one.

“This is the key to your training room: the door behind me. It is outfitted with the highest of magic protocols, and the sturdiest metal and reinforcement that we could afford. Which, of course, means the best. You’ve all exhibited… at least somewhat appropriate use of your magic in these puzzle rooms. I will not prohibit your use, but I strongly encourage you to contain your practices to these rooms. It is the safest place for you, and the safest place for those of us without magic,” Baron said, once again making a note to look at every mage in the eye. He nodded to Roland resolutely.

“Mr. MacCann and Captain Vickers here will be your training leads for the next few weeks. We need you mages in tip-top shape. If you suppose yourself already tip-top, we will push you further. You are more than mere soldiers. You were chosen for your prowess, and your dedication to fighting this terrible war. If we intend to make the difference, we must earn it. We must work for it.”

Edward Michel, the elusive frenchman, cleared his throat. The Baron seemed caught off guard by this, looking incredulously to his partner. He raised a shy hand, cheeky grin beneath his thick moustache.

“If I may, say a few?” Michel asked, laughing quietly. The Baron, flushing a bit, nodded.

“O-Oh, of course, Mr. Michel. Keep it short, I request,” The Baron took a step to the side, and Michel snatched the key from his hand. Taking the silence, the frenchman shuddered out a breath, gazing at the object. He turned it in his hand, holding it between two fingers, and held it out to the mages.

“This, uh, key… It is more than just a simple key, no? Beyond the looks, the air of it… You may think it is a simple key, but no. This key… defines you. Defines us. You may think it is another key to another lock, a simple thing. The door behind us, another cage?” Michel knocked upon the door with his free hand, shaking his head slowly. “No. It is a bastion, and a haven. Magic has been feared for many centuries, kept behind doors like these. No longer. You define a generation, and hopefully, the end of a terrible war. Magic is a tool, a friend. Prove yourself to be more than just something to be feared, no? To make the difference, as the Baron says, but to make a difference to more than just man. To yourselves.”

Michel took a breath, a wide and glowing smile on his face. He gave a righteous laugh, swaying on his feet. “Forgive my sentimentality, group settings just make me feel... alive. That, and the champagne. It has been a while since I have seen the potential in the faces of so many young men and women.” The Baron nodded, delicately taking the key from his partner. He turned to the door, sliding the key in and turned it resolutely.

The locks moaned and cranked, the many metal tendrils sliding into their holes in the wall. The door groaned at the lack of strain, and the Baron opened it heavily.

--

The group was then indicated to rest for the evening, and that training would begin in two days. For those who needed a small reprieve before the onslaught of events, they were granted this amnesty. But it would be the only kindness, mercy even, that the group would be given for a long time.

During those two days there was more instruction to the mages, guiding them on entrance to the training room and protocols for such. The room would be entered, in all cases, through either the fireplace door or the trap door (returned to its hiding place beneath the rug). The secrecy of such was explained to keep outsiders from intruding in. The complexity, in turn, as a protection should anything happen. A bunker, of the sorts. Roland would be kept busy in those two days, as well, with Captain Vickers, the Baron, and Edward Michel with planning the group’s upcoming training.

As well, much to the surprise of the group. Both Delvin and Eben were called away. Personal matters, they were told. The two men were whisked away, off to handle their matters.

Two new recruits had surfaced-- potential candidates for the Vanguard requisitioned in partial haste and newfound interest. They had niche abilities, ones that were judged to be beneficial to the Vanguard’s efforts. The women, Arabella De Montagu and Olivia Andersson, were escorted early in the morning the day before training would begin.

--

The day of training, the mages were awoken bright and early to get a head on things. Directed to head to the training room, they were instructed on a matter of things:

These weeks of training would be to build grit, stamina, strength and resistance. No self-respecting model soldier should be in a place of weakness. The Vanguard are to be a force of resilience and strength. They should present it.
Divided by gender, they would be paired (grouped) to be met on equal footing. Sparring would be indicative of these protocols.
Roland and Vickers were law.

So Good luck! Fight well!

[Collab with your partner in a Doc and choose one to post it. We’ll do a post for each group/pair before moving on. The rest of training will be in a timeskip.]

code by valen t.

 

[BELIAL.]

ISOLDE BISHOP & ARABELLA de MONTAGU
Character cannot be developed in ease and quiet.​

COLLAB BTWN: BELIAL. & Hell0NHighWater ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ WHERE: TRAINING ROOM⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ MOOD MUSIC: RAMIN DJAWADI - WICKED GAMES ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀

The journey to the Bishop Estate had been long--dreadfully so--and yet the moment she arrived it was as if she were thrown right into the chaos without a minute's rest. Arabella had spent the entire night unpacking twenty-three boxes of hats, forty-seven boxes of shoes, and seven suitcases packed with clothing that wouldn’t wrinkle. Ordinarily it might not have taken her so long, but the chambers provided to her also required rearranging. That said, by the time the next morning came around she was hardly in the mood for vigorous activity.

Arabella’s heeled boots clicked against the floor as she strode into the training room with practiced confidence. Truth be told, she would rather still be in bed--sleeping in the hopes of remaining distant from reality for a bit longer. A pair of tired amber eyes traced the interior of the training room, attempting to recall who she was meant to partnered with. Surely someone had told her? Maybe she should have written it down.

“Miss de Montagu?” Isolde strode forward, a tight smile on her glossy lips. Dressed in a dashing mint-green blouse, buttoned just above the breast, with a pair of moleskin trousers up to the navel and a pair of black boots, she hoped to paint the picture of ‘put-together’. She’d seen the way the others were less than excited to train, and spar, with the other mages. Though she hadn’t formally done it either, she’d been bold enough to occasionally try her hand with Berinhard and Beatrice when they’d been younger. Just playful wrestling, before they turned into members of society.

“It’s a pleasure to have you here. My name is Isolde Bishop, your fellow mage. I believe we will be sparring today,” the fire-mage said with a flicker in her eyes.

“Yes?” Arabella turned at the sound of her name, attention swinging to the woman striding towards her, with an expression lacking any outward emotion. Her gaze absently took in the outfit and then the shoes--life sprung into her expression and she smiled, diverting her gaze back to Ms. Bishop’s face. “Thank you for the warm reception, my dear. It’s a shame that we have to meet under such circumstances. I hope you don’t take losing too harshly.” The haughtiness to her tone, while unintentional, made her words sound a bit bitchier than she had intended, yet Arabella didn’t seem to notice.

Her gaze shifted to Ms. Bishop’s trousers once more, pursing her lips for a moment as she tapped a finger to her chin. “Oh, now, this won’t do darling,” She sighed as she moved to stand beside Ms. Bishop, sticking a leg out to compare their moleskin trousers. For some reason her facial muscles refused to craft themselves into the smile she imagined she was wearing, “One of us is simply going to have to change.”

Isolde’s face sharply dropped, eyes widening although she tried to maintain some level of composure. Her cheeks flushed seeing the very same trousers, down to the colour, on Arabella. She’d been ready for playful sparring, but the coincidence of trousers made it suddenly a shade more personal for her. Trying not to let it show that the notion was a bit perplexing, she tried to feign the same smile from before.

“Funny, isn’t that?” Isolde wondered why the other woman hadn’t smiled. It wasn’t that much of a deal, was it? They were a terribly expensive pair, Isolde knew this, and there was an amount of accountability to having that style. To maintain it. This wouldn’t be a regular occurrence… at least, hopefully.

She snatched her leg away, taking a step back from Arabella. “Luckily, I would hope that matching trousers doesn’t put you at too much of a disposition to train. I understand that it’s hard showing up late, and well, even harder to show up wearing the very same thing as someone already established… but I simply hope we can put this behind us,” Isolde said with a cheap honey to her voice. Like chipped polish.

Turning on her heel, Isolde left the wake of her swishing ponytail to the other woman. She reached into a standing closet at the back of the room, producing two thick vests. Two dulled blades were hung at the back of the closet, and Isolde grabbed those too. Returning to Arabella, she held out her opposing gear.

A frown twitched at the corner of her mouth, but Arabella remained silent as Ms. Bishop made a rather abrupt about-face. Narrowly avoiding a faceful of curled umber locks, a bit of disdain crept into Bella’s expression and a sharp ‘tsk’ hissed from her lips.

All she could do was stare after her with a brow arched and amber eyes narrowing. Arabella shifted her weight to one side and adjusted a button on the sleeve of her cherry-pink blouse. She hummed a soft note. Glancing upwards, Bella watched Ms. Bishop return with thick vests and dulled blades.

The sight of the sabers ignited a bit of passion in her gaze, taking the vest with a gentle 'thank you' and a practiced smile. Arabella carefully slid the vest over her blouse. She rotated her wrists--stretching and flexing her fingers--before gripping the hilt of the practice saber. "I appreciate the understanding, Ms. Bishop, but I'm hardly inconvenienced by another woman with impeccable fashion."

Evening her stance and shifting her weight, Arabella pointed the tip of her blade at Ms. Bishop and smiled a little wider. "Darling, if there's anything you need to put behind you it's the attitude."

“I have no attitude to account for, Miss de Montagu,” Isolde said, slipping on her vest. “Like any other man, I simply want to get on with things. Dueling being the primary interest of my mind. What you do or do not wear is no bother to me,” she concluded, although she instinctively shot a gaze to another place in the room, to another person. It was a brief flicker of her eyes, replaced by a steady gaze at Arabella. “So long as you come fully dressed, of course. Terribly embarrassing to not be seen in your best, I’m sure.”

To the outside observer, Arabella had all the emotion of wet concrete with facial muscles that were just as loose and insipid. There was no anger, no sadness, no joy or resentment. Nothing but a pair of narrowed amber orbs that watched Ms. Bishop with hawk-like intensity. Bella hummed a flat note, disbelief evident in the arch of her brow and the slight down-curve of her full lips. She held her saber out in front of her with surgical stillness, poised with the same intensity as a viper awaiting it’s moment to strike.

“Obviously not, Miss Bishop.” Bella remarked a bit dryly, watching as Isolde’s attention briefly fluttered to another area of the room. Metal clanged harshly as she swatted the other woman’s sword to the ground, pinning it beneath her blade with a composed smile. “If dueling was indeed your primary interest, you wouldn’t have found yourself at such a disadvantage.”

Bella pulled away and stepped back to resume a readied position. A rather lively smile began to pull at the corners of her mouth and her molten amber irises ignited at the prospect of a challenge. Tilting her chin up, a giggle rolled out of her like the waves on a long shallow beach, “You are quite correct my dear; I suppose it’s fortunate then that I always look my best.”

Rolling her wrist to make the tip of the saber circle tauntingly out in front of her, a pinch of amusement lingered in the stretch of Arabella’s smile. “Now if you are quite done, I would appreciate it if we could just skip to the fun bit.”

“Fine with me, Miss de Montagu,” Isolde muttered, narrowing her eyes at the woman in front of her. She readied her own blade, carefully adjusting her stance, sliding her left foot back. Isolde held the blade out, quickly snapping her own sword toward Arabella’s.

Her parry in return was swift and simple. The movement was automatic as muscle memory kicked in.

Isolde took a step back to the woman’s parry, leveling her blade once again. She nodded once, leaning her body to the left although she swiped to the right.

“A feint, Ms. Bishop?” Bella mused, barely blocking the attack before it slipped past her defense. “As a woman already established, it shocks me that you would resort to such tactics.” Her attack in return was just as simple as all of her previous ones, but this time she took an active and more aggressive lunge forward. Bella smiled as their swords locked, “I understand sword fighting hard, my dear, and well, even harder when your opponent knows how to do it. But do try to keep the trickery to a minimum.”

Isolde guffawed, keeping her left arm taut behind her and she gripped the blade in her right. “I’ve got terrible news for you, Miss de Montagu-- there’s going to be plenty of trickery out on the front. I don’t know if you’ve heard much, gilded castles are often too high to hear the ruckus below, but this brutal thing has no room for laws and order,” she huffed, quickly stepping back to pose her sword at a close left block. “We hone our senses here. It’s monstrous to be so brutal, but times are changing. My feign should be the least of your concerns.”

Then she jutted out again, feigning again to the right.

A laugh fluttered out of her before she could stop it, “My dear, you are hardly in a position to lecture about gilded castles and the brutality of war.” Blocking the second feint with a little effort, Arabella pulled back and changed her stance, “You are only parroting the things you’ve heard others say, unless of course, I am dreadfully wrong and you are a veteran of this war?”

Arabella pressed her lips into a thin line, continuing without hearing the affirmation, “But please, if you wish to continue lecturing about things you have no personal experience with, be my guest; Maybe, if you keep talking about the ‘brutality of war’ it will lend you more creativity than the same feint twice in a row.”

Isolde bit her cheek, nearly biting her own tongue, and made the executive decision to put her all into it. Not sparing any breath to speak, she whipped her blade toward Arabella.

The sound of clashing steel rang in her ears--two rapid tinks that stopped abruptly as Arabella leaned her head to the side to avoid the swipe of Isolde’s saber. She advanced a few paces and then retreated a few paces, back and forth, until they fell into a bit of a rhythm. Twirling in step, Bella swiped the blade at the other woman’s head before leaning back into her stance in preparation for retaliation.

“You are very good at this, my dear.”

“Thank you, as are you Miss de Montagu,” Isolde said gruffly, readying herself to block the blow. Off they went, a complex tango of sabers dancing against each other; blades kissing and singing loudly with each blow. Isolde couldn’t help but ruminate as she swept and struck her blade out, on Arabella’s words. She was no fighter in the war yet, and it was her greatest weakness.

But the death of her sister was enough for Isolde to be as bitter as she saw fit.

Their twisting and exchange of blade, spinning bodies, and occasional comments continued for quite some time, with a sheen of sweat pressing against Isolde’s neck. She refused to lessen up, smiling through the ache in her abs and arms. It was better than getting angry, anyway.

Breathing heavily, Arabella managed a smile in exchange as her muscles screamed in protest. This almost choreographed dance of destruction had absolutely no end in sight. Sweat dripped down the side of her face and soaked into the collar of her blouse. Her parched throat yearned for the relief only water could give and yet she didn’t move. Not willing to be the first to back down but also not knowing how long she could go before fatigue claimed her. How long had they even been dueling for? Hours? It had to have been.

With her sword arm shaking, Arabella switched to her off hand--unsure how to broach the topic of a draw when they had started off so miserably. It occurred to her that she hadn’t had any female friends since childhood and the opportunity to make one had been flushed down the toilet the moment she tried to make a horrible joke. She wouldn’t apologize for it, but she could at least recognize that it hadn’t gained her any favors.

“What do you say about a draw, my dear? I don’t know about you but I am terribly parched and a bit peckish.”

She hardly noticed the newfound weight to her muscles, growing from the once soreness, and with it willingly brandished her blade against Arabella’s. A draw was fine with her, but the bitter place in her heart was hard to shake.

“Fine with me. We’ve been going at this for a while now. Mr. MacCann will be pleased that we’ve gotten enough of something done,” Isolde said with a sigh, pulling back her blade and holding it stiffly by her side. She quickly tossed the vest off, holding it tightly to her chest.

She turned on her heel, opening her mouth to speak. Closing it once, she finally found the words.

“I haven’t fought in any of the battles, Miss de Montagu, but my sister was killed in action six years ago. Her fiance, a man like a cousin to me, came back a brittle mess, half the man he once was. I may not know this war with my own sweat and blood, but I have seen it’s effect with my two eyes, and the blood it has spilled,” she said, although she didn’t mean to sound so miserable. Her eyes narrowed at the woman, unwilling to portray that vulnerability that stunk to the surface.

“But I’m sure that barely matters to you. Plenty of experiences to talk about, I’m sure.” Isolde sneered, making her way back to the closet at the back of the room.

The unexpected insight into Isolde’s personal life caused every muscle in her body to lock up. Her heart clenched and her throat closed up--empathizing with her pain as if it were her own, because in a way it was. Taking her vest off, Bella was slow to follow the other woman--fearing for a second that she might make matters even worse by opening her mouth.

Clearing her throat softly, she took a shallow breath before speaking, “I am deeply sorry for your loss, Miss Bishop. I have already lost three of my brothers to needless bloodshed, so I--” her voice cracked and she paused for a moment, recomposing herself before moving on, “I do understand where you are coming from. And while I also don’t possess first hand experience on the battlefield, it would be childish to assume that because we experience the aftermath, we know what it’s like.” A somber smile curved across her lips and she looked away from Isolde to hang her vest in the closet. Shutting the small door, she shot a glance toward the other mage, “But thank you for the conversation and the duel all the same.”

Turning on her heel, Arabella began to walk toward the exit before pausing to look over her shoulder, “By the way, my dear, we should coordinate outfits more often--it was rather pleasant seeing someone else who knows how to dress themselves.” She forced her lips into a megar smile before striding out of the training room.

Only through experience of trial and suffering can the soul be strengthened.​

 

[StormWolf]

V.S.

Location: The Boxing Ring

Interactions: Cashi - Ilya

Mentions: Co-post with Cashi , BELIAL.

Notes: This fight is chronologically the last, but posting now for deadline purposes

The Cowboy and the Russian Peril​

Throughout the various bouts ahead of him, Roland had remained as a hawk in his perch unless it proved absolutely necessary to intercept for safety or interrupt for a lesson. It was evident that the veteran fighting stock among the Vanguard was intermittent at best, though he was as much impressed as surprised to see Isolde and a new face hash it out with sabres. Roland had his work cut out for him, and he had no illusions that being the hand of discipline, as well as education, would do nothing to ingratiate him with the Mages by any extent. That suited him well enough. Roland wasn’t there to make friends.

With every bout, Roland had observed the would-be Vanguard with eyes tightened in scrutiny, looking every part of the boxing coach in his loose robe as he scribbled notes into a tattered journal. Incessant blather. Bad habit across the board. Break them of it…

When the time came to face off in his own match, Roland was finishing a set of limbering stretches. There was no need to chance a tear or strain when he was going to be up against the Russian Peril.

There were some boons to being in the employ of the Witchfinder General, among them being detailed dossiers based around the intelligence-gathering of the crown. Ilya was a tough customer, but Roland didn’t need the file of an armchair officer to tell him that. The Russian was taller and bulkier than Roland was, and if the initial trials had been any indication, inclined to throw things. He was easily the most daunting of the Vanguard, but Ilya was still human.

He can bleed and he can break, just like anyone else, Roland thought, rising from the last of his stretches to shrug off his robe. Roland was clad in the classical trunks and tank top of a boxer, though he had evidently foregone the courtesy of gloves. His arms were bared, thick with steely muscle, the hair on them made patchy by scars of all sorts. On his right shoulder was the flaming grenade of the Foreign Legion, the flames forming into the splayed wings of a phoenix. Rifles crossed under the mark of the legion with the numeral “I” stamped beneath, ringed in laurels. Fist Company, Legion Volunteer.

Perhaps more imposing were the old burns, or the marks of cardinal sins carved into his skin, paled with the passing of a lifetime. Wrath was the greatest among them by an imposing margin.

“Ready when you are, Peril.”

--------------------------

When Ilya had seen the match roster that morning, his face had gone stony, mouth a flat line. Something wound tight in him had given way, like a breath he’d been holding.
The Cowboy.
Of course.
It was predictable, really--this fight was inevitable from the start. Ilya had been doing his best to remind himself that it was just a practice match and there was no real value to the outcome.
Except that there was.
And Ilya wanted to win.
He snorted into his coffee over the paper and breakfast as the merry-go-round of nerves and anticipation wound round his head again, singing its off-kilter lullaby of doom. He has more experience and most likely more training. Bah, so did others.
And perhaps other schoolboy prats he’d fought in and around his scrummy neighbourhood had had proper training, but no matter how Ilya attempted to write Roland off as just another over-confident soldier, he knew. He knew this was not going to be easy.

The hours after breakfast had Ilya down in the training room with one of the instructors, going through the motions of the past few weeks. When he’d arrived on the first day of training, his instructor had admired his raw strength and skill, but had despaired at how sloppy his technique was and at his complete lack of footwork. The men Ilya had fought before coming to the Vanguard had been unpracticed, selfish, and lacking, and downing them had taken no time. Even those fights, however, had been far and few between. Most of the time, anyone with an issue that might lead to an altercation would take one look at him and walk the other way. Only the drunk or truly moronic had followed through with action.
Throughout the short period of training before his practice match, Ilya had had footwork drilled into him until he could do the steps in his sleep, like a dance with himself as a partner. His closest friend had become the punching bag, his drive was the ever-present, unquenchable anger that roiled in his center and fueled him like a runaway train with destruction as its destination.

“Hey, Russian, you’re up.”
Ilya straightened to his full height and wiped sweat off his brow with the bottom hem of his wife-beater. The training area was hotter than he would have liked. He stretched one arm across his chest and held it there with the crook of his other arm, getting in a couple of last stretches. His muscles were warmed and relaxed, prepared to carry him through the next few minutes of solid, tense combat. Across the arena, Roland was stretching as well, and Ilya paused at the sight of history scrawled over the other man’s muscled body. Tattoos, scars, markings of every variety marred his skin, pink scar tissue catching the overhead lights. Ilya’s frown deepened, and he dropped his head to kick at sawdust as he tightened the wraps on his hands. His instructor’s last words echoed around him. ”Remember, Ilya: you have a mean counterpunch. Use it.”

Ilya shook himself and drew in a deep breath, his chest expanding to full, then let it out with a wolfish grin.
”Okay, Cowboy. Let us see what you bring.”

-------------------------------

Ilya began a steady clockwise prowl, hands up, left one slightly higher to shield his face, his right one closer to his mouth, ready to strike. He watched Roland carefully with a menacing tact, face a mask of impassiveness, except for his eyes--his eyes were so cold they burned. Ilya split a quick step forward, lightning fast, and threw out a right hook to test the water, left hand up to block any counterattack.

There was no courtesy of a bell, not like the others. This was a contest of killers, dyed in the wool. Roland’s posture fell into something akin to what Ilya had seen at the trap-laden hallway. A predatory stance, poised on the balls of his feet with hands up near his head. Baleful blue eyes, cold as steel, unblinking as he counter-advanced. Roland did not, however, look in Ilya’s eyes. His attention bored on the core of his target. It was the tell-all, the personal Judas.

He read Ilya’s posture, his stance, and his initial reaction to the match-start with a studious gaze. Ilya had reach and power. Up close, Roland would have the advantage. It was bold to lead with a hook instead of a jab, but considering what Roland had read about Ilya, it was no great surprise.

Roland dipped, hand acting as a pivot near his head in order to drive the point of his elbow up into the exposed bicep. Ilya had the wherewithal to draw in his other hand as a guard, which was good, but in the mud and blood and the seas of stone and sand, folk survived by playing dirty. Pushing further in with a shuffling of feet, Roland drove his back leg forward in a vicious knee to the groin.

Ilya’s hook passed neatly over Roland’s blond head as the man ducked out of the way, Roland’s elbow clipping his tricep as his arm moved swiftly around. He watched from beneath the shelter of his left arm as his opponent’s weight shifted imperceptibly, only the vaguest warning before his knee came up from nowhere, driving towards him. Ilya scrambled, dropping his left arm in untrained panic, and thrust forward with both hands, taking several quick steps backwards to create space between them once more. The exchange had lasted but a heartbeat, but Ilya had gotten the results from his test which could be summarised in one word: blyat.

He let loose with a muttered torrent of Russian cusses, then resumed stance and balanced his weight on the balls of his feet, hunkering inwards towards his center of gravity.
”Okay, Cowboy. Okay. We do this, da?”
Ilya closed in again, slowly, fists up, as light on his feet as his size and weight would allow (which wasn’t much).

Roland remained implacable in his expression and utterly silent but for his breathing as he pursued through Ilya’s hasty withdrawal. It showed that the Russian knew his strengths, at least in part. That was more than most could say when they got drummed into the Front with a rifle in their hands.

A series of jabs followed after the Russian Peril, feints in their intent. As a teacher, it was part of Roland’s job to check each combatant's defenses and reflexes, as well as provide hard lessons. The jabs, all aimed high and middle, were meant to draw the eye and busy the hands for a nasty hawk-eye kick to Ilya’s ankle - snapping a low kick forward through the space between the feet before hooking the heel back into the Achilles’ tendon and the fickle bones of the ankle joint.

The flurry of Roland’s harrying feints rained around him, but Ilya was getting into the zone. This ublyúdok just doesn’t give up. He took up the defensive, catching three punches on his left arm as he shielded his face, but he knew a feint when he saw one; he might not be as trained as this Witchfinder pet, but he wasn’t that stupid.
Then came the real attack and Ilya was already in motion, stepping into Roland as his low kick shot forward and missed its intended target, scraping against the back of his calf instead. He dipped and, using the imbalance that came with having one foot off of the ground, shoved his hip under the man’s pelvis, made a grab for a fistful of shirt, and shifted his weight to throw Roland into the dirt and sawdust.

“Shit!” Roland snarled as the grapple came in like a surly bear. Without even thinking, Roland drove his head into Ilya’s nose and the yoke of his hand up like a striking asp into Ilya’s throat. The throw was coming, and there was little Roland could do to change that, so he was going to make the maneuver’s cost far too steep. In truth, it was probably the throw that saved Ilya’s windpipe.

Shirt tore and the ground came rushing up, the impact jarring Roland’s teeth in his gums. Stars burst behind his eyes for a brief moment, and everything smelled like copper. He’d bitten his tongue or split his lip. First blood to the Russian, it seemed. The thin tank top had all but been shorn away, leaving Roland bared to the waist. Much like the rest of him, it was scarred and hairy, three swallows tattooed on his chest, but it was a mark on his back that all but glowed.

The blood-drop cross of the Klan burned into the flesh, encircled with two words: Race Traitor.

“Okay…” Roland growled, shaking the disorientation away, coming in low like a slavering tiger. Roland started at the middle, cross-cutting at the floating ribs, driving the sharp hooks with his hips. An uppercut to the solar plexus with the right, followed by an elbow to the jaw with the left; a fluid and dangerous dance with lethal intent.

Davai. The headbutt was a surprise.
He heard the dull impact of Roland’s crown smashing into his nose, but no pain, not yet--that would come later. As he tried to recover, Roland’s free hand rammed high on his throat, missing his windpipe and Ilya’s head snapped back; for a moment, he saw white.
He let go in a rush, bounding two steps away from where Roland sprawled on the practice floor, then his nose began to burn and the pain receptors in his brain triggered. Blood dripped freely down his shirt, splattering it in red, and Ilya swore heavily in Russian again. He gingerly wiped his nose on his hand wrapping, and a surprised, wet laugh rolled out of him. Alright. First blood goes to the Cowboy.

“der'mo, you are hitting good.” He made a noise of begrudging approval and spat the blood that had dripped into his mouth, then smashed his fists together and raised them once more.
Again.

Ilya blocked the first few hits well, but blocked the last one to his chest poorly, barely feeling the fist as it contused his third rib. He saw the uppercut and blocked with his fist, realising his mistake far too late. How many times had his instructor told him to block with his elbow? The counterattack exploded across his lower jaw and Ilya’s head jerked sideways. Recover. Recover! Ilya centered himself again, burning frost in his eyes, and leaned into the fight, going on the attack. They danced around the practice ring for Iisus knew how long. At the northmost edge of the arena, Ilya kept his right hand up and made a grab for Roland’s left elbow, then thrust under Roland’s guard for the back of his neck in an attempt to get him into a headlock, where he could drag him to the ground once more.

It wasn’t much of a surprise that Ilya had gone for the grapple. There were stories of Russian wrestling, even in the shuttered states of New Columbia. It proved a unique challenge, staying inside of Ilya’s guard and optimal punching range, but not getting so close that the Russian could just suplex Roland to the center of the earth. The headlock was practiced, fluid, and quick. Roland would need to be quicker, or he’d have to start scrapping like a wild animal.

Seeing Ilya’s arm snap out for the elbow grab, Roland made a jab for the Russian’s bicep, just above the elbow joint, but was a moment too slow as the punch scored off of Ilya’s deltoid. Tucking his arms in close to guard his neck, Roland twisted with Ilya, trying to keep the large Russian in front of him. Blood and spittle frothed, flecking Roland’s coarse stubble as he scrabbled for a hold. Blunt fingernails scratched and raked as he met Ilya in the middle, arms tangling in a clinch. It was still a grapple, and still not a great place to be, but it was better than being in a down-and-out headlock.

Here, Roland was still on his feet, and could still strike, hopefully enough to force a disengagement before being brought to ground. To that end, the Cowboy drove his knee firmly up into his opponent's breadbasket, and with the leg already cocked and ready to go, stomped down at Ilya’s foot in an almost mechanical motion.

A crowd had gathered along the edges of the practice ring, men slinging arms over the wooden boards edging the arena, hooting or hollering whenever one of them got in a good hit. Ilya wasn’t sure how long they’d been going round and round; fifteen minutes? An hour? He couldn’t tell. All he knew, in this moment, was that getting Roland into a headlock was not going as planned. He was too slippery, continuously turning with Ilya to prevent him from getting behind. With each evasion, Ilya grew more frustrated.

Locking arms with Roland was the beginning of an impasse where Ilya couldn’t wrestle him to the ground, but wouldn’t relinquish the grip he had; this left only his legs and feet free, which is where Ilya had his disadvantage. His strengths lay in using his upper body and his balance--
There was the advance from Roland with another drive towards his groin. Ilya twisted so that Roland’s knee glanced off his thigh, but the stomp caught him off guard and he hissed in a sharp, pained breath as he felt the bones in his foot creak.
What is this cowboy’s obsession with my yaytsa?
Ilya tightened his hold on Roland’s arms and reared his head back, then smashed it into Roland’s face. The shock of impact had him releasing the witchfinder pet and breaking off to take another walk around the ring, lifting his hand to his temple and then checking his fingers for blood. Ilya braced his hands on his hips, face tilted towards the floor, and looked up at Roland from beneath hooded brows. One of the bystanders waved a towel near him, and he took it, using it to wipe blood and sweat off his face and out of his eyes, then tossed it back.
Ilya raised his fists to his face again, squaring his shoulders as he faced Roland once more. There were calls from the crowd again, men shouting things like “come on, Red!” and “get him, Columbia, take him out.”
He added his own callout, the fight both exhilarating and cathartic.
“Come on, Cowboy, let’s go. Let’s go!”

Roland staggered back, blue eyes wide as blood bubbled from his nose and flecked his snarling lips, mashed and frothing pink. On one side of the ring, there was an individual who no longer saw any sport in fighting; there was use in the practical, but no use in the decorum. Roland was cut from the cloth of a classical education, but broken and tempered in the realities of the Trench. He snorted, hawked, and spat a wad of blood, wiping his face on the back of his arm while his eyes remained unblinking. There was hate there, without focus or reason, but intense nonetheless. Liquid fire in opposition to the Russian’s bitter cold.

If the Russian was so intent to open Pandora’s Box, then Roland would oblige him. Pacing back and forth like a caged tiger, Roland gauged Ilya for openings. Taking the torn tatters of his shirt clung about his trunks, Roland wiped his face on the cotton, winding it around his hand. In a pinch, it’d make for a good garotte.

Guard up, Roland advanced. Closing the distance in a few swift steps, Roland started with a shuffling snap-kick with his forward leg to Ilya’s thigh, following up with a trifecta of jabs, a hook with his right elbow, followed up with a snappy backhand with the same arm in a single flowing motion.

Ilya dodged the kick and soaked the jabs with his left arm, took the elbow to the temple which had him blinking fast, and didn’t see the backhand coming at all. It cracked across his cheek like a whip, his head wrenching to the left, teeth gnashing together. His lip split, the inside of his mouth bloody from where he’d bit down, and stars lined the very edge of his vision--stars and, now, red. Sanguineous drool welled at the corner of his mouth and dripped down his chin, and all noise was drowned out by the furious roaring in Ilya’s ears.

He came at Roland fast, firing a series of blind punches at his ribs and leaving little room for any disengagement. What was the end goal of their bout? Had anyone mentioned? Clearly first blood was not victory. Then what was? Was there a time out? Would it only end when one of them was unconscious? He attempted another slip under Roland’s guard with an open palmed strike to his chin, his footwork completely forgotten. Another thing that hadn’t escaped his notice was the fact that he’d been paired against this…normal person rather than another mage. Did they know he had no mastery of his water magic? Were they writing him off as a lost cause before he’d even begun? His head was fuzzy from all the blows, but especially from the elbow and the backhanded strike, vision blurring. From the open palm strike, Ilya went to cup the back of Roland’s head and shove downwards--when the cowboy popped his head up again, Ilya would drop to his knees and tackle him with a double leg takedown.

There was little one could do against an avalanche like that but weather it. Fists like sledgehammers wailed against Roland’s guard, promising hideous bruises in the near future. Seeing the palm-strike coming up, Roland tucked his chin and turned, earning a hefty graze on the cheek that still had all the gentle touch of a kicking mule. There was another clinch, albeit a brief one, initiated by Ilya.

Gritting his teeth, Roland pushed back against the pressure on his head. The last thing he needed was to catch one of the Russian’s knees in the face. With quickened breath, Roland shook loose the sodden cotton around his right hand. When the tackle came, Roland snatched the hanging tail of fabric in his left, closing the circuit, and pulled it taught around the trunk of the Russian’s neck. Twining and twisting and pulling even as his whole body jarred with the impact of hitting the ground. There was a resounding crack as Roland’s head rebounded, stars exploding behind his eyes once again, but he held tight, struggling against the Russian’s hold and rolling like a crocodile as the veins in his arms surged against his reddened skin with the strain.

“Go the fuck to sleep…” Roland snarled, blood bubbling and hissing through his mashed teeth to form a pink froth at his mustache and chin. His breath hitched with the sharp whistle of a busted nose, but his eyes remained bright, calculating, and wild; a part of him reveling in the challenge.

The second Roland’s head came up Ilya ducked and grabbed both thighs in one rapid, dizzy movement, then heaved, pulling Roland’s weight out from under him. In the same heartbeat of time, he felt the tense fabric of Roland’s ripped shirt cord around his neck and tighten, instantly cutting off all air and eliciting a harsh choke out of the Russian. He let go unthinkingly and twisted, reaching for the garotte around his throat as his sudden release of Roland forced them both to crash to the ground, dust and sawdust spraying. His struggle had only served to tighten the makeshift noose and force him into the awkward position of being half on his back and half on his side, his weight pressing the cowboy back into the dirt.

His anger raged, face red, as he scrabbled at his neck and bucked this way and that, trying fruitlessly to free himself. He made a grab for sawdust and tossed it, but his angle was too awkward and all it did was litter them both ineffectually. Ilya kicked his legs, wheezing, and under all that anger came another emotion: panic. He reached with one hand for Roland’s face, searching for any sensitive piece--eyes, ear, even nose--but quickly brought his hand back down to pull harder at the shirt around his neck. Tiny popping noises detonated in his ears and his vision began to tunnel; the only thought he had was one of desperation.
His blood went cold, then began to burn, and as he slammed his fist into the floor frost exploded around them, painting the arena boards and the practice floor in a sheen of wicked blue ice. He clawed again at Roland’s forearm and felt the same rush of magic, ready to turn his arm to a hunk of frozen meat--

“That’s quite enough gentlemen! You’ve both made your prowess quite clear to us,” Captain Vicker’s clear voice came through the air, a mixed mood of both shock and apprehension to even butt in. The older man elbowed his way through, using both hands to try and pry the men apart. There was a pop of pressure in the air, the familiar sign of magic, and two fingers from a stranger pressed themselves against the ice on the floor.

The moustached man, Edward Michel himself, ran his fingers over the ice. Instantly it negated, slipping back to a liquid state. The frenchman smiled wickedly, crossing his arms, and nudged the men with his foot.

“Play too rough friends? I… believe that we should keep each other alive, no? Petty man-meat aside, let us resume friendliness, no? No hard feelings, d’accord?” Though he maintained a level of aloof comedy, there was a hardness to the man’s face.

“I’m inclined to think so,” Captain Vickers said, clearing his throat, frowning at both Ily and Roland. “Though, they did have quite the fight.”

“Quite indeed,” Michel said, and raised his eyebrow.

It took a little coaxing, but Roland released Ilya at the insistence of his superiors. His back was raw from the sawdust, scuffed with strawberries and welling tiny ruby droplets in a score of places. Rolands hands, still steady as a surgeon’s, were nearly purple from the tension of the garrote. Rising to his feet, Roland rolled his shoulders.

“Too rough is what keeps you alive, gentlemen,” Roland panted, offering Ilya his hand with a nod. “You use what you have to in order to survive.”

The moment the pressure loosened, Ilya surged forward, rolling off the cowboy and onto his hands and knees. He sucked in a lungful of air too quickly and immediately began coughing, large wheezing hacks that wracked his thick frame. He tried again for more air, caught between the need to inhale as much air as humanly and be gentle with his contused throat. Ilya clasped a hand to his neck, the skin rubbed raw and already bruising, as though holding his throat would help him breathe easier.

A hand near his face made him glance up, eyes watering, face as purple as Roland’s hands.
“blyat,” he hissed, grabbing onto Roland’s hand heavily and using the aid to leverage himself to his feet. He choked out another small cough, still holding his neck, and despite the pounding in his ears and blurring in his vision, appraised Roland with a semi-approving glare.
“Da. What Cowboy say. If he can’t kill me, how he can keep me alive, znayesh’?”
Ilya brushed a bit of grime from his chest and ran a hand through his sweaty hair, then turned and headed toward the exit of the ring. He waved a nonchalant hand over his shoulder with his parting words: “Be hurting you later, Cowboy.”

“Be looking forward to the attempt, Peril,” Roland replied, shrugging back into his robe.

 

[wickedlittlecritta]

ENGLAND VS IRELAND
Roman Graves vs Devin Murphy
​

Location: Training Room
Interactions: Co-post with noonshine , BELIAL. , and StormWolf
Send in the Clowns

Standing there in the training room facing Roman, sizing him up, Devin realized with equal amounts of indignation and resignation that their pairing was the problem one. No one expected either of them to know how to fight. Least of all Roman, judging from the way the other man carried himself.

Of all the things his granda had taught him, boxing was perhaps the thing Devin was most grateful for. His granda claimed to have been a champion boxer in his youth, as well as an accomplished stick-fighter, which was the kind of grandiose boast he often made, but this was one never accompanied by an eye roll or wink from his gran, so Devin had been inclined to believe it, even before Conor Callaghan had taken him out into the backyard and taught him to throw a punch.

But Conor Callaghan was six feet of wiry shipbuilder muscle, and when he threw shapes, folks believed him. Devin was five-foot three, and no one ever believed him until he made them bleed. Devin knew how to fight, but he didn't fight to win. He fought to survive, and it meant that he fought more viciously than his granda had ever meant to teach him. Looking at Roman now, Devinn realized he wasn’t sure how to fight someone who didn’t mean it as much as he did. Perhaps it would be healthy for Roman to get knocked on his ass and learn he could still pick himself up after?

“Well then, Mr. Graves,” he said, stepping easily into the boxer’s stance Granda had taught him, hands raised into fists, “Are we ready?”

Roman had been an observer of a fair amount of violence- and in his school days had been on the ass end of a spat or two. Where the presumptive idea came from that he had a shot to take on Mister Murphy? Maybe only height, and in that Roman on the taller end of the two. Height, however, was not fight. Of course, he did not doubt the young man was scrappy and that he had very likely been in more fights than he had, but some part of him assumed that he was also someone who was quick to escape.

So, standing there in the training hall, he eyed the man that was to be his opponent, truly unsure of what to expect. He’d never had a fight just to practice fighting nor had he ever truly understood how the fights he’d been in had started (although anyone else may guess it was some snide comment that popped out of Grave’s mouth, a few punches taught him to shut it more).

“Ready?” he repeated, offering a smile that spoke to how little he thought either of them would actually be injured, “of course I’m not ready, Mister Murphy- but we do have to start sometime.”

Brows raised he watched Devin take a stance- truly unsure of what to do with himself- “It seems you’re ready. Let’s have at it.”

He adjusted his sleeves, not pleased to be wearing sportswear, eyes locked on Devin as he too took a stance- unpracticed and much more ready to defend.

Devin flicked his gaze over Roman from toe to head and back before bouncing into a fake-out punch with his right hand, aimed for Roman’s jaw. He hoped Roman would go and deflect that one and not see the second, real punch with his left hand, aimed squarely for Roman’s solar plexus.

Not having considered that Devin was going to throw fake punches, he fell into it, bringing his arm to block the hand moving to his face only to have the wind knocked right out of him. Roman stumbled back a few steps, gasping- baffled by how dreadfully hard that punch was and by the way it stunned him for a moment. “My!” he croaked, trying to straighten up, not yet too terribly upset, in fact he was so thrown he could not help but chuckle “that was tricky!” He attributed the breathlessness to the placement and not yet the force.

The space between them diminished quickly and Roman took a swing of his own, one for the gut- without much real will to harm behind it.

“Oldest trick in the book,” Devin told him, not caring to hide his mirth that Roman actually fell for it. He padded around as Roman panted and resettled himself, keeping them squarely front to front, and rolled back and away from Roman’s blow as he’d been taught, to soften the force. And then he stepped back in and jabbed at Roman again, aiming for his jaw for real this time.

Roman didn’t think much of failing to really land a punch- he didn’t want to be fighting to begin with, it felt silly to have them all do it when they were at least somewhat capable of using magic (of course, he saw the merit in physical training up until it was actually happening). The blow to his jaw was met with a hiss, pain blossomed along his mandible and his expression shifted into a grimace then a startled glower. Now he was less appreciative of Devin having a good time with it considering his own inadequacy.

Hand to his cheek, he could not at all think of something to say, and decided in that moment no one had told them exactly how they were supposed to fight- aside from the little use of magic- and he moved forward, sweeping out a leg in hopes to at least throw Devin off balance.

Devin saw the leg sweep just in time to jump back without losing his footing, and laughed. “Oh! It bites!” he said gleefully. “You sure you want to open that up? There’s so much more of you in kicking range,” he added, and stepped forward, hard, on Roman’s foot, before driving his knee up into the taller man’s thigh. He tried not to do it too hard.

A surprised little yelp escaped him as Devin stepped down on his foot. Those words did send a wave of panic through him- immediately catching on, and in trying to lean away, ending up on his ass, one knee bent, foot still under foot. The bloom of pain that occurred from Devin’s unfortunately well placed kneeing left him seeing red- and suddenly he realized a new part of this challenge would not just be fighting someone more experienced than himself- but restraining himself from branding the little shit with a slap.

“You little!” he shoved himself forward, by his hands and with more force than before brought his untrapped leg around to try to at least knock him to the side.

Devin didn’t often get the chance to feel pleased with himself during a fight, and despite knowing better he was really inclined to give in and let himself gloat a bit. Roman’s loose foot reminded him why that was never a wise idea, and thought it didn’t particularly hurt, it was enough to unbalance him, and he fell over Roman’s knee and rolled out of range, and laughed.

“Touche!” he laughed, and got back onto his feet. “Will you forgive me if I promise not to knee you again?” he asked, and knew the effect was ruined because he was still laughing.

Seething in anger and embarrassment, Roman scrambled to his feet- jaw and other aching. He was pleased he’d at least knocked Devin to the ground for a moment but livid to see that he was still having fun. “Mister Murphy-” he said, a bitter little smile on his face, “Of course there is no need for forgiveness, this is training after all.”

He closed in, like an angry little dog winding a circle around him as they came closer and closer together before he lunged forward, deciding to pull a play out of Devin’s book- inversed, offering a fake right to the gut before swinging around with his left hand to try to nail him in the cheek.

Devin grinned brightly and dived in to meet Roman’s fist, getting it on his cheek instead of his gut, but he plowed into Roman nevertheless, his own punch going for Roman’s cheek as well.

Roman was so startled by actually landing a punch that he for a moment forgot Devin was going to hit him back- and, losing his grip on his tongue he unleashed his baffled animosities “You little fucking kern!” Swinging an arm up, he didn’t go to punch him, but instead lock his neck in the crook of his arm- something he remembered his brothers doing all too often.

The insult of being pulled into a headlock rankled worse than the actual verbal insult did. Devin thrashed in Roman’s grip for a moment, clawing ineffectually at his arm, before stamping on Roman’s foot again.

“If I knew you were gonna be a fuckin’ pisser about it!” he complained.

Roman grunted as Devin’s foot came down on his- but he refused to loosen his grip, instead, he shifted to his side, trying to knee him in the gut- but the motion, the foot over his- it threw him off balance and he found himself leaning all his weight into Devin and accepted the were both about to hit the ground.

“Jesus!” Devin wheezed. Holding Roman up by his neck wasn’t something he could manage, and his knees gave out, the pair of them collapsing to the floor. Thoroughly aggravated, Devin enacted the only revenge he saw in reach, and bit Roman’s hand, and meant it.

He felt all too victorious as they hit the floor, a little chitter of laughter escaped his grit teeth- that is before his lips parted in a yelp as Devin’s teeth sunk into his hand. Finally his arm unwound from the man’s neck as he tried to get his hand away from his mouth “you little animal!” He hissed, trying to push him away with every available limb.

Devin only let go after Roman released him, scooting back into a sitting position out of Roman’s reach. He spat blood that wasn’t his at the other man. “And don’t fucking forget it!”


Roman scrambled away, cradling his hand as he got to his feet. Although Devin was keeping some distance, he was still inclined to move further away, pacing furiously, eyes locked on his fellow mage.
Temperature rising he fought between his focus on his rage that he felt justified and the need to calm himself before they inevitably had to continue batting at each other. “You bit me!” He barked in disbelief- looking again to his hand, bloody- luckily nothing too dreadful but the little bastard still broke skin.
Eyes just starting to glow he shook out his un-bitten hand, fingers splaying out before balling back into a fist repeatedly as he glowered and continued to pad back and forth in the same straight line- turning on his heels each time. “Is this over yet? How long are we expected to do this?”

“What’s the matter, Mr. Graves? Are you tired?” Devin needled. It wasn’t a helpful thing to say. “Did you think I’d just lie here and let you stomp on me?”

“I didn’t think you’d bite me!” he spat in reply, “but I should have expected that of a dim, little ghoul.”

“Well you shouldn’t have put me in a headlock,” Devin said, deciding that dim, little, and ghoul were all too uninspired of insults to bother with. “Don’t do it again and I won’t bite you again.”

It wasn’t even a decent response to bite at, but Roman was already inconsolably livid just because he had to be there, and Devin’s flapping maw didn’t do much to aid him in the other direction. He’d very nearly begun to crackle like a log when his lips parted to eject something that may have been foul- but he was lucky to have been cut off.

Devin, still on the floor, straightened his spine, lifting his hands, ready to turn the fight into something far dirtier, but he lowered his palms back to the floor when they were inturrupted.

“Boys, boys!” Captain Vicker’s voice burst clear, his presence quickly following his own shout. “And I say boys, as you two seem to be keen on acting like a pair of them! Cool down, would you… especially yourself, Graves.” The older man sighed, adjusting his spectacles and standing between the two-- though he knew very well that it would do little against two mages.

“While I appreciate the slapstick, keep the potential of magicking each other into oblivion out of it. No sense making a mountain out of a molehill, right?”

“Hrmph,” came a grunt from the edge of the ring, bearing the familiar and undeniable roughness of their resident New Colombian soldier. “A whole lot of gumbo-ya-ya; sound and fury, signifying nothing. If you boys hit and hard as fast as you ran your gab, you’d out-punch me, for Christ’s sake.”

 

[BELIAL.]

KITTY MACLERIE & OLIVIA ANDERSSON & VASILIS LASKARIS
Character cannot be developed in ease and quiet.​

COLLAB BTWN: BELIAL. & SavannahSmiles L0ck0n ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ WHERE: TRAINING ROOM⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ MOOD MUSIC: FRANCE GALL - LAISSER TOMBER LES FILLES ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀

Do you ever wish you could turn back time? Go back to a moment and change it for the better? If Olivia could, she would rewrite history if it brought her parents back to her. But it won’t. Her parents are dead, her home burned, and now she is in a strange country with strange people. ‘This will be your new home.’ They told her, but would it ever really feel like home? And would these people ever really feel like family? The air even felt different, more heavy; harder to breath in. And the stares, oh how people had stared when she had stumbled off that boat, a wild look in her eye. She had still been in a shock induced state when the representatives for the Baron had found her. They had brought her to the manor, gave her a day to clean up and get used to her surroundings before they were throwing her into training. Training. They had told her in exchange for her protection, she would need to put her powers to good use.

And now here she stood. She had barely been introduced to her fellow mages and now she was expected to spar with them. Folding her hands in front of her to hide their trembling, she eyed her opponents from under her lashes. She only knew their names, Vasilis and Caitriona, but she knew nothing about who they were as people. Olivia would be the first to admit she didn’t know a thing about hand-to-hand combat; she barely even knew the correct way to throw a punch without hurting herself. How in the hell was she expected to fight anyone, nevermind two people at once? She was going to get knocked on her ass in two seconds. She was a gardener, not a fighter!

Kitty had spent most of her and Sil’s time before Olivia arrived babbling on and on about how excited she was about being able to fight. It ‘cured the restless shake to her bones’ and ‘steamed the water magic boiling in her veins’. Suffice to say, Kitty was ready to learn.

Eyeing her opponents for the morning, the red-head pulled up the sleeves to her button-up. It was a loose-fit, once again a courteous loan from Miss Bishop, but she was more than prepared to rip the damn thing off if it meant she could get down and dirty. Part of her wished she’d be fighting Murphy, the irish, simply so she could get knocked around a bit by a real small jabber.

“Righto then, Olivia, thas yer name? Welcome to kits and kittens, lads and lassies, gettin’ nekky and slappin’ around the mats,” Kitty said with a severe stare to the smaller girl. Her straight-face quickly morphed to a smile, and she threw out a hand to Olivia. “Ah’m kidding with ya, promise. You ken any fightin’? Don’t seem… em… too much of a bite fer size.”

Of all the things Olivia expected in this training session, it wasn’t for one of her opponents to approach her and start babbling away. Olivia could only stare at the other woman, eyes wide as her brain struggled to keep up with her words. The thick accent made it rather difficult for Olivia to decipher whatever in the world the woman was chattering about and as such, Olivia was quiet for a few beats after the woman had fallen silent. So she was fairly certain the woman had asked if her name was indeed Olivia and then something about getting...naked..? Then the conversation seemed to shift to the topic of fighting and...did this woman just say she was too small to put up much of a fight? A sputter in indignation escaped her lips as she stared at Kitty.

“Excuse me, bite size?! You’re barely taller than me!” If there was one thing that riled Olivia up, it was making fun of her height. She was a full grown adult, but people still treated her like a child because of her size, so for Kitty to mention she looked too small to put up a fight, it irked her.

Kitty clicked her tongue, looking away from the dark haired girl and trying to hide the smile curling onto her lips. “Ah cannae stand a shrimp pretendin’ to fight, lass. Ah simply cannae hear it,” she said, looking over to Sil and throwing a wink at the other woman.

What other way to inaugurate a new (albeit by only a few days) recruit than to throw them through the ringer? Kitty had had one older brother, and though she was surrounded on all sides by sisters, she knew how to play a bit unfairly.

The ole Cowboy wouldn’t mind a few dirty tricks, would he?

Gesturing for Kitty to have a go at the girl who had joined the vanguard Sil took the time to stretch. A smirk spread across her face as kitty threw a wink in her direction. Subtle, but duly noted. Rolling her shoulder she watched as the red head woman taunted the shorter member of their group. It was a good tactic to use, and it seemed to be working by the way Olivia reacted. She was shorter than them, and taking a peek at all of the other members around them she came to the conclusion that she was the shortest overall. She had never actually seen someone that short, so it was new.

Glancing from woman to woman Sil wondered which one of them would make the first move. If neither of them were going to move then she would try to initiate their brawl, but which one would she go for? Cracking her knuckles Sil raised her brow. “You’re feisty for a little one, tremotino.”

Olivia looked between the two women with what could only be an incredulous expression on her face. She was barely here for a day and she was already being picked on. She didn’t really expect to be making friends right off the bat when she arrived at the manor, but she thought that some of them would at least have some manners! Huffing out a breath, Olivia pulled a ribbon from her pocket and used it to tie back her brunette locks before turning her attention back to her two sparring partners. “Well, I do believe we came here to train, so let’s cut the chit-chat and get to it shall we?”

Kitty nodded with a grin, folding the sleeves of her blouse up around her elbows. “What do ya prefer, lass? Bare knuckles? You ken any swordplay? I sure donnae, but, hey, worth an ask,” she asked, gesturing around the room. A few pointers from cowboy would come in due time, but getting comfortable to start training and sparring with the team seemed prudent.

Olivia tried not to look too nervous as she considered her options; she had never fought with a sword before, she wouldn’t even know where to start and she was more likely to hurt herself than her opponent. She had wrestled with Nikolas when they were children, but that didn’t have any finesse she was sure real fighting possessed but if she got knocked on her ass, then she got knocked onto her ass; she was here to learn how to be more helpful and less useless and if that meant being tossed around then so be it. “Fists will do just fine.” She replied as she widened her stance; she wasn’t really sure if she was doing anything correctly, but she figured that a wide stance would keep her from being knocked over as much...she hoped.

“Right then, hen,” Kitty said, moving swiftly and quickly with a low kick to the girl’s shins. They were small enough anyway, though Kitty had to move into a bit of a bit to rival her partner’s. Closer in height, maybe, but Kitty was blessed with lengthy limbs.

Despite Olivia’s best efforts to keep her gaze locked on Kitty, the red-haired woman moved faster than Olivia had anticipated. One minute she was standing in front of her, the next pain bloomed along her legs, her knees buckling and sending her tumbling to the floor with a loud “Oof!”, her bones protesting the fall to the unforgiving wood beneath them. Blinking a little in shock, Olivia was quick to bounce back onto her feet, narrowing her eyes slightly. Regaining her stance, she curled her fists in the way Nikolas had shown her all those years ago, making sure to fold her thumb over her middle finger to avoid injury. Hoping to catch Kitty off guard, Olivia threw a right hook, using her hips to propel her arm forward.

The punch landed, Kitty swinging right, but locked her hands on Olivia’s forearm, hoping to have Olivia follow through on her own punch, and onto the ground-- again.

To her surprise, her hit actually landed but she didn’t have too much time to celebrate as she felt hands lock onto her forearm. Unable to stop her own momentum in time, Kitty was able to swing them around and toss Olivia to the floor yet again. She rolled little before she was pushing herself back up onto her feet, determination lighting up her blue eyes as she strode back over to her opponent. She knew her fighting skills paled in comparison to Kittys, and she knew Kitty was most likely taking it easy on her, but she wasn’t going to run away just because she fell a little bit. She thought back to what Kitty had done earlier and decided it would be worth a shot. Trying to copy what she had seen the other woman do, Olivia aimed a sweeping kick at her legs.

Feeling the rush of air around her head, Kitty had fallen and staggered a bit before she even knew it. Trying to stunt her fall from going head-first onto the wooden floors, she braced her forearms. Red ringlets in her face, she looked over at Olivia with another wicked smile.

“You learn fast, lass. Good sign there,” she said with a gleam in her eyes. Kitty held out a hand to Olivia from the ground.

Olivia felt a bubble of excitement when she saw that her kick had managed to land and she had knocked Kitty off her feet and to the floor. To be honest, she hadn’t expected it to work at all and she hoped that meant she wasn’t a hopeless cause after all. “Thank you.” She said with a grin as she reached out and curled her hand around Kitty’s out-streched one.

Quick as a whip, Kitty clutched Olivia’s wrist and twisted her leg around the woman’s other thigh, pressing her knee into the back of Olivia’s, and letting the force of Kitty’s roll back to the other side take her opponent straight down.

Honestly, Olivia should have expected something like this, as she soon realized what Kitty had planned when the other woman latched onto her wrist and slammed her to the ground. Her breath left her with a little “Oomph!” and it took her a few moments to shake off the landing before she was able to roll onto her stomach and push herself back to her feet.

Sil burst out laughing as she watched Olivia go down. “Ay, good one!” She said through fits of laughter. Standing back and watching the two have a go at it was a good way to observe how each of them fought, and she could admit they were both pretty good. She wasn’t an expert at fighting herself, but a few years under her belt provided some insight into what she should look for. Maclerie was a good one; Rough, straightforward, and using every move as a possible opening to strike. Olivia on the other hand did not have much experience in hand to hand combat, but she was a fast learner. Very fast. That was dangerous in a fight. Sil wondered where she would stand, or if she would last. Maybe, maybe not.

Stepping forward to join the two in the brawl Sil smirked. “Did that hurt tremotino?” Smirk widening, Sil continued. “It shouldn’t have, you’re already so close to the ground.”

Kitty hid her laugh with a bite of her lip, working her way back up. “Ah, donnae let me have all the fun there, go fer it then,” she offered with a wink to the blonde.

Swiping some hairs back from her face, she was just about to throw another punch at Kitty when her other opponent - Vasilis she remembered her name to be - stepped forward to join their little brawl. Olivia felt slightly nervous that she would have to fight them both at once, but thankfully Kitty stepped back to let Sil have a go at it. Olivia took a moment to appraise her new sparring partner; Sil was taller than her, so she didn’t think the sweeping maneuver would work on her like it had on Kitty, she would have to think of something else. Sil also had longer limbs than Olivia did, so her reach was wider which would make it difficult for Olivia to dodge her.

Stepping forward, Olivia threw a test punch at Sil’s sternum, not sure if it would work but she needed to know what she was working with.

Olivia was also quick to her feet, Sil could give her that. She wasted no time in initiating the fight, but impatience was costly. Shifting the weight of her body to her toes Sil dodged the punch by slamming her forearm against Olivia’s, and swiftly stepping to the right. Because Olivia broke the distance between them Sil reached over to playfully slap her cheek before abruptly jumping back. “Good one, but not quite tremotino.” Sil hummed.

“Come now gals, show us the blood!” Kitty heckled, fists on her hips.

Sil was quicker than Olivia had thought she would be. Though Olivia knew her punch most likely wouldn’t land, she was surprised by how fast Sil dodged the hit. Her balance wobbled when Sil effortlessly knocked her arm to the side, a startled yelp escaping her at the sting that bloomed across her cheek. Retreating back a few steps, she rubbed at the ache. Did Sil just slap her? Shaking off the hit, Olivia found her balance again before she shot forward, aiming her punch low, towards Sil’s side; maybe she would be able to get under her range.

“Dirty there Laskaris, a lady’s balls ya got.”

Sil gave Kitty a wink in return for the one she gave earlier then turned back to face Olivia. The idea behind her move was good, and if she knew just a bit more to pull it off there was no doubt it’d be successful. She was taller than Olivia, and it only made sense for her to aim at an area she knew she could reach. But, it left the top half of her body open. Sil had no intention of dodging this move, and instead balled her hand in a relaxed fist. Stepping forward with her left foot Sil used the momentum to swing at Olivia’s cheek. The one she slapped only seconds earlier. There was no playfulness in the way she intended to land her punch; just a straight knuckle-packed hook to the face.

As she swung her fist towards Sil’s side, she had expected the other woman to dodge or at least circumvent the hit, so she was a little surprised when Sil remained right where she was. Olivia was so focused on landing a punch that she didn’t pay any attention to where Sil’s hands were; she never saw the hit coming. Pain exploded along the cheek Sil had struck moments before, sending Olivia sprawling to the floor. Dazed, she gently probed the tender flesh of her cheek, flexing her jaw to make sure nothing was too injured. Luckily it was just sore. Rolling to her feet, she gritted her teeth and sprang for Sil again, this time aiming her punch at Sil’s face.

“Ahh, there we go!” Sil grinned from ear to ear as she loosened her hand. Shaking her fingers as they stung from the punch she felt the adrenaline kick in. She hadn’t had a brawl since she left Italy altogether to join the Vanguard. She’d be lying if she said she missed having to constantly fight to stay alive, but there was a hint of thrill in the fight itself. This wasn’t quite her element as Olivia was smaller than her; in a way that was considered cheating, but since they were partnered together she wasn’t going to go easy on her. “Show me what you got.” Sil mumbled as she readied her stance.

Fists balled, legs bent, and elbows to her side Sil was more than ready for Olivia. With Kitty watching, Sil couldn’t deny that she wanted to impress. However, before she was able to focus a sudden memory flashed before her eyes as Olivia ran towards her. She wasn’t sure whose memory this belonged to, but all she could think was: f u c k.

Given the fact that Sil has clearly shown a skill for fighting, with her dodging and weaving Olivia’s previous attacks as effortlessly as she did, Olivia fully expected the blow she was aiming at the other womans’ face to be evaded. However, what she did not expect was for Sil to suddenly freeze mid-attack, a glazed look over-taking her features as Olivia continued to barrel towards her. Her momentum was too great to stop now even if she could, Olivia could do nothing but watch as her fist collided straight with Sil’s nose with a resounding crack.

Stumbling to the side from actually landing a solid hit, Olivia was quick to spin around to face the fallen mage, features twisted in a grimace of apology. She was just aiming to hit her, not break her nose! “Oh helvete, are you okay?!” She dropped to her knees beside Sil, hands using the sleeve of her blouse to try and dab the blood away that was trickling from Sil’s wounded nose. “I am so sorry, I really wasn’t aiming to break your nose!”

The impact of the punch sent Sil flying backwards to the ground. She had seen stars, a white light, and then complete darkness as she went down. Facing straight up at the sky Sil blinked rapidly as she tried processing what had happened. The last thing she remembered was Olivia charging at her, and then a memory abruptly appearing out of nowhere with no context. Propping herself up from the ground Sil groaned as a wave of pain made its way to her head. “Che cavolo…” She mumbled.

“Ah shite,” Kitty murmured, moving in tandem with Olivia to Sil’s side. Although not one for first aid, it was a mere broken nose. Nothing but scars for the blonde, and hell, those made a person.

Looking up at Olivia who was hysterically attempting to help treat her wounded nose Sil chuckled. “You landed a good one Tremotino, that’s for sure.”

“Ah’ll say. Ya got more spite in that wee frame than most’d think,” Kitty said with a knowing nod to the brunette. “Good on ya. Keep that advantage, ya’ll never know when the moment should strike. And, feck, you did,” she said with a gesture towards Sil, giggling a bit never the matter.

Nodding her head in agreement to Kitty Sil used her blouse to try to catch some of the blood falling on the wooden floor. "Oh, she definitely knew when to strike alright…" Sil mumbled. Though, if she hadn't blacked out from the stupid memory then this wouldn't have happened. A terrible side effect to her magic.

Olivia glanced between the two of them from her place on the floor, eyes wide. Never before had she meet someone happy about having their nose broken, but here they were, congratulating her for the punch. Seeing that Sil wasn’t furious about the way their training had ended, Olivia tried to give her a smile. “Well, I guess that’s what you get for all the short jokes on my behalf.” She said jokingly.

“Right, if we do this again, let’s just keep it clean then. Maybe Cowboy or Misser Vickers can keep a peep, but hey, shouldn’t rob us of the fun,” Kitty said, then looked around the room and raised a pale arm.

“Oi, Cowboy, show us the moves--!”

Only through experience of trial and suffering can the soul be strengthened.​

 

[BELIAL.]

» three weeks later

『 TAGGED 』 StormWolf Hell0NHighWater L0ck0n SavannahSmiles noonshine wickedlittlecritta Cashi

Although the first rounds of training were not spectacular for all the Vanguard, with Roland MacCann and Captain Vickers anything was mostly possible. They trained intensely for the next three weeks, sweating from the break of dawn till the evening supper bells rang. The group grew to acquaint themselves with each other, in a variety of peculiar ways.

Any word of actual deployment for the Vanguard was a relative whisper from the Baron and his associates. All the group knew was that they would be heading to France at some point, mostly to provide aide for the soldiers fighting on the frontlines and parade the newfound fighting force of the Union.

However, one brisk morning three weeks after the first dinner, the Baron summons the Vanguard to his study for an important meeting. He wouldn't say what, but simply insisted they'd be there at ten o'clock sharp. You're let into the study, a spacious room with many high-stacking bookshelves, and told to wait for the Baron's arrival. What could he possible want?

code by @Nano

 

[BELIAL.]

Location: Outside Manor / Stables
Interactions: Roland
Mentions: StormWolf

Isolde Bishop​

Excitement quickened her pace. Cheeks still flush; a wide smile pressed on her pink lips, Isolde rode as fast as her father's mare could take her. Various curls of chocolate brown occasionally stung her eyes and skin but she could care less about it. The expanse of the manor's estate stretched out behind them when she took a look back to Roland, half because she never wanted to take her eyes off of him, and the other half because she was terrified she'd wake up any second from this. The morning's events had proved to be anything but reality, that was for sure. A romp in the woods gone completely right, as it were. The heat from their kiss still lingered on her mouth, and the skin that he had touched continued to burn. The light-headed excitement within the woman nearly burst forward more than once, and it was her heels digging into the horse's sides that spurred her forward-- emotionally and physically.

Part of her wondered what on earth her uncle would say about their relationship? Far from approving it, she was sure, but it was just as Roland had said. To hell with 'em. Recalling the moment made another kick of giddy race through her. As her fingers tightened around the reigns, she continued to worry again. Would they replace him? With some other New Columbian? Some stuffy lawmaker? The Witchfinder-General himself? The doubts began to swirl, sinking Isolde's frown into her face as she absently stared at the approaching stables. Time was ticking, they were going to go straight to the Baron... would turning back even be an option?

The idea of jolting Roland up and around with her sentiments-- as much as she didn't want to risk his social safety with being dragged in the mud for not being an aristocrat-- made her heart ache. She wished only happiness for the man, peculiar and jaded as he was. Part of her demanded that it was only she who could provide the happiness. They were two lost souls, anyway, with their own troubles locked away. If the hunt in the forest had proven anything, it was that parts of them were more alike than previously assumed. Freedom to kiss his cheek, hold his company and gush about the cowboy proved nearly convincing enough to dissuade the negative thoughts.

Her smile returned, for his sake, but the doubts continued to swirl.

Dismounting the horse, Isolde strode up to Roland. Grabbing his hand, she pressed it against her cheek. She grinned wildly at him, adrenaline silencing her worries for the moment. "Oh Roland, please promise me that whatever happens with my Uncle, you won't give up on us. Even if he doesn't approve, or if it puts the Vanguard's system in jeopardy... that you would still have me. Somehow, someway," she said with her smile dropping. She squeezed his hand, pressing gentle lips to the fingers.

"Can we have another minute out here? I don't know if I'm... ready yet. To go inside that is," Isolde added post-haste, wincing a bit at the words.