| rdfs:comment
| - There's no shame in dying at the hands of the fae's minions. Not even for a Solar Exalt. Though they are weaker, their numbers are vast, and they have long memories. Inhuman minds can remember slights inflicted centuries ago, or move in ways no exalts mind can predict. Or, the numbers may simply be overwhelming, such as when one threatened an Unshaped with the Order Affirming Blow, and thatt unshamed decided that his ancient story needed a late breaking update, involving you, alone, surrounded by two dozen patchwork horrors and enough banshee's to sing the Yozi's chorus. Grey Wolf whipped out his plasma tongue repeaters and fired, the flame weapons blaring as he ran, trying to put some distance between himself and his foes. All his pirate flintpieces were long since depleted, his pistols
|
| abstract
| - There's no shame in dying at the hands of the fae's minions. Not even for a Solar Exalt. Though they are weaker, their numbers are vast, and they have long memories. Inhuman minds can remember slights inflicted centuries ago, or move in ways no exalts mind can predict. Or, the numbers may simply be overwhelming, such as when one threatened an Unshaped with the Order Affirming Blow, and thatt unshamed decided that his ancient story needed a late breaking update, involving you, alone, surrounded by two dozen patchwork horrors and enough banshee's to sing the Yozi's chorus. Grey Wolf whipped out his plasma tongue repeaters and fired, the flame weapons blaring as he ran, trying to put some distance between himself and his foes. All his pirate flintpieces were long since depleted, his pistols clicking empty in turn after another pair of flurries. All around him, the defenses burned, mortals run off as legions of the undead poured through the gate. Every shot he fired destroyed one of the undead abominations -- but there were more of them then he had bullets. The banshee's swarmed in strength and he hadn't so much as a whistle left, much less real singing. As the patchworks sprinted towards him, his two weapons clattered open as the creatures closed, the ten empty shells falling to earth. He whipped a new set out from his belt, hurriedly loading them, tumblers spinning as he slotted the shells in. At last, the gun was ready to fire again, the solar snapping it shut- He never saw the club that broke over the back of his head, the unit that had flanked him surprisingly silent for the lumbering undead. Concussed and bleeding, barely conscious, the solar collapsed before the undead, his weapons tumbling from his grasp. As his eyes closed, the ogre raised his club with a victorious grin, bringing it down on the solars prone body. A loud crash echo'ed -- the banshee and ogre's looking in with puzzlement. More clubs rose and fell. Banshee's screamed. But though the Solar could not so much as raise a hand to defend himself, every attack shattered upon his anima banner like raindrops upon a wall, the goblins unable to deliver so much as a scratch. With a flutter, his eyes opened again, a line of blood running down his forehead. He sat up -- ignoring the goblins around him and the battle beyond, reaching up to touch the line of blood and his broken hat, looking down at his red-stained fingers as it for the first time. File:Text.jpg He spoke, the high speech of the Realm flowing more naturally than the barbarian whistles he'd been speaking in thus far. When not a fae moved, vexation crossed his expression, the monk rising with a: "Do you not comprehend? Do my words fall deaf on your goblin ears? Do you not know me?" His tone quizzical and light, eyes rolling up to consider them, head tilted to the side just so. An almost regretful "I see," followed their silence, the monk slowly nodding, seeming to consider his response. With a flash, his caste mark flared, the next word from his mouth not a human sound but a magical roar, the language of the old world -- the language of magic pouring forth as it had not been uttered in two ages. As though it were caught in one of the great sandstorms of the south, the patchwork horror disintegrated, it's flesh stripped away until nothing but a mote of wyld essence remained -- and soon not even that. With a start, every other creature lept away, giving the Solar more personal space. "Now you know me." The monk asserted, his voice a cruel lash. "Leave. You serve no purpose here and your presence vexes me." He continued, the undead startled to find themselves obeying, feet carrying themselves back out of the gate. Once they left, the monk took off his broken bamboo hat, considering it for a long time before gently sliding it onto his head once again. "Not as bad as I thought." The monk pronounced, swaying on his feet, passing out with one last mutter of: "I can work with this one."
|
![[RDF Data]](/fct/images/sw-rdf-blue.png)