"No, you're probably more of a vodka type. Ah, but that would attract donne indesiderate con cannoni navali, wouldn't it?"
What an odd canticle... is that Old High Gothic that you're speaking ?
Theo seems slightly sheepish. "Y-yeah. How did you guess?"
Aleksandr issued a subtle grin
Deductive tact, my iron clad friend.
Deductive tact, my iron clad friend.
Theo laughs. "You really think that I have tact? Me? Dear god, that is without a doubt the worst take I've ever heard from anyone."
Theo Stark wrote:
Theo seems slightly sheepish. "Y-yeah. How did you guess?"
"Lucky guess." Lappland raised an eyebrow at the Lord General. "Old High Gothic- Sei un folle degenerato! It's Siracusan."
Theo Stark wrote:
Theo laughs. "You really think that I have tact? Me? Dear god, that is without a doubt the worst take I've ever heard from anyone."
No... not you... I presumed you had meant how I had derived it to be a dialect of Old High Gothic.
"Oh. Well I might be able to create an arc reactor the size of a CD, but I don't know spit about languages."
Theo Stark wrote:
"Oh. Well I might be able to create an arc reactor the size of a CD, but I don't know spit about languages."
I shall pass that information onto Harkoth.
Lappland Saluzzo wrote:
Theo Stark wrote:
Theo seems slightly sheepish. "Y-yeah. How did you guess?"
"Lucky guess." Lappland raised an eyebrow at the Lord General. "Old High Gothic- Sei un folle degenerato! It's Siracusan."
Is that what you call it in your abhuman gobbledygook?... well your colleague seems to have confirmed otherwise, and between you and him, he can build an arc reactor the size of a CD, Emperor knows whatever that is... so I think he knows just a little more than you do. Hrmph, Siracusan, next thing you know they'll be calling Low Gothic, Hive Jive.
"Thanks…I think."
Having heard Alexander (purposefully spelt wrong)'s speech of "reusing her head", the girl started to dislike him again.
She got off the stool, and glared at the general, the latter starting to see a galaxy in her eyes.
"Nope. You should probably shut up at this point, I'm fine and all, except that the slash has inconvenienced me from major stuff."
With this, she covered her wound, and strided to a random sofa. After she sat down, her right hand started to glow a somehow celestial cyan light, and she rested it on the gash.
She's slowly recovering.
She got off the stool, and glared at the general, the latter starting to see a galaxy in her eyes.
"Nope. You should probably shut up at this point, I'm fine and all, except that the slash has inconvenienced me from major stuff."
With this, she covered her wound, and strided to a random sofa. After she sat down, her right hand started to glow a somehow celestial cyan light, and she rested it on the gash.
She's slowly recovering.
Well I am glad to have expedited your recovery... albeit... under unfavorable circumstances, my apologies, I had severely underestimated the value you placed on your head and my course of action. It was a regrettable instance.
But just for the record... should there be any agents of the inquisition about.
Aleksandr added seeming to speak to the walls
It would have been an entirely voluntary approval, subject to the approval of this... this...
Aleksandr paused
Human... I think.
Aleksandr turned back to her and shrugged
Can't be too sure in a place like this afterall, well, that's all from me, I've a cask that Mathius so generously donated awaiting me.
But just for the record... should there be any agents of the inquisition about.
Aleksandr added seeming to speak to the walls
It would have been an entirely voluntary approval, subject to the approval of this... this...
Aleksandr paused
Human... I think.
Aleksandr turned back to her and shrugged
Can't be too sure in a place like this afterall, well, that's all from me, I've a cask that Mathius so generously donated awaiting me.
((I hate nokia latency.))
"Let's... not talk about heads. Your sentences about it was like someone holding a shotgun to my head." The girl shook her head, still pressing her right hand against the wound. It was closing.
"And why 'what'?" The next moment she was confused by the general's question of "what is her". "A blue giant starling who is a hollow agent, with some talents, ...that's all."
...
Did she just mentioned she's of blue giant star kin?
The girl proceeded to focus on her own magic. While doing this, she took out a small purple bag from her pocket. ...It almost seemed ethereal, as if there was a pocket dimension in it... and it indeed had one.
"Let's... not talk about heads. Your sentences about it was like someone holding a shotgun to my head." The girl shook her head, still pressing her right hand against the wound. It was closing.
"And why 'what'?" The next moment she was confused by the general's question of "what is her". "A blue giant starling who is a hollow agent, with some talents, ...that's all."
...
Did she just mentioned she's of blue giant star kin?
The girl proceeded to focus on her own magic. While doing this, she took out a small purple bag from her pocket. ...It almost seemed ethereal, as if there was a pocket dimension in it... and it indeed had one.
"Sounds as if he can barely keep his own head on his shoulders."
Xueqing shrugged at Silver's comment, and decided not to reply. Even with her at-times-low emotional intelligence, she knew when just not talk.
After a while, the gash was nowhere to be found. Her T-shirt and right hand were still stained with her own blood, though.
...A water sphere appeared midair, and she extended her hands into it to wash them clean.
"...Getting hurt often is a bad thing."
After a while, the gash was nowhere to be found. Her T-shirt and right hand were still stained with her own blood, though.
...A water sphere appeared midair, and she extended her hands into it to wash them clean.
"...Getting hurt often is a bad thing."
SilverAsh wrote:
"Sounds as if he can barely keep his own head on his shoulders."
By the Emperors grace, it remains there, frankly its equally as surprising to me at times, but who am I to question what fate deigns.
What is certain is that you wont be the one to change that.
((writing in nokia is inconveniencing in general...))
Her Theme. I am the female lead singer and song writer.
The wine diminished into a final garnet vortex that rotated with the fatal solemnity of a quasar. The Marchioness of Winterwake elevated the chalice and allowed the remaining liquid to traverse her tongue in a narrow penitential tide. The taste carried the funerary echo of orchards surrendered long ago to frost. Fermented promise curdled into elegy. The Princess of the Dead treated it as a trivial confession from a world already under indictment. Once judged, it was extinguished. She lowered the chalice with sacerdotal restraint while frost proliferated from her fingertips in intricate dendrites until the vessel stiffened into a small glacial ossifact. A minor monument to something tasted and dismissed.
The chair beneath the Inquisitor emitted a strained groan as timbers bowed beneath the consolidation of her monumental anatomy. Ixqueya did not recline. She descended with regulated inevitability. Callipygian enormity, wrapped in iridescent plating and dusk-warm skin, compressed the weakened carpentry with the finality of an advancing ice shelf overtaking a derelict cloister. When the Giantess adjusted the trajectory of her thigh, the motion altered the atmosphere around her. Not indulgence. Strategy. A colossal limb sheathed in interlocking obsidian segments veined with prismatic Necro Ice obstructed illicit sightlines and forced predatory gazes to collide with unyielding strength. The Winterwake Marchioness converted posture into enforcement. She converted allure into barricade. She converted the architecture of her own musculature into a tool of deterrence.
Her thoracic grandeur rose within the cuirass as two prodigious mamillary bastions disciplined beneath sculpted plate. Each unhurried inhalation elevated that sumptuous architecture in slow, inexorable swell. Flesh pressed against chitin. Softness became lure. Lure became trap. Trap became leverage. Any gaze drifting toward that opulent frontage found itself compelled upward into the glacial jurisprudence of her cerulean eyes. For the Frostmarrow scion, beauty was never indulgence. It functioned as arsenal. Curvature became vector. Voluptuousness became a means of steering the intentions of the undisciplined.
Her armor refused chromatic obedience. Surface tones migrated with uncanny sentience. Obsidian deepened into bruise-violet which brightened into venomous fuchsia before collapsing into a null-black that consumed illumination. The transformations resembled imprisoned auroral currents shifting beneath hardened surface. Each metamorphosis answered subliminal impulses from the Tlāzōtlalpan pulsing behind her sternum. The war-panoply of the Winterwake Hierophant served as a mutating doctrine of attrition and dominion expressed through chromatic volatility.
War pigment added marginal directives to this evolving exoskeleton. Turquoise slashes carved incisive diagonals across her cheekbones. Carmine crescents rested beneath her eyes as frozen tears permanently suspended in pre-fall austerity. Additional strokes traversed clavicles and deltoids. Glyphic decrees of sovereignty. Clauses of territorial prerogative. The skin of the Marchioness served as codex. Flesh served as governance.
Behind the strained chair, the wasp tail of the Frostwing inquisitor hovered in predatory poise. Segments alternated between abyssal black and incandescent fuchsia. Each ring rimmed with serrated coronas that promised laceration before puncture. The appendage never fully rested. Microscopic oscillations sampled the tensions within the tavern. The terminal aculeus shimmered with interior cyan. Necro Ice honed into a verdict. Within its hollow spine coiled cryogenic ichor capable of wrenching living heat into vitrified cessation in a single fractured moment. The tail traced narrow arcs in the air. A pendulum of conditional annihilation.
To her right leaned the Gravechill Bulwark. A towering monolith of sentient permafrost. The translucent surface revealed fugitive silhouettes that appeared then dissolved before comprehension. Ossuary phantoms. Nullified armies. Submerged deathscapes. Deep-carved sigils crawled across the plane in severe vertical procession. Each symbol an interdiction or obliteration clause. The Bulwark siphoned warmth and held it in mute reserve. The planks beneath its lower edge fissured in radiating fractures. Mortality attempting, and failing, to withstand immortal cold.
To her left reclined the Frostfang Mace. The weapon rested across the thigh of the Marchioness like a dormant cataclysm contemplating whether to wake. The haft wrapped in night-dark hide bore constricting ferrules inscribed with compressed maledictions. From that shaft erupted a crown of jagged Necro Ice. Each crystalline fang refracted ambient light into predatory shards. Within the translucent mass churned a deeper glacial incandescence, a polar storm awaiting liberation. When the Inquisitor shifted her hand near the grip the barbs vibrated with faint serrated resonance, reminiscent of distant bones acknowledging inevitability.
One arachnid limb descended and touched the floor in measured cadence. Tap. Pause. Tap. The rhythm infiltrated the tavern’s timber frame. The subtle percussion coaxed involuntary responses from the patrons. A mercenary’s fingers spasmed. A gambler ceased mid-deception. A barmaid’s counterfeit smile decayed when passing a man she distrusted. Each involuntary gesture exposed fissures in the human structure of the room. The Princess of Winterwake registered every weakness without lifting her eyes from the page.
Her ledger lay open. A codex bound in treated hide over a substructure of carved bone. Pages held the color of crematory ash. Columns of numbers and cabalistic sigla advanced with pitiless symmetry. This was necroeconomic jurisprudence. Mortuary arithmetic. Arcanopolitical calculus. Every digit corresponded to a body, a marrow tithe, a death-duty, a soldier, a future skeleton, a population segment entering or exiting utility. When the Marchioness amended a value, she envisioned not abstraction but ribcages and femurs. Throats and hands. Villages collapsing in statistical unison beneath her cold arithmetic. Armies recalculating their odds without knowing why.
Her philosophy permeated every measured motion of her hand. The Inquisitor believed in order as immutable axiom. Not mercy. Not egalitarian fiction. Order. Loyalty existed as lease, never gift. Devotion without competence irritated her. Courage without calculation bored her. Incompetence offended her, for the useless wasted space, time, and marrow. A traitor of talent could be repurposed. A fool could only be consumed. She respected fear when it sharpened instinct. She despised cowardice when it produced stagnation. In her worldview those incapable of contribution existed only as future substrate for necromantic infrastructure.
Even her musculature obeyed this doctrine. The faint tightening of her abdomen beneath the cuirass served structural discipline. The voluptuous gluteal mass of the Ice Marchioness shifted in infinitesimal increments to preserve her equilibrium without granting the tortured chair genuine mercy. Objects and people alike served until their function concluded. Then they forfeited relevance.
Her cerulean eyes, crucibles of cold jurisprudence, appeared focused solely upon the ledger yet consumed peripheral detail with predatory comprehension. Reflections shivering along necro-ice surfaces. Disturbed smoke currents revealing concealed agitation. The hesitation before a lie hardened into speech. The tavern unfurled itself before the Princess of the Dead as a diseased organism. A small ecosystem of appetites and failures. She sorted every soul with silent disdain. Expendable. Exploitable. Replaceable. Rarely anything more. She did not hate these people. Hatred required emotional investment. She merely recognized their insignificance.
Dust motes drifted upward when the Inquisitor turned another folio. They floated in lamplight like microscopic spirits denied interment. Ixqueya observed them for a moment then dismissed them. Transient particles with no leverage. The general who had postured earlier belonged to the same category. Brief visibility. Immediate irrelevance.
The chair groaned beneath the synthesis of her voluptuous musculature and necro-ice war-panoply. The Marchioness withheld acknowledgement. Winter did not request accommodation. Winter claimed space. Winter recorded consequences.
Her nature reflected that theology. The Princess of Winterwake curated survival into architecture. She interpreted weakness into resource. She treated compassion as a calibrated pacing of cruelty rather than its contradiction. Mercy existed only as strategic deferment. She valued competence, obedience, and intelligent fear. She had no interest in the sentimental or the fragile.
Ixqueya Jorgenskull continued to etch mortality into numbers. The Gravechill Bulwark waited at her flank. The Frostfang Mace slumbered across her thigh. Her wasp tail described silent clauses in the tavern air. Her armor shifted through chromatic augury. She sat enthroned within the tavern’s rancid conviviality as a cold hierophant presiding over a congregation incapable of recognizing its own disposability.
Around her mortals whispered and laughed. None perceived that their breath already nourished the Necro Ice sustaining her contemplation. None realized that some of their futures might soon become entries in the ashen ledger.
The Marchioness of Winterwake realized it.The knowledge pleased her with a deep and immutable frost.
The wine diminished into a final garnet vortex that rotated with the fatal solemnity of a quasar. The Marchioness of Winterwake elevated the chalice and allowed the remaining liquid to traverse her tongue in a narrow penitential tide. The taste carried the funerary echo of orchards surrendered long ago to frost. Fermented promise curdled into elegy. The Princess of the Dead treated it as a trivial confession from a world already under indictment. Once judged, it was extinguished. She lowered the chalice with sacerdotal restraint while frost proliferated from her fingertips in intricate dendrites until the vessel stiffened into a small glacial ossifact. A minor monument to something tasted and dismissed.
The chair beneath the Inquisitor emitted a strained groan as timbers bowed beneath the consolidation of her monumental anatomy. Ixqueya did not recline. She descended with regulated inevitability. Callipygian enormity, wrapped in iridescent plating and dusk-warm skin, compressed the weakened carpentry with the finality of an advancing ice shelf overtaking a derelict cloister. When the Giantess adjusted the trajectory of her thigh, the motion altered the atmosphere around her. Not indulgence. Strategy. A colossal limb sheathed in interlocking obsidian segments veined with prismatic Necro Ice obstructed illicit sightlines and forced predatory gazes to collide with unyielding strength. The Winterwake Marchioness converted posture into enforcement. She converted allure into barricade. She converted the architecture of her own musculature into a tool of deterrence.
Her thoracic grandeur rose within the cuirass as two prodigious mamillary bastions disciplined beneath sculpted plate. Each unhurried inhalation elevated that sumptuous architecture in slow, inexorable swell. Flesh pressed against chitin. Softness became lure. Lure became trap. Trap became leverage. Any gaze drifting toward that opulent frontage found itself compelled upward into the glacial jurisprudence of her cerulean eyes. For the Frostmarrow scion, beauty was never indulgence. It functioned as arsenal. Curvature became vector. Voluptuousness became a means of steering the intentions of the undisciplined.
Her armor refused chromatic obedience. Surface tones migrated with uncanny sentience. Obsidian deepened into bruise-violet which brightened into venomous fuchsia before collapsing into a null-black that consumed illumination. The transformations resembled imprisoned auroral currents shifting beneath hardened surface. Each metamorphosis answered subliminal impulses from the Tlāzōtlalpan pulsing behind her sternum. The war-panoply of the Winterwake Hierophant served as a mutating doctrine of attrition and dominion expressed through chromatic volatility.
War pigment added marginal directives to this evolving exoskeleton. Turquoise slashes carved incisive diagonals across her cheekbones. Carmine crescents rested beneath her eyes as frozen tears permanently suspended in pre-fall austerity. Additional strokes traversed clavicles and deltoids. Glyphic decrees of sovereignty. Clauses of territorial prerogative. The skin of the Marchioness served as codex. Flesh served as governance.
Behind the strained chair, the wasp tail of the Frostwing inquisitor hovered in predatory poise. Segments alternated between abyssal black and incandescent fuchsia. Each ring rimmed with serrated coronas that promised laceration before puncture. The appendage never fully rested. Microscopic oscillations sampled the tensions within the tavern. The terminal aculeus shimmered with interior cyan. Necro Ice honed into a verdict. Within its hollow spine coiled cryogenic ichor capable of wrenching living heat into vitrified cessation in a single fractured moment. The tail traced narrow arcs in the air. A pendulum of conditional annihilation.
To her right leaned the Gravechill Bulwark. A towering monolith of sentient permafrost. The translucent surface revealed fugitive silhouettes that appeared then dissolved before comprehension. Ossuary phantoms. Nullified armies. Submerged deathscapes. Deep-carved sigils crawled across the plane in severe vertical procession. Each symbol an interdiction or obliteration clause. The Bulwark siphoned warmth and held it in mute reserve. The planks beneath its lower edge fissured in radiating fractures. Mortality attempting, and failing, to withstand immortal cold.
To her left reclined the Frostfang Mace. The weapon rested across the thigh of the Marchioness like a dormant cataclysm contemplating whether to wake. The haft wrapped in night-dark hide bore constricting ferrules inscribed with compressed maledictions. From that shaft erupted a crown of jagged Necro Ice. Each crystalline fang refracted ambient light into predatory shards. Within the translucent mass churned a deeper glacial incandescence, a polar storm awaiting liberation. When the Inquisitor shifted her hand near the grip the barbs vibrated with faint serrated resonance, reminiscent of distant bones acknowledging inevitability.
One arachnid limb descended and touched the floor in measured cadence. Tap. Pause. Tap. The rhythm infiltrated the tavern’s timber frame. The subtle percussion coaxed involuntary responses from the patrons. A mercenary’s fingers spasmed. A gambler ceased mid-deception. A barmaid’s counterfeit smile decayed when passing a man she distrusted. Each involuntary gesture exposed fissures in the human structure of the room. The Princess of Winterwake registered every weakness without lifting her eyes from the page.
Her ledger lay open. A codex bound in treated hide over a substructure of carved bone. Pages held the color of crematory ash. Columns of numbers and cabalistic sigla advanced with pitiless symmetry. This was necroeconomic jurisprudence. Mortuary arithmetic. Arcanopolitical calculus. Every digit corresponded to a body, a marrow tithe, a death-duty, a soldier, a future skeleton, a population segment entering or exiting utility. When the Marchioness amended a value, she envisioned not abstraction but ribcages and femurs. Throats and hands. Villages collapsing in statistical unison beneath her cold arithmetic. Armies recalculating their odds without knowing why.
Her philosophy permeated every measured motion of her hand. The Inquisitor believed in order as immutable axiom. Not mercy. Not egalitarian fiction. Order. Loyalty existed as lease, never gift. Devotion without competence irritated her. Courage without calculation bored her. Incompetence offended her, for the useless wasted space, time, and marrow. A traitor of talent could be repurposed. A fool could only be consumed. She respected fear when it sharpened instinct. She despised cowardice when it produced stagnation. In her worldview those incapable of contribution existed only as future substrate for necromantic infrastructure.
Even her musculature obeyed this doctrine. The faint tightening of her abdomen beneath the cuirass served structural discipline. The voluptuous gluteal mass of the Ice Marchioness shifted in infinitesimal increments to preserve her equilibrium without granting the tortured chair genuine mercy. Objects and people alike served until their function concluded. Then they forfeited relevance.
Her cerulean eyes, crucibles of cold jurisprudence, appeared focused solely upon the ledger yet consumed peripheral detail with predatory comprehension. Reflections shivering along necro-ice surfaces. Disturbed smoke currents revealing concealed agitation. The hesitation before a lie hardened into speech. The tavern unfurled itself before the Princess of the Dead as a diseased organism. A small ecosystem of appetites and failures. She sorted every soul with silent disdain. Expendable. Exploitable. Replaceable. Rarely anything more. She did not hate these people. Hatred required emotional investment. She merely recognized their insignificance.
Dust motes drifted upward when the Inquisitor turned another folio. They floated in lamplight like microscopic spirits denied interment. Ixqueya observed them for a moment then dismissed them. Transient particles with no leverage. The general who had postured earlier belonged to the same category. Brief visibility. Immediate irrelevance.
The chair groaned beneath the synthesis of her voluptuous musculature and necro-ice war-panoply. The Marchioness withheld acknowledgement. Winter did not request accommodation. Winter claimed space. Winter recorded consequences.
Her nature reflected that theology. The Princess of Winterwake curated survival into architecture. She interpreted weakness into resource. She treated compassion as a calibrated pacing of cruelty rather than its contradiction. Mercy existed only as strategic deferment. She valued competence, obedience, and intelligent fear. She had no interest in the sentimental or the fragile.
Ixqueya Jorgenskull continued to etch mortality into numbers. The Gravechill Bulwark waited at her flank. The Frostfang Mace slumbered across her thigh. Her wasp tail described silent clauses in the tavern air. Her armor shifted through chromatic augury. She sat enthroned within the tavern’s rancid conviviality as a cold hierophant presiding over a congregation incapable of recognizing its own disposability.
Around her mortals whispered and laughed. None perceived that their breath already nourished the Necro Ice sustaining her contemplation. None realized that some of their futures might soon become entries in the ashen ledger.
The Marchioness of Winterwake realized it.The knowledge pleased her with a deep and immutable frost.
The girl, not aware of this, looked at Mathius. She never had explored this place much. "If I may ask, is there a bathr-"
Suddenly, she felt insecure. Not out of guilt or sin, not out of inner problems... just insecure, coming from an outside force.
This unsettled her, and her eyes searched around for the source. The newcomer... "Um, sorry to say, but... your vibe's off. What are you doing there?" She watched with some concern.
Suddenly, she felt insecure. Not out of guilt or sin, not out of inner problems... just insecure, coming from an outside force.
This unsettled her, and her eyes searched around for the source. The newcomer... "Um, sorry to say, but... your vibe's off. What are you doing there?" She watched with some concern.
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