Forums » Fantasy Roleplay » Trixie's Bar (Everyone welcome)

Xueqing was becoming increasingly anxious with the dense atmosphere.

Taking out her void bag, she reached into it... and pulled out a coat. Then, she slid it on her, "Sorry, gotta go..." and scurried to the exit.

With a swift motion, the door was opened, and the girl jumped outside. Afterwards, she pulled the door to a close, leaving the bar.

Raised a brow as he watched Lin leave,

Hrm... she's not wrong... a bit chilly in here as of late... I can wonder why

He added shooting a glance to the O B S C E N E L Y - B O S O M E D one.

Emperor, have mercy, weapons of mass obsession have entered the battlefield.

Aleksandr swatted himself in the face a few times

" Snap out of it Von Drakenfell... you are an officer of the Imperium, exercise professionalism.. hr... The Schola did always warn us about the Aeldari and their wily ways. "

Aleksandr added, pulling himself together and returning to his usual stern forme.

Ami walked to the Lord General after putting her uniform and armor on as she saluted to him. "Sir! I know you are not my commander, but what are your orders?!" she said as she stood there close to him.

I hope to achieve my desired destination, Sistersof Battle... she thought as she looked at his stern expression on his face.

Her own stern look showed that she meant business. All but her face was still covered in tattoos. After the briefing and the field training, she had her face tattoos removed so she was more professional. In her eyes, she wanted to be presentable to Aleksandr, her commanding officer, and Lord Graystorm.

He shook his head in annoyance. He looked off into the ether and he simply nodded. "Yeah, Mytt. Go ahead"


The reality around them shattered and seemingly melted. Just as soon as the intruders entered in an attempt to disrupt the warm, welcoming, and semi-rustic feel of the bar, it seemed to have returned.


"Thank you, Mytt" his glowing blue eyes grew softer as he spoke to his fellow Fate's Circle member and brother. From the outside, someone who didn't know Mathius was a telepath would think he had gone mad.

He made his way back inside the bar and his eyes fell upon the new Guards woman and he perked a brow, but his reservations quickly melted away and was replaced by a smile noticing this new Guardswoman was under Lord General Drakenfell's leadership. He knew firsthand how exceptional the Lord General's leadership was ever since they've fought alongside each other's units back when he was a Commissar, and how his name was said with reverence within the Astra Militariun, and whispered in fear amongst even the most devout of Chaos cultists and even some Heretic Astartes. Even some Orks become overjoyed when regaling each other with stories of the Lord General's battles, seemingly only to be matched in ferocity with the Death Korps of Krieg.



"Seeing you don the Emperor's armor pleases me, Guardswoman"

Hearing Donatos' words made her stare in his direction with a smile on her face. It was definitely a compliment to her. "Lord Donatos, thank you for the compliment," she said with a grin as she saluted him out of respects.

"You all are a inspiration for me. I was orphaned at a early age and had to defend for myself," she said with a stern look on her face now. "So I will not displease you with my firearms. I can use any weapon being a weapons expert," she said as she cocked her weapon in demonstration. She released the trigger without firing once as she rest it in front of her chest to show she knew how to use it with precision and accuracy.

She stared at the Lord General with utmost respect as she listens to him intently. She indeed excelled at her training exercise as her main choice of weapon was a gun. Unbeknownst, she carried a hidden smaller laser gun from her reality. It would only be used in up close combat; IE: fire to the face of an ork. "Sir, yes, sir! I will not displease you or anyone!" she said as she had the privilege to be saluted by Lord General Aleksandr for the first time as she saluted him back in respect.

She sat down and enjoyed some recaf as she said, "Delicious, Lord General Aleksandr. And I feel they are about to be here sooner than later," she said. She secretly had hoped to meet this Athene woman and hope to get her praise to become a Warmaiden.

Without fail, she heard her captain, Rolne, appeared as she jolted up in salute to him out of respect.

She without hesitation answered, "Sir,YES, Sir!" She moved to the hangar for briefing. As she did, she turned around to look at Aleksandr and showed him her pride and joy, the hidden laser pistol, before hiding it again from sight.

She came to the hangar and looked at the massive war machine as her eyes lit up with excitement. She knew what to do as she was briefed about taking the outpost to the northeast of Balion; a place she learned during combat training. "I, nor my comrades, will fail you! For the Emperor!" she responded with pride in her eyes. She may receive scars, but she will them like a badge of honor.

Hearing what it could do excited her. The thought of the firepower made her spine tingle from excitement as she listened intently to Rolne explain it all. That was one thing she was also good at; taking care of her weaponry and making sure to inspect and maintain it. "I will make sure to keep it maintained at all times, Captain Rolne!" she shouted with pride as she saluted him out of respects of her captain.

With agile speed, she went to the crates that held the munitions and loaded up her Chimera quickly and fluently like water as she gracefully ran back and forth in her armor. She was showing her capabilities as a soldier to load her Chimera first before the other soldiers. Seeing them struggling, she had a stern look, her piercing purple eyes staring right at Rolne as she finished first. "Done, Captain Rolne!" she said with another salute.

(Let's move this over to a Warhammer 40K so we can separate the bar from the Imperium getting ready)

Fumizuki snuggles against Drael adorably.

Tonatiuh let her finish. One hand rested lightly on his chest. The other hung loose at his side, ready to cue his crew without making a scene about it. Behind him, his four skeletons held their posture like they’d been trained by a strict choreographer. No shuffling. No wandering. Just clean poses that made the tavern aisle feel narrower. One turned a shoulder to catch candlelight on necro ice beadwork. Another lifted its chin as if it had been born noble and merely mislaid its skin. A third rotated in place, slow and smug, showing off bone trim and turquoise stitching. The fourth stayed near Tonatiuh with a tray of swatches and ribbons like a respectful attendant.

Tonatiuh watched Ixqueya. Not the room. He took in the rules she laid down, the correction at the end. The way she made permission sound like a blade that could be retracted at any time. He liked that. It meant she was serious. He could work with serious. When she corrected him, he didn’t argue. He didn’t sulk, but merely smiled. Bright and shameless. Then he lifted two fingers to his lips, pinched the air as if grabbing the offending word by the throat, and flicked it away with dramatic disgust. “Fine.” he said lightly. “That one is banned. I’ll behave.”

He leaned in a fraction, not intimate, just conspiratorial, and lowered his voice as if he were sharing a joke with the only person in the room worth sharing it with. “Honestly, I’m relieved you’re picky.A woman must always have her standards.” His eyes moved over her face the way a craftsman inspects something built to last. Just appreciation for strength and clarity. “Strong lines. Cold eyes. Very expensive expression.”

His gaze flicked once to the stinger’s slow arc. He didn’t stare for too long. Then he nodded, satisfied. “And yes. I can design around that without insulting it.” A small motion of his wrist, barely visible, and the skeletons adjusted. One drifted toward the door and became a quiet reminder that leaving was optional. Another moved behind the bar and made the bartender stand straighter without understanding why. A third stopped near the loudest table like a polite interruption waiting to happen. The fourth remained beside Tonatiuh with the tray, perfectly level.

The room didn’t quiet because he demanded it. It quieted because he made loudness look stupid. Tonatiuh kept his attention on Ixqueya as if the tavern simply didn’t deserve eye contact. “We’ll do the fitting properly.” he said, brisk and practical. “Not here. Not in front of gawkers. I don’t need drunks trying to memorize your shape like it’s a bedtime story.” His grin sharpened. “I enjoy attention.” he added, bright. “But I don’t give it away like charity.”

He straightened and smoothed the front of his robe as if resetting into “work mode,” though the theater never fully left him. It just became cleaner. “I’ll draft something that matches what you actually are.” he said. “High collar. Clean cut. Mantle that parts where it should. Nothing catching. Nothing dragging. Nothing… adorable.” He flashed a quick smile. “You’re no demure maiden. You’re terrifying. Which is far easier to dress.” Then he glanced toward the room for the first time since she’d addressed him, and his expression turned openly offended. Like the tavern’s fashion had personally insulted his family.

He sighed. Loudly. Theatrically. “Look at them.” he muttered, just loud enough to be heard and just soft enough to sound like he wasn’t trying. “Cloth crimes. Everywhere. Wrinkles that should be prosecuted. Boots that look like they’ve given up. Colors that died and weren’t mourned.” He looked back to Ixqueya, eyebrows lifted in exaggerated concern, and his tone turned playful. “And you.” he said, pointing gently toward her eyes without leaning closer. “Don’t stare at it too long. It’s unsightly. Might damage those pretty blue eyes the ladies love so much.” He held the beat for the joke to land, then gave her a short, crisp bow. Equal parts respect and showmanship. “Keep counting.” he said. “I’m going to go sketch something that makes authority look inevitable.”

He turned with dancer precision, robes catching candlelight, bone trim flashing, necro ice beadwork sparkling like cold fire. His skeletons fell in behind him with neat, arrogant discipline. A little procession. A moving reminder that taste could be a weapon. As he walked away, he lifted a hand in a lazy farewell. “If this place gets any uglier while I’m gone,” he called back lightly, “I’m billing the tavern.” He left with a quip and as theatrical as he had arrived.

The room capitulated before he fully withdrew.

Not with courtesy. With involuntary capitulation. Laughter lost its sinew. Boasts thinned into cautious mutters. Shoulders rose as if bracing for weather. Even lamplight seemed to contract, ashamed of how long it had labored to dignify soot and sweat. The aisle, previously a common thoroughfare for drunks and braggarts, narrowed into a corridor of consequence. A place where posture became confession.

Tonatiuh Xīhuitzin did not merely depart. He concluded.

He receded with the composure of a mortician drawing the cloth across a face already named. His violet-and-gold brilliance surrendered the candlelit murk with offended grace. Wet-jade shimmer dwindled into the tavern’s grime as if the very air resented being corrected. Bone remained immaculate. Necro Ice dimmed from coquettish scintillation into a residual glint that clung to hems like hoarfrost left behind after a chapel door seals.

The tavern began, at once, to relapse into its native degradation.

Places like this enthrone squalor as authenticity. They treat refinement as accusation. They mistake quiet for permission. They forget that silence can govern. Ixqueya Jorgenskull watched the regression without turning her head. Only her gaze followed him. Only her mind continued the work.

This was not admiration. This was audit.

She read Tonatiuh the way winter reads a threshold stone. Not for ornament. For ingress. For microfractures. For the tiny admissions through which a draft becomes calamity. She had learned, long before crowns and ledgers, that dominion seldom arrives as a fist. It arrives as allowance. It arrives as relief. It arrives under the pretense of improvement.

His stillness while she spoke remained the first datum.

Not supplication. Not intimidation. Discipline. A restraint honed where words are warrants and listening is survival performed with dignity. One hand settled upon his chest. Not prayer. Not contrition. A controlled acknowledgment of receipt. The other remained loose at his side, capable of cueing his ossuary troupe without converting obedience into pageantry. That composure mattered. It was competence made visible. She had watched courtiers counterfeit humility until it became costume. She had watched commanders counterfeit courage until it became liability. Tonatiuh performed only when it yielded leverage. When it mattered, he allowed authority to occupy the air without contest.

Correction had been administered. He accepted it with the speed of someone who understands that language is policy.

No appeal. No defensive theatre. No request for emotional indulgence. He simply expelled the offending word as one might strip mildew from velvet before it stains the weave. Pride that permits redirection becomes an engine. Vanity that requires consolations becomes a shackle. She marked him as the former. His ego possessed internal trussing. It could bear constraint without whining that it had been asked to carry it.

Behind him, the dead maintained posture like vows held under strain.

No wandering. No slackening into the sloppy democracy of decay. Vertebrae aligned into doctrine. Skulls angled with insolent dignity that made the living seem clumsy inside their own meat. He did not treat death as jest. He curated it into hierarchy. That was not frivolity. That was persuasion. The living obey what appears inevitable. Tonatiuh manufactured inevitability through stance, through cloth, through the hush that falls when a room realizes it is being judged by something that does not blink.

He altered the tavern without raising his voice.

A small motion. A skeleton drifting toward the door, so egress became a question rather than a guarantee. Another stationed behind the bar, compelling the barkeep’s spine into straighter confession without comprehension of why. One placed near the loudest table, a polite interruption waiting to happen. Loudness died because it began to look puerile. Insolence curdled into thrift. Disorder did not meet punishment. It met embarrassment. Fear can be resisted. Shame recruits witnesses. She recorded that method as a bloodless blade that still leaves lesions.

Distance. He kept it with precision.

Close enough to be useful. Far enough to remain deniable. That spacing belonged to someone who had survived palaces and pits alike. Boundaries were not manners. They were survival made legible. Ixqueya approved without warmth. Warmth was indulgence. Indulgence was rot receiving permission to breed.

His gaze, when it traversed her, did not feed.

It enumerated. It appraised. It catalogued structure rather than begging softness. Throat as proclamation. Shoulders as sentence. Hips as bastion. Tail as jurisdiction. He did not romanticize her mass. He recognized it as policy expressed in flesh. Recognition was rarer than desire. Recognition persisted after laughter died. She permitted his technical attention because it was not theft. It was comprehension. It was also a test. He passed it without being told he was taking it.

He insisted the fitting occur elsewhere.

Correct. Privacy was not modesty. It was resource management. Visibility was currency. The Princess of the Dead spent it on tribunals, on border rites, on war. Never on drunks trying to memorize her outline like a bedtime superstition. He understood that without instruction. That understanding mattered. It meant he did not merely possess taste. He possessed discretion. Discretion separated artisan from liability.

Yet she did not romanticize the marks.

Tonatiuh was her friend in the austere sense. A person permitted proximity without being taxed for it. Permission itself was rare. But she also knew the predatory lie that nests inside companionship. Affection becomes a leash if you permit it. Admiration becomes a chain if you hunger for it. The wise keep even beloved implements at measured distance. The foolish begin to need them.

His brilliance was not innocence. His charm was not charity. His taste was not mere delight.

It was mechanism. It rendered mediocrity indictable. It made authority feel fashionable. It made obedience feel like relief. He could gild a noose until the condemned thanked him for the ribbon. That talent was priceless. It was also perilous. Not because he wished harm. Motives were irrelevant. Effects were sovereign. Influence is never neutral. It either fortifies agency or dissolves it.

Her thoughts turned severer here. More doctrinal.

People like Tonatiuh do not conquer by threatening. They conquer by improving. They do not demand crowns. They reshape what crowns mean. They rarely strike first. They educate others where to strike. They are tutors disguised as entertainers. Their lessons are exquisite. Their costs are concealed. They speak of standards while forging dependencies. The improved seldom notice the collar until it tightens.

Ixqueya felt no ache at his leaving. Only recalibration.

A variable exited the chamber and carried its pressure gradient with it. The tavern slumped back toward habitual iniquity. Warmth returned in dishonest increments. Courage resurfaced like counterfeit coin. She despised the reflex again. Mortals were eager to believe the grave had looked away.

The chair beneath her consolidated mass groaned. Timber flexed. Joints voiced a small hymn of inadequacy. The Marchioness of Winterwake did not accommodate it. Structures learned faster when spared mercy. She crossed one armored leg over the other with parsimonious exactitude. Not languor. Governance. Femme-fatale poise welded to winter jurisprudence. Behind her, the wasp tail traced a slow arc. The aculeus caught candlelight like a consecrated thorn. Not menace. Reminder. Conditional consequence made visible.

Her war paint remained inviolate. Turquoise decrees across cheekbone and brow. Carmine crescents beneath her eyes like blood arrested before descent. Her expression did not soften. It did not need to. Softness was currency she did not spend in rooms like this.

The ledger rested beneath her gauntlet. Hide stretched over bone. An ossuary codex. A private altar where arithmetic replaced prayer and consequence replaced pardon. She opened it. The pages received lamplight like penitents receiving judgment. The pen descended. Not hurried. Not hesitant. A deliberate rite. Ink set like soot upon snow.

She wrote him into the book the way a priest writes a name into a registry. Without romance. Without malice. With permanence.

Tonatiuh Xīhuitzin.
Classification. Specialist asset. Elevated utility. Low volatility when constrained.
Observed conduct. Stillness during adjudication. Correction accepted without dispute. Spatial discipline maintained. Boundary literacy confirmed.
Operational influence. Crowd compliance achieved indirectly. Ambient disorder reduced through aesthetic shame. Egress influenced via undead placement. Working conditions improved. Attention redirected away from audit work.
Ideological consonance. Death treated as hierarchy. Bone elevated into expectation. Presentation wielded as coercion.
Risk. Vanity present. Containable. Productive when harnessed. Monitor for overreach in public settings.
Directive. Authorize private fitting. Instruments only. No public measurements. No crowd access.
Addendum. Language correction issued. Compliance observed. Adaptation favorable.

She paused. Not indecision. A deliberate silence. The kind that falls in chapels before an oath is sworn.

Her mind revisited the proofs, not to admire them, but to ensure they held.

Competence confirmed through attentive stillness. Intelligence verified through nondefensive revision. Indirect dominion demonstrated by effortless crowd recalibration. Spatial respect validated predatory literacy. Cohort discipline confirmed theological consonance. Contempt for mediocrity registered as moral hygiene. Technical appraisal established trust without vulgarity. Discretion regarding fittings recorded as strategic prudence. Humor classified as social blade. Ledger entry executed. Emotional dependency absent. Bow interpreted as respect without submission. Immediate return to accounting preserved dominance over distraction.

The room became gelid again, not by gust, but by edict alone.

Ixqueya’s pen resumed its crawl across the page. Numbers aligned. Balances recalculated. Winter returned to its patient accounting. Death waited without impatience. Authority remained inevitable. Tonatiuh might drape the gallows in velvet and call it mercy. The Marchioness of Winterwake would still decide who swung.

((I'm free now if anyone wishes to RP with Ixqueya or Zubaida.))

"Mrrr?" [confused]

A hole opens up in the ceiling, revealing a door to the stars... and out comes a witch sitting on a broomstick - how classic! She has a skull for a face, though the lights in her eye sockets express emotion. She looks around the room while the portal closes, and she conjures a beverage for herself, a jar full of something that looks like what was within the portal - some kind of space juice.

She examines the other characters thoughtfully, though in no rush to interact.

"Mrraarrr!"

Basil giggled at the little shark creature. "Hey there little guy~ hungry?" she asked, before she waved her magic wand, conjuring a juicy slab of steak! The steak appeared in mid-air and slapped onto the floor with heavy girth, its aroma filling the air.

"Hmhm~ I wonder if you belong to anyone~ Did you come here by yourself, little guy?"

"Mrrr, mrrrm mrrarrrrr." [Jeff says that he belongs to Gwenpool, but often adventures on his own]

After explaining that, Jeff eagerly lunges at the steak, tearing chunks out of it like the adorably tiny apex predator he is.