[Twi]Chronicles of the Impaler: Crisis of Infinite Draculas OOC

[darkblade]

The next part of Marcone's adventure.

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Johnny Marcone sat quietly at the bar under the Foundation X headquarters. The files he was given on the men he was to command were not too surprising. A little hard to take seriously when he had heard most of them over quoted by annoying upstarts but nothing he couldn't manage. He scribled a note to make sure something is done about Montana's expenses, for a mere coke dealer he is living pretty large, and going to get himself killed.

“I wouldn't advise writing things like that down. As big as we are on control we're still mostly looking out for number one around here.” A rough voice said causing Marcone to look up for a moment. He was greeted to the visage of a creature with exceptionally large ears and almost tumorous lobes on his head. It reminded him uncomfortably of a World War II caricature of a Jewish man.

“I don't remember asking the bartender for advice on how to run a criminal Empire.” He replied. It came out a bit ruder than he meant. Sonozaki's double bluffing him still had the gangster a little shaken.

“I do more than just tend bar thank you very much. I run the only holosuit club in Nightside and am single handidly responsible for the entire extraterrestrial black market being a major player in the powers race. Name's Quark.” The bartender held out his hand to Marcone who reluctantly took it.

“Quark, weren't you from that Star Tr-” Marcone started to ask.

“Aha, don't want to hear it. We don't talk about those, the whole metaphysical fiction thing is not talked about here. If the guy upstairs heard you mention what you saw me in he'd sell you to the back end cannibals.” Quark interrupted with a move to cover Marcone's mouth. On pure reflex he twisted the ferngi's arm back and put a gun to his head. As he does so several other move for their weapons, some the familiar guns and blasting rods of home, others alien devices Marcone wasn't quite certain of their function but assumed it to be both painful and lethal.

With a deep sigh Marcone lowered his weapon. Quark laughed slightly. “You are going to have to relax a little if you want to make it in the Foundation. Here have a drink.”

Quark reached behind the counter for a silver kettle-like bottle when Marcone stopped him. “How much is it going to cost me?”

The Ferengi's smile widened. “You catch on quick. Five, twenty-first century American dollars a glass, fifty for the bottle.”

“What is it?”

“Klingon Bloodwine, less than a cycle old. Still sweet.” Quark answered as he set the kettle down on the table.

“I'll take the bottle,” Marcone said as he placed a hundred dollar note from his pocket on the table.

***

Murphy scratched her head as she examined the empty kettle. “I just don't get it. It's just a kettle.”

She picked up the note beside it and read out loud once more. “I'm afraid business with Foundation X is going to keep me in London a little longer than expected. In my absence Gard and Hendricks are in charge of my affairs so do not get any funny ideas Ms. Murphy. Also, since the majority of you seem to enjoy using my resources to maintain Dresden's legacy allow me to grant him a symbolic tribute. I'm sure he'd appreciate having a drink from one of those shows he constantly forced references to dedicated to him...”

Billy's eyes perked up as she read. “What was that last part?”

“Harry made bad jokes?” She asked not quite following where he was going.

“No about Harry's favorite show?” Billy sniped.

“That the kettle is from one of those shows right?”

“No it isn't. That's Klingon Bloodwine.” Billy explained as he snatched up the kettle.

“So?”

“Harry liked Star Wars, not Star Trek. He couldn't stand all that science without any magic. It's a message.” Bob explained as the glow of his eyes changed to a slightly darker blue out of not quite concern but worry that Marcone was sleeping with Orion women and he couldn't enjoy it.

[Cracklord]

Foundation X is definately interesting, isn't it? Of course, it amkes one wonder what would happen if they win.
If you're still looking for new members, I suggest archetypes. I mean, the confederacy of evil is based on dark versions of the same basic characteristics that form the Order of the Dark Tower.
Flagg represents an evil John Taylor, a human-like being of unknown ancestry who relies as much on trickery and a reputation, smoke and mirrors, as his own salient powers.
Yawgmoth is an evil Richard Seaton, Shaxx is what Hellboy was meant to be, and so on.

Also, with the Highschool game, can we have a time-skip soon? I want to be able to use my characters again.

[darkblade]

I have most of the roster set up now at least for the inner circle, they each reflect aspects of one of the Knights.

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As of yet unknown leader has his ties to Michael in ways that will reveal who he is, so I won't tell you.

Sonozaki is obviously a counterpart to Tsukasa coming from the same franchise. Tsukasa uses his powers that were created for evil for good and Sonozaki uses powers that were meant for good (Gaia Memories come from the Network) for evil.

Quarc who deals in Alien technology and bringing himself profit through other's conquest is the opposite of Seaton who brings down those who use their superior technology for personal gain.

Atticus Murphy Jr. (from Todd and the Book of Pure Evil, watch that show it's awesome) is the opposite of Hellboy as he is a mortal who greatly wants to be an Anti-Chirst.

O'Brian (1984) as an friendly face that exists to draw out insubordination and crush it under his heel is the opposite of the rebellious rocker that is Eddie Riggs.

Lara Wraith is rather similar to Carlos as I write him. Despite her successes she is unable to escape the shadow of larger threats within her universe. Also a succubus makes a good foil for a virgin wizard.

Frollo (from Disney's Hunchback of Notre Dame) as the embodiment of the potential corrupt and oppressive aspects of religion represents the opposite of the Puritan ideals Solmon Kane holds himself to

The Great and Powerful Trixie (MLP:FiM) as a being of above average power who constantly wants to be recognized for her abilities and wishes to be the idol of everypony is the opposite of John Taylor who despite his big reputation and potential power for the most part is apathetic about what others in Nightside and multiverse as a whole think about him. I also wanted to see his reaction when he learns his evil counterpart is a magical pony.

I'm giving everyone 24 hours for one final night post before moving to day 2.

[Cracklord]

Great minds think alike...
Wait...
O'Brian? Christ, it looks like Airstrip One has multi-dimensional-Imperial ambitions. That can't be good. I wonder if the others know quite what they're getting into.
As for Lara, I like her, but I probably would have gone with Raistlin Majere.

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Carlos Ramirez stood in his office, pacing back and forth. He'd just finished explaining to Murphy that he couldn't help her because he was busy negotiating a treaty, which was true. He just didn't say where, if he tried to tell them he was visiting a world called Krynn to explain to them they were about to be invaded, he suspected they'd think he was crazy, rather then just looking for reasons to avoid them.
He's dressed for the occasion. His coat and pants were both of midnight blue, fine, subtle suede, his shirt so black one could almost fall into it, but most magnificent of all was his cloak, a flowing liquid hue that could have been a sliver of the deepest ocean depths. The buckles and clasps of his cloak, and there were several of them, were all burnished silver and boasted an array of silver symbols that looked arcane and mysterious to the uninitiated, but were in fact utterly meaningless.
Ramirez just thought they looked cool. Which, to be fair, is as good a reason as any. If you were going to be a wizard, you had the privilege, even the requirement, to dress in any manner that made you feel confident.
Ramirez did not have a beard, or a pointy hat, and hadn't worn a robe in a long time. He was average in terms of height, skinny rather then lean or hard or any of the other objectives you hope for, and cute rather then smoulderingly-handsome or roguishly endowed with a surplus of devil-may-care attitude. He was, however, dressed to kill. Indeed, he was a walking anachronism.
His staff was cut of Ash, as it is strongly tied to magical workings and prophecy. Oak was more traditional, but they couldn't all be blunt instruments who went for power and strength. It was carved with a variety of deep grooves that intersected and separated in a way that created patterns that hurt the eyes if you looked at them too long, and tipped with a sharp point, so that if magic failed to materialize you could always poke someone full of holes with it. His enchanted sword was scabbarded across his back, given he didn't have room anywhere else, but he hadn't been keeping up training with it, so that was a weapon of last resort. A well-worn web-belt hung low around his hips, covered in pouches and keeping all his resources within easy reach. Vials full of a variety of potions riding in individual cases, with a pair of wands at his left hip, above his gun (which was a Desert Eagle, and a weapon of first resort, cleaned and freshly loaded). Wands were held in contempt by most wizards above the skill of apprentices, with good reason, but when it came to quick and dirty kaboom magic (evocation) you couldn't beat them. Beneath the potions were a string of grenades. Perhaps most menacingly, a string of fangs was fastened around his neck. Some people take trophies.
Of course, showing up clanking with weaponry was not how one would it's not how most people would try to conduct this sort of work, however between all the danger he was putting himself in, and the fact he was going to be put in the middle of an honest to god war, he figured
The magical saturation of his apartment was getting bad. Fortunately, he was grounding most of it, but the run-off alone was beginning to infect things. There were stories of wizards who found everything from their furniture to their individual silverware gaining sentience and moving under their own power. And Ramirez had no intention of living in a Disney cartoon.
He cracked his knuckles, and pulled up a chair. Rituals were complicated things. Any hack could do them with whatever he had in his pockets, if he had strong enough imagination and considerable desperation, but the original recipe always usually got much better results. What they were about was symbolism. Make one thing represent another. And the better the connection you used, the better connection you could expect. Obvious, perhaps, but people always acted surprised when they didn't get good results with whatever they had in their pockets. Of course, no fear of that here. He had a heavy duty pentacle, which was just as well, as he was calling up a spirit more powerful and independent then most would choose to use, he had Saint John the Conqueror Root, and big black drippy candles. He drew the line at bones of the vanquished, but otherwise it was as good a set-up as anyone could ask.
A magical ritual wasn’t really so very different from a theatrical production, he had always considered. The success of the performance depended on much the same things, the quality of the props, the location of the theater, and, of course, the selection of the actors. Was the wizard skilled enough to do justice to the performance demanded of him?

Needless to say, I bent my considerable abilities to refusing the call.
I stretched my essence, trying to slip out of the hooks composed of words that wrenched me, drawing me back together and tearing me from my home. When that didn't work, I pulled back, And for a moment I succeeded, resisting the pull and remaining in the Other Place. But as always the force was too strong, and I was on my way to some mortal coil or another to do the bidding of a magician*. Joy.
With suddeness you never got used to, my essence was compacted while simultaneously extended to an infinite legnth***, and, a moment later, forcibly expelled into the familiar, hated constraints of the pentacle, and all the physical limitations thereof. Where, following immaterial laws, I materialized instantly.
This doesn't really do the ignominy of the situation justice. I am an ancient entity of power beyond any mortal, who has seen civilizations rise and fall, who has made great leaders and heroes and broken them just as easily. I am Bartimaeus of Uruk! Yet here I was, caged by yet another half-wit with delusions of importance.
Leaving me to decide what form to take****. Given my depthless imagination and irreproachable sense of style, several options instantly occurred to me. The summons was powerful and confident, and so my new master was likely to be experienced and accomplished, not to be cowed by a roaring bunyip or a cobweb eyed specter. Not to worry, there were other ways to force a reaction. Amateurs would go for sexy then, sculpt an image of lascivious and carnal temptation and let that do the work for them, but I could do better*****.
Experienced magicians have seen it all. The best way to get them is to play against their expectations, and refuse to play the game the way they are used to it. So I became a humble footstool.
I kid you not. But trust me, it was all part of my complex psychological warfare.
A footstool, for those yet to encounter one, hardly prey on the primal fears or deepest desires of humanity. Nor do they impress one with formidable awe or majesty. Indeed, they lack any of the qualities magicians expect, and therein lie the power. It's hard to muster up any feelings for them at all******.
Well, time to meet my new master.

* There are plenty of them about. Take it from one who beyond the edge of chaos, the whole idea is quite over-rated. Beings of order are always creating boundaries, and lines, and rules, and trying to quantify everything, separating things from other things. Always putting limits on things.
Leave them to do it to. What next, steal the colors of a flower? Weigh the stars? Plumb the depths of the sea? Perhaps have a poet measure the width of love and the direction of pleasure? More information, but not much in the way of insight.
But, what can you do? They're only human.**
** In case you are wondering what this is all about, it's very simple. My mind works on multiple layers at once, and is capable of pursuing several trains of thought simultaneously. This is nothing, gods can actually be in multiple places at once, all independent of the rest of the deity. But that's taking things a little too far.
*** If you need a more in-depth explanation what that feels like exactly, you're not equipped to imagine it anyway.
**** People believe that us spirits can look like anything they wanted to, but this, like most things people believe, is dead wrong. We look the same all the time, but we can make them percieve us any way we want. It's all strictly aesthetic, and lets us show off to each other.
***** I scoff at such amateurs, and pity them. Small-fry, every one of them. Besides, any magician worth his pointy hat is going to see it coming a mile away, and once they get to a certain age they're going to forget where and how to put it anyway.
****** Magicians all take themselves too seriously. But this pomposity makes them easy to get self-conscious, and they tend to react poorly if they believe themselves to be being made fun of. No better way to make them lower there guard and get agitated, which is playing directly into my hands... Oh, forget it! I've probably lost you already.

Might have overdone the footnotes a little...

And here's Nuada:

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He leads his only remaining follower back into the realm of their people, all that remained of their kingdoms. The Twilight Woods, they were caused, that stood on the very edge of the Nevernever, stretching on so that they brushed the borders of hell and every mortal world and other, worse places.
Here ancient things that made deals with nobody spent what was left of their lives, a land of giants and beautiful lords and terrible, joyful madness. This was the promised land of the sidhe.
Nuada hated coming here. He had been banished, and he hated the place for what it wasn't, the home they had left when humans had brought their iron to Erin's shores.
The woods were a place of ancient, otherworldly beauty. Delicate yet alien trees swayed in the soft summer night with no light in the sky, no moon or clouds, but rather the light came from the boles, the leaves, the grass and even the bare ground, strange, phosphorescent glows that banished the shadows. Moss and fungies grew along the barks and trunks of the great giants, older and prouder then any mortal tree, and animals stared fearlessly at those who passed with golden eyes filled with curiosity. This was as they had been intended, never having come to fear man. On the forest floor, beneath the light that came from everywhere at once, flowers grew about, creating a fabulous living carpet that neither of them seemed to notice, and filling the air with a million enticing scents.
Were any mortal to come here they would be overcome, and their life would be lost, leaving them to wander forever in lands that didn't care for them, lest they stumbled back into one of the pools of water that led to another world. Most likely, they would never return to their home, as surely if they were caught in the hedge of thorns.
Nuada didn't stop or think, the powers of this place not possessing the power to ease his burdens and worries, though they would utterly destroy a mortal. Humans did not feel as strongly as the elves, their passions were insignificant things to his own. It's why so many thought the elves mad, and why they were not far wrong.
Nuada simply picked a direction, seemingly at random, and marched forward fearlessly, the forest bending around him to create a passage. Gruagach stumps after him, eyes wide and fearful, having to hurry to keep up with his lords longer stride.
At last Nuada stops as notes drift to him on the breeze, a haunting melody drifting from reed pipes, and he grins like a wolf. He continues through the dark woods, ancient trees giving way to ancient menhirs and stone pillars which had never known the touch of any tool. No, they had been shaped by the wind and the rain, the turning of the seasons, and the hands of those who lived within.
He stepped through the door, and smiled at what he had seen, not with awe that would be natural, but with the promise of what was to come.
The walls glittered with crystals -red, green blue, every hue imaginable blending together in a kaleidoscope of colors. In this strange light, beautiful plants grew on every surface, giant orchids, star shaped flowers, and heavy vines covering every surface. The ground was covered in a soft spongy moss. Overhead the sky was sparkled, showing enough strange constellations to be an entire galaxy. Worlds, each one of them. In the center stood a roman style bed, gilded wood with soft velvet cushions. Animals lounged about it, but animals whose chapter was closed, just as his people's was coming to an end. A dodo bird, a woolly mammoth, and others, less easily identifiable. On the bed sat an ancient faun.
He watched the elflord as he approached, his eyes blue as the sky, filled with sorrow and wisdom and time, his human expression out of place on his animal-like face. His hair was white, as was his pointed beard, even the goat fur on his legs was frosted with gray. His horns were enormous, glossy brown and curved like a rams. Around his neck hung a set of reed pipes. His teeth glinted in the light, and they were square and notched. Ancient markings are set into his flesh, whorls and curlicues, and his skin seems barklike, as though he was given shape by trees who had grown into him.
Nuada met his gaze steadily, and lowered his head. "Well met."

Nuada emerged from the labyrinth, returning to the woods proper. Ahead was a clearing, and the crest of the hill was alive with moving figures, beings of alien beauty that danced before a throne. The woman upon the throne was a striking figure, erect and proud as well as lithe and beautiful. All around her glowed a light, crowning the hilltop with a blue-white nimbus that illuminated all around her. In the half-light of this land, the island was a hill of illumination that blazed like a sun.
The music faded as Nuada approached, and the woman on the throne spread her arms as if in welcome.
Near the base of the throne was all a manner of tiny beings, all whispering and pointing at the banished king, coming to reclaim what he had forsaken. Something terrible was gripping his soul, hate itself lived within him.
Several of the diminutive beings flew in circles around the throne area, although they were all careful not to fly directly above the stunning woman that was their queen. Near her stood several alien men, all beautiful, slender creatures. A short distance away, many lovely women also waited silently. Both sexes were dressed in a manner of fashions, from near nudity to ponderous, ornate costumes. And they had skin tones ranging from green to more normal colors.
Lily was stunning, having given herself entirely over to her otherworldy nature. Her white hair was swept back from a high forehead, held in place by a gold circlet. Her gown was filmy, revealing a full bosom. Her neck and arms were graceful and without blemish. And she had translucent wings, folded for the moment, on her back. Vivid green eyes regarded him.
Nuada hefted the head he had carried here in place of an offering, still fresh, and tossed it at her feet. It was unmistakable whose head it was.
"Tell them all that the Great God Pan is dead." Nuada said, the words coming to his lips unbidden. "Everything he stood for is gone, the sacred places have been swallowed up, and the wild is so small now, so shattered, that no hand can save it." Silence reigned supreme. "What is left for us?"
"You chose the wrong side in this war, whore." He says into the silence, his voice cruel with contempt and the grim pleasure of madness. "You have let us fall far enough. No more."
Behind the throne stood a man of middle years, clearly human where the others were not. He wore an impeccable suit that was two hundred years out of date, giving him a quietly regal and distinguished look, though he was but a pale shadow compared to the light of the Queen. He wore his hair long, with a part to the right side, and favored a well groomed goatee. His eyes were deep and clever, and in a strange way his gaze came off as just as perceptive and intimidating as the Queens.
"You were banished." He notes, though he knows it won't do any good.
"You have no power here." Nuada replies. "And even if you did, you have no power over me. The only one who ever did is gone."
"No I do not." Sir Edward Grey sighed, sounding weary. He has lived so long, and seen so much, and yet he is helpless here, where it matters most. Here, in a moment that would give meaning to his life, he could offer nothing but counsel. "I am helpless before your wrath, as is the young queen. Spare her, I beg you."
"Grovel as you will, human. I care not." Nuada replies, knocking him out of the way with the back of his hand and fixing his gaze on Lily. "It is not your voice that concerns me. Can not this queen speak for herself?"
As if his scorn animated her, Lily stood and faced him. He respected her for that much at least. Her eyes flashed with emerald fire, and her perfect ruby lips drew back to reveal pearly sheened teeth. She did not try to strike him, she was wiser then that. The power she had was life and light and warmth, where his was the grim business of war. She couldn't hope to match that. But she had warriors of her own, and the power of summer.
"As my companion noted, you were banished." Lily said. "Is your honor worth so little to you?"
"Less." Nuada replied honestly. "Station, power, honor, what good have they done me? Better to break all bonds and free all obligations then remain this way. The humans have forgotten the gods, destroyed the earth, and for what? Greed had burned a hole in their hearts that will never be filled! They will never have enough! Honor? Look at this place! Where is the honor in this? But I remain a warrior. I remain too proud to continue fading away in the shadow of the human race." It was her he answered, but it was the council behind her he spoke to.
"I have returned from exile to wage war and reclaim our land, our birthright! And for that I will call upon the help of all my people who will answer."
Lily shook her head. "You're a sad, lonely man, abandoned and left to die. Who would follow you?"
Lord Marshal Talos drew his sword, and placed it an inch from Lily's neck. Behind him, the sidhe knights likewise drew their swords. None of them were pointed at Nuada. Oaths to him bound them still, and when it came to a choice, they were all warriors. "Military Coup." He told Lily, who stared up at him, disbelieving.
"Don't listen to this fool! He will lead you all to your deaths, burn you out for a long dead dream!" Lily yelled desperately, as her thoughts turned to the ruin the elflord was unleashing.
"It is not me they shall follow." Nuada replied. "It is the queen I promise them. In your place there shall be a new queen, beautiful and terrible as the dawn! She shall be tempestuous as the sea, and stronger than the foundations of the earth. She shall build nothing, preserve nothing, but ride out on the wings of the storm, and we shall follow at her heels. Each of her fingers shall be like iron bands, her eyes shall flash like lightning, and she will not hide." Nuada snarled, spittle on his lips as he spoke with the conviction of a fanatic.
"She will make no promises and offer no deals, only the rage of the storm that turns mountains into sand. She will reign in rivers of blood, and war shall be her kingdom, until the green comes again, or until the ending of the worlds. I care not where she leads us, only that she does."
As his words rang, Talos cut her throat, a hideous gash that sent golden blood running down her front. "Now anoint yourselves in her golden blood, oh dear and dreadful things, and become the champions you were meant to be." He says, smearing it over his own right eye where it dried. His skin tingled with living energy, and he felt the power in his blood quicken, as the essence of Summer seeped into him.
"So mote it be." He said in a voice that had deepened significantly. And on the wings of those words, began an ending indeed worthy of remembrance.

And this is why you don't kill Santa (off-screen). Because the power vacuum will not be filled by a kind jolly fat man who is good with kids.
Story will continue once I finish Dresden's return.

[Colesign]

Mmmm. This is all very dramatic and elegant and awesome world building...

Santa Claus wise, when does Sun Wukong come onto the scene? I already did that christmas poem, but...

[Cracklord]

Sun Wukong has taken over the roll of protector of children and banisher of Satan. However, within the fai the balance has been completely destroyed, shattered beyond repair and beyond hope, so things are looking grim.
He himself has nothing to do with the fair folk, he's still part of the celestial kingdom.

[darkblade]

Sun Wukong has taken over the roll of protector of children and banisher of Satan. However, within the fai the balance has been completely destroyed, shattered beyond repair and beyond hope, so things are looking grim.
He himself has nothing to do with the fair folk, he's still part of the celestial kingdom.

I'd consider the Celestial Kingdom to be an off shoot of the Fae. They fill pretty much the same roll in their mythology with minimal differences.

[Cracklord]

They have a lot in common, they came into existence in more or less the same way (though they are a separate species, much more ordered for one thing), as did the Djinn Empires and the shining people, and they were moved aside by humanity in much the same way as well. However they have their own world in the dreaming, and no real ties to the fey. I'll explain in more detail once I figure it out myself.
However, the fey already consist of spirits from all over Western Europe. The Djinn Kingdoms are the Middle East, and the Celestial Heavens is Asia (Russia probably gets it's own). Mostly because I'm having a hard enough time keeping track of all the fey as it is, and because the Celestial kingdoms are fundamentally a disciplined and structured place, rather then a wild, free people.

[industrious]

Where's our fanfiction account again?

[darkblade]

http://www.fanfiction.net/u/3608953/LynchingVerse

[Cracklord]

And here's our tvtropes page. Which desperately needs an update. http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.ph...in.LynchingITP

Nuada

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The two elflords stood atop the stone table, cracked in the mists of time, staring down at the army that had gathered here, all of whom had begun to look something like they had of old. The armies of Summer were gathering, to meet the new management. A few had cried at the corpse of their queen, but most seemed to have been won over by the bloody promise. Not one of them did not hate humanity, did not resent the thieves of their land who had forced them into this half life amongst dreams and fantasies, did not desire a return. And in Nuada they saw the vehicle of their deliverance.
Lily's body lay at the base of the hill, beneath the stone table, defiled beyond recognition, her hair cut away, her clothes ripped from her body, and her dead skin cut all over to get at her precious golden blood. As promised, all the spirits had anointed themselves in her blood, jagged, cruel shapes stark on their pale skin, marking their damnation and the point of no return.
And in doing so, even the least animal spirit had changed, losing it's domestication and becoming great celtic monsters, with knots of muscle, hides like gray wood and clad in ancient, tarnished bronze. Some had dyed their bodies with woad using the edge of a blade, and lined their weapons and shields with lime, as they had when they first crossed to the Ilse of the Mighty. The elves had likewise changed, though not in a way eyes could see.
Lord Marshall Talos Lankin had been born before the wind, and was older then any of the queens. It is hard for a human to comprehend such age, but most elves did not spend a lot of time in serious thought. They were too capricious, too much a product of every moment, to the point of being almost incapable of planning or thinking ahead. They played music, they painted and carved stone and wood, but the result of their labors was spontaneous, not planned.
But Talos had survived and thrived for many thousands of years, and while he had no great intelligence, he had accumulated a mass of observations, experience, cynicism and memory that could pass for wisdom. He had been gifted to be a warrior, and so that is what he did. And it was enough to content him. A blade had to see use or it would become dull and serve no purpose, and so he killed. And like all his kind, he found beauty in what he did, and longed to experience it. By human terms, this made him a monster, but to the sidhe, this made him an idealized example of the species. He'd never desired more, and had been content to serve until a short while ago, when resentment and shame had changed him.
Now, things had changed. His vengeance was beginning, and he felt more alive, more solid, more real. He wanted to run, to sing, to tear down a mountain with his bare hands, to ride across the sky, hunting humans like animals with the rest of the wild hunt. He wanted to live again, he was done merely existing.
He was as powerful as he'd ever been, greater perhaps. For so long, the queens had hoarded the power of the courts. But with the death of Lily, that power had lost it's vessel, and it was returning to them all, as they were baptized in the golden blood of their queen. Blood is the currency of the soul, and with the blood on their brows it had seeped into their essences and they had regained much of what they had been.
Talos Lankin looks fierce, with a drawn sword held loosely in his hand, a lightning bolt of golden blood stretching from his left eye to the line of his jaw, his white hair unbound, and a light in his eyes to match Nuada's own. That elflord might be the catalyst, but these were his people, and his army. Tonight was his victory, in Nuada's name perhaps. They would make Winter join them, and then all the old order would be swept away in a tide of strife and horror.
"The Lady has escaped us. She's not in the otherword." He said softly, though he smiled as he said it. He was already relishing the hunt.
"It matters little. None of the kings will shelter her, she has nowhere to run but to Mab. We'll kill her soon enough." Nuada replies. There is a look of almost idiot satisfaction on his face, that of faith rewarded. Once more his people are embracing war, and becoming what they were meant to be. Lords have joined him, from Eldest Gruff to The xana, and great kings closely affiliated with the Summer realm had come too, High King Meldryn Mawr, The Dagda, Cernunnos The forest Lord, even Nuada's old enemy, King Balor of the Evil Eye, who had ripped off his right arm long ago.
All the old enmities had long been forgotten. They had a greater enemy, and a burning cause.
"Which one? Mab or Lady C.C?" It had never bothered him that the summer lady had kept her name to herself, until this moment, but suddenly it occurred to him their mysterious knight .
"All of them." Nuada replied simply. He was an elf absorbed and obsessed, totally consumed by his own terrible purpose.
Talos looked at his king with some alarm. Nuada had forsaken his title, and made no claim of the Summer Court, however Talos would forever think of him in that way. However, memories unbidden pointed out that Lady Aurora had gotten like this, towards the end. "I learned the lessons of war a long time ago." He cautioned. "Even the greatest of us can only kill so many. There are always more humans, and I tell you that though the oceans run red with their blood, and the skies blacken with the smoke of their burning corpses, we cannot kill all of them."
"I would like to see that." Nuada replied.
"My lord?"
"I would like to see their blood readen the ocean and their burning corpses blot out the sky." He sighed. "That would be something. How long do earth and sky have to endure, Talos? Better to stand triumphant on Erin one last time. Or would you make peace?"
Talos remembered a young, gentle face, covered in hundreds of cuts from tiny iron blades, her golden blood spilling out into the earth as a man held her down. He'd watched, trapped mere feet away, but there had been nothing he could do.
"Not at all. I've seen what happens when our kind ally themselves to humans. Better death then that."
"Death for them, or death for us, Talos, it matters not. But there cannot be two suns in the sky, nor two lords of the earth. We shall not suffer them to live any longer." he takes his spear from his belt, extending it, and then nods once to Talos.
"Mab?"
"Evienne." he replies. "Mother Summer is next.

Now, that's about as far as I can take this little piece of world building until Industrious explains how the war actually goes. Still up to run that side-game if he's up for it.

Nicodemus and Solomon

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“I must commend you.” Nicodemus said, staring up at his suspended adversary while pacing about him, seeming slightly restless. Solomon was held up in bindings made of shadow wrapped around him, holding him up in the air without purchase or the possibility of movement, and keeping him in place as securely as a web held a fly. “Even now, you maintain dignity. Pride. No bribe attempts, no begging, no blubbery. Any reaction from you at all is like squeezing blood from a stone.” He looks at the knife momentarily in his hand, already slick with the puritan’s blood. “Not even screams.”
Solomon didn’t reply. He just glared, his cold eyes deepening strangely, showing chill glints and lights like clouds passing across depths of ice, daring Nicodemus to meet them. But the black apostle was quite up to the task, meeting them squarely and without so much as flinching, his own dark eyes glimmering faintly with amusement. The wrath had passed, he had reasserted himself, and now his civilized air returned, with the easy familiarity of a favorite suit. There was so much one could read in the eyes of another. He could see murder in those eyes, and cold, rational hate. Such was Solomon Kane, an atavist of blind chivalry, honor and belief, a knight errant in the somber clothes of the fanatic.
“Nothing to say? A pity, I like hearing your unreasoning view of the world. You know your strengths, and you stick to them, a worthy manner of acting. You refuse to adapt to the world, so force it to adapt to you. A few centuries ago, the world quaked under the tread of men like you. They’d have made you a king. Now you’re a wanderer, unable to adjust to society.”
Solomon made no sign at all of having heard the apostate. He just hangs there, motionless, a man of ice and steel who seemed to feel no pain. He was not given to introspection, though Nicodemus had indeed grasped the essence of him. He was a man born out of his time — a strange blending of Puritan and Cavalier, with a touch of the ancient philosopher, and more than a touch of the pagan, though the last assertion would have shocked him unspeakably.
Nicodemus tilted his head, and stepped over again. “The thing is, I like that. I like you, infact. It would be a shame to kill you. You set out to kill me, and you did such an excellent job. Believe me, I’m more then impressed. Indeed, nobodies ever done as well as you before. But I think your methods need improving.” Nicodemus continued, his tone gentle and fatherly. “Single minded ferocity has it’s place, lord knows, but you need a little more substance.”
He looked at the knife. “Now, this isn’t doing any good, so I’m going to try something else.” He tosses it aside, and reaches into his coat, removing a single tarnished silver coin. “Take it. Listen to the other opinion a little. You don’t have to agree. But you should at least listen. What value is faith if it’s never tested?”
Solomon spat. “What do you know of faith?”
“Quite a considerable amount, actually. Now, it’s clear you want me dead, though I’m yet to hear why. It’s far to say that we’ll never be friends, or close as anything besides enemies, but what is this fight achieving? I’m willing to turn the other cheek, why aren’t you?”
“The devil may quote Scripture to his purpose.”
Nicodemus smiled. “So can anyone. But those are fine words, words to live by. Where you see enemies, endeavor to make friends, wouldn’t you agree? Come on, be reasonable. I’m offering you something quite precious. You’ve wandered the world, fighting as you do, and when have you ever seen evidence of the Almighty? Black magicians call up demons, and dark things are chained beneath the earth, yet never does an angel appear. Aren’t you curious why that is?”
“I know.”
“You know doubt. But it doesn’t have to be this way. I can give you a lord who rewards you, not with promises, but with real rewards. Who offer not the promise of eternity, but actually grant it to you. Unless you prefer to die?”
“All things must die.” Solomon replied. “But keep your temptation. I have burdens enough for one man.”
“Now we both know that such an assertion is foolish. Look at me.” Nicodemus replied. “Empires rise and fall like sand, and I’m still here. Duty and honor are all very well, and have done people like you fairly well, as a collective, but where have they got you as an individual? A shallow grave on the dark continent. Is that really how you want to end your days?”
“I’m not going to die. I’m still going to kill you, whatever it takes.” Solomon promised. He didn’t threaten, he didn’t yell, he swore no wild, reckless vow or made no oath by saints or devils. He simply stated it, as though it was self evident.
“We’ve been over that.” Nicodemus replied, not having to feign bored disdain. He’d honestly heard it all before, though truthfully he was impressed that the puritan still hadn’t backed down.
Solomon didn’t answer.
“I believe you mean to. Perhaps you will one day. But not as you are now.” Hate was such a base emotion to manipulate, a poor excuse for courage and pride, but it was the only hold Nicodemus could find in the man. “So why not be more?”
“I still have one weapon left.” Solomon allowed, his eyes flickering to the left a moment.
“What, this staff?” He asks, wrapping a hand around the ancient wooden stick N’Longa had given Solomon all those years ago. The staff wasn’t much too look at, and seemed a small thing to put your faith in when confronted with all the Horrors of Old Night. “It’s just a…” His hand closing around it, Nicodemus’ eyes abruptly widened, and he recoiled as though burned, his shadow flowing back to him. Shaken, he stares up at Solomon. “What… what was…”
When he’d touched the staff, he’d withdrawn, retreating, and his shadow had done likewise. For a brief moment, Solomon’s bonds loosened, the shadows grip receding. It was all he needed. With a Herculean strain, every muscle on his neck standing as hard and distinct as steel cables with tension, he summoned all the vast power that lay in his hard frame, and with a roar he tore himself from the cold grip of the shadow, landing squarely on the ground, coat billowing about him. He was tired and wounded, at the ends of endurance, but like a wild animal that’s when he was at his most dangerous, that’s when his greatest reserves were to be found.
A hunger in his soul drove him on and on, an urge to right all wrongs, protect all weaker things, avenge all crimes against right and justice. Wayward and restless as the wind, he was consistent in only two respects — he was true to his ideals of justice and right, and his hatred of men like Nicodemus.
Casting aside the hurts of the battle in an instant, Solomon stepped forward, towering above Nicodemus as his hand closed around the staff of Solomon the Wise, and his eyes blazed. “Keep your poor temptations. I have no need of them.”
A second pair of green eyes opened on Nicodemus’ forehead as his shadow flowed back around him, and a rune appeared on his forehead, a single simple mark that was the rune of the Fallen Anduriel. Nicodemus slipped the toe of his boot beneath Solomon’s discarded blade, kicking it up into his free hand as he smoothly redrew his Spanish blade.
“I am going to have to put you firmly in your place, aren’t I?” Nicodemus sighed, frustrated, his composure once more back in place. “You just won’t get it otherwise.”

At least one more. Maybe two. And yes, I am going to raise the stakes each time, because that's the way I roll.

[Colesign]

Allergies are rendering me a tad insensate. I'll post stuff when I'm feeling more lively. Sorry if this delays plot and such.

And top-notch work as always, Cracklord.

[Cracklord]

Carlos Ramirez

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In New York, Second Avenue and Forty-Sixth Street, stood the Dark Tower. Unlike most skyscrapers, made of steel, plastic and glass, the tower was built of newly quarried stone, giving it a gravitas and power that none of the others on the skyline could match. And at forty stories high, it was one of the largest buildings on the skyline. It was the seat of the Tet Corporation.
Officially, the Tet Corporation was a mercantile organization, however there was considerably more to it then that. In a world of Gods and legends, nobody had any idea just how powerful the owners of that building were, or how far their interests spread.
In the basement, Ramirez was staring at the footstool and doing his best not to be self conscious. It was harder then it looked.

I looked around the room, with a bit of interest. The floor was laid with some kind of artificial wood, entirely smooth without knots or defects, which was perfect for this sort of work. A glass fronted cupboard in one corner held a variety of chalks, rulers, compasses, and papers, as well as several dozen bottles filled with a variety of incenses. A second held various nick-knacks, gregaws and chicanery needed for summonings, all of them carefully ordered.
Nerd alert.
Aside from these, the chamber was completely bare, the walls painted white, no windows or electricity for my magical essence to mess with*, and the only door was made of iron and was bolted on the inside.
I was very nearly flattered. Of course, I'd prefer a slipshod master who made some critical oversight every time.**
Said master was of medium height, dressed in dark clothes, mostly deep blue, and looked dressed for war. I didn't recognize him, or anything he wore, which meant I'd either never come here before, or more time had passed then I'd thought. He looked like he thought he could handle himself, and
"You are Bartimaeus of Uruk?" He asked me at last.
"Nope. You got the wrong guy. Better send me back and try again." I replied, in a tone a human would use when meeting a casual acquaintance on the street, the voice coming from nowhere***. Hey, it hadn't worked yet, but it might some day.
The wizard rolled his eyes. "You really are stupid, aren't you?"
"Hey, no call for the personal attacks." I replied. "Words hurt, you know?"
"No, really. The only way you could possibly be dumber is if there were two of you." Well this wasn't working out like I'd hoped. I'm no masochist, but there is a certain pleasure in irritating a magician so much he can barely gabble out the syllables of the Systemic Vice. Him just sinking to my level lessened the fun of it.
"Alright, yes. I am Sakhr al-Jinni, Rekhyt of Alexandria, Necho of Jerusalem, N'Gorso the Mighty, Wakonda of the Algonquin, the Serpent of Silver Plumes, and yes, Bartimaeus of Uruk. Who dares summon me?"**** It was a worthy spiel, one fleshed out with the better of five thousand years of glory, or to be more honest dodgy dealings that got fleshed out by the winners to make themselves sound more impressive*****, and it was designed to put the magician in the back foot. And hopefully answer, he knew my name, knowing his evened things up a bit. About halfway through I'd realized that the form of a footstool didn't really do it justice, and so I'd transformed into a a swirl of inky fog, incidentally lowering the temperature about a dozen degrees, giving just enough definition to give impressions and suggestions of log taloned hands, bulging wings folded close, legs that trailed away into the eldrith birthplace of the night.
I added two tiny pinpricks of light to work as eyes, and then gave them a faint crimson glow. It was a good form, and I was proud of it. If you wanted to think the worst of us spirits, you couldn't do much better then something like this, and it had the added bonus of making their imagination fill in the details for you.
Unfortunately, he wasn't an amateur. He rolled his eyes, and moved his staff****** to get a bit more comfortable in his own pentacle, then yawned theatrically. He didn't helpfully tell me his name. But that had been another long shot. I'd wear him down eventually, just had to keep trying.
"Nameless, huh? Very well them, what should I call you?"
"Master."
"Oh, you're going to be one of those sort of masters. Well then, lets..."
There was a knock on the door, and it opened, allowing a tall figure entry. He was dressed in a deep blue pinstripe suit, dark blue tie, and a broad-brimmed hat. He clearly cared a lot about the image he projected, the suit had creases you could shave with, the hat was perfectly angled, the two clips holding the collar exactly in place. But none of this attention to detail hid the fact that there was no flesh on his face, nothing but a slightly bleached skull. He was a walking, talking skeleton.*******
I checked him again in the other planes********, to find that no, it wasn't a glamor. He really was a walking skeleton. Well isn't that exciting. "I know I'm early, Ramirez, but you did say as soon as possible." Well, that was a start, although it didn't mean much unless you heard it from their own lips. It was probably a fake name as well, magicians tended to use one as their first defense.
"Skulduggery Pleasant." He replied, saying the entire name for the obvious reason that, if you knew anyone called that, you'd say said name as often as possible as well. Now that was definitely a pseudonym*********. "No trouble, I'm done summoning for today. Did you find her?"
The skeleton didn't have a facial expression, but it managed, with slightly exaggerated body language, to make it clear that it considered this an insult to it's abilities. "It wasn't hard. Miss Carpenter really is still in Europe." He said, in a voice like crushed velvet, smooth and inviting. Indeed, I liked it so much, I decided to add it to my own repertoire, next time I got a chance. It would go great with a few of my forms. "She's doing what she can to build up her own power base, getting into debt with anyone who will make an offer, and doing what she can to hoard power."
My new master nodded, as though talking to a loving skeleton was perfectly normal, and pursed his lips. "Well, given the current global climate, any sort of stability has to be good, and at least it keeps them all from trying things separately."
He looked at the skeleton again. "Any luck with the necromancer?"
He lowered his head slightly. "I am afraid I still haven't found a trace of the Circle. Just lots of circumstantial evidence."
I was becoming irritated. The man went to all this effort to summon me, then went on to ignore me and reduce my role to that of the observer. Which just wasn't done. To put it bluntly, I was in a mood, and only tolerating this state of affairs because there was a small chance he might forget himself and step carelessly out of the circle.
"Well good. That's all I needed to hear. Skulduggery? Meet your new partner."

* Magic and technology don't get on. Mostly because Technology is designed to obey specific laws, and magic turns those laws into vague guidelines. That, and energy discharged through the air tends to overwhelm precision instruments.
** So I would not be bound to his will, and could eat him. That's always satisfying.
*** Footstools are a useful technology, but don't come equipped for speaking, and materializing a mouth would ruin the whole effect.
**** Names give power. But he already had mine or I wouldn't be here, so there was little harm in rambling off a list of titles. I thought of adding a list of achievements as well, but since I didn't know what world this was I had no idea which ones I should be listing.
***** Completely unlike my own recounting.
****** No beard or pointy hat though. So he couldn't be all that classic.
******* He had nothing on my ghastly reverent, but I did resent him stealing my scene.
******** There are a dozen or so planes overlapping that make up reality in a world. Everyone can perceive the first, but more attuned beings can see things on further deeper planes, which allow us deeper insights. Most magic doesn't overlap further then three or so, particularly glamors and such.
********* They choose them themselves, you see, and when given the opportunity they lose all restraint and decorum in order to try and sound cool and impressive to their peers. And what's more, what they come up with never suits them. I once had a master with a beer gut and bad teeth called 'Turbo Sexephonic Delight'. No joke.

Nuada Silverlance

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Lord Marshall Talos Lankin was old. His hair wasn't just white, but actually silver, and his eyes had seen many terrible things done beneath a multitude of suns, and enjoyed most of them. But he did not know what to make of this. "Are you certain this is wise?" The deeper he went into Nuada's confidence, the less he liked.
The Unseelie horde before him had changed, not just physically but on some fundamental level. They remained humanoid but most seemed to prefer skittering about on all fours or standing hunched over with their upper bodies bent almost double over their waists. Their skins had all turned white and shimmered like mother-of-pearl. Their hair was pale, almost translucent. Their eyes were very large and dark as night. They moved about eerily, shambling and hopping about while swaying and swinging their dangling clawed arms through the air. They didn't even speak, they shrieked and laughed madly.
Nuada seemed to take not merely pride, but unearthly delight at the change, the regression of his people into beasts. What clothing they still wore were tattered leathers and tarnished bronze. Even the knights had stripped away their armor and joined the multitude, making no distinctions or divisions of rank or power. It seemed impossible, and yet here they were.
Evienne was not in her cottage, nor anywhere at all to be found, and Mother Winter had vanished with her, the two of them having left not so much as a trace off their passing. The two greatest prizes had slipped away, and now they'd never be found, not unless they wanted to.
But maybe it was better that way, having vanished there was nobody left to oppose what was coming, to keep what was left of the shining people from being swept up by the same madness that had infected Nuada. With Oberon dead already, Santa Claus believed to be the same, and his brother in a rage stalking the worlds and hunting for his brothers killer, they'd all fallen into line. Winter was all but deserted, the fey followed the strong and the star of Nuada was on the rise, though any moment it could come crashing down.
"You have your army now." Talos said, and sounded but a touch desperate. One could hardly blame him, if what Nuada sought truly did come to pass... "It is your words that have bound us here, and your will that keeps us. We would take you for a king!"
Nuada took him by the throat, and dragged him close, forcing him to meet his eyes. Again the madness of the lord took him unprepared. "What I seek, I find. What I hunt, I take. I can hide in shadow, my teeth can cut bone, and I can run on four legs as easily as two. I can fast a hundred years and not die. I can lie a hundred nights on the ice and not freeze. I can drink a river of blood and not burst. I am kin to dwarrow and nightgaunt, owe allegiance to none born, and fear nothing. And I will never stop. I cannot."
With that he turned, letting go of the startled elflord. "I am Nuada Silverlance. Come with me to the razor's edge. We'll choose our fates with another dance, striding the river red." Then he turned and placed a hand on the table. "Now I believe I have a promise to keep. To deliver a queen who shall deliver us from this. And you, brave, loyal Talos, must bring Winter here before I return with her in my arms to be awakened, now that her people have need of her again."

Now, does anyone else want to do Dresden's return to life? Someone who has actually played him?
Of course, the dynamic has changed a little from the novel form. The Arcangel he is close to is Gabriel, what with their adventure, Mab wants him back to avenge her since she intends to follow Nuada's advice and not go quietly into the night herself, and the mantle is far more dangerous to it's wielder then anyone ever guessed...

[nanobot_swarm]

Hey guys, I apologize for not posting for a month or so, I've been busy, and this got pushed to the back of my mind for quite a while. Again I apologize, and I'll just quietly withdraw from the current game.
That being said, when May rolls round, I'll be out of schooling and have more free time to post and shizz, so I'd like to actually contribute something to this little thing we've had going on. I'd like to redo Vampyr Assassin II, with the intent to create a faster paced more enjoyable adventure this time around. So if anyone wants to do that again, please say so.

[darkblade]

Anyone plan on posting soon? It's been a few days.

[Draxx]

At what point did we all become ponies? I mean, I think I would have noticed...

[darkblade]

Check your Calender, April Fools.

[Draxx]

Ah. Well, consider me amused. You can't see it, due to my unflattering picture to the left, but believe me, I'm smiling like hell inside.

[Colesign]

Drat. I'm sorry I missed the April Fools post.

...I'm also sorry I missed posting for...well, quite a bit. I was not quite in the mood, if that's a justifiable explanation in any way.

Now I'm actually feeling back in the mood.

[industrious]

Hi guys.

Sorry I haven't posted...at all...recently. Writer's block, finals, and now my computer's died on me. This has not been a pleasant few weeks at all.

[Cracklord]

Myself as well. Quaterlies, you know.
But I'm back now. Oh yes.

[Colesign]

Good to have ya back as well, Cracklord.

[Terry576]

So uh

I was wondering if I could somehow swap Tsukihime for something I'm much better at (That thing is Harry Potter). It would probably be Post-War!Jaded Harry, wandering around and doing stuff. He could run into Dresden or something and they could fight vampires and be awesome.

Alternatively I could stick with Tsukihime. :V

[darkblade]

If you want Harry Potter but I have one stipulation. You're going to need to summon a Servant, I am several wizards short of a Grail War.

[Terry576]

I can do that. Who are the servants at the moment?

Actually, never mind. SURPRISE ME

[Terry576]

Potter's past write-up and current situation stuff

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After the war, he didn't really know what to do. He drifted, mostly, wandering from friend to friend, from place to place, in a daze.

He was only seventeen.

The war was over. He'd ended it, but with it, he'd ended himself.

He was only seventeen, and he had murdered a man.

Every time he moved his wand, he only thought of him. Every time he raised his arm, he thought of how he had done it. It wasn't that he wasn't glad he was dead - no, far from it in fact - but how the man had died.

Cheater.

It wasn't a fair duel. It wasn't a question of talent or skill, of experience or warriors, but of fate. And he didn't think it was fair, to lose in such a manner. Even villains deserve an honorable death.

Every hero has a villain.

What could he do? His skillset was specific, so so specific. Dumbledore had taught him so little, and so much, and he didn't know what to do.

Every

So he did what no one expected.

Villain

He left the Wizarding World, and traveled.

Deserves

He went to the far reaches of magic, studied the very essence of the stuff, and learned. Learned and learned and learned, so much and so little.

A

And he found something. Something that brought a fire back into his eyes, and a light grin on his face. A portal, to elsewhere.

Hero

It was hot. The heat scorched his face, and he panted as he stepped through, the suit he had taken to wearing slightly burning as he did so. He muttered a curse, glaring at the suit. It never held together properly, and he had never gotten around to enchanting it. Even with all his new-found knowledge, his enchantments had the tendency to... be rather explosive. Peering into the distance, his eyes widened a fraction. He stopped to reassure himself, to remind himself that it was a lie, that this was a place of bone and shadow. She wasn't real.

Do you understand?

A girl, his age. Red hair, mischievous eyes, and a sparkling smile. It was funny, in reflection, that even in this realm of bones, someone thought that could sway him now.

Of course not.

She was dead, of course. Dead by his hand, by his will. He hadn't meant too, but it had happened. He had discovered he had a certain... talent, for fire after the war. He loved it.

How could you?

He'd played with it, made it dance for her, watched her laugh in delight as a fox of fire darted forward and sniffed her once, before licking her cheek, a molten trickle falling from its mouth. He'd smiled at her, and she at him.

How could you,

And then it had ended, in a trial of fire and blood, ripping apart his casual existence with a desperate want, a desperate need for a change of scenery, something new.

who has everything,

The funeral was a small affair, and he had stared at the coffin next to his best friend, looking at the sky, a small smile on his face. "...She wouldn't have liked it to rain on her funeral."

Understand him,

The other boy had looked at him with concern, before placing a hand on his shoulder. "Harry, the sky's clear today... Not a cloud in the sky! You feelin' alright mate?"

Who has nothing?

"
He closed his eyes, and a trail made its way down his face as he stood. "It's raining alright."

But that was the last he'd heard from wizards, for long, long, time.

"Exturbo Arduro!" he snarled, his voice more animal then human, his wand slicing through the air like a dagger, as the incantation tore itself from his lips. Fire spewed from the tip of his wand, and the fake vanished as the flames burned against the already searing landscape, licking at the ground with an almost fervent need to burn.

He sighed, and turned, making to leave the area. This wasn't where he wanted to be - it had nothing of use to him, and certainly wasn't as intoxicated with magic as what he was looking for. He disapparated away from the portal's entrance as he left, paranoia surging in his body. Not many knew what the few woman in his life looked like, and even fewer cared enough to try and taunt him with them. But those few were the best in the business, and even with Harry's rather... large compendium of powerful magics, both dark and light, he was unsure that he could take them alone. His spells were but one reason, he mused in reflection, he had left the wizarding world. They presumably wouldn't have liked his attraction towards the fiery side of spellcraft, as those usually belonged to spells like the dreaded Fiendfyre, which even with his potent fire affinity, couldn't honestly master.

But something reverbated in his mind, a simple thought dancing around his head like a ballerina, and he just couldn't shake the feeling that there was some place he should go, some place he had to be. He decided to acquiesce to his mind's whims, and apparated away, going a place he had never been.

America.

[Prime32]

It occurs to me that High School DxD has good crossover potential. And not just because I want to see Issei and Touma destroy the world via brofist.

There's a lot of fanservice - ignore it. The interesting thing here is the devils.

The number of pure-blooded devils has been worn down over time, so they expand their numbers by converting willing or dead humans into low-class members of their species. They do this via the Evil Piece system, based on a set of special chess pieces - a high-class devil acts as King, and uses the other pieces in the set to imbue lesser devils with powers (rook = strong/tough, knight = fast/agile, bishop = improved spellcasting, queen = all three, pawn = can promote while in enemy territory). People with unusually high potential take more pieces to transform, with the series protagonist counting as eight pawns.

The Evil Piece system could be easily extended to devils from other verses and used to boost the strength of weaker characters. (to clarify, becoming a devil makes you vulnerable to holy things but doesn't affect your personality)

From what I hear of the novels, there's enough Fantasy Kitchen Sink that someone wields an Excalibur made out of four other Excaliburs fused together. Seems like a good fit.

[darkblade]

Only canon Archer and Kingdom Hearts Mickey Mouse!Saber are around as Servants right now. Any character who ever died that can be shoehorned into any of the classes is fair game as Harry's servant.

[Draxx]

And that means everyone you could want, you could ask for, is welcome to be a servant. Hell, Gandalf, if you want him.

Also, that seems pretty dark for Harry Potter. I'm not one to talk, given what I've been known to do, but I can't help but wonder if you'd rather be playing Thomas Covenant then a character who is, ultimately, from a kids book about growing up and making peace with who you are.

Then again, thanks to our mangled (horrifically, in some places) canon, we know that at some point Voldemort started working for ol' Randall Flagg and Le Roi Russe, and is still alive and now in even deeper, so we can assume the war went very differently, given that this is taking place in a world where the Magic Association from Type Moon exists as well.

Maybe in this world, Voldemort had help...

It occurs to me that High School DxD has good crossover potential. And not just because I want to see Issei and Touma destroy the world via brofist.

I know there is no point in asking, but why don't you give it a go? We always want more players, and you're good fun to roleplay with.

[Terry576]

Well my Harry's pretty damn powerful. Exturbo Arduro is one of his now vast arry of cool spells, and I'd rather not play a game of 'Magic, Magic Errywhere", as Dresden, Potter, and Gandalf could get a bit confusing.

I'd need a list of the dead, because otherwise this could be confusing.