Hemalurgic Headshot

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845 Shardbearer

About Hemalurgic Headshot

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    Eternal Protector of the Shard Bassoon
  • Birthday 12/29/2001

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    Male
  • Interests
    Space. Dark chocolate. Bassoons. Clouds. The complex societal pressures that act on us each day. Strategy games.

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  1. Exciting game everyone! That switcharoo at the very end of the cycle, oh, that was exhilarating. Yes, I must say that I accept our new overlords, I mean, majority party. Thank you Elandera for the game, very fun.
  2. [Whomst stumbles into the room, legs covered in mud up to the knees, scratches and dirt all over his body. There is a twig sticking out of his hair. He says nothing, yet his apprehensive scan of the remaining senators is brief.] This has been a quiet cycle. Which means there's less for me to catch up on. There's only one lynch candidate it seems, so might as well vote on him. Butt Ad Venture.
  3. Storm Rising - Part 2 The light of the fire danced on the walls of the old barn. Around it sat three gruff men adorned with a mismatch assortment of body armor and metal ornaments, specifically chains. Their names were Dredge, Wratch, and Wayne, and they were all hungrily waiting for the grouse Dredge had shot to cook. “Sparks, I could eat a cow. A whole one!” Wratch exclaimed. “Shut up, slontze,” Shane snapped back. Wayne quickly elbowed Wratch in the ribs with a clank of metal. Wratch shot him a glare but returned to drooling at the roasting fowl. Shane stood in the crooked frame of the massive barn doors, watching the dark wilderness. He was the leader of this rugged band of brigands their victims called “Shane’s Chain Gang.” Shane liked the ring of it. It just struck fear into the hearts of anyone who heard it. Shortly after Calamity and the terror that come in its wake, Shane realized his villainous potential. A recreational drunkard with three misdemeanors on his record and a reputation for being curmudgeonly, Shane gathered up what weapons he owned, jumped in his pickup, and decided to terrorize the nearby farms. The poor family simply surrendered, and Shane walked away a fair bit richer. Shane sought out more unsavory fellows to join his band, and soon they were a force to be reckoned with in rural Saskatchewan. Dredge, formerly Phillip Durstrom, had a passion for arson, and brought along his friend Wayne, who also liked arson. Wayne neglected to change his name because it rhymed with Shane. Wratch was the last to join the crew. By the time the Chain Gang crossed paths with him, their reputations preceded them. Most towns and farms they came across surrendered in the face of their overwhelming firepower and nastiness, and they even had killed an Epic (admittedly, it was a minor one who could only give everyone within a hundred feet of him a cold, but it was still an Epic). Thus, it was to their surprise when upon arriving in the quiet hamlet of Cupar that no one came out with their hands over their heads. Instead, a single man stood in the street. Shane had called out to him, “You there! Don’tcha know who we are?” In response, the man manifested a chainsaw and revved it. Dredge had pulled out his rifle, but Shane stopped him. “Nice saw you’ve got there. Say, want to join us?” Shane had offered. Surprisingly, the Epic accepted, and that’s how Wratch joined the team. Shane had boasted of his negotiation skills for weeks afterwards. After a moment of tense silence, Dredge reached over and took the grouse off the flame. Holding it over an upside-down garbage can lid, he sliced the bird into equal portions and set them aside. With a glance at Wratch’s expectant face, Dredge stepped back, his own portion in hand. “Have at it,” he said. With glee, Wratch grabbed the meat and devoured it. Meanwhile, Wayne reached over and grabbed his. “Hey, boss. Come get your duck,” Dredge said. Shane didn’t reply. “Hey, boss.” Still silence. “Look, you slontze, it’s gonna get cold, and then it’s no good.” Thunder boomed in the distance. “I’ve been watching the storm, slontze.” Shane hissed. “And I think it’s going to be a nasty one.” As he spoke, he stomped over to Dredge and scooped up his plate, ornamental china abandoned by the previous owners of the farm. “There’s got to be a—chew, gulp—storm cellar around this sparking place.” “Well, have you tried checking outside?” Wayne offered. Shane shot him a nasty look as he shoved another piece of Dredge’s delicious grouse in his mouth but walked outside anyways. After a moment, Shane returned. “Did you find it?” Wayne asked. Shane’s silence was enough of a confirmation. “Tie down the trucks and move all the valuahbles into the cellar with us. Don’t want them blowing away,” Shane ordered. Wayne returned with a sloppy salute and walked out to secure the vehicles. Dredge raised an eyebrow instead. “Are you really that worried about a storm? It’s a bit late for tornadoes,” Dredge said. Shane looked out at the sky again. “There’s something ‘bout it—gives me a bad gut feeling,” he growled. Dredge rolled his eyes behind his back. Shane continued, “Better safe than sorry, eh?” “When have we ever been safe?” Wratch piped in. Dredge chuckled while Shane fumed, but said nothing. Despite the mutterings and jabs, soon the Chain Gang was settled in the storm cellar. The cellar was meagerly furnished, featuring two benches on opposite walls. Some shelves bearing sagging cardboard boxes lined the back. Wratch and Wayne played cards while Dredge cleaned his rifle. Thunder rumbled dully every few seconds or so. After a moment, Shane climbed down. “What took you so long?” Dredge asked. Shane ignored him. “Storm’s almost here. Thought I felt a drop before I came down,” Shane said. As if in agreement, thunder rumbled outside. “Well, guess we’ll just sit tight ‘till it passes,” Wayne muttered. He slapped down his hand. “Ha! Beat that.” Wratch stared at his cards defeatedly. “Now you owe me two chainsaws.” The storm cellar fell quiet aside from the slapping of cards while Wayne shuffled and the howling of the wind outside, frequented with bursts of thunder. Dredge started up a tune on his harmonica, pointedly ignoring Shane’s glares. Suddenly, there was a thump on the hatch. Dredge’s harmonica cut off with a squawk. Everyone stared at the hatch in silence. There was another thump, followed by two more. Dredge slowly reached for his rifle, and Shane felt for his own. Wratch and Wayne had put down their cards. Slowly, anxiously, Shane edged towards the ladder. The hatch shook, but luckily the bolt held. There was a tense silence. After a few moments, Wayne spoke. “Good thing we locked it.” Suddenly, there was a deafening crash and a flash, and Shane was thrown back. The hatch had been obliterated and rain poured through the gap. Dredge gripped his rifle, and an oversized chainsaw appeared in Wratch’s hand. With frightening deliberation, a man jumped through the hole and stared into Shane’s eyes. The Epic’s eyes glowed. Dredge fired with a crack and the Epic lurched, blood blossoming from the hole in his shoulder. With a roar, the Epic swung at Dredge, who attempted to fend him off with the barrel. Unfortunately, the Epic’s fist connected. There was a snap and a flash of electricity, and Dredge collapsed. With a shriek, Wratch slashed with the chainsaw, narrowly missing the Epic. Wratch summoned another chainsaw and kicked it at the Epic, who dodged. Shane, meanwhile, slowly regained his senses and struggled to his feet. Hoping the Epic was distracted, he dashed for the ladder and scrambled up. The surface was dreadful. The wind and rain blasted Shane’s face. Through the storm, he realized the barn had collapsed in the wind. Lightning flashed overhead. Shane heard a scream from the cellar and ran for the trucks but stumbled in the mud and fell. Raw terror filled his veins. He glanced back at the cellar and to his horror saw the Epic rise from the hole, bloodied and frenzied. Shane scrambled to his feet and started to run, but the wind blasted him from the side and he crashed to the ground. The wind roared in his ears and the rain mixed with his tears. “Pitiful.” It was the Epic. “Leaving your teammates to die. I expected nothing less from scum.” Shane’s blood boiled. How dare that slontze speak about him like that! He rose and spun around but was met with a boot to his gut. He collapsed. “A feeble attempt,” the Epic spat. Shane glared at him as well as he could while doubled over in pain. “Just kill me already,” Shane hissed through clenched teeth. “What was that?” The Epic said. “Kill me!” Shane growled. The Epic stepped over and leaned down until their noses were nearly touching. The Epic smelled like ozone. “Fine,” he said, and the world went white.
  4. I'm not sure if I'm included in that number. However, if you ever need me, just shout, you know. What do we think needs to happen next in the meeting?
  5. [Whomst has a hangover. That is all.] This is typically why I don't play QFs. I can't keep track of everything that's going on. Anyways, besides my vote (which I've been reluctant to use, since much the actual vote activity seems to happen in the last 4ish hours when I'm asleep) I have no options available. @Fifth Scholar, I assume you have a Warrant, since I targeted you with one. Other than that, I have no boxings. I accept tips, thank you. - Fifth (1): Rae Araris (1): Striker These are the lynch votes as of now. As you can see, there are not enough votes for anyone to be lunched yet. I have no idea what the context is for Striker's vote, so I'll look at Rae's. Basically, if Kidpen is Elim (which we aren't sure), then those who voted on Bard are suspicious. Fifth was one of those who voted on Bard. Kidpen also voted on Bard, so if he was Elim, it makes the other voters more suspicious. I understand this line of thought, but at the same time I have no idea what is going on so I'll leave it at that. Also, Drake?
  6. Storm Rising - Part 1 Callum Reeves stood in his tower, overlooking the Canadian prairie. A crisp breeze tussled his pale hair, and he tasted rain on it. Which was no surprise, for Callum had been watching the cloudwall on the horizon all afternoon. The towering agglomeration of cumulonimbus, ominously grey, stretched as far as the (ordinary) eye could see to the north and south, only tapering off at the limits of his visibility. It was a stark contrast to the flat and unsuspecting countryside whose only features were rows of windbreak trees and desolate farmhouses among the endless fields. Callum’s tower, a thin spire fashioned out of a radio tower, was the highest point for miles around. And he knew, because Callum could see. Sometimes he went by the name “Opt,” if that rang a bell with anyone. Which probably didn’t. It was a relic of his earlier days, which are dead and gone to him. Callum was a different man than Opt, but their powers were the same. For, as mentioned before, Callum could see. If he focused, there was no limit to his sight. He could count blades of grass from a mile, two miles, five miles away. The tiniest hints of movement were obvious to him. Darkness was no obstacle for his sight. In fact, the only limit to his range was the curvature of the earth, which is why he built his tower. Most called people like him Epics. It been at least a year since someone had called him that, but then again, it had been at least a year since Callum had seen another human being. Correction: at least a year since another human being had seen him. At times the loneliness was crippling, but usually Callum was content with his solitude. He kept a tidy garden during the summer to supplement his diet with fresh greens and filled in the rest with rations from his food storage. The tower had become his “lair” shortly after his Acquisition. Opt had considered the location a suitable place for an Epic such as himself, and the location was remote enough that more irritating Epics would seldom come within range. The abode at the top had two levels and three rooms: a bedroom, a kitchen space, and a lounge. On the roof was his observation platform, which boasted an array of telescopes, satellite dishes, and antennas. A sniper rifle sat on its rig in the corner. Callum watched the storm intently. It looked like a supercell, but it was moving much faster and was larger than usual. Storms like this formed more commonly further south, in the States, but they popped up in Canada once and a while. He checked the doppler radar. Still high precipitation in the storm’s area, even after three hours. He anxiously gripped the platform railing. If the storm got too close, he would have to hunker down until it passed. Normally it was too late in the year for tornadoes, but Callum had to be ready in the happenstance this storm brought a twister. Two hours later Callum stood on the now-empty observation deck, facing the storm. He had moved all of the equipment to a secure shed at the base of the tower and his home was as shuttered and braced as it could be. Now he could only wait. The storm hadn’t weakened, nor had it slowed down. The peripheral clouds were only a mile away and closing, the peak of the anvil towering above him in the sky. Low thunder rumbled across the prairie. His mobile buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out. The first communication he’d had in months. With a few taps, he unlocked it and brought up the message app. Opt, Nasty Epic headed your way. Get below ground. -T Trapmaster. Callum shrugged and slipped the mobile back into his pocket. A fellow Epic he knew from Winnipeg. He looked up at the storm, now practically above the tower. The wind was rapidly growing to gale-force and the tower swayed ever-so-slightly. Lightning flickered in the heart of the storm, webbing outwards. ‘Nasty Epic,’ Callum thought as he stared up into the threatening cyclone. Suddenly, the two thoughts clicked. His mouth went dry. Sparks. All at once, a wall of water crashed into the tower, knocking Callum to the floor. The wind howled against his ears and stinging rain hit his skin. Struggling to his feet, Callum tried to crawl to the hatch down. Just as he got within reach, a gust knocked him down again. His hands slipped on the rain-slick floor, and he slid to the opposite end of the platform. Callum gritted his teeth and kicked off the railing, attempting to slide to the hatch. Lightning flashed around the tower, dangerously close. The thunder was deafening, making Callum wince. All the while, rain poured down his face. His fingertips caught the lip of the hatch and Callum grinned triumphantly. As he tried to work his hands under the latch, a terrific flash of light filled his vision, nearly simultaneous with the deafening boom that accompanied it. A second later, he was on his back, three feet from the hatch. The hatch that a man was standing on. Eyes glowing, tendrils of lightning arcing over his skin, the man was obviously an Epic and incredibly imposing. His outfit was tailored and navy, accented with electric blue. His hair was spiked with static. “Well hello there,” the Epic grinned. Callum blinked, the bright afterimage still lingering in his vision. His whole body was sore. The Epic cocked his head. “Still a bit dazed, eh? I’m Tempest.” Tempest extended his hand, which Callum simply stared at. It sparked with electricity. “I’m Opt,” Callum said disdainfully as he shifted to a sitting position. Rain still poured down on them, but the wind had died down. He realized that they were in the center of the storm, the clouds swirling around them. “Kind of you to drop in,” he added drily. Tempest laughed, a booming sound not unlike thunder. “An Epic! Should’ve known, all the way out in the middle of nowhere. Nice place,” he gestured vaguely, then paused. “Can you fly?” It was less of a question and more of an ultimatum. Callum slowly shook his head. “Shame. You could have joined my entourage. Ah well,” Tempest shrugged. “Farewell, Opt.” With a sweep of his hand, the wind roared and blasted into Callum. He was flipped head-over-heels and hurtled off the side of the platform. In a last-ditch effort, he flung his hand out and gripped the railing. The rest of him dangled over the edge, several hundred feet from the ground. Tempest strode over to him, briefly silhouetted by a lightning flash. “Weak, for an Epic,” he growled, all joviality lost. His hand hovered over Callum’s. “It’s foolish to stay out in a storm,” Tempest hissed as his hand slammed down onto Callum’s, shocking him. He screamed as his hand and arm lost feeling, leaving a terrible sensation of needles. His limp fingers lost their grip. Tempest pulled his hand away and Callum fell, screaming in anguish. Tempest lingered at the edge, watching Callum’s body plummet to the dark ground. And as he fell, Callum returned the stare, focused on Tempest’s face in perfect clarity despite the downpour, the Epic’s features the final thing he saw.
  7. Storm Rising - Prologue The asphalt crunched under the Epic’s boots. His grin had no mirth—more akin to a primal baring of teeth. Electric sparks flickered across his body, and the air smelled faintly of ozone. Overhead, the storm had split, forming a calm, eerie eye around them. On the outskirts, the clouds remained dark and thunderous. Eric dropped into a fighting stance. His staff was tipped with wire, designed to draw away the electricity to temporary storage in the staff’s core and prevent him from being electrocuted. He could also ground the staff if necessary. At his hip was his pistol, but the mag had only a few rounds left. For dire circumstance. Intel didn’t report that Tempest had a “back-door”—an immunity to ordinary death—but he was still devilishly hard to kill. The Epic’s ego must be messing with his mind to allow Eric to get this close without the safety of his storm. Did he really look that easy to kill? “Not everyone has the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to kill Tempest,” Tempest said. “You have the right to feel proud.” Eric wanted to roll his eyes. Definitely ego-impaired. Tempest beckoned to him and shifted into a fighting position. Eric rushed at Tempest, sweeping the staff towards the Epic’s knees. Tempest leaped into the air, rising above Eric’s head as he charged past. Eric skidded to a stop and spun around to face Tempest, who had landed behind him. He raised his staff just in time to deflect a punch crackling with electricity. The parried blow caught the Epic off balance, and Eric tried to knock Tempest’s knees out. He connected, and Tempest’s legs crumpled. Without missing a beat, he shoved the staff up to the Epic’s neck and pinned him to the ground. “Almost too easy,” Eric smirked. He reached for the pistol at his hip while Tempest struggled. “Don’t be too hasty,” the Epic growled. Suddenly, the pocket of sky above them collapsed and the storm rushed in. Within seconds, rain was pouring down and the wind howled in Eric’s ears. He forgot the gun and pressed both hands on the staff. They locked eyes. A gust of wind blasted Eric from the side, knocking him off balance. One of his hands slipped. Wasting no time, Tempest threw Eric off and launched into the sky. The rain grew stronger and Eric’s visibility shrunk further. Scrambling to his feet, he sprinted for a building, some sort of cover from the raging Tempest. Lightning flashed menacingly close, the thunder deafening. The door was mere feet away when Eric was thrown back by a wall of air. He looked up to see Tempest hovering above him, lit by sparks and fists clenched. “It was a well-fought loss, I’ll admit,” Tempest boomed. Eric inched his hand towards his holster, praying that the rain would possibly, hopefully obscure the movement. “But like everyone else who’s tried, you will die.” He seemed almost apologetic. Eric slid the pistol from its holster, gingerly rotating the rain-slicked metal in his fingers, gripping the handle. Tempest descended like a destroying angel. Just a little closer, Eric thought. He couldn’t afford to miss. One bullet through his arrogant head… “Any last words, my opponent?” Tempest asked. Eric closed his eyes. “Only one,” he said, and whipped out the pistol, finger tightening on the trigger. There was a CRACK and a blinding flash.
  8. This is exquisite. 10/10 would commission for my officers again.
  9. So there was a 20% chance that Lum's alignment would flip, correct? So it's more likely than not that she is indeed an Elim.
  10. Sorry, the bit about Burnt’s innocence was a misunderstanding of the rules. I recalled that alignments were revealed differently if they were killed by a dagger, but I forgot that they weren’t revealed at all. I just assumed that because the writeup didn’t say “Corrupt Senator” that Burnt was Village.
  11. *snore* *snor-- ack, ack snnNRRK! Huh? What? A Dagger used already? So first of all, why is Joe dead? I don't remember that being discussed while I was on. Second, Snip has Burnt's dagger. 1. I agree with Fifth that this sudden Joe bandwagon is incredibly suspicious. Striker, Bard, Lum, Elandera, Rae, and Alv. I'm going to slide Bard and... Rae? into my suspects pile for now. Alv is less suspicious right now because 2. Burnt is dead, Burnt and Alv were buddies, and Burnt is Village. Being the only vote on your target is a sure way of getting your dagger back. Or, as others have suggested, this a Hot Potato Dagger being passed among Elims. If this Dagger is not named 'Hot Potato' I will be sorely disappointed. Ninja'd by Snip. I am sorely disappointed.
  12. Halefyre coming in here made me think of something. In situations when we are waiting on someone to move the main story along, would it be possible, reasonable, fun to have separate side stories going on? With WHiO, there were different cities. It wasn't just Portland. Now, I'm not suggesting a What Happened in Calgary, but perhaps little slice of life stories that are happening in the background, allowing us to introduce characters we are itching to write but don't have a good way of introducing to the main thread.