Channelknight Fadran

"Just a bunch of protagonists!" Fadran cried, trying out his new sword on the withergeists; it was certainly more effective. "Feel free to join in whenever; we've been needing reinforcements!"

Fadran gestures to Nathrangking as he fights off more withergeists. "I don't suppose you could grant me a Channelblade upgrade, could you? Like... I dunno, a thing that makes my Channelblade the magic of light or something that'd repel these things easier?"

"I can give you as much time as I have strength," Fadran replied, "get started... Lord Omnipotent here and I will keep you covered." He cut through another withergeist, wincing as it pulled itself back together.

Fadran Forged a connection to the force called Gravity, then bent it in such a way that allowed him to hover several feet into the air. He scanned the streets, but to no avail; there seemed to be no end to the withergeists. Fadran floated back down to the others. "Dozens, I expect! Maybe hundreds! Most people've got the right idea to stay inside, but I have no idea how long it'll take the devils to realize that we're not the only sentient living things in this backalley bungalow town."

"Great. Just like the spinders back home, but instead of entropizing you, they suck out your soul!" Fadran cut through one that came too close. "Can you fly? We need to make sure these demon-eater-eaters aren't harming anyone they shouldn't--not that they should be harming us, but... you know what I mean! The best we can do right now is contain them."

"If I take away all their power, will they die, or just sort of... wither away?" He punctuates that question with a splay of his fingers.

Fadran looks around at the increasing numbers of withergeists. As they come steadily closer, all nearby life withers and dies. He blasts a line of them with some fire, but they are quickly replaced by more of their number. Fadran falls back to the others. "Even with magic, god powers, and a freaking narrator on our side, this is going to be difficult. Our first priority is to make sure nobody's in the way of all these wraiths, and then to quarantine them in a ringlike enclosure. We need to hold a line from there, and make sure that not a single one of these things gets out." Fadran curses--something you don't hear him do often. "They don't die? I hit them with my magical friendship sword! Shouldn't that be enough?"

Fadran fingered his Channelblade. "For... what am I fighting for?" Glory? Honor? Icona suggested. Lady Edelgard? "I probably shouldn't make video game references right now." You're right, of course, Icona sighed, how about for Icona, Prime Deity of the Iconar Collective? "No." Fine. For honor, then. "For honor!" Fadran called, then charged the withergeists. With a sweep of his blade, he cut through one of the ashen tendrils, which dissolved into a harmless mist at the sword's touch. He spun about, cutting through another and simultaneously spraying an arc of fire through the air. He didn't stop to admire his handiwork, instead spinning in a tight ball above the ground with the assistance of some Gravitational Arcana, cutting through more withergeists with a series of wildly-shot bursts of fire. Regular gravity took hold, and he hit the ground at a crouch, poised to strike at anything that moved, but found that he had effectively destroyed any nearby withergeists. A short breather, then, before he rejoined the battle.

Fadran tapped his Channelblade, causing it to glow. "Does the magic of 'friendship and happiness' or whatever repel these things?" It isn't the magic of friendship and happiness! Icona growled. The magic of light and good. And I believe it should. Fadran rolled his eyes. "The 'magic of light and good,' I mean. One would think that an omnipotent being would name his magic types better!" He eyes Nathrangking. "Present company excluded, of course."

Ah, thanks. I just realized I didn't give a prompt so here you go: Rolling the d20

Fadran, who had FOLLOWED the OTHERS (OOC staring at everyone else) summoned his Channelblade. "How do we fight them?"

Hi. It's me. Fadran. You've met me here and there. Most of you did nothing less than complain about my constant "overpriced" wares (I see things differently than you puny mortals!), but a few of you were nice enough to at least listen to me (thank you, Corrin, for existing. Or do you not exist? Since you're dead... hm). In any case, those of you who believe my COMPLETELY and TOTALLY TRUE tales of traveling (why does everyone always think I'm being sarcastic? I'm not sarcastic), then you'll know about this land called the Iconar Collective. This Collective is one of many in the Omniverse, a universe which is one of many in the multiverse. I am from Ivinan of the Iconar Collective, but since then I've explored a number of Collectives in the Omniverse, including a particularly fascinating land called Faria. My fascination of this land is only natural, as their entire economy is built around janitorial duties such as cleaning windows, scrubbing toilets, and sweeping floors. I can't seem to find a good reason why, but for some reason, the Particular composition of "cleanliness" is different here than anywhere else in the Omniverse. Where in most Collectives the Icons and Ranos form a sort of lattice structure to represent cleanliness, in Faria the Icara Compound is more similar to that of a DNA strand. In fact, the similarities are so serendipitous that cleanliness can actually reproduce itself. By cleaning a small area of a room, the rest of the room gradually becomes cleaner. The locals call this process "scrubshifting," a term that I personally find hilarious. Some people can actually tap into this reproduction of cleanliness and use it to clean things just by looking at them. These people are referred to as "Scrublords"; yet another hilarious term, in my opinion. A single group of Scrublords known as the Order of the Scrub (could this civilization grow any more ignorant?) serve as the oligarchial government for all of Faria. In addition to their powers of cleanliness, the Order of the Scrub's members are trained in physical combat, wielding various cleaning instruments such as broomsticks, dustpans, and squirt guns primed with bleach to enforce their laws. Whether or not any of these people make an impact on the entirety of the Omniverse, I haven't the foggiest.

Fadran takes the blade, then closes his eyes. I don't know how to do a spell of severing, Fadran prays to Icona, help? How many times do you expect me to grant you limitless plot devices? Icona replies. Please? Fadran begged. I'll offer you a nice, big, frosted cake. Fine. Icona replies. The enchantment is hratharata, el-manto crepe. Sounds like french. That's because it is. "Hratharata, el-manto crepe." Fadran whispers, making a cutting motion with the sword--hopefully that did the trick.

Fadran takes the bottle, handing it to Nathrangking. "I don't know what this is, but I'ma trust the hugspren."

"Omnipotent dude!" Fadran places his hand on Nathrangking's head, then yelps aloud at the pain, retracting his hand. "What do I do?"

Fadran relaxes. "She's alright."

Fadran shakes his head. "I can't rest now."

Fadran closes his eyes, placing his hand on Abigail's head. He winces, then removes his hand and opens his eyes. He turns to Nathrangking. "Can you do anything about this? My healing magic isn't working. She isn't hurt... at least not physically."

Fadran sighs, then looks to Abigail. "Are you alright?"

Fadran grabs Abigail, pulling her through the portal with him. "Let's go!"

"It isn't her fault!" Fadran exclaims. "It's that narrator guy!"

"What's a withergeist?" Fadran asked, half anxious, half entranced.

"Hey!" Fadran blasted the box away with wind magic, and when it hit the sand, he buried it deep into the beach.