ProfetessaOscura

“I have no clue what you even mean!” He protested, “Of course I was sitting and bleeding. I’d just got slashed!” He waggled his arm for emphasis. “And mooning means- well, focusing on something. Usually in a kissy kind of way. And mewling means kinda soft whines.” He puffed one cheek full of air. “Aren’t you the one who has 90 friends? Aren’t they all achin’ to go places and do things?”

“That’s what you were acting like,” he said, face and ears turning red.

“When was I goofy?!” He protested, clearly offended. He was, of course, a warrior!

“Oh,” Corwin said, understanding on his face, then confusion. “You mean- But then who- There’s more-?” He froze, abashed and awkward when Janice spoke up. It wasn’t like he was hiding anything; he was just out of the loop, and he didn’t want to waste their time and attention while they were talking about what to do. He failed to voice any of this, instead opting for: “It’s nothing.”

Corwin looked at Torao, at Cadenza, at Janice, and at Aryanna, whom he didn't know quite as well as the others. He shrugged. Sure. He could stay. He still felt tense, awkward, like a puzzle piece in the wrong box. "Who's Lloyd?" he whispered to Torao.

Corwin felt awkward, encroaching on yet another reunion. How did they know so many people? And why did he always feel like every time he met a potential friend, they were already full up on friendships. This Janice girl kept showing up and sniping candidates! He wrinkled his nose, stuffing his pockets full of his hands, inching away from the bundle of giddy girls and Torao. Giddy group? Yes, that was probably better.

“You want to do something, make a art campaign for protests. You’re going to war cuz you’re bored?” He raised his eyes to the sky. They all knew and hung around this one other kid! “Hey, Janice.”

He looked at them strangely. "I mean, don't you have to be excited for something like this to sign up?" he asked, "You got to know about the dangers and accept them."

((Thought I responded, sorry!)) He grinned. “Not a big deal. Sorry if it was weird. I mean- I know it wasn’t- but-“ he flushed, stuttering. “Well,” he finally said, recomposing himself, “It is a combat school. We’re gonna be training, then traveling to take out an evil, powerful Queen who hates humanity! We’re gathering the forces for the good of everyone!” He sounded excited and peppy, as though there were no downsides to the adventure of war.

“About the school, our mission. Oh, and…” he rubbed the back of his neck nervously. “You got pronouns? Might just be me, but I can’t really judge, and I don’t want to guess or be rude and presumptuous.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Nice style,” he noted. “The greens and the oranges are neat. Kinda odd. You’d think they’d clash, but it’s kinda like staring at an orange tree, looking at you.” He shrugged it off. “So, how much do you already know?”

Vespyr sagged into his seat, running a hand over his sockets, then over the back of his skull. He didn’t know when to attack. He knew it must be soon, but still… so many new, inexperienced idealists were joining his school. New blood meant fresh trainees, but there was never a slow moment. The longer he ammassed his forces, the more power the assault would have, but the more prepared the Queen would be to handle things…. And yet. If he left now, how could he bear to take untrained youths to the warfront? Just one more wretched mark against his soul. What else could be done in defense of humanity? Sin or not, he would take the guilt. It was nearly time, and he sought out Brother Sparrow. The man always made him feel insufferably guilty, and Vespyr had never really cared about his own feelings of guilt. It was… almost easy to justify. And he didn’t want it to be easy. Brother Sparrow made him feel human. If even only in the worst of ways.

A young teen strolled over. “Hey, you new?” Corwin pushed his glasses up his nose, messy red hair held up by his bandana. He sported a nifty scar on his arm, already healed over from that battle. “I’m off practice for recovery, so I’m helping new initiates find their way around. I’m Corwin. You are…?”

Overnight passed surprisingly quickly, in a haze. Keep going, Wren thought, arms aching. Still, she painstakingly drove her fingernail into her palm over and over again. She wasn't sure even why she had to keep doing this, but she knew that something bad had happened, and something worse would if she stopped. In the corner, two men played a game of chess, pieces darting over. One consistently lost, knocked over the pieces, but then placed them back to play again, on repeat. "Think it's about time?" a hulkingly large man said. The winning player checked his watch. "Yeah. We'd better get started now so she'll be nice and presentable for the boss." He yawned, rolling his shoulders back. The other player began to protest loudly that he was finally winning, but shut up when snapped at. Wren sagged to the floor once unbound. No memories. Hell, she was impassive. She didn't even think she cared about how sore and achy her body was. "Stand up," one of them said, and she found no reason to object. She glanced at her bloodied palm. Ah. That was why, then. She silently obeyed when taken to a shower, given a simple form-fitting black dress, and some hair supplies. Instinctively, she knew how to use everything she'd been handed, and she made sure to bandage the palm to hide the wound there. Finally, she was led into a bedroom, ornate four-poster of mahogany draped with red and gold curtains dominating the floor. She didn't feel impressed by the majesty of the architecture or intimidated by those around her. "My dear Wren," a man said, hair gel slicked back over his skull, "Thank goodness you survived that ordeal. After we found you bloodied like that, we weren't sure if you'd make it. How are you feeling?" Well, she felt terrible, but she didn't care that she felt terrible. She shrugged impassively. "I'm fine." He smirked, and it reminded her of an oil slick on the street, slimy and greasy. "That's good. I think we'll give you a few days rest, then you can be back at my side, protecting me like usual." He stepped forward and put his hands on both of her shoulders, tilting her chin upward. "You were behaving erratically. Hurting yourself. Trying to hurt us, your friends. I hope you'll forgive the rough treatment." And then he planted a kiss on her forehead, then another on her lips. She wondered if she would have felt revulsion, if she could have felt anything. "I'm fine. I can get back to work now," she insisted. "What is it you want me to do?" He frowned, as if upset that she wasn't bringing up the fact that she couldn't remember him, couldn't remember anything. His face smoothed over instantly. "You're certain, you feel no odd effects?" "I'm fine." "Well," he said, smiling softly, "Let's see if that's completely true." He withdrew a pistol from a drawer, then placed it in her hands. "I truly do have to ensure you're up to the task." He gestured to a window, and she looked out. Down below, a prison yard stretched out, convicts doing menial labor or simply milling around. "They're lazy," he growled, vehemence in his voice, "You don't have to kill any of them. Just... give them a reminder of who is in charge here." She shot a pillar by a man's head. A water bucket by another dozing convict. Third, she shot between two fighting men, right in the dirt. All the shots happened in less than five seconds. "I'm better with a rifle," she grunted, checking the chamber. It held twelve rounds, usually. She was down to nine. More than enough. He was smiling again. "Good," he said quietly. "And... you hit your pretty head pretty hard..." "I don't remember a thing. Just like you planned," she said, then spun. The three men behind him went down almost instantly. He panicked, jumping backward. "You- you don't kill!" he squeaked, skipping toward the desk. Toward an alarm button, she was sure. She fired another round, and he froze. "There's something wrong with your head," he said, sliding back into his anxious lies, "You'll be fine. We've just got to let a doctor see you, I'm sure... Just trust me." "I trust myself more," she said, and didn't feel a shred of guilt as she finished him off. She wondered if she normally would have. Something wasn't right, that was for sure. She unwrapped her hand, checking the marks there, just to be sure. KILL THEM, written in messy curved lines from her fingernails. He'd made an error. He thought that he could win her devotion. She couldn't even feel devotion. She was certain authorities would find this place soon. Best to take the weapon, her bloodstained belongings, then make her way out of the area as quickly as she could. Wren wasn't sure what would happen after that. She wasn't worried, but for some reason, she didn't really care.

((Mmmmmmmhmmmmmmmmmmm…! ))

((Sure. Let’s push NPC #3 forward for development.)) Wren grunted, holding back a scream of pain as the brute’s fists slammed into her midriff. Suspended from the ceiling like a butchered pig, she was helpless. Her rifle was across the room, dropped haplessly by the door. Even if she wanted to scream, it would have been muffled behind the layers of stone and masonry in this basement. They’d grabbed her after the attack, when she was investigating alleys to make sure no rogue demons had evaded destruction. “That’s enough,” a gruff voice said, raising a hand slightly. “She’s not the one who owes us money.” He took a long sip of a drink in his hand. The man wore a casual three piece suit, champagne colored, with a golden tie. He nodded in appreciation of the drink. “Tell me, woman. Where is your father? Do you even know the grave he’s been digging for the Ochara name?” Wren’s hands were numbs, but she forced them into fists. “I-“ she coughed, body wracking, “I don’t know what you mean.” ”He borrowed a lot of money from us.” Oh. This. ”My sister was attacked,” Wren wheezed, “Her ability was stolen, a part of her soul removed. He’d try anything to-“ The man nodded, and the brute slammed his fist into her stomach. This time, she couldn’t help but scream. “Spare me the story. Every borrower comes with one prepared. I just want my money back, interest included, and that bastard had the nerve to disappear off my radar. Seems he didn’t think I’d be able to find the rest of his family, or he underestimated my… determination.” She took another shallow breath. “I’m part of Vespyr’s assault. When he finds out-“ ”When he finds out, he’ll have a corpse and no leads to follow. Unless, of course, you can make a deal with me…” A smirk slid across his face, like oil. “What do you want?” ”You work for me.” ”I don’t kill.” He sighed regretfully. “Well, then you certainly won’t be working outside my realm. We’ll settle for your father’s debts in brunt labor. Seven years ought to suffice.” ”I don’t have time for this,” she insisted, and she even brushed off the next punch. “The man who hurt my sister… who killed my brother… I’m close. I know I am.” ”I don’t care,” he said blithely. “Do you know what these are?” He asked, withdrawing a vial from his jacket. It seemed like water, but light glinted inside, as though tiny particles of sand were suspended within. “These little beauties migrate to the hippocampus and the prefrontal cortex. They disable much of the functions there. Essentially, as long as I keep you dosed on this, you won’t have a personality. Hell, you won’t even have a memory. We use this all the time in mining gigs. It keeps those indebted to us nice and complacent, obedient until their debt is paid.” ”Or they die?” She asked. He nodded. “Ah. But what will be will be,” he said lightly. She felt like laughing, it seemed so ridiculous. She was dead or as good as, and all she could think was how ridiculous it all seemed. “And… am I going to work in your mines? Or perhaps in your bed?” He shook his head somberly. “That’s not for you, although my mind only changed recently, after the news footage went out. Besides, most clients prefer more… engaged partners. You’ll be doing what you do best; standing at my side with a gun in your hand, ready to use it at my command.” That eel’s smile was back on his face again. “Perhaps, though, you’re right. Perhaps that isn’t the only way you can repay a debt.” Wren shuddered. It was time to call backup. She writhed on the hook, subtly kicking the back of her right boot heel with her left toe, activating the tracker device. Vespyr might not be able to come, but someone would be on their way to help shortly. “If you think I’m going to drink that, you’re sorely mistaken.” The brute lowered her just so her toes barely scraped the pavement, her arms still twisted painfully above her head. Wren gasped as the eel, hand as swift as a snake, grabbed her throat. He twisted her head back, forcing her jaw open, then drained the concoction into her mouth. His hands pinched her mouth and nose closed. The taste made her want to vomit, but that wasn’t an option. Wren’s lungs burned for oxygen, and she twisted desperately, before reflexively swallowing. He released her, and Wren sagged, gasping. “Let her cook overnight,” the eel said, a smile behind his words. “Once her brain has been brought to the propper simmer, bring her to me. Presentable, of course.” He tugged at his collar, straightening it again. She was already feeling numb, feverish. Aloof. Damnation, it was even getting hard to remember things that should have been at the edge of her memory, like the names and faces of the new recruits. He’d implied that the dose was temporary, but she didn’t know how long it would last, and the desperation she felt was suddenly curbed into a mild worry. They’ll come for me, she thought. They’ll come for me. Panic shot through her as she struggled to remember who “they” were. And then panic was gone, and she sagged limply. ((Just read the updates. If Siren’s Call dies/goes on hiatus, no biggie.))

((To be fair... Vespyr gave her a comic book, and she CHOSE the boring book! XD ))

This is amazing! The upper "arm" of his front legs could be longer. This could make that elbow shape with the forearm, just like the back legs, but keep the forearm reasonably long and the claws smaller/jointed, you have a good thing going with that part of the design.. It'll let the front legs be more versatile and serve more as spider's front legs, or crabs' claws. This is fantastic, all around; axehounds are tricky to draw; I constantly reference Shallan's sketches.

@Negative_Null

“Yeah, okay!” He said, and promptly ran face-first into Jay.

“It’s fine. I’ll see you later, then!” He said, still stammering as he beat a hasty retreat.

“No, I mean-“ he got flustered, stuttering badly, “I mean- I- Clothes can g-get ruin-n-ed-! And stained and- and- and-“ he bit his lower lip, hard. A moment seemed to calm him down. “It makes life harder, if you ruin all your clothes in one day.”