Longshot97

The second arrow from the ranger pierces the quiver, intended to pin it to another tree.

A mysterious third party hires a ranger to track down Vyzkel, who succeeds. The ranger draws, aims, and fires an arrow, skewering the sandwich onto a nearby tree.

With pleasure. I actually submitted this to WTCC a year ago, but it was never picked (or maybe it was, and I missed it. Who knows). 1. This character is a seamstress

Granted. Lacking creativity, you are now doomed to fall into a soup of fresh asphalt on your next weekend stroll. Best invest in snowshoes. I wish for a bane.

Granted. Guess how said deadly weapons are delivered (hint: direct delivery) I wish for a magical, non-lethal family heirloom.

The demon taunted him. Eighth of the Eve stood quietly, footsteps approaching outside. Stony silence masked his face, but he heard his jaw creak as his teeth clenched. His choice was made. He was yet condemned. Must the creature so openly mock it? What more did you expect? Fool. "Look, I don’t really have a choice in the matter either," Asylum said. "Part of the deal I made included…” they gestured vaguely to the surrounding area. "This." A...deal? Eighth did not frown, but his brow creased slightly. Of course, Beings of the Depths did not walk this world casually. They were summoned, or rarely, sent. But which had brought Asylum Smedry here, now? The wooden floor groaned slightly as the Bloodless strode in, limp body in hand. Asylum rose to greet it, taking the prisoner with little struggle. He seated the man opposite Eza, slumped against the wall. Eza barely stirred. The blood was draining from her cheeks, and her chest had stopped rising altogether. Eighth felt ice enter his veins, pulsing through him to the beat of his heart in his ears. Asylum set his book between the two, flipping pages, stopping at a given section. Eighth ignored the text, annotated neatly with sigils and cyphers he could somehow make out. His eyes fixed on the prisoner, refusing to look away. The prisoner was dressed in loose garments. No, not quite. His clothes hung loosely about a famished frame. Not starved, merely...undernourished. A brocaded vest gaped open over an enveloping shirt, and a fine metal buckle belted trousers over the shirt. His hair hung limply about an angular face. He looked so...normal. Innocent. He may have been imprisoned, but no scars marred his skin, no signs of fighting graced his features. A ring pierced one ear, conspicuously ornate against a plain ensemble. A token of affection? From a wife, or perhaps a mother? No. Don't think about that. Don't imagine that. One of the man's hands rose, held in Asylum's as the demon frowned at his book. Then words began rolling from his tongue. Ancient, unknowable, yet somehow familiar all the same. But Eighth could not look away from the unfortunate prisoner. Before his very eyes, the unconscious man seemed to fold upon himself. Already-prominent bone pressed suddenly against skin, sharp and prominent. His complexion paled, and the hair on his head grayed from root to tip. Eighth of the Eve watched helplessly as the very life was drained from the prisoner's body. As wrinkles emerged, slowly suffusing the man's face, his eyes shot upon. Cataracts steadily clouded his pupils, but his gaze still fixed on Eighth. His mouth moved painfully, chest heaving to produce words. Still, the only sound to escape was a faint wheeze. Yet Eighth heard his soundless plea, a cry for help as piercing as any scream. His other hand trembled, as though to reach for Eighth. Eighth of the Eve did not move. Despair flooded the now-ancient man's face. His jaw worked silently, chest laboring with his breath. The vigor of life fell from the man's skin, the bloodied neck his brightest spot of color. Tears formed briefly in the man's eyes, only to vanish as his body hoarded precious moisture. But even that would not be enough. The haunting rattle of the man's final breath reached Eighth. And the corpse slumped bonelessly against the wall. Yet the eyes remained open, locked with Eighth's. Staring. Pleading. Hoping. Accusing. Condemning. The man finally disappeared in a blurry haze. Eza's eyes flew open, and she gasped loudly, like an apprentice resurfacing from the brink of drowning. She fumbled at her belt, recoiling violently from Asylum. Eighth looked at her, blinking tears away. And stared. Eza was...gone. Before him sat not a girl experienced beyond her years, but a young woman in truth. Short, yes - tiny, in fact - but with developed features and a body well into maturity. Eighth's heart twisted as he saw the last of Fall fade from the girl before him. Gone. Forever lost to him. Forever beyond his reach. Forever alone. Gone. Eza remained where she was, eyes flickering about the room. That aged, knowing stare no longer stood out in a child's face, but rested naturally in her hardened visage. Her eyes took him in, then the room, then its occupants. She barely paused on the Soulless, calmly taking in the Bloodless and Mindless stationed about her. Finally, she glanced down, across her table. Eighth closed his eyes. He knew her. She was no fool. She would not miss this. Yet he prayed anyway. Please, let her not notice. Please... For a few moments, silence. And then: "What did you do to me?" Eighth's heart broke at her voice. That fear, that horror. That knowledge, and that hope. That twisted delusion at another reason, a different rationale. That damned hope. He slowly opened his eyes. "You collapsed," Eighth said hoarsely, "after sealing that creature away. You would not awaken, not even to his summons." He gestured towards Asylum, and to the cat approaching the table. "I heeded them in your stead. We had no choice..." His voice tightened painfully in his throat. "I had no choice..." The sudden weight of it all came crashing down. His legs buckled, and he collapsed heavily to the bench behind him. His blade clattered against the worn wood. His trapper's calm fell, blown aside like Aviar in a hurricane. His hands shook before him. His sight blurred with tears. And yet those eyes would not vanish. He could feel them even now, staring into him. Pinning him in place. Boring into his very soul. "Forgive me," he whispered. To him. To her. To them. To them all. @Lunamor @Stormlightsong

Granted. You are now paraplegic. I wish for a piece of obsidian.

Granted. Meet my dear friend Alejandro Lucia-Lorena. Guess what we call him I wish to be able to comprehensively speak every language in existence.

Granted. You also have a very hostile enemy group. Will the Power of Friendship™ prevail? I wish for another wish.

Granted. You are also given bad luck. Nothing's changed. I wish for the steel-ified skull of my mortal enemy.

Granted. You are doomed to forever have people reading over your shoulder the moment you open said book. I wish to possess biomechanical augmentations, á la The Frugal Wizard's Handbook For Surviving Medieval England.

Granted. A group of cutthroat bandits catches on just in the nick of time, forcing you to pay them no less than $1,000,000 every 24 hours in exchange for you not dying to an elaborately overkill sniper scheme. I wish to be able to alliterate perfectly on command.

Granted. An eternally starving Larkin has adopted you and now follows you wherever you go. I wish to be free of my online addictions.

Granted. You have neither straw nor spoon to consume it with. I wish to have Feruchemical abilities.

Granted. However, you are now cursed to thumb-shift, and forced to undergo mildly suggestive treatment to the online entertainment of anonymous millions. I wish for a bead of lerasium.

Granted. You get to see it being made from the very start. I wish for a bane-free boon.

Granted. However, the aforementioned cannon strike is delivered with surgical precision. I'm sure you can guess where [EDIT] Sorry, I sort of broke the game. I wish to overcome my chronic procrastination.

Granted, but no news of any cannonball-struck wreckage reaches you, and as you go about your life, you become increasingly aware that you can just faintly hear the whistle of an incoming projectile... I wish to have the capacity to turn any curse to my advantage.

Eighth of the Eve frowned. A prisoner? What need had they of a criminal? Was he a healer? He doubted a healer would be found in a prison. But why... No. Surely not. No... His eyes flicked to Eza. A faint expression of pain, twisting a too-pale countenance. Her ribcage barely expanded, and he could barely hear her breath now. His vision seemed to flicker, and suddenly he saw. A prisoner, drained of all life, collapsed on a cell floor. He saw a man on his back, chest torn open, skin covered in arcane sigils inscribed in blood. He saw a withered husk, shriveled beyond humanity, the shadow of a demon looming over it. He shook his head. The Bloodless sped away, faster even than the monstrosity that had nearly killed Eza. Maybe it had killed her. Eighth remembered his uncle, fallen from a cliff on Patji in escaping a nightmaw. There had been no blood shed, no bones broken. Yet he had wasted away, coughing violently, struggling to breathe. He had lasted barely a week, and those final days had been bedridden. Fourth of the Fall had been devastated. Eighth had found her preparing her father's outrigger, determined to navigate to Patji Himself. He had firmly picked her up - kicking and screaming and sobbing the whole way - and carried her to her family's hut, where her grandfather yet clung to life. He had looked at Eighth then, beseeching him in the wordless way of all trappers. Would he watch his child, his only granddaughter, in his absence? Would he protect her from callous circumstance and cruel chance? Would he watch her, guide her, raise her in his absence? And Eighth had nodded. His uncle had died. Right there, as though he had stayed with them for that reason alone. Fall had helped carry the body to the already-afloat outrigger, where they had returned his brother to Patji. And she had remained close to him on the long journey home. Eighth was still staring at Eza, Fall's face lingering in his eyes. He had as good as sworn to care for her. And then? He had abandoned her. He had been forced to turn her aside. His own Father had witnessed his shame, and banished him. Could he ever return with innocent blood on his hands? Well, not innocent. Already doomed to death, in fact. But to give up a living creature to a Depthbringer? But Eza was here, now. She had saved his life, twice now. No, three times. Maybe more. The number was immaterial. He owed her a blooddebt. Yet how would Patji ever accept a demontouched among his Children? The debt of a trapper is no idle promise. Such bold, brash words. Eighth paid the demons little attention. He yet stood, grappling silently with the impossible. The choice was obvious. Eza was here, dying now. He owed her everything. But... Does that have to mean my home? Eighth stared at Eza. Father, but she looked like Fall. He stared, holding her life in his clenched fists. And he felt something break. Eighth bowed his head. In the distance, a loud crash echoed, like solid thunder. It shook the room, jarring Eighth. Just as well. It hid the shaking of his shoulders. I am never returning home. Asylum stepped from his Soulless with a glower, sheathing his knife. “Sorry about them,” he said smoothly. “They’re a necessary evil if you will. Speaking of which, what are your thoughts on ritual sacrifice?” Eighth reached out, cradling Eza’s hand. Her pulse barely reached him. He did not raise his head. His eyes burned, but he did not blink, his cheeks dry. He had known all along. Yet his voice came out in a hollow whisper, dry and hoarse. “Do it.” @Stormlightsong @Lunamor

Thanks! I appreciate that Yeah, in hindsight, Oculators are absurdly powerful. Like, Mistborn levels of versatility. I might make Elmina lose her Concussor's Lenses early into roleplay - they're her strongest offensive ability. That might help mitigate her power level, at least on a combative scale. If you're still interested in aligning this with other backstories, I believe Lunamor's character had a run-in with a Hemalurgist some time ago. Obviously it's up to them, but if you're curious, check out their "Stolen Beginnings" thread. That could help inform a decision.

Alright. In the interest of future plans, I am officially submitting this character for review. Uh, her Talent isn't really a factor anymore in Alleycity. She thinks she can just barely feel it, but cannot use it at all. So really, just one Normal Merit. So far, all she's been trying to do is find Eighth of the Eve, through Tracker's Lenses or otherwise. Unlike Eighth, she doesn't keep a collection of trinkets from her travels.

I actually had a similar theory some time back. Eliminating Feruchemy's Diminishing Returns https://www.17thshard.com/forums/topic/165699-eliminating-feruchemys-diminishing-returns/ The conversation got a bit heated, but it was a good conversation.

Eighth watched in disbelief. The creature was acting...like a man. Acting as though it hadn't mercilessly slaughtered dozens of people. As though it hadn't twisted half of those into mindless, bloodless abominations. And whatever these three... things were. Eighth kept his eyes pointedly away from them. They simply stood there, fixated eerily on him. The Mindless moved efficiently, clearing out cruor and corpses alike. Somehow, this shallow semblance of hospitality was more disturbing then the violence before. Eighth almost preferred having the demon's nature unveiled than this...this farce. Misunderstanding? What was there to misunderstand? First things first. Eighth strode to the table, gently setting Eza down on her cloak, ignoring the man's offer. It was petty, but only slightly so. Her pulse was still weak, and, if possible, her breathing felt even shallower. She didn't even stir as he slipped his waterskin under her head, or probed the cut on her arm. Thank the Father, the bloodflow had slowed. Eighth longed to do nothing more than slump into a seat. His back felt slick with blood, and his head ached abominably. He remained standing, however. They may have barely escaped the Bloodless, but Eighth felt that this man was by far the greater danger. His left hand rested casually at hip level, where his blade was secured beneath his coat. His machete had refused to unsheathe - he eyed the shadowcat, still lounging on the floor - but Eza's knife was still tucked loosely into his belt. His other hand tensed, priming the trigger to his blowpipes, still hidden under his sleeve. Seiju crouched low at his shoulder, and he felt his legs steady beneath him. "Medicine will not help this," Eighth said slowly. His voice remained flat, still as a tidepool "She is exhausted, and not a little hurt. There is damage we cannot reach. But I have seen worlds where men restore others at a mere touch." He glanced over at Asylum. "Can you do anything for her?"

In response to both of these posts: I think that having Fenna and Arranis seeking the remaining constabulary could be a cool idea. Right now, Eza, Asylum, and Eighth are in the commissary, and depending on @Stormlightsong's plans, this seems like a nice way of heightening stakes while giving characters some room to breathe. I vote to have one or both characters find the constables, then go hunting Asylum. Thank you for clarifying. That was my assumption, though hopefully we can get you back in play sooner rather than later. Thanks for taking that metaphorical bullet; the whole vampire fight scene feels really powerful for it. Awesome RP there.

Eighth of the Eve followed the black cat. Seiju huddled at his shoulder, eyes drooping. It had been a long day for her. Thankfully, she remained awake enough to guide his steps. The ground trembled every so often, accompanied with cries and shouts of pain echoing down the halls, but the Aviar kept his stride smooth. Eza curled up in his arms, breathing ragged and faint. She seemed to weight nothing in his arms. So slight, so frail. The cat was approaching the intersection. To the left, the cellblock door was flung open, flickering light spilling into the hall. Beyond there was escape. Beyond that bloodied hall was safety. As though hearing his thoughts, the cat stopped, turning its head to regard Eighth calmly. Its shadow followed suit a moment too late, spots of light seeming to pin Eighth in place. It flicked its tail, then meandered to the right. The shadow lingered, staring at Eighth, before following the small feline. Eighth ground his teeth, but turned as well. There was no point. It wasn't as though he could lift Eza out their small skylight. Well, not before pursuers caught up with them. This was their best chance. Her best chance. Her only chance. The cat strode serenely down the hall, almost delicately stepping over a few spots of blood, stopping before an open door. The smell of cooked food wafted out alongside blood and decay, and Eighth's stomach turned. The cat stepped through the door. And Eighth followed. He didn't know what he'd been expecting. But this was worse. Distant Father... Blood puddled around a corpse, prone on the floor. Unmoving, thankfully. Arranged about it were three circles of white powder. Salt? Besides them, three forms stood. And Eighth's heart all but froze in his chest. A bulbous, pestilent man stood, impossibly upright despite the ailments that visibly wracked his body. Eighth felt sick just looking at him. The mucus green of his eyes wavered in the light, like smoke above a fire. The yellow-eyed man was thin; painfully so. His clothes hung about a spindly frame, with skin wrapped tight about harsh, bony edges. Eighth licked his lips, his mouth suddenly bone-dry. And then... Oh Father. Oh, Patji. The man's eyes were completely red. Muscle swelled impossibly about his frame. Those eyes met his, and tore his eyes away. Horrible, terrible rage loomed in that body. It could hardly be human. And, of course, it. Skinwalker. Demon. Depthbringer. Asylum Smedry. The man stood over a withered husk, blood dripping from his hands and staining his suitcoat. It was almost entirely red now, so saturated as to appear black. That, however, paled in comparison to his eyes. Like pools of midnight, pierced by a the spots of abyss that were his pupils. His skin had smoothed over, teeth and nails pristinely white. Even that could not hide this monstrosity's nature. Eighth's eyes flicked to the shriveled mass of flesh at Asylum's feet. The shadowcat stretched, then padded over to its master, rubbing up against the man's ankles. Its eyes, however, remained on Eighth. Its shadow undulated unnaturally. Eighth of the Eve stood, Eza cradled in his arms. His back felt on fire. His face was a mask of stillness - trapper's impassivity flowed where emotion failed. "Asylum Smedry," Eighth said. His voice felt distant. "We have come, as your minion bade us. What are your demands?" @Stormlightsong @Lunamor