Prefered Genres: Near anything and everything imagineable - save of course for Yaoi, Yuri, and incest.
Limits/ Won't Do: Aside from the three mentioned above it doesn't matter. I'll RP with anyone that can keep up whether they be twelve or twenty.
Online: Sparatic would be a good term. Work odd shifts thus weird playing patterns.
Other/Notes: I can and will RP mature settings (Not cybering mind you). Including but not limited to descriptive gore, language, and adult situations. That be said I am not simply limited to these as well. Younger people can also be accomidated as long as I know that I'm not to be so descriptive. //// Please do not take into consideration my previous posting or post count. Prior to my aquisition of this avitar the owner of this avi RPed this character seldom before she was hacked.
((--Note-- This is way longer than my usual style of posting. I was bored one night and wrote this out. Otherwise it may look something like the second example. Both RP samples were pulled from previously written works. If new ones are required I shall rewrite them.))
The roar of destruction, the din of chaos, the ultimate music of death and battle filling the air. Catapults hurling firey balls of fury streaked through the air, sailing over the amassed group of soldiers tangled in melee, to slam in a release of energy that sent gouts of firey earth racing sky ward to rain down upon the twins on the far edge of the field, who responded in kind with artillery barrages of their own. Too short a stone fell, ripping men and horses under it's fury, depositing shards of flaming stone through those unlucky enough to be caught around the impact site. Blood and death, arrows raining down atop of archers who returned the favor. Steel clashed against steel, iron weapons chipping under the strain. Metal buckled under the crushing force of battle hammers and morning stars, spikes ripping through the flesh while blades slashed crimson lines through armor. Death and destruction raining all around, and only the sound of blood pounding in her ears - her own carnage induced screams barely audiable against the battle's volume.
Adorning a suit of heavy metalic armor, blood sprayed across the entirey of her right arm, parts of her chest, and even face - her boots so clodded with blood and mud she didn't even count those- she waded in against a foe. A spear - a wicked weapon that boasted over a seven foot reach with an additional foot long steel cap with reach and kill to account for the finest swordsman in the world if put in the proper hands that from an adjecent warrior took her opposition through the throat from somewhere off to the right. With her opponent down she moved to the next, felt the pressure between her shoulder blades, and tried to turn away. Steel rent against her flesh as she was thrown from her feet, the sheer impact of the horseman's saber ripping her from the ground to plant face down in the bloodied mud. The gritty taste of mud, tangled with the stomach curning metalic taste of blood, as well as salty sweat flooded into her mouth as her face was pressed down into a full four inches of mud. Blind, chokeing, and desperate for air she placed her hands on either sides of her shoulders and pushed up, heaved with the strength ripped from a source unknown.
Without weapon she staggered to her feet, the chaos about her hardly registering as a swordsman turned to see her. The wicked curved horns, fanned out so each spike looked like the gently curving edges of feathers on a wing, adorning each side of her helm - the crimson cloak she had shed earlier in the fray would have also worked along with the image of a clenched fist etched into her armor above the right breast - marked her for what she was...an officer. They died first, it was a known fact. An officer dragged into combat was as good as dead for any opposing foe knew full well an officer dead was one less head on the beast to kill. Without leadership even the best trained army would crumble - and at worst turn bandit. Shifting her feet to the side she was bumped into by one of her own men, well a woman if heigth was any indication, who was dragged to the ground with another, both lashing out with swords, shields, feet, and fists. A brutal thing battle was, no time to worry about that!
As the opposition drew closer she stepped into him, a surprised look passing before his face - after all an unarmed opponent who almost never saw combat should have fled under an armed and trained adversary - as he brought the weapon down on her. Too slow was his attack! Prommel of the sword clanged into her armored shoulder while she tackled into his body - balance lost as she placed her shoulder into his abdomen and heaved up with everything she had. Fueled as she was, adrenaline pumping though her body, the shoulder gave a scream that was lost to the battle and landed face first into the muck. Bones cracked and darkness enveloped his vision, both she and he under foot. A boot stepped on the side of her armored head, iron rasped against steel as the warrior slipped and pain filled her thoughts. Eaten by the adrenaline the pain was, and she was movieng again. Rolling into the back heel of an enemy shoulder who tripped over her bulk. Corpses were as dangerous as a living warrior on the battle field, as a one time ally would trip you up as your foe decended on you.
Axe gripped in fist she rolled again to drop the iron edge against the warrior's knee. Rewarded with a gysering fountain of blood that sprayed her face, shoulder, chest, arms, and waist she dragged herself to her feet again. An embodiment of a nightmare she surged forward, dragging two warriors to the ground, hacking and slashing the entire way down. Brambles on a forest's floor parting before a woodsman's axe. Regaining her feet once more she hurled the axe into the back of a warrior, and cursed as she saw her emblem crumbling to the ground. Far too often a disorderly amass of soldiers such as this a friendly kill could occur. That certainly hadn't been her first.
Scooping up a saber, the corpse of a cavlier with a spear transfixed through his leg and three arrows in his chest lay not far away, she turned as a pair of horsemen whipped their mounts at a full gallop. That was the problem with horsemen, in her opinion! True they were a valuable asset, capable of covering distance far greater than foot, not to mention the sheer force of a horse behind your swing, as well as the heigth advantage - horses were always in short supply so any you brought back ment a bonus. But they were always the first to flee!! Which was a good thing for her, the green and black of their cons, standard colors attached to a tall pole that rose from the backs of their saddles where it would not get in the way. Not even, oh how long had she been in this fight? Minutes, hours? It felt like days. Regardless some time ago she'd aquired a mount and had to rip the damn con off - no easy task considering they were made with the saddles - least she risk being hit by her own people. With the horse retreating it was only a matter of time before the foot followed, and the archers. They'd leave the artillery, she was certain they were too -
As far as she got before a hulking monster of a man wielding axes in either hands decended on her. Hacking and slashing, parrying and riposting, she did everything in her power to keep those axes from her. She was injured, she could feel the blood drying on her back and arms cracking when she moved, but those would inflict more than injury. Death or dismemberment, and in a sorte` as large as this it would surely mean death as she'd bleed to death or infection would set in long before a suergon could get to her. Mindful of the corpses under foot she thrusted, slashed, and chopped at her advesary from every angle possible to her at that moment. And one by one they were knocked aside, this man's form near perfect! Those weren't weapons he salvaged from the field as her's was - her preference lay in the heavy weight of a b*****d sword - those were his and that ment he was a recent addition - her previous theory of them breaking was gone - or he was good enough to hang onto them despite everything. Well the ladder seemed appropriate as he was covered with just as much blood as she.
Chainmail rattled behind her, but no time to check. Pain lashed through the side of her head as she was hurled once more from her feet. Disorientated and dazed she moved without thinking, abandoning her weapon again to roll for her life! Only when she stood she didn't do it of her own accord, she was being dragged to her feet. Panic rose in her, she would not be put to the question! Women captured during battle were usually tied up between two steaks for anyone in camp to come up and do what they pleased to her body. She wouldn't! Fist lashed out, encased in steel as they were, found purchase and her assailer went down. Vision clearing she wrenched free of the other's grip long enough to reach out, grab him by the helm, and ram her own against it - which did nothing to help her pounding head. She turned just as three soldier's plowed into her, they were shouting something - she could hear the words but not distinguish what they ment. She could speak that language, she knew she could. Two from the side and one from the back, she landed funny on her shoulder and wind left her body.
"Namvena! Namvena! Stop it!" The voices were saying. She was Namvena, second lieutenant to the Black Boars...how did they know her name? She could feel them trying to hold her blind fury in check as she screamed, kicking and pounding at them with feet and fist. They were trying to restrain her! Some small part of her was telling her to stop, to calm down and be rational, but fear drove her harder. It wasn't until her body was too tired to fire anymore, hope draining from her form or maybe that was her blood, did she slacken her attack and her assailers - the number almost doubling from three to seven - back away. Laying on the ground panting, she could hardly breathe, she saw what she wished she had been seeing. The image of a massive black boar, arrows puncturing the beast's flanks, reering up and snarling at an invisible foe on a field of red. 'Even in the face of defeat keep fighting.' More than a simple motto it was who they were.
"Uhhh - huh?" Came her exhausted reply. "Wh-what?"
"They're breaking, Ma'am! Only scattered fighting of those who don't know yet. We've won! Haha!" One of the soldiers told her as a pair hoisted her to her feet - this time warry of her attack.
Men danced circles and cheered all around her, the adrenaline holding her body upright draining from her body. "Get me.." She muttered as the world spun, "Commander's...tent..." Words slurred her knees buckled. Half expecting to face plant the gooey ground again she was caught by half a dozen men, all clammoring loudly as she hurried her to the Commander's tent. The officer's had their own private doctors, men and women who were far better trained to handle injuries.
~~~~
Soft velvet slippers, not ment for the traveling being done in them though looking no more dirty than as if she had just stepped into them, drew a woman of thirty and two across the threshhold of the establishment's exterior. Standing at a, tall for a woman, six foot one inch with blonde hair cropped, save the single long braid that wound tightly down between her shoulder blades, and sparkling sapphire blue eyes that seemed to shine against the lighting cast from a small ball of blue hovering just over head. A modest cut dress of fine silk, blue as her eyes with white lace intricately spider webbing up to her chin, adorned her figure with cloth-of-gold spun into the fibers around the wrist, collar, and hem. Noble born, or atleast finacially secured, the woman exumed a radiance that spoke of commands listened too and anger barely in check. A blue fire danced behind her eyes that was all to eager to allow to the image of a firey temper that scortched all in it's path. "What is this?" She mused to herself as she paused just shy of the enterance and spied the creature upon the doorstep, and the woman within the frame.
Hard on the woman's heel was a man garbed and cloaked as if he were the shadows themselves. A black tunic and breeches, cloak and cowl hanging motionless despite the breeze that stirred the hem of the woman's dress and hair. Black boots with slightly pointed toes, made as if for riding, and a black belt to cinch around the waist, holding a pair of blades within the confines of twin black sheeths. A hand held up by the woman stayed the man from progressing forward, his deadly grace of foot making him out to be a fighter more so than the blades he wore on his person. A wolf he seemed, a black wolf of the night, dancing attendance on a house cat, though from the way he defered to the woman it was hard to imagine such a warrior in check by simply beauty alone, despite the faint lines of gray in the woman's hair she still possessed more than her fair share of beauty.
