-The Mythics RP-

[RDchicken99]

Ember paced restless up and down the cobbled boardwalk that edged the docks.
The place was disgusting. Ships and planks and railings crowded with filthy sea birds, each one as dangerously brave as they were generously messy. Half the boats were unkempt or looked deserted altogether, a few barely even sea-worthy. Sailors occupied nearly every pier and strip of dock, unloading and loading ships, organizing supplies, cursing at the birds.
Ember watched it all warily.
Over the past hour or so, she'd narrowed down her options to three ships. The fastest or the cleanest, the smaller and lighter, less busy ones. Less troublesome ones.
All she had to do now was figure out which one was willing to go her way.
There was a low-hulled cargo ship, dull and basic, but clean and organized. Probably interwoven with the king's shipping management, but it had a calm and quiet aura to it.
A private owned shipping boat, painted a mellow, boring shade of light blue. Only one old sailor had been tending to its cargo and sails, slowly hobbling up and down the small boarding plank, the clunking of his peg leg easy to distinguish.
The third ship was a frigate- a gorgeous glossy black with pristine highlights that seemed to glow in the gloomy morning mist. It was without a crew, deserted of all except, of course, the gulls. A lone sailor stood gazing up at the sleek vessel, pressing back her matching crow-black hair.
Ember leaned back against the wood building behind her, arm folded tightly over her chest as she watched, motionless, the organized chaos of the docks proceed.

@RDchicken99 (idk if you can find a way to tie this in, 'cause I'm having trouble linking it)

(This was so fun to read, I’m having a blast watching this world get fleshed out!)

Often, Vhanya’s sixth sense let her down. She had her race to blame, the Aqra’s relied more on their quick wits and even quicker striking tails to keep them alive than some supernatural sense, but she couldn’t help but curse its unpredictable nature.
Yet now, even through the thick morning gloom that dampened one’s perception, she could tell she was being watched.

She bit her lip, trying to decide what to do. Her flintlock pistol was tucked, concealed, through her belt, but as a precaution, she very slowly slid her tail out from her trousers. Her greatcoat was long enough to hide it, and masked her movements.

She shifted her stance so she could look out of the corner of her eye; it took her a minute or two, but she soon saw a cloaked figure, standing suspiciously idle by a fishing hut. Her sense prickled, if but a little.
A Mythic, that one, and it’s obvious they’ve got their eye on me.

She decided on confrontation, as usual. Spinning on her heels, she began picking her way through the sailors and dock workers towards the cloaked figure. She didn’t bother with being subtle, she wanted the watcher to notice her approach.

 

[Isabella7Storm5]

Galen wiped his brow and pulled off his gloves, slapping them down onto the table beside him. If all had gone well, his little project was finished. He'd lengthened the blade and added weight to the handle. The buyer would be pleased. It now lay beside the gloves waiting to be tested.
He absentmindedly examined his claws, long and sharp, they glinted in the firelight to which his attention was now drawn. The dying flames flickered slightly, red and orange casting strange shadows on the walls. After rousing himself from his trance, he splashed a bucket of water over the fire and tossed his cloak onto a peg on the wall.
Dusk had fallen and night was when the Harpies could truly come out, less likely to be seen, they were free to fly just about wherever they chose.
He swung the door open and after closing it behind him, strode to the cliff's edge and looked down at the foaming sea far below, and then, nonchalantly, he stepped off.

 

[-Shade-]

(This was so fun to read, I’m having a blast watching this world get fleshed out!)

Often, Vhanya’s sixth sense let her down. She had her race to blame, the Aqra’s relied more on their quick wits and even quicker striking tails to keep them alive than some supernatural sense, but she couldn’t help but curse its unpredictable nature.
Yet now, even through the thick morning gloom that dampened one’s perception, she could tell she was being watched.

She bit her lip, trying to decide what to do. Her flintlock pistol was tucked, concealed, through her belt, but as a precaution, she very slowly slid her tail out from her trousers. Her greatcoat was long enough to hide it, and masked her movements.

She shifted her stance so she could look out of the corner of her eye; it took her a minute or two, but she soon saw a cloaked figure, standing suspiciously idle by a fishing hut. Her sense prickled, if but a little.
A Mythic, that one, and it’s obvious they’ve got their eye on me.

She decided on confrontation, as usual. Spinning on her heels, she began picking her way through the sailors and dock workers towards the cloaked figure. She didn’t bother with being subtle, she wanted the watcher to notice her approach.

"Feh. Predictable."
The sailor was a Mythic. Ember could feel the voiceless sense of familiarity in the creature's presence, writhing through the air between them, tugging at the depth of her mind. Strengthening and clearing as the tense woman approached, sweeping her way down the busy dock.
The Harpy nonchalantly tugged off a leather glove, pulling the small, claw-tipped hand beneath the shade of her cloak as she repositioned against the wall, slouching to let the hood fall further across her face. Several ribbons of glossy black hair slid and dropped past her temples as she carefully inspected her claws.
If this Mythic was the one who owned the frigate, the Quicksilver, so the name read, she might be of use yet. But that depended on how fate flowed in the next five minutes or so.
Pirates weren't the only ones quick with a draw.

@RDchicken99

 

[Blue Raptor]

(This was so fun to read, I’m having a blast watching this world get fleshed out!)

Often, Vhanya’s sixth sense let her down. She had her race to blame, the Aqra’s relied more on their quick wits and even quicker striking tails to keep them alive than some supernatural sense, but she couldn’t help but curse its unpredictable nature.
Yet now, even through the thick morning gloom that dampened one’s perception, she could tell she was being watched.

She bit her lip, trying to decide what to do. Her flintlock pistol was tucked, concealed, through her belt, but as a precaution, she very slowly slid her tail out from her trousers. Her greatcoat was long enough to hide it, and masked her movements.

She shifted her stance so she could look out of the corner of her eye; it took her a minute or two, but she soon saw a cloaked figure, standing suspiciously idle by a fishing hut. Her sense prickled, if but a little.
A Mythic, that one, and it’s obvious they’ve got their eye on me.

She decided on confrontation, as usual. Spinning on her heels, she began picking her way through the sailors and dock workers towards the cloaked figure. She didn’t bother with being subtle, she wanted the watcher to notice her approach.

Ehheeehhehee this is so COOL.

 

[-Kiwi-]

Alayna scrubbed on in silence for a moment, running what Wilroc had said through her thought process.
“The soldiers on either side of this ridiculous war would mirror the beliefs they project, right?” She said absently, pulling herself up straight and gazing around the room with half-focused eyes as she thought. “I mean, yeah, I know either side would.. do that,” her gaze hardened,” but I’m not looking to wage war with the whole world right now. Just half of it. Or a third of it, technically.” She waved a hand dismissively towards the west wall of the bakery. “Whatever. I just don’t know how to find out who it was. We’re close enough to Freedman that it could be any number of the king’s supporters, or just some soldier from down South.” Layna sighed.
“You can try heading down towards the Rebel base to see if you can figure out anything,” she said, leaning on the mop handle as she looked over at Will. “And I can send someone up North to check around there. I know it’s not safe, but I trust you. And I can’t go anywhere myself until we have solid information cause someone might need my help.”

"You're right. Process of elimination." he gazed up at the roof. "Yeah. I can do that."

Wilroc paced to the window that faced the street, leaning his elbows down on the sill so he could peer outside. “Tonight?” he asked.

@Blue Raptor

 

[Isabella7Storm5]

Form
Name: Raven...his real name, you may never know
Gender: Male
Age: 25
Species: Harpy
Physical Appearance: 6ft and on the muscular side, he has a scarred face and arms though he usually covers the bottom half of his face with a black cloth. No wings, the only trace of wings being two cauterized and scarred stumps on his back. he only wears dark blue and black usually with some sort of cloak. Black hair.
Personality: Silent and composed, ruthless cold, strict, to the point.
Backstory (optional): Captured by pirates at a young age, he was tortured and de-winged (a cruel practice to ensure complete control over an otherwise very valuable asset to any crew) But escaped by killing the entire crew in their sleep and jumping ship at Pirates Cove. He now lives in hatred towards humans and harpies alike, hating one for his enslavement and one for the freedom they possess. He is loyal to no one but the highest payer and hunts Harpies down to sell their large feathers which are used in clothing for royalty or just the very wealthy. He has ways of seemingly melting into the shadows and is skilled in combat as one would have to be to survive his "profession"
(too dark? i can dilute it if needed)

 

[-Shade-]

Form
Name: Raven...his real name, you may never know
Gender: Male
Age: 25
Species: Harpy
Physical Appearance: 6ft and on the muscular side, he has a scarred face and arms though he usually covers the bottom half of his face with a black cloth. No wings, the only trace of wings being two cauterized and scarred stumps on his back. he only wears dark blue and black usually with some sort of cloak. Black hair.
Personality: Silent and composed, ruthless cold, strict, to the point.
Backstory (optional): Captured by pirates at a young age, he was tortured and de-winged (a cruel practice to ensure complete control over an otherwise very valuable asset to any crew) But escaped by killing the entire crew in their sleep and jumping ship at Pirates Cove. He now lives in hatred towards humans and harpies alike, hating one for his enslavement and one for the freedom they possess. He is loyal to no one but the highest payer and hunts Harpies down to sell their large feathers which are used in clothing for royalty or just the very wealthy. He has ways of seemingly melting into the shadows and is skilled in combat as one would have to be to survive his "profession"
(too dark? i can dilute it if needed)

Wdym "too dark"? Have you READ oFaF XD

 

[Isabella7Storm5]

Wdym "too dark"? Have you READ oFaF XD

nnnope, ok good lol

 

[_-Captain BRM-_]

I stopped getting notifs

 

[_-Captain BRM-_]

(More Tay action, but don't feel obligated to read because... I know, it's a lot )

The rain fell harder and poured thick at every step. Her skin buzzed, numb and unfeeling, and mud stained up to her thighs. She slowed through the street, her boots sloshing and squishing in the frosty rain. The child lay still beneath her shirt, warm against her torso, and unmoving.
Tavern lights shone with dim glow and cast no light out onto the street. She ducked back into the alleyway and dragged her fingers across the wall until she found the lip of the door frame, then rapped her knuckles across the coarse wood, and sighed as pain rose in her hand.
For some time she stood in the worst of the rain, head down, leaning against the door, knocking. When the door gave, she half fell into the room, caught in the thick arms of a blotchy, white skinned man, whose dark eyes glanced back to be certain they were alone. He shut the door with his heel, then pushed the young women towards the hearth, frowning at the mud and water tracked in.
“Don't care to know,” he grunted, leaning close to her ear as he removed the heavy coat from her broad shoulders. “Not right now, anyway. It's rush hour. Plan more wisely, Tay, I shouldn't have need to warn you again, girl.”
“It's pouring,” she murmured, kneeling over the fire.
“Makes no difference to them.” He said, and he walked to the alley door and twisted the rusted brass lock.
“Get out, I have to change.”
He scoffed and crossed the room. “Come out here when you're ready.”
“What?”
He repeated the command and her eyes rolled.
“I want to sleep.”
“I want your help, mate, they won't leave soon due to that blasted rain. You have, eyy, near an hour.”
“Get out, Lanec.”
“Aye,” he chuckled, opening the feeble kitchen door. “Don't let those clothes sit wet in a scared corner for me, girl, you best ring and hang them on your own, now.”
“Okay,” she said, but again she did not hear him. Her eyes stared into the enticing fire. Lanec only teased because he couldn't often get away with such remarks on a usual day. Everyone knew him as Bartender, and she knew him as Lanec.
The kitchen door shut and she slumped against the wall, freeing the child from the grip of her wet clothing. It shivered, but remained quiet, too exhausted to cry.
“Good,” she said, setting the child down as she pulled off her wet overshirt. The toddler’s composition melted and it reached for her. “Oh, dear goodness.” She muttered, unobliging. “Dear goodness.”
She heard the kitchen door open, and she threw the shirt down over the child.
Lanec bustled in keeping his eyes low. “Sorry, sorry, just a minute,”
She didn't care. She stared at the fire and felt his footsteps vibrate through the worn wooden floor. The child stirred beneath her wet shirt and she reached a tentative hand toward the creature.
“Where's the money purse?”
“In my coat.”
“It's not.”
She took it from her pocket and threw it at him, still staring at the fire.
“Thank you,” he said in a soft tone, forcing her to strain her hearing in order to grasp the words. He began to cross the room. She stared at the fire. Her shirt stirred.
A wail sounded and she straightened, pulling the child across the ground and into her lap.
“What?”
“Get out, Lanec,” she said, but she heard him approach. She turned round and shook her soaked head. “Get out, get out, get out.”
He bent and pushed his stubby fingers against her soping hair, then pulled her close so that his mouth touched her ear, “Children make sounds, Tay. Always make sounds. I heard it the moment you came in.”
“Oh.”
“Jah. You can't keep it, and don't give it a sacred name.”
“Go tend a bar or something.”
“Aye. Where did you find it?”
“You said you didn't care to know.”
“Aye. Where did you find it, girl?”
“I don't know. A few blocks west of the marina. I walked in on a scene out of Hell and I couldn't leave.”
Still holding her head, Lanec reached down and pulled away the shirt. The child was small, and its limbs were lean, but its belly was full. Thin blonde hair blended with its pale white skin, and the toddler's blue eyes had dulled with exhaustion. “We'll talk later,” he said, and his hand slid down her neck, then dropped to his side. “You did well. Keep it quiet.” He stood as she nodded, then wiped his hands across his thighs. “You don't have to come out tonight.”
“It's alright. I'll get it to sleep, then I'll come help you. It's my aunt Jane’s birthday and she's on a dinner date with her man, so I have the kid for a night.”
His brow arched and he dipped his head, walking back to the kitchen door. “Something like that. Though I expect no woman to trust you with their child, my girl.”
She turned to the fire. “Rightfully so, perhaps.”
“Aye.” He grunted, filling the doorway as he re-entered the kitchen.
She looked down at the toddler and answered his reaching arms. “Already moved on, have we?” The remark fell flat, and she sat the child on her thigh, body facing the warmth of the fire.


(I don't know where this is going, but I love it.)