Patrollogs
(An arcane battle)
[Sun Oct 20 2024]
In a lavishly-appointed master bedroom
The cloudy-blue walls of this room coupled with gentle mahogany accents give it a cozy, inviting feel. The bedroom is kept comfortable and well-appointed with a luxurious king-sized mattress flanked by an elegantly hand-crafted nightstand. Across from the bed, a sleek dresser and walk-in wardrobe provide ample room for outfits.
A vaulted skylight in the textured ceiling's center bathes all below in a gentle wash of changing light, warming through the cozy, muted palettes arranged throughout the decor. Artificial lighting design shines too, pulled together with ultra-modern shades and fixtures. From heat to light to sound, there's nothing in the room that can't be adjusted at the press of a remote, app, or the touchscreen on the wall.
It is about 50F(10C) degrees.
Squinting as he feels the insidious magic slip its fingers in his ears and tickle his brain, Nikolai runs his own hands over his head and face, as if to scrub it all away.
"Pizdec," he swears, looking around. "What is this? You - /Roger/ - did you do this? I will break you over my knee."
It's a confusing time, that's for sure, but as @me feels the presence of the other person, he reaches deep within himself, drawing out a portion of his very lifeforce and flinging it back across the township.
"Leave me alone!" Roger calls out, cowering away from the strange connection as he darts into an alley, looking for sanctuary or protection.
"Idi nahui!" Nikolai scowls. He's not himself a mage, so this sort of thing is nothing he's very fluent in. He does know that rituals all involve a lot of blood, though - so he stumbles out of bed to rifle through his bedside table. Well... perhaps not rifle. The Russian is a man of consummate order, and all his things are exactly where he has assigned them, bar the atrocities of his bedmate. Thankfully, she hasn't got inside his stuff, so the knife's actually just one drawer-pull away, and he brings the blade up to his palm with a grunt - then rips it across his palm to produce only the thinnest of cuts, dribbling blood onto the carpet.
That's what he looks most pissed about. His poor carpet.
"Fuck off," he yells in return, brandishing a bloodied fist at... nothing, really, but pouring the essence of his divine claret into whatever contest of will this is.
It's unnerving in a way, this connection. Roger can feel and see Nikolai in ways he'd never experienced before. The pulse of the Russian's bloody return knocks him backwards, and nearly off of his feet, crashing into a dumpster that he clings onto like it were a liferaft in a storm, "Someone help!" The Order member does what they do best, and calls out for help.
Then he's following the example that the more experienced man has given, and reaches out to pluck out a knife. He draws it against his palm, hissing as the blade cuts through sensitive skin. Why the palm? Of course that would hurt. He throws his hand up then in response, not as a fist, but an open palm. A protective gesture, "Gods above, please!"
Clenching his fist until his knuckles go white, Nikolai squeezes out a couple more drops of blood before the thin laceration seals itself, his regeneration working against him.
"This should be more than enough," he grunts, opening his hand and exposing his stained palm to the air. "Feast on it. I do not lose. A drop of my blood is worth an ocean of theirs."
Nikolai suddenly siezes up, his back going completly rigid and arching painfully as a stream of faintly glowing red energy flows out of his mouth and disappears into the air.
All the nearby lights flicker and die for a second before a stream of faintly glowing red energy coalesces out of the air and flows into a small gem in Roger's hand.
An Arcane Battle 241021
(An arcane battle)
[Sun Oct 20 2024]
In a lavishly-appointed master bedroom
The cloudy-blue walls of this room coupled with gentle mahogany accents give it a cozy, inviting feel. The bedroom is kept comfortable and well-appointed with a luxurious king-sized mattress flanked by an elegantly hand-crafted nightstand. Across from the bed, a sleek dresser and walk-in wardrobe provide ample room for outfits.
A vaulted skylight in the textured ceiling's center bathes all below in a gentle wash of changing light, warming through the cozy, muted palettes arranged throughout the decor. Artificial lighting design shines too, pulled together with ultra-modern shades and fixtures. From heat to light to sound, there's nothing in the room that can't be adjusted at the press of a remote, app, or the touchscreen on the wall.
It is about 50F(10C) degrees.
Squinting as he feels the insidious magic slip its fingers in his ears and tickle his brain, Nikolai runs his own hands over his head and face, as if to scrub it all away.
"Pizdec," he swears, looking around. "What is this? You - /Roger/ - did you do this? I will break you over my knee."
It's a confusing time, that's for sure, but as @me feels the presence of the other person, he reaches deep within himself, drawing out a portion of his very lifeforce and flinging it back across the township.
"Leave me alone!" Roger calls out, cowering away from the strange connection as he darts into an alley, looking for sanctuary or protection.
"Idi nahui!" Nikolai scowls. He's not himself a mage, so this sort of thing is nothing he's very fluent in. He does know that rituals all involve a lot of blood, though - so he stumbles out of bed to rifle through his bedside table. Well... perhaps not rifle. The Russian is a man of consummate order, and all his things are exactly where he has assigned them, bar the atrocities of his bedmate. Thankfully, she hasn't got inside his stuff, so the knife's actually just one drawer-pull away, and he brings the blade up to his palm with a grunt - then rips it across his palm to produce only the thinnest of cuts, dribbling blood onto the carpet.
That's what he looks most pissed about. His poor carpet.
"Fuck off," he yells in return, brandishing a bloodied fist at... nothing, really, but pouring the essence of his divine claret into whatever contest of will this is.
It's unnerving in a way, this connection. Roger can feel and see Nikolai in ways he'd never experienced before. The pulse of the Russian's bloody return knocks him backwards, and nearly off of his feet, crashing into a dumpster that he clings onto like it were a liferaft in a storm, "Someone help!" The Order member does what they do best, and calls out for help.
Then he's following the example that the more experienced man has given, and reaches out to pluck out a knife. He draws it against his palm, hissing as the blade cuts through sensitive skin. Why the palm? Of course that would hurt. He throws his hand up then in response, not as a fist, but an open palm. A protective gesture, "Gods above, please!"
Clenching his fist until his knuckles go white, Nikolai squeezes out a couple more drops of blood before the thin laceration seals itself, his regeneration working against him.
"This should be more than enough," he grunts, opening his hand and exposing his stained palm to the air. "Feast on it. I do not lose. A drop of my blood is worth an ocean of theirs."
Nikolai suddenly siezes up, his back going completly rigid and arching painfully as a stream of faintly glowing red energy flows out of his mouth and disappears into the air.
All the nearby lights flicker and die for a second before a stream of faintly glowing red energy coalesces out of the air and flows into a small gem in Roger's hand.