Eliasdagood
Golden ball of bloody cuteness
Cortova-Twilight Realm
Cortova watches Venkman and the dead woman, a solemn expression on her features. She wonders how many of her contracts ended up here, crying out for someone to finish what she or the swarm cut short.
As he speaks to her, she shakes herself from her thoughts, and forces a smile, giving a thumbs up. “She’s good! She and the swarm learn quickly, and she’s getting used to this.” She reports.
The Mad Queen The Omen of Death
Kiara-Latverivin
Kiara looks up at the ships, gritting her teeth. She doesn’t have anything prepared that has enough range and firepower to deal with those. She’ll have to hope someone else does. She draws her sword with a soft hiss, and quickly swipes her left pinkie finger along the edge of the blade, drawing blood.
She takes a breath, knowing someone will probably see this, and presses the wounded finger to a sigil on her collar. She stands, and stretches out her arms, as metal clicks and magic flares, her armor extending over her body, all the way to the helmet.
Said helmet hides most of her face, as is the style. Her hair is held inside the helmet, and she hopes that means no one will recognize her once this is over. She feels like her presence won’t be Welcome, so it’s better she remains a face in the crowd.
She idly wonders if this is how the godlings felt when her fellows went to seige Manhattan, but brushes away the distraction. She goes to her bag, pulling out the focuses for the spells she does have prepared, muttering to herself.
Cortova watches Venkman and the dead woman, a solemn expression on her features. She wonders how many of her contracts ended up here, crying out for someone to finish what she or the swarm cut short.
As he speaks to her, she shakes herself from her thoughts, and forces a smile, giving a thumbs up. “She’s good! She and the swarm learn quickly, and she’s getting used to this.” She reports.
The Mad Queen The Omen of Death
Kiara-Latverivin
Kiara looks up at the ships, gritting her teeth. She doesn’t have anything prepared that has enough range and firepower to deal with those. She’ll have to hope someone else does. She draws her sword with a soft hiss, and quickly swipes her left pinkie finger along the edge of the blade, drawing blood.
She takes a breath, knowing someone will probably see this, and presses the wounded finger to a sigil on her collar. She stands, and stretches out her arms, as metal clicks and magic flares, her armor extending over her body, all the way to the helmet.
Said helmet hides most of her face, as is the style. Her hair is held inside the helmet, and she hopes that means no one will recognize her once this is over. She feels like her presence won’t be Welcome, so it’s better she remains a face in the crowd.
She idly wonders if this is how the godlings felt when her fellows went to seige Manhattan, but brushes away the distraction. She goes to her bag, pulling out the focuses for the spells she does have prepared, muttering to herself.