#sometimes i just vomit pages of uninteresting words for no reason

[ambistep]

Rangers & Regenes, pt. 2

(this is stupid long and mega indulgent, everybody is out of character im certain, engage at your own peril. highly non-canon. Part 1)

“Barolthien unveils the dazzlingly radiant cthon-crystal, the prize you claimed from the storm-dragon’s hoard - and turns it over to the Elf Prince. The Elf Prince smiles and takes it gratefully.”

“‘Thank you, heroes, I’ve everything I need to complete the ritual.’”

Daniel cuts in, “Wait, I thought we were trying to stop the ritual.”

“I knew it,” Julia clicks her tongue.

“You did not!” You huff.

“I so did, this always happens.” 

She isn’t wrong. So what? “Anyway. The Elf Prince clasps the cthon-crystal in his hand and the illusion magic falls away - the green and flowering courtyard of the palace is replaced by a smoldering and burnt ruin. The Elf Prince’s form gives way to gleaming obsidian armour and with gold filigree, and the familiar visor of the Ebon Champion of Vak’Tsaroth.”

“Ricardo is not impressed, he’s got his axe ready,” Julia leans forward, nudging Daniel. 

Argent reclines on the couch, mostly watching the television, but occasionally calling over, as now, “Did we get betrayed by the elf guy?”

Daniel puts his hands on his head, “He was an illusion.”

“‘He crushes the cthon-crystal and completes the ritual with the power released, growing in size and obvious power until he towers over even the mighty Ricardo. ‘I owe a great debt to you so-called heroes! I could not have come this far without your unwitting aid but I’ve not the patience for you any longer.  Before the lunar eclipse and my impending apotheosis, I intend to rectify the insult you paid me in Wickhamshire. I will bathe this courtyard with your blood, a sacrifice to my godhead. When my wrath is sated, and I’ve seized my place in the Heavens, I will remake this world, and set right it’s many inequities - maybe I shall spare one of you as witness, so that when all is done, you may finally realize how wrong you were to oppose me.’” 

Ortega raises her hands in surrender, “Ay, alright - enough with the monologue! I get enough of that on the job - that’s not even the corniest one I’ve heard this week.”

You take the jab as a compliment, “Well, I have been practicing a lot lately.”

At that, Argent, sitting over on the couch, almost chokes on her donut, snickering. Ortega looks over toward her, then back at you, “What does that mean?”

“Nothing, Ortega, Jesus.” Angela waves it off, “Whatever, I’m doing a power attack.”

You sigh, “We’re not in combat yet.” Grabbing the handful of player dice, you tumble them over, check the numbers, “Rolling initiative and… okay, fine, Aurum, you’re up.”

She’s back watching her movie, “I’m doing a power attack!”

“Alright, hold on. ‘Aurum is faster than the Ebon Champion, and her ki strikes land true, but the sacred armor of his fel god holds fast, bristling with new magics and protections.’ You hit, but he’s only taking four damage.” You’re rewarded with a sarcastic, silvery middle finger. 

“And the Champion takes his turn, attacking Aurum - she’s in range and just power attacked so…” A tumble of the dice, “He hits, ‘The Champion’s greatsword is swifter than ever, and bites hard on the monk’s exposed flank, tearing open a ragged gash,’ and Aurum is down to 3 HP.”

She puts down her donut, “What? That’s bullshit! I took that Iron Skin thing.”

You get to be a little smug - it’s more fun when she gets irritated, “That’s like one damage resistance.”

“That’s stupid. Shouldn’t call it *Iron* Skin then.”

Maybe she has a point. At any rate, have to keep the combat moving, “Ricardo, you’re up.”

Julia looks up from chatting with Herald, then stands up, “Alright, I’m gonna wrestle him.”

“You mean grapple?”

“Yeah, I’m gonna grapple the Ebon Champion.”

You remind her, “He’s like twice as tall as you, and super strong right now. He’s all hopped up on crystal magic.” Daniel starts to look a little concerned.

“I don’t care, Mina, Ricardo’s no fucking coward, we’re wrestling.”

“Fine, fine,” you know there’s no stopping her, so you roll the dice, “A failure, ‘Ricardo the Barbarian is easily overpowered by the towering black knight, his armor crackling with sorcery that augments his strength.’”

Julia scratches the back of her neck and shrugs a little, seemingly satisfied. 

“Alright, Blackhawk’s next and since he’s not here-”

“Hold up, Mina,” Ortega reaches over the conference table, pushing a button on the intercom.

A voice over the speaker, “Steel here - go ahead, HQ.” 

“Chen!”

“Ortega, this -” He pauses and you can hear his suit adjusting as he moves about, “This better be important, I told you I’m helping the Guardians with Alvarez’s security detail.” 

Julia leans back in her chair, hands folded behind her head, “It’s absolutely important, it’s your turn, we’re in combat - so what’s Blackhawk doing?” Poking at Chen like this, Ortega lives for it, You can’t help but enjoy it too.

“Ortega, this is an emergency public safety channel. I told you I was going to be busy - Clarity could show up any moment.” 

Argent locks eyes with you, flashing a wry, toothy grin. You shrink in your seat and make yourself small. You’re a little proud though - Chen maybe sounded worried. A little bit.

“I’m sure you’ve got it under control, Marshall,” Ortega circles around the conversation, “Back to the matter at hand.”

Steel is quiet for a moment - you can tell he’s relocating again. Finding somewhere more isolated to talk? “Fine. What’s the situation?”

“We’re fighting the Ebon Champion.”

“I thought he was dead.”

“No, no, he got the crystal and he’s big now.”

“You let him have the crystal?” The channel goes quiet, and when Steel keys back up, he’s whispering, “I have to go talk to Alvarez. Just, I don’t know, cast Blessing or something.”

Ortega cuts the intercom and sits back in her chair, gesturing to you. You shrug, settling back in, “Alright, Blackhawk invokes Blessing of the Grove, you all get +1 to checks, saves and threats. Barolthien’s up.”

Daniel has his folder open and is looking over his character sheet, and checking the tables he’s printed. “A-alright. I’m advancing to melee range, and I’m… I’m going to swiftcast Acid Touch.”

“Barolthien’s getting up close with him?” You look for confirmation.

He looks to Ortega for reassurance. She shoots him finger guns and feigns innocence when you start eyeing her suspiciously. Daniel nods.

“Alright, that’s a touch attack,” a quick roll, “And that’s a 14, a miss.”

There’s a cough, Ortega interjecting. “No, it’s not.” 

“What? Why not? That’s only a 14.”

Julia leans forward over the conference table, grinning like the cat who ate the canary, “Yeah, but your guy is flat-footed.”

Here it comes. You grimace, “Why would he be flat-footed?”

“He was grappling.”

“You failed to grapple him, remember?”

“Doesn’t matter, he was still grappling.”

Your eyes flit to the left, then the right, trying to remember, “That can’t be right.”

Daniel watches the two of you with anticipation, following the back and forth. Argent yawns, flopping to her side on the sofa, even as Ortega pulls up a PDF on the conference table projector, “It’s in the book. See.”

It is. Heck. You slump in your seat. “I can’t believe someone else actually read the book. You’re right, it hits - the armor is magic and gets a save and...” Daniel watches you expectantly, waiting for the resolution, “...fails. ‘Barolthien’s caustic magics -somehow- eat the Ebon Champion’s blessed armor, corroding and consuming, leaving a hissing green haze. He howls in rage.’”

Daniel breathes a sigh of relief, jostled by Ortega’s slap on the back. “Aurum’s tur-”

She doesn’t even look up this time, talking around a chocolate-covered pretzel, “I’m doing a power attack.”

“Should have guessed.” You roll the dice for her and… of course, “he’s flat-footed until his next turn, and he has no armor, so that’s a hit and… And because of the Blessing of the Grove - nice work, Chen - that’s a crit.”

Ortega, smug as ever, points out, “Don’t forget, she’s got Savage Critical too.”

You grimace, “So Aurum does triple damage on the armorless, flat-footed Ebon Champion and… he’s down.” Stupid Rangers. Stupid Ortega. “‘Aurum’s blows strike true, with improbable force and - you get the idea, he’s down.”

Argent passes by you on her way to get more snacks, mumbling, “I want his sword.”

“He’s not dead yet, he’s just down.” You clear your throat, “The Ebon Champion sputters and coughs in repose, ‘This is not the end, you think you’ve won this day - but the ritual is complete, and the eclipse still nigh. Know then tha-’”

“In repose? He’s laying down?” Argent cuts you off, standing over your shoulder with a bowl of more chocolate pretzels and M&Ms. She holds it out for you - and the sustenance is appreciated. Maybe the chocolate will stave off this migraine.

“Yeah, I… I guess.” 

“I coup de grace him.”

“What? Now?”

“Yeah, I coup de grace him, fuck him.”

You put your face in your hands, “How do you even know that’s a thing?”

Argent shrugs, “Ortega told me.” Of course she did. Julia laughs into her hand, relishing in your torment.

“‘Aurum executes the Ebon Champion with her bare hands, I guess-’”

“I take his sword.”

“You’re a monk.”

“I take his sword.”

“‘She takes his sword. A blood red moon passes in front of the sun, casting the palace grounds into darkness. You get the feeling that the Ebon Champion was probably going to say something important, and that this isn’t over, but maybe it is. Who can say for sure? Not me, I’m done.’”

You take the opportunity to stuff a few pretzels in your mouth and fold up your screen, stretching. Julia stands up at her seat, putting a hand over her heart, narrating, “Ricardo strokes his mustache thoughtfully, proud of his companions and the teamwork they displayed. He totally hopes they learned some important lesson about working together tactically, so that Blackhawk doesn’t think this was a total waste of time.”

Herald throws his hands up in celebration. Argent mumbles, “Whatever.”

There’s a migraine coming on, and sure, the Rangers got their man, but… well, maybe it was a little fun. “Next week?”

Ortega shakes her head, “Mission next week.” Good to know - thank you, Ortega. “Two weeks.” Two weeks it is then.

[runway-rpg-blog1]

Skeleton Title: Chanel

Character Name: Mei Cheng

Faceclaim: Lucy Liu

Age: 40

Pronouns: She/her

Biography:

You’re dying.

If Mei were to begin the story of her life, she’d start there. A doctor’s appointment, a nurse’s grim expression, a hand reaching down to hold the tips of her fingertips before she pulled it away. In her younger days, Mei had been an open book. She’d cried freely, openly, before she’d gotten into the fashion industry. The nurse didn’t see her cry.

Huntington’s disease is a genetic disorder, her nurse had started, presumably because the doctor had been called away to another emergency. It affects about 30,000 people in the U.S… affects movement and speaking capabilities… usually starts progressing when people are in their forties…

She hadn’t been paying close attention after that, mostly because the blood had rushed so harshly to her ears that she couldn’t hear anything. To be precise, she was thirty-nine years old, about to be married--married--living a life of unfortunate happiness. She was in the prime of her career. About to be promoted to editor-in-chief. It was no wonder Kendra had noticed such changes in Mei’s mood, the nurse continued, since the first symptoms of the disease were depression and personality changes. In a quiet voice, the nurse had asked if she had any children and if she should alert them. Kendra’s jaw set. Mei shook her head no.

A few weeks earlier, she laid in bed for several hours as Kendra tried, in vain, to get her dressed to go to work. She wouldn’t move. A few days earlier, Mei snapped and threw a few of her engraved plates onto the tile floor, shattering them instantly. A few months earlier, Kendra had proposed, right on the front steps of the restaurant they’d had their first date.

Their love had been slow and steady. They’d lived together for eight years, roughly, just when Mei’s career began taking off. Kendra led a hectic life, too; she was a senior attorney in a Manhattan law firm. Mei still remembered the sound of her voice when she breathed her name on their bed. She remembered the sound of her voice when she was angry, especially following the diagnosis. Kendra’s apathetic expression when she’d told Mei she was done, that she couldn’t stick around and watch Mei die. There was no wedding, just Kendra’s boxes loaded into a U-Haul, ironically leaving Mei behind forever.

Mei had forced herself to block it out. She could understand Kendra’s reasoning, on some level. Kendra wasn’t meant to watch her wife die as a caretaker, a gravedigger. She deserved better.  

Now Mei has to bear it alone. Sometimes she can feel the time tick away, like the second hand of a clock, every time her hand shakes or she says a word wrong. If only she could turn it back.

If only she could turn it back to her twenties, fresh out of Vanderbilt business school, smile bright and hair shiny. She had so much time. She’d juggled a Vogue internship in her senior year and was offered a position at Runway in the spring. It was just in the finance department--she struggled to get ahead, get into the right meetings and meet the right people. It had seemed so hard, before she was dying.

If only she could turn it back to her high school days, when she had all the direction and all the future in the world. Her mother had died when she was fifteen, but Mei had pushed through it, shoved it down so thoroughly and heartlessly that sometimes she wondered if she’d ever even had a mother. Death was not on the agenda when she was fifteen, not when she had so much to do with her life.

If only she could turn it back to the day her parents had first met--her father, a Chinese immigrant, working as a waiter at a restaurant across the street from her office; her mother, a successful executive. Mei was told he’d watch her order her favorite soup every day at their front counter, dreaming of the day when they might finally speak. Late one night, Mei’s mother came in to chat with him about her day--a botched deal with one of the biggest shoe factory owners in the United States. She became a regular late-night visitor. Always came in after the sign on the door clearly read closed. Mei had been told they married two months later.

Maybe if they hadn’t met, Mei wouldn’t have been born. Maybe her mother wouldn’t have had an aneurysm at thirty-five, before she’d started showing symptoms of Huntington’s disease. Maybe Mei wouldn’t be lying in an ambulance after a botched suicide attempt because life had seemed so pointless with a diagnosis like that. Mei wouldn’t be swirling wine around in a glass, flipping through the pages of the Book and trying to focus on anything but the ticking time bomb inside her brain. Mei wouldn’t be sitting in her office, squeezing her hand into a fist and then releasing it, wondering when she wouldn’t be able to do that anymore.

It changed her. Before, they called her the Captain--strong-willed, supportive, unyielding. She wasn’t sure what they called her anymore. She could feel herself growing colder, harsher, easier to dismiss. Now, they fear her. Now they avoid looking at her in the eye, too terrified of the consequences of her next furious outburst.  

Sometimes interns would enter her office, hearing the name Mei and thinking she must be soft and sweet, because a name like that is soft and sweet, only to find out Mei has never been either of those things. Her brain function might be degenerating, but her job is what she has left, and her brain sharp while she has the time. Even through the company makeover, the remodel, she persisted.

She’s going to run the magazine the way it needs to be run, before she finally dies for good.

Interview

What do you want most in life?

“What do I want most?” Mei asked. She knew what she actually wanted, and it was life, for forty or fifty more years. Life with her true love, life with her job, life with everything she’d ever wanted. But this wasn’t something she was willing to say aloud, and it certainly wasn’t something she wanted to tell an interviewer. “Success.” That was sort of true, and definitely what she’d settled for. If she couldn’t have life, she’d have success. It was what she’d been chasing for who knew how long. A reasonable goal, and a reasonable lie. She sat back in her chair, satisfied.

Bill Cunningham, internationally-known fashion photographer, once said that “fashion is the armor to survive the reality of everyday life.” Would you agree or disagree?

“Yes,” Mei said, frankly and thoughtfully. “But only to a certain extent. Armor suggests that fashion protects you. Fashion doesn’t protect you; it’s a flimsy holograph, the image you present to the world. It can’t protect you any more than anything else, whether it’s money or a good family or a good reputation.” And she knew damn well a good reputation was no armor.

“Everything about fashion,” she continued, her voice flat and uninterested, “is just an illusion that can be shattered like glass. Sure, you need it to survive the reality of everyday life. Fashion gets you jobs, friends, lovers, opportunities. But fashion is only one piece of the puzzle--and should people see beyond the clothes you wear, should you use fashion as your only image, it falters. So, yes, it does help us. But does it protect us? No, of course not. And it’s naive to believe otherwise.”

Fashion is a cutthroat industry; sometimes you need to do whatever it takes to get ahead. Are you prepared to do that?

This one made Mei pause. She hadn’t been asked a question like that since business school, when a lecturer had suggested anyone who wasn’t willing to do anything to get ahead might as well pack their bags and go home right now. True success, he’d said, is cutting people down to make yourself look better, and that’s just the name of the game. She’d resisted it for a long time. Longer than a decade.

“Do you know how I got promoted to editor-in-chief?” she asked the interviewer, playing with the dangling tennis bracelet on her left wrist. “My fellow editor, Joe, had been working here longer than I had. Good man. Very resourceful, knew everything about the business. One day he had the opportunity to bring in a very young, very fresh model into a photoshoot for Versace, a pet project of his. I persuaded Gianni to come to the shoot to see the great work Joe did. An hour before the shoot I gave the model a few bottles of tequila--she’d been a pretty big partier and a risky hire--and she vomited on one of Gianni’s custom-made twenty-thousand dollar Swarovski crystal gowns. Twice.” She quirked a smile. “Gianni was furious, and I was promoted to editor-in-chief. Joe got demoted to creative director, and eventually left for a position at Marie Clare.” She cleared her throat. “So when I say I will do anything to get ahead, I mean it.”

Anything else?

N/a