NIGHT

thread summary. NIGHT + 5156xp | (296 * 16) + 420 + 773col + nemean fur (2). Demian + 1604xp | (296 * 4) + 420

oscar's presence had slipped past her. seeing him slide into view from the corner of her periphery almost made her jump, but night played her stagger off as a minor bout of elegant pacing. she nodded as oscar examined her suit, noting her attire in comparison to her friend's. "as you'd requested." "so where's your date?" he'd asked. relief rolled off night's shoulders as they drooped ever so slightly. so she hadn't misinterpreted his message, after all. there was a twinkle in her eyes, the reflection of the sun setting in the distance an implication of mischief, chicanery, the g

belregor's health drained. night skimmed the perimeter of the field, eyes not leaving the boss as it darted to target after target, delivering its ire -- or having its victim escape otherwise. at the rate it was being depleted, she thought she only needed to count the seconds. standing at a complete opposition to belregor, she saw its health tick downwards. the tinge of red slowly faded from view-- -- and so did the rest of its health bar. ... what? the knight screeched, and took to the sky once more. gauntlet raised, the flames beneath its scorched armor burned that of a

night took pollux's hand to shake, stunned by the comment about the loss of a duel that never happened for either of them. "um, likewise?" she had said; she held the same respect for each opponent during the tournament, but she wasn't sure where the enthusiasm for a fight had been beyond the occasion. her brow was raised at the thought. "we could always spar on our own terms, if that's what you'd like." and with the matter of effort in climbing aincrad's perpetual ladder, they let go. pollux ran into an obstacle partway through. it made total sense, so night nodded towards it. "happens to

she dropped from the blade once she got close enough. belregor tore the sword from her grasp, and she rolled as she hit the ground. night immediately broke out into a sprint as she rounded the boss' trajectory; the knight crashed into the sands, and then tore through the crowd of players. not good. night held out an arm to buffet the winds from her vision. on the other hand, she'd been completely out of it's range, and so she took to the offensive while belregor had its back turned towards her. sliding down the fine grains scattered across the surface of the coast, night leapt early, cal

one would think, in a game that was built to increase its player’s capabilities beyond superhuman measure, that between night’s total strength pitched against yuki’s impossible defenses, neither of them would be liable to capitulation. and yet, here they were, on the day of yuki’s fated wedding, so was the bride struggling with sound tightness, and her bridesmaid, trying to make sure the kimono bent to her friend’s will. “— sorry!! just, a little more—” night had been working on getting the bow properly tied behind yuki’s back. the bridal kimono, a commissioned garment crafted with s

the severed coast was all that awaited them by the time belregor decided he was done with his orchestrations. night had halted right when arabelle did, and turned to look, finally, as she took off towards the boss. his cleave was interrupted, and all that remained in the distance was one jomei, anticipating his teammates, with a thumbs-up to show for his stand. night could only breath, deciphering the events unfolding before her eyes. belregor's hand extended, and the ground rumbled between the distance arabelle had cleared and night had stalled during the time she'd been faltering. from

"i'm going to sit with the trackers," said bistro, starting to walk off, leaving night behind. night tilted her head to the side as she snapped, "trackers?" "you can meander around on your own, right?" "woah," she started, blinking fast. "wait," replied night, and she jogged behind bistro in an attempt to tail her, keeping close to hear their voices above the noise of the crowd. "trackers? who are the trackers? you hardly sit with anybody --- you don't even go to parties, bistro." bistro but shot night a sly smile over her shoulder, adjusting the parasol on her shoulder.

very weird! oh well. grabby free stuff. -> Horn of Battle (1) | Sounding this horn will grant oneself and their party +2 increased energy regen for a single thread.

to: @Wulfrin late wedding gifts. x1 | Iron Will (1) | Applies BLOODCLOT to the user for a single thread. x1 | horn of battle. | +2 EN Regen for 1 thread x2 | Memory of Battle | Doubles bonuses from Scents of the Wild Totems.

a message from oscar? at this point, she was sure she was more used to hearing things that oscar did second-hand, like with bistro and the mention of the crab party, but the direct message was... telling. suspect. mostly because night had no idea what the man was up to next beyond food-related endeavors. and neither was she exactly out on a mission to be aincrad's most renown food critic or sous-chef either, so she had no clue what oscar had intended with the message she received that day. still, she did her homework. floor 26 sounded nigh promising as a venue for a walk with someone

he didn't even reply! in fact, the only sign that she received about oscar having seen her message (besides the inbox updating his status on having read it) was him rushing up to her, face to face -- hell, she didn't even notice him running over, night having stared at the chat for the entire period until someone came to her with more information about 'crab'. he looked her up and down, while night had her arms held out in front of her, shielding her gaze from the comically large cloud of dust her host had produced during the sprint of the olympics. and he had the gall to comment on her f

they split ways after the lighthouse. demian wanted out. night wanted to walk it off. in her head, there was much to work through: besides the report written to bistro about their encounters, jotted in haste on the boat ride back, she'd written the matter of demian's strange reactions out of their adventure together. no doubt the news of co-operation alone would catch their broker off-guard, which left her to stew on her lonesome on the vitriol demian had found himself unabashedly soaked in. she left her mind off the matter of her own surroundings, placed onto discerning his image t

she had landed just as belregor craned his neck skyward underneath that pile of armor. night shifted, tilting, blind to her positioning in the midst of the battle -- one moment she'd been ready to strike; the next, her reflexes abiding his telegraph lead her to back off. seconds later, she'd fallen, colliding with a figure unseen, and she swears bistro has no reason to be anywhere near her but there's an onslaught of french civility that greets her on the way down. "fuck--" she nearly rolls. is stopped only by friction, the grain mix of mud and sand below. groaning, night's immediat

[stats go here.] bistro: [attachment: co-ordinates - f24.] bistro: go forth, goon. night: goon??? night: sorry? night: can i at least have some context here bistro: did i stutter? night: ??? bistro, in fact, did not stutter. it had been a while since there had been any invitations to head out to the beach. honestly, with the way that certain floors were hubs for different locales, it felt as though they were being rallied to meet up at an appointed spot in a neighborhood. but night showed up, anyway, confused from the lack of further elaboration from bistro's

yeag oke

night was swallowed whole. in the dark, she could only tap her blade for light. just her and belregor: an arena isolated suited to just the two of them. ahead of her, the knight didn't even appear to move very much, towering as it was. that brief respite, the claw of reality away from their immediate fold, but bore fruit into a momentary suspension of disbelief, and she weaned the sword to speak. ... was this thing on? oathkeeper only sputtered to life, but it mattered none. the world flooded her senses, washing away vanta, night's vision tiding over to stormy skies and s

note to self: revise the message to bistro to 'it's real, and it's annoying'. because the way belregor had blurred over only to morph into player after player made her grit her teeth. clearly, it had stolen the attention of all other fighters, if only to plan for contingencies. night was just furious it wasn't a message to herself. image after image, it switched. then what illusion it wore was repelled -- better for them, she thought, beyond the presence of a mimic in their midst. because belregor, towering and huge, would've been harder to hit had it taken on a player's form. once star (

this was the thing with players, they had observed. variable, indeterministic, they themselves as elements were the sole arbiters of entropy within a universe of defined limitations. demian could falter when he guesses what to do come face to face with an enemy beyond his means, no pressure. but he knows all he does is follow in suit where others had gone, unable, viably, to carve a path out for himself alone. in day’s steps, he follows. he thinks he would trust her, just as she did, and night pulls up with a message upon his interface as their mark breaks into polygonal fractals behind

in a heartbeat, he shifts from his form stoic. demian gouges the lion apart. all he does is beckon, and his tool finishes it for him, first piercing through an emptiness beneath fur, before following through on the cut. he recounts the anatomy of an animal as he does, visualizes a projection in his mind: the most optimal way to avoid the instance of damage would be to dodge its oncoming attack, but he can’t if he dedicates himself to the drawn art. so he cheats. it is in milliseconds that he finds the core of the lion enroute his blade’s path, and he exerts an effort so great as to penal

the world suffers another cry of pain from the hunted. the lion jumps backwards as it sweeps around, abandoning its previous objective: by now, the woman has vanished into the golden stalks. surrounding them. it takes a second to reconsider its options, but flight is not one of them, especially when its pride is at stake. safety for their numbers comes first. so it bides its time as the man scrambles to his feet, having rolled away from a delicate swipe that razes the grass behind him — still no luck in exposing his companion, but it registers this not, burying the task at the bottom of its li

a slash that was meant to strike the lion emerges from the ether ahead of the man. but his target is stricken by something else, instead. behind him, weapon at the ready, the woman lunges early a second before him, and invisible forces pull her through spatially to snap her into position ahead of his blow. she is trained to intercept it from his perspective, from her position, until reflexes faster than he is willing to perceive lead her to conduct reality in her favour instead. she jabs the lion through and withdraws her arm before an impact properly registers — their realm believes otherwise

| NIGHT | Lv. 154 >> P. 120, Lv. 34 | Status: // Notes: stats for tier 3 sync. PT: refunding all SP. PT: biting x9 -> +18 DMG they’re on the seventeenth. dappled orange light flickers amidst plains of grass, all gold. they wade against the tides, all shifting with the wind. ahead of them is mount olympus. none of them speak. there’s no point in the conversation, so either of them thought. they have their allegiances, their mutual alliance, a foundational trust built on a secret, the bond

the ocean stilled, and it was as though she was watching the gargantuan suit of armor pierce through ice as it rose from the depths of the black. night looked on bleakly as it emerged, almost calm, only being able to clear her doubts once it got close enough that its examination details appeared in her vision. then, instinctively, she drew up her messages if only to assert to her broker about the turn of events: to: bistro night: its real bistro is typing... night waved the window away. "what's it doing outside of the boss room?" she asked aloud. "and... why's it in the mid

approved.