[F29-EV] The Final Stand | <<Fatal Error ACT: 2>>

[KnightinGale 0]

KnightinGale was holding the line to the best of her ability, but even she was starting to waver slightly. For now though she was enjoying a moment of rest as the rampaging mobs seemed to take a small break from ravaging her small section of the defenses. For now all seemed quiet. Her small steam had suffered a few casualties during the last push by the shambling cosmic horror rejects this floor called monsters. Potions were being passed around from the few traveling medical players, but even those were scarce. For now though her team held firm and prepared to make way back to their posts just outside the Tracker's Alliance operating base.

"Alright break time's over," The white haired tank stood up, hefting her hammer and shield into place. "We can be lazy later. Right now we've got others relying on us to keep monsters from crawling up their asses. Last I checked none of us signed up to be part of that frontal assault on the beach head, but we all chose to be here. So let's not be cowards yeah?"

KnightinGale and her team returned out to the barricades near the eastern portion of the beach front, Knightingale tapping the shoulder of the team lead that had swapped off with her for her team to res. It wasn't long before the mobs charged yet again. In between bashing monster skulls in with hammer and shield, she was elbow deep in the makeshift walls fixing up holes or replacing broken spikes and spears. Occasionally an amorphous shambling blob would completely collapse a portion and she'd have to push it back before repairing the hole in their perimeter, but so far it hadn't been more than she could handle. Thankfully a few additional fighters showed up just as she was starting to get overwhelmed.

WC: 305

* * *

Post Action: Repairing The Barricades (+5 | Heavy Armor R5)
ID 247888 | LD 2+5=7
Running Total: 79+7=84

Edited 4 hours ago by Wulfrin

[CosmiQueen 0]

Ahri hadn’t performed in a hot minute, and her nerves were very loudly reminding her of that fact. Her heart was jackhammering in her chest, throat tight, palms sweaty despite the cool ocean air of Floor 29. She hated feeling like this. Unsteady. Small. This wasn’t how she did things. She was supposed to be untouchable. Bold. Confident in the way only stars could be and still get love for it. But now, standing on a makeshift stage with the sky cracked open above them and the threat of total annihilation lurking just off the coastline, she felt… human. Too human. God, get it together.

She took a breath, steadying herself as the chorus arrived, and she sang. Her voice poured out smooth and clear, but inside, she wasn’t convinced. What if her timing was off? What if her voice cracked? What if it wasn't helping?

Then, from the front of the stage, she heard the tiniest, "Woo!" It was barely audible over the sound of crashing waves and weapon strikes, but it hit her like a lightning bolt. She smiled. Not the fake one she put on for camera angles. A real one. Okay. That helps. One cheer. That was all it took to snap her back into herself.

She kept going, voice rising with each lyric, harmonizing with the chaos around her like she belonged in it. Every note she hit was one more reminder to the raid party that they could win. That they weren’t alone. She struck a dramatic pose mid-verse, tossing her hair like the absolute queen she was, and shouted between lines, “You better not let that creepy bastard win, I did not glam up for a funeral!”

And despite everything, she started to feel it. The rhythm. The rush. The sheer absurdity of the moment. She told herself, This is no different than a normal concert. Then corrected herself mentally, ...Except we’re surrounded by nightmare tentacle monsters with a thirst for brain soufflé. No biggie.

Floor 29 was straight out of that Lovecraft short story she barely understood in high school. The one with the words no one could pronounce and an unreasonable number of eyeballs. Right on cue, a slick, ink-black tendril slithered its way up the side of the stage, low and silent like it thought it could sneak past her. Oh, bitch, you thought. Without breaking rhythm or missing a single note, Ahri pivoted and slammed her sharp stiletto heel directly into it. The tendril let out a bone-rattling, demonic screech before it burst into a shower of bright blue pixels, evaporating beneath her shoe like a squashed bug. She didn’t even flinch. Instead, she let her heel rest for a moment on the mark, tilted her head, and purred into the mic, “Mm. That’s what I thought.”

* * *

Slaughtering Mobs:
ID: 247889 | LD: 19 (+Armor Skill R1) = 20
Running Total: 104

 

Edited 4 hours ago by CosmiQueen

[Bliss 0]

Bliss left the comfort of her cozy little book nook with a determined heart. She wasn’t built for the frontlines. But she was built to support the people who had helped her rediscover her voice and carve a space for herself in this chaotic, insanely dangerous world. Ciela and Wulfrin had done more for her than they probably realized, and now it was her turn to show up for them. As she stepped outside, she fired off a quick message to Astra, who was already off delivering the sword.

Spoiler

Heading to Floor 29 now! Please be safe! <3

She took a breath, gripping her huge wrench tightly. Time to be brave. Floor 29 wasn’t what she expected. She’d heard hushed murmurs about it at Fondante’s Inferno, adventurers trading tales between bites of pastry and sips of tea. Stories of creeping dread, tentacled nightmares, and landscapes twisted by madness. Bliss had half-expected to see the ocean part and Cthulhu rise from the depths, ready to snatch them all into the void. Instead, what she saw made her stomach twist even more.

The beach was coated in chaos. Explosions of light, flashes of steel, and bodies flinging all their might at a tall, lanky figure in dark, glossy armor. Belregor. She caught the eerie glint of his helmet as the moon hit it just right. His movements were... off. Not the kind of calculated precision you’d expect from a high-level duelist, but rather these hollow, lumbering swings. Like the body was moving, but the soul wasn’t inside anymore. Bliss’s chest tightened at the sight. She’d seen exhausted fighters before, burned out players barely clinging to hope, but this? This felt like watching a marionette being puppeteered by some malevolent force.

Snapping herself out of it, Bliss sprinted toward a barricade just as it began to creak under the strain of battle. Reinforcements were slipping, but she caught them in time, tightening supports, shoving up brace beams, and letting her muscle memory take over. Fixing things gave her focus. Fixing meant she could help. She spotted KnightinGale amidst the chaos, directing a small group of defenders. Without missing a beat, Bliss jogged over, slightly winded but ready.

“H-H-Hey G-Gale!” she called out, giving a slightly awkward but eager salute. “R-Reporting f-for duty. W-What d-do you n-need me to f-fix first?”

* * *

Rebuilding the Barricades
ID: 247890 | LD: 12 (+Armor Skill R1) = 13
Running Total: 117

* * *

Spoiler

Bliss | HP: 20/20 | EN: 20/20 | DMG: 3 | MIT:18 | ACC:1 | REC: 1

Spoiler

"Name: Bliss
True Tier: 1
Level: 1
Paragon Level: 0
HP: 20/20
EN: 20/20

Stats:
Damage: 3
Mitigation: 18
Accuracy: 1
REC: 1

Equipped Gear:
Weapon/Armor/Trinket: 
  - Mechanic's Tool Set | T1 Perfect Thrown Weapon |  ACC I | DMG II
Armor/Trinket: 
  - Variable Half-Plate | T1 Perfect Light Armor | MIT II | REC I
Shield/Armor/Trinket: 
  - 

Combat Mastery:
  - 

Combat Shift:
  - 

Familiar Skill:
  - 

Custom Skill:
  - 

Skills:
  - Light Armor R1

Extra Skills:

Inactive Extra Skills:

Addons:

Mods:

Inactive Mods:

Battle Ready Inventory:

Housing Buffs:

Guild Hall Buffs:

Scents of the Wild Totem:

Wedding Ring:

Crafting Profession:

Gathering Profession:
"

 

 

 

Edited 2 hours ago by Bliss

[Dracul 0]

The rhythmic clang of hammer on anvil from the nearby smithy was a grating counterpoint to the new, far more offensive noise assaulting the besieged western gate. My fingers, meticulously layering powdered mending crystal along a stress fracture in a vanguard’s greave, faltered for a split second. A discordant wail, amplified by some infernal crystal, shredded the already oppressive atmosphere of rain and monstrous howls.

"By the gods," I muttered, the words dripping with aristocratic disdain. I didn't need to look up to know the source. The garish techno beat and the piercing, artificially bright vocals could only mean one thing: the so-called 'performance' had begun in earnest. Through the rain-smeared gap in our makeshift repair awning, I saw flashes of color on the distant, ramshackle stage – Lysette’s crimson hair, Tokki’s precise, mob-dispatching kicks, Ahri’s dramatic poses. "Vulgar theatrics," I added, focusing back on the greave, the blue repair glow flaring under my touch. "As if this grim tableau required further absurdity. Do they imagine their caterwauling will sing the horrors to death?"

Claudia, organizing catalysts with her usual surhuman precision, adjusted her glasses. Her gaze flickered towards the stage, analytical, not judgmental. "Initial observational data suggests a correlative effect, Master Dracul. Players within audible range exhibit an increase in coordinated attack speed and a reduction in observable hesitation during engagements. The psychological impact of their performance on group cohesion under duress, while unconventional in this context, is notable." She paused, handing me a vial of concentrated dissolution fluid for a particularly stubborn fracture. "Illogical, perhaps. But measurable."

I scoffed, applying the fluid with a surgeon's care. "Measurable foolishness, Claudia. Dressing for a ball while the castle burns." Yet, I couldn't entirely dismiss her cold statistics. Nearby, a group of fighters who moments ago had looked haggard and slow now moved with renewed, almost desperate energy, their blades flashing in time with the pounding beat as they reinforced a crumbling barricade section. One even let out a ragged cheer as he severed a shambler's limb. The sheer, undignified vulgarity of it chafed, yet… the effect was undeniable. Annoying.

My internal grumbling was interrupted by a commotion closer to hand. A soot-stained blacksmith from the adjacent forge, was discarding her heavy apron, securing combat bracers with grim determination. She barked something at the other smiths before charging headlong into the fray beyond the relative safety of the barricade line, her smithing hammer replaced by something far more blunt and brutal. She vanished into the rain and chaos, heading towards a cry for help.

"Reckless," I stated flatly, watching her go. "A craftsman abandoning her station to play soldier. Predictably sentimental." Yet, there was a certain brutal efficiency in the way she’d dispatched that ink-black horror moments before, a savage practicality that momentarily stirred that darker, appreciative pulse beneath the surface. Effective, a detached part of me noted.

Claudia’s voice cut through the observation, sharper than usual. "Master Dracul. Our shard reserves are critically depleted. Current stockpile stands at 3.2 units. Projected consumption for essential frontline repairs exceeds available supply within the next twenty minutes." Her tone was devoid of panic, but the implication was clear: without the high-grade reinforcement solution, the next wave of broken armor coming in might be beyond our capacity to mend properly.

Before I could formulate a suitably scathing remark about poor resource management by the rabble, a player stumbled towards our station. One of the soldiers; his leathers were cheap, his sword chipped and bent almost to uselessness. Mud and something darker streaked his face. Desperation radiated from him like heat. "Please!" he gasped, clutching his ruined blade. "Mending crystals! Anything! Our group... pinned down... west alley... gear’s breaking!" He gestured wildly towards a side street where the sounds of frantic combat echoed.

Hubris warred with cold reality, and for a moment, the sneer forming on my lips felt hollow. This whelp, this insignificant peasant, dared demand my resources? Yet, Claudia’s data echoed: critical depletion. And beyond him, the fighters spurred on by the vulgar music, the blacksmith vanishing into the storm to save strangers, the endless tide of horrors... Letting this fool's comrades die because he lacked the foresight to maintain his equipment was... inefficient. Worse, it was a failure of the very order my lineage supposedly upheld. Protecting the line, even its weakest links, was paramount.

The sneer didn't vanish, but it twisted into something colder, more resigned. With a flick of my wrist that was pure aristocratic dismissal, I slid my last full vial of high-potency mending crystals across the rain-slicked table towards him. Not gently. "Learn to manage your kit, boy," I snapped, the words sharp as broken glass. "Consider this a lesson in preparedness, bought with my generosity. Now go."

He grabbed the vial like a lifeline, stammering thanks I didn't wait to hear before turning back to the greave on my bench. My fingers resumed their meticulous work, the blue glow flaring defiantly against the encroaching gloom. Claudia watched the player sprint away, then turned her analytical gaze back to me. "That constituted a third of our remaining high-grade crystal reserve, master." she stated, her voice devoid of reproach but heavy with implication. "Rationing protocols are now mandatory for non-critical repairs."

"Understood..." I replied, my voice tight. The techno-pop from STY/L swelled again, mingling with the clash of steel and monstrous shrieks. Outside, the vulgar spectacle played on. Inside, beneath the awning, we held our own, quieter, far more essential line, patching the frayed edges of their defiance with dwindling resources and a nobleman's reluctant, gritted-teeth duty. The cost of preserving order, it seemed, was occasionally tolerating the vulgar... and subsidizing the unprepared. A distasteful necessity. For now.

---

• Post action: Repair Equipment
• ID# 247891 |  LD: 5 +7
  • Running Total: 129

Edited 2 hours ago by Dracul

[Abellio 0]

ph

Slaughtering Mobs | ID: 247892 - LD: 5+4
Running Total: 138

Edited 2 hours ago by Oscar

[3ulogy 0]

3ulogy fumed as another pile of weapons dropped at the table in front of him. He hissed at the donor as they wandered out of sight, looking for more. “Come up to Floor 29, you said. There’s a STY/L concert, you said. And people might die. Fuck me.”

Another pile of weapons appeared while he complained to himself. He locked eyes with his dreaded benefactor and offered a calcified smile. “Hopefully that’s the last of them.”

The stranger shook his head. “It’s been hell holding the town. No casualties yet, but we’re burning through equipment pretty quickly. There won’t be another round of repairs for a bit, but I’ve heard back about fighting out in the Kineallan parish, so we’re expecting another round within the hour….”

The boring geezer droned on, so 3ulogy decided to call this a mental break. What did he care about the equipment? Sure, he had access to some basic repair functions as an appraiser. And some idiot had put him to work, and 3ulogy was terrible at saying no. But he wasn’t here to help. He was here because some of the players had formed an all-girl pop group, and 3ulogy was not the kind of person to pass that up.

I mean, a pop group here, in my fantasy world? Sick as hell. Can’t believe some of these idiots are so eager to leave. 3ulogy considered sabotaging the efforts for a moment. Maybe he could junk a few weapons “by accident.” One stern look from the stranger told him that wouldn’t work.

“...You haven’t been paying attention at all.”

“Hm? Oh, yea, no, for sure. I’m helping save the frontlines, there’s lots of work to do, it never ends, there’s more fighting, I’ll have another metric fuckton of shit to work on in an hour. Did I get just about all of it?” The man’s face soured as he nodded.

“Cool. I’m gonna drop by the concert real quick. Bee arr bee.”

“You—hey! There’s still equipment to repair!”

“I said I’ll be right back! Relax, you old fart!”

Cute girls and eldritch horrors. Call me Excalibur, the way nobody could pull me out this floor.

Post Action: Repairing Materials
247893 | LD 5 + 5 (Profession)
Running Total: 148

Edited 1 hour ago by 3ulogy

[Jeeves 0]

"Errr.... let's see.  Triangular head, with spotty mottling and the wiggly neck tentacle thingies... that would be fire."  Ripping off the protective sheath exposed the chemical-laden dart to the air, instantly igniting its tip.  Meant most for fire and forget mode, Jeeves had found a way to entertain himself amidst the chaos by taking notes and pairing weapon types to enemy weaknesses.  Striking right in the pulsing pustule on its back, the flaming bolt sparked the dubious concoction brewing inside, instantly causing the mob and its surroundings to combust.

Cackling silently from his hidey hole, the scrawny boy giddily added another notch to his bracers in a growing tally that would make Foyle finally blush in their endless competitive games.  Already on the move, he'd spotted on of the acidic spewer types on the far side of the battlefield.  Hit with a properly treated dose of necroplasm spawned a sneezing fit that caused them to blow their own faces off, hopefully ganking a few of their own in the process.  Using his smaller size and oft-overlooked presence to best advantage, he only paused at the sudden blaring of... a beat?  Pebbles hopped and danced to it on the ruined town's cobblestones, clattering boards bopping to the growing tune.

"Ughhhhh... this must be a Shiina thing.  That girl is always doing shit like this.  I wouldn't put it past her to try offering horrors face painting and pasties as a team building activity."  Groaning and chuckling at the same time, the distraction served his needs, whatever its actual intent.  It wasn't 'til he lined up his next shot that he realized his thumb was thubbing the pull strong on his crossbow in time with the ever increasing pulses.

"What the... gah!  It's infectious!?" Pulling on his tight fitting plague mask, he aimed and fired, fading once more into the shadows to the delectable nasal draw of a pending sneeze followed by a chain reaction of gurgling melting mobs.

***

Slaughtering Mobs (R5 Weapon Skill) | ID 247894 | LD 3+5=8
Running total: 148+8=156

Edited 48 minutes ago by Jeeves

[Suzume 0]

The music took over, the way it always did, and Su leaned hard into it.

Unspeakable horrors were playing out all around her. A kaleidoscope of color flashed as sword arts triggered, and as the the raindrops distorted the light, she bore witness to the most magnificent and morbid lightshow ever. It stood in in sharp contrast to their upbeat lyrics, as did the terrifying bastardizations of human beings that continued to throw themselves at their hastily constructed barricade. Things with two heads, or half a head, or no head... and there were so many tentacles. Like, so many. But when Su closed her eyes, she couldn't see the hellish scene. When she tipped her head back, she bellowed her words directly to the heavens. And when she listened to the voices of her three sisters, they drowned out the screams of the suffering.

Well, almost.

A lifetime had passed since they had performed together, but it came back with the familiar ease of riding a bike. They moved like a well-oiled machine, precise, but at the same time, appearing natural and fluid with each step. Weaving in and out of each other, they hit their marks as if those trusty bits of duct tape still clung to the stage. She felt the warmth of the flames as she drifted toward them, and felt her skin cool again as she drifted away. And when Ahri paused long enough to curb-stomp a creature, Suzume adjusted her own placement to account for the quick change. Improvisation. Give and take. Flow. Yeah, it was all coming back to her.

As she moved downstage, a flash of crimson caught her attention. Another player had run a mob through, ending its life, but at the cost of most of his health. Without missing a beat, Su waved for Kyra, waiting until she had her friend's gaze. Then she jabbed a finger in the downed players direction before spinning away.

Tending to the Wounded
ID: 247896 | LD: 5 | 156 + 5 = 161