Shitpost ahead. For some reason, I had this in my drafts for a year now and I only bothered to post this now. (lol)

S-Tier

Balthier

• I'm very biased. Black, white, and gold are such great combinations when it comes to clothing, imo. Balthier comes off sleek luxurious, yet comfy with its simplicity. It's literally just a tunic, vest, leather pants, shin guards, and belt pouches. Initially, I was put-off by the choice of footwear being slip-ons, but they grew on me overtime as it reflects Balthier's laid-back demeanour. The bands on his fingers and the bracelets definitely stand out though if you look at it closely, but not to the overall outfit.

Ashe

• HER COLOUR SCHEME. But I don't fuck with how she has little armour. It's like they have sliders on her clothes set to minimum, especially the skirt.

A-Tier

Reddas

• Hot pink. What a standout! I like how he looks akin to a pirate. Historically, pirates tend to wear minimal clothing to accommodate to the seas and its bipolar climate. When on land, they'd wear the same fit, if not, dress up more, and with footwears. The lavish accessories and complex-looking shirt Reddas has indicates (theoretically) his rank among the other sky/pirates.

Larsa

• OK. This is a weird one. Despite my thoughts on it, I do like the fit. I admittedly thought he looks like a schoolboy the first few glances, but I grew to like the design...and then some weird choices. For one, I've never seen a more hideous shade of green on anyone but Basch, but here we are with Larsa, wearing it as thigh-highs. I think the navy blue shorts salvages the colour softly, but sometimes, my eyes just focus solely on the innards of the boots being red and gold?? I like the colour harmony of his coat and tunic; it balances the the green of his boots. (lol)

Rasler

• He's so regal, but he got shot in the neck because he didn't wear enough essential armour, enough said. Bro was caught lackin' and paid the price.

B-Tier

Penelo

• I adore the colour balance of Penelo's outfit. I find it adorable how she looks like she has wings on her scapula. But what is with girly's boots?? They can't just make it look like normal knee-highs, hahaha.

Basch

• Love the sleeveless red jacket. Basch appears to be wearing something akin to an open button-up corset beneath the jacket which makes no sense to me. Moreso, under the corset is a leather strap that secures the green sleeve/pauldron on his left shoulder. It's a peculiar choice I don't find comfortable. Though it may seem like a strange choice (it is), him wearing loafers under the knee-length leg guards seems plausible because of the Dalmascan climate. It certainly makes more sense than Penelo's footwear. (lol) In short, the fashion is weird and uncomfotable-looking, but it has solid use of colour.

Vaan

• Despite my thoughts on Basch's fashion, Vaan's is a rank lover because I don't have anything to expound on at a the upper half of his body. It's literally just a cropped leather and metal vest, which has to be more uncomfortable than what Basch is wearing. Bold of him to wear that in the desert, honestly. Vaan may be sunkissed, but he's not a burn victim. (lmao) Otherwise, I like the red sash and the dark loose pants with blue patches and red laces. The steel boots can go, too. (lol)

F-Tier

Fran

• NO. Krjn from Clan Centurio dresses better than her lmaooo. However, I think, of the female cast, Fran and other Viera can get away with wearing heels because they have rabbit feet and stand on their toes.

In the expansive world of Pokémon, where over 900 unique creatures exist, the debate over which is the best Pokémon is ever-present and fervent. This question transcends generations, captivating both young trainers and seasoned veterans alike. While each Pokémon has its own charm, strengths, and fanbase, some have risen to iconic status due to their power, design, and cultural impact.
Pikachu: The Iconic Face of Pokémon
No discussion about the best Pokémon can start without mentioning Pikachu. As the franchise's mascot, Pikachu has become synonymous with Pokémon itself. Its cute design, friendly demeanor, and powerful electric attacks make it a favorite among fans of all ages. Pikachu's role as Ash Ketchum's companion in the animated series has cemented its place in popular culture globally.

The following transcription has been translated for your convenience.
December 12, 1941
SS-Junkerschule
Bad Tölz, Bavaria
•••
“Heinrich Müller?”
Heinrich stepped forward and snapped to attention. A light snowfall swirled in the air, reddening his cheeks. But nothing could chill the pride in his heart on this day.
Colonel Hans Richter stood before him, resplendent in his black dress uniform and all the silver embroidery and medals decorating the stylish Waffen-SS tunic. The colonel regarded him with sharp features and sharper eyes, like gazing into a deep winter sky, eyes that pierced to the soul. Heinrich would follow the colonel’s example and forge himself into the consummate warrior and impeccable nazi. This was the way.
“Obersturmführer Müller," the colonel said. He was of a height with Heinrich but seemed so much taller in the moment. "You will now recite the Nazi oaths and join us in a thousand year Reich. Repeat after me."
Dialogue Redacted
Once the oaths to his country, the Nazi party, and most importantly, the Führer were sworn, Heinrich rendered the Nazi salute and stepped back to his place in line. Twenty-five recruits were in his graduating class, all bound for different divisions across the motherland. It took several hours for each recruit to come forward, recite the oaths and be welcomed into the Waffen-SS. Snow gathered on his uniform’s shoulders, danced around his eyes, and cold seeped through his polished knee-high black boots to numb his toes. Heinrich clenched his jaw and resolved he would not allow it to touch him, maintaining his stoic composure to the end. Anything else was unthinkable.
Once they were dismissed, he hurried out to the train station with his newly minted orders still warm in his inner jacket pocket. Crowds of civilians thronged the cobbled streets and collected outside various shops and restaurants along the walks. They parted before him as though he walked in a bubble the city could not touch.
The sky darkened. Snow fell harder.
Fat flakes piled on rooftops and in the streets, blown in gauzy veils and whipped into swirls by the wind. The train station bustled and the steps leading inside were slick with slush, but Heinrich would not allow that to slow him. He shouldered past an older couple who’d stopped to read the schedule and pushed through the doors, quickly making his way to a section reserved exclusively for the Waffen-SS. There he boarded the train bound for Munich, then to Dresden and a final switch that would take him all the way to Kharkiv, his first command attached to the 6th army, Totenkopf division.
Inside, the car was warm and ornate, with gold-embroidered red carpet flowing down the aisle and fancy carved wood paneling decorating the ceiling and walls. His seat was located near the middle of the car, beside the window, with room for one other to sit beside him. Heinrich stowed his gear and settled in just as the train began to move. The station slid past his window. People and soldiers stood on the various platforms along the city's outskirts and into the countryside. Snow sprinkled the land scrolling past outside the frosty glass, and the mountains beyond were hazy and soft around the edges. The rhythmic rocking of the train lulled him, and his thoughts drifted to the war, to the Führer and his brilliance, and to the new world they would forge out of its purifying flames.
“No, damn you," a man's deep voice roused Heinrich from his half-sleep. "Japan attacked the Americans. Not the Reich."
Heinrich blinked away the pull of sleep and glanced at a pair of SS enlisted soldiers sliding into a booth one seat up and across the aisle from him. The train rocked, and the steady clack of the tracks outside provided background noise that mingled with the muffled ebb and flow of a dozen conversations throughout the train.
Had he heard that right? Japan attacked America? Why? He sat up straight and focused on the two soldiers.
"So?" The smaller of the two men stopped and made an exasperated gesture. "Changes nothing, Hans. The Führer declared war on the Americans. They will talk their words and cower across the sea and pray the Reich does not come for them. They are soft, not soldiers.”
"I agree, Ewald," Hans said, shaking a smoke out of his pack and digging for a lighter. "But doesn't part of you hope you're wrong? Doesn’t part of you want to show the arrogant Americans what it means to be a real warrior?"
“Perhaps.”
Ewald flicked open his lighter and sparked a flame. He lit their smokes and they sank into a contemplative quiet.
Heinrich sat alert in his seat. Japan had attacked America. The Führer had declared war. First, the Soviets, and now the Americans. The news was troubling. The Allies were growing in strength. He would never question the Führer's brilliance, never doubt that the Reich could face the world and burn it to ash. Or at least, that's the lie he told himself. A different part of him, the part that quietly listens from the back of his thoughts, stirred with concern.
During his long months of training at the SS-Junkerschule, some of his classmates had expressed their disdain for Americans and their soft way of life. Air conditioning and automated dishwashers, party boy lifestyle. They believed them weak. Heinrich had silently disagreed.
Yes, the Americans lived a decadent lifestyle, with their cars, beach life and silver screens. Yet, Heinrich understood how vast America was from his time spent there as a boy on holidays with his father. They toured for months and barely scratched the surface of all there was to explore. That same silent part of his mind radiated alarm.
Heinrich didn't smoke, such things were discouraged and frowned upon in a Waffen-SS officer. But he found himself staring at the silken plumes rising from the cigarettes in the booth across the aisle.
"Excuse me," he said, scooting across the seat and leaning out of his booth.
Ewald turned to regard him with the coldest eyes he'd ever seen. One shade of blue from white and hard as winter steel. He took in Heinrich's uniform, the silver piping along his shoulder boards and the silver pips embroidered on a black background sewed to his collar. He straightened, and the haughty look in his eyes melted away.
"Sir?" he said.
Hans leaned forward to look past Ewald at Heinrich but said nothing.
"Could I trouble you for one of those?" Heinrich pointed at the cigarette Ewald held halfway to his lips.
Ewald blinked, glanced at the smoke, then back to Heinrich. "Of course, sir." He dug out another cigarette. The metallic clink of his lighter was a surprisingly pleasant sound.
"Thank you," Heinrich said once his cigarette was lit, and relaxed back into his seat, turning to watch the darkening countryside and the falling snow whisk past. The two soldiers returned to their conversation, their voices melding with that of the other passengers.
Heinrich sank deep into thought. The only sound that registered was the clack and roll of the train's wheels out on the tracks. Germany was now at war with every major power in the world, save Japan and Italy, and Italy was quickly becoming a non-factor. He drew on his cigarette and idly inhaled the smoke. It felt like he'd breathed in a lungful of water. The coughing fit that followed was beyond his control.
Ewald turned to grin at him.
"Welcome to the club, sir,' he said, and saluted with his smoke. Then he turned back to his conversation with Hans.
Heinrich considered throwing the cigarette out of the window. Who in their right mind would try these things and go back for more?
He decided to just hold it and let it burn. This was oddly comforting.
What was he thinking, having doubts? Even with the Americans and the Soviet swine, the Allies couldn't hope to defeat the Reich. God was on their side. Good was on their side. Everything the Führer did was to purify and strengthen their race. He would burn away the chaff so only the strongest remained. This was the way.
He nodded to himself, watching the landscape. But the silent part of his mind that listened and watched, quietly disagreed.
It said, what if?
What if the Allies won? Images of Berlin burning and enemy troops storming her streets flashed through his mind. Nazi flags smoldered in the streets beside shell-blasted panzers and bullet-riddled Wehrmacht troops. The glorious Reich was crumbling, her people weeping. The Americans advanced from one side and the Soviets from the other. Britain rained fire from above.
The world watched and rejoiced as the sun set on the thousand year Reich.
Heinrich shook away the disturbing images and drew long and hard on the cigarette, the coal flaring in the smoky dark of his booth. It burned his lungs like before, but this time he knew what to expect and resisted the urge to cough. His eyes watered, but he wasn't sure if it was from the cigarette smoke or the thought that the Reich might fall.
No, he told himself and forced a silent chuckle.
Hitler could not be defeated. Germany's scientists were years ahead of their enemies. The Wehrmacht were the fiercest and deadliest warriors in the world. The engineers had wunderwaffe secreted away so powerful Hitler refused to use them for fear of setting the world ablaze. The Soviets had been crushed, Britain was burning, France had fallen. America was an ocean away. What could the allies do in the face of such power?
He smiled, comforted by the thought.
No, the Reich would reign atop the world for a thousand years, as Hitler had promised. Theirs was a righteous cause, a godly cause and the almighty would not abandon them. They would reforge the weak of the world into steel.
He finished his cigarette and crushed it out in the ashtray on the windowsill.
Outside, darkness shrouded the land, and all he could see was an errant swirl of snow against the glass every so often. The train lulled him. He drifted toward sleep, and the silent part of him asked a final question before fitful dreams took him.
But what if?

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This very very very MILDLY for like 5 seconds annoys me his name is ash Ketchum dammit!

If u dont know anything about football and Pokemon, i dont see why u should read more in this post...
I was watching Orange Islands and just opened old posts on reddit to see what ppl thought about it. And i saw a post where it said that PPL mostly dont consider the Orange League as a major trophy.
That's something that made me realise...
Ash ketchum is so similiar to the Footballer Lionel Messi.

• Messi won the Olympics in 2008 Beijing, but people always mocker him for never winning an international trophy and not counting this one just like how people never talked about the Orange League Trophy.
• Kept losing tournament after tournament, and had a very heartbreaking final ( 3 for Messi).
• Won the Regional Tournament many years later ( Alola for Ash, Copa America for Messi) making both days a day to celebrate for their respective fans
• Won the World Cup (both in the same year too).
• Messi jersey number- 10, Ash age- 10
• Since ash was created in 1997, we could say both of them were 10 year olds in the year 1987
• Left their towns in hopes for success
• Had a rival in Ronaldo and Gary.
• Both basically retired post the world cup. It's implied that ash will go on with his journey but we dont see him anymore. There are new main characters. Just like that Messi quit europe for the MLS, which is mostly considered retirement league. So he's continuing his career but not at the area where its being viewed at its peak ( Europe).

Coincidence? I think not

This isn't a single storyline so much as the overarching plot context for several posts involving my characters Chris Anker and Freya, in their many month long trip to Unova to compete in the 2024 season of the World Coronation Series.

Main Tag: World Coronation 2023/24

Flags posts related to the WCS that aren't any specific storyline, may include guest posts by other users.
Ongoing: November 21st 2023 - Present
The Big Event is Back - 21/Nov/2023
LETS FUCKING GOOOOOO - 02/Dec/2023
Window Seat Benefits - 07/Dec/2023
Question for Unovans - 08/Dec/2023
How do you commute on the Battle Subway? - 14/Dec/2023
Excellent Takedown - 20/Dec/2023 - Video Post
More Suggestions Wanted - 20/Dec/2023 - Part 2 of previous post
A Hidden Friendship - 27/Dec/2023
Sunset Badge Obtained - 10/Jan/2024 - Collaborative post with u/dusk_iron
Gym Leader Question - 22/Jan/2024
Almost Ultra! - 12/Feb/2024
+ULTRARICOSHOT - 14/Feb/2024
A Celebratory Outing - 15/Feb/2024 - Collaborative post with u/Dull-Needleworker162, not tagged as WCS but intended as such
A wild ride - 16/Feb/2024 - Guest post by u/Xero818
I hate the unovan fight club subway - 26/Feb/2024
Logistics of bringing Dynamax to Unova - 4/Ma2024
Are we developing a reputation - 11/Ma2024
Human Psychic Questions - 13/Ma2024 - Not tagged with the storyline but considered part of it, specifically relevant to the Playoffs sub story
Dynatoxing the WCS - 14/Ma2024 - Guest post by u/Dull-Needleworker162
Hitomoshi Clan at the WCS - 19/Ma2024
Update and Goals - 21/Ma2024
Good Developments - 22/Ap2024

Sub Story: How to be the Best

While Chris and Freya go toe to toe with two ultra rank trainers, Pokemon Breeder Charles Chenery and influencer Markus Knox, scandals relating to cheating and criminal activity in the world coronation series are brought to the forefront, how do you become the best, and what means will you resort to to do so. Collaborative Storyline with u/Dull-Needleworker162
Concluded: March 18th 2024 - April 12th 2024
The Calemut Estate at the WCS - 18/Ma2024
Supercharging your training in 12 steps - 19/Ma2024
Words of Wisdom - 20/Ma2024
WCS Wares - 21/Ma2024
You're not Ash Ketchum - 22/Ma2024
Failure Breeds Improvement - 22/Ma2024
Grudge Match - 23/Ma2024
Some people aren't getting the message - 24/Ma2024
Haters gonna hate - 25/Ma2024
I demand a rematch! - 25/Ma2024
This time it's personal - 28/Ma2024
Unfortunate does describe this - 03/Ap2024
You just had to be the man - 05/Ap2024
Completely Unacceptable - 05/Ap2024
World Coronation Woes - 06/Ap2024
Challenge Accepted - 08/Ap2024
We're Done Here - 12/Ap2024

Sub Story: Champion's Paradox

Arlene Sachlett, the champion for the pokemon league of Kamelai, Chris and Freya's home region, arrives in Unova for the WCS and immediately begins clearing house with her absurdly stacked team, including what appears to be the future paradox pokemon Iron Valiant. To an experienced observer however, it's clear that this Iron Valiant is not a typical example of his species. Alas, the rarity of paradoxes means experienced observers are hard to come by in the WCS.
Ongoing: January 5th 2024 - Present
Who is that? - 05/Jan/2024
RULES OF NATURE - 23/Jan/2024
It's like that Tobias guy from 2009 - 18/Feb/2024
Successful Magearna Research - 27/Feb/2024

Sub Story: The Playoffs

Chris and Freya's goal in the WCS was to try and put themselves and the rest of the team on the map by making it to the top 50. They are close to succeeding at this, but when the new fights are scheduled, it becomes clear that they may be able to go even farther, possibly even finally defeating a regional champion, if only they can make their way through several gruelling battles against their very own 'Elite 5'.
Ongoing: May 5th 2024 - Present
A long road ahead - 05/May/2024
Preparing to counter their counter to your counter - 12/May/2024

Bright illuminescant flashes bolted through the dark-lit sky, rushing and raging through clouds seemingly made of gossamer and finely woven felt. You could almost reach out and touch them if not for the raging storm ripping and hollering. It shone and splintered along the sky, splitting into a thousand arcs, each converging and convexing along the stars. Electrical currents spun like lavender spider webs along a farmhouse wall. The arcs traveled, painting a vibrant tapestry along its wake before reaching their climax and releasing a wicked KRAK as the lights slowly faded.
The gossamer clouds wept tears of dull acidic rain that fell, cascading downwards. Down to the swampy fetid fields below. Their droplets splashed and sizzled against the sand, slowly fizzing before hardening into a thin velvet glass before beginning all over again. A sad display of god’s fury laid bare and plain for all to see. The rain had begun just a week prior, but its assault had persisted in a constant pattern ever since. The swamp ached and squirmed in an agonizing way as the rain melted away any sign of basic life.
Puddles of the acidic deluge collected along a road leading to the once fertile silver mine, just three miles from the town of Crestfall. Near the edge of the road, a fork splits off into multiple directions. South of the fork leads to the entrance of Deep Rock Mine. The mine’s entrance stands agape, resting at the base of a mountain. The mine’s layout, a cavern of crisscrossing and haphazardly formed tunnels, awaited past the thick darkness entrapping the entrance. They curve and wind up the spine of the mountain, as well as descend deep into the now dead earth.
The face of the mountain was bare but rough. Rocks jutted and sloped along its curvature, forming a near mesmeric pattern of spiked granite. Towards the peak, a malicious and not all entirely natural pattern emerged. As the acidic rain fell, framing the mountainous backdrop, the pattern watched and waited. An almost human-like visage stretched along the face of the mountain like canvas pulled over a wooden frame. It’s design scorn into the rock itself as if meticulously laid out to warn any who dared breach the confines of the swamp.
Silence lingered amongst the misty atmospheric dredge, save for the muffled and subtle ambietic sounds of the rain. Through the dead foliage and gnarled remains of creatures recently passed, a sound rang forth. Distant exclamation and reverberated clanging rhythmically sounded from deep within the mine. Up and down the mine laid stalactites and stalagmites haphazardly stationed around every corner. Their abrupt positioning cast shadows wherever light felt unable to reach. The mine walls were smooth from years of work and toilage, along with the long uninterrupted tunnels, created an almost echo chamber for sound.
Abrupt crashes and distant thrashes echoed through the winding chamber. Its sounds detailed a fierce battle between clashing swords and fervent blows.
Or so it would seem.
A sword, emblazoned with the sigil of a raven, flew across the dimly lit room. Its body crashes and clings as it skips along the floor, its blade slashing and carving thin lines into the granite flooring as it makes contact with the ground. A fierce shadow sprawls along the cave walls, depicting a struggle between foes.
The wanderer-and recent owner of the raven crested blade-crashes to the floor. Leather straps firmly tied around his shoulder blades catch most of the weight of the fall, but pain still echoed through his nerves.
“Hells! You slimy bastard!” The wanderer winces and yells in a blinded fury. “You don’t play fair, and here I thought we were having a nice sport of it.”
No reply immediately came from his opponent, still standing off near a downed torch. Flame wisped and flicked along the ground, casting shadows and dreaded omens as if they were ripped directly from a child’s nightmare.
At once, the foe stepped forward. The shadows sprawled across the walls painted a disturbing picture of horror and grotesque form. Imaginative figures born from shadows were always so much more terrible than the beings that cast them, but in this case it was clearly the other way around. The foe opposite The Wanderer lurched forward, it's body a gnarled vestige of exoskeleton and mandibles. It almost resembled a large insect, like a praying mantis that decided its evolutionary cycle had not quite finished yet.
On multi-socketed legs, it snapped and convulsed along. Every movement of its body felt agonizing, as if the creature was hastily thrown together by a quite absent god. Various olive and violet fluids oozed and dripped from its husk like body as it vocalized terrible sounds. The creature-seemingly unable to speak-produced noises from its mouth that resembled a mix of gargles and marbles being tossed along a wooden floor. All the while, its grotesque pincer like appendage snapped and clicked almost involuntarily.
The wanderer-still recovering from his fall-slowly pushed his body along the cold rocky ground, his arm still pulsing with pain.
“Oh my, what big mouths you have.” The wanderer teased sounding much more worried than he intended. ‘Always good to keep in control of the situation. Confidence is key.’ As he was always want to say, but this wasn’t an ordinary situation.
His arm traced along the ground, reaching and prodding for his recently lost weapon. Daring not look away from the oncoming threat, he felt nothing. His sword was currently resting near the opposite side of the cave room, resting flat along the ground. Away from The Wanderer’s grasp, far away from being of any further use here it seemed.
Doubt surged through his mind, but only for a short time. ‘Doubt breeds more doubt, and further doubt breeds ruin’, another favorite.
Clenched palms moved along the granite flooring. Leather gloves scraped and bruised as The Wanderer lifted back to his feet, regaining balance and fervor. The arm that had broken his fall felt numb and altogether absent.
‘Dislocated most likely, not a big enough fall to break.’
The insect-like foe-still closing the distance between them-snapped and gurgled in an almost territorial display of aggression.
The Wanderer grinned, placing his uninjured arm against its opposite’s elbow, before violently, yet methodically, pushing it upwards. A clear snap, followed by a dull pop echoed through the room. Feeling began pouring back into his arm as the vibrating itch of numbness faded. Both arms began to raise, fists clenched, the leather gloves creased and squelched from the sheer pressure as his hands formed tightly wounded fists. Fists pointed squarely towards the all not entirely normal creature still gurgling and jerking along the shadow filled room.
“Oh...” The Wanderer began. “I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t enjoy every second of this.” His fists raised up, reaching level with the bridge of his nose. “Come one now, give us yer best.”
As if understanding -and altogether disliking- the series of vulgar remarks thrusted toward it, the creature squealed through its deformed face. The jerking motion its movement seemed to have before was replaced with a fluid dash as it quickly closed the distance between the two adversaries. Arms outstretched as its gnarled and jagged hands opened and closed with violent snaps and twinges. Reaching out, grasping the air between them. The gap closed quickly, much quicker than he anticipated, but not enough to catch him entirely off guard as he shifts weight from right the left. The slender frame of his body flanking to the side of the creature.
Shadows arched and flailed with each movement, creating a strange optical illusion across the cave walls. The subtle shifting wind and osculation of the two fighters created an almost mural of events through the flames. Clashing swords, trumpeting horns and creatures that rivaled the tallest spires in Etheral began to converge into an unrecognizable painting of events. The fire loomed, gazing at the creature, at The Wanderer. Its gaze almost purposeful and full of intent. Neither the two beings made any note of the grand display unfolding around them. Fire is known to be a harsh mentor, and an even harsher ally. If one was to wander too deeply into its wounding gaze, one might find themselves trapped, forever living in the tapestry it painted.
The creature was fast, but nowhere as fast as him. Once useless, now repaired, the dislocated arm wrapped between the creatures glistening forearm, interlocking before weight shifted again. The creature stalled as if to reorient itself to face the man, but its movements were not its own. Quickly and deftly, The Wanderer placed immense weight on his forward foot, counterbalancing against the creature as their locked arms rotated and shifted sideways. Arching forward, the shift in balance quickly broke as the creature began to lift in the air as The Wanderer’s rear leg lifted to relegate pressure onward. Flailing and spewing its noxious fluid, the creature flipped entirely, finally crashing to the floor in a savage crunch. The Wanderer stands above, looking downward as it convulses in a fit of pain (could it even quantify pain) and anger.
A greyish foul-smelling slime coated The Wanderer’s chest and forearm. Small indentions formed along the hard leather surface of his jacket, most likely from the not entirely cosmetic spikes embedded into the creature.
“Alright, now I’d say we’re fairly close to a draw here.” The Wanderer began. “How’s say we handle the rest with a bit more diplomacy and grace? No point and making a bigger stink than we already got, but telling by the state of yourself, I’d say you know all about stink.”
The maddening gurgle of the creature slowed as its body began to calm. Its arms moving outward, sprawling along the hard granite rock as its legs raise along with the rest of it. Wet dew drips along the ground, rippling and casting weird reflections from all directions as the creature steps slowly along their puddles. Slow anxious steps it takes. Its demeanor changes from a wild and disturbed animal to a more methodic and wary being. Eyes of bluish gray sink into its head, pupils moving slowly, analyzing and taking in information. It stands straight, back locked into an opposing stance. God it was big. The man couldn’t much get a good measurement before with its body slouched over in a hermit like stance. It must be at least seven feet tall, equally proportioned from its legs to its torso. The head was rounded, almost human, with its bug-like mandibles protruding in a horrific fashion.
The Wanderer had dealt with creatures before. Along his travels he had come across a litany of monstrous beings; Wargs, Secrolants, Jittering Fiends, Goblins, Spiderlings. None of them quite matched the state of this one. Although he had heard of such beings, none had crossed paths before. The way it moved, the way it thought, it all was abnormal. It's quite simple to take a beast down, some you anger and gain the advantage, some you outsmart, others you can simply scare away. But this one.... oh, he was a different breed entirely. The way its mood could change mid-fight, or how it seemingly understood what was being said. And the way it stared. Thoughts were jutting along in the bug brain of its, and when monsters start thinking, all strategy and preparation goes out the window. Unpredictable is what they become, and prediction was The Wanderer’s bread and butter.
Wary now he waits, staring back at the creature. Locked eyes, they waited. Eyes filled with thought, filled with understanding and reasoning -but most egregiously- they were filled with malice. The fight was not over, they had just reached half-time.
“Let it not be stated that I did not strive for peace and harmony at every turn.” The Wanderer quipped, his hand raised once more, ready for another assault.
A flame flickers, casting shadows once again. Shadows of a man holding wolves at bay, hands outstretched to create a distance between them. The wolves circled and plotted, looking for weakness at every tune, but finding none. Leaves fell, becoming ash as they reached the ground. A fire spreads amongst the ash laden floor, consuming the visage, the man, the wolves. All in consumed in an immense concentrated heat, until the shadows fade to nothingness once more.
The creature meanders onward, just a few steps at a time; looking on as The Wanderer holds his footing, fists raised and ready. Each step of its hard glistening exoskeleton crunches against small rocks and debris sprawled along the cave floor, knocking them aside, producing echoed wails that seemingly bounced from surface to surface. After the third step it abruptly launches at the man, arms outstretched once more in a fit of animalistic fury. Thought seemingly left its eyes as they glazed over into a dull grey, the feeling and reasoning sinking further and further to the back of its mind. The Wanderer grinned, his stance loosening as the soles of his feet began to trace an outline of movement, preparing and readying for a counteroffensive. As its dripping breached the outline, The Wanderer shifted his weight once more, quickly flanking the creature to the side once again, but something was off. His eyes traced the movements of its body, of its arms, of its legs. The animosity in them seemed to almost shift mid attack, becoming lucid and methodical. As if the creature was dancing along with him. Even tracing down to the ground, the footing was wrong. Not his footing. He was always perfect. The dance was memorized, trained, honed to a sharp edge. No, it was the creature’s.
Abruptly the creature’s body shifted, its legs tracing backwards, its torso shifting to the side. A corrective action, a counterattack to his counterattack. Shadows of the pair danced along the cave wall, depicting a wickedly abstract waltz. The creature’s arm whipped outward, its claws barreling towards the thin leather separation between his elbow and forearm. God, it was fast. Faster than The Wanderer. Rip, flash, a bright light, then the crashing of feet as the two returned to their original standing.
It all happened so fast. Faster than he could articulate. He was used to speed, used to tracking and understanding battle situations, creating countermeasures, analyzing the most likely move and executing it within a fraction of a second. All of that was done, but it was all wrong. The creature moved in peculiar fashion, acted as if it were moving on instinct while simultaneously acting with thought and strategy. How could it possibly go both ways?
As he thought, mouth slightly open, breath pouring between his lips in a hot and heavy fashion, he hardly thought of anything else. They had made contact, but there was no feeling. Checking for wounds mid-encounter was generally out of the question with beasts. Often, they gave little time for thought or first aid, but the creature stood and waited. The dull grey look in its eyes were gone again, replaced with the methodical gaze of a strategist analyzing a battlefield. The Wanderer lowered his right arm and traced it along the path of his elbow, reaching his shoulder before he felt it. A definite gash traced about two inches wide, the depth of it couldn’t be guessed, but it had breached the leather. As his hand returned to a fist, warm fresh blood dripped between the fingers, falling and coagulating against the dust and pebbles along the ground. He had indeed been injured, but there was no feeling to it. All felt well, and that’s precisely why all was, in fact, not well.
“You’re a strange one. Not quite like anything I’ve seen before, but I’ll get to know you real well soon enough.”
His eyes moved from the creature, scanning along the ground. Before when this was a simple clean-up, a weapon would be handy, but hardly required of someone with his skills, but this was anything but simple. Parameters had changed, he’d very much like his sword back now.
It was nowhere to be seen initially. The room was dark, with little else than a soft glow from the fallen torch illuminating a small area and casting shadows that obscured others. Then it appeared. Near the feet of the creature, the raven crested blade sat where it had since the beginning of this strange dual. Thoughts echoed along in his head, casting suspicions and doubt in every facet of the encounter. Things were not as they appeared.
A slight grin crept along his face again, before quickly subsiding. “Think I have enough time for one more go of it. Care to lead?”
The creature stood, watching and plotting before the dull grey of its eyes appeared once again, launching it into another fury. It lunged, arms outstretched again, running full speed to the man. He simply stood, his hands loosening from tightly wound fists of rock to loosely packed fists of snow. His palms opened slightly; his footing loosened as the heels of his feet digging into the hard rocky floor. They began to move slightly, tracing a straight horizontal line where he stood as he slowly began to back away. The creature, still in a frenzy, closes the distance fast. Seemingly faster than any previous assault as The Wanderer ceased his slow backing retreat, his feet returning to a strong stance, soles digging deep into the earth. He takes in a breath, his heartrate slowing. The light sounds of the cave begin to grow, becoming more apparent and concentrated. Small droplets of dew falling from the ceiling, wind softly blowing along, echoing through the harrowed halls and the flickering of a flame slowly speaking its ancient language. They all converged, mirroring themselves as The Wanderer’s eyes closed. Time seemed to slow as the creature came closer, its steps further apart, its maddening gurgling seemingly floating away. It stepped, stepped and stepped along the ground, pushing pebbles and dust without thought.
Finally, it reached the line carved into the rock. Its foot crunched, making contact with the earth, and in an instant its eyes reverted again. The grey dullness seeping away to its methodically stategistic norm. In that instant, The Wanderers eyes erupted open. The chittering thing’s arms stretch out for his neck, hoping to seize his artery with its horrific claws. Quickly, quicker than anything that day, The Wanderer moved in a fast range of motions that all seemingly happened at once. His weight once again shifted, flanking the creature. His arms locked into a position of counterattack. The creature quickly issued its own countermeasure, once again whipping its body and throwing its claw outward, aiming higher than before, aiming for his neck.
A flame moved. Shadows formed along the walls once more, although they showed a different scene. A scene depicting two swordsman locked in deathly combat. Their swords swinging violently but with grace and purpose. They clashed a thousand times. Each time sending a spray of bright sparks that swelled through the air creating intricate patterns that lingered before slowly fading.
The creature was stuck, unable to move, unable to continue its assault and unable to return to its desired location. The Wanderer's palm grasped the creature's wrist tightly, locking it into a hold. The grey of the creature’s eyes were completely gone now as its pupils darted around in panic. His hand arched forward, his foot kicking –what would assumedly be- the creature’s calf, buckling its knees and forcing it to the ground. Cracking and popping erupted from the joints of its arm as his grip tightened. It’s gurgling became sporadic, as if pleading to be set free. He simply watched it, once against studying its behavior, its patterns, its mannerisms.
“You really are special. Not like anything in the world I imagine, but what makes you so special.” The Wanderer clenched his hold tighter, the creature falls lower, its face pushing into the cold rock. “You were playing a game, weren’t you? You understand what I’m saying too, and that I can assure you is indeed something special. Predicting my movements, using the techniques against me. You weren’t just fighting for a meal. You were learning, weren’t you?”
The creature clicked and gurgled, chittering against the ground as the hard surface of its arm began to crack.
“Now, I’m not opposed to teaching if I aim to gain something from it, but what I won’t abide is being played with. Now...” He plants his foot against the back of the creature's neck, both arms holding its locked appendage in a pulling motion. “I think I deserve to know a little more about you my foul-smelling friend, and if I’m right up until this point, you outta know exactly what I’m saying. I also assume you know a threat when you hear one. So...” His grip tightens, his leather boot slowly crunched against the creature’s skull. “Tell me what you are, and where you learned to be so damn special.”
The creature’s eyes widen, the dull grey returning, filling its retinas as it begins to violently convulse. A shrill screech fills the room, echoing along the walls, traveling through the twisting and winding tunnels of the long-forgotten mine. Shadows creep along the cave walls once more, scattering and convulsing, twisting into horrid and unimaginable shapes. Creatures that belong to fables and horror tales begin flooding along the shapes as the flame whips and crackles. The torch quickly combusts, the flames turning a sharp blackish violet. Heat bellows from the waves of ember emitting from the now monumental display of hellfire as the shadows multiply, taking over every inch of coverage. The Wanderer’s ears tremble at the immense noise, his vision begins to weaken as the shrill echo reaches a climactic crescendo. Any more of this and it’s all over, lights out.
He looks downward to the creature, its mind warped with whatever dark arts influenced it. His grip tightens as his foot presses firmly against the back of its head. Slow crunching and cracking sounds begin to intermingle with the terrible sounds of its cry. As the boot came down, harder and harder, the creature’s terrible screech began to thin and grow in pitch, like the air being slowly released from a balloon. Then, a horrendous snap before the head was no more. Violet and green brain matter covered the area around its neck as small fragments of skull of tissue caked along the sides of his boots. All at once the cry stopped, and along with it the room slowly began to darken. The flame began to slowly dwindle back to its original size, its color returning to a soft orange glow.
The Wanderer stepped back; his eyes firmly planted on the now deceased creature lying before him. A pool of its blood slowly trickled along the floor, reaching for his sword. Slowly, his body lumbered to the lost blade. Its handle was wrapped in scaled pitch blade leather, its blade a vibrant silver, still glistening with oil. The visage of a raven prominently scorn into the finish of the blade itself. Before the foul-smelling blood reaches the blade, the man slowly leans down to collect it. His body ached, his arms felt heavy and as the world around him began to dim, he retrieved the blade. Weighing it in his hand he felt secure, like a lost piece of him was restored with its retrieval. It felt so much heavier than before, or maybe he had just been weakened from the encounter. He gazed down upon it, his hand clenched hard around the dark leather handle. A dark fluid began to pool around his hand, streaming softly down from his arm.
The Wanderer turned his arm over, now looking at the wound he had taken from the creature’s first counterattack. It didn’t seem very bad, or at least not as bad as previous wounds he’d sustained, but the bleeding was alarming. It streamed softly, almost without notice. The blood itself was dark as well, as if it had already begun coagulation. A strange wound. A worrying wound. Suddenly his head became light, the room began to dim, and the walls started to blur. No, everything about this was wrong.
In the strange lucid state he was left in, he almost didn’t notice the changes around him. A quite fell over the room, the flickering flame seemed to even quite down to a faint whisper. A soft noise crept along the ground. Soft tapping, the sound of pebbles and rock being pushed aside, dust parting between single soft strides. The pain in his head grew louder, his heartbeat thumping from his chest to his forearm, ending finally against his forehead.
What is happening to me?
As if to answer, a rapid movement jostled him back to reality as he quickly turned, sword still gripped tightly in hand. A quick flash of movement rushed towards him, its motioned and sounds all too familiar to him. As nimbly as he can muster, he raises his blade outward in an attempt to impale the newfound enemy now barreling towards him, but a twinge of searing pain in his shoulder halts the attack. All he manages is a defensive stance, sword raised, arm placed behind the blade to prepare for impact as the creature crashes into him.
They both fall, splashing into the violet puddle of dank smelling blood that has pooled along the cave floor. A creature –almost identical to the one lying dead beside him- lies atop the blade protecting his body. Its arms crash against the leather bracers protecting his soft flesh. Claws come crashing down, scrapping against leather, making large slashes in them but not enough to break fully through the thick coating. Slime and mucus drip down from its maw, coating The Wanderer’s arms and neck. His arms are placed defensively against the side end of the blade, separating the two, but he can feel himself weakening further and further. Rough outlines of the creature emerge through blurred vision. Heat travels along his arm and forehead, casting confusion and sweat to pour over his body.
What the hell is happening!?
Suddenly, the creature lunges its head down, breaching the space between the blade and The Wanderer’s neck. Its snapping pincer like mandible opening and shutting in rapid and rabid bites. Before it has a chance to make contact, The Wanderer frees one of his trapped hands and grapples the creature’s head. With strength slowly fading from his body, he fruitlessly pushed back the creature's disgusting face. With every inch he pushes, the creature seemingly gains two. A battle of attrition begins. Snapping, clawing, drooling the creature continues its unending assault. Reach for the soft part of his neck in hopes of ending the encounter in a single bite. Just one slip, and its lights out. Forgotten and left to be fed on to a host of disgusting bugs. The thought rips through his mind, his veins fill with hot fire, his muscles contract creating energy that wasn’t there before. He pushes hard against the creature’s head, pushing it past the breach in the sword until his arm reaches full length.
The energy’s fading, the small window of opportunity’s closing, and for once in his miserable life, he can’t think of a thing to do. The hand not grappling with the creatures head pulls free from the back of the sword. His fingers slowly begin moving, drawing a pattern in the air. Faint lines form, like strokes from a dry paintbrush. Lines sparkle and faintly crackle with weak power, power being sapped away. The pattern is rough and unfinished, its edges not straight, its lines fumbling. The feeling in his fingers is weak. Strength fading, the pattern breaks as his hand twitches before returning to the blade. Fire begins erupting from the torch again, the strange violet flame re-emerges and casts strange shadows once again along the cave walls. Shadows depicting men falling in the thousands, figures standing above them. A strange light emits from the wrecked battlefield as the dominant figures rise, floating above, breaching unending clouds and sending a cleansing fire downward. Fire spreads along the walls, engulfing the shadows, casting them far away as it shrieks and flickers violently. The Wanderer’s vision begins to fade. The world around begins to dull. Rocky walls, granite floors, the creature all fade, losing color and becoming shadows themselves. Heat wells in his head, as tears stream down his cheek.
I can’t.
Shadows slowly engulf him as the energy drains from his arms.
I won’t
The creature’s face inches closer and closer to its target.
This is where it ends.
The fire erupts, banishing the shadows away once more, filling the room with soft orange light as the creature lunges uninterrupted at its prize.
Then nothing. The pain of stabbing pincers ripping along his throat never occurs. Instead, a loud CLAP echoes along the walls. It’s deafening and almost endless, but it's over in an instant. A river of fluid splashes along The Wanderer’s face and body. It’s warm and thick like syrup but smells like rotten apple cores. For a moment, he contemplates if this is death. A strange death, and a strange place to end up, but who’s to know. Before long his eyes opened. The creature that stood hunched over him was still there, but its head was entirely missing. Fragments of skull and viscera lined the walls and floor around him as the creature stood cold, dead. Seemingly out of nowhere, its head just seemed to explode.
“Did...” The Wanderer began quizzically. “Did I do that?”
Before an answer could be given, a shuffle could be heard across the room, hidden against the far wall deep within the dark. Slowly The Wanderer rose, knocking the deceased creature away from him, the feeling and strength slowly returning to his body. He stared off to the dark corner, waiting in vain for his eyes to adjust to the dark. They didn’t. Bending down, he grasped his sword in one hand, and what remained of the faint torch in the other as he cautiously meandered to the muffled sound coming from the dark corner.
“Gods, if it’s one more of these disgusting fucking things, I’m straight gone.”
Slowly, the image of a man appears. He almost seemed affixed to the wall due to some form of slightly translucent webbing sprawled across his body. His feet were a few inches raised from the floor as he hung limply against the wall. A thin layer of the same substance covered his mouth as he muffled violently to The Wanderer, his eyes red and spread as wide as they could go. Near the middle of the webbing his right hand was tightly bound, unable to move. On the other side, it seemed he was able to shake loose enough to free it. A silver revolver with gold carved inlays held tightly between his fingers. Faint trails of smoke emanated from the pistol’s barrel. The smell of spent gunpowder lingered In the air, a smell The Wanderer had memorized.
The Wanderer looked puzzlingly at the man stuck to the wall, before a spark of remembrance and realization came to life in his eyes. Sweat beaded down the side of his head, slowing before soaking into his shirt collar. That chance encounter had taken its toll, and had gone on for longer than he thought, longer than he had hoped.
“Hells man, I had forgotten entirely of you. Why not speak up next time?”
The stuck man convulsed in a fit of annoyance and fury as The Wanderer laughed heartily.

[ATTENTION: Brief loredrop/worldbuilding incoming. Pls don't get bored yet o.o]
Novany,
born from the ashes of war was a country of exponential growth and promising prosperity.
But 25 years ago from now, upon the assassination of it's 5th generation leader, it was thrown into utter chaos and mayhem. Neighboring countries, which were once old enemies, had formed a temporary alliance and together they took advantage of this disorder to raise the divide amongst Novany's people, hoping to conquer them in a joint skirmish.
However. Despite being divided and with no leader to listen to, the people still fought back. Not as one, but as an avalanche of fire that would consume those that dare come close to it.
After 3 years of combat and with no perceivable progress coming from it, the two nations forfeited their original endeavor and extracted their forces. Many expected peace to find this country once more. Unfortunately with no foreign threats to battle, many of Novany's people brought the fight to their own. Gangs and clans emerged, each vying for their privilege and territory in this war torn country.
It had become a strife zone. A devilish place where anarchy was ironically the rule.
Death had become a common open display. The smell of decay and throat scratching smoke was considered normal. It was the scent of violence that the people had grown familiar with. It wasn't rare to find someone dead if one traversed one too many corners.
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As one of Novany's residents, you too had grown slightly cold to the violence that raged outside your headquarters, granting you the ability to ignore whatever went on outside for at least a couple of hours. Enough time to engross yourself in an intense game of Uno with your gangmates. And just as you were about to throw your last card into the pile and declare yourself Uno's unconditional victor and hero, the doors swung open with one of your subordinates falling to his knees, visibly out of breath as he knelt there gasping before he looked to you and everyone present.
"We've got bad news! The leaders of Equinox are outside!"
Obviously you still had to throw in your card, because you were simply born a winner. But this did sound really bad. Equinox was one of Novany's stronger syndicates. You donned your jacket and headed outside. First the warm air greeted you. There it was, the scent of violence. And before you, in the distance, stood its harbingers.
The leaders in question were a duo of two men. Both relatively tall. One was a wall of muscle, donning a grey tanktop, covered in scars. He had dark, messy hair. Short at the front, but a long rat tail at the back. He looked almost creepy with the wide grin he wore and with his wide, open eyes, surrounded by dark rings. The other man wore a leather jacket, His face tattooed in a way that would make his visage seem similar to a skull. If this was literally anywhere else, you'd assume he was some rogue rockstar. He wasn't smiling. His demeanor was more nonchalant.
"Are you the leader?" Mr. Leather Jacket would ask. You responded with, "Yes."
"We'd like your turf. And if possible you and your members too."
"And I'm guessing we won't have a voice in your syndicate if we join?"
"Nope."
"Then over my dead body."
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Thanks for reading the brief introduction! As you've probably gathered, this story is going to be about a lot of fighting, gang stuff and surprisingly about a good amount of drama as well. If this sounds like it could be your cup of tea, feel free to send me a DM >:]
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Partner Requirements:

• fairly literate
  
• don't mind waiting a bit for responses (It is really bad timing. I know. But I've got exams coming up so I fear I won't be as active as I wish I'd be at the start. So yeh. It is what it is)