Post by Iyre on Oct 12, 2021 16:11:25 GMT -5
Twelve years ago
“You can’t win you dumbass. You’re big but muscles don’t mean shit.”
The other Heran pressed her boot down hard on the back of Iyre’s head, forcing her face into the puddle of acid rain that spread throughout the filthy alleyway.
Six years ago
“You’ve got talent, but you have no control. That is why you will fail.”
The Konatsian’s sword scored another slash across Iyre’s chest, blood welled from the wound. Despite the distance between them, it was as though he were able to reach out and touch her.
Three years ago
“There’s more to power than hitting people, Iyre.”
She tried to pull against the bonds of energy that the Captain had wrapped about her limbs, but they stayed strong and taut, pinning her arms firmly to her sides.
When she was just six years old, Iyre’s anger had been a small thing. Barely a candleflame. But the words of the other girl, just a couple years older than her own, as she ate the sweetroll that Iyre had managed to steal first, began to fan those flames.
She’d always been big for her size, and that normally was enough to keep the others from messing with her. Zpyte, though, was a prodigy at manipulating her energy and that had been enough to force Iyre to her knees.
And then the anger had built, and with it the first time her muscles had bulged and broken through.
Zpyte got to eat the sweetroll, but every other meal she had was 'eaten' through a straw for months to come.
When she was twelve years old she’d stepped onto her first battlefield at the command of another. The armour had felt strange but the promise of violence had excited her. She’d pulled on the power she had mastered, to boost her size and strength, and she’d cut a swathe through the lesser warriors – as any Heran would.
Then the Konatsian had appeared and began cutting her to ribbons.
That had pissed her off.
But the anger in her festered into something deeper. An inner rage that could not be quelled so easily. The more he cut and slashed at her, the more refined her rage became. Until she had grasped it, seen his technique, and unleashed it back at him with everything she had inside her.
The gobbets that were once that great hero of his people fed the carrion birds that day. His legend ended the moment he had condescended to her.
When she was fifteen, she was starting to be considered for more important positions within the crews she flew with. Nobody could doubt the intensity of her anger, the quality of her rage. She was a titan amongst the forces she worked with, and she was still growing, every single day.
But the Captain could restrain her with a flick of his wrist. Her power was raw, unfocused, and he thought it had limits.
That was when she pushed past them for the first time.
When her rage went further; became sheer fury.
How DARE this man think he could hold HER back?
The emerald incandescence inside her had flared, her muscles had grown heavier, larger, bright green power had arced through the core of her being and she had bellowed her hatred before tearing the chains to shreds with her bare hands.
By mutual agreement, she left the ship the next time it returned to Hera. The Captain refused to speak of what had occurred between them to any of his crew. She never saw that man again. Power. He had spoken to her of power, just as others had spoken of her intellect, or her control. But none of them had ever truly looked at her and seen what she was, who she was, or where that overawing strength of hers came from.
Violence was merely the expression of anger given form. Battle was just a way of expressing rage against the people who dared to stand before you and think themselves your better. War, was nothing but the fury of civilisations writ across the face of planets and stars.
She could never verbalise these things; may never find the right words to explain them. She was not a philosopher, nor was she a scholar or a politician. She was not even, truly, deep down, a warrior. No. What she was…
… was anger. RAGE. FURY!
Right now.
"You have no idea what real power is..."
“THEN SHOW ME!”
In a display of utter rage, Iyre’s hands grasped tight to the collar of her own armour, and in a frenzy, she tore it from her body. Left only in the torn and battered black bodysuit beneath, the woman slammed her fists together, green fire burning across her body as she screamed her defiance.
She could sense how strong he was. She knew how much more potent than anything she could summon he was. But even as he said he could become stronger, she made no apologies; did not back down even a single step.
Her eyes were shrunk to pinpricks. The extent of the injuries he had already inflicted made painfully obvious without the armour to hide them; deep gashes and gouges from which rivers of blood had poured.
“SHOW ME! SHOW ME! SHOW ME! SHOW ME OR I SWEAR TO EVERY GOD I’LL KILL YOU!”
Her voice was a guttural, rasping roar. And at last, one of the Dragon Clan Elder onlookers raised his hand.
“Perhaps, this has gone too far—” He began.
But the Warrior Clan Elder he had been sat with cleared his throat, and shook his head.
No. At this point, there was only one satisfactory way for this to end; it could not be called off simply because it was dangerous or distasteful to the sensibilities of the non-warriors present.
(Wordcount: 987/3963)
“You can’t win you dumbass. You’re big but muscles don’t mean shit.”
The other Heran pressed her boot down hard on the back of Iyre’s head, forcing her face into the puddle of acid rain that spread throughout the filthy alleyway.
Six years ago
“You’ve got talent, but you have no control. That is why you will fail.”
The Konatsian’s sword scored another slash across Iyre’s chest, blood welled from the wound. Despite the distance between them, it was as though he were able to reach out and touch her.
Three years ago
“There’s more to power than hitting people, Iyre.”
She tried to pull against the bonds of energy that the Captain had wrapped about her limbs, but they stayed strong and taut, pinning her arms firmly to her sides.
When she was just six years old, Iyre’s anger had been a small thing. Barely a candleflame. But the words of the other girl, just a couple years older than her own, as she ate the sweetroll that Iyre had managed to steal first, began to fan those flames.
She’d always been big for her size, and that normally was enough to keep the others from messing with her. Zpyte, though, was a prodigy at manipulating her energy and that had been enough to force Iyre to her knees.
And then the anger had built, and with it the first time her muscles had bulged and broken through.
Zpyte got to eat the sweetroll, but every other meal she had was 'eaten' through a straw for months to come.
When she was twelve years old she’d stepped onto her first battlefield at the command of another. The armour had felt strange but the promise of violence had excited her. She’d pulled on the power she had mastered, to boost her size and strength, and she’d cut a swathe through the lesser warriors – as any Heran would.
Then the Konatsian had appeared and began cutting her to ribbons.
That had pissed her off.
But the anger in her festered into something deeper. An inner rage that could not be quelled so easily. The more he cut and slashed at her, the more refined her rage became. Until she had grasped it, seen his technique, and unleashed it back at him with everything she had inside her.
The gobbets that were once that great hero of his people fed the carrion birds that day. His legend ended the moment he had condescended to her.
When she was fifteen, she was starting to be considered for more important positions within the crews she flew with. Nobody could doubt the intensity of her anger, the quality of her rage. She was a titan amongst the forces she worked with, and she was still growing, every single day.
But the Captain could restrain her with a flick of his wrist. Her power was raw, unfocused, and he thought it had limits.
That was when she pushed past them for the first time.
When her rage went further; became sheer fury.
How DARE this man think he could hold HER back?
The emerald incandescence inside her had flared, her muscles had grown heavier, larger, bright green power had arced through the core of her being and she had bellowed her hatred before tearing the chains to shreds with her bare hands.
By mutual agreement, she left the ship the next time it returned to Hera. The Captain refused to speak of what had occurred between them to any of his crew. She never saw that man again. Power. He had spoken to her of power, just as others had spoken of her intellect, or her control. But none of them had ever truly looked at her and seen what she was, who she was, or where that overawing strength of hers came from.
Violence was merely the expression of anger given form. Battle was just a way of expressing rage against the people who dared to stand before you and think themselves your better. War, was nothing but the fury of civilisations writ across the face of planets and stars.
She could never verbalise these things; may never find the right words to explain them. She was not a philosopher, nor was she a scholar or a politician. She was not even, truly, deep down, a warrior. No. What she was…
… was anger. RAGE. FURY!
Right now.
"You have no idea what real power is..."
“THEN SHOW ME!”
In a display of utter rage, Iyre’s hands grasped tight to the collar of her own armour, and in a frenzy, she tore it from her body. Left only in the torn and battered black bodysuit beneath, the woman slammed her fists together, green fire burning across her body as she screamed her defiance.
She could sense how strong he was. She knew how much more potent than anything she could summon he was. But even as he said he could become stronger, she made no apologies; did not back down even a single step.
Her eyes were shrunk to pinpricks. The extent of the injuries he had already inflicted made painfully obvious without the armour to hide them; deep gashes and gouges from which rivers of blood had poured.
“SHOW ME! SHOW ME! SHOW ME! SHOW ME OR I SWEAR TO EVERY GOD I’LL KILL YOU!”
Her voice was a guttural, rasping roar. And at last, one of the Dragon Clan Elder onlookers raised his hand.
“Perhaps, this has gone too far—” He began.
But the Warrior Clan Elder he had been sat with cleared his throat, and shook his head.
No. At this point, there was only one satisfactory way for this to end; it could not be called off simply because it was dangerous or distasteful to the sensibilities of the non-warriors present.
Active PL: 24,000 x (6000 x4 'Unbound' activated!)
Action for the turn: Scream, shout, throw a tantrum. No action.
KP: 2/6
MP: 1/6
HP: 145/250
Available Resources:World Breaker Cannon (Heavy Sparking Technique)
Action for the turn: Scream, shout, throw a tantrum. No action.
KP: 2/6
MP: 1/6
HP: 145/250
Available Resources: