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paixaorpg2006-04-21 02:09 am
sadistic-ink.livejournal.com) wrote in paixaorpg2006-04-21 02:09 am
Entry tags:
Lunatic Fringe, We All Know You're Out There [Solo/Closed]
Character(s): Zorin Blitz
Content:Faia gets to babble in German in Paixao ... er, I mean. Zorin shows up. Ohnoes.
Setting: Muspelheim Gate [O3]
Time: Pre-dawn Saturday morning. Poor dear needs to get inside the dome before the actual sun comes up, don't she?
Warnings: Extremely bad language. ...In two tongues. And a lovely dash of violence, too. :D
"Scheiße!!" A chain of healthy swears was cut off abruptly as Zorin was deposited roughly on the ground, her scythe clattering to the side. Within an instant she was on her feet again, clambering for the massive weapon and looking for a suitable victim. But at this hour of the morning, what few entrants into the city were already proceeding into the gate. That left the woman alone on the grass, a good distance away from the entrance to the domed city. "Was zum Teufel?! Was ist los?! Herr Sturmbannführer? Doktor? Hans? Rip? ...Schrödinger?"
When none of her Millenium compatriots answered, the fit Zorin threw was truly a sight to behold. Throaty expulsions in loud German accented the scythe being brought up and chopped into the ground, a sizable peice of earth rent and sent flying. "Rein gar nichts!" Etcetera, etcetera. Once she'd exausted a fair portion of her extensive catalogue of vulgarities, Zorin jerked her head skyward, having realized something. It had been close to dawn back in England. That meant the sun was coming up.
...
And false Vampire or no, Zorin wasn't about to be caught undead out here when the sun did show up. And unlike Rip, she carried no umbrella to shield herself from certain death. She'd take a temper tantrum fit for a goddamned queen once she avoided going up like a Roman Candle. There was only one entrance into what looked like a vague sense of shelter. That gate. Zorin, being military for the most part, wasted no time. Making a mad dash for the entrance, muddied scythe slung over her shoulder, Zorin's dive for safety was cut off by a petite man who all but slammed the door closed in her face. She whirled to face him, fully prepared to remove a few of his limbs if necessary. He lifted a hand, unphased by the towering woman half-covered in tattoos.
"Name?"
Her jaw slackened, the grating of her molars together stopping. Why in the sweet fucking fuck was he asking for her name? What was this, some sort of outpost or police state? Fucking lovely. Not about to bandy words with some little pisser in a funny hat while she ran the risk of getting fried in her own juices, Zorin straightened to her full height, scythe balanced over her broad shoulders. A free hand fished out a fresh (if slightly rumpled) pack of Privats from her trouser pocket, lighting one. True, she was a military woman. True, she was technically in the Nazi Party. ...that didn't stop her from acting like a complete and total flaming bitch.
"SS-Oberstumfüher Zorin Blitz." He wrote the name down without missing a beat. Was he German too? Her brow lifted as he held out several small devices, and went even higher as he explained them and then told her to pick her favorite color. Tugging free the black one, Zorin didn't bother giving it a second look as she stuffed it in her back pocket. "Yeah yeah. Piss-cow an' all that. Jolly-fucking-lovely." Without a second thought or hesitation, her left hand shot out, snatching the pen from the man's grip and promptly jamming it up to the hilt in his ear. "That's for holdin' me up, fucker." He was already dead though, or in the process of it, so he didn't object when she promptly hitched the scythe from her shoulder and cleanly separated his head from his neck, setting the head on the booth. "An' that's because you're ugly, you cock-and-balls Hund de Scheiße." To add insult to injury and injury, the cigarette was snubbed out between his eyes, Zorin stuffing the butt up his right nostril.
Entering the gate and whistling cheerfully as she did, Zorin turned an inspecting glance skyward. Hm. The city had a roof. Was it for the night only? Would it open during the day, like those stadiums in America? Best not to risk it, at least until she could find suitable cover to wait out the night and see if the dome opened up. Quickly she darted into the nearest alley, spying just what she was looking for not far in. A pair of bilco doors - the entrance to someone's basement. Wrapping her heavy hand around one of the handles, Zorin pulled, pulling them open with a loud squeal of protesting metal. Inside was cool damp blackness. Beautiful. At least here she could sleep, and get her bearings. As for the owner of the building? They'd walk out of the basement holding their innards if they interfered. Plus, Zorin'd need a bit of breakfast come dusk.
Tucking herself into the corner farthest from the door, Zorin settled her weapon across her knees, her illusory eye closing. The right one remained open, glowing faintly crimson in the darkness. This was just like the old days. Before the Letzes Batallion, during the Reich. Unfamiliar enemy territory, survival at all costs. And if there was one thing Zorin and the other Millenium Officers excelled at, it was surviving. She pressed her head back against the corner, her toe tapping out a comforting rythym as she began to sing in her low grating voice. It was an old song, one they'd sung in the trenches to rally the Waffen-SS. It seemed fitting, at any rate.
"Soldat, Kamerad, faß Tritt Kamerad,
Tritt unter die Gewehre!
So muß ein jeder mit, Kamerad,
Dem Vaterland zur Ehre!
Dem Frieden dient das graue Kleid
Und nicht dem Krieg der Schmerzen..."
Content:
Setting: Muspelheim Gate [O3]
Time: Pre-dawn Saturday morning. Poor dear needs to get inside the dome before the actual sun comes up, don't she?
Warnings: Extremely bad language. ...In two tongues. And a lovely dash of violence, too. :D
"Scheiße!!" A chain of healthy swears was cut off abruptly as Zorin was deposited roughly on the ground, her scythe clattering to the side. Within an instant she was on her feet again, clambering for the massive weapon and looking for a suitable victim. But at this hour of the morning, what few entrants into the city were already proceeding into the gate. That left the woman alone on the grass, a good distance away from the entrance to the domed city. "Was zum Teufel?! Was ist los?! Herr Sturmbannführer? Doktor? Hans? Rip? ...Schrödinger?"
When none of her Millenium compatriots answered, the fit Zorin threw was truly a sight to behold. Throaty expulsions in loud German accented the scythe being brought up and chopped into the ground, a sizable peice of earth rent and sent flying. "Rein gar nichts!" Etcetera, etcetera. Once she'd exausted a fair portion of her extensive catalogue of vulgarities, Zorin jerked her head skyward, having realized something. It had been close to dawn back in England. That meant the sun was coming up.
...
And false Vampire or no, Zorin wasn't about to be caught undead out here when the sun did show up. And unlike Rip, she carried no umbrella to shield herself from certain death. She'd take a temper tantrum fit for a goddamned queen once she avoided going up like a Roman Candle. There was only one entrance into what looked like a vague sense of shelter. That gate. Zorin, being military for the most part, wasted no time. Making a mad dash for the entrance, muddied scythe slung over her shoulder, Zorin's dive for safety was cut off by a petite man who all but slammed the door closed in her face. She whirled to face him, fully prepared to remove a few of his limbs if necessary. He lifted a hand, unphased by the towering woman half-covered in tattoos.
"Name?"
Her jaw slackened, the grating of her molars together stopping. Why in the sweet fucking fuck was he asking for her name? What was this, some sort of outpost or police state? Fucking lovely. Not about to bandy words with some little pisser in a funny hat while she ran the risk of getting fried in her own juices, Zorin straightened to her full height, scythe balanced over her broad shoulders. A free hand fished out a fresh (if slightly rumpled) pack of Privats from her trouser pocket, lighting one. True, she was a military woman. True, she was technically in the Nazi Party. ...that didn't stop her from acting like a complete and total flaming bitch.
"SS-Oberstumfüher Zorin Blitz." He wrote the name down without missing a beat. Was he German too? Her brow lifted as he held out several small devices, and went even higher as he explained them and then told her to pick her favorite color. Tugging free the black one, Zorin didn't bother giving it a second look as she stuffed it in her back pocket. "Yeah yeah. Piss-cow an' all that. Jolly-fucking-lovely." Without a second thought or hesitation, her left hand shot out, snatching the pen from the man's grip and promptly jamming it up to the hilt in his ear. "That's for holdin' me up, fucker." He was already dead though, or in the process of it, so he didn't object when she promptly hitched the scythe from her shoulder and cleanly separated his head from his neck, setting the head on the booth. "An' that's because you're ugly, you cock-and-balls Hund de Scheiße." To add insult to injury and injury, the cigarette was snubbed out between his eyes, Zorin stuffing the butt up his right nostril.
Entering the gate and whistling cheerfully as she did, Zorin turned an inspecting glance skyward. Hm. The city had a roof. Was it for the night only? Would it open during the day, like those stadiums in America? Best not to risk it, at least until she could find suitable cover to wait out the night and see if the dome opened up. Quickly she darted into the nearest alley, spying just what she was looking for not far in. A pair of bilco doors - the entrance to someone's basement. Wrapping her heavy hand around one of the handles, Zorin pulled, pulling them open with a loud squeal of protesting metal. Inside was cool damp blackness. Beautiful. At least here she could sleep, and get her bearings. As for the owner of the building? They'd walk out of the basement holding their innards if they interfered. Plus, Zorin'd need a bit of breakfast come dusk.
Tucking herself into the corner farthest from the door, Zorin settled her weapon across her knees, her illusory eye closing. The right one remained open, glowing faintly crimson in the darkness. This was just like the old days. Before the Letzes Batallion, during the Reich. Unfamiliar enemy territory, survival at all costs. And if there was one thing Zorin and the other Millenium Officers excelled at, it was surviving. She pressed her head back against the corner, her toe tapping out a comforting rythym as she began to sing in her low grating voice. It was an old song, one they'd sung in the trenches to rally the Waffen-SS. It seemed fitting, at any rate.
"Soldat, Kamerad, faß Tritt Kamerad,
Tritt unter die Gewehre!
So muß ein jeder mit, Kamerad,
Dem Vaterland zur Ehre!
Dem Frieden dient das graue Kleid
Und nicht dem Krieg der Schmerzen..."