Ifris Lanvaldan's page

Internally, Ifris is paralyzed by the sight. It isn't outwardly as obvious to the others, it looks as though she's just giving everyone room to work, but internally she's terrified of what just happened to Glix and—if his words at to be believed—all of the others. It takes Muhnee's voice to shake her back to reality, and Ifris is quick to drop her sunrod and let it fall to the floor of the cave, swimming over alongside the angular slab of stone.

Without a word, Ifris tucks her hands under the stone and closes her eyes. The corded muscles of her astral suit surge, squirming like snakes beneath an oily leather. She waits for some of the others to come down in and help her. Surgically removing that leg isn't in her wheelhouse. Manual labor, however, is exactly what she's capable of right now.

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Ifris will try and be the lead for the first Strength check, hopefully with the aid of others.
Strength Check: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (15) + 3 = 18

Player aside...Gemma would feel the people in back are equally important to the people in front. She's basing her decisions purely on abilities and tactics. In her mind, everyone has a specific tactical position and she always has a reason behind it, even if no one else understands what the specific reason is:)

And to Robert...there may be an upcoming character tension (however brief or extended) between Gemma and Ifris. We'll see how it pans out if we survive!
:)

Excellent! Ifris', "IM IN CHARGE!" Promptly followed by "RUSHING IN HEADLONG BYE!" should definitely be called out. :)

Ha! Yes, "Jump" was the theme song I picked for her back then. Oddly appropriate now...

The comic book fan in me keeps seeing Ifris psychoactive skin as theVenom symbiote with Captain Marvel's mask.

Ifris looks decidedly different, standing by the rail of the ship as she peers over the water. Gone is her uniform, instead the black, form-fittig psychoactive skin is her only attire. The ridged material looks like corded muscle fiber in some places, while taking on a more rubbery texture at joints and other flex-points. Her bandolier of grenades is lazily swung over one shoulder. As she sees the rope tug and dart, all Ifris can muster is a grated curse between clenched teeth.

Like oil sliding across the surface of stone, the neckline of Ifris' suit expands upwards over her head and brow, leaving only her mouth and eyes exposed along with some of her hair at her crown in a black plume. "Come on!" Ifris exclaims, igniting her sunrod with a swift crack against the rail, before vaulting over the edge and disappearing with a splash into the murky depths.

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Ifris is going to follow the rope in. She will be carrying her sunrod in her mouth for the time being. No soulknife or soul armor conjured at the moment. Her speed is currently 40 and she will take a 10 on Swim checks when possible.

There's a reluctant understanding expressed in the way Ifris' stiff posture deflates with a prolonged sigh. She eyes Tanya for a moment, then the map again. She realizes that no amount of fighting will change the course they're on, and that she could pour over these maps for a month more and not find a better point of ingress than the tunnel. "I should be at the front," Ifris half-heartedly protests, running one hand through her hair as she does. She knows that isn't an option, knows that it's just a means to get this whole underwater thing over with sooner. The visage of the ocean's crushing weight all around her, suffocating and dark, is as uninviting as the notion that they might not be alone in those lightless depths.

"I suppose we'll have plenty of time to commiserate about this after we're done," is a more pleasant way to end the conversation, double so for Ifris. In spite of her protests, there is an undercurrent of respect for Tanya, if not outright camaraderie. Ifris doesn't really excuse herself, so much as she just excuses herself, heading back out the way she came in with the hopes that the sea air might clear her head.

It won't.

Staring at the map, it takes Ifris a few moments to realize something is amiss to her. "If..." she almost doesn't finish that sentence, hesitation taking hold of her confidence. "If they've gone through the effort of mining the shore, setting up all these defenses, what's the odds that the one critical weakness into the island's interior isn't a huge trap?" Ifris looks up at Tanya, concern evident in her features. "You don't just lay down that much aggression," her hand motions across the shoreline, vaguely indicating the traps and hazards, "and leave a blind-spot like that. I'd rather take my chances with the devil I know." Then, after frustrated noise, "I'd rather fight my way through the whole damned fort's defenses than get backed up in a kill-box, underwater."

Perfect. I was really wondering about that.

I don't personally know if Letmas has summon monster I available or not, but dolphin is on the 1st-level list. Of course neither Ifris nor I know if he could actually summon enough of them for everyone, or if they'd be strong enough to pull two people. But their swim speed is 80.

Avery Sea, onboard the R.N.S. Impossible (berth deck, aft officer’s mess)

The door to the aft officer's mess creaks open, Ifris Lanvaldan spilling in with little fanfare. She had excused herself shortly after the briefing, found her way to the stern and taken a few minutes to herself to regain composure. An aloof presence doesn't seem out of character for her, the truth would be. Not everyone is made up out of the stories written about them, though, and Ifris Lanvaldan is no exception to that rule.

Discomforted by the presence of the others in the mess hall, Ifris almost excuses herself out the same door she came in, were it not for making accidental eye-contact with Tanya. A resigned expression sinks across Ifris' face, and the former marine reluctantly makes her way over to the table where Sparhawk reviews the maps and charts of the planned incursion. "Tanya," dismisses any pretense of formality. There's also no real vitriol there either, just Ifris' usual taciturn delivery.

For a moment, Ifris just stares at the maps, arms crossed over her chest and head inclined down. Dark bangs fall to shield her peripheral vision from allowing Tanya to make eye contact again, but when Ifris threads that errant lock of hair behind her ear, she turns to look at the other constable. "I don't like this plan," she opines quietly, not wanting to cause too much of a commotion over it. "I don't like putting both teams in an underwater tunnel, I don't like the idea of being underwater, I don't..." She abruptly concludes her sentence with a snort. "I don't like this."

Visible worry, some rational and some not, furrows Ifris' brows. "Never been bery big on caves either, in case that comes up." Ifris adds in an attempt at a more light-hearted tone. Leaning in next to Tanya, Ifris traces two fingers across the northeastern shore of the map. "Why don't we just drop anchor off shore, out of sight, and have Letmas summon in a... I don't know, a f@~+ing pod of dolphins. They haul us in to the beach underwater, then we come from the shore onto land and avoid the whole damned tunnel." To punctuate her point, Ifris taps two fingers down on where the tunnel is on the map, disapprovingly.

Then, brows still furrowed, she looks up at Tanya. Don't make me go underground isn't said, as much as its implied.

I'm working on a post, I'll have it up tomorrow. This is a surprisingly complex situation for Ifris to be in and I've had to deliberate her mental state and consider all the new NPCs.

Ifris angles a side-long stare at Emerson, then looks back up to Constable Sparhawk. The simmering tension beneath Ifris' surface had been ever so steadily diminishing over the course her time at sea, but it comes boiling back with a quickness. Though the tension never truly left her, it stayed just beneath the seemingly placid surface of Ifris' stoic demeanor. In private, in the relative silence of her bunk, there were times that belied something other than the stoic soldier persona that Ifris presents to the world. A momentary glimpse of something less certain, something youthful and frightened, when the sea pitched just so or the hull groaned ever so noisily.

Those familiar with Ifris' personal history — and how she came into the power she has — know the tragic fates that befell the last crew she was ever out at sea with. It is perhaps no small surprise that she has spent much of her time above-decks, vigilantly watching the horizon for signs of enraoching danger. It isn't the open water that instills this sense of unease in Ifris, it's the memory of blood in it. Constable Sparhawk doesn't have Ifris' undivided attention at this meeting, the horizon does. Or perhaps something beyond the horizon, like a memory of home.

9 Spring (Afternoon), 500 A.O.V.
Lanvaldan Estate, Flint City

Loose stone crunches under Ifris' heels on the way up the gravel path to her townhouse. Iron gates clatter shut behind her, bu tit is the familiar brownstone townhouse ahead that has her full attention. The crawling ivy clinging to the walls patterns green veins across the dark exterior of the residence, the same shade of green as curtains barely visible beyond the many windows. Passing through the courtyard, Ifris struggles to maintain a sense of composure. The servants at the gatehouse watch her back, and the last thing she wants is to lose her composure in front of them. Pushing open the front doors with unsteady hands, Ifris clenches her teeth when she reaches the well-appointed foyer, stepping inside and slamming one side of the double doors shut before slouching against it, a deep sigh escaping her as she seemingly deflates against the door.

A choking sound in the back of Ifris' throat comes as she wipes at her eyes, hands still shaking. She leans there, up against the door, supported only by its sturdy construction. "I hope I didn't come at a bad time," calls an unfortunately familiar voice from the adjacent doorway to the sitting room. Ifris chokes back a strangled noise and paws at her eyes again, hiccuping back a soft, mournful sound before resorting to using her uniform's sleeve to wipe her eyes dry the rest of the way. When she looks up, Ifris needn't see the woman leaning against the door frame to know who she is. A tall silhouette, strong shoulders, a mane of black hair barely constrained by clips and pins. She's not in uniform, which sets the tone some, but still, she's—

"Mother," Ifris nearly stammers. Embarrassment flushes her face red, her hands tremble for entirely different reasons now. "I—I don't have time to talk. I just came to—"

"Have yourself a good cry?" The words sting.

"No," comes across as perhaps a bit too protesting. Ifris finally leans off of the door, shoulders slouched slightly, posture stooped. "I have an assignment." The frustration in her tone is evident. "I came to pick up some—"

"Ifris, you're not ready." Major Catherine Sinclair-Lanvaldan is a decorated hero of the Yerasol War, an officer who led from the front. Ifris grew up in Catherine's prodigious shadow, constantly needing to find a way to live up to her mother's standards. As Catherine makes slow progress from the sitting room's doorway across the foyer, Ifris wilts in her mother's presence. "You know I'm only looking out for you, for the people whose lives you'd be responsible for."

Ifris rankles at that subtle accusation. "I'm not a f*cking child!" Face redder than it was before, Ifris tries to straighten her posture. Hands clenched at her sides, Ifris stares down her mother on approach. "You're not going to talk me out of this. Father wouldn't—"

"No one is talking you out of anything. Your father is going to put you back with the King's detail. Don't fight—"

"Don't talk over me!" Ifris screams, voice ringing off of the high ceiling. Beneath her uniform, she can feel the psychoactive skin squirming. Rousing from its slumber. Reacting to her emotions. Catherine's brows furrow at the raised tone of voice, her lips downturning to a frown that creases the corners of her mouth. She lets Ifris have her words. "I'm not seeing the physician anymore. I'm not playing Aodahn's f*cking cup-bearer anymore! I have powers, I was meant for this!"

Catherine clicks her tongue, coming to a stop near to her daughter, arms crossed and expression difficult to read as always. Ifris' eyes move to the adamantine wolf's head badge clipped to the lapel of her mother's coat. Its expression is as severe as hers. "Ifris..." Catherine's tone softens subtly, and Ifris looks up to her with reddened eyes. "What happened to you during the war—it was terrible. Not everyone recovers from that. You didn't. You may not ever. If you go out to sea..." Ifris tenses, "They're going to put you in a position where others' lives are in your care. If you freeze up, if you relapse—"

"You can't keep me behind a desk forever! You can't keep shuffling me around like some—like some f*cking porcelain teacup! I don't want to be remembered as the woman who squandered her power behind a f*cking desk, cleaning the crumbs out of His Majesty's f*cking beard!" At that, Ifris steps around her mother, glaring over her shoulder at her as she storms off into the sitting room.

Catherine wheels around, brows furrowed and teeth clenched. "Ifris Lanvaldan!" A shout like drill-instructor's clarion call chases after Ifris as the young soldier retrieves a bandolier from a wooden rack beside a decorative suit of armor. Slinging it over her shoulder, Ifris looks back to the doorway as Catherine's tall frame fills it. "It's already done. Your father is already on his way to speak to Delft and get this corrected." Ifris scowls, tightening the bandolier and checking that the grenades in it are secure. Catherine eyes that motion, one brow raised subtly.

"Then father can have Delft swim the reassignment out to me. I'm leaving tonight." As Ifris pushes past her mother, Catherine's expression shifts to one of genuine surprise. Ifris notices, and stops her departure long enough to shoot a satisfied look back at her. "You don't know everything," comes off as smug, but Ifris doesn't care in the moment. "You can show yourself out."

Seeing Ifris departing, Catherine takes a few quick steps before realizing that no matter how fast she moves, she'll never catch up to her daughter in any meaningful way. Much like smoke, no matter how hard she tries to grasp, Ifris will slip between her fingers. Catherine's jaw tenses, her breathing hastens, and her vision blurs ever so subtly. When the door opens, then slams shut, a soft and mournful noise escapes from the back of her throat.

If Catherine is right, that will be the last time she ever sees her daughter. Even if she is wrong, it may still be.

12 Spring, 500 A.O.V.
Avery Sea, onboard the R.N.S. Impossible.

Ifris offers a brief look to the wolfhound at Sparhawk's side as if it had said something to her. The beast's stare is without recognition, without malice, and yet Ifris sees her mother's eyes in the wolfhound's, sees that menacing badge on her jacket, sees every moment of disapproval and disappointment. Taking a step to Emerson's side, Ifris clears her throat and offers him a brief look. Then, to Kirby, she clarifies with a challenging tone that escapes her lips before she can really think about what it is she's saying.

"I am in charge."

A gray streak coming down the quay as the sun dips below smoggy clouds soon reveals itself to be the delayed Ifris Lanvaldan. Something about her demeanor had seemed off since the initial planning phase for the mission, her glibness when dealing with Lya seemed somewhat out of place for those that knew her. The more taciturn countenance storming its way down the quay seems more in line with the Ifris of stories and uncomfortable anecdotes. She makes no excuse for her tardiness, and that too seems wholly out of line for the normally tight-laced soldier.

Quietly, Ifris makes her way to Anneca's side, offering out a single copper scroll tube with gold-gilded etchings along its stopper. Ifris seems armed for a conflict more in line with a siege than an infiltration mission. Her bandolier is stocked with a pair of metal tubes that can only be powder grenades, utility pouches at her belt fuller than they once appeared in their last engagement. There's a nervous tremor in her jaw, a slight tick at the corner of one eye; eagerness or anxiety is difficult to immediately ascertain.

"Eager to get on with this, Sir." Ifris' voice is huskier than usual in her delivery of the dismissive greeting. Those words are offered up through her teeth just a little more than in the past. Emerson and Muhnee recognize the shift, though the cause is again uncertain.

Johnathan earns a side-long look from Ifris, almost conspiratorial, but a conspiracy of one leaves much to be desired. "Lanvaldan," Ifris adds as a belated recognition of rudeness. "Constable Ifris Lanvaldan." The pride of first human psion unspoken for perhaps the first time in many introductions.

So sorry I've been incommunicado, I've had a lot on my plate the last week. I had to sequester myself to ensure I got what needed to be done accomplished. I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to shout out beforehand. I'm out from under the weight and ready to move.

@Aneccia: You now have two scrolls: hold portal and arcane lock.

Darn on the wand.

Ifris will foot the bill for both scrolls. She's a low-GP requiring class combo. They'll be gifts to our resident arcane spellcaster. I'll have a full shopping list tonight.

Nope.

Range touch
Targets creature touched

I also think we should pitch in for a wand vanish and scrolls of arcane lock and hold portal.

Ifris will buy into that wand too.

I'll figure out her other expenses shortly.

I'm also unable to imagine anything other than the Dollet Beach Landing from Final Fantasy 8 right now. Hopefully there's no giant spider golem that'll chase us out of Axis.

A very, very busy one!

"Perish the thought!" Ifris feigns a gasp of indignation.

Ifris leaves the minister's comments about her written work aside, and that only her blade is the only thing called out as a specialty is kept between her teeth, held to be used at a later point. Right now, the odd assortment of cylinders and wire is what gains both Ifris' attention and ire. Any indignation she might have suffered is instantly washed away when Johnathan swiftly and deftly assembles the puzzle components into—as it appears to Ifris—the proper configuration. An amused smirk creeps up on Ifris' lips, one brow raising as she looks up to meet the minister's eyes, head tilting to the side again.

"Marines," Ifris quips with the subtle hint of laughter in her tone, "always a surprise, yeah?"

Earlier, on the road...

The corner of Ifris' mouth quirks up into the fairest bit of a smile, her head cocking to the side as if to regard Johnathan a bit more carefully. One brow raises, and there's appreciation there. He doesn't know her. There's favor in anonymity. "Marine," she clarifies, raising an empty hand as if to toast. It will have to come later.

That, as it turns out, is the extent of their conversation over that hour. Two soldiers, discovering similarities on and off the field.

And now...

LeMont is muttered internally as Ifris watches the smirking docker slip out of sight. She'll have to reconnect with both he and Talysa later, if nothing else than to bond over the fact that the three of them are still alive after all this time. Those two, one more so than the other, may be her only true friends—to whatever extent that is actually the case.

"Ifris Lanvaldan," is her terse introduction to the minister. Her mother would make her chin-up, her father would straighten her posture just so. Neither of them are here right now and her distaste for government officials–especially ones with an air of superiority–is hard to suppress. "First human psion," comes whip-crack fast after, as if delivering it with a snap of punctuation. ALmost challenging the minister's own race's claim to that status.

"I'm just here to stop bullets and fill graves, Ma'am." Slightly more proper, slightly less disdain. She wants to be here, even if it isn't with this person.

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In this post, Ifris rankles at everything!

9 Spring, 500 A.O.V. – early morning, just before eight o’ clock

Sitting across from Johnathan, Ifris has had her feet propped up on the bench next to him off-and-on for the majority of their trip. While their encounter during the evacuation in Shale seemed to exude the attitude of a proper soldier—a career soldier—that decorum dissipates out of watchful eyes. In spite of that, Ifris has remains markedly terse during their journey across the countryside to Flint. Ifris isn't one to spark up conversations, and her one-word answers to even the most casual of questions hasn't helped reveal much about her, other than her general distaste for small-talk.

After three days of "confinement," in her own words, the normally stuffy constable has become somewhat more relaxed, and in equal measure more frustrated. "This would've been faster if we walked," is possible the first full sentence she's uttered in Johnathan's presence in days. Her stare flicks from out the carriage window to Johnathan. Though she makes eye contact, Ifris struggles to find the right words, chewing on the inside of her cheek in pensive contemplation. It is an awkward moment between the two, her lingering stare and the silence punctuated by the clunk and rumble of the carriage.

"Marine?" Ifris finally thinks to ask, though from her expression (and inability to hide her thoughts from being plastered across her face), Johnathan can tell there's an ulterior motive behind the innocent, and obvious, question.

Sorry! Been a busy week, I'll be able to post tomorrow morning.

4 Spring, 500 A.O.V. — Near Midnight, Shale City, Blackwatch Keep, Garrison Prison

"Ifris Lanvaldan, RHC. We're the backup, I suppose." That last bit sounds a little dismissive, or perhaps jealous of the more prestigious assignments. "As for topside, short version: Not good," is Ifris' explanation to Jackson. "Long version..." She shakes her head, looking down at the floor momentarily before meeting Jackson's eyes again. "We'll fill you in when we're not hip deep in sh*t, deal?" Ifris' stare briefly flicks to the young man who survived this encounter, then up to Anya with furrowed brows added. Then, when she looks back to Jackson she asks, "You good with that?" The pistol, as evidenced by a quick gesture with her blade to the firearm. "We're probably going to need to fight our way out of here, unless..." Ifris' attention shifts to Anya again, one brow raised.

Orders?

"Civil war," comes from the back of the room, from the amber aura shimmering like fire in the dark. Ifris Lanvaldan approaches the cage, a wide blade of glowing light burning in and around one of her hands. She surveys the cell, up and around the stone frame, then step saround Anya and moves towards the bars. "Stow it," she suggests to Anya, then brings her right elbow back, angling the tip of her mindblade at the lock.

"I've got the key."

With a single forward thrust, Ifris punches her mindblade through the lock mechanism. In that motion, the muscles in her right arm bulge and surge, a ripple of corded muscle twisting sinewy in the black body-suit worn beneath her uniform. When the blade punches through the other side of the lock, Jonathan sees the fiery orange weapon as multiple planes of hardened light, radiating that firelight glow from within. Ifris twists the mindblade in the lock, sawing backwards a few times with concerted effort before finally withdrawing the mighty blade with a rattle and crash of falling pieces of the lock mechanism to the floor. With her free hand, Ifris hauls the cell door open.

"Constable," she intones with an incline of her head. "Welcome back to active duty."

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Damage to lock: 2d6 + 3 ⇒ (3, 3) + 3 = 9
Damage to lock: 2d6 + 3 ⇒ (3, 3) + 3 = 9
Damage to lock: 2d6 + 3 ⇒ (1, 6) + 3 = 10

4 Spring, 500 A.O.V. – near midnight
Shale City, Blackwatch Keep, Garrison Prison, Ground Level Cellblock

Anya. In her head Ifris hears it in a chiding tone, the don't get us killed is implied. Outwardly the former marine braces herself against a wall, the coarse fabric of her uniform brushing up against the cool stones. "One sec," Ifris requests, realizing that now that they've come this far a lightly armed and armored group isn't going to fare as well in tightly closed quarters. Her mindblade had been enough to carry the weight up until now, and not being slowed by armor allowed Ifris to close in with her comrades evenly. But now, heavier arms are required.

With a moment of concentration, Ifris calls into being the layered armored plates of goldenrod light around her body. Segmented plates of armor snap into place from the base of her neck up over the top of her head and then claps down across her face with a slatted visor. The wedge-shaped shield of light forms over her free arm, and Ifris' muscles—enhanced by the psychoactive skin worn beneath her uniform—surge with superhuman strength. In that surge, her mindblade flares brightly and widens into a broad blade, then juts outward another foot in length.

"Let's go."

2 Spring, 500 A.O.V. – Late Afternoon
Flint City, Lanvaldan Estate, Ifris' Townhouse

A warm glow, evoking the memory of candle flame, blossoms from a series of wall-mounted sconces as Ifris Lanvaldan walks past. The lights are subtle magic—a proximity lantern that stays lit only while living creatures are present, then fades gradually as they move from within range—perfect for lighting spaces such as basement stairwells, where carrying a lantern could be problematic. Ifris pays well for this upscale residence, paid equally well to have the basement refitted from a wine cellar to a training facility. Down past the winding wood and stone staircase there's enough feet of earth and rock to muffle the noises of experimentation.

Walking through the open door at the bottom of the stairs, Ifris enters the spacious single-room basement. Reed mats are layered over the cold, stone floor to provide modest padding for more acrobatic endeavors. Recessed stones in the ceiling warm slowly on Ifris' arrival, shedding torchlight down from above without the danger of smoke and flame. Barefoot, she crosses the reed mats and retrieves a pair of leather knee and elbow pads with quilted interiors. Each pair are strapped on over loose gray clothing fit for the kind of athletics one would expect to be performed in a space such as this. Ifris palms a roll of white tape with a mild alchemical adhesive side from a shelf and begins wrapping her hands and feet, sitting cross-legged on the floor as she does.

The distraction of ritual helps distance Ifris from Sorkana's visage in her mind's eye, helps temper the sensations of rage and frustration that threaten to boil over when she remembers their confrontation. Once prepared, Ifris walks out to the center of the practice floor and holds her arms out at her side, then leans forward into a series of often-practiced stretches. The sound of Divianne Athel's screams ring like the faint hum of tinnitus in her ears, a reminder of her inability to protect those who trusted in her. The screams of crew and comrades much longer removed by time are a more faded memory, though no less painful.

Once her warm-up is complete, Ifris closes her eyes and draws in a slow breath. Holding it, she raises her hands from waist to chest level, then as she exhales pushes her hands forward as a haze of tiny fragments of light form around her wrists, extending outward into two distinct shapes: one a sword, the other a shield. A moment of stillness comes between the formation of her arms and the sudden, sharp movements that define her fighting style: forceful, direct, sharp. There's a mechanical precision to Ifris' strikes, like an automaton running through a series of punch-card instructions. They're functional, but unimaginative. To Ifris, it was this routine style that contributed to Sorkana's escape. Each of Ifris' own personal failings is examined over and over again as she replays strike after strike from the confrontation.

Thirty minutes of repetition has Ifris coated in a thin sheen, though not all of it perspiration. Tiny beads of black fluid coalesce in irregular formations along with sweat, the highest concentration closest to her conjured arsenal. It doesn't wipe off easily, has a tacky tar-like texture. The odd, oily perspiration has baffled Ifris since she first came into her abilities. Frustrated with her lack of progress at refining her technique, Ifris dismisses her shield and focuses on strikes with her conjured blade. That it projects out of her arm like an extension of her fist gives leverage, something she has yet to capatlize on, and developing a style that takes advantage of this leverage is a long process.

For over an hour Ifris performs an exhausting regimen of weapon drills, practicing dismissing and re-summoning her psychic blade over and over again. In some instances she splits the blade into two smaller knives, but fighting with two weapons is a clumbsy affair for her. Likewise is combining her shield and sword into a massive blade too unwieldly. A larger cutting edge could have meant the difference between Sorkana dying and escaping.

Try as she might, Ifris can't manage both the massive sword and her shield at the same time. The perceptual weight of the summoned blade puts too much strain on her elbow and shoulder. During one experimental swing, however, Ifris pushes herself too hard. Her shoulder pops, elbow follows, and a lance of pain shoots both directions towards collar and wrist. As she screams, Ifris drops to one knee with her free hand moving up to clutch at her now dislocated shoulder. Breathing heavily, Ifris refuses to dismiss the massive blade and every moment she tries to support its weight sends hot spears of agony through her. Gripping her wrist with her good hand, Ifris tries to force through the pain, tries to push herself beyond all reason as memory of that near miss to Sorkana's heart replays over and over in her mind.

The tingling sensation in Ifris' arm isn't from the pain, but something slithering down her skin. By the time she notices oily, black rivulets of a sticky substance running from shoulder to wrist its too late. In a sudden burst of fluid, Ifris' arm is engulfed by that black substance. It bubbles and roils down her arm, covering her like liquid rubber, then snakes, slithers, and squirms up her shoulder towards her neck. Panicking, Ifris dismisses her soulknife in a haze of firelight, but the terrifying mass is only growing more bold. As she tries to walk, Ifris finds herself tangled in a stringy mass of tacky slime. It bubbles like tumorous growths, then forms spiderweb veins up the side of her face before flapping over her mouth and nose. Trying to suck in a breath, Ifris' face is shrouded in a suffocating mass of protoplasmic death. She falls onto her back on the floor, hands pawing at her face in futile desperation.

Soon, Ifris' entire body is coccooned in the liquid as it bubbles and churns, tightening like the wrapping on her hands and feet until it snugly conforms to her body. A sudden, jarring pain comes as the fluid tightens around Ifris' shoulder and elbow and twists like a constrictor, snapping her dislocated shoulder back into place. Her scream is a muffled bubble of black against her shrouded face. But at the moment when Ifris feels light-headed and breathless, a hole tears open for her mouth and nose, soon disgorging her entire head and sloughing back down away like a hood. Ifris screams, pulling herself up from the floor as the fluid substance loses its sticky coating and the leftover residue on the floor dissolves with the speed of rubbing alcohol exposed to the air. Soon all of the pain is gone, and the suit takes on a matte, rubbery texture with powerful, corded muscles that nearly doubles Ifris' visible bulk and casts her silhouette less like a gymnast and more like a body-builder.

"What," is all that Ifris can breathlessly mutter, feeling the second skin like an extension of herself. Panic turns to confusion as she realizes that this flesh-like coating has sensory input, that she can feel it as if it were a part of her own body, make it contort, twist, and unsheathe from her in the same way she would control an appendage. With a thought, much like dismissing her conjured arsenal, Ifris causes the skin to dissolve into a greasy haze, leaving her entirely.

For a few, long moments Ifris stands in silence in the training room, staring at her aching arm. As she focuses on the sensation of tingling that preceded the skin's appearance, Ifris can see the beads forming on her fingertips and palm, following the path of her veins atop her skin. Then, fiber-by-fiber, the substance weaves ink-black muscle and tissue until the second skin covers Ifris once more. She feels stronger in its presence, feels the agility and speed it grants her, feels super-human under its influence. Again, the skin—some sort of psycho-active substance—a psychoactive skin, she surmises, disappears with but a thought, only to be reformed with a more focused concentration. Experimentally, Ifris pulls the psychoactive skin over her face like a cowl with a mental image in her head, allowing an opening in the top and sides for her hair to fall free, then pulls it back down to her neck with another thought.

"Holy sh—"

It was going to be a long night.

I've been screaming like a child at Christmas all morning.

Ifris remains quiet while King Aodahn is introduced to the other members of the team that saved his life. All the while, the dark-haired soldier watches the floor, rather than the king. There is a troubled look on Ifris' face, one that she has been unable to shake ever since Sorkana escaped. Given time to brood on the matter, Ifris has circled back on her strategy in the fight, looking for fault or failure in her technique that could have allowed the terrorist to elude her. That close call keeps coming to mind, the moment when Ifris' blade passed within a hair's breadth of Sorkana's chest — should have been the killing blow — but was narrowly avoided. Her mother wouldn't have missed, Ifris chides herself. Catherine would have split Sorkana from crown to crotch in one swing. Her father—Ifris judges herself by his standard as well—he wouldn't have even allowed the situation to deteriorate to the point it was at by the time she arrived. He'd have figured everything out. They'd have—

Ifris leans away from the wall, moves her hands to her hips and seems unable to stay still. The longer she's here, treading water, the further away Sorkana Dell gets.

Hey all, I'm back! I'll be catching up and posting at some point today. Hope you all had a great weekend!

Mention of Sorkana's escape paints Ifris' expression darker than usual. HEr eyes, which had been downcast for much of the meeting, flit up to Anneca after Emerson explains her fate. There's a storm of emotions churning behind Ifris' eyes, but none of that manages to boil to the surface. Instead, she turns her attention back to the floor with arms crossed.

Nobody's killed her yet remains unsaid.

Quiet and subtly having positioned herself apart from the other constables during the meeting with Delft, Ifris finally speaks up after Willem makes his bold suggestion. With one gloved hand waving in Willem's direction, Ifris inclines her head towards Delft and raises one brow. "Muhnee has a point," she notes rather matter-of-factly. "I hate to come off as a dog with a bone, Sir, but I'd rather not go back to my—ah—routine, until I'm certain that the responsible parties have been apprehended. That woman," Ifris hadn't known Sorkana's name in the heat of the moment and felt awkward even now saying it, "was highly trained and dangerous." The implication being that the constabulary needed to fight fire with fire, so to speak.

"Provided I can still get some time to catch up with Dane," Ifris adds as a request atop a request. "We owe each other a drink after all that." Then, brows furrowed, Ifris crosses her arms over her chest and looks askance towards Willem, then back to Delft. "Oh and... that officer who helped us, Athel? She's got iron for guts and black powder for blood. I'd like to thank her personally for her help."

Sabotage! | Round 12, Initiative 17
hp 8/13; AC 19/12T/17FF; +2F/+4R/+4W

FA: Dismiss mind shield
MA: Move to AK30
FA: Talk
MA: Move to AL29 (Ladder Well) and slide down to Engine Deck. (Take 10 on Acrobatics for 11)

____________________________

Ifris seethes, pivoting where she stands in a futile attempt to discern which direction Sorkana fled in. The sound of water off the port side of the ship. Reflexively, Ifris turns to Divianne Athel with an outstretched hand, "Rifle!" But when Ifris' eyes level on the severely wounded young woman, the rage is replaced by a heady mixture of guilt and concern. While Ifris doesn't vocalize belay that order, her deflated posture and averted eyes conveys it more clearly. There are more pressing matters at hand.

As Ifris approaches Divianne, her focus fades from the shield on her left arm. The shield breaks apart into weightless motes of firelight, each piece uniformly hexagonal and glittering. Eventually, the motes dissipate entirely into a briefly distorting haze, then nothing. "Stay here," isn't spoken like an order—even if Divianne might take it that way—there's too much compassion. "I'll find someone to tend to your injuries. But, I've gotta make sure we don't blow up first." There's a smile there, fleeting, but still an expression most don't often see from Ifris. Half of it is from nerves, the other half is some awkward attempt at being reassuring. Ifris herself isn't sure why either is necessary right now, and yet there it is.

Turning from Divianne, Ifris hops onto the ladder and slides down into the engine deck. She lands with the clatter of her psychic armor, its muted orange glow not the only source of firelight down here. Heat, smoke, and the crackling snap of flames assaults her senses. The temperature difference between the engine and berth decks immediately obvious. "Emerson!" Ifris calls out through the engine deck, "You dead!?" She knows better.

Sabotage! | Round 11, Initiative 17
hp 8/13; AC 21/12T/19FF; +2F/+4R/+4W

MA: Move to AK26
FA: Retrieve alchemist fire from bandoleer as a free action as part of movement.
SA: Throw alchemist fire at the grid intersection of AJ/AK 23/24 (This includes Sorkana's last known position) (AC 5)
> Ranged Attack: Alchemist Fire: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (19) + 3 = 22
>> 1 point of fire splash damage to Sorkana.

____________

Even as Sorkana is disappearing into a heat-mirage, Ifris is moving ever forward. The determined constable advances, though as she does her blade-wielding hand flexes open and the bladed wedge of energy protruding forward from it disappears in a glittering flutter of hexagon-shaped motes of light. Hand freed, she reaches up as she moves to withdraw a tempered glass flash stamped with a copper seal from her bandoleer. Ifris pauses a few feet from where she saw Sorkana disappear, then hurls the flask down to the ground with as much force as she can muster. The glass shatters and the tar-like fluid inside bursts into flames the moment it is exposed to the air. Shards of broken glass, sparks, and a tongue of flame erupt from the deck and briefly craw and dance up Sorkana, casting Ifris in a fiery glow.

Raising her shield slowly, Ifris' brows furrow. Her expression all but screams her determination, paints her as the relentless hound as Sorkana herself noted. Even though she is injured, Ifris remains unwavering.

"You can run, but you'll die tired."

Just a heads up that I will be out of touch until Tuesday while filming.if you have to NPC Ifris she will continue to relentlessly fight Sorkana and distract her from the wounded marine. If it comes down to Ifris taking a risk to save the marine's life she will.

See you guys Tuesday!

Sabotage! | Round 7, Initiative 17
hp 13/13; AC 21/12T/19FF; +2F/+4R/+4W

MA: Move to AM28
SA: Attack Sorkana
> Melee Attack (mind blade): 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (17) + 4 = 21 (hit)
>> Mind blade damage: 1d8 + 3 ⇒ (3) + 3 = 6

_______

Fire, screams, smoke. Ifris is rushing across the deck towards the scream before she even realizes what is happening. The corporal smells like burning flesh, screams muffled now because of the pounding adrenaline and needle-point focus on the other woman. She's a silhouette in Ifris' vision, a humanoid blotch with limbs and intentions and vulnerabilities. She fails to register as a person any longer. That's how it makes this easier.

Ifris comes around the capacitor in a fast walk, shield up and mind blade cocked back with bent-elbow as if she were ready to deliver a gut punch. Once she's around the corner of the capacitor, Ifris' speed picks up and she practically leaps at Sorkana, shield drawing back at the last minute to allow her to punch out with that radiant blade of hard light. She wedges the blade between Sorkana's shoulder and pectoral, kicks off of the capacitor's glassteel wall for leverage and tries to pry her open like a baked phesant. Blood flows out of the wound, any sound Sorkana makes blurs together with the rest of the sensory chaff Ifris ignores. The blade withdraws, Ifris takes a half step back and exhales sharply. She raises her shield high and close, its top angled forward, ahead of the bottom edge, to keep the splashback from any more fire magic from coming up at her face.

"Stand down," is a firm order, all business. There's a part of Ifris that knows—wants—Sorkana to keep fighting. Her mother's side; the wolf.

Sabotage! | Round 6, Initiative 17
hp 13/13; AC 21/12T/19FF; +2F/+4R/+4W

FA: Speak
FA: Perception: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (2) + 6 = 8
FRA: Double move (using that 30-foot speed enhancement for 1 round) to AJ25 going down the stairs.

______________________________

When Ifris is asked for orders, a brief look of surprise mixed with horror crosses her face. It's easily played off as nerves to everyone but herself. "Corporal," all business. So much business that Ifris stops moving and turns back to the soldier, posturing as though she wants to raise a hand, clap it on Corporal Athel's shoulder, and tell her to run for her life. Unfortunately being armed for a full-scale confrontation means her hands are occupied. Perhaps there's some dignity in that. "I need you to go topside. Find Director Price-Hall and—discreetly—inform him that there's an attempted sabotage in progress that is being handled." A brief glance to Willem as if to ask it is being handled, right? Then, back to Corporal Athel. "Go on," has an unspoken I don't want to see you get hurt appended.

After handing down orders to the Corporal, Ifris swiftly makes her way to the stairs.

"Muhnee," all business. A look through the door to the sounds of combat has Ifris briefly questioning whether or not the others should be left behind, but Muhnee knows his peers—with the exception of Emerson—better than Ifris does. "I'm not an engineer," sounds more apologetic than informative as Ifris turns from the door to follow alongside Muhnee, "So unless you want me to cut the engine in half, I don't know how much help I'm going to be with that part. How many hostiles have we confirmed?" In spite of Willem's mention of the ladder, Ifris looks to be heading to the nearby stairs; whether that is to split up and come at the below deck from two directions or some other internal reasoning isn't clear.

Sabotage! | Round 5, Initiative 17
hp 13/13; AC 21/12T/19FF; +2F/+4R/+4W

FRA: Run (x4) to AL 17

_________________

Brows furrowed, Ifris regards the unusual discharges of energy with momentary concern. Without an engineer, however, these mysterious discharges are of less immediate concern than the idea of armed insurgents in the below-decks. Ifris breaks into a run, boots slamming on the metal grating below as she clears the ladder. With her blade-laden hand, she gestures to the Corporal to watch the door as she moves into position. When she reaches the end of the grating, Ifris comes to a momentary stop, feeling the tingling surge of adrenaline running down her arms and burning in her chest. "Be ready for anything," Ifris warns the Corporal.

Forgot to specify: forming mind blade as a one-handed piercing weapon.

Sabotage! | Round 2, Initiative ??
hp 13/13; AC 21/12T/19FF; +2F/+4R/+4W

MA: Move to ladder shaft and quick descend
Acrobatics DC 15: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (20) + 6 = 26
MA: Form Mind-Blade and Mind-Shield
>> Hero Point Use: Additional move action
MA: Form Mind-Armor
FA: Queue big damn hero theme.

__________________

The sound of shouting and gunfire coming from belowdecks sends a chill down Ifris' spine. Back tensing, she brows furrow and eyes go momentarily wide. There was a time—not all that long ago—that she experienced a sensation like this when out at sea. Five years gone, those memories come rushing back when the pitch and yaw of the ship, coupled with cries of combat reverberate all too well through the pages of history.
 
 
 
Five Years Earlier...
 
 
 
 
 
The thundrous roar of cannonfire is deafening, even from across the divide of half a ship's width. Ducking for cover behind a tarp-covered pile of cannonballs, a young woman of sixteen clasps her hands behind her head and presses her brow to her knees. A whistling sound screams overhead, followed by the explosive crack of splitting wood and the clattering of chains. Jerking her head up to look behind herself, the young woman sees enormous mechanized grappling hooks deployed in the deck of the ship, chain tow-lines snaking across the deck before suddenly becoming taut, followed by a groaning pitch of the ship towards the Danor vessel that has come alongside.

Shouts and screams come from every direction, and several Risuri cadets charge past where the girl had taken cover. Sabers out, they move towards the port side of the transport, and from over the munitions pile, the girl can see Danor soldiers readying rifles as enormous winches haul the transport ship closer by the anchored grappling hooks.

"Lanvaldan!"

The voice sends a shock down her spine, and as the girl whips around to find the source, she sees Captain DeWitt with pistol in one hand and saber in the other directing the comissioned officers into the aftcastle. He brandishes his saber at the girl, indicating for her to join them and not go out with the other cadets. Scrambling to her feet, Ifris Lanvaldan sprints towards the door to the aftcastle as gunfire cracks out. Screams of the cadets at her back ring out amid the pop of musketfire.

Ifris skids on seawater, collides with DeWitt and quickly finds one of his strong arms around her midsection, hauling her close and then heaving her into the aftcastle. He yanks the door shut, backing away with his pistol trained on the doorway. "Watch the windows!" Captain DeWitt hollars, scanning out the aft side windows and seeing only ocean. A few musket pops accompany the port side windows blowing out and one of the officers collapsing to the ground clutching a bleeding wound in his shoulder. Two more go down to take cover and check the wound.

Broken glass in her hair, Ifris pushes up against a wall and breathes heavily. She stares out the aft windows to the barren island a few miles away. Hands trembling, heart racing, Ifris looks down to the blood on her uniform and realizes that some of it is hers. Her hand paws at a ragged part of her uniform at her side and comes away wet and red. Her mouth opens, a croaked noise escapes and she looks up to DeWitt to try and say something, but the words are drowned out by the roar of a cannon, followed by the explosion of the port side wall as a gigantic grappling hook smashes through into the room.

Screams join the clatter of demolished furniture, clattering glass, and flying fragments of wall and deck. Somewhere in the explosion, Ifris was knocked onto her side. It takes the cadet a moment to slouch up onto one arm, and she can see Captain DeWitt pinned to the deck by his left arm, the grappling hook having mangled it beyond recognition when it grasped onto the ship. "Lanvaldan, boarders!" DeWitt shouts, raising his pistol and firing over her shoulder.

Ifris finches, turns, and spots Danor soldiers crossing the enormous chain spanning the gap between the ships. DeWitt's shot takes one in the chest, sending him toppling over into the water between the two ships. The other four men advance with shields raised and curved swords gleaming in the light spilling through the demolished opening in the aftcastle.

Ifris turns towards the Danor soldiers, raising one hand as if to ward them off, only to find a fiery motes of amber-colored light trailing in the wake of her hand as it trembled, and a pressure building behind her eyes that demanded release.

What was happening?
 
 
 
 
Present Day
 
 
 
Ifris is running before she even realizes it, instinct and reflexes taking over where rational thought and caution once reigned supreme. Running, not up and away from the danger to alert security, but ahead and towards the sound of battle. Ifris only gets a few feet before springing into the air over the ladder shaft, kicking off an adjacent railing to throw herself at the ladder. Her hands grip the rings and boots scuff the sides as she slides down through the shaft and down to the next floor where the shrill whistle of a marine just rang out.

As the berth deck comes into view, Ifris leaps off of the ladder. Amber colored motes of light swirl around Ifris' hands again as she springs through the air, coalescing into geometric damond shapes that glitter and trail behind her clenched hands. Soon, those points of light soon solidify into something else entirely.

Plates of force the color of sunlight on a summer afternoon begin to form inches off of Ifris' body. Segmented plates over her arms, angular pauldrons, a curved chestplate with segmented abdominal guards, greaves resembling the armored plates of some giant insect—both oragnic and inorganic in appearance—with a lattice of diamond-shaped light plates like some sort of luminous chain at the joints.

A diamond-shaped shield composed of multiple plates of golden light forms in Ifris' hand and slams into the floor with a shower of sparks as the soldier lands in crouched posture. She looks up, quickly, black hair falling down to frame her face as pieces of a golden helmet of light snap into place around her head, leaving a roughly chevron-shaped space where her eyes and the bridge of her nose can be clearly seen.

As Ifris stands, glowing plates of light around her right arm swirl and pivot into position as a two and a half foot long blade of energy snaps into being, extending out off of her forearm, seemingly hovering around and above her clenched fist.

Sabotage! | Round 2, Initiative XX
hp 13/13; AC 12/12T/10FF; +2F/+4R/+4W

MA: Move across upper deck to forward stairwell and descend.
SA: Survey surroundings Perception Check: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (5) + 6 = 11
FA: Hunch about environment Sense Motive: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (17) + 3 = 20

__________________

Ifris was never one to scrutinize opportunity, even if that headstrong determination is what got her collecting dust here in Aodhan's prodigious shadow in the first place. The Director's request is another such opportunity, but more importantly it is a relief—however temporary—from the position as window-dressing. Ifris steps aside to Anya, giving her a knowing nod and motioning to the vacancy behind the king's back, followed by a quick gesture in Price-Hill's direction. She needn't say more as she departs; the two soldiers speaking the same nonverbal "language." Discretely extricating herself from Aodhan's retinue to insinuate herself into the crowd with gentle application of shoulder and hip and dutiful stare. She knows Muhnee doesn't relish being relegated to the position of highly-polished errand boy, but that wouldn't impede him from being the best godsdamned errand-boy on the ship. Something doesn't add up.

Making her way through the crowd, Ifris recognizes the difficulty she's having in hearing her own footsteps—or even the voices of the crowd—over the band. If something were delaying Muhnee and the others below decks, there'd be no way for anyone topside to hear. That thought has Ifris' pace hastening. Submerged paranoia about this entire operation going too smoothly comes bubbling back to the surface as Ifris' social anxiety heats to a boil, pressed as she is just so between throngs of spectators. If roles were reversed, if she blamed the chip on her shoulder on Aodhan, this is when she'd act.

Once she's halfway down the foredeck stairs, Ifris picks up her pace and enters the gun deck. Rows of cannons flank either side of the spacious floor, each row briefly drawing her attention and reminding the former marine of her service during the war—such as it was. The quiet of the gun deck compared to the upper deck strikes Ifris the wrong way, enough so that her first steps off of the stairs are slow ones. Glancing back up over her shoulder, Ifris eyes the stairwell, then back to the gun deck's open space and plentiful shadows. Where was Muhnee?

DEVINNNNNNNN!~

Glad to be back aboard!

Hi All!

Just to give you guys a heads-up, I'm super busy because of the holidays and haven't been on the Internet outside of my phone in a few days. I'll be delayed in updating things till this weekend, most likely, though if I manage to steal a little time here and there I will!

I hope you all had an excellent week! :D

Round 34 - Initiative 15
hp 6/13 (4 damage is nonlethal); AC 21/12/19; F +2, R +4, W +4

Free Action: 5-Foot Step North to AD32
Move Action: Shape mindblade
Standard Action: Attack Sorkana with mindblade

Miss Chance 20%: 1d100 ⇒ 100 (possible hit)
> Melee Attack (mindblade) @ Sorkana: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (13) + 3 = 16
>> Damage: 1d8 + 3 ⇒ (6) + 3 = 9

----

Hot steam floods the engineering deck, billowing clouds of white that conceal the fighting going on as the dangerous heat rises. Ifris Lanvaldan has no mind for engineering, no mind for the mechanical qualities of the ship, she has to pick her battles based on the skills she was trained with. Ifris Lanvaldan was trained to be a soldier, and a soldier fights no matter the adversity.

In the haze of the steam, Sorkana can barely see her own hand in front of her, but she can hear the thundering of boots and the clatter-clank of commotion through the grating above. For all that the steam had provided her cover, it also deprived her of knowing where her adversaries are. She can hear her breathing steady in her ears, replays her speech imploring her side of things that fell on ears too deafened by Patriotism to truly understand their meaning. Through the fog, an amber glow sparks up, drawing Sorkana's attention away from that thought.

Through the steam, Ifris' silhouette comes striding into view. The luminous plates of her mindborne armor shed a diffuse glow through the steam, giving her a warm fiery glow. Sweat slicks her brow, her hair is matted down to her head, glowing shield of light raised on approach. But as she moves, Ifris' right arm is down at her side, and from about elbow-level a golden spark begins to build. It courses down her forearm, then fans outward as if something were unfolding from her forearm. A three foot long blade of glowing amber light snaps into place, and Sorkana's eyes widen in a brief instant, reflecting that mindblade's glow as Ifris lunges in with the gleaming weapon.

The soldier cuts through the fog, charges in and thrusts forward toward Sorkana. Ifris' shield goes wide, them sweeps around over Sorkana's right shoulder leaving the two locked together in brief entanglement. Nothing is said, no words exchanged, but Sorkana and Ifris' eyes meet as the amber glow of the first human psion's weapons glow upwards between them. Ifris isn't even sure if her mindblade hit home, all she can see and hear are the boarders attacking a ship years ago.

Though her eyes have met Sorkana's, Ifris' do not see her; they only see the violent past.

Been updating games for three hours, very tired ~_~

I'll update here tomorrow!

Hey guys, just a heads up: December is shaping up to be a real bear at my office as law firms get in their billing in advance the end of the fiscal year, so I've been pulling overtime and generally working harder than usual. As such I've been pretty burned out when I get home so I may miss a day or two of posting here and there up through New Years. Please bear with me and any slowness to respond to stuff.

Round 36 - Initiative 15
hp 11/13; 4 nonlethal; AC 21/12/19; F +2 R +4 W +4

Move Action: Move to AD33
> Acrobatics (Move Through Threatened Squares): 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (2) + 6 = 8 (fail, but I'm not sure what kind of weapon Sorkana is armed with for an AoO; if any)
Standard Action: Shield bash @ Sorkana (retain AC bonus)
> Mindshield Bash: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (18) + 4 = 22 (hit)
>> Damage: 1d4 + 3 ⇒ (4) + 3 = 7

Sorkana HP: 9/22 (after two hits)
___________________

Seeing Sorkana teleport away a few short feet, Ifrit pivots on one heel and curses fighting such a mobile opponent in a snarl. Springing forward, the Risuri soldier tumbles along one shoulder, leaving a shower of sparks as her luminous plates of armor strike the deck. She rolls along her shoulder and winds up in a crouch beside Sorkana, leaping to the side to block her progress back in accompaniment with an upwards swing of that glowing shield of light.

The shield impacts Sorkana soundly with a sonorous hum and faint crystalline cracking sound as a flash of light. A shower of sparks erupts from the conjured shield on impact, glittering down to the flooring. With a flick of her head to the side, Ifris looks back to the two men approaching from before before turning her attention back to Sorkana.

"Call off your dogs and surrender!"