The Unborne
2012-05-14, 08:13 PM
James Marshall Wingates
Tongues of flame darted around the the Covent Garden Theatre: everything was on fire from the scant number of trees dotting the playhouse's boundary, to the multitude of litter piled conveniently around the entrances and exits, to even the convenient vegetable market just outside the building. In the midst of blaze and vapour, James Marshall Wingates, a debonair editor and thief (though not necessarily in that order), stands just below the steps into the theatre with embers dusted on his shoulders and small flames licking their ways around his apparel burning him for every second he remains stationary.
Behind the twenty-something bloke is a small drop-off into the Thames—a rather sweet relief; however, more pressing matters reveal themselves as the raging inferno in front of James parts ways and a humanoid creature constructed purely of fire steps from out the playhouse leaving ember footsteps in its wake. Though an amorphous shape, the elemental's long and flickering hair hints at an overall feminine nature. It mouths of a few words that sound like the sizzle of flesh meeting an unbearably hot metal.
Elsewhere
"Miss Gladstone?" a shrill voice calls out from behind a desk two sizes too large for such a tiny lass, "I think someone's at the door." Indeed, the young girl proves to be correct as a few knocks make themselves louder over the sound of snoring coming from one of the other bedrooms. The girl keeps her eyes on the governess trying to sneak a peak at how the more matured woman conducts herself in the routine tasks of an otherwise mundane day.
OOC:
James finds himself staring at an oncoming embodiment of fire while being on flames himself.
He takes 2 dice worth of lethal damage for two rounds (which includes this round [roll0])
Roll initiative.
Tongues of flame darted around the the Covent Garden Theatre: everything was on fire from the scant number of trees dotting the playhouse's boundary, to the multitude of litter piled conveniently around the entrances and exits, to even the convenient vegetable market just outside the building. In the midst of blaze and vapour, James Marshall Wingates, a debonair editor and thief (though not necessarily in that order), stands just below the steps into the theatre with embers dusted on his shoulders and small flames licking their ways around his apparel burning him for every second he remains stationary.
Behind the twenty-something bloke is a small drop-off into the Thames—a rather sweet relief; however, more pressing matters reveal themselves as the raging inferno in front of James parts ways and a humanoid creature constructed purely of fire steps from out the playhouse leaving ember footsteps in its wake. Though an amorphous shape, the elemental's long and flickering hair hints at an overall feminine nature. It mouths of a few words that sound like the sizzle of flesh meeting an unbearably hot metal.
Elsewhere
"Miss Gladstone?" a shrill voice calls out from behind a desk two sizes too large for such a tiny lass, "I think someone's at the door." Indeed, the young girl proves to be correct as a few knocks make themselves louder over the sound of snoring coming from one of the other bedrooms. The girl keeps her eyes on the governess trying to sneak a peak at how the more matured woman conducts herself in the routine tasks of an otherwise mundane day.
OOC:
James finds himself staring at an oncoming embodiment of fire while being on flames himself.
He takes 2 dice worth of lethal damage for two rounds (which includes this round [roll0])
Roll initiative.