Arabelle

arabelle blinks owlishly at morningstar's familiar food. "a cat?" "you could come along," he offers all of a sudden. and arabelle's hand comes up to twist at the ends of her bangs. did he know he was stephen star, world renowned actor, casually inviting along a woman who had already introduced herself as one of his admirers? for a moment, her control fails to catch up, and arabelle in morningstar's view appears a very familiar blend of flustered and hopeful. then her eyes turn somewhere else and her expression smooths over to comfortable neutrality -- if only because stephen star had

floor 29 held its breath. a black knight emerged from the sea. water sloughed off its armor as it marched toward the shore. a bright red gleam pours from its visage —furious? —[maddened]? and the thing beneath struggles for breath but its killing instinct is alive and well. belregor -guardian of the sword-, facing eighteen of aincrad's strongest, takes a stance. arabelle gnashes her teeth unconsciously, confused. a knight? out of all the unsightly things this floor could throw at them, it thinks the worst of it is a relic of its old age? is it time for her to look at the quiet sixth

like an abyss, morningstar. like you’re staring down a 14.4 kilometre hole and the bottom is made out of human viscera. but with her eyes closed, arms crossed over her middle, almost bent over herself in laughter, she looks just the part of an ordinary girl. "sorry…! so sorry, oh my gosh, i’m so sor--" arabelle presses the back of her hand against her lips, shoulders shaking, trying to dampen the rest of it as morningstar catches his breath. his scream might have scared the actual ghosts off. in that moment, he was perfect. "i was about to greet you normally, but you looked so nervou

"arabelle. tell them to bring it over themself." or: conversations that could have happened. (accepted.)

buying field rations and t4 immolation potion for 2,200 col.

"i stand corrected," she quips back. arabelle's second raid starts with her losing morningstar in the dark. her red eyes alighted on a bright nervous figure holding itself steady against a pair of frontline elites; not bright in a way that invited admiration like morningstar, she amends, but in a way that commonly drew condemnation and ire. the woman is an orange cursor. criminal by cardinal's decree. team 4 from the last raid had one themselves but pinball kept his distance and was merely tolerated. arabelle has a sense that this one is a friendlier face, and the tableau the trio paints

purchasing 1 tiger's balm for 3 mats.

there's jomei, talking to himself. then not-doe-eyed acanthus, diligently hacking away at the lion. arabelle brightens at her appearance -- their last interaction had ended abruptly and she had been wondering if she should just cut to the chase and send her that text. "okay!" she cuts in front of the lion and swings damocles down from overhead. the blade pierces its skull and rips through the bone and flesh in its path, leaving the mob gaping open from crown to jaw, and an ensuing shockwave from a sword art blasts the rest of it in roughly the same halves, sending shudders through the gro

a strike from behind -- weaker than morningstar’s but still packing a hefty punch -- and the nemean lion whirls around furiously and its paw comes within inches of colliding with the fluttering white of its attacker. here is where she’s supposed to take the hit. …just kidding. she’s picky. getting tossed around like a ragdoll is never a good look. arabelle tears damocles out of the lion’s hide with a sunny smile. she switches her grip and bats its head back, and it recoils when it makes contact with the spear point at the reverse end of her scythe. “i’ve fought this mob a couple

arabelle took one glance at the message and sent it straight to her spam folder. the next morning, morningstar invites her to hunt and talk, a prospect she would have found infinitely attractive were she not sleep-deprived and in the middle of reassembling dozens of her wounded pets. still, arabelle considers it over a cup of coffee, her chair turned toward the artificial sun, and sends back a prompt response. ARABELLE: Ok! she returns to the infirmary and supervises a trio of skeletons in medic jackets reattaching another's leg. the patient stands, wobbly at firs

text. -> POST ACTION: ST-I vs Pallid Mask.

text. -> POST ACTION: Missed.

text. -> POST ACTION: ST-I vs Pallid Mask.

text. -> POST ACTION: ST-B vs Pallid Mask.

text. -> POST ACTION: ST-I (Charge) vs Pallid Mask.