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Snippet #2773930

located in Wing City, a part of The Multiverse, one of the many universes on RPG.

Wing City

You have entered Wing City, the third largest city on Terra and its premier capital. Hustling and bustling with activity, this city serves as a hub of social and political activity, as well as the prestigious solo combat capital of the quadrant.

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OOC: Sorry for responding so late. I had a graduation to attend u_u. I hope I can keep up with you!

A deep beat of dark wings fluttered through his mind and echoed in the hollow of his chest. It was a sound that could not possibly have been picked up by mortal senses, yet mortal he was. For a moment he tore his eyes away from the peaceful face of the old man to scan the skies for, perhaps, a black streak momentarily blotting out the stars. He had only heard stories of his calling, these angels or demons. His kind before him had done the same, seeking them, hunting them. What he sought was so elusive, it almost became a myth even for himself--almost. But at last came the time, a time marked by the death of the old man, to write the ending to this myth and put it and them and all of them to rest. In order to accomplish this, his kind had been imbued with a knowledge and a gift, a gift that had been passed unto him.

Though the gift had been passed through generations and generations, its use was not entirely lost in his modern-age era. A small empty bowl rested in his palm; flashes of light swirled within as he concentrated on the Starbucks three blocks down the street. He reopened his eyes to find a black liquid in the once-empty bowl. Steam rose from his coffee--black, just the way he liked it. It was past midnight and he had work to do; he had no time to tend to a heavy heart and reminisce. Before sunrise, he had carried his grandfather to the crypts that tunneled beneath the church. He buried him among the bones of his ancestors, dating back centuries, some whose bones long dissolved into dust.

Though they resided in a church, they hardly held the same faith as the Christians that owned it. They were a nameless, esoteric organization, based not on blind faith, not atheists, not worshipers, but mediums. But to those who found it necessary to call them something, they were simply called the Gatekeepers.

He finished his cup of coffee and readied himself. He pulled up the loose sleeves of his robe, revealing the tattoos that patterned his hands and fingers and all the way to the sharp angles of his elbows. He held his arms before his eyes and brought them together precisely, the tattoos seamlessly forming two halves of a complicated design or hieroglyph or rune.

His hands clenched as if grabbing onto the handles to an invisible door. His toes dug into the ground and his legs braced him. The hems of his robes rippled in a whirl of wind that came from no direction. Slowly, quaking, he brought his rigid arms apart as if spreading two large invisible bodies, and in between them escaped a few rays of light, as if the dark night had been merely a curtain of torn black silk letting in the morning sun. It briefly illuminating his young but craggy face, lined with concentration, his teeth clenched with effort.

With a bark of pain, his arms flew apart in a burst of energy, threatening to tear themselves out of their very sockets. At last, a column of watery light rippled before him. His chest heaved as he slowly lowered his arms to his sides.

Good thing it was decaf, he thought. These portal-jumps always made him feel slightly queasy.