I know you’re hardcore, but are you covered in a thick layer of skin and fat, taken from worthy foes? Followed into battle by a throng of insane cultists practicing their depraved arts in your vicinity? Accidentally draw the admiration of a pack of Necron Flayed Ones? Be perceived by said Necrons as their god
Llandu'gor? Have said Necrons murder your throng of cultists and then take their place?
No? Well you aint Death’s Sabre, Knight Rampager
i read a fic once where diluc used to fight with a sword during his days as a knight and switched to a claymore only after That Day and the concept never left my head
In regards to this situation in the TMNT AU competition
Anyone here willing to sign? ^^
Startled, the horned stranger blinks at you with his one functional eye, then lowers their head to the clipboard you’re holding. They don’t look like a turtle, but they seem to understand you anyways as they slip one void-black hand from his long, heavy cloak and take ahold of the offered pen with segmented fingers. They study your paper for a moment, narrowing their eye at the text as if trying to parse it, before lowering their pen to the paper. They tap once, twice, then swiftly scrawl their name in an open slot. They hand the clipboard over to you, hands trembling ever so slightly, and back up a step, ducking their face into the fluffy ruff of their cloak. When you look back down at the page, you can see that they’ve written in a language completely foreign to you—strange shapes and symbols fill their slot, definitely from no language on earth. When you look back up at them, they’re still standing there, head tilted slightly to the side. One of their hands is playing with the fluff of their cloak, as if it’s some sort of anxious tic. They point at their name at the page, and then at you, and it’s not entirely clear just what they’re doing. Nevertheless, it’s a signature. You just need to understand it first.