The_Roman

@spectral__: Roman be there like "Mr. President, in all fairness, I had fun...so...can you let her off just this once?" XD

Collateral damage more like fond memories <.<

@spectral__: She can fight me too, I don't give a shit :V

@miss_japan:Felix is something of an adrenaline junkie. It's not that he LIKES being shot at, it's more like he gets a high out of nearly dying.

@miss_japan: I hope you note the two characters of mine you have shot at have distinctly different reactions to that event.

Felix was rather peeved by it

Proelius wants you to be his best friend

@miss_japan:

Proelius cackled as the drones peppered him with concentrated fire, to which he didn't budge an inch, the bullets failing to penetrate his divine flesh. "Yes! More!" He ordered in that booming voice, starting to approach the woman, a predatory gleam in his eyes. "More! Give me more!" One would be forgiven for thinking that he was angry. He, in fact, wasn't. Just trying to goad as many people as possible into combat. If he did get angry, it would start to tug at the consciousness of those around him, amplifying all their negative emotions. Anger, rage, hate, lust. Everything that they were told was bad and evil and wrong. Fortunately for them, that was not happening. He could use the Winged Sandals of Mercury and finish this one with a sudden burst of speed, but the god of war wanted to enjoy this. Oddly, he felt no violence from the hovering craft, and although they weren't having an effect on him, even with their concentrated fire, he wanted to know why. He raised a hand and what looked like smoke began to seep from his pores, forming a shape, then solidifying into a long, metal spear. The Tongue of War provides, he thought to himself. His own personal weapon that could form any shape he desired. And each had the strength of Vulcan's forge. He'd never encountered a mortal craft that had armour which could withstand divine blades. He hefted the seven-foot long weapon, tested its balance, and heaved it at the nearest drone with enough force to split a small moon in two, wondering how its pilot was so emotionless. Even as the first spear streaked through the air, another materialised in his hand.

He started to take aim at another of the aircraft and--his aim was suddenly thrown off, the spear sailing up through the air, quickly disappearing from sight. Some would swear that it'd sailed clean into space. In truth, it disappeared shortly after Proelius ceased maintaining its shape. The Lingua Bella obeyed him, and as much as he could make it form weapons, those weapons too, could be dispersed just as easily. He looked at the woman, as she now, opened fire. Another of her projectiles slammed into his chest, and he was forced back a half-step. "Well...well...well." He grinned, continuing his advance, slower now, almost as if he were wading through her assault. "Good, girl! But if this is all you have, War is unimp-!" One of her bullets slammed clean into his forehead, cutting his sentence short, knocking his head back like in some cartoon. His eyes had rolled back in their sockets from the sheer impact, and he stopped for a moment, looking as if he had been stopped for good. After a long few seconds, his head slumped back forwards, his eyes dizzy and unfocused for a moment as he tried to recapture the last few instances of time. An angry mark graced his forehead, no doubt it would be a vicious bruise in a matter of hours. He found his target, locking gazes with her for just a moment, his expression impossible to read, before he bellowed with joyful laughter. "Girl! You entertain me so! I, Proelius, would know your name, that I might tell my children of this day!" He cracked his knuckles again, not resuming his advance, waiting for her answer.

So...wading through concentrated tank fire? Got it.

@miss_japan: Hey, I've always said, IRL shit comes first. I'm not gonna pressure you into getting a post up if you've got more urgent stuff going on.

@miss_america_: I SAID BRING IT!

Posted. Bring your biggest guns.

Rome

"Lord Brother." The statement was icy cold, low, and the hate and jealousy thinly veiled. Proelius looked up from his trance, deep in thought and saw his tall, gaunt brother, whose face was twisted into a permanent scowl.

"Brother Deimos." Proelius replied politely, straightening up, treating his brother to a smile. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" His brother scowled slightly deeper, and approached, before a pair of men blocked his way with their spears. For a long moment, Proelius' dark brown eyes met his brother's fiery red orbs, before he raised a hand. His guards looked at him for a moment, and he gave a dismissive wave. "He may approach." They grimaced a little, but slowly pulled their spears apart. Deimos strode past them, climbing the steps until he was within five paces of the large stone throne Proelius sat on, before he dropped to one knee, bowing his head in a display of respect.

"Brother Phobos and I have located something that may be of particular interest to you." Deimos tried to grin, but his facial structure didn't allow anything other than his scowl. The corners of his mouth twitched, and his eyes looked perhaps less hard for just a second. "May I approach?" Proelius stared at Deimos. Clearly the God of Terror had not come here to fight. He'd never challenge his brother on his own. He'd bring Phobos, at the very least. Most likely some kind of army as well. Proelius beckoned him to come closer. Deimos bowed slightly deeper, then stood, taking long strides until he was at Proelius' side. "In the mortal land of America, a large battle has broken out over their elected ruler." Proelius nodded a little.

"Nothing new there. Mortals are always fighting." He waved a dismissive hand, but focused his mind some on Deimos' statement. He nodded a little, looking into Deimos' curious eyes. From this seated position, the god of Terror towered over him, even in his semi-crouched state. "Hmm. I see why you'd bring this to me. Thank you, dear brother." The gods stood in unison, and it was clear that Deimos was far taller than any normal man. Proelius stood at a proud six foot, eight inches, and the god of terror was at least two full feet taller than he. Proelius pulled his brother into a bone-crushing hug, and it became painfully clear that as tall as Deimos was, Proelius' neck was as thick around as Deimos' entire body. After a long moment, the dark haired god released his brother, and the taller figure bowed his head, evaporating into the shadows, and the god of war stretched his entire body, several joints clicking as if he'd been sitting in the same position for hours. He strolled casually towards the front of the temple, passing his guards.

"Lord War?" Stammered one. "W-where are you going?" Proelius flashed a grin over his shoulder, not even slowing as his eyes seemed to sparkle with excitement.

"Just out. I need some exercise." He said. This wasn't exactly an explanation, but nobody would question it, or attempt to stop him. He stepped out of the cool, dark temple interior, and stared up at the glaring sun. It seemed to batter him with heat and light, trying to blind and burn him. "Apollo, take it easy." He growled, and if one had been there, one would have sworn the Sun eased off a bit. Proelius stretched again, and shook his legs. His winged sandals flapped lazily as they woke up, and he managed to go from casual stroll to flat-out sprint in six steps. After a moment, he began to strobe out, just a little, and a dark blur streaked out of the city, a sonic boom sounding as it exited Rome, lifting from the ground as he streaked through the sky.

Washington, D.C.

He was observing the skirmish for miles before he landed. Some would no doubt call his entrance a crash. He landed firmly, cracking the street below him, then straightened up, his armour clinking slightly. He straightened his helmet and smiled. "Well, this looks fun! Room for one more?" He let out a long, loud laugh. He wasn't going to manifest any weapons yet, although the Lingua Belli whispered in his ear. Spearswordshieldbow. It insisted, he smirked, willing the weapon into submission. Soon. He calmed it, cracking his knuckles. "Come to war!" He called in a booming, thunderous voice. "Come to death!" The shrieking of panicked civilians didn't abate his bloodlust. His mind was focused purely on the battle, and his open challenge would no doubt garner some attention, his deep brown eyes keen like a hawk's, watching for any kind of attack. He was already feeding from the skirmish, the violence giving him more power. And the more it escalated, the stronger he'd become.