The world around her burned and she kept walking. Not a smile, not a sound, no delight, not a sound, spit, snicker or snap; without protest and aguish and never any feeling. Around her they warred, battles and epics fought for the lives or ideals of the charismatic or idealistic; she practiced each stance and each move to her greatest ability, never dropping a bead of sweat. The wars grew to a global scale, and both sides talked of her. Mechs tore up the land and back down at her, a presence that neither side could account for. Whole armies avoided her and she kept walking. She walked through battles, sometimes using her skill to clear a direct path through, and hundreds fell to her sword and to her lead. Perhaps she traversed the entire world; when the war elevated to a global killer, she continued her training. Her words were never recorded, nor spoken aloud, nor even articulated at any level. No one knew her name. When the final ship blasted off to the sky to escape the world in flames, she was the last one on it. An army admiral tossed his head back and forth at the growing flames, clouding up the noon day sky to a jet black too deep to articulate with any reality, and a figure emerged from the hottest flames. At first he thought it was a trick of the eye, or some morbid haunting that the planet threw at the final inhabitants and soon to be deserters. He saw her and gaped, knowing of the stories but not believing the soldier's bar side tales. Wordlessly, she walked past him, into the ship and sat down. She emerged from the planet without a scratch, a gun on her back and a sword on her hip. They set sails into the sky, all torn in their souls, save for one that shut her eyes and regulating her breathing to a soothing level. An hour later, she emerged into the cockpit and announced their new destination: Khazan.. The admiral gaped, and then, recovering himself, asked, "Who are you?" She replied, "Clara Ands."
A forty foot Mech alone in the woods: mobile communications and recon outfitted with electromagnetic pulse shielding, a 87mm cannon and several gattling guns. She emerges from the woods, and the proximity censors go off, causing the gattling guns to fire 100 rounds a minute at the movement. The on-board engineer receives a report: both gattling guns experience technical difficulty, neither are under operation. The driver yells down, "What set them off?" and then, "Status?!" Nothing works, cameras off: he looks down the ladder to find his engineer dead and small hole penetrating the armor and he begins thinking. The Mech shakes a little, like it's been rammed. All cameras are off, so he pulls the emergency manual visual lever to pop off the forward plating. It falls to the ground, to show the Mech's arm pointing out to the horizon, as it should be, but standing on that arm is the girlsome thirty five feet above the ground. In hand is the pulse gun marked "Savior Faire". The driver continues operating manual systems, very aware that the girl is facing away from him and watching the horizon for something; thoughts of the stories he has heard on the internet and back home surface in his mind, but he thinks instead to the manual operating procedures, bringing them fresh into his mind. He pulls open a hatch, covered by a red panel and marked for emergency use only. The 'head' of the Mech disengages from the torso and electric power comes up: engines flare to bring it airborne. The driver snaps his head up; aware of the sweat that falls into his eyes as he tells himself "She's just a story." She locks eyes with him.
Sword Master: Superior
Before then, she traveled the Bewailful Bluffs, avoiding only the towns. A regiment of soldiers cut through the swampland to escape a Mech's pursuit, but there she was, meditating on a log. Because they could here the rumble of gears behind them, painfully trying to track them using thermal sensors. The captain hushed his soldiers, and they crossed around her, a little too slowly. The Mech caught sight of the regiment just after they cleared her, and the troops had no choice but to open fire on the Mech. As the fire danced around her, she sat, sipping from a canteen, her eyes slit open and watching. A tree fell down towards her, and before it hit her it snapped wildly in the middleÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂcleaved neatly in two. In her hand was an old kendo sword that she had laying down beside herÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂthe sword in the scabbard at her hip remained unused. In her other hand appeared an axe (out of her pack, maybe) and she rushed the first group of soldiers. They turned their weapons on her, but she dashed beneath their torero of lead and downed the first three men. She then turned on a log, each foot placed on a root or a fallen branch or a stump; no one realized that she was the only one not covered from head to foot in the swamp mud. The Mech had linked its fire onto her as well, and she taunted it with her foot work, drawing it closer to itself and then further away, bringing it about to the edge of a bluff. The soldiers had used this time to retreat, wisely sparing their lives. Something else altogether was going on inside the mind of the Mech driver. Both he and she knew that a wooden sword could not damage the bulk of steel that pursued her. The 87mm kept on clearing out sections of swampland, but she seemed to miss each bullet. Down, by the cliffs, she brought the wooden sword finally to use and swung beneath the feet of the Mech. The cliff caved in, and the Mech fell over backwards hundreds of feet below. She sipped again from her canteen, stretched.
Tractor Beam: Superior
- Ranged Attack Only
- Target Seeker
- Ranged and Melee Attack
In Khazan, now, she fights a man dressed in armor. Having come from a world without any real heroes, this becomes her first real test of skill. He brandishes the sword he calls 'Ferion'; the blade constantly drips blood. She forgets whether she knew if he was a hero or villain, but really it's all the same to her. Her eyes focus on the blade and something like desire fills them. He takes the first swing, twisting the angle of the blade in an unsurprising way and arches her back nearly to the ground to avoid it. He stabs at her, and it hits solid air: instead of retreating she is right next to him, and her eyes gaze right through his. Though unarmed, he sees her quickly grab his hilt while he is still in the midst of a stab, and pulls the blade from his grasp. He falls, confused on how easily she stole his greatest weapon. She glances at it, holding it underhanded, and in a style entirely different than he; her eyes engage his once more, glancing about with their purple florescence in ways entirely unholy and unwanted. The blade bears down towards him.
Weapons Creation: Standard
- Ranged Attack Only
- Area Affect
- Armor Piercing
- Target Seeker
- Ranged and Melee Attack
At the Marauder's Mansion: stationary guns aren't firing as they ought to be, and High Wire is avoiding being impaled by a pole. A glance: at the other end Clara Ands brings the pole back towards a group of men that barged into the room, snapping simultaneously the pole as well as the first man's neck. On her back is a gun she has yet to use, and on her hip is a sword that remains untouched. There is no thrill on her face, unlike High Wire who enjoys the battle. Ands grabs the gun from the collapsing man and fires a round into the next three gentlemen. She darts around to where High Wire has sought cover, pulling High Wire's diamond staff out of High Wire's hands before the other knows what to do. Jumping back, the remaining men start firing at her and she hits the desk with the staff. The desk shatters, and splinters fly out at the men shooting. Only two eyes are left among them, and not on the same man. She leaves, and High Wire still has no idea why Ands came in the first place.
Through action, silence. Not inner harmony nor survival, but instead stillness. She walks through traffic without pause and steps into a dinner. A police man steps inside to write her a ticket, takes a second glance and just leaves. He never knew her, and just with that one glance he is thankful he never will. There is something there, almost inaudible, definitely not visible. It's a calm that surpasses contemplation and verges onto chaos. Earlier, back when someone would say her name to her, she would run through the waterfall, staying dry. She would dodge every drop. Later, when she gave up those very people, she was walking across the desert and a sandstorm started to hit. She dropped everything into her bag and set herself to deflect every grain of sand that came her way with her sword. Shortly after her world started to literally burn, sentinel guns set with motion detectors could spend thousands of bullets and not hit her. It is not adrenaline that drove her muscles to such intensity, but a calm silence.
Resistances: Master Training
The world burned and she kept walking: the fire licked at her heels but its just fire. The wind beat water into her face, but it slid down to the trodden earth below and was left there. Fire and rain, somehow mixed together in storm. Ash collected off her face, and the heat made her break a slight sweat. She's nothing as an avatar, she thinks, nothing like a cause or a reason. Thoughts flow off, much like the rain. Each step is measured and exact distance. The foot hits the ground in the exact same way. As a method, its perfected. As a mantra, it's total. In her world there was no such thing as she. No masters of the arts. That is why they feared her: there was no such thing. Clara, perhaps named after a dear family friend or someone's sister, devised her own skills. Hearing of Khazan, she grew even more persistent. Before she was born, or even her parents, or theirs, there were stories about the elements that walked as humans do, and they tore the very earth to vent their fury. The element of Anger had overtaken the rest, and infected them with its hunger. Serenity fought against these elements, which Anger had dominance over. Earth molded Anger a castle, Wind formed a tempest to drive Serenity away, and Fire remained Anger's most loyal guard. Serenity never managed to destroy these things, nor even combat them. The people found the story strange; just more jargon in their lives and culture...yet the world was enveloped in fire and wrath in the end, and Serenity left to live on.
Super Speed: Superior
Earlier, the driver locks eyes with her. She stands there on the arm of the Mech unmoving as the wind rushes about her: Ands does not rushÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂthe wind rushes and she surpasses it. The wind neither tickles nor stings, its just wind. The weapons themselves produce the speed within her, for her life is that very steel, the very heat of the gun that fires so many times a minuteÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂand then is discarded at the end of the battle. There is something outside her body that is drawn in; the driver makes another fine adjustment and pulls one last lever as the head of the Mech disengages from the torso. A myriad of electrical gadgets light up and he flies upwards, noticing a slight snag as the torso lets a final go. Ands notices this and runs down the arm to where the pod is.