Navarre
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Weekend Warrior
Player Character
Posts: 22
Trainer Class: 
Player Name: Darcy Masters
OOC Username: spibe
Arena Points: 60
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Post by Navarre on Jan 13, 2024 13:25:44 GMT 9
Navarre stalked forward, trying to keep his body low, footsteps quiet. The sand was hampering his efforts at being stealthy, but that was no reason to simply give up. Something was wrong with this desert- A strange presence that clung to the sand and clouds.
Something sparked, sharp in his vision. Bright like failed electricity. Vibrant like the snapping of a demonâs jaws. Deadly like the tickling of a dragonâs tail. Navarre hissed, arm going up to cover his face as he jerked, ducking behind a ruined outcropping.
But, despite the sizzling of ozone, nothing more happened. The world fell quiet, only the thudding of his heart and the sharp hiss of his breathing. What had happened?
His eyes flicked over the landscape, seeing nothing different- but not the landscape, his vision- The small flicker over where heâd come from was now gone. Navarre frowned, waving a hand-
And nothing happened. No map, no menu, nothing.
Navarre blinked. No list of his creatures appeared, either. Creature, really- just the penguin. Who was also, starkly, nowhere to be seen. Navarre rose, looking around- and the creature was gone. No trace of her footprints remained, either, swept away by the cold, dead sands.
âShit,â Navarre whispered. Something had happened to the game- Could it be Kanonâs doing? A reminder of what was at stake, what had to be done?
As if Darcy could ever forget.
He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He had to stay calm- not let anyone rile him up. This was just something else to overcome. He scanned the horizon again, picking out where he had started- and opposite that, where he was likely to need to go.
He paused only a moment. If youâre still around, stay safe. He knew the bare premise of the game- super powered little animals- but the girl was still small, easily able to be thrashed by even a child. Still- he couldnât waste time worrying or looking for her.
He had to get out of the desert, and figure out what the hell was going on.
Navarre pushed himself forward, into the dark sands.
He walked, footsteps crunching on cold sands- until he met grass, slick with rain. Navarre blinked, looking up, not into the dark black-sand desert, but into a grassy field. There were a few lone trees standing solemn guard, stone outcroppings at regular intervals.
People were gathered, a ring around a fresh-dug pit.
He was at a funeral. Grieving figures mourning a lost soul. Their faces were blank- not emotionless, but blurred, smeared by a graceless hand. The words spoken were mostly noise, garbled and formless, impossible to parse.
Navarre paid the scene little mind, weaving through the mourners in an attempt to get past. The crowd refused to move out of his way, heedless of any apologies or shoving.
Itâs such a shame, isnât it, for someone to die so young?
The first tangible words drifted over to Navarre, and he turned, looking.
And he had no family to speak of⌠did he lose all his relatives?
Sad, but not unique in any way. Every family had someone to be the last to die- thatâs just how it worked.
No, I heard he had a brother, but-
But he didnât come.
Navarre froze. The mourners had shifted, turned from the casket to him, eyes bright spots on dark faces.
His brother never came.
I heard he called, and called, and called.
Isnât that sad? He died aloneâŚ
Navarre felt the world tighten, darken.
âWho-â He tried to force the words out of his throat. âWho was it?â
No one here was even a friend of his.
How pathetic!
Only ex-boyfriends. Only people who liked him, but never loved him.
The world was too close, knotted around him. Navarre shoved against the crowd, moving towards the casket.
It was cheap, wood stained and polished to look nearly plastic. He shoved against the lid, which groaned as it moved. It sounded like a creature being put to death.
The lid fell to the ground with a slam, the sound more akin to sotne against stone, than wood against grass. Navarre looked into the coffin-
And there, peacefully as if he was just asleep, was Adarsa, dressed far more conservatively than he would ever wear in life.
He looked peaceful.
He looked happy.
Pain lanced into Navarreâs chest, vision pulsing. This- couldnât be real. It had to be an impossibility. A nightmare-
The mourners shifted, forms stretching, becoming writhing tentacles, dark shapes that lashed and reached, warping around him.
âNo- No!â His throat burned. He was screaming. He struggled against the bonds that held him, uselessly. He couldnât wrench his limbs free, he couldnât get a sound out of his throat.
He was trapped, and there was nothing he could do.
Adarsa was gone. |
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Lacrimosa
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Player Character
Posts: 136
Trainer Class: 
Player Name: Sarthor Caldwell
OOC Username: spibe
Arena Points: 50
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Post by Lacrimosa on Jan 13, 2024 14:15:54 GMT 9
 {orioncayge (TW flashing image)}The darkness and shadows crept, writhing and twisting, contorting. They, though, did not lash, or claw, or strike- What was physical harm to a fighter who could not die? What were physical wounds to a man with much more to lose?
Heedless of any dick Orion may have in hand, the darkness swarmed, soft and ephemeral as clouds. But the light and strength (and Class) was sapped from him all the same, path illuminated not by him, now-
But by a single CRT monitor.
"So, an exciting time for our viewers just tuning in, Bob."
The screen flickered, warped, faces obscured by chromatic aberrations. The voices were unmistakable.
"Absolutely- a pivotal day, as Southside is finally being held to task for the massacre that occurred almost seventeen years ago- the Black Valentine Riots."
Sand and shadow gave way- to blood, seeping faster into one shoe than the other, metallic and wet and hot against skin.
A tv behind Cayge flashed on, massive as a cinema screen. "Troy Cayge has finally been brought to justice, for the heinous murder he committed that week."
"However there's still one more at large." The hosts had turned more serious, a grim edge entering their voices.
"Yes- the one responsible for the entirety of the Black Valentine Riots."
Shapes formed on the once-sand. Outlines. Blood-seeped tape. Not chalk. They spanned Orion's field of view, obscured only by the still-clinging shadows.
A paper fluttered into him-
The picture shifted and warped, sometimes a man in his late twenties- and sometimes a scared child.
"This is your fault, Orion."
The paper shifted, prying away, folding into sharp edges, thin limbs. It fluttered to the ground a little paper man, and looked up at Orion impassively.
images from Persona 4, Vol. 3
{Alistair}
The words were bright against the dim screen, hazy and doubled in waking eyes. For an instant, the world was quiet, only quick breathing, and the sudden snap of dry wood-
Followed by a loud, questioning coo, rising in pitch and frequency as the speaker was ignored. Other sounds followed- the muffled flow of cars on the street, the hum of an ancient radiator, the fan of the WorldView as it worked-
Until all that, too, fell away again.
The loading was cut by anothrt sharp cry, the cage rattling amidst the calls. The pigeon threw himself against the wire, shrieks growing louder and more insistant.
What crawled out of the broken cage, as it slammed against the sunroom windows, was not a pigeon.
Black arms spilled out, clinging to the ground as it dragged a bulbous body. It grew as it went, body sticking as it reached the doorframe, the wood splintering and cracking.
By the time it reached the stairwell, a turqoise maw snapped into the supports, frame vanishing into the beast.
{Big Bee}UX man was cold. Frost falls, on and on and on. Constantly. UX man snow-shroud, lost. Sandy, too, VDU contact, too. Lost, lost, lost.
No forward, no athwart. Only cold, only lost.
Frost would wax and wax, as moon. As cold. As sorrow. As... how was that called? Old Scrolls V? Cold as a jarl's hold and as cold as a slogg'd task was arduous.
Suddenly, with relief, the malaise he'd been plagued with lifted. Like deep breaths after drowning.
It did nothing for the snow and sleet, the cold that clung to him, the days and nights of turbulent agony. But whatever had claimed his mind had backed away, at least for a moment.
Blizzard obscured vision. There was no more desert to be seen, no path to follow, or retreat with. Only ice and snow, and flesh raw and reddened, burnt and cold- There was no shelter from the chill, air growing more white and frosted-
And, the puffs of Big Bee's breath almost seemed to be coalescing before him, swelling into a shape. Soft and glassy, faceless, swirling in the air as if it had always belonged. It swirled this way and that, as if regarding him, before reaching out with a massive tentacle-like appendage.
{Saint}The welcome rang like chiming temple bell,
sonorous and unyielding in the dark.
But the sands still rumbled, threatâning and cold,
And from the shifting whirlpool came a shape
Monolithic and inhuman at once,
Cruel organics and machine laced as one.
There were no eyes to track the small angel,
Only a mouth to mock, and flames to eat
Consuming all that dared to stand below.
The statue shifted, shuddering with fear
Or impatience, yearning for a relief.
The steel shifted and groaned, and turned despite
Attention falling to the spot of life
And in a burst of flame, began pursuit.
{Laguna}Silence droned.
A wheel still spun, a movement lost to her, now.
Beyond the smell of oil and loss, the snap of lightning and power lines, light sparking against pooled liquid.
It sparked against two crumpled piles of once-metal, things that would never work again.
so many things that would never work again
The cables snapped and thrashed, serpents reaching for prey to latch onto, light sputtering from the edges.
the edges became hands, reaching, judging, arbiters.
Alone.
no
Alone.
no
Alone.
no
Alone.
laguna did not have the fortune of being alone
{The Captain}The world sputtered and flickered, sands roiling like seas, despite being everything the water isnât. There is no echoing call, no siren-song of direction. No storm to guide, no deep red sky. There is only blackness, the cruel nothingness of a starless spread, no guidance, no marker.
Save for one.
There, amidst the sands, is a buoy, pale creamy white against the shadow-black sand. It bobs, sometimes higher and sometimes lower, a single speck of safety. Slowly, in the way of objects, it drifts closer, the surface marred by plankton, flickering in bioluminescent colors. Karenia brevis. Lingulodinium polyedrum.
It drifts closer, massive and wide despite all appearances to the contrary.
It moves closer. There is something connected to the buoy, under the sand.
It looms closer. It is not algae. It is not a buoy.
There is no water to save you, here.
{Navarre}The crowd swarms. They push back at Navarre- but do they even see him? Are they aware of him at all? Or is he just a ghost, here, ephemeral and unable to affect any change? Despite how their faces turn away,
Eyes are still locked on him, searching, judging. Condemning.
Did his brother ever care? Had he ever shown it?
The gravestones shift, moving, one settling against another, building and growing and swelling.
There are more eyes on Navarre, now. They are watching.
Judging.
Condemning.
Sentencing.
What do you know? Is it enough?
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orioncayge
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Bandana Guy
Round 2
Posts: 631
Trainer Class: 
Arena Points: 10
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Post by orioncayge on Jan 17, 2024 17:53:47 GMT 9
Orion's breath hung in his throat as panic spread throughout his body. This was just a game wouldn't cut it as a defense for something so visceral and horrifying. The corruption and darkness had gone straight for his emotional core, the façade of this being some warped dream might as well have been a wet paper bag in place of kevlar as the words shredded through him.
This wasn't real, this wasn't real, this wasn't fucking real!
But that didn't matter right now. The boundary betwixt real and unreal had long been severed in the lambent light of the crackling CRT in front of him. The smell of blood filled his nose and caused bile to rise in his stomach, he could feel the heat, no- he could remember the warmth of lifeblood spilling onto his body. How could one ever forget such a sensation? How many times had he felt it? He stared down at crimson stained hands as it all flashed back to him. Desperately holding hands over his cousins chest while ambitions drained away in rivers of crimson. How he'd desperately tried to buy enough time for the ambulance to arrive and save the day. Dead on arrival, cold in his arms, gone forever.
And yet that wasn't even the first time he'd survived in place of another.
All his life there'd been a bullet chasing Orion, one he'd dodged every time at the expense of others. Bet it metaphorical or real, someone was always suffering to save him.
Why?
Why was he such a burden on those he loved? Be it his Uncle Mac who'd had to put off his dream of opening his bar to support him when his father lost his mind? Or his ex lover Erin who'd passed up on a scholarship to stay in town with him only for them to break up? Those were childsplay in comparison to Alexander who'd put his body between Orion and the shooter, who caught the slugs meant for him and his shit talking mouth. Or his father, his poor fucking father who had to spend his entire life letting his son live in the delusion that his wife had left him instead of the truth. His mom didn't walk out on them, she was dead, just like all of the other members of the Southside crew that died on that dreadful fucking Valentines day. He could still feel it, the warmth of her lifeblood spilling out over his shirt, the shaky raggedness of her breath, her tears on her face while she uttered her final goodbye to her only child.
Words Orion couldn't even remember what she'd said.
He deserved this, it had been all his fault.
Blood mixed with sand, forming a crimson quagmire of sanguine quicksand that sucked at his feet and pulled him deeper. The weight of his own sins pushed him down faster and faster, his pride and arrogance had made him blind to the suffering around him. No more, it would end tonight. The machine would finally take him in his sleep.
Then everyone around him could go back to being happy.
Orion's body twitched slightly in his sleep, an errant synapse bypassing the blocker from the headset. A soft chuckle filled the room as a large hand ruffled the sleeping fighter's hair. As Orion dwelt deep in his own nightmare within the headset, he was all but unaware of the man who'd sat beside him with a beer in his hand.
Troy Cayge.
Taking a swig he would peer down at his son's masked face, ignorant of his duress within the digital realm. After all, how could he possibly fathom such a thing? It was supposed to be a pokeyman game right? His son had always been adicted to that shit ever since Helen had gotten him that silly yellow cartridge. He paused, sighing slightly as old wounds threatened to tear open once again.
Helen would think he was a coward.
Not for how he'd taken her passing, but in how he was acting now. Ever since that day, Orion had been stuck in...an alternate reality of sorts. The doc had said it was a trauma response, a coping mechanism that he would eventually snap out of. Yet as time went on he never really grew out of the lie, and well... what sort of father would remind his son that his mom was gone? It was easier for him to take the blame, that he'd fucked up his marriage so bad that mom never wanted to come home. That she wanted nothing to do with her son who in life she had loved with all her heart.
The man's jaw clenched.
It was cruel disservice to his late wife, and to his son, but he couldn't bear to break his boy's heart again. Not after all of the progress he'd made with all of the trauma in his life. And who was he to undo all of that? He was just the monster who flew off the handle and started the whole debacle. His wife had been shot and what did he do? He hunted down the first person the trail brought him to and took his vengeance. But an eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind, and one death became two, and two became four, and soon the whole town had a reason to mourn.
And it was all his fault.
"Ya know..." the man drawled, taking another sip of his beer. "I wish one day I could be man enough to talk you son..." a single tear rolled down his eye. "To help you and be there for you like a father should. But I'm not strong enough bud." He would pat his boy on the shoulder. "Not like you buddy. Lie or not, you made it through despite everything that's happened. You can get out of bed without needing a few beers, you can face the day with a smile, hold down a job..." He paused, taking a deep shuddering breath. "No matter how many times you get knocked down you keep getting back up, nothing ever holds you back. Your Ma would be proud of you." A bittersweet smile crept across his face as he shook his head. "Don't ever let that change kiddo."
With a sigh he would stand up and trudge his way out of his sons room, across the apartment to his own lair, and lay down in his bed. Rolling over onto his side he would turn to his nightstand where he kept a picture of his wife holding their newborn son in her arms stood constant vigil over him.
"I'm sorry hun, I hope you're keeping a better watch over him than I am."
Orion had sunk halfway into the murk by this point, eyes glazed over with acceptance as he hadn't even bothered to struggle against his fate. What would the point be? He'd lived by the sword and everyone around him kept dying by the sword. Every breath he took was one he'd steal from somebody he loved. Who was next? His grandfather? His father? Uncle Mac? Who would he hurt by just existing next? No, it was better this way.
Cold seeped over him, a chill running through his body as the sludge did it's foul work. It sure was taking it's fucking time ending him, but perhaps even then he deserved that too. A slow and agonizing death as recompense for all the pain and suffering he'd put his family through. Through all those years he'd forced his father to live a lie.
It wasn't some rush that forced his life to flash before his eyes, nor was it some unbearable agony, it was just...nothingness. Almost on instinct he found himself humming quietly, to pass the time before his demise. The tune was something...unremarkable yet nostalgic. He wasn't quite sure where he'd heard it before, it was hard to place yet...it made a knot in his chest tighten. Where there words to this song? Yeah, there were, but what were they? Blinking, Orion furrowed his brow as he thought about it for a moment. He knew this song, but from where? The question nagged at him, chasing away his own self doubts for but a fleeting moment as he fixated upon this quandary. He knew the fucking words, but what were they? Where had he heard them before? And then it hit him, slowly at first.
"When...the...light-"
Yeah those were the words, they matched the melody in his head, but felt wrong in his mouth.
"When the light is getting low..."
No wait, that wasn't it.
"When the light is running low..."
There it fuckin was, yeah.
"And the shadows seem to grow..."
Slowly but surely it was coming back to him, a memory. Warmth filled his limbs again as he recalled feeling comfortable, and safe.
"and the places that you know seem like fantasy."
The melody trembled in his shaky voice. The paper version of Orion cocked it's head to the side as it watched the fighter, three fourths of the way submerged in the sludge, began to sing.
"There's a light inside your soul..."
A woman's voice echoed in his head, the memory hazy at best as he recalled being bobbed up and down. Had he been crying? Tears slid down his cheek as he continued to sing.
"That's shining in the cold with the truth...the promise in our hearts."
It'd been a lullaby. The thought crossed his mind like a flash of lightning.
"Don't forget, I'm with you in the dark."
His mother had used to sing it to him when he was little, a soft song that managed to lull him to sleep every time without fail as he bobbed him up and down and peppered his forehead with kisses.
Badump.
Orion's heart ached with pain as an age old scar ripped right on open.
Badump.
She'd died to protect him.
Badump.
And what the fuck was he doing?
Badump.
He was throwing it all away?
Badump, badump.
What the fuck was he doing?
Badump, Badump, badump.
WHAT THE FUCK WAS HE DOING?
BADUMP BADUMP BADUMP BADUMP.
His heart began to pound again, pulsing blood through his limbs that were being crushed under the weight of the creeping sand and the creeping darkness. What would Mom think of him just letting this shitty fucking game kill him! Could he even face Alexander in heaven knowing he'd failed to do anything with the life he'd been given. How could he let this be it?
Gritting his teeth he began to struggle, and the paper doll stared at him.
"Really, don't you think it's a little too late for that now?"
"It's never too late."
The paper doll scowled, prowling closer. "You'll just die tired."
"I think." Orion growled back. "I'm gonna die an old man, in a comfy fucking bed." He kicked his feet and wriggled his arm, forcing sand to displace around him as he clawed away at the muck, inch by inch reclaiming lost time. "Surrounded by family."
"YOU WILL DIE ALONE" The doll howled.
"LOVED!" Orion spat back.
"I WILL DROWN YOU IN YOUR OWN GUILT!"
"HAVING LIVED A LIFE WELL FUCKING LIVED!" Orion managed to free one arm and snatched at the doll.
"YOU KILLED YOUR MOTHER!" The doll howled, dancing away from grasping fingers.
"HAVING DONE ALL THE THINGS I WANT TO DO."
Orion freed another arm from the murk, clawing at the sand as he heaved himself upwards from the murk, scraping his nails into the bloody grit as he forced himself upwards with every fiber of his being. Each inch he slipped out letting out a sickening slurp.
"YOU KILLED ALEXANDER!"
"HAVING SAID EVERYTHING I NEEDED TO SAY."
"YOU RUINED YOUR FATHERS LIFE!"
"WITH ZERO REGRETS."
"YOU ARE A BURDEN! YOU DON'T DESERVE TO LIVE!"
Orion managed to free one foot from the murk, a smirk spreading across his face as the doll's face shifted from rage to fear.
"HAVING LIVED A LIFE WORTH LIVING!"
"YOU DESERVE TO DIE!"
"AND DIE A DEATH WORTH DYING!"
Orion freed his other foot from the sludge and pushed himself forward, propelled by equal parts hope and determination as he pounced upon his paper predator. The creature screamed in outrage and terror as the fighter fell upon it, wrapping both his hands around it tightly. He would lift the creature up, kicking and screaming and with one fell swoop-
Embrace it.
"What are you-" The doll found itself cut off as its face was buried in Orion's goopy chest. The fighter took a deep breath, letting his chest swell up nice and big before letting it out.
"I'm facing myself." The creature looked up to the fighter baffled.
"You really fucking think that's gonna work," the creature asked, it's face contorting into a snarl. "That this is some sort of anime moment where you face the nasty parts of yourself and become a better person? This isn't fucking persona." Orion squinted at the paper doll and raised it up to his eyes, vibrant catalyst energy crackling within.
"It's either that or I kick the everliving shit out of you with my newfound light and determination to live, so take your pick you papery fuck. Are we doing this the easy way where we kumbaya this shit and work together? Or am I gonna have to kill the fucking shit out of you."
The paper doll stared at the fighter for a moment, flabbergasted before shaking it's head.
"That's what I fucking thought, so why don't you shut your fucking mouth and let me have my moment in fucking peace so I can learn to love myself again."
"Sure thing man, I am thou and thou art I ammirite?"
"Attaboy."
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Laguna
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World Traveler
Mythstar
Posts: 360
Trainer Class: 
Player Name: Abigaelle Gauthier
OOC Username: Magnere
Arena Points: 30
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Post by Laguna on Jan 23, 2024 15:01:45 GMT 9
Never work again. The world would never be the same.
They would never work again. She would never be the same again.
But that was okay. She had come to terms with it, expected it. Understood it. The Mother had come to know what it meant, what changes she had to make. How the world would view her, how it would change her too. She had been nothing. But she had made herself become something. The pain haunted her, drained her, consumed her, but she had fought again, and again, and again.
The weight of her fears weighed upon the world, twisting in vile shapes. Black worms cracked, sparked, and threatened. Demanding her attention, her fear, her desperation. They clawed ever closer, stabbing into the ground like a hungry predator eager for its next meal. The Mother stood, eyes closed for a brief moment as a deep breath was taken. The wires sprung ever closer, twisting into recognizable shapes. Pointing fingers, mocking faces, people walking away.
A sympathetic expression one minute, guilt the next, then nothing. Abandoned. All while the claws of emptiness crept even closer. The ever-reaching grasp of hate, pain, suffering, it demanded more. Electricity crackled, ready to make the Mother suffer evermore. Only the strike that had been planned, did not come. The piercing pain through the heart had been averted. The suffering had only been prolonged, claimed the nightmare.
The Mother was burning as hot as the sun.
"No," A decree, a demand uttered. Staring down into the faces of those who had left her. The ever-changing ocean of wires, an endless stream of emotions, said nothing. It didn't need to. Every word it could say, has already been thought before. "You will not claim me."
Heat poured off in waves, melting the outstretched hands that dared press in too close. Metal and rubber slumped to the ground, a familiar, unfortunate smell that she would never forget, now caused by her own will. The fire had tormented the Mother, but now it was her salvation. The power of the absent sun fueled her, carried her, held her and cradled her. Through it, she stood strong against the endless hoards.
"I suffered. I know." Said the Mother, her words as calm as they could surrounded by the endless hate that demanded her anger. "I was abandoned by those I needed most."
"Friends left me," said the Mother.
"I was alone."
"Absence terrified me," said the Mother.
"I was nothing."
"But, that was all a lie," said the Mother.
"I was never nothing. I was never alone."
Arms stretched out, she took a step forwards. The worms screamed in pain, attempting to swarm even as the burning heat filled the road. Flames radiating like a shimmering, shining star. A torch of her own cosmos. A burning footprint was left in the asphalt, leaving evidence of her resolve.
"I have worth. I have purpose. I know who I am. I might forget, I might struggle, I might suffer. But the truth will always be there. The sun always exists, even during the darkest of nights."
She takes a few more steps, the ocean of hate parting as the flames of her radiance melt it to scrap. The wreck, still burning of its own accord, once again in sight. The mother lets out a shaky sigh, confronting the truth of the nightmare. Kneeling admist the debris, the wires twisted into shape. A recognizable shape, a form not unknown to the Mother, twisted together from scraps of the wreck like a puppet built from the darkest of fears.
It was of her own, her true face. No sounds were made, but as it moved the Mother could hear their words. They used to be her own, after all.
"They left us to die!" Said the Anger.
"They couldn't look at us anymore," Said the Hurt.
"They thought we weren't worth being friends with anymore," Said the Abandoned.
"They had told us that we were going to be okay. They lied to us," Said the Fear.
"They believed we would be better off dead," Said the Useless.
"They never stood up for us," Said the Disfigured.
"They were right," Said the Nothing.
The Mother was silent, staring down at a perverted mockery of her own face. Her own feelings, her own fears, her own words. She could not deny them. The heat of the sun began to set, as the swarm crowded in. Desperate to end what it feared the most. Eager to claw out the one thing it dreaded more than anything.
"They were wrong," Said the Something.
The swarm hissed out in anger, faces twisting in rage. Claws struck, ripping chunks in the road, melting into the building heat once more.
"They struggled with guilt," Said the Compassion.
The swarm screamed, furious, demanding anger. Demanding to be proven right, to be told that the fears were built on logic. The worms grew desperate, swarming in total. Every direction was endless burning rubber as it poured in.
"They would want me to believe I still have worth," Said the Hope.
The Nightmare held no strength over the Mother anymore. It's attempts to stall her couldn't contain her. With a very focused step, she burning step after burning step. Her own face in the swarm began to melt into rubber and metals, slumping forwards. The horror of destroying her own figure dawned on the woman, but it was more than that. A representation of everything she was not, of everything she was. The true heart, the true fight for her soul every single day. More words echoed into her own mind as she watched.
"How can you be so sure?" Said the Nothing. "What if you're wrong?"
"Because I know something you never could," Said the Determination. "We might falter, we might struggle, and we might fall. But we will always take one, more, step."
"Because we have friends who met both sides of us," Said the Love. "And they still care."
"They don't know the truth," Said the Nothing. "They'll abandon us, just like the rest."
"I know their truth," Said the Faith. "They go out of their ways to support us. To care for us. To make us happy."
"I know our heart," Said the Confidence. "We are more than what we can not do. We are more than what we can not be."
"For our sake," Said the Nothing. "I hope you are right. I really, truly do."
"Me too." Said the Mother. "Me too."
The wires all crumbled to the ground, the mockery of her own fears melted to nothing. The Mother stood there in the street, letting the heat of her soul wash across the landscape. Never has one been so thankful for a move of the gods at her fingertips. The dark gloom remained, but the nightmare, the attempted death by her own very heart, gone.
"Now," Said the Mother, finally taking in another deep breath. "Where is my baby? I shall not ask twice." |
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Alistair
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Player Character
Posts: 58
Trainer Class: 
Player Name: Alistair Alearnith
OOC Username: Sunstrider
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Post by Alistair on Jan 31, 2024 6:23:59 GMT 9
Alistair's chest heaved, breaths gasping in his ears. Relief crashed over him in a wave- the safety settings on the device had kicked in. He had gotten so worked up. In the background- the usual sights and sounds of his apartment now. The headset dropped slightly more from where it was still loosely attached, and he absently moved it down on the side of his couch with shaking hands. Hell, he needed a drink. And a shower. And a different drink, after that. Could that- was that safe? Was it supposed to do that? What had happened?
Coo's cries became more insistent in the background when words rose up from his peripherals. The game menu loomed in his vision.
"Wait." He croaked, frozen. In contrast, Coo's plaintive noises were jarring, real and fearful. "Wait but," The VR set lay haphazard on the couch where he'd set it. The menu persisted. Coo's distress reached its peak, Alistair moving numbly away from the chise, and down the stairs toward the greenroom where Coo stayed in his flight cage during the day. As he did, he scanned over every object in the room, every whorl of wood in the floor. It felt so real. The menu was fading now- had he imagined it? Having been pulled so abruptly from the glitching game's grasp, had his mind scrambled to fill in the blank?
He began to hurry down the stairs- his primary focus the distress of his bird- Coo could hurt himself, thrashing against the cage that. Had something gotten in? Was there a gas leak, what-
A creature spilled from the enclosure like guts from a wound, and Alistair fell backward, scrambling away, back up the stairs that groaned and creaked as the abberation's maw closed over them. "What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck-" He rasped, scrabbling backward onto the landing. Oh fuck. He was still- he was still in the game. Or Hallucinating; neither option was good. His fear was real, the stinging pricks of splinters driving against his clothes and exposed skin felt very real. Game or hallucination, I can control this- He thought, trying to school his panic. Dreams could be controlled by disciplined minds. In the game, there were rules, parameters, stats. Right now though, he had to get away-
He surged to his feet, catching the wall as he rounded the corner of the hallway. He was pretty sure that the lack of a staircase would only slow the guzzlord down so long, and he could hear the groan and protest of the house as the pokemon tore his home apart. Helpless rage built, which he quashed viciously. It wasn't helpful to fight back. But as the thought wound through his mind, something serpentine flickered on the edges of his vision, up the second flight of stairs. It left dead, dull leaves in its wake, and, without much thought, he took off after it- surely the embodiment of the corruption. It had to be the same creature from the start of this horror The source of this nightmare. Abruptly, the Guzzlord roared from behind him, bursting from the floorboards. One tongue narrowly missed his leg as it tore into the second story. Something buckled in the wall, the plaster crumbling away as Alistair and the predator ascended, each chasing their own prey.
The barbed tail of the corruption-creature vanished up the spiraling staircase, a door clattering open out of sight. Alistair crested the stairs, bursting out onto that unfinished floor- with all its rafters exposed, hanging with decrepit insulation and rotted walls- he never went up here. The house moaned beneath his feet, loose floorbards rattling. He moved, passing empty boxes and remnant furniture, draped in cloth and thick with dust, stirring up clouds of it like smoke in the thin lighting that came through partially boarded and tarped windows. The doorway flared blue as the monster bore down on him, clawing its way up the stairwell, and Alistair moved back. If he could reach one of the windows- but even as he thought it, a section of the flooring collapsed behind him with the sound of wet wood giving way. The trembling was almost constant now, as the Guzzlord tried to heave itself through the doorway, splintering the frame and the walls, tongues lashing.
He almost missed it- the way the walls were rippling a moment before sawdust and decay began showering down. "Stop!" He called, horror dawning. Above them was one more floor- the supports from the main floor now totally gone. "It's going to collapse! We'll both die! The guzzlord screamed in response- there was no understanding there, only mindless rage. It reached for him, tearing through the walls like paper- the house screamed too. The floor bucked, the walls bulging inward as brick unsettled itself. With a cry of terror, Alistair brought his arms over his head as his life collapsed around him.
Lacrimosa |
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Saint
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Weekend Warrior
Round 2
Posts: 384
Trainer Class:
Player Name: Angelo Alvarez
OOC Username: Sleepy
Arena Points: 10
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Post by Saint on Feb 3, 2024 23:26:26 GMT 9
#s://c~l3n~co/i/4ZwJ6b~png Saint was paralyzed, gazing into the featureless plane of the behemothâs face and barely catching the sight of something stirring beyond it. Clawing out of the center of the vortex, at the foot of the golden towerâanother unspeakable creature. Its snapping body of burning flesh and wires turned to him as if scenting the blood frozen in his veins.
Saint could not think. He could not speak. Fearâs grip on his throat turned crushing. He was surrounded.
The monstrosity threw its head back with a grating metallic screech, its flames glowing as bright as benediction, cobbled legs soldered into steel rods that thundered across quicksand far too quickly, its blinding irises trained on him and him alone.
Trapped against the colossalâs leg, Saint clenched his eyes shut, wondering how much heâll feelâwill it be as slow as standing in a pool of acid? Or will it be quick, as a knife in his own hand?
Behind his eyes, a brightening light. Heat was already prickling the front of his face, and as the smell of rot and mold burned his nose, he braced for death.
A violent, resounding CRUNCH.
Saintâs eyes ripped open, astounded first by the fact he could even do so, then second by the massive wall that had appeared over him. Except it wasnât a wall. And though they were piled on with moss, lichen, barnacles, and mushrooms, the alabaster rods were unmistakably shaped like phalanges and metacarpals. The giant hand flexed, and he could hear the metal beast howl in its grasp.
âWh⌠What?â He watched as the hand lifted off the ground, its long arm almost floppy in its movements as it tossed the creature back from whence it came. The hand gripping the golden tower began pulling it once more, and the creature screamed as it was crushed and devoured back into the desert.
The giant had saved him.
âI donât understand⌠Why?â He was staring at it now. At its smooth profile, no longer baring down on him, but gazing out unseeing to the desert, stirring and stirring as it had before he arrived.
Saintâs fist curled tighter in the lichen. âHey! Hey! Why did you do that?! What are you!â The giant did not reply. Frustrated, Saint pulled his sleeves up, tying them to his elbows and began to climb, using the overgrowth and the cracks on its bones as foot and handholds. âAnswer⌠meâŚ!â
Again, no response. Saintâs thoughts raced in his head. Was this another creature of Corruption? But it had rescued him. And now it was acting completely indifferent to his existence, when before the corruption acted as if starved for life itself.
After what felt like a lifetime of navigating its vertical labyrinth of twisted limbs, Saint settled on what appeared to be a shoulder. Crashed, reallyâhe was exhausted. He tried looking out and winced at the daunting panorama. Even with the sands, he would splat if he dared to fall.
âWhat are you even making?â he asked tiredly.
Saint wheezed, nearly throwing himself off the giantâs shoulder in shock. âIs that really the only way you communicate?â Like having a siren in his headâintrusive, loud, and deeply alarming.
The giant did not respond.
Saint cleared his throat. âOkay, okay⌠how about⌠What is the recipe for your vegetable stew? Um, please.â
This is so fucking weird, Saint thought. It was as if something was controlling his imagination, the image of a little recipe card he would have never thought of popping up in his head. That, and it being the most deeply unappetizing vegetable stew to ever exist. He tried to tell it that, but the giant took no notice of him, following its sole instruction to infinity.
Saint closed his eyes. He grasped the image of the recipe card in his head, and pictured a pen.
The sound of the tower being dragged across the dunes disappeared. It all fell silent, but Saint didnât open his eyes, taking advantage of the peace to focus.
There was a beat. He heard the scratch of a pencil in his mind.
Saint opened his eyes. The giant had indeed stopped. The tower remained in the center of the dunes, gripped by a horrible hand attached to a mutilated horror who held his life in its hand, and the ground remained a long, long way down.
But thisâ
He could work with this.
He closed his eyes.
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The Captain
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Weekend Warrior
Round 2
Posts: 151
Trainer Class:
Player Name: Remy Andersen
OOC Username: Stells
Arena Points: 60
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Post by The Captain on Mar 2, 2024 8:07:32 GMT 9
The world can be a terrible place, ruthless in its ways. Out there, it really is survival of the fittest: the strongest, the smartest, and sometimes â regardless of how strong or smart others might be â it is just the luckiest that make it out in one piece. He knows this, and he also knows that the world is not to be blamed for it; that this is simply the way that things are and have always been, because in order for the world itself to survive, it needs to maintain a careful balance.
The tempest is not aware of the devastation it can leave in its wake. The wild beast that hunts has no reason to feel any remorse or shame when sinking sharp teeth into its prey. The lack of sustenance provided by the environment due to something as simple as a temperature shift doesnât happen with the pure intention of starving all which relies on it. In this, the world is honest, for all of these things are exactly as they seem â pure in their existence and with no grey areas to be cause for debate or outrage. Thereâs no right and wrong about it. Thereâs no shame or guilt. Thereâs simply doing.
He has always liked these things about nature.
He has always liked these things about the sea.
Itâs truly a shame, then, that he is no more than human, and that humanity has broken the natural order.
Among humans, there is no simply doing. Among humans, there is the expectation of considering cause and consequence. Every action is weighed, judged, and deemed appropriate or unacceptable. There is guilt. There is shame. There is so much that makes life so fucking complicated.
Perhaps humanity shouldnât exist in this pure and honest world, then. Perhaps thatâs why, despite the alarms raised by every instinct in his body the moment potential danger is recognised, he stares at the bioluminescence of the drifting buoy â as if caught in a trance.
Everyone knows of how insects are drawn to light, but they may perhaps not know that because of this, it is no rarity for birds and bats to also be nearby, knowing that in the light an easy meal is to be found. Some animals have even learned to use light as their preferred method of hunting: in the depths of the ocean, where the sun has no reach, the Deep Sea Anglerfish makes use of pulsating bioluminescence to lure both crustacean and fish.
The Captain, however, is no insect, no crustacean, and no fish. He may be just human, but in spirit, he may also be much more than just this. For, in a way many humans often seem to have forgotten how to do, heâs a man who listens to his instincts.
Game or not, real or not, he will not be lured by something that his whole body says he should not get close to.
Game or not, real or not, he will survive, because he has much that he must survive for.
But, how? How can he survive something he knows he cannot escape from? How can he come out on top?
It all starts with a deep breaths, and in it, with the acknowledgement that there is no escape. In order to survive in this world, every living being must know how to choose their battles; which can be fought and which should not. A captain must be able to discern which storms he can sail through and which he should avoid, he must know which waves to brave and which would cause his ship to capsize with their strength. Itâs a matter of setting pride aside in order to live another day. A matter of acknowledging oneâs own lack of power. And, in this act, some might find its own strange form of bravery.
The Captain, brave, does not turn away. He does not run, but he does not ready himself for a fight either. In this land where there is no familiar sea towards which to flee to for safety, he makes his seat â aware of how the sands shift and adapt to his weight when he kneels. Itâs once they stop moving that he does so as well. Not a shift, not a twitch, not a sound, not a glance, and perhaps not even a breath.
Eyes closed, he pushes himself to go to a calmer place, reducing his presence to the smallest portion of itself. Perhaps, if in this meditative exercise his presence becomes so small that it can barely be perceive, whatever hunts these days might take no notice of him and pass by. Is it wishful thinking? Perhaps, but it is the only solution in The Captainâs eyes; the only road to survival.
Perhaps his instincts are right.
Perhaps he will be lucky enough.
Sometimes, luck is the best thing one can have.
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