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 Oct 9, 2023 13:43:32 GMT 9
TW: Self-harm, allusions to suicide, implied cannibalism, body horror
lacrimosa stood before the gate to mistra. how many times had he come here, now? hoe many offerings had he brought the Corruption? how many times had he been cast away empty handed?
he stood at the precipice, and did not know. he had come as often as the game would allow him, kept away only by lockouts and phantom weakness and pains. even now, his breath tame in quick, tight gasps. he pressed his good hand to his stomach as he took a slow, deliberate breath- and were he not watching with his eyes, he'd swear blood and necrosis continued to pour from the wound.
but his hand and shirt were clean, unstained. nothing visually was wrong with him- just the same pervasive, growing sensation of death that plagued him from his first step into mistra.
and, yet, still he stood before the gate, eyes rising up to the hazy border, another pokemon on his shoulder. this one, the bat from the settlement. it seemed alert now, ears twitching with interest, one pivoting before its whole body twisted, beeping softly at the approaching figure.
lacrimosa did not turn to them. he did not care. his eyes were on his goal, his destiny. his desiderium.
zubat || 150/150
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Saint
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Weekend Warrior
Round 2
Posts: 386
Trainer Class: 
Player Name: Angelo Alvarez
OOC Username: Sleepy
Arena Points: 10
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Post by Saint on Oct 11, 2023 7:39:29 GMT 9
You always have a choice.
Saint heard these words in his head, felt them shudder into his hands as he held Gumball closer to his chest. He hadn’t let go of the popplio since he left Bunya’s lab, too scared to lose him – and it wasn’t because of Gumball’s wanderlust anymore.
He was slipping from his fingers, quite literally. The frill around Gumball’s neck, patches of his belly, his flippers, and tail had acquired a strange, bubbly texture, as if the sea dog was turning to sea foam. Gumball delighted in this, chewing on his flippers as if to pop bubble wrap, and Saint had to scold him whenever he heard those alarming little honks.
It was, in all honesty, strange – but harmless. He could live with it. Gumball certainly wanted to, but he still—
He looked toward the horizon and saw something standing there, hunched over in the light, and while it tugged his heartstrings, it was his feet that drew him closer.
“Lacrimosa,” a breath of a name. “Lacrimosa!”
A hand grabbed hold of the man’s pale arm, Saint’s eyes bright pools of color that rove over him – latching onto his chest, which was whole, and in tact.
His hand dug into Lacrimosa’s skin.
“I didn’t think I would– see you again…”
The way he was turned. The look in his eyes. The espurr was nowhere to be seen.
Gumball giggled in his arms, waving his flipper in greeting, a bubble-shaped piece of him breaking off and floating out of reach.
You always have a choice. Please don’t go. It’s not worth it.
From this ready set of sensible words, what came out instead was, “Can I go with you?” And it horrified him, how much it sounded like longing.
no pokemon selected |
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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 Oct 12, 2023 12:09:10 GMT 9
a voice called out his name. lacrimosa paused, cautiously starting to turn- hunger and desperation still lingered in his gaze, something sharp and unyielding. but lacrimosa blinked, and it was gone, the man giving Saint a gentle smile instead.
"saint- i'm grateful to see you again. why did you think you wouldn't see me?" he asked, with a soft laugh. nothing was allowed to die, here.
lacrimosa glanced at the creature saint had with it- tainted, cursed. changed and delighted in that change. how was he to be anything but envious? but perhaps he was a fair portent...
lacrimosa let his gaze slide back to saint, smile brightening a bit. "of course. you did quite well last time. i would certainly feel much safer with you at my side..."
zubat || 150/150 |
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Saint
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Weekend Warrior
Round 2
Posts: 386
Trainer Class:
Player Name: Angelo Alvarez
OOC Username: Sleepy
Arena Points: 10
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Post by Saint on Nov 7, 2023 5:12:04 GMT 9
He ducked his head a little at the laugh. He knew that the chances of running into Lacrimosa again were logically high— but after the suffering he endured, killed in a slow, excruciating death— Saint thought that was the last. That Lacrimosa would break, put down the headset, and never be seen again.
He turned out to be just another in a long line of attempts.
Saint let go of him. He averted his eyes from his smile, taking out Gumball’s pokeball and returning his partner despite the sea dog’s protests. He knew what to expect.
Cinnamon wouldn’t allow any of this, but the other pokemon Finn traded him, the woobat— it would be fine. It was small, it could fly, it— it wouldn’t be easy to catch.
“Please let me go first.”
He tells himself it’s a safety precaution, but his eyes were fastened on the border ahead, his feet moving mechanically towards Mistra. Lacrimosa had led them the first time, espurr in hand. Whatever Mistra generated relied heavily on the perceptions of the players—“mistra warps to suit the minds of those who cross in, though i'm yet unsure how...” How. How. That was the persistent, pervasive question—and this was the first test.
He walked through—
and his shoes land on smooth, solid ground.
Saint blinked. It was so… bright.
This was not some miasmic, dreary wasteland. The floor under his feet was polished to the point he could see his reflection in the striated marble, alabaster intertwining with starburst ribbons. The walls bore detailed Achaemenid pillars, with sumptuous brocade curtains spilling down from ceiling to floor. Frescoes of strange creatures covered the border of a caisson ceiling, where the carved white embellishments jutting in a hypnotic vortex coalesced around a massive chandelier.
Under this hive of diamonds sat a refectory table. It rivaled the room in extravagance; faint damask in silk white table cloths, every chair its own throne with patterned velvet seats to match. Decoration overran everything, even the silverware, which glinted beside the plates in perfect sequence, their handles embedded with diamond, their metal of sharp gold. Every plate was filled to the brim with food, food of every kind—yet Saint found it hard to identify them. He could make guesses, but everything, from the cornucopia of fruits to the roasted veal and the blancmange—were all solid gold.
He tapped one of the cakes. It clinked back at him.
“What… is this?”
At the end of the table overwrought with abundance, there lay the biggest platter of them all. Its shape made it reminiscent of those used for whole hog roasts, yet it was far too big for any lechon Saint could name in real life. It was big enough to serve an Emboar.
It was empty.
His woobat flapped nearby, failing to snag from the cornucopia.
woobat || 50/100 |
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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 Nov 7, 2023 9:35:36 GMT 9
a newfound bravery flickered in Saint . demanding to go first, as if that would allay any fears, prevent any trauma. lacrimosa nodded, ducking back to let saint cross the threshold first.
a seed had been sown, and watered. now, perhaps, it would take root.
lacrimosa hesitated only a moment- curious, thinking- before he stepped through, following saint.
it was no gloomy, dreary forest, no quiet operating room, but a dining hall. something bright and brilliant and gleaming.
how curious.
lacrimosa trailed after saint, eyes casting over the decor. rich, refined- perhaps overdone. but lacrimosa felt more at home here, than among the drab decor of the settlement.
the table was covered in lavish foods, pristine and gilded. maybe a metaphor, of sorts- even the food of nobles being useless, and out of reach.
how interesting.
“i wonder where the main course is…” lacrimosa mused, something droll in his tone. it was unlikely to be a mystery for very long- that simply wasn’t how the corruption worked.
he picked up, delicately, an oyster shell, raw oyster and caviar within, gold polished enough to reflect.
zubat || 100/150 |
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Saint
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Weekend Warrior
Round 2
Posts: 386
Trainer Class:
Player Name: Angelo Alvarez
OOC Username: Sleepy
Arena Points: 10
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Post by Saint on Nov 7, 2023 14:03:08 GMT 9
#s://b~l3n~co/i/B59Gsm~png TW: Self-harm, allusions to suicide
Lacrimosa’s musings, tinged with expectation, echoed in the great hall, and was met with nothing but its own self.
Saint was silent for a long time, afraid, waiting for the pin to drop. And yet nothing stirred. The silence grew suffocating enough that he began to think aloud as he explored, curiosity spilling him across the lavish spread.
And time passed. Time passed slowly. Lacrimosa had said they could only stay in Mistra for a few minutes, but if Mistra was in the mind, did the objective passage of time matter at all?
Saint was by the giant platter now, fiddling with it. By then, he had tested everything, checked every nook and cranny. Every dish on the table was solid gold, every chair bolted to the spot. Behind the beautiful curtains, there were only walls. No doors.
This was a glorified box.
The only thing that posed a question was the platter. He had tried filling it, of course— first thing he did was pile the roasts and cakes on it, but nothing happened. He was now pressing his hands down on top of it, curious if it’ll break— it didn’t. It reflected the boredom and confusion on his face on its perfect golden surface, having not budged an inch— as much a fixture in the room as the floor itself.
Saint sighed. What were they suppose to do? Had the game bugged out? Maybe it had. Everything in the room, save for the contents of the table, acted like dollhouse pieces. He reached for one of the plates nearby—the radius around the platter had become something of a mess in his fidgeting—
“Ow!” He cursed, drawing his hand back. He had accidentally grabbed a golden knife. He frowned, staring at the cut on his finger.
The cut that pulled open, and began seeping a dark fluid—jet black.
Saint panicked. “La—Lacrimosa?“ It hurt, but it didn’t hurt more than it should. It did not smell nor taste like squid’s ink, and was too thick to be blood. It dripped down his wrist and landed on the platter.
His head snapped up at the sound of loud clinking. The chandelier stirred, swaying.
One of the jutting embellishments in the caisson pulled inward.
Saint’s eyes widened. They flicked from the caisson down to the platter, now bearing a single drop of the strange substance. He pressed the edge of the wound with his thumb, more drops falling.
The caisson continued to shift, the cornices pulling back every further—a flower in reverse bloom. With every shunt, every drop, the chandelier and its glinting diamonds rose every higher, the room growing dimmer as it was swallowed into the ceiling—yet beyond it, peeking through the eaves, were the tiniest peeks of light far brighter than anything that stood in the room.
One of these rays landed on Saint. It was warm—warm like the early mornings that cradled him from the balcony of his room, warm like the press of his brothers and sisters on his shoulders, jostling him for the cup of hot milo in his hands.
The light glinted off the knife he held in his hand.
There were exactly seven drops on the platter. They were dwarfed by the sheer size of the platter—more than five feet long, with a deep dip. Whatever lied beyond the caisson was demanding its weight not in gold, but in flesh and blood—and Saint had a sinking feeling that he knew exactly how much it wanted, down to the decimal.
His woobat had flown down, nibbling his finger. He barely felt it; it was so small. The wound was sweet. He raised his head to Lacrimosa and just—
Just stared.
And wondered.
And felt shame.
How could he? After everything they had gone through—everything he swore he would do and be for him. And he knew this was not a binary choice. They could leave. He could leave. He could return the headset to Finn and never play this again. He could pack his bags, and make that long overdue call, and do what he had always wanted to do—Go home.
And then what?
And then Lacrimosa would try to fill it on his own. He would die doing so, and the secret of this room would be buried with this memory. Saint would be left wondering for the rest of his days. Angelo would wonder.
His hand tightened around the knife, agitating the cut as he pressed it against his throat.
It was best not to think deeply on this, he knew.
This is nothing. Death does not exist here. And yet his hand trembled, his thoughts straying—was this still selfish? Of course it was. Real or not, actions bore weight—and though he knew Lacrimosa to be resilient, no one deserved to witness something like this. Again, he was choosing the hardest path, throwing everything and everyone he cared for under the bus as he chased after—a light. Even less than that. A promise of a light.
“Could you—please promise me, that you will tell me what you’ll find after this?” he asked quietly, willing himself to smile, because heroes usually smiled in sacrifice. If there were tears, he hoped Lacrimosa would respect his wish to ignore them.
Saint asked for a hero’s death, and hated to be martyred.
A loud crash, body slumping its full weight, yet the platter remained fixed on the table, filling and spilling with thick, dark gruel that stained the white table cloth.
The caisson ceiling fully retracted its teeth, bathing the banquet in a harsh spotlight that left only outlines, the chandelier now gone.
A sound filled the halls:
A bell.
Let
us
feast,
Lacrimosa.
woobat || 0/100
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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 Nov 8, 2023 1:22:21 GMT 9
TW: implied cannibalism
time crept slowly.
each second ticked, demanding the full weight and breadth of itself, only passing when pushed aside by the next.
saint moved, a methodical whirlwind, touching everything, pressing everything- lacrimosa hung back, waiting. not for saint to figure out what was to be done-
but for the Corruption to reveal itself.
his attention was turned by the sharp cry of pain, gaze moving to saint- to the venom that spilled from his hand. “don’t panic,” he cautioned first, any other words stilled as the chandelier swung, the ceiling moving.
saint offered his blood- seven drops, something correct and profane, and he was rewarded for it- sunlight fell on him, and he closed his eyes, sinking into it.
a blessing.
lacrimosa loitered, casting his eyes over the ceiling above, the caisson, the chandelier- and he felt saint’s gaze on him, the weight of his wonder.
time crept slowly.
saint turned his gaze away, and lacrimosa felt a mix of pride- and disgust. that he held such a pedestal in saint’s eyes- that saint was too much of a coward to do what needed to be done, to get answers.
but saint spoke, again- asking for answers, asking for truth. asking for understanding.
the consequence.
lacrimosa looked at him, and smiled back. “i promise you, saint.”
he gave saint the decency of looking away, eyes closing at the crash, the rasping dying-breaths. he glanced back as light bathed the room, shining over the lavish dinner.
and then, the quaint chiming. a summons. a dinner bell.
“Let us feast, La-cri-mo-sa.”
Lacrimosa sat at the head of the table, by the roast’s platter. He offered his thanks, for the meal, for the opportunity, to the Corruption, to Saint-
And he began to sup.
zubat || 50/150
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Saint
•
Weekend Warrior
Round 2
Posts: 386
Trainer Class:
Player Name: Angelo Alvarez
OOC Username: Sleepy
Arena Points: 10
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Post by Saint on Nov 8, 2023 13:49:34 GMT 9
#s://c~l3n~co/i/mAq4Sb~png
The light was crawling down. It broke through the caisson ceiling, thin rays lashing through the corbels and sending them plummeting and shattering on the marble below.
The platter was empty. The plates, bearing their gold idols, were also empty.
The banquet had ended.
It was time to see the honored guest out.
The walls and curtains were swallowed by the encroaching mass of light. The illumination twitched as it moved—not quite as smooth as a wave. With every contact it made in the hall, colors blitzed into its coil, little boxes. Pixels.
The rays wove through the furniture as cords.
The skin was being peeled away, burned until all that was left was the 3D framework underneath, the lavish hall reduced to a mannequin of its original self.
And all around: an angelic choir of every noise imaginable. Distant voices of every kind—young, old, crystal clear and a buzzing mess. Underneath this cacophony was a constant and monotonous hum.
With the light now crawling towards his feet, the ceiling had finally, truly, given way.
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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 Nov 9, 2023 0:29:24 GMT 9
#s://www~religiousartdecor~com/wp-content/uploads/2021/07/catholic-angel-statues-2-800x857~jpg TW: body horror
The first bite was soft and silken, sweet and savory both, neither able to overpower the other. Lacrimosa closed his eyes, savoring the bite-
A small piece of divinity.
He swallowed, and the after-taste was acrid, bitter- guilt and regret, searing and sticking on the way down. But that hardly mattered- He had feasted, and that-
Feast [feest] v. have or partake of a feast; eat sumptuously. to dwell with gratification or delight, as on a picture or view.
The thought slid into his mind as he brought more of the meal to his lips. The sweetness was gone, now, rot alone in its place, and his body surged forward without him, taking more and more. Lacrimosa fought to stop his hands-
Consequence [kon-si-kwens] n. the effect, result, or outcome of something occurring earlier; an act or instance of following something as an effect, result, or outcome.
He could not stop, taking more and more of the meal, pausing only to wipe the excess from his mouth with his hands- black, acid, tar- and sucking that from his stained fingers.
That consumed, Lacrimosa could only watch as he picked up the platter, face reflected in the polished gold- but the eyes were not his- pulling it close to lap up the stray drops of blood.
His body was still not returned to him.
His hands reached out, grabbing at what was closest, irreverent- a teacake crumpled when he touched it, gold falling away- it, too, was consumed, and with it were memories of Saint-
Earnest, wanting to help, above all else. Untouched, untainted.
The blancmange- an older man, begging for help, for more time. Sarthor promised a chance, viewing him not as man or soul, but treatments and care, and expensive surgery. Payments and payments and payments.
Every food was another person- someone used and manipulated and cast aside. Interns and nurses and patients. Assistants and families and strangers.
Each meal consumed, plate cast aside. He crawled, slowly, methodically, over the table, no scrap left behind.
Why are you doing this-
It was not wrath or gluttony or even misguided pride.
Greed [greed] n. excessive or rapacious desire, especially for wealth or possessions.
His body hunkered as he neared the end of the table, twisting and pulling, limbs snapping and peeling into halves indelicately. The pain was searing, agonizing- and Sarthor could not scream, could not retch- caught and trapped as something else puppeted him forwards.
Parasite [par-uh-sahyt] n. an organism that lives on or in an organism of another species, known as the host, from the body of which it obtains nutriment. A person who receives support, advantage, or the like, from another or others without giving any useful or proper return, as one who lives on the hospitality of others.
Stop, stop, but his mouth wasn't his own. A seared steak- Alistair, bright eyed, eager, brilliant. Drawn and snared and caught.
And then, then, at the end of the table, a small platter. Pasta mollicata. It was a child, the youngest of seven. He prayed for help, for freedom from his situation. He deserved freedom, didn't he?
He deserved all of it, didn't he?
The light grew destructive, ripping away pretense. The walls fell to mesh, to data. The clawed hands before him fell to swing joints, a skeleton to apply texture to. This wasn't real- none of it.
Sarthor saw himself- immobile, locked in place, unable to pull the headset off- and felt a quiet laugh burble in his throat.
Who are you, but his thoughts were not even thoughts, typed out impulses, programmed movements, ones and zeroes across miles of wire.
Requiem [rek-wee-uhm] n. Roman Catholic Church. Also called Requiem Mass . the Mass celebrated for the repose of the souls of the dead. a celebration of this Mass. a plainsong setting for this Mass.; any musical service, hymn, or dirge for the repose of the dead.
zubat || 0/150
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