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 18, 2023 5:21:50 GMT 9
“Amazing? Captain, it’s eating your Pokémon!” Saint sputters, flabbergasted at The Captain taking a moment to take in this—abomination. This is the second time he’s witnessed the man laugh in the face of an undersea nightmare. It makes him wonder just what he has seen— not in the game, but in real life, because he knows he hasn’t been playing UNOVR long enough to become like this.
The battle rages on.
Captain’s Totodile—apparently called Roger—joins the fray, saluting and jabbering in a cute duck-like way that made Saint want to give him a treat, though the water type was intent on self-service.
Both Saint and Taiyaki’s eyes bulge as the tiny, tiny Totodile sinks his jaws at the perfect spot, dealing a hefty chunk of damage.
“What are you feeding him?” Saint says— now it’s his turn to marvel. It’s perfect, because it forces him to keep his eyes open, and it’s here that he can finally get a good look at what they’re dealing with.
<That’s the spirit!> Taiyaki roars. <Come on, fellas! Let’s chomp ‘em down! JAWS! OUT!> He dove back in, weaving past the tendrils to try and nab another bite.
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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 16, 2023 11:40:29 GMT 9
#s://b~l3n~co/i/mfJyyK~png TO: 𝓑𝓮𝓵𝓵✨🌸
hey bell, remember way way back at the christmas party when we were discussing how to achieve an optimal environment for fostering emotional and nutritional stability in wake of late stage capitalism? because colin wouldn't stop dming his ex and was hitting the tequilas so hard the chem majors had to step in yeah i think i have the solution now
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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 10, 2023 13:29:17 GMT 9
Dr. Caldwell. Angelo’s eyes grew at the title and the offered handshake. He took it, of course—and where the doctor’s grip was steady, an elegant clamp, he had to fight to keep his own from shaking too hard. His heart could not decide whether to be seized by fear (an honest to God doctor— someone that reminded him of his professors) or admiration.
“Ah, it’s nice to meet you too, si—Sarthor.” Right, to the garbage chute.
He’s given a little reprieve, though he does nudge a little closer to Kasey once it becomes apparent they’re just as bewildered and nervous over the encounter. But things were civil. Sarthor was a well-mannered professional.
But he’s asked for his time, which is amazing as Angelo values it to about one corn chip. It’s only at the mention of something to discuss that he’s reminded—the golden banquet. The caisson ceiling. The knife in his hands, on his throat.
“Could you—please promise me, that you will tell me what you’ll find after this?”
Lacrimosa’s smile. “i promise you, saint.”
Angelo shot up from his seat. “Ah! Of—yeah, sure, of course…” He gave Kasey a small smile as he slid from the table. “Sorry, I’ll be right back, Kasey.”
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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 10, 2023 13:28:40 GMT 9
#s://cdn~discordapp~com/attachments/1107895957519081622/1145884362253021254/200_casual~png Angelo blinks, surprised to be recognized—kind of.
“Birdie?” Now that did ring a quiet bell, but he still couldn’t pinpoint them meeting. He mentioned the parkour game—Midas Rush? “Sorry, I couldn’t really pay attention to the other players.” He gave a tight smile. “Too busy trying not to die?”
The stranger seemed quite friendly, though, happy to offer a tattoo. It was a little intimidating. The guy was cool. Tattoo-artist-makes-manbuns-work-chainsmoker-voice cool. If this wasn’t already a Pokémon event, Angelo would feel like a fish out of water. He distracted himself with the designs on the wall.
“I don’t really—have much of an idea. I’ve just always wanted one.” He frowned. “I can’t have one that’s too obvious, though.” A voice in his head mocked him. Why not? Only doctors need to cover up their tattoos. It sounded like his own.
He kept pushing, knowing if he stopped to hesitate, he’d chicken out. “Maybe on my back? I like how the geometric ones look.”
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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 10, 2023 13:27:30 GMT 9
Saint didn’t know what was keeping The Captain all bright-eyed and rose-cheeked in the face of death’s abyssal maw but good God, can he get some?!
“I don’t know! I don’t know!” Actually, he would know. Saint had far more Pokémon experience than The Captain, not to mention his all-time favorite versions were the Sun and Moon games and their respective sequels, but it was hard to remember anything when you’re fending off a panic attack—and also his eyes were closed.
Taiyaki was going through it. After slamming the impossibly large opponent with his jaws—and failing to eat him, naturally—he’d been lucky enough to take only a swipe on his side before retreating to a safer distance. Kyogre knew how long his luck would last.
<Holy—> the giant sushi blinked as an even gianter sushi broke through the waves, hosing down the massive crab. <Okay, okay—could really use some strategy right now, humans!> Huge waves ripped through the water, sloshing the flimsy boat around like a tekdek.
“JUST KEEP BITING IT.”
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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 10, 2023 13:26:53 GMT 9
#s://cdn~discordapp~com/attachments/1107895957519081622/1145884362253021254/200_casual~png The edge of Angelo’s mouth tugged up, just a little, as Kasey enthusiastically chatted on. He even felt the urge to laugh as he caught inklings of irritation near the end of their answer—not because he found it silly, but because it was endearing, how much they enjoyed the game, and how they cared for even the personification of death.
But it’s a short walk. Any questions he might have about Seta were cut short as the Marriott—equally as grand and bright—stood up to greet them. He’s about to continue walking, intent on bringing Kasey to the entrance proper, when they ask him.
Angelo’s eyes widened, stopped mid-step. “You— really?” They were friends, but they had known each other for little more than a day. His eyes drifted down to where they fidgeted, before settling on the pavement, his hand moving to the back of his head.
“That’s— I mean, I— wouldn’t want to impose.” They felt bad. They knew about Finn, and while they didn’t know about the fight, they knew how bad he felt, and wanted to be there for it.
Angelo’s eyes shut briefly as he sighed. “You’re too nice, Kasey.”
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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 10, 2023 13:26:11 GMT 9
The body was limp—like a marionette without strings; a hollowed teacake. On the surface, it was perfectly in tact. The colors were correct, from the brown of his hair and skin to the bright colors of his clothes, but underneath there lied nothing. He was not asleep. He did not dream. He did not think. He did not breathe. Just. Nothing.
The black stains continued to fade, clinging not so much like blood, but like the embers of a metal poured from a fresh mold.
The hand on his bare shoulder would pry him back to existence, Saint groaning as his head lolled forward, eyelids slowly prying open for molten gold to stare blearily at Silvermoon’s face.
“La… cri… mosa…?” he mumbled, pale locks drifting over the haze of his sight.
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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 9, 2023 19:41:40 GMT 9
#s://a~l3n~co/i/mtecjr~png Saint fancied himself to be a logical person. He enjoyed science, reveled in the pursuit of answers, and cherished the satisfaction of progress in a study.
So, the reason he was standing here—stuck in the body of a child, in one of the current most dangerous areas in the game—was simply because it was part of his scientific method.
(And also because he could not reach the secret entrance into what he theorized to be a secret area in the secret lab despite being certain he had measured that hole and had concluded it to be around the circumference of a toddler. Secretly.)
He sighed, squinting down once more at the drink in his hands. The FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH WATER had done its job a little too well. He only took the tiniest sip from the Miltank-themed sippy cup and it had transformed him instantly, with no signs of it fading any time soon.
And he still had ideas to use it. UNOVR had plenty of hard to reach places to crawl into—places that would likely kill him.
“Godda ged riddo dis,” he grumped, pulling up his UI—putting down the sippy cup first, because at his size, he could not type into the keyboard designed for 13-year-olds without using both hands—and posted a trade request:
’Curse these tiny hands!’ His face scrunched as he half-climbed over the floating keyboard to reach every ‘i’. ’Curse my hubris for not turning on autocorrect!’
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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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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 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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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 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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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 6, 2023 12:09:31 GMT 9
“I don’t fear the ocean!” Saint insisted despite white-knuckling the floorboards. “I’m afraid of what’s inside it! Don’t you remember the last time we—”
And in a cruel, fantastic display of comedic timing, the ocean stirred, like a hawk detecting some wet pathetic purse poodle on a sidewalk.
The noise that escaped Saint then was, coincidentally, exactly that of a squeaky toy.
“TAIYAKI!” He said, calling out his Gyarados rather than his last meal. Taiyaki burst out from his ball, his array of golden scales glistening in the bright light bouncing off the waves.
The gyarados looked up from where he emerged by the side of his trainer’s dingy little boat, being greeted by the sight of a creature about four times his weight, with 50% of that weight dedicated to its gaping maw— and thought, Ah, shit.
“Ice fang!”
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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 6, 2023 12:08:50 GMT 9
All the blood has been drained out of Saint’s face, his mind filled with his last will and testament, but when The Captain turns to him, the man is beaming—as if he’s been served top quality calamari, instead of the other way around.
“A monster,” is all Saint can squeak out before a massive tendril rises to seas their souls. It hits the ocean— the creature rumbling with displeasure as the resulting wave swallows the side of the ship.
The wave sends a screaming Saint colliding into the opposing gunwale, Gumball honking up a storm as he slips out of Saint’s arms and joins the battle with water guns (where did he get those?) ablazing.
“Gumball!” Saint chokes, wiping saltwater from his face as he scrambles up to his feet. His starter has thrown himself into the water, gently being lifted up by a—a platform of fish? “C-Captain!” Fuck, it’s cold. Fuck, what is that thing? “We need to turn back!”
TOO TOO TOO TOOO! comes the toy trumpet of war. Another massive seaweed tendril stretches above the combined forces of the emerging Whydah barge and the foolhardy clown dog. Gumball aims the water gun in his other flipper at the tendril and shoots.
“Jesus Christ!” Saint slippy-slides over the soaked deck as he makes for the helm.
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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 3, 2023 11:10:07 GMT 9
He’s beaten so swiftly that he didn’t even have time to process it. His eyes widened at the beeping and— there it was. He had failed the courtesy standoff.
Angelo snorted, stifling a laugh behind his hand. “You're pretty quick.” he hadn’t anticipated that audacity from Kasey, and couldn’t help be impressed.
He lowered his hand to a wide, if a bit exasperated smile, his brows curved with a fondness. “Okay, deal. I'm getting you lunch the next time you save me, then.” Though he did hope it wouldn’t come to that. He hoped he didn’t need saving at all.
“Where do you want to sit?” With their food in hand, that left the dilemma of finding a spot. It was lunch hour, most of the tables at the plaza were taken. People were already beginning to sit on the benches, on ledges, or just finding corners to stand around and eat with their groups.
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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 3, 2023 1:34:37 GMT 9
“I think I’m going to be sick.”
Because life had a way of playing cruel jokes, Saint found himself once again at the mercy of three things: The vast oceanic unknown, a rickety boat with a mid-life crisis naming scheme, and The Captain. Of the three, the last is the most formidable opponent, by virtue of it being impossible to say no to him and his stupidly charismatic little dog tail.
When The Captain looked back to him, Saint was not by the edge, hurling his guts out as God intended. No, he was smart—he was acting as counterweight. No, he was not clinging like a terrified koala to the furthest bench, holding the nonworking motor as if it’s his only lifeline. He was counterweight.
“Cap… captain… are you sure we can’t just. Observe the ocean on land? At a safe distance?” he balked, staring at the veritable landscape of rusting shipwrecks. He’s not sure if the bleached thing hanging off that ruined mast was a skeleton, but he refused to perceive it regardless.
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