A Song of Brutal Escalation (Worm & D&D 3.5 Crossover)

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Fire & Faith
  • Threadmarks
    • Brockton Bay News Network

    Once again the television screen would show a news room, yet this time? The news real down below, as it cycled through was labeled 'Gang War', with red outlines. "Good evening once more good citizens of Brockton Bay. I am James Newman of Brockton Bay News Network and I am hoping my viewers and their families a safe evening at home. A hope that for all too many is in vain as the second day of the gang war between the Empire Eighty-Eight and Azian Bad Boys transitions into an evening of skirmishes and what promises to be knives and bullets in the dark."

    His face is serious, as he continues to speak, the image of a map appearing on the screen, with labels and colors representing the major players in the fight. "As of yesterday, the day that many feared had come at last and with a fury that could only be surpassed if Lung himself was on the front lines. The igniting incident is hard to pin down. Could we blame the losses the E88 has taken in the last two weeks?" As he spoke, blooms appeared on the map, showing empire losses.

    "The ABB having built up and marsheled its strength, as the bikes and weapons, captured examples of bike trailers, potato launchers, their propellant, grenade ammunition, flamethrowers and fuel being shown to primarily been produced here in the bay with easy to acquire materials?" With each item spoken, a picture appeared on the screen, all while he looked on, grim and resolute. "Given the coordination and fact that units of bikes and ABB foot soldiers could maneuver together speaks of planning and training, of preparations long in the works."

    The footage shifts, showing a pair of carts with machine guns mounted on swivels laying down suppressing fire on empire positions, other three carts close by with long tubed launchers before muffled whumps sound and then explosions of shrapnel rain down on those same positions. All the while, ABB foot soldiers, armed mainly with machetes, knives and clubs are moving forward, a handful of pistols, shotguns and rifles among them.

    The footage shifted again, as bikers rushed a police barricade, throwing what seemed to be glass jars, exploding into clouds of glass and nails as a cart moved, turning and strafing them as its flamethrower belched, spewing fires all over the barricades as more and more of those glad in red and green marched closer, tearing the barricade down as they moved on Empire territory. "However, things have not been going entirely in the ABB's favor, as both the empire and heroic forces have struck telling blows."

    There is a brief moments pause, as he presses his hand to his left ear, clearly listening to something as his eyes go wide. "This just in, we are receiving live footage of what appears to be a group of priests acting against the empires new Red Hand capes!" And with that, there is a moment of darkness, before the grainy images fill the screen.


    Alley Near 7th Street and Aleston Road
    (Mood Music)

    Walking down the street are what appear to be two men and a woman walking down the alley, where the three 'Red Hands' are busy cutting off bits of two ABB soldiers, laughing as they take off slices. Still, their eyes look on and one of them frowns, eyes hard as he sneers at the leading man, who was built as if he could crush the skulls of those before him with a single hand. "We have no quarrel with you priest. Unless of course, you are a foe of the empire?"

    There is eagerness in their tone, as all three walks forward (but stay just beyond thirty feet from the three), face calm, as the irishman speaks. Some would recognize him as Father Shamus O'Malley, an old preacher and irishman whose youth was far behind him. "All who walk in goodness and truth oppose the dark and the horrors that prey on men." His tone, even quiet from the distance of the camera, was at least as hard as steel, even as he reached down, taking out what seemed to be a bottle, and throwing it at the three capes.

    As one moved to block it, the glass broke and what was likely a powerful acid splashed on them, burning and marking them, even as Gregory Dane begins to speak, his voice firm, and something about it echoing, moving as he lifts a cross, presenting it firmly, as he starts to chant. "My Lord, you are all powerful, you are God, you are Father. We beg you through the intercession and help of the archangels Michael, Raphael and Gabriel, for the deliverance of our brothers and sisters who are enslaved by the evil one. All saints of Heaven, come to our aid."

    As he speaks, the three capes screech, faces contorted in rage and fear, as they hissed out words that seemed to suggest foulness and hate, leaping forward as knives were positioned to stab, even as Father O'Malley moved, hands gripping two of them, slamming them into the third as he grunted, bruises forming across his elderly face. All the while, Dane continued walking forward, presenting the cross and chanting, Verity Pougher, who some would recognize as one of the nuns teaching at Immaculata High School (and given how she used the rod to trip and pin the third many were rethinking giving her any problems in class... save for one to two particularly dirty minded students).

    "From anxiety, sadness and obsessions, we beg You. Free us, O Lord. From hatred, fornication, envy, we beg You, Free us, O Lord. From thoughts of jealousy, rage, and death, we beg You, Free us, O Lord. From every thought of suicide and abortion, we beg You, Free us, O Lord. From every form of sinful sexuality, we beg You, Free us, O Lord. From every division in our family, and every harmful friendship, we beg You, Free us, O Lord. From every sort of spell, malefic, witchcraft, and every form of the occult, we beg You, Free us, O Lord."

    Each word seemed to make the capes thrash, as Father Dane stood over the one Sister Verity had pinned with her long rod, taking out a bottle and anointing his fingers before he knelt, traces of the liquid moving across the capes forehead, eyes and lips, before the cross was placed before him, as the final words came like silent thunder. "Lord, You Who said, "I leave you peace, My peace I give you," grant that, through the intercession of the Virgin Mary, we may be liberated from every evil spell and enjoy your peace always. In the name of Christ, our Lord. Amen."

    And with those final words, something appears, as smoke pours from the capes mouth, as it formed into the shadow of a creature. It was a bloated and ugly thing, a long dead corpse with bloody red hands and not a trace of hair on it. Claws of smoke and shadow reached out, even as Father Dane presented the cross. "Back to the pit with you in the name of Christ!" The creatures only reply, as the man pinned beneath the rod started to sob, was a baleful moan, breaking apart as it glared with hate towards the priest.

    "Is, is it over?" The question came from the cape currently pinned, as the two held by the Irish Father are shrieking obscenities, laced with terror, as Dane approached them, and once more began to pray.

    Still, the sister smiled and leaned down, patting him and whispering something, as the cape began to cry with relief, relaxing and becoming almost boneless. Twice more this would be repeated as the demons were driven out, all of the capes crying in relief and not resisting at all, somehow changed, gaunt and shrunken, as if something about them was missing, hollowed out and empty now.


    Fox 25

    "And there you have it Boston, what seems to be three genuine exorcisms performed in the middle of Brockton Bay in the midst of their recent gang war. This does beg an important question, of rumors coming out of the bay. Long regarded as one of the stranger cities in the state, and indeed in the entire New England area with a long reputation of odd events and strange occurances, to say nothing of the size of their cape population, one just ask this. How many of the other rumors written off as too crazy to have actually happened have some truth to them?

    We will bring you more as the situation in the bay develops, as the Protectorate and PRT work alongside the police department to restore order to the streets, hopefully before the Dragon stirs from his lair."
     
  • Threadmarks
    • Piggot Updates; January 15th 2011
  • Apocrypha
    • Costa-Brown: So, care to explain what is happening in the bay?

    Piggot: Asia declared lightning war on the Nazi's, the Catholics are Crusading and the Nazi's have started summoning demons. Oh, and Michael Jackson has appeared as one of the living dead commanding several dozen undead slavers and nazi's as backup dancers and singers while holding a charity rave with vampires handing out fliers.

    All Directors; Wot.

    There is the sound of heavy gunfire in the background, multiple explosions and the shrieking of the damned coming from a hundred thousand insane mouths that had no place in reality.

    Piggot; Also, some idiot thought it was a good idea to rile up the ageless eldritch abominations asleep under the waves before the stars were right, which always pisses them off.

    Contessa is curled up in a ball, shaking, shivering and saying she is a good girl

    Piggot; As it is, we should be able to hold on, but would appreciate any help before things start actually getting strange.

    Costa-Brown: So, we do not have any resources that we can spare at this time, and will notify you when that changes.

    There the shattering of glass, and a creature whose very form seems vomited from the the primal mad depths of a savage world before sanity clawed a fragile shelter in a bleak uncaring cosmos. Piggot merely lifts a shotgun and blasts it, knocked it out of her office with a screech, as she looks at the cameras, never even looking at the creature she shot.

    Piggot: I figured.
     
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  • Apocrypha
    • Fury of Wolves
  • Threadmarks
    • Hookwolf

    He took a breath, as he stood before his crew. Of all of them, they had fared the best in the recent weeks, dedication to training meaning that that they were not taken off guard like the others, as they honed themselves. And now, as the dragons soldiers moved into Empire territory... he had chaffed, being held back from rushing forward to meet the challengers, to answer with steel and fury, to make of the battles a grand offering to the gods. Yet, Kaiser commanded he hold himself back, to wait and refrain from challenging the foe. And for what?

    It was good that the warlock was not here at the moment, because binding demons into the flesh of their own men? Really, he may have had his doubts about Kaiser, but to do this? Particularly since the kid was reluctant to do anything that would put his own skin in serious danger, Kaiser would have had to approve it. That, and the kid had no actual authority in the empire, no ability to simply gather up recruits for use in the damn rituals. That, and from what little clues he had gotten from the last conversation...

    He did not frown, as he moved to the barrel, lifting an arm and exuding a blade, before slicing open his flesh with one of his own blades, just shallow enough to draw blood, even as Stormtiger and Cricket mimicked him with their own barrels, caps going back on the casks of mead. He looked over the boys (and a handful of gals) and nodded as they made ready. "Brothers and sisters! War calls to us, the shield din and the spear dance." He laughed, throwing back his head and laughing, as he calmed, as all felt... right.

    "The warriors of the dragon think we are weak, that they can sweep us into the sea as grains of wheat before the storm." He snorted, looking over them, as they murmured. "I say, FUCK THEM! We are the hardest and toughest bastards and bitches of the bay and if they think they can swallow us, they are going to die choking as we cut our way out of their guts!" Ah, that was it, as his crew firmed up, spirits soaring, lifted and bound to his speech. The little warlock thought he was a dead man walking anyway. "But we can do more than make them regret it."

    His tone is as hard and feral as the iron wolf that made up his changer form, even as his crew started stamping their feet around the benches, laden with food (barbeque mostly, it was traditional), even as each started moving up, mugs in hand to gain their fill of mead. "You see, thats the thing. They fear death." He says it like it is a great joke, a cosmic jest, as all around laugh, snickering and shaking their heads. "They rush us fearing if they do not, the dragon they serve will burn them alive. They waver when they see our lines, as without the lash at their back, they know death stands before them."

    He laughs, a great howling thing, as all look at him, a glorious madness that is infectious, the humor spreading and rippling, building on each show of courage, of contempt at the foes cowardice. "I have fears as well." His calm acknowledgement of this causes a ripple of confused silence, as he looks around, nodding at them. "I fear that my life will be meaningless, without purpose. I fear growing old and being unable to stand in the middle of the killing field, pitting my life against the foe, to see which of us goes to meet the gods." He snorts and roars, a mighty bellow. "I fear a death without glory!"

    They flinch, pushed back by the sheer venom in his tone, hard eyes looking at them as they gather themselves. "So my brothers and sisters, eat and drink, laugh and listen to the tales of valor and ready yourself. For tonight some of you shall be in Valhalla, but let us send a bounty of souls before us first!" There is a welcoming roar, as they slam fists to chests, feet to the ground, mugs to wood as he settles back into his seat. Kaiser will not keep him from this war.


    People always underestimated his crew. They were pit fighters, dog fighters, leg breakers, enforcers and warriors all. They left the subtle ways to others, as they fought and trained and honed their skills. In a different age, they would hailed as warriors, as those who held up the ideal of personal strength and excellence. For inside of his crew, the only limit to how high you could rise was combat skill, the effectiveness each had in the art of war. This actually led to a thing that could be considered to be funny in some respects.

    Even as they marched up the street, moving towards where they saw the enemy moving, there were a few things that made them very different from the other branches of the Empire. The others had the better guns and equipment, that would obvious to anyone that looked into things. Yet there was an old saying that you would think people would pay attention to. Better a wooden sword in skilled hands, than steel in a novices. As it was, Oni Lee or another that made use of rooftops might have noticed them.

    While the forces on the ground were male, all wearing what seemed to be helmets, chain and had shields (the two front and flanks ranks had ballistic shields with the rest having riot shields), and had what seemed to be spears and axes of all things, with a suspicious lack of ranged weapons compared to normal empire forces. Of course, there were also the men holding the large dogs, which were actually wearing what seemed to be armor, held on chains and straining at their leashes.

    Yet, the confusing thing was that Hookwolfs crew was almost infamously unisex, as he cared not their gender or sex, yet there were no women visible on the ground. It was only when the sniper rounds tore into their ranks that they located the female part of his crew and their guns... as they leapt from roof to roof, raining death from above and providing suppressing fire and ranged support.

    However, all of that paled to a simple fact for the ABB forces. To put it simply, when you had a giant wolf made of blades bearing down on your position, soaking up the bullets from your guns and leaping in to slaughter and break into your ranks, the fact that trained war hounds were unleashed to join in as laughing maniacs closed to stab and hack in a vicious melee, bullets striking away at their guns and officers that were not shredded by the great metal wolf at any rate.

    The sad thing is, if Hookwolf had not been there, if Stormtiger was not harassing their flanks and using his claws to ruin tires, if Cricket was not ruining any approach to the high ground, the ABB may have been able to acquit themselves well. Yet, pinned down, their heavy weapons neutralized and with a murderblender forcing himself into their ranks, warriors in disciplined ranks behind him to mop up stragglers, is it any wonder that they were so much meat in the grinder?


    Max Anders

    He sighed, as he looked at things. Frankly, he would have thought that Brad would have been able to wait just a little longer, even as it seemed that Kayden would be coming back into the fold. Yet, as he looked over the reports, the iron king worried. He would admit that he thought Brad was a fighter, skilled in combat situations and not much good beyond that, but that he maintained what seemed to be an entirely separate armory and that his dogs were more than just brutes that fought in a pit for gambling income....

    He made some mistakes, underestimated him. As it was, he would freely admit that he was planning on stalling for time for a number of reasons. Reinforcements for one, both from overseas, some mercenary capes, fresh troops from the clans and of course, managing to recall those who left. And of course, there was what he had Constantine working on. Not just the great project, which should offer power and quickly... but given the success of the demon vessels before the priests dealt with them? He had sent the orders to expand the number made.

    Thankfully, he still had ways to compel Constantine, even if he had seemed to be more than a little reluctant about that particular project. Still, so long as they avoided engaging Lung before all was ready... really, Brad's success meant that the lynchpin of the ABB was more likely than not to come, to break the resistance personally. Which meant at least, that Lung would have a target, one where Kaiser could arrange for an ambush of his own to catch the hunter that sought the bait.

    For by weeks end, he would fashion a dragons skull into a throne, that all will know to bow to the rightful King of the Bay,
     
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  • Threadmarks
    • Love the story and the minor details and just how interesting it all is. Though do have a question. Was Dean turning into a warforged or something else? More familiar with 5e than 3.5e.
     
    Not a warforged, sadly for him. Rather, he was becoming a bit biomechanical in a painful way, that could be said to be phyrexian. Well, that or something not quite a worm titan thanks to a dead shard and some mimetic hazards.

    The first proper undead worm titan is going to be.... interesting hopefully.
     
    The first few chapters of this story was the best, then it began to fall off. The vivid imagery that was displayed; the weeping of the foul blood, the fae-like otherworldly walk, the hounds of war baying from her shadow, etc - It all made the story feel important, epic in the classical sense, sinister and overflowing with detail, and was building towards an otherworldly mythos describing an uncaring entity born of tragedy, from an outside perspective. The prose and descriptions were all excellent, dream like-but grounded, and imaginative, with wording that was full of flavor and passion for the scene at hand.

    The inclusion of human motives and a human perspective spoiled this aspect of the story to me, and brought this down to the level of mankind and their struggles, thoughts and desires. I can't help but feel like a unique outcome was missed, where something so awe inspiring, hauntingly beautiful, alien and powerful is described interacting with Brockton bay.

    The entity seemed almost untouchable, walking like a goddess of death across blanketed snow without human weakness, and had a completely unknowable thought process. The moment when she interacts with the first two men in an almost tender, innocent way, and then there is a smash cut to them having been eaten, after which she continues her journey with an almost artistic face paint from them; It really subverted my expectations in a good way and felt completely unique, unexpected, and with a mystical tone that's simultaneously brutal and real.

    And then later, the details of how wherever she goes there are groups of corpses left in her wake, this also added to the mythos of this strange entity that replaced taylor, and seems to operate outside of the paradigm of capes, more like an eldritch being inserted into the world which it now bends around, without losing the feeling of realism.

    All of this suspense and inhuman significance was lost when a human motive was added, and then events were described in the same way as almost every other worm fic.

    Edit:
    One other detail i disliked is how later on, Taylor begins to be depicted more like a protagonist we should feel sorry for, that makes mistakes and feels regret, is worried, and is fighting for a righteous cause. Revealing her to be someone who's struggling diminishes the tone of the story into something more mundane, and retroactively limits her motives to something understandable and not unknowable.

    By doing so it adds a moral dilemma to the story where there wasn't one previously; it is no longer just her unknown nature which cannot be weighed by the reader. We are now forced to assign some level of blame to a human, and decide whether it's moral or not for this human to have done what she did. Ironically it makes the musings of the gang members correct, backtracking from the previous tone where they are assigning human motives to something that is inhuman.

    When her motives were inscrutable, it added a separation between her and the reader and kept us asking questions about what drives her. is it instinct? Is it random whims warped by a strange mind? Is it hunger? Is it the structure of a philosophy? Is it a ritualistic tradition? Is it something we cannot imagine? But now that her motives are known, we are put in a position where we should choose whether to root for or against her, which further humanizes her.
     
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    The Red Stage
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    • Tell me this, oh mortal man, whose sight is limited as much by choice as biology, what is needed for the grandest of plays? A thousand things are screamed into the void, yet there are but two to those that dance and breathe in the song. Actors and a Stage. And in this part of the decades long saga of Brockton Bay, tying into older tales from around the globe, a true international production, the actors have been assembled and the scripts burned, devoured and made anew. All that was required, was properly setting the stage, a long and careful labor.

    Yet this was not a task that could be done slapdash and willy nilly, no, for that is not what the performance demanded. It was the weaving together of tales generations in the making as genres flowed and slammed together like bull seals. It was the shattering of the chains called Status Quo that allowed for the rot to creep in, to be purged with the blood and fire that any good medical drama demanded, no matter that the ignorant and baying masses might call it a superhero film, or mayhaps an action flick or war movie. Some could consider it a Crime and Justice documentary with a dash of History to give that full bodied flavor that is context.

    Yet, as things fell into the boiling pot, as the stage began to take form, the scenes prepared to be set for the next acts, there is a lamanting that it is all of these things and more, for is that not the human condition to make so needlessly complex that which is simple and straightforward? Alas, she wore her face as a mask and obeyed certain conventions, even as she sat on her throne and wove the stage past the ophidian gate, into and through the actors, as the symbols formed.

    Yet, she was not the only one weaving her tale. While she crooned her silent song, a corpse-wyrm erupted from a fragile shell and wearing the skin as a mask, dancing and scratching at those boundaries so very thin and airy as she swam among the spheres, she could hear and taste two others. One was so rude, striding forth with a torch of viridian flames into the darkness, waving it around as souls and fragments of souls ran through him, the names of things spewing into the silence and defining it, giving it shape and substance, making ridgid what should be gaseous.

    The other was not here yet, but she could be heard, insectile legs dragging the chittering forms of man and beast, arms and tentacles grasping and stripping and weaving into parts of itself, even as it tore bloody chunks from that ever shifting hide to mould like clay, throwing and scattering them into the wild, slave soldiers and new races and species.... all to fight and devour each other, before laughing, return to their mothers gullet that she can tear off more of herself to sire yet more in an endless cycle. And yet, while her mask was on the grand stage, she was not, not yet.

    Yet, she returns to her work, as she prepares, stroking his greed, caution in some areas and risk in others. It was a pretty dreamed she dangled in front of him, the poor king in his crown of iron and ashes, that he might find favor in the Infernum, even as the glare of the torch blinded him to the obvious pitfalls. She laughed and shook her head, a smile about her lips, as she whispered into him, the glories his rule would bring, the power that was inside of his grasp if he was but willing to pay in blood and gold. What would the spending of this treasure mean, when he rose above his broken rivals, to hold the bay entire in a pitiless grip?

    And so was half of the stage set, as iron blades grew from the soil, dripping a venom that reeked of arrogance and ignorance, even as the cores were carefully rusted and weak, ready to snap at the crucial moment, that justice be done on the lord of the wicked.

    Navigating the realm of dreams to the second half of the stage did not require ant like tread, but rather, as the lights flashed and music pounded, it spoke of a dancing revolution, a sensation that was sweeping the nation! She was not entirely sure where the uniform came from, as she twirled and sang along to the music in words she did not know, as she danced into the lake of tears, dreams in the depths gleaming like pearls. Yet, the one she was to visit was not among those strewn at the bottom of the lake, amid the mud and the weeds.

    No, his dreams were in the ruined remains of the temple, broken and sundered as the land fell and lake covered its roof. There, as she walked through the doors, was the dragon in his place of honor, tribute offerings scattered about his feet, even as the dreaming pearl was set onto the head. She walked through without care, no guardians or defenses rousing from torpor, for she was not there to steal, nay, as she leaned down, she was there to speak, to weave a web and chain of glittering and airy words, a net that the dragon could snap with his muscles or burn with his fires with ease, and so, it was not a threat.

    Yet, as whispers, all the venom one ever really needed, worked their ways into dreams of better days, simpler times as glasses of sake and beer were raised among friends, glasses meeting before with laughs they drank and gambled and were simply friends. And so she whispered in friendly voices, using the time honored tradition of finger puppet theater, she spoke of lordship, of being the honored lord, of allowing his followers to acquire glory and prestige, for who could rival him? At least, until a fight worthy of his attention and touch was needed, to hammer home for all of the bay that their freedom is a luxury granted by the dragon.

    Humming, as she danced, shedding her trappings as she moved and swam and danced the voystran charge, she went to the cliff, to overlook the stage, breathing it in and listening to the melody of countless songs blending together, clawed fingers adjusting notes and moving them to a smoother design and pattern. And so, a smile and a shadow only, she slipped her mask back on, as she strode through the ophidian gate, a playful smile about her lips.

    "My friends, are you ready to attend the party?"
     
  • Threadmarks
    • matthew badger said:
    -snip-
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...

    So, the main issue I have writing this, is that fundamentally, there is a duality to her. Her mortal self is a mask, yet it is no less her for all that it is another mask to put on, a role to play in the story. I would ask what you felt the human motive was? Because, in many ways, I'm trying to sum it up as... well, things filter through her mask.

    She has powers and wishes to be a hero, so she shall destroy the criminals of the bay in a grand performance, to weave the enflame the passions as she gathers their putrid and rotten flesh. Mayhap, once she is done here, she can fly on wings of brilliant mercy and love to help liberate others?

    She loathes the trio? Why, she shall give them all that they wished for in their dreams, as it turns to ashes and poisoned fruits that take root inside of them and devour from the inside without killing, leaving them broken wretches, until she has forgotten the mewling and begging scraps and recycles them into a new story.

    Her masks father? She loves him still, and will fill him with the sweet wine of a families love, as the past washes over him like the tides to a sandcastle, until all that is left are memories of joy and love in crystal spheres, singing sweetly set in a crown.

    The fact that she might be able to trivally end mooks and regular humans, but needs time to build up to those a little harder to take down? Because while it is a power fantasy, tis better to weave and craft the banquet and art from the materials of the human condition, to play it like a flute or harp... not merely order that it be so.

    As it is, I am trying to set it up so there is that duality, even as she has a few more human lucid periods. She will get over those, as she is a young one yet, as her mask is worn down and away. Same time? As she grows into herself, she can escalate more, and since getting her ophidan gate? She will be setting up grander plays and events as time goes on.
     
    ...Bards are terrifying. She's puppeting everyone to fit the role she needs for a very specific outcome, and nobody else has any idea she's responsible. They don't even realize that someone is manipulating the players of the great game! Brockton Bay will be cleansed by the hands of the filth that infests it, a script written in blood played to a glorious finale.
     
    More like making some friendly suggestions in their dreams to a few key players. I have not yet done up any heroic dreams.... though those could be fun to do and show.

    Also, yes, I'm aware that gang wars usually are not wars in miniature. Then again, Brockton Bay.
     
    I am but a Union Man
  • Threadmarks
    • Danny Hebert

    He was a failure of a father and a failure of a man. One by one, all that mattered in his life passed away from his life piece by piece, action by action, inaction by inaction by inaction. The first to have slipped away was the port, as idiots from out of town decided to rile things up and soon enough there had been riots and the ships graveyard. Yet, if that had been all, things could have been fine. But, in the end he made the choice to support the union over his family, to focus on keeping his people in work, so much effort there that, he slipped.

    Annette, she had the patience of a saint, but even a saint had her limits. She brought up that he was devoting so much effort to the union instead of the family, to what mattered, and yet, while he would focus a bit more on them for a time, he kept moving to try and keep the docks alive, to keep the gangs out and for all to have a good, decent living. It was hard, and they ended up fighting more and more often....

    They made up in the end, and what made it all the worse? She had called home, ahead of herself because Taylor had not called on time, even as he and Taylor had prepared... well, something for a special family dinner, to break the news to Taylor that she would be a big sister in a few months. And then the accident happened, with Taylor hearing it, his daughters face as she heard her mother die with him not able to do anything to protect either of them...

    A piece of him died that afternoon with her, was buried in the cold earth as he looked on, hollow on the inside. He shut down. It was not until Alan, Kurt and the boys came and knocked him on his ass, as Taylor had been staying with Emma the entire time, as he rotted and drank, Taylor coming back to the house to change things up, to cry and hug him as he stared blankly ahead. Shame and self-loathing were toxic nails that pinned him to the chair. It was worse than thinking he was to blame for his wifes death... but that, he had in a moment of depression blamed Taylor.

    Taylor, the best thing still in his life, who had only been too busy because he was having her help with dinner. She was all he had left of Annette, and yet, he was barely a father at all. As of two weeks ago... he had walked to the edge of the wharf, looked at the waves and wondered if he should end it, given how much of a failure he was, how terribly he failed Taylor, his daughter. He was not sure why he did not go to the cold, to the dark, other than the faintest hope that Taylor was still alive after being missing, and Emma not knowing where she was.

    And then, he found the bullying journal just two days ago, after a dream. He was a kind man. Most would agree that he was a good man. There are, in the english language, two hundred and seventy synonyms and antonyms for rage. There were fifty-two synonyms & antonyms for guilt. Miles away, at Brockton General, Deamn Starfield, known as Gallant woke screaming, his spine ramrod straight. In an seemingly abandoned loft, Alec, known to the wider world as Jean-Paul Vasil or Regent began to punch himself in the face until giant dogs quite literally sat on him.


    A pair of creatures, worm like in many respects circled each other, shedding parts of themselves, and one piece, a bright and gleaming star moved to the world below, as the shard of this great being made the final preparations for their arrival, for the long awaited claiming of a host.

    [DESTINATION]

    [AGREEMENT]

    [TRAJECTORY]

    [NEGOTIATION]

    The last word made the entire vision halt, as things shifted, as the world itself seemed to drown, the earth falling away to a vast and terrible abyss, even as there was a single island, with a singular man, looking at the arriving being of crystal his eyes firm and hard. There was a storm that ruled this place, and yet, it was as much a crown, a legacy and imprint as part of the human looking up at the shard. The shard, the Queen Administrator, that was rather unsure and taken by surprise. For this was not how this was supposed to happen.

    Of course, as it considered its options and how it was committed, the royal shard did the only thing it could. [Query?]

    The voice, the roar of the sea, the pounding of the surf, the lash of storm-winds brushed it, wrapping it up, holding the shard tight, and yet, each drop told a tale. [UNION. COOPERATION. SEA-SHANTY]. For several long moments, as Queen Administrator considered the data offered and the possibilities , even as they made note the proposed resources that would be shared, and once more, the shard came to the only logical course, as they followed the sweet temptation of new exotic data.

    [AGREEMENT]


    As he woke, Danny Hebert blinked, as he felt the world shift in ways impossible to truly describe. Senses that simply made sense, as if they had always been a part of him, even as he heard the song of the sea ever so much more clearly now. Yet, eyes hard, he considered things, as the television blared, news showing just how much of a mess things were. In that moment, there was a crack, nowhere physical, but instead in his heart and soul. It was the sort of shift that in geological terms was usually accompanied by volcanic eruptions and earthquakes able to shatter entire continents.

    And so, Danny made his way over to the phone and began making some calls.


    Brockton Bay News Network

    "Good morning Brockton Bay! James Newman here with the latest update of the gang war, and this one is a strike against both gangs from what seems to be every union in the city! As of ten AM this morning, the cities unions have, as one, blacklisted and called for a total denial of service to the organizations known as the Empire Eighty Eight and Azian Bad Boys. What does this mean for them exactly? No business that is part of a union will work for them, properties they own or close associates. No grocery store and larger food store will sell them food. If something happens to disrupt utilities in areas they control nobody will be sent to repair them."

    His eyes look into the viewers own as he looks down at the notes, and then back. "In short, the unions of the city have entered into the fray and have declared war against both major gangs. Only time will tell if they will hold in face of retaliation."


    Brockton Bay
    (Mood Music)

    The streets of the bay were filled with the sounds of marching feet as they moved as one. It did not matter who they where, their age, gender or status, other than the simple fact that they rejected both gangs and were sick of being afraid. They were fed up and had all they could take, and they would take no more! Yes, the members of the E88 and ABB were hardened criminals, but Brockton Bay was still a city of three hundred and fifty thousand. Combined, the numbers of both gangs barely reached two thousand.

    This was not the gangs city. This was the peoples city, and they would take it back, as they marched, a giant roused and filled with terrible resolve. Many of the men, as they prepared, nodding to their loved ones, knew they may not make it back alive. Yet, what could they do? Wait for their turn, hoping that the gangs had grown full before it was their turn on the dinner table? Or could they stand and say two simple words?

    Alone, they would break and be swept aside. But, as the gangs had tried to make them forget, humanity did not need to stand alone. Let neighbor reach out to neighbor, let hand link to hand and arm to arm, lifting each other up as we moved as one. A single man may not count for much, but ten? Fifty? A hundred? A thousand? Fifty thousand? When humanity acts as one, even the gods, sitting in their silent palaces must pause and take heed.

    Some would claim that in an age of parahumans, that this is doomed to fail, that they would be scattered and broken before the mightiest of shakers and brutes. To that, the common man as a single thing to say. "Come then ye mighty, if you think your hard enough!"
     
  • Threadmarks
    • So, have a bit of a cold today. Feel like shit, so things may be a little... meh. As it is, ideas flow better when I'm not all there anyway :p
     
    Prophet of a New Age
  • Threadmarks
    • Theo Anders
    (Nine Days before the Gang War)

    Theo existed. That was as much as most who knew of him would attest to. He was not unpleasant to be around. Neither was he pleasant to be around. He was there, he took up space and he was to all intents and purposes little more than a piece of the background. He did not mind this. Then again, he had no strong feelings one way or the other for a long, long time, having been ground out under the heel of a father who had all but written him off. After all, he was not athletic and he was not usually a violent person.

    Yet, even as he looked after Aster, his sister, he could remember another time when he was if not happy, than content. Sadly, his father pulled him from the marching band and between his after and Kayden, he lacked the music that spoke to him, that called to him. Sometimes he felt, that this was a literal thing, that there was an instrument out there calling to his soul... or was waiting for him to pick it up. In a way... he would freely admit, that he took advantage of the fact his father was busy to make use of his allowance.

    Yet, the same thing that caused disruptions in his fathers attention happened to delay the arrival of the package. It was a simple thing, an electric guitar, a book on how to train himself, some music suitable to play to a baby and some of the things needed to maintain the guitar. As it looked it over, feeling it in his hand, he felt, somehow, to be complete, as if the thing that had been missing all of his life was found. He gave a sigh on contentment, as he began to play, and as Aster clapped her hands, he smiled. Really, her happiness was all the reward he needed.


    (Three Days before the Gang War)

    Things kept getting worse and worse as tensions rose. Well, that and he tried his best to ignore Justin, mostly because despite being dead Justin was not trying anything. Looking on with a wistful look on his face, longing glances towards Kayden at the most. At the very least, he seemed to appreciate the music and the small cakes with splashes of red wine. Granted, as he played, Aster clapping in time with the simple tune, it was easy to just pretend that they were normal for a moment. Ruined of course, by the fact that Crusader tried to make conversation.

    "So, you can see me kid." His tone was curious, thoughtful, and yet, what was Theo supposed to do? How was he supposed to reply when he left offerings to the dead in the hopes of buying him off? In retrospect, that was not the best of ideas as it revealed he was aware of the ghosts presence. Still, Justin was one of the few that had ever actually treated him with a kind of passive not really respect. He had been polite and not to conesending, and so Theo nodded, as he continued to play.

    Yet, the ghost just snorted, shaking his head, an amused smile on his face. "I always knew you were sharper than you looked." There was amusement and something akin to regret on the spirits face. "And kid, you play good." With those words, he stood up and moved, vanishing through walls and out of the apartment. Theo would never see Justin again in this life.


    (Gang War, Day one)

    The sad thing is, as he played the blues on his guitar, was that he knew that things would eventually come to this, as war erupted in the city and Kayden was unable to strike out on her own. Already his father was whispering his venom, setting the hooks as he tried to draw Kayden back in. After all, she was only free because she ended up serving his fathers goals all the while, all while wearing a long and invisible leash, even as he now tugged and yanked to bring her to heel. He would not blame or fault her for caving, or even think poorly of her.

    After all, it was not his powers that made his father dangerous. No, the thing that made him dangerous was that he could twist and control you with words that burned like acid, laying about chains invisible and weightless the bind and restrain even as he made sure that no matter what, he won. And yet, there was a part of him that railed against that, that called for freedom regardless of the costs. Yet, there remained a question, one that thundered inside of him, as his fingers moved over the strings as if he was born to play.

    When the time came, what price was he willing to pay?


    (Present)

    There were forces beyond modern modern understanding, even as the ancients had a decent grip of those mysteries (the secret you see, was being able to admit some things were beyond understanding) and even if magic had by and large vanished from the world, there remained, in some cases an interest in the mortal world. In some cases, for reasons and purposes of their own, some of which could be guessed at by man, others that could seem contradictory or just plain bizarre. It could be, that to some forces who are not as limited by causality, whose existence was symbolism and metaphor that dealing with mortals was trying to deal with small and fast moving objects when you were a giant.

    Yet, there remained the fact that there was a reason why the Ander's line, since it began producing parahumans all had something to do with metal. There was a reason for that, as time stood still, as before Theo Anders was what seemed to be someone, or something, that resembled Ozzy Osbourne, high as a kite and wearing sunglasses in doors. This would, aside from the fact that shards of glass hung in the air, that all was still and figures in red and green of ABB soldiers, one even frozen in mid jump, not be too remarkable.

    Well, save that the celebrity look alike was staring down at him, weighing and examining him, judging him based on some unspoken criteria before giving a faint nod. "Well, you got more potential than your wanker of a father anyway." The sentence was delivered so casually, as if the contents were so self evident that all Theo could so was blink slowly. "So, thing is, your the best bet I got for the next few, oh lets see..." Moving with speed, a hand moves, the tall man before him, even as a beating heart is in his hand....

    One that likely was related to the fact his chest was opened up like a box with its contents removed. "A few centuries. So, me and the others, we thought," the organ was slammed back in place casually, as the ribs and flesh were placed, "that hey, might as well show up, see if any of you had what it takes, give the pitch and all." The creature moves, now behind him, arm and armpit on Theo's left shoulder as the being takes out a blunt, flame sparking from their thumb. "As it is, your the first that might actually qualify, which really, is freaking hilarious."

    The laughter is not really mocking, as he moves again. "So, think you'd be up for heralding an Age of Metal kid?"

    Theo could say he thought for a long time in that moment frozen in time. However, that would be something of a lie.


    One moment, Theo Anders had been a soft and generally speaking unimpressive youth. The next, as he looked at the ABB soldiers invading the apartment, putting his sister at risk, he was a nine foot tall figure of sold muscle, with actual armor and his guitar now a fusion of axe and guitar. The soldiers never really knew what it was that killed them, as fingers moved down, and true metal roared in Earth Bet once more. For the Gods of Metal had seen the stage prepared and they wanted in on that action.
     
  • Threadmarks
    • Before you ask, the massive frame and muscles are temporary, but represent a sort of 'potential' for Theo.

    Also, he is a Bard/Disciple of Metal.
     
    Dance, Dance While the City Burns!
  • Threadmarks
    • One could argue that Brockton Bay was, at the best of times, a shithole, a not quite malignant growth on the New England coast that people would rather not deal with, keeping it out of sight and out of mind. When it was brought up, sometimes by rich men in comfortable rooms that spoke of old power and older money, of the sort of class that accumulated over generations, all while sipping at brandy of course, it was agreed that Max Anders was a cute little upjumped thug with delusions of adequacy, oh, and did they not somehow acquire some sort of oriental rage dragon some time back if they bothered to mention it at all.

    Yet, the thing was by forces outside of its control and largely at the hands of those who saw themselves as humanities salvation (even if they did a rather middling job of it all), isolated from the wider world. Oh, to be sure, those close at hand kept an eye and ear on the city, if for no other reason than it was there and had various elements to keep track of, but even without shadowy conspiracies interest in random cities dropped the further away one was unless there was a personal reason to be involved. This was nothing more than human nature.

    Yet as tensions rose and the chaos mounted, eyes were drawn, some less understanding than others, others wide eyed and alarmed. It came as a shock, that many of the reports of that came out of the bay were either downplayed or ignored for being absurd or insane, or just the sort of thing spoken by those who wished for more resources without contributing in turn. That they were not able to solve the problems with what they had been allocated, which was generous enough and indeed, above the usual for a city of their unimportance.

    The inability to make headway on their problems spoke, to those who loudly proclaimed such things while staying inside sheltered towers far from the chaos and danger, behind strong walls that kept the wolves out, to systemic and institutional corruption, greed and short-sightedness. Then again, this part of New England had always been strange. Less strange than some other parts of the region, but the old fossils in the halls of power snorted and dismissed the tales from the area as more of the same as it had always been.

    Even before Scion and the parahumans, there had been tales of strange things lurking in the woods and lakes of the area, of black cults that kept to the depths of the woods and ancient and pre-human rites. There were whispers that even in this age of parahumans and capes, things strange and uncanny lurked in the wilds far from the cities and towns, even if in the very same breath those same members of the old guard would dismiss the tales and legends, or at the most drawing the comparison that Brockton Bay was merely using this reputation to try and scam the unwary and uninformed.

    As such, the city descending into open warfare with parts of it on fire seemed rather sudden to the movers and shakers who did not have to personally deal with the area or the consequences of their policies.


    Battle of the Rig

    It had been riots that had all but killed the city once before, as the ships turned to rusted and ruined hulks and the channel blocked for traffic, dooming thee city to slow and drawn out death. And yet, like a phoenix from the ashes, one could say that the city was rising once more from the ashes in the middle of this gang war that sparked riots and violence. In her office, Emily Piggot had weighed the options, looked at her mission statement and decided that she would most likely not be the director after this. And in that case, she may as well make her last few weeks, if not days, in office actually mean something.

    A part of her loathed this Clíodhna, a cape that managed to make the peace she had sacrificed and compromised so much for vanish in blood and flames. On the one hand, she wanted to place a bullet between the girls eyes. On the other, to thank her for giving her an excuse for telling her troopers to go lethal. To capture and use the confoam sprayers only if it would not put them at risk. She added her support to the request to call in the National Guard (even if she knew they would not come), but as the violence raged she marched on and did what she could to coordinate the troops.

    Because there were two distinct phases and what amounted to a long front with three primary theaters for the heroes. Granted, the thing was, it seemed that the ABB was, in very ironic terms, the bigger pain in the ass even with Lung not in the field. At the very least, as swarms of attack craft launched themselves at the Rig in the afternoon of January twenty-third, it represented the fact that not only did Lung understand the importance of vehicle assets, but that he was not limited to tinkertech vehicles or tactics in general that relied on parahuman powers. Which was problematic for several reasons, the main one being the fact that the PRT focused all of their efforts at tracking tinkers, not mundane engineers and mechanics.

    A problem that was not likely to be solved anytime soon. After all, they had managed to repel the attack on the rig, one that had Oni Lee sneak aboard for a sabotage run, the emitters for the forcefield damaged shortly before the pincer attack was launched and the bullets started flying. That they had managed to repel the ABB soldiers was soon revealed to be a strategic defeat, as the apparent goals had been to knock the shields offline and disable the bridge projector.

    And with their boats sunk, that left a small number of helicopters and what flyers she had that could move between the shore and the Rig, effectively placing them under siege, with a number of patrol boats patrolling and making sure to discourage attempts at leaving or relieving them.


    Horrors

    While the day was dominated by clashes between the Empire and ABB (which had by and large become actual urban fighting instead of the usual gang violence), the nights had a different war taking place. The dead rose in increasing numbers, swarming and tearing primarily at the Empire, even as outbreaks appeared among the ABB ranks, spreading disruption and terror among the rank and file. Even those higher in the families would admit, having to fight the dead rattled them. Yet, the zombies were among the least of the horrors unleashed these nights.

    No, new urban legends rose. As the fog banks rolled in, people would whisper of Jack and his lantern fed with the souls of those unlucky enough to cross his path, their forms writhing in the mists. Some spoke of the blood shadow, dressed head to toe in black who only ever appeared before a single unlucky victim from the shadows to drain them dry. Earning respect from the pit fighters was the Black Knight, who appeared and challenged his designated victim to single combat, wielding a blade fashioned from the hearts blood of all those he had slain.

    And then there was Constantine, or as even the empire's grunts were calling him in whispers, The Envoy of Hell. He could, some claimed, grant powers to those willing to give up their souls, though they always had changes, twisted and warped. The Red Claws, of which a dozen wrecked havoc were well known to be his work. So to had several others, often much weaker, all hunted by the faiths of the bay. Those recovered always reported the same. They had been hollowed up and something wrong, something unclean and foul was poured into them, something that spread like poison and wore them like suits of meat. All they could do was watch behind eyes that were no longer scream, unable to scream from a stolen mouth.


    Unity

    Yet, there was something all could tell as they pressed in, as the militia's forced the Empire back step by step (even as the ABB was being held off). As the people forced the empire out, as the area controlled by the neo-nazi's shrunk, as reinforcements failed to link up (due to said militia cutting off any Harren Clan forces from entering the city), as Rune and Purity vanished, as reinforcements from Europe failed to appear... the Empire was growing increasingly desperate aside from Hookwolfs crew.

    Fear and desperation were seen, increased ferocity, as the fighting became constant, as the circle slowly shrank and numbers bled away, only for those who would desert to have taken prisoner, to be moved into camps to be processed later, the cities tolerance towards the empire having been bled dry. They would be held to account, they would be punished and all the crimes aired.


    The Gates Open

    At high noon, January 28th 2011, the gates of the Infernum opened in Brockton Bay, even as the dragon stirred from his lair.
     
  • Threadmarks
    • The Burning Maw
  • Threadmarks
    • As the last body fell to the floor there was a moment of silence, a pause in which it seemed that the world itself held still. And then did the knife fall and a word was uttered, shattering the silence over the bay like glass. A pillar of blood erupted into the sky, a thousand tendrils blooming and spreading as it screamed, countless faces screaming as they fell, flames rippling from them as they were dragged back down. The earth shook and the bay rumbled as a drill of burning blood and bone defiled tore into the depths and beyond sanity, beyond the boundaries of the world as science understood it until it reached a realm of damnation and despair.

    A gate formed, a mercy of sorts, on the mortal plane as blood turned to copper and iron, bone and stone taking on lurid shapes, runes of torment and blasphemy against the natural order engraving themselves. But this was but the first of the twin horrors. You see, a blood sacrifice merely took the victims life and did nothing for their soul. No, the souls would remain untouched, a mercy one would praise their gods for. Yet there were nets covering the inside of the building, nets that seemed to shimmer with a pale and otherworldly silver from the corner of ones eyes. Nets, that kept souls from the current into the afterlife, kept them inside the building.

    And lo, the warlock spoke a second word, and those trapped souls began to burn, the young and the old, men and women, being consumed once more as black pyres rushed over them, the ashes and embers of their existence flowing into the gateway. It was there, as Max Anders, as Kaiser watched, a part of him gibbering at the corruption around him, witnessed the maw of Hell open. It was there, as the Pyrosan that called itself Auschwitz emerged that a pact of damnation was sealed, and the vast majority of the Empire 88 cried out in agony, in ecstasy and terror.

    For in that moment, their leader, their Kaiser had sold them body and soul and so were they branded, a Swastika of black flames erupting on their foreheads, soon filled with embers and ash as they writhed. All of them knew in that moment their fate, and they howled in despair. Even their undercover moles, their spies and those who merely took their orders while remaining officially apart were branded, sold out in that moment of treachery. In the countryside, many members of the Harren Clan howled as they were branded, the ashen brands spreading like wildfire.

    Inside of the bay, Hookwolf noted this, and how he and his felt the flames coming... yet the pit fighters for the most part forswore the Empire and began to cut their way out of the city, fleeing for the lives and souls. Any other fight and Hookwolf would stay... but this? No, there would be no glory in staying to be put down like a rabid dog. Kaiser had crossed a line, and so Hookwolf washed his hands of him.

    Yet, as the eyes of the world were drawn to the bay, as blood, ash and flame raged, the bay fought. It would not fall easily, even as it reeled and screamed, almost as a singular entity, as single voice rejecting what was coming.


    The Ashen Sage & The Dragon
    (Mood Music)

    The trainyard was in flames, as a fiend and dragon clashed, as flames raged and raced to melt even stones. For Lung had grown far kore swiftly than any would have suspected, every step as he marched to war swelling, iron flesh and flames wrapping around him as he grew. Some from the ABB whispered that even as Leviathan came towards Kyushu he had not managed to ramp up as quickly. Yet, there was no hesitation, as he moved, eyes locked firmly on the brilliant star that mocked him, that called to him.

    All with sense fled their battleground, for it was not a clash that mortals would withstand. Tell me oh mortal man, when the Dragon of the Bay stands thirty feet tall and has wings of molten metal, scales of steel and is wreathed in the flames of a dead star, whose every blow makes the foundations of close by builds shake and dance as their stone and steel catches fire, what chance would mere flesh and blood have in that burning hell? And that was only one side of that clash, as titans strove against each other!

    No, the very stars and close by celestial bodies seemed to be torn down to be used as weapons, as night turned into day with brilliant lances of solar fire. The cold from the void between stars was summoned, shrieking black winds that managed to freeze even flames as they howled and ravaged. The world quaked, as words of power were spoken, bellows of power in a language that bent the cosmos and made it bow. And yet, as their war raged, they began to fly, the dragon pushing the star from the city as they tore and clawed at each other, mingled blood falling onto the ground and sprouting new fires.

    It was almost accidental, as they fought and raged at one another, a razor tail shearing through the Rig in the middle of the bay, splitting it almost in half and setting the metal of the structure where the tail touched on fire, as they rampaged onwards, leaving the Protectorate to desperately try and escape from a former symbol of their power in the city.


    The Dead and the Damned

    As the hosts of the Asharkan marched (or at least, those sworn to the Pyrosan Kaiser had struck a deal with), they were met with their natural enemy in the form of the undead, as the zombies roared, charging forward as blades raised and fires were unleashed. Pygral were torn down by the dozens as zombies were unleashed by the hundreds, swarming from strange angles to flank and trip up as they moved down 5th street. Yet many more zombies were erased by massive gouts of flame, scoured away in blasts of flame that reduced them to ashes and marks on the pavement.

    What few eyes that watched would report were two forces that showed almost no cunning, no skill as they ground against each other, burning hate and hunger driven forward by unsung songs into the pyres, slaughtering each other in what seemed to be a drive for mutual annihilation... but one that allowed people time to flee, to escape their path and regroup into the waiting hands of militia groups.

    And in fact, one of the strongest of these groups held several grim faces as they prepared to march into the flames, to strike as needed. It was ironic in a way, that Miss Militia was part of such a group, as were Vista, Clockblocker and Aegis (most of the wards joining New Wave in guarding Brockton Bay General were Panacea was providing healing), and a strange parahuman carrying a guitar-axe calling himself Wolfgang. Yet, as they charged into fray, the flames seemed to caress instead of burn, blunted as the metal played on, somehow being an entire band in and of himself as he stroked the internal fires of their courage, axe slamming out to lop off heads as he rocked out.

    Yet as the fires raged and city burned, there was a question that would need to be settled, as a long figure danced and sang to the life and death around her, spear lashing out and impaling the petty actors as she moved the distractions out of the way, her hand slapping down those in her path. After all, at the end of all of this, would it be a king or queen that stood in the bay?
     
  • Threadmarks
    • Royal Duel
  • Threadmarks
    • Max Anders
    (Mood Music)

    There was a sense of.... disorientation would perhaps be the best way to put it, of vertigo as he watched Lung and the creature he formed a bargain with flying off, the force of their blows still heard, ripples of heat clearly seen as it seemed as if the waves of the bay were beginning to boil and froth, churned and stirred by the storm of the forces at play. He had been to Endbringer battles, one of the many reasons why his empire had been so tolerated among the masses, why they did not work harder to dislodge him. And the fury that was a star dragged from the heavens, to scream bloody murder as the waves turned white and red?

    It reminded him of those battles, of the dangers and the scope of powers at play. And he wondered, just what was in store for him. Because in many ways, as he considered things.... it was over, even if he won. After all, it was only reasonable to assume that selling ones subordinates out to the forces of damnation after one had quite literally punched a hole through to Hell itself with the blood and souls of mostly innocents... well, some things ones reputation simply could not recover from. Yet, he laughed as he moved, blade in hand as he strode with purpose.

    Lung was beyond his reach, and while taking Piggots head, or perhaps Armsmasters, would be satisfying on more than one level after so long striving against them, there was one beyond all others that was responsible for his current situation. A part of him raged, as there was no way for his empire to have crumbled as if it were as anything as flimsy as a deck of cards... and yet, the sad thing was in this age of powers and capes, that the right power in the right place at the right time could make a mockery of all the efforts of gods and men.

    And so did he hunt Clíodhna, her location given by his new... patron. A part of him hoped that the creature would meet its end at Lungs claws, even as thunder boomed at sea, and yet another part of him reveled in the air, in the freedom of just moving. The wind, the smells, all the thousand little things that you took for granted until you knew that soon, you would no longer enjoy them. And yet, destiny waited for no man. Even if the queen he was to meet was close at hand.


    Once, but days ago, it had been a hokey rink and community center, were children's laughter echoed as moved across the ice, slashing at each other with blades of wood, tripping and striving as they rushed about. Yet now, even as his empire burned, as the flames rose in Brockton, it was still and cold. Fitting in more than one way, that the battle would take place on the cold, in the dark so far from prying eyes. So, he walked, iron boots sending their echoes onto the walls.

    "Tell me this. Why?" It burned at him even more than the hand which gripped his soul, a frozen flame no less fierce and all consuming for all that it lacked heat. For the works of his hand, passed down from his father and one that he had hoped in the fullness of time to pass down to his son, to Theo... before in the course of weeks, it had crumbled to ashes, dust blowing in the winds. He would have answers, and from Auschwitz's beaked mouth, there were decent chances his foe would speak.

    Yet, even if half expected the clapping hands took him off guard for a faint moment, more for them being on one of the beams so far off the ground than any other reason. And there she lay, stretched like a corpse on a rack, burning eyes locked on his from so far away as she smiled. She was not Irish, and part of him raged at the obviously false identity, even as the waif clad in rags seemed to be thoughtful and slipped from the ceiling beam with nary a care in the world, feet landing with the sound and force of someone getting off a bench at a park.

    Yet, she gave a bow, flute held in hand much as he would hold a sword. "Why king of iron, because I was asked and you owed this city a blood debt." Honesty was in her eyes, as images danced in his mind, of words spoken and whispers, of pieces moved on boards and small nudges in a thousand places as piping rose and pounded a concreate hymn, the very glass around him thrumming with its vibrations. "Tell me this oh prince of a shattered realm, now that you have sold your realm to ashes and hate, do you seek the freedom of death? Or have you the conviction to seek redemption?"

    The cocking of her head, the smile, and worst of all, the tone, the knowing gleam in the eyes, in a way it was far too much. Iron came as he called, spears of metal erupting as she moved, dancing through the oncoming storm. A forest of spears. sliding and moving through the paths she could take, even as the laughing madwoman moved through angles impossible, her flute moving as swiftly as his spears, slicing through the metal and deflecting it him, were a moments focus was needed to block.

    Yet, he was not still, as he moved, an armored lord striding forth against the witch, sword lifted high in hand as he spoke a word. He did not know what it meant, not truly. It was gifted to him not an hour ago as one of thirty drops of molten silver and as he spoke he burned, lips cracking and melting from the heat even as the forest of spears did glow... only to explode, molten shrapnel lancing at the foolish corpse. The song of pain was torn from dead lips, rotten blood spilled and dead flesh filling the air with the scent of roasted pork. "I have given payments that cannot be reclaimed and taken in kind gifts to make redemption a dream."

    He snorted, moving forward and looking to slice down, to chop off a limb, a head preferably. "And for what? Redemption for seeking the only thing that matters in this world?" Even if it had slipped from his grasp, as she moved, wind passing as his blade missed and more sprang forward in a line, the edge of one slicing at her pants. "The only thing that separates the blind and mewling sheep from the wolves is power!" He hissed, as his foe moved, dancing once more as the flute lifted to her lips.

    A note came forward, clear and pure and freezing as all the metal burned like acid, before another note sang out and his armor rang like a gong, as if caught between great forces and vibrating. So, another word tore its way from his lips as he screamed, as he was cracked and crushed as steel between hammer and anvil, as it all remembered the touch of the smelter and exploded outwards as molten slag, a wave of fire and hellish metals to crush and entomb her... if she had not somehow dodged upwards, rolling onto a walkway as a winter gale howled about them.

    How... annoying that it took three words stitched into his throat to counter this. "Lok Vah Koor!" And how those words rattled and thrashed, bruising and tearing at his throat even as the snowstorm parted and died, cut in twain... and a wave of steel spears erupted towards her as she moved, and that scream, that sweet music to his ears! He could not see what he hit, as he boxed her in and made of it a forest of metal.... and as pain bloomed in his knee, driving him to the ground. "So, you don't need line of sight after all."

    His tone was bitter, as he felt the flames warring inside of himself, the burning poison that was pushing in and forward as she laughed. "Why would I need something as silly as my eyes to see?" There was enough from where he heard her voice, a metal blade rising.... and a jaw, with tongue included thrown in front of him. "Or something as limited as a tongue to speak?" There was mockery in her tone, as she could be anywhere now. And so, what was he to do, but scream his rage, scream his hate and pain... even as he saw them rising.

    Ghosts, ghosts from the past, ashen and shrunken, moving forward to catch and claw as he tried to rise, to die standing, to try and take her with him. Even as the light faded from his eyes and the last breath left his lungs, he screamed a word and struck.


    Brockton Bay

    And behold people of the bay, Kaisers last act, a futile gesture of hate, a tree made of living metal, its roots set in the fires of Hell, tormenting and burning him as he is entombed inside, nothing more than a damned soul in the depths of the tree, unable to act, to see or hear, only able to cook inside of a oven of his own making for all of time. Curse him and pity him oh living souls of the bay, but before you do, do not forget, feel free to piss on the tree as well!
     
  • Threadmarks
    • Well, the public relations team will have a hell of a time cleaning up this mess. The empire summoning a literal demon, especially one that was on par with the endbringers, should lead to brockton bay finally getting some help. Even cauldron's experiment isn't enough to bar assistance after a dimensional incursion and they know it.

    ...50 fake internet points on cauldron abducting Constantine to have him summon demons for them to kill scion. That seems like the kind of stupid plan they would attempt out of desperation.
     
    Witness the Dragon
  • Threadmarks
    • (Mood Music)

    In the days to come, the clash between Lung and the summoned horror would be determined to be a mutual kill by those who could not know better. The truth of it was, as Lung had fought a lord of ashen stars, they initially could not do much damage to the other, the flames each could be brought to bear unable to melt or scorch the other. Oh, to be sure, if any of Lungs more physical strikes had landed there would have been terrible damage inflicted, yet this was a creature to who the stream of time was as visible as an actual physical substance.

    Before long, spears of light, frozen fragments of long dead stars and gales from the cold depths of space were unleashed to scour the dragon, great wounds inflicted and healing... as man and shard acted as one, growing ever closer, ever more united, ever closer to that point in a time that could have been, a birth of a titan. Yet, to all save a handful of souls, this would not be something apparent. No, as Lung ramped up, as he grew and became more, eyes turned to the bay and the veil of ignorance was stripped from the entire situation.

    No, it was rather had to ignore a dragon who with his hunch stood three hundred feet tall and a wingspan twice that, held aloft on solar sails, for it was nuclear flames that ripples and raged off the dragon of the bay, as curse by curse, spell by spell the power of his shard was drawn out. Yet, even as the air around the dragon ignited, as the sea began to boil away in proximity, ocean water whirling around that gigantic form and converted via heat and pressure into plasma streams (the better to shred and slice with), as a storm brewed overhead, thunder rumbling and sheets of lightening crackling down to robe and crown the wyrm, the heroes of the world came, drawn to witness.

    Eight souls stood in front of the crowd, watching and wondering, even as fear gripped far too many hearts.\

    Dragon, a line of communication to Colin amid the chaos, a dragon of metal bearing witness.

    Legend, a beacon of hope in a world gone mad and willfully ignorant of his friends, a flawed man and true hero bore witness.

    Oni Lee, an oni of ash and shadow, a loyal servant bearing witness for his lord.

    Danny Hebert, the uncrowned king of the docks and now bearer of a crystal crown of union, gazed on with steel eyes to bear witness.

    Glaistig Uaine, the self proclaimed Faerie Queen stepping beyond the bounds of the birdcage for a momentous event, stood witness.

    Alexandria, the director and general for cauldron and the wests parahumans, gazed down as a cold tower bearing witness.

    Contessa, stood with a blank face and unsure of why she was here outside of the path, and with uncertain eyes she bore witness.

    Eidolon, he seethed with jealousy and rage as he held off from attacking and saving the day, instead readying himself to bear witness.

    And so, eight souls of those gathered knew. Eight souls bore witness to a blasphemous miracle and symbol of revolution even in heaven. Eight souls bore witness to transcendence of mortal into Divinity, as with a roar that shook the foundations of the world mortal flesh gave way to power and ideals given shape. The birth of a god, born of humanity and elevated by a shard, the first the earth had seen in an age. Rejoice! Tremble! Despair! Be in Awe! They stood, seven of those hardy eight, as the Oni kowtowed before his master.

    Each of them knew in that moment, as they beheld him, what it truly meant to stand in the presence of a god. And as Lung moved to speak, no, as The Dragon God of the West, Ten to ji.... he was cut off before the full measure of his title, of his name echoed in the mind and soul. For in his flesh there were hooks of the void, bound by chains of ash and blood and forged in the tomb of stars, as a hand pulled and the dragon roared in pain and loss and the world shivered and broke, flames erupting and for a single terrible moment the world became light.

    Vision returned, but the dragon was silent. Were once had been a god, born of humanity and to protect the world, if for no other reason than it was were they dwelled, was instead a hollow statue of corroded iron and stone, a ruined promise empty and hollowed of meaning, as the very soul of a god was stolen in the very moment of their ascension, leaving behind a corpse that radiated despair and loss, tears falling from sightless marble eyes into the sea below, a gapping pit where the heart would have been.

    Eight souls mourned, all in their own way, even if they did not follow him. Eight souls knew something great had been lost this day, something that held the promise of something more. Seven souls departed, and in the end, only the Oni remained to tend to his masters grave.

    Eidolon departed feeling strangle hollow, and yet there was a snarl of vindication inside of himself, as fear and shame receded, for he was still needed to champion humanity.

    Contessa departed, as unsure of things as when she arrived, yet afraid for now it seemed that there were things beyond her sight that were grand and had so much potential.

    Alexandria sighed as she scanned for the bird like creature. The fact that Lung had this potential to be useful... they needed to reconsider some things. They also needed to find where that creature had come from, as she departed, eyes on the bay.

    Glaistig Uaine departed back to her realm under the hill, a frown on her young face. This was not part of the great play, something far beyond their station or scope... and yet, it had happened and there had been the potential for something, something that spoke of glories grand and terrible.

    Legend departed to coordinate, to gather those to help the bay, as the side effects of this event could not be easy to guess, and yet.... well, he could see parts of the city and rig aflame from where he stood.

    Dragon departed for the rig, to help rescue those she could, to save and restore lives, as her code tried to process the world getting so much stranger and more bizarre.

    And Danny Hebert departed for the shore, as he looked at the damage to the city and he wept, as his soul cried out for his daughter. He wanted to take his little owl in his arms and hug her, to make her safe, to fix the world and have her smile and laugh once more. And so he sighed, and moved for home.
     
  • Threadmarks
    • The Black Ring Society
  • Informational
    • In the aftermath of the Brockton Bay incident, great scrutiny was placed on the Empire 88 and the parahuman Constantine. However, his status as a parahuman is somewhat in doubt as his five assistants managed to survive and escape, having been unbranded.... but also carrying with them several books and lessons that enabled them to use lesser versions of Constantine's powers, though they had the advantage of being able to use more of their skills without the extensive mnemonic aids and ritual, aside from the creation of dimensional breaches and binding of extradimensional entities commonly referred to as fiends by the superstitious.

    They quickly moved into mercenary work and due to the simple fact that they often practice ritualistic murder as part of the summoning and binding process of the creatures they deal with has this society labeled as a villain group. While at the time of this report it is unknown if they can replicate the procedure to create 'Red Claws', 'Dark-Wraiths', 'Hate-Mongers', 'Ashen Ones' or 'Winged Stalkers', caution must be exercised if they manage to recreate the process, as they require a willing victim to act as the host for a possessing creature. Based on observed data, this process is used to greatly extend the length of time a summoned creature can remain in this dimension.

    Worryingly, unlike similar instances of powers granted by a parahuman (such as Teacher), the knowledge of how to create these effects appears to be teachable by any that learn it, or at least those that appear to be compatible with the knowledge. More disturbingly, the information can be transmitted in written and digital formats, masking containment efforts particularly problematic, as all those with the knowledge would need to be contained, as would any records, physical or otherwise. A single book, a single hard drive and all that would result from the destruction of a cell would be a temporary setback.

    While some cells remain in America, many seem to be attempting to head to Mexico, Central America and Africa, there to better hide from authorities, offer their services to local warlords and to continue their studies away from the PRT and Protectorate. Several cells are reported to show great interest in the Mesoamerican region and in objects related to the religious practices from before the Spanish conquests. Some point to what happened in Brockton Bay and the items clearly linked to the region and the leading theory is they are seeking to recreate the event.

    While Constantine's location is unknown, he reputedly has contact between the various cells and shares information and knowledge. However, it is suspected that his base of operations is not in this dimension, given how recruits into the organization are required to offer him samples of their blood via summoned courier, tall creatures with acidic slime referred to as Babau, who accepts the package and vanishes. Alternatively, the creature could be teleporting to an area under a stranger effect meant to block out thinkers from locating him.

    All attempts to infiltrate the society have ended with either defections or as becoming sacrifices on black altars.

    Members of the Black Ring Society should be considered dangerous, and either captured or eliminated if it appears their capture will result in fatalities.

    Mechanically speaking, members of the Black Ring Society are wizards that take the prestige class into Demonologist (Encyclopedia Arcane; Demonology the dark road). They operate in cells, with the leader being the most powerful and learned spellcaster and who is in communication with their leader, Constantine, and with nearby cells to coordinate actions and make sure they do not interfere with each other. Their goals are simple, in that they are basically wizards, looking to expand their mastery of the mystic arts and gather resources to expand their studies.

    While cells can have rivalries and disagreements, they are also expected to work with each other in a professional manner and tend to trade knowledge and secrets with other cells. They will usually put differences aside if they come under attack however.
     
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  • Informational
    • This entire series is really good. I only really got into it for the D&D lore aspect of it, but I have enjoyed it a lot so far. Not sure where you are going with it, but that's why I am reading it after all.
     
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