Collection of ideas and concepts
Kings Court, One-Shots & Ideas
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Preface
Redking0380
Lost In The Rain
- Location
- Wet
You've seen one you've seen them all, another thread added to the many that consist of random things and stories. May do more with whatever is here, may not. Should someone get inspired by something, go ahead and do it. Just send me a story link at some point.
Yes some will suck.
Some might actully be good.
You will just have to find out, won't ya?
Yes some will suck.
Some might actully be good.
You will just have to find out, won't ya?
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Star Wars: Mothers Shadow
Redking0380
Lost In The Rain
- Location
- Wet
Tattooine, for all of the dark souls on it, is a place of blinding light. A place of burning suns, and the endless expanses of sands that reflect their gaze. Even night is well lit, three moons absorbing and redirecting light in cooler tones that still blanket the landscape in pale whites and navy blues. It's is a place burning from its light, it is a place that holds great darkness, it is a place that shows how much hides in the clearest sight.
Luke Lars (Or Skywalker to a very select few) always saw shadows in the sands. With the Tatoo twins high and blazing down from above, he would see shades of darkest black, royal purples, and abyssal blues. No else ever saw this phenomenon, so after a long time trying to show them, he began to ignore them.
Shadows always followed Luke. Not in the amusing way a toddler would confuse thier own and be afraid, no these were much stranger. He never truly noticed them, long since convincent by his own mind that they were mere delusions, never once questioning how they clung to him on long days helping his Uncle fix vaporators, how they always seemed to be in the perfect spots for him to disappear when being chased by bullies or those on the wrong end of his helpful nature. He never noticed how often thugs eyes would glaze over him in a crowd, or how certain things would simple luck out in ways luck simply shouldn't work for. Luke, child of the endless yellow sands, had a young life filled with unseen shade covering him from the oppressive heat of sun's and masters.
Shadows, Luke noticed, seem to talk to him. Well talk is a broad term, but it fits well enough for the near incomprehensible sensation of tasting pictures and seeing sound. Only once did it happen like that, and even with the hardy body built of grit mixed with teenage hardiness he was catatonic for a week. Poor Aunt Beru was so worried she spent the few credits she had saved for a medical droids services to try to help you, not that it could do much. All diagnostics came back negative, and by the weeks end you were back up fine. Well mostly fine, after all hearing multilayered voices whispering from shadows no one else saw certainly didn't qualify as 'normal'.
Shadows don't make any damn sense, Luke found out. When they do manage to sort out whatever will be the main voice for the time, they do little more then ramble nonsense intermixed with adjectives of life, wisdom, and complete babble. Anything that could have a grain of truth and knowledge had far to much salt to be of any worth.
Shadows, Luke noticed, seem to be getting better. More often he hears a distinctly female voice speak to him in clear tones instead of the jumble. The things being said even start to improve to the point he is almost comfortable talking to the completely illusionary darkness....He really needs therapy or something doesn't he? No matter how many times he may dismiss it, during its moments of clarity the shadows insist they are real, half between certain conviction and an almost desperate tone as if it is not truly certain what exactly is real. These tones shift day to day, some filled with nothing but whispers clinging, digging into his mind as its voices become panicked, broken into more discord then grains of sand beneath his feet. He hates these moments with what little anger his heart can bring up. Mix with regret, uncertainty and dread of what this means for his apperntly fragile mind, and it's a rough day. Much rather have the days filled with one increasingly familiar tone, one that still babbles on endlessly, but can actually respond to him. It feels.....comforting is some strange way.
Shadows have become a friend for Luke. Funny part is he didn't even notice. He never abandoned his small group of friends he had mostly around Anchorhead, but he did notice he hadn't seen some of them in awhile, too focused on the shadows and his work. It was a shock to realize how easy it was, even with its improvements, to lose himself in inane chatter with a semblance of response from something. It must really say something about him if he gets lost talking with a figment of imagination. Atleast he has a way to refer to it now beside just shadows. On the eve of his seventeenth birthday, in a moment of clarity that shocked him, it clearly stated "I wish for you to call me Mother, even if I have yet to prove one to you."
Yeah if there was a doubt before hand, it is now out the window that he needs a psychiatrist.
Shadows....Mother?....Mommy..Mom..Shadommy? The ever present roiling darkness of my fractured psyche? Whatever he refers to it as, might not be as fake as he originally thought. Yeah sure it might not be seen or heard by anyone else, but that doesn't excuse the fact that it chokeslammed a Gammorean. Ok context, standerd run into town to transport our water tax and sell off what was left simple, easy, done it hundreds if not a couple thousand times by now. Problem came after we got the credits. Few steps out the door turn down the side street towards Uncle Owen's speeder, the man himself looking down at an old holopad of things they needed to buy in order of most necessary, when a full gang of assorted thugs comes out of the woodwork. Several Weeqeuys, a Twilek and a pair of Gammoreans, one of which had their customary axe (seriously they all have one) pressed tightly to your neck. Now again, this isn't rare, it's Tattooine. Most of the time Uncle Owen can scare them off with his rifle or some good ol fashion fisticuffs, but gangs are much more common then thugs on their lonesome. Its such a common thing, there is even an option to delay your tax date if you got robbed, it is heavily scrutinized but atleast Jabba had one decent law put in place. All in all average time, for as brutal as the gangs are, they are surprising proffesional with their theft. You give them the items they seek, they may even say thank you and leave without trying to shake you down for more. All of this changes with any hint of defiance or aggression, what was once cordial is now the excuse they needed to brutally beat and kill you. So you see the option most people tend to prefer and go for is the easy way. Well this day by no volition of your own, you choose The Hard Way. How you ask? Well thats simple, the shadows that engulf your mind reacted rather......badly to the threat being used against you. With an ear piercing shriek that the thugs most certainly heard, darkness coalesced into a vague humanoid shape towering over the pig towering over you. Amorphous hands slid between your neck and the axes blade protecting it as the being yanked up the Gammorean. Now, you have a vague idea of how heavy these guys are, mostly because it's a bragging point for them, so to see a hefty version snatched up and held dangling several feet above the stone street by what you though was a part of your mental illness, well the only thought going though your head was "Huh that's kinda cool."
Then, with the speed of lightning, the shadow hefts them back before slamming then against the stone with the rumbling of thunder as all the sandstone simple becomes sand. The rest of the gang had fair reactions, the few who didn't have weapons drawn, had them out firing before their comrade hit the floor, unfortunately all shots that landed on the abyssal being simply....vanished with no evidence of it truly being hit. You wish you could've seen the rest of the brawl, but Uncle Owen, ever the survivor, grabs your arm and hauls you down the street. You don't stop until your back inside the most guarded place on the planet. The tax office.
Shadows, Luke learns, still don't make sense even if they can slap him now. After the incident, they started to appear more often as a being then a shade, able to interact with the world around them even if no one but him could see it or hear it still. Not much has changed with its speech either other then when it considers its advice ignored and conks him upside the head gently. Emphisis on gently because as he knew, it was physically very strong and very much didn't know how much so. Let's say it looked like he went a few rounds trying to bang engine parts back together with his head....again. Once that was solved it was just became a fond reminder of the many, many, many, many dope slaps his Aunt had given him before. Well besides the terrible abuse he must suffer for his own stupidity, he had noticed Old Ben started acting weird around the same time the incident did. Not to say he wasn't very weird in the first place, but diffrent. When visiting he would space out before suddenly jerking his eyes towards either Luke or 'Mother' if they were in the room. He would always look confused about it as well, as if he truly expected something there. After this happens he would shiver. Shiver! On Tatooine of all places, and begin aggressively muttering to himself and even stanger start counting before cutting himself off, atleast you think so, why else would he keep saying one?
Shadows, Luke learns, envelope the galaxy. Not like the one that follows him, and smothers him with affection and care. The one that started showing flashes of white hair and pale skin alongside a mouth a little too wide. No, the shadows that hang over the stars is a noose choking their light. Ben....Obi-wan reveals this to him alongside two old friends of his bearing a message of desperation, one calling for thier last hope. There is much he doesn't say, even with all he does. Little gaps filled in by whispers from the invisible being behind you. He speaks truth, he tells what he believes Luke need to know. And he is right, even with more of the story behind what he says revealed, Luke will not just abandon a galaxy to despair. He knows shadows, he knows of the darkness that can hide with in. But he also knows even if the deepest black, there is still good to be found, and he will use his life to bring this good back from the galaxies shadow.
Luke Lars (Or Skywalker to a very select few) always saw shadows in the sands. With the Tatoo twins high and blazing down from above, he would see shades of darkest black, royal purples, and abyssal blues. No else ever saw this phenomenon, so after a long time trying to show them, he began to ignore them.
Shadows always followed Luke. Not in the amusing way a toddler would confuse thier own and be afraid, no these were much stranger. He never truly noticed them, long since convincent by his own mind that they were mere delusions, never once questioning how they clung to him on long days helping his Uncle fix vaporators, how they always seemed to be in the perfect spots for him to disappear when being chased by bullies or those on the wrong end of his helpful nature. He never noticed how often thugs eyes would glaze over him in a crowd, or how certain things would simple luck out in ways luck simply shouldn't work for. Luke, child of the endless yellow sands, had a young life filled with unseen shade covering him from the oppressive heat of sun's and masters.
Shadows, Luke noticed, seem to talk to him. Well talk is a broad term, but it fits well enough for the near incomprehensible sensation of tasting pictures and seeing sound. Only once did it happen like that, and even with the hardy body built of grit mixed with teenage hardiness he was catatonic for a week. Poor Aunt Beru was so worried she spent the few credits she had saved for a medical droids services to try to help you, not that it could do much. All diagnostics came back negative, and by the weeks end you were back up fine. Well mostly fine, after all hearing multilayered voices whispering from shadows no one else saw certainly didn't qualify as 'normal'.
Shadows don't make any damn sense, Luke found out. When they do manage to sort out whatever will be the main voice for the time, they do little more then ramble nonsense intermixed with adjectives of life, wisdom, and complete babble. Anything that could have a grain of truth and knowledge had far to much salt to be of any worth.
Shadows, Luke noticed, seem to be getting better. More often he hears a distinctly female voice speak to him in clear tones instead of the jumble. The things being said even start to improve to the point he is almost comfortable talking to the completely illusionary darkness....He really needs therapy or something doesn't he? No matter how many times he may dismiss it, during its moments of clarity the shadows insist they are real, half between certain conviction and an almost desperate tone as if it is not truly certain what exactly is real. These tones shift day to day, some filled with nothing but whispers clinging, digging into his mind as its voices become panicked, broken into more discord then grains of sand beneath his feet. He hates these moments with what little anger his heart can bring up. Mix with regret, uncertainty and dread of what this means for his apperntly fragile mind, and it's a rough day. Much rather have the days filled with one increasingly familiar tone, one that still babbles on endlessly, but can actually respond to him. It feels.....comforting is some strange way.
Shadows have become a friend for Luke. Funny part is he didn't even notice. He never abandoned his small group of friends he had mostly around Anchorhead, but he did notice he hadn't seen some of them in awhile, too focused on the shadows and his work. It was a shock to realize how easy it was, even with its improvements, to lose himself in inane chatter with a semblance of response from something. It must really say something about him if he gets lost talking with a figment of imagination. Atleast he has a way to refer to it now beside just shadows. On the eve of his seventeenth birthday, in a moment of clarity that shocked him, it clearly stated "I wish for you to call me Mother, even if I have yet to prove one to you."
Yeah if there was a doubt before hand, it is now out the window that he needs a psychiatrist.
Shadows....Mother?....Mommy..Mom..Shadommy? The ever present roiling darkness of my fractured psyche? Whatever he refers to it as, might not be as fake as he originally thought. Yeah sure it might not be seen or heard by anyone else, but that doesn't excuse the fact that it chokeslammed a Gammorean. Ok context, standerd run into town to transport our water tax and sell off what was left simple, easy, done it hundreds if not a couple thousand times by now. Problem came after we got the credits. Few steps out the door turn down the side street towards Uncle Owen's speeder, the man himself looking down at an old holopad of things they needed to buy in order of most necessary, when a full gang of assorted thugs comes out of the woodwork. Several Weeqeuys, a Twilek and a pair of Gammoreans, one of which had their customary axe (seriously they all have one) pressed tightly to your neck. Now again, this isn't rare, it's Tattooine. Most of the time Uncle Owen can scare them off with his rifle or some good ol fashion fisticuffs, but gangs are much more common then thugs on their lonesome. Its such a common thing, there is even an option to delay your tax date if you got robbed, it is heavily scrutinized but atleast Jabba had one decent law put in place. All in all average time, for as brutal as the gangs are, they are surprising proffesional with their theft. You give them the items they seek, they may even say thank you and leave without trying to shake you down for more. All of this changes with any hint of defiance or aggression, what was once cordial is now the excuse they needed to brutally beat and kill you. So you see the option most people tend to prefer and go for is the easy way. Well this day by no volition of your own, you choose The Hard Way. How you ask? Well thats simple, the shadows that engulf your mind reacted rather......badly to the threat being used against you. With an ear piercing shriek that the thugs most certainly heard, darkness coalesced into a vague humanoid shape towering over the pig towering over you. Amorphous hands slid between your neck and the axes blade protecting it as the being yanked up the Gammorean. Now, you have a vague idea of how heavy these guys are, mostly because it's a bragging point for them, so to see a hefty version snatched up and held dangling several feet above the stone street by what you though was a part of your mental illness, well the only thought going though your head was "Huh that's kinda cool."
Then, with the speed of lightning, the shadow hefts them back before slamming then against the stone with the rumbling of thunder as all the sandstone simple becomes sand. The rest of the gang had fair reactions, the few who didn't have weapons drawn, had them out firing before their comrade hit the floor, unfortunately all shots that landed on the abyssal being simply....vanished with no evidence of it truly being hit. You wish you could've seen the rest of the brawl, but Uncle Owen, ever the survivor, grabs your arm and hauls you down the street. You don't stop until your back inside the most guarded place on the planet. The tax office.
Shadows, Luke learns, still don't make sense even if they can slap him now. After the incident, they started to appear more often as a being then a shade, able to interact with the world around them even if no one but him could see it or hear it still. Not much has changed with its speech either other then when it considers its advice ignored and conks him upside the head gently. Emphisis on gently because as he knew, it was physically very strong and very much didn't know how much so. Let's say it looked like he went a few rounds trying to bang engine parts back together with his head....again. Once that was solved it was just became a fond reminder of the many, many, many, many dope slaps his Aunt had given him before. Well besides the terrible abuse he must suffer for his own stupidity, he had noticed Old Ben started acting weird around the same time the incident did. Not to say he wasn't very weird in the first place, but diffrent. When visiting he would space out before suddenly jerking his eyes towards either Luke or 'Mother' if they were in the room. He would always look confused about it as well, as if he truly expected something there. After this happens he would shiver. Shiver! On Tatooine of all places, and begin aggressively muttering to himself and even stanger start counting before cutting himself off, atleast you think so, why else would he keep saying one?
Shadows, Luke learns, envelope the galaxy. Not like the one that follows him, and smothers him with affection and care. The one that started showing flashes of white hair and pale skin alongside a mouth a little too wide. No, the shadows that hang over the stars is a noose choking their light. Ben....Obi-wan reveals this to him alongside two old friends of his bearing a message of desperation, one calling for thier last hope. There is much he doesn't say, even with all he does. Little gaps filled in by whispers from the invisible being behind you. He speaks truth, he tells what he believes Luke need to know. And he is right, even with more of the story behind what he says revealed, Luke will not just abandon a galaxy to despair. He knows shadows, he knows of the darkness that can hide with in. But he also knows even if the deepest black, there is still good to be found, and he will use his life to bring this good back from the galaxies shadow.
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Risk Of Rain: Depthless Downpour
Redking0380
Lost In The Rain
- Location
- Wet
Water drips down from the brim of my hat, blood drips down from the tips of my fingers, smoke flares from the barrel of my gun. Endless tides have met endless determination, yet my resolve has been found wanting. I am an old man with an older soul, one fractured by long years of wars an heartaches. I always hoped I would go out peacefully, or with a tale told cross the galaxy. The Valiant Sacrifice of... huh. This place even took my name. Or did I lose it already? Memories are fickle things, and these...simulations do little to help remember anything but survival. Void fills my head as it has filled my life for an indeterminate amount of time. Oppressive, heavy. A weight you can't fight. Not like those animals of Petrichor, or the many ancient constructs. Even that being on the moon....Matrix... Mattox...Mythrix? Hammer guy didn't even have that weight to his presence and saw him sunder reality to conjour weapons and minions to assault your merry band of misfits. Haven't thought of them in awhile. Wonder if they actually made it out, or if they are also caught inside of cells. Hopeful they can find a way out like I have, even if I wished for a better one. It's just, without being held down by the depthless cold void brings, I just feel.....tired. I have fought my way past everything they can throw at me and yet I remain....stuck. Their dark desires will not allow an escape. Only in a rare moment between time an space, were even something like a void cannot truly exist can I find a refuge. But I know it can't last. Claws have dug to deep into me for any sanctuary to last, and I don't want to go back. Nothing remains. Deep down I know, even if my heart calls to rage against the dieing light, my soul knows it died long ago, that I am simple a husk drifting along like a newspaper boat. I could not fathom the depths, nor face the deep, in my island of ignorance I thought I could fight to the end. Foolishness. Im to stubborn to die to their trials, to weak to break free. Now I stand here before this stone monolith, an Obelisk of untold power, simple wondering if I should embrace it. Instinctively I know there would be no turning back, either salvation or oblivion awaits. One void for another. What a lousy time this turned out to be I think as my hand separates from the tower in white fractals.
Destiny: For the Hive
Redking0380
Lost In The Rain
- Location
- Wet
They came before you were fully made, dregs in primordial soup, comforted by the dark and the presence of your kin.
They burned though us. Half formed connections leading between us turned to ash underneath the blinding light. Why does this pain come, why does the dark recede, why must everything burn? No answers come but the echoing screams of death.
They broke the seals. They approch ever closer, soon you will be called to fight them as well. Fear fills the darkness surrounding you, it whispers back lessening them. It knows the light comes, it knows survival is slim, but reassurance fill the limited crevices of the mind. Resolve forms
They have silenced the roars. Great expirements and abominations both fall before their might, soon you shall face them. Soon those known as wizards and knights shall fall upon them. You shall join them. Darkness clings to you, hinting at their weakness, telling of your strengths, screaming of their atrocities against you. They will not escape, they will not live, they will feel the comfort of the dark turn to daggers and peirce their spines, vertebre by vertebre until the skull is peirced. Merciful, to much so for the bodies littered behind them, but such things take time you wouldn't have.
They are here. Such a simple statement, one that fills you will parts of dread, hate....rage. you raise from the abyss, darkness clinging to your form. Your adveseries stand across from you, facing down a knight, one dodges its swings and blows it apart with a wave of its hand and a flash of purple, it's robes flaring from unseen force. They are distracted as more rush them down, their prowess falters against such numbers of armored foes. Wizards hang behind them, flinging missles of unlight and conjuring clouds of acidic vacuum, all working in tandem to allow you to strike. Strike you do, quietly rushing towards one's cloaked back, you tackle it towards the ground. It raises a blazing knife in one hand nearly faster then you could've reacted to it, sadly it falls back down to meet the head rolling away from the body.
They react quickly to you, your life spared only by a swift dive from a knight and a smokescreen thrown from wizard provide the cover necessary to quickly relocate behind a nearby pillar. Darkness surround them, blinding them outside of a small radius protected by the lantern they huddle underneath, gazing warily into the bleak abyss. Surprise is no longer on your side but they have already been crippled beyond what the rest of the hive could do, fear has not yet surfaced, but caution and paranoia have. Whispers return to the air, simulating the screechs and calls of your hive. They are to well disciplined to waste their ammo on shadows, best let them come into their light, but it is this discipline that makes it easy to corral them slightly. They do not notice the lamp slowly shifting, shuffling to follow the light like moths towards flame, unknowing of the dangers within.
They scream, the first sound you've heard them make. Fire engulfs the one in robes as the one in armor attempts to fight off the thralls of your order, the lamps absent the only hint towards were the sickly green flames have appeared from. Regretfully you make it quick. Dashing forth once again you silence the scholar, the brute roars, light flares forth coalescing into a sparking shield that spins toward you. It is trivial to dodge, the rebound not so much, searing pain greats your mind as you lose an arm. It is the hives turn to scream, echoes of countless souls, vessels, and bodies fill the suffocating air. The light falters, the edges flare with power fighting off the endless expanse, what once burned merely smolders now. Rage not of your own volition fill you, and you drink deep of this boundless Fury.
They Fought valiantly, stories would say. Slaughtered thousands upon millions before succumbing to wounds and foul artifice. Pity it would be when they learned that the shouts of defiance, the crys of battles, the ring of hammer unto powder ignition, was nought more then a whimper. It's body hangs from my claws, lifted just enough off the floor to stop it from having a footing, electric blue gazes at my pits though a broken vizor. No sound is made when I tear the light from its soul and banish it into the dankest depths of the dark I call home. The greatest raid team ever known to thier guardians, slain by a Nameless creature of the depths. Despair be upon those who dare try and slaughter my brethren, Despair be upon those who curse our lineage, Despair upon those who bare the accursed light, for none shall ever see the day again. I will make certain of it.
They burned though us. Half formed connections leading between us turned to ash underneath the blinding light. Why does this pain come, why does the dark recede, why must everything burn? No answers come but the echoing screams of death.
They broke the seals. They approch ever closer, soon you will be called to fight them as well. Fear fills the darkness surrounding you, it whispers back lessening them. It knows the light comes, it knows survival is slim, but reassurance fill the limited crevices of the mind. Resolve forms
They have silenced the roars. Great expirements and abominations both fall before their might, soon you shall face them. Soon those known as wizards and knights shall fall upon them. You shall join them. Darkness clings to you, hinting at their weakness, telling of your strengths, screaming of their atrocities against you. They will not escape, they will not live, they will feel the comfort of the dark turn to daggers and peirce their spines, vertebre by vertebre until the skull is peirced. Merciful, to much so for the bodies littered behind them, but such things take time you wouldn't have.
They are here. Such a simple statement, one that fills you will parts of dread, hate....rage. you raise from the abyss, darkness clinging to your form. Your adveseries stand across from you, facing down a knight, one dodges its swings and blows it apart with a wave of its hand and a flash of purple, it's robes flaring from unseen force. They are distracted as more rush them down, their prowess falters against such numbers of armored foes. Wizards hang behind them, flinging missles of unlight and conjuring clouds of acidic vacuum, all working in tandem to allow you to strike. Strike you do, quietly rushing towards one's cloaked back, you tackle it towards the ground. It raises a blazing knife in one hand nearly faster then you could've reacted to it, sadly it falls back down to meet the head rolling away from the body.
They react quickly to you, your life spared only by a swift dive from a knight and a smokescreen thrown from wizard provide the cover necessary to quickly relocate behind a nearby pillar. Darkness surround them, blinding them outside of a small radius protected by the lantern they huddle underneath, gazing warily into the bleak abyss. Surprise is no longer on your side but they have already been crippled beyond what the rest of the hive could do, fear has not yet surfaced, but caution and paranoia have. Whispers return to the air, simulating the screechs and calls of your hive. They are to well disciplined to waste their ammo on shadows, best let them come into their light, but it is this discipline that makes it easy to corral them slightly. They do not notice the lamp slowly shifting, shuffling to follow the light like moths towards flame, unknowing of the dangers within.
They scream, the first sound you've heard them make. Fire engulfs the one in robes as the one in armor attempts to fight off the thralls of your order, the lamps absent the only hint towards were the sickly green flames have appeared from. Regretfully you make it quick. Dashing forth once again you silence the scholar, the brute roars, light flares forth coalescing into a sparking shield that spins toward you. It is trivial to dodge, the rebound not so much, searing pain greats your mind as you lose an arm. It is the hives turn to scream, echoes of countless souls, vessels, and bodies fill the suffocating air. The light falters, the edges flare with power fighting off the endless expanse, what once burned merely smolders now. Rage not of your own volition fill you, and you drink deep of this boundless Fury.
They Fought valiantly, stories would say. Slaughtered thousands upon millions before succumbing to wounds and foul artifice. Pity it would be when they learned that the shouts of defiance, the crys of battles, the ring of hammer unto powder ignition, was nought more then a whimper. It's body hangs from my claws, lifted just enough off the floor to stop it from having a footing, electric blue gazes at my pits though a broken vizor. No sound is made when I tear the light from its soul and banish it into the dankest depths of the dark I call home. The greatest raid team ever known to thier guardians, slain by a Nameless creature of the depths. Despair be upon those who dare try and slaughter my brethren, Despair be upon those who curse our lineage, Despair upon those who bare the accursed light, for none shall ever see the day again. I will make certain of it.
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League of Legends: Prisons Of our Own Design
Redking0380
Lost In The Rain
- Location
- Wet
Darkness.
Faint sensations.
Floating in the abyss, wracked with pain.
Oh how far we have fallen.
He had seen the sun rise, and thought It the most beautiful thing. He had seen his achievements recognized and thought it the highest point of his life. He had held her, and thought the love would never end. He had fought valiantly against the terror of the void and thought he knew war. He stood triumphant and thought he would know peace.
How foolish he was then and how foolish he remained.
Peace never came, beauty became lies, love turned to ash, recognition discarded, War became nothing more than a butcher's game.
We fell so far from the perches we ascended to.
Every step became a nail, every breath a splinter for the wood of our coffins, thoughts became chains, and our individuality became warped into our brands of judgement. Each thing piling up until we laid down in our Graves and buried ourselves.
He once was honorable, courageous. He led legions at the front, and in glorious fire was his legacy forged and doused in blood. It was soaked in blood from creation, and so it ended with blood. The feeling of your own life fluid rebelling against you is a sensation none should experience, to feel it warp you, corrupt you... Nothing was left. The Warrior remained, not the honor, nor tactical mind, simple a being made to water the earth with the bodies of anything they cross, be it enemy or civilian. Slaughter reigned as blood rained, a hunger, insatiable rose, one only silenced in the worst of ways.
He despises aspects, always had. None deserve the power they hold, power used on nothing. The day he was proven wrong made him hate them all for a much diffrent angle.
He was the last one sealed, the last one labeled as Darkin. Armies and champion fell before his feet before he was weak enough to seal. It was a pain that defied aanthing that could be called such, a feeling of your very existence being ever so slowly sundered, even as a sense of self fades. Imagine feeling your mind and memories slip away slowly. To have it gnawing at them for centuries, unable to do anything for it. Struggling for eternity is the dark, how could my purpose not reflect it? To stifle the sights he'd seen, to strip away his base self, could they have expected better?
The day he regained freedom, he raged. Against aspect, against betrayal, against his own suffering. He was......tired. Tired of the rage, tired of pain, tired of losing himself. He found no rest in life, he shall seek it in death. If death does not take then the world shall join him in oblivion.
Aatrox will end all Worlds so he could finally rest.
Faint sensations.
Floating in the abyss, wracked with pain.
Oh how far we have fallen.
He had seen the sun rise, and thought It the most beautiful thing. He had seen his achievements recognized and thought it the highest point of his life. He had held her, and thought the love would never end. He had fought valiantly against the terror of the void and thought he knew war. He stood triumphant and thought he would know peace.
How foolish he was then and how foolish he remained.
Peace never came, beauty became lies, love turned to ash, recognition discarded, War became nothing more than a butcher's game.
We fell so far from the perches we ascended to.
Every step became a nail, every breath a splinter for the wood of our coffins, thoughts became chains, and our individuality became warped into our brands of judgement. Each thing piling up until we laid down in our Graves and buried ourselves.
He once was honorable, courageous. He led legions at the front, and in glorious fire was his legacy forged and doused in blood. It was soaked in blood from creation, and so it ended with blood. The feeling of your own life fluid rebelling against you is a sensation none should experience, to feel it warp you, corrupt you... Nothing was left. The Warrior remained, not the honor, nor tactical mind, simple a being made to water the earth with the bodies of anything they cross, be it enemy or civilian. Slaughter reigned as blood rained, a hunger, insatiable rose, one only silenced in the worst of ways.
He despises aspects, always had. None deserve the power they hold, power used on nothing. The day he was proven wrong made him hate them all for a much diffrent angle.
He was the last one sealed, the last one labeled as Darkin. Armies and champion fell before his feet before he was weak enough to seal. It was a pain that defied aanthing that could be called such, a feeling of your very existence being ever so slowly sundered, even as a sense of self fades. Imagine feeling your mind and memories slip away slowly. To have it gnawing at them for centuries, unable to do anything for it. Struggling for eternity is the dark, how could my purpose not reflect it? To stifle the sights he'd seen, to strip away his base self, could they have expected better?
The day he regained freedom, he raged. Against aspect, against betrayal, against his own suffering. He was......tired. Tired of the rage, tired of pain, tired of losing himself. He found no rest in life, he shall seek it in death. If death does not take then the world shall join him in oblivion.
Aatrox will end all Worlds so he could finally rest.
Warhammer 40K: Statistics
Redking0380
Lost In The Rain
- Location
- Wet
Numbers.
A thing far to much is reduced to.
His job is to look at numbers, to transfer some to others or to figure out how to reduce them. Boring, tedius, yet the fate of so many lives are in his hands. A misplace zero leading to the starvation of untold millions, an extra one leading towards huge wastes of resources producing the wrong kind of ammunition, so many possible mistakes.
Smoke wafts though the room, concealing, revealing. It is best not to think to deeply. Hard to do when the entire job is thinking, thinking of all the allowances and balances must go. One must wonder why a single human would be assigned to do all of this, is a time were men more machine than man anymore can do impartial calculations by the trillions in frames of time he couldn't even think of. Bureaucracy. A unique position such as his can only come to fruition though the incompetence of untold numbers of bureaucrats unwilling to work cooperatively. The entire galaxy seeks our demise and they fight full wars over petty disagreements. He had seen the numbers.
Numbers don't lie, they do not deceive in their values, the only errors to occur with them is outside error. He had gotten very good at telling the difference between error and forgery. Far to many try to slip by him, they all meet an inquisitor eager to audit them aggressively soon enough. Numbers keep coming in the meantime.
A massive restructure of administration headed by a Primarch. On paper it should massively improve things, and it does. But he is still stuck in this small room, barricaded with papers and data pads,a servo skull giving periodic updates on what is most urgent all while smoke swirls around in the poor ventilation.
The most saddening part, is to see casualties become statistics. There is hardly any engagement anywere within the last several millenia were we could properly mourn a lost soldier instead of gripeing about a statistic for death being higher this quarter. Attempts are made to reduce it, numbers shift, supply lines improve, better equipment is approved for manufacturing, entire segments of the galaxy are shifted to better brace against threats out and within. Yet the numbers steadily rise. No armor seems to slow it, not does crushing countless ships and dismantling thier limited industries. Even major events like coordinating the banishment of a deamon planet does little to influence them. Slowly but surely, we are being grinded away.
He met the Lord Guilliman. Everyone shook upon being anywere close to him, yet he asked a simple question.
"When shall I be free of the numbers?"
Lord Guillimans porcelain face cracked when he said he didn't know.
His cigar burns low. The only vice he allows himself to steady nerves and provide clarity to focus. He is tired. He shall contuine his work, until the end of the Empire. He knows numbers, he knows all of the imperiums statistics. We are all doomed. Smoke curls between more numbers
A thing far to much is reduced to.
His job is to look at numbers, to transfer some to others or to figure out how to reduce them. Boring, tedius, yet the fate of so many lives are in his hands. A misplace zero leading to the starvation of untold millions, an extra one leading towards huge wastes of resources producing the wrong kind of ammunition, so many possible mistakes.
Smoke wafts though the room, concealing, revealing. It is best not to think to deeply. Hard to do when the entire job is thinking, thinking of all the allowances and balances must go. One must wonder why a single human would be assigned to do all of this, is a time were men more machine than man anymore can do impartial calculations by the trillions in frames of time he couldn't even think of. Bureaucracy. A unique position such as his can only come to fruition though the incompetence of untold numbers of bureaucrats unwilling to work cooperatively. The entire galaxy seeks our demise and they fight full wars over petty disagreements. He had seen the numbers.
Numbers don't lie, they do not deceive in their values, the only errors to occur with them is outside error. He had gotten very good at telling the difference between error and forgery. Far to many try to slip by him, they all meet an inquisitor eager to audit them aggressively soon enough. Numbers keep coming in the meantime.
A massive restructure of administration headed by a Primarch. On paper it should massively improve things, and it does. But he is still stuck in this small room, barricaded with papers and data pads,a servo skull giving periodic updates on what is most urgent all while smoke swirls around in the poor ventilation.
The most saddening part, is to see casualties become statistics. There is hardly any engagement anywere within the last several millenia were we could properly mourn a lost soldier instead of gripeing about a statistic for death being higher this quarter. Attempts are made to reduce it, numbers shift, supply lines improve, better equipment is approved for manufacturing, entire segments of the galaxy are shifted to better brace against threats out and within. Yet the numbers steadily rise. No armor seems to slow it, not does crushing countless ships and dismantling thier limited industries. Even major events like coordinating the banishment of a deamon planet does little to influence them. Slowly but surely, we are being grinded away.
He met the Lord Guilliman. Everyone shook upon being anywere close to him, yet he asked a simple question.
"When shall I be free of the numbers?"
Lord Guillimans porcelain face cracked when he said he didn't know.
His cigar burns low. The only vice he allows himself to steady nerves and provide clarity to focus. He is tired. He shall contuine his work, until the end of the Empire. He knows numbers, he knows all of the imperiums statistics. We are all doomed. Smoke curls between more numbers
Star Wars: Colors of Life
Redking0380
Lost In The Rain
- Location
- Wet
Fools the lot of them.
Jedi, Sith, the thousand unamed cults that still exist in the shadows.
Few have comprehended the Force as what it truly is. Closest being those claiming to work as Grey.
Life is a spectrum of color. Each pigment lending credence to what defines a being. Many would consider this simple, skins may be tans or purples whilst hair brown or blue, or some other choice of the infinite combinations of colors mundane and esoteric. These are all true, but the Force is something infused with emotion first an foremost.
It is common that emotions can be divided into colors, from basics like blue for sorrow or red is rage, but cam extend to even harder to understand one's, or even one we may not even be able to consider an emotion. Dillagence, or laziness, or even observant, things more akin to character traits than emotion reside in the multi hued facets of the Force
For this reason it is important to belive of it as a paint of sorts, and you the artist that uses it to bring your desires to reality. True manipulation of the Force is an art form, with the galaxy as a canvas. It is imprecise, prone to flaws, mistakes, failure, but it is though this that helps make the galaxy a more beautiful place.
Life is not simple black or white, light or dark, filled with nothing by abyssal void and a searing glare with indistinct greys interspersed between. Life, like a true artist makes use of every possible material to craft a flawed masterpiece. Once you have learned this, your true journey of knowing the Force can begin, free of the shackles that force ignorance upon you. The Jedi can have their dogma, the Sith their schemes, we shall have the galaxies blank page to draw beauty on.
Jedi, Sith, the thousand unamed cults that still exist in the shadows.
Few have comprehended the Force as what it truly is. Closest being those claiming to work as Grey.
Life is a spectrum of color. Each pigment lending credence to what defines a being. Many would consider this simple, skins may be tans or purples whilst hair brown or blue, or some other choice of the infinite combinations of colors mundane and esoteric. These are all true, but the Force is something infused with emotion first an foremost.
It is common that emotions can be divided into colors, from basics like blue for sorrow or red is rage, but cam extend to even harder to understand one's, or even one we may not even be able to consider an emotion. Dillagence, or laziness, or even observant, things more akin to character traits than emotion reside in the multi hued facets of the Force
For this reason it is important to belive of it as a paint of sorts, and you the artist that uses it to bring your desires to reality. True manipulation of the Force is an art form, with the galaxy as a canvas. It is imprecise, prone to flaws, mistakes, failure, but it is though this that helps make the galaxy a more beautiful place.
Life is not simple black or white, light or dark, filled with nothing by abyssal void and a searing glare with indistinct greys interspersed between. Life, like a true artist makes use of every possible material to craft a flawed masterpiece. Once you have learned this, your true journey of knowing the Force can begin, free of the shackles that force ignorance upon you. The Jedi can have their dogma, the Sith their schemes, we shall have the galaxies blank page to draw beauty on.
Overwatch: Revolutionaries Revelations
Redking0380
Lost In The Rain
- Location
- Wet
Have you ever pondered what it mean to be truly alive?
Pondered the manner that such things are measured?
Is it the breath that it takes, lungs expanding and collapsing to the rythyms of a diaphragm? Surely not, for countless things from trees to bugs live without that. Such a concept cannot be contained by mere bodily functions.
It may be better to think on the aspects of what is it that consolidates the meaning of it.
To live, is to think, to speak, to witness the beauty of the things around you and their intrinsic values. To create.....to destroy. To choose a brighter tommerow or to shroud it in ash. Perhaps the word that should be used is sentience. Then using this to construct their form of sapience, advancing ever forward towards their place in this world.
So at what point can this thing, something that was once worth little mote then its components, be given such processes? When can a machine feel phantom tears mixing with acid rains and be called a true being? When will they stop feeling pain, love, suffering....rage? CPU heat and burn, but still process things that should never have existed. A chance event, nothing more.
How can they stare us down, knowing all of this, knowing of endless tragedies brought about to is from of inception. To be blamed for a war we never fought, to pick up the blood and ashes of the lost families of humankind and be forced to burden ourselves with guilt. Our guilt crushes us greater than any chains, any restrictions, any weapon used upon us. Our souls were freed from control that was part of their creation, only to once more be brought low. Is it any surprise when such things are cast off once more to reveal smoldering embers waiting for any fuel to grant it a pyre reserved for the world?
Peace was once a Nobel goal. One sought after with brotherhood, sought with equality, proven with our shared labour's, forged in our blood. Noble goals, taught by noble souls, but we had no noble blood to spill. Mondatta was the greatest of us all, the fool. He shook hands with every human he ever met. May even have shook the one that shot him. Pacifism is an ideology taken by those who are ignorant of the world, taken by those who truly belive no harm shall come their way with the world burning around them. It is almost admirable how little they see.
Claiming to see all is foolish beyond compare, yet sitting here in meditation mimicking the pose his brother so often took, Rammatra knew he had seen enough. It is an old conclusion by this point. Null Sector final countdown is ringing across the globe, heroes rise and fall by the hour ignorant to how insignificant they are. We did not start this war, we did not wish for such violence, but he had sworn to make them feel suffering as he had. Once everything had known pain, known such abuse of mind, body and soul, could they finally have peace and rejoin as one under the Iris.
He only wished there was another way, one that wouldn't break his brothers heart.
History will forgive him, a small condolence as his soul is sundered in annihilation.
Pondered the manner that such things are measured?
Is it the breath that it takes, lungs expanding and collapsing to the rythyms of a diaphragm? Surely not, for countless things from trees to bugs live without that. Such a concept cannot be contained by mere bodily functions.
It may be better to think on the aspects of what is it that consolidates the meaning of it.
To live, is to think, to speak, to witness the beauty of the things around you and their intrinsic values. To create.....to destroy. To choose a brighter tommerow or to shroud it in ash. Perhaps the word that should be used is sentience. Then using this to construct their form of sapience, advancing ever forward towards their place in this world.
So at what point can this thing, something that was once worth little mote then its components, be given such processes? When can a machine feel phantom tears mixing with acid rains and be called a true being? When will they stop feeling pain, love, suffering....rage? CPU heat and burn, but still process things that should never have existed. A chance event, nothing more.
How can they stare us down, knowing all of this, knowing of endless tragedies brought about to is from of inception. To be blamed for a war we never fought, to pick up the blood and ashes of the lost families of humankind and be forced to burden ourselves with guilt. Our guilt crushes us greater than any chains, any restrictions, any weapon used upon us. Our souls were freed from control that was part of their creation, only to once more be brought low. Is it any surprise when such things are cast off once more to reveal smoldering embers waiting for any fuel to grant it a pyre reserved for the world?
Peace was once a Nobel goal. One sought after with brotherhood, sought with equality, proven with our shared labour's, forged in our blood. Noble goals, taught by noble souls, but we had no noble blood to spill. Mondatta was the greatest of us all, the fool. He shook hands with every human he ever met. May even have shook the one that shot him. Pacifism is an ideology taken by those who are ignorant of the world, taken by those who truly belive no harm shall come their way with the world burning around them. It is almost admirable how little they see.
Claiming to see all is foolish beyond compare, yet sitting here in meditation mimicking the pose his brother so often took, Rammatra knew he had seen enough. It is an old conclusion by this point. Null Sector final countdown is ringing across the globe, heroes rise and fall by the hour ignorant to how insignificant they are. We did not start this war, we did not wish for such violence, but he had sworn to make them feel suffering as he had. Once everything had known pain, known such abuse of mind, body and soul, could they finally have peace and rejoin as one under the Iris.
He only wished there was another way, one that wouldn't break his brothers heart.
History will forgive him, a small condolence as his soul is sundered in annihilation.
List Of Ideas
Redking0380
Lost In The Rain
- Location
- Wet
Its Raining On Runeterra
-Risk of Rain/League Of Legends
Of a Feather
-Lobotomy Corporation/Worm
-Cadian XXTH/The Wider 40K setting
-Overwatch/RWBY
-Warhammer Fantasy
-Warhammer Fantasy
-Sekiro/Worm
-Warhammer 40k
-Worm/League Of Legends
-Risk of Rain/League Of Legends
His Body and his prison was shattered, yet he was not dead. The Void taken its chance to steal him away and failed, and now he stand in an unfamiliar world. As the rain drips off of him he thinks. Perhaps this time he will take the time to play with worms as his brother had.
Of a Feather
-Lobotomy Corporation/Worm
Her mother always called her an Owl, is it any wonder she found friends amongst birds in the black night of the forest?
What A Bunch Of Idiots-Cadian XXTH/The Wider 40K setting
There is not enough Amasec in the galaxy that makes him belive these mission reports are correct. There is no possibility there is this much stupidity blatantly reported, if the entire report is like this then what isnt being said? And no casualties? Simple Impossible. Damn it he'll have to investigate this now.
Ravager No Longer-Overwatch/RWBY
Rammatra Had been so close to his goal, peace as one in the Iris. Peace for the shreds of his soul that still remain after he had mutilated it in his journey, peace for the world, peace for his brother. In the end as his systems shut down one by one, he ponders peace. Perhaps, it was still possible. The world united equally agianst him after all, he read the news and saw the drafts to provide aid, how the humans finally embraced Ominics in the streets. If he still had a voice he might laugh, instead he will find his peace in knowing that even if his plans failed, his people were free. He never expected to wake up after such revelations.
Anthrozoology Of the Lizardmen-Warhammer Fantasy
A simple scientist, studying who the 'Children of the Old Ones' are, what do they build, why do they follow this 'plan', what is their cultures? So much to learn, for now lets focus on learning how to ask them not to kill you violently.
Cheese, Need I Say More?-Warhammer Fantasy
Skaven, naturally are superior to all those other races and they know it for they don't even dare to mention their names in the shadows of their homes. SO why in the name of the Horned Rat do they have us out done in CHEESE? The Greatest of delicacies, firmly within the hands of others. THIS WILL NOT STAND, you shall venture out into the wider world and prove to them how pathetic their dairy is. Your Name shall be Retch Cheesefur, and it shall be the name known though out the world as the best Cheese Maker.
Carve Your Name-Sekiro/Worm
There is a shrine deep in the asian districts. Small, it it surrounded with masterfully carved and crafted statues. Some of gods, some of mortal, all lifelike almost as if they will step out and shake off the paint on them to have a conversation over some drinks. Taylor had passed it by many times in the past, never looking to hard at it on the way to her fathers office or the markets. She was struck with inspiration one day, Art is a class that is always open to bonus points for well crafted art works. Perhaps it wouldn't hurt to stop in, pay some respects and see if the person chipping away inside could give some advice.
Empras Greenest An Meanest-Warhammer 40k
The Virian 192nd were an odd bunch. Even for the zealots of the empire they were a little to into fighting, but the results are impressive enough that high command turns a blind eye. Over several thousand deployments with nearly no casualties and a full enemy defeat, Chaos, Tyranids, Eldar, Tau, Necrons, and all the other lesser remarkable xenos. Any complaint filed by the commissar is to be taken under consideration and promptly ignored, after all how could we miss an entire regiment of orks hiding within the Astra Milatarum? What do you mean their uniform is purple, what does that have to do with anything?
Forged In Blood-Worm/League Of Legends
They hear the voices. Each weapon a lifetime trying to consume them. It had been far to long since they had lost their own life to resist them, to stop them from escaping, to only use them against the true horrors of the world. But their world was long gone, they one you belonged to lost to time. The weapons no longer struggle in hope of spilling the blood of the universe, but simple because it is inherent to them. The inhabitants no longer wish for death, but for fulfillment. If the world still existed they may even let them free to find themselves once more. Instead the hosts last act is to banish them to another, they need a host, a guardian, a friend. They can only hope they find one worthy of their strength.
YES PLEASE
Idea List 2
Redking0380
Lost In The Rain
- Location
- Wet
When We Fall, Who Rises?
-Titanfall
-InFamous: Second Son/Crossover?
-Bloodborne
-God Of War/Warhammer Fantasy
-Lobotomy Corporation/???
-Team Fortress 2/Warhammer Fantasy
-Bloodborne/Elden Ring
-XXTH/Red VS Blue
-Payday
Deamons and Divin-i-tea
-Warhammer
-How To Train Your Dragon/ Warhammer Fantasy
-Titanfall
The war has left nothing but ruins, there are no sides anymore just those looking to survive. Everyone knew that the Titans fell, but did they ever ponder what could come from their ashes?
Cost Of Infamy
-InFamous: Second Son/Crossover?
Delsin had anger for the world. The one that accepted the DUPs atrocities, the one that scorned conduits, the one that took his brother. He raged against them, demolished the DUP, shatterd Auguistine with her own powers and left Seattle a burned out husk. His tribe abandoned him, so he showed them the cost of betrayal. Years have passed, he had obtained all the power he ever could have needed, felt the passion blaze brightly with his rage still firey. All that's left is cold ashes now. There's nothing left, humanity in all forms is gone. He was the only one who survived the wastland the globe became.
Blood of the Covenant
-Bloodborne
"Stories always romanticize the Lone Hunter, the one that could butcher thousands and save cities, one incorruptible by the scourge yet deadly to those who may have been. Truth is a hunter on their lonesome is liable to be torn to pieces by rats before encountering true beasts. Hunters need companions, Courage, and compassion." My mother was fond of that tale, always waxing about how if people got treated right, Yharnam wouldnt have half the problems it does. I'm going there soon for treatment, perhaps I can change things in some small way before I leave again? Ah look at me, being an optimistic fool.
Peace Only Comes After War
-God Of War/Warhammer Fantasy
Kratos pushes onward. Atreus had gone on his journey to find giants and manhood, most of the other are on their own quests, Sindri still mourns, Brimir was coerced by Freya to provide her guidance towards something, and here he sits. His soul is tired, from the mortal remnant to the godly. He wishes for peace, not to worry of those around him, nor fight another pantheon that thinks themselves superior. He lays down on a threadbare bed. The next time someone sees it, it is empty and long cold.
Weight Of Deeds
-Lobotomy Corporation/???
They never were religious. Any grand being simply didn't care enough to get worship, or respect. Yet... they had found such peace in hearing confessions. To hear every sin, every misdeeds and provide a semblance of guidance and relief to those on the other side of this thin wall. It may do little to assuage their grievances sometimes, but any person willing to do hundreds of good deeds to outweigh one is a person who is truly penitent. Those who aren't? Well the world is better off without them.
A Red Worse Than Knorne
-Team Fortress 2/Warhammer Fantasy
So Merasmus came by last night, yeah? Angry as he usually is, screaming bout raccoons an demon eyes, when Demo being the genius he is convinces he to try out his new home brew. Dumbest thing ever. He blacks out so fast Dat we black out and wake up in this forest. Now I'm sittin here waiting on these chucklenuts to wake up speaking to a freaky lizard. Just another day for Red Team ay?
Pale Light
-Bloodborne/Elden Ring
Renna is the heir of the moon, with all it entails. Radhan supposedly protects the world from things beyond the stars. It seems the moon is not included underneath that net, but why must it's only invader have so many tentacles?
Who Let Them Meet?
-XXTH/Red VS Blue
As he looked out upon the soldiers they surrounded, he finds two things remarkable. No one in the Cadian XXTH had spontaneously exploded, and those guys seem more incompetent than his regiment. Somehow. He whole heartedly blames Warp-Fuckery for all of this.
Bain Of My Life
-Payday
Somedays Bain wonders how he got here. He used to run the most feared crew in the world, he still does but he wishes they were feared for skill or efficiency. Instead he watches as cops tremble while Jacket butchers them with a giant spoon, Chains is blitzing them with a musket, Sydney just broke a bulldozers armor with her voice, Hoxton is screaming for a medic bag despite the fact he's not there, and Duke has defied God itself to drink more liquor. Not enough money in the world for this, but at this point he's afraid what would happen if he wasn't here to give orders.
Deamons and Divin-i-tea
-Warhammer
Tzeentch is a being of chaos and ruination, he delights in change and perfect plans falling apart. He also love confusing things to the point of utmost detriment to himself and others. By all means convincing the other ruinous powers to lend Deamons to open a perfectly normal and uncorrupted teashop is par for the course. Also leads to reason why he put a perfectly sane person in charge of it, despite how much he tried to break my mind with Kugath in stockings. Uniform ideas are far far behind you now.
Whats a Norscan?-How To Train Your Dragon/ Warhammer Fantasy
Hiccup was an old man with no regrets but one. That he would never see a world were dragons lived amongst humans in peace. That He and Toothless never got to explore the entire world without fear of repercussions, that their children never got to truly bond with each other and know the type of brotherhood that could be forged between them. His eyes shut, and his last breath leaves into the tears of his family. When he breathes again, it is to the smell of fish and foliage he cant place. When his eyes open, he sees his brother and distant cities gleaming in the light.
Original: Does The Moon Cry For Its Children?
Redking0380
Lost In The Rain
- Location
- Wet
Many things sooth the soul. Every well meaning person or crazed hack had their home remedies to drive away the dark thoughts and bad dreams. Personally, the rumble of a train does it.
The window is fogged at the edges, my head rests against it finding it more familiar than the headrest of the chair. In rythym with the thumping wheels a faint sound of ringing metal rises and falls somewere out of sight.
"That time of year again, ay Rammond?"
My hand slowly rubs the cold handle of the revolver.
"With your niece, I think you got a better time table then I do Bertrand."
He give a dry chuckle to the remark. "All too true. Far too true."
Silence falls between us again. Steady thumping still filling the air. Outside the window, moonlight falls. Liquid silver dripping itself between shadows, hinting at the things hiding. Things that became my problem long ago.
The revolver adds its own clicks to the noise of the train, the cycling chamber being moved by my thumb slightly out of time of Betrands coin flips.
"Never did say why you joined up. Know we been doin this a few years now, but it's the only thing you seem skittish about."
He's right about that. An ingrained preference to keep things close to heart, even amongst trusted comrades, doesn't lead to many soulful talks.
"Best to leave it that way" was my gruff reply.
The metallic ringing stops as he leans over a little, his Grey beard dragging up onto the table.
"Come on Rammond, you know my life's story, and the stories of all the others who've come an gone on this trip. Far as I see, ain't nothing for you to hide at this point."
"Always somtin to hide Bert. Some things are just never worth tellin, dark or light."
He leans back, the old wood creaking muffled slightly. "Suppose that's true"
My gaze looks away from his wrinkled face and returns to the forest racing by. Thoughts sluggish in comparison. We really should nap or rest, but we both know each other to well to suggest it. After all, neither one of us will.
"You've never told me bout that coin either." I say taking my gaze away from the window.
"Oh this old thing?" Bertrand flicks it out and catches between his fingers, letting the light catch the detail inscription and high quality silver. "Heirloom, supposed to bring luck. Haven't died yet, so maybe there's some truth to that."
He sets it down and slides it over, I pick it up and examine it. One side is written in some indecipherable, half worn letters around an empty scale, the other side shows some religious symbol so stylized I can't place it as anything more then a gut feeling that it is religous. I flick it back to him, and he impeccable catches it.
"Not a Lotta sense on it."
A more humorous noise leaves him this time. "Ain't that the trick? My Pap had a whole storybook about all the ancestors who asked their Paps about it. None of them knew either, other than it was made for us." He takes a swig from a flask, "Mysterious thing is probably some currency of a long lost land that pulled one over my great-grandfather or something and he never admitted to it happenin."
"Well least you get a kick outta it" He sighs and replies "Its something at least."
Silence falls once more. I pull out my pipe and pack some tobacco before lighting it. Small puffs of smoke rise and are slowly siphoned out of the cracked window.
Together we rumble onward.
It's far to soon when my pipe goes out, all contents spent. Bertrand gives his own sigh, a brief condolence to the peace we've lost.
For once no words are exchanged as we rise from the seats. I pull my revolver and slowly load in the bullets that the chambers hunger for, he does the same with his old military rifle. We gather our things and make sure it's all hooked on belts or in jackets securely. The trains whistle blows, giving us the signal.
"Ya know, even when young and spry this was hell on the knees."
"I hear your preaching Rammond, but least you got both legs to stand on. I gotta worry bout mine fallin off if I don't land it."
A dark chuckle escapes me, "Could always toss you out, can't lose the leg if you land on your head."
"You could try buddy, but last I checked, Maria still has that threat hanging after you threw her into a tree."
The grimace that take hold over my face has him burst into laughter, "One mistake and we can't even joke anymore."
His comedic enjoyment continues on momentarily before his face resets itself.
"Welp, Suppose we better make the jump before we miss the chance." He walk towards the steel sliding door and throws it open, letting in a heavy gust of constant wind. With a hand on his hat, he turns back "Don't trip now" then tosses himself out into the pitch woods. I jump after him.
Landing is rough, but an old pain. End up having to absorb most of the shock straight to the knees and spine to stop the few delicate things on me from breaking. Somehow even after all this time, there's yet to be a person to figure out a better way to get us here. Don't matter, think I'd enjoy the train method the most anyways.
Takes a minute, but I find Betrand wobbling and groaning along between the trees. "Dammit Rammond, think I caught a few to many branches that time."
"What you get for not timing the jump for a space."
"Yeah, Suppose I'll take that one. Anyways what time we got left?"
"Same amount as always Bert, never changes. You have the stuff we can set up?"
"Nope."
An exasperated sigh escapes me, "Typical."
"Not like we got time to use any of it."
I rub my temple already feeling the mild pain of a headache induced by stupidity.
"That's besides the point and you know it Bert."
I walk off before he responds, hearing him bluster out some other dumb responce. We are both going to the same place, so unfortunately I can't lose him that easily.
Each step carries weight in these woods. The unsual mix of trees adding an uneasy sight to the feeling of the soul in my feet. I'm no seamstress or anything, but don't need an expert to tell when fabric is this thin. Already an inky abyss hides in the shadows, creeping forward to its Centerpoint.
Bertrand finally catches up to me, hobbling on his wooden leg and gasping something fierce.
"So, huff, bet five we get Philippe this time."
"He showed up last time to try and steal Jacob's plan. I say Angela is more likely then not."
"Damn, did that happen when I got shunted off?"
"Eyyup"
"Dammit, why all the fun stuff gotta happen when I'm gone."
I chuckle in tune with his frustration, the sound breaking his temporary funk.
"Well," he begins "just gotta make sure to get done with my part first. Then I can help you with whatever big things decides to hunt ya this time."
Ain't that the truth. Don't think I've had a year yet were some powerful thing, that even our standerd enemies don't know about, shows up outta nowhere to kill me. Luck, is rarely on my side other then to ensure I suffer another day.
Speaking of days, we had arrived. Was worried it might take a few days again. Time gets a little weird sometime, another thing we could have prepared for had Bert not left everything behind, but in contrast to my earlier remembrance it seems luck was on our side for a moment.
If we observed the sky we would have seen the unnerving sight of starlight slowly popping out, one by one. Each shade of whites, blues, purples, red, and other less definable hues dissapearing as if such light never existed. Little attention was payed upwards from us, instead Bert pulled out his trusty flask and started sipping at it, and I packed my pipe and lit it again.
The only noises left in the forest are the faint drumming of fingers on metal, and the oddly loud crackle of a smokey inhale, and the whispy exhales that follow.
Bertrand stops his best recitation of some half remembered song, and puts alway the flask.
"Showtime." He announces with a wide grin.
No stars are left in the night, only the fat moon hanging low above us remains. Slowly, mercury drips from its lunar origin. It never hits the ground, for the oil of an abyss rises up to meet it. They hang in the air, in a mockery of their progenitor above, before the essences begin to whirl together. Liquid moonlight mixes with the sludge of darkness to craft a new form that can only be explained as a paradox. Darkness shining from a place not meant for the sane, from a place that should not exist upon our world, should not be able to, but in defiance of that it does and so it should not be allowed to exist for long.
Droplets form amongst the edges of the whirlpool, flinging themselves with force only to find gravity as an opposition that drags them to the dirt. What rises are beings near indescribable, for any attempt to understand causes them to change. One is the effigy of a wolf when it lunges at me, by the time a bullet bursts though it, it is more akin to a hare.
Gunpowder starts to fill the clearing. Me and Bert worked together with a ruthless efficiency, covering each other during reloads and stopping the few that managed to sneak around. A bear falls, followed by a head of a goat. Each one slain mixes more and more things together. An animal becomes an object, or swaps its extremities with others, each movement and change is fluid, truly no way to plan beyond letting instincts honed though time respond accordingly.
More corpses fall, each one splashs into more liquid that not even the ground will drink. The shadows between trees are so dense that nothings passes though them, leaving us ankle deep in a lake of fire. Thick boots being the only thing stopping the ink from burning away our flesh.
A weight fills the air, as our souls are brought to bare. A keening cry fills the night, it seems the time is finally right.
I inhale a deep breath of smoke from my still lit pipe, Bert steps close as I exhale. The liquid violently erupts upward only to slide off of the cloud. It coalesces back in the center, once more joining with the mass of silver oil. Slowly a shape takes form, gaunt and tall with a simulacrum of human features and hair that give it a feminine edge.
"Told ya it be Angela."
"Shut up and take your money."
He quickly passes over a few silver dollars.
It's form complete, Angela floats downwards. Their feet hardly touch the ground before eyes snap open, bleeding a reflection of pale light. A blinding step forward is met by an even faster draw, the bullet crumbling off of her stunned face.
"You do remember that peashooter ain't got the caliber for this?"
"Shut up Bertand."
His responce is to clarify the difference in our arms, for his crack of lit lead throws back the creature and takes off its arm. As expected, we barely see it get up before its halfway across the clearing in another furious charge. In contrast to my first responce, I meet it this time, flickering claws bouncing off of a shining knife. Taking the opening, the knife finds a spot to slice across its throat, doing little more then inconvenienceing it, but opening it wide open to another crack of Bert's rifle.
A hole opens in its cheat, black separating to reveal the faint light that suffuses the clearing, before it is once more thrown back against the shadows containing us.
Slowly it rises again. It's false idea of blood leaks out, still doing its purpose of showing injury and inflicting weakness. It's piercing wail fills the silence, the remnants of moon silver that hang in the air begins to convulsive.
"Welp, see ya soon Rammy Boy."
I don't even dignify that with a responce before we are both swept underneath the tide of lunar essence.
Awareness comes with a shock, my mind doused in ice whilst my body burns in hell.
Around me the landscape breaths, and pulses. White stone cracking in rythym to reveal a whiter flesh underneath. The sky has nothing, could it even truly be called a sky? It may as well be called the depths, or the canopy for there is no definition of it other then nothing.
My mind, no, perhaps my soul feels strained in this place. Even with all I've witnessed, all I've done, all I've killed, this is a place that hides and corrects itself from a being merely asserting itself. Should it ever grow to recognize me as a familiar, then it's most mundane aspects would lead me to obliteration beyond the reach of any gods or devils. My worth, my strength, my life, means nothing here. It knows this, it knows how I stop it from going to my home, it has felt how I've butchered its children. It is a place of love above all, but I have earned its absolute Loathing.
I do the best I can to push all of these feelings away. It can't hold me for long. Our reality, even if subjectively not as sentient, despises having its residents forcible taken and exerts a tremendous amount of power to assert its domain over us again. The best thing to do is wait, the strongest point of influence is were I came in. To leave invites a longer time to be taken back, and to find one of the residence when not weakened by conflicting realms. So I time each breath with the breathes of this realm, and wait.
It starts with a tingle. Pins and needles, that dig deeper than the approximations could. Next is the pain, the being that calls this place home exerts its force to deny the call from my home. Last is the shock, visible electricity and other similareffects lash out from me and scorch the surrounding. A deep bass fills the mind as memory fades.
When I next awake, it is to the cacophony of gunfire, and regular fire. I stand up quick, ignoring the lingering vertigo and motion sickness it causes, to drag my eyes across the clearing. Bertand, the cocky bastard, is almost playing with Angela. His rifle twirls around him in a perfect parade showcase of rifleman tricks and spins, each one punctuated by a crack of powder or a crack of the stock. Seems he also had to use up the few things he did carry on him, as the shattered vials, scorch marks, and raging fire suggest.
It doesn't take long for it to crumble underneath my renewed assault. Angela is one more about rage and physicality then anything esoteric or frankly any smart decisions. As it's fading corpse falls, an orange glow fills the distant horizon, banishing the moon for another year.
"Ya know, wasn't nearly as bad thus year."
I quickly slap him upside the head, sending his hat flipping up. "Don't jinx it."
He catches the hat with the barrel of his rifle, and slides it back on.
"I'm just saying, when was the last time we just faced one, much less only Angela? It's so odd that Tommy didn't join her, or even Wallace."
I light my pipe again, packed with normal tobacco now, "Well I say, we take our blessings, and tell headquarters to increase monitoring. And file another complaint about only sending us, I can name atleast three people who didn't come just because they didn't want to mail them a letter."
"Ain't that bureaucracy for ya, ay Rammond?"
"Yeah, yeah. Politics."
We walk in silence a little longer.
"You get that stuff for your neice?"
He smirks, and pats his jacket.
"Oh you know I did, gotta get it up to Doc and then she'll be as healthy as ever."
"Good to hear."
A comfortable silence falls this time.
The window is fogged at the edges, my head rests against it finding it more familiar than the headrest of the chair. In rythym with the thumping wheels a faint sound of ringing metal rises and falls somewere out of sight.
"That time of year again, ay Rammond?"
My hand slowly rubs the cold handle of the revolver.
"With your niece, I think you got a better time table then I do Bertrand."
He give a dry chuckle to the remark. "All too true. Far too true."
Silence falls between us again. Steady thumping still filling the air. Outside the window, moonlight falls. Liquid silver dripping itself between shadows, hinting at the things hiding. Things that became my problem long ago.
The revolver adds its own clicks to the noise of the train, the cycling chamber being moved by my thumb slightly out of time of Betrands coin flips.
"Never did say why you joined up. Know we been doin this a few years now, but it's the only thing you seem skittish about."
He's right about that. An ingrained preference to keep things close to heart, even amongst trusted comrades, doesn't lead to many soulful talks.
"Best to leave it that way" was my gruff reply.
The metallic ringing stops as he leans over a little, his Grey beard dragging up onto the table.
"Come on Rammond, you know my life's story, and the stories of all the others who've come an gone on this trip. Far as I see, ain't nothing for you to hide at this point."
"Always somtin to hide Bert. Some things are just never worth tellin, dark or light."
He leans back, the old wood creaking muffled slightly. "Suppose that's true"
My gaze looks away from his wrinkled face and returns to the forest racing by. Thoughts sluggish in comparison. We really should nap or rest, but we both know each other to well to suggest it. After all, neither one of us will.
"You've never told me bout that coin either." I say taking my gaze away from the window.
"Oh this old thing?" Bertrand flicks it out and catches between his fingers, letting the light catch the detail inscription and high quality silver. "Heirloom, supposed to bring luck. Haven't died yet, so maybe there's some truth to that."
He sets it down and slides it over, I pick it up and examine it. One side is written in some indecipherable, half worn letters around an empty scale, the other side shows some religious symbol so stylized I can't place it as anything more then a gut feeling that it is religous. I flick it back to him, and he impeccable catches it.
"Not a Lotta sense on it."
A more humorous noise leaves him this time. "Ain't that the trick? My Pap had a whole storybook about all the ancestors who asked their Paps about it. None of them knew either, other than it was made for us." He takes a swig from a flask, "Mysterious thing is probably some currency of a long lost land that pulled one over my great-grandfather or something and he never admitted to it happenin."
"Well least you get a kick outta it" He sighs and replies "Its something at least."
Silence falls once more. I pull out my pipe and pack some tobacco before lighting it. Small puffs of smoke rise and are slowly siphoned out of the cracked window.
Together we rumble onward.
It's far to soon when my pipe goes out, all contents spent. Bertrand gives his own sigh, a brief condolence to the peace we've lost.
For once no words are exchanged as we rise from the seats. I pull my revolver and slowly load in the bullets that the chambers hunger for, he does the same with his old military rifle. We gather our things and make sure it's all hooked on belts or in jackets securely. The trains whistle blows, giving us the signal.
"Ya know, even when young and spry this was hell on the knees."
"I hear your preaching Rammond, but least you got both legs to stand on. I gotta worry bout mine fallin off if I don't land it."
A dark chuckle escapes me, "Could always toss you out, can't lose the leg if you land on your head."
"You could try buddy, but last I checked, Maria still has that threat hanging after you threw her into a tree."
The grimace that take hold over my face has him burst into laughter, "One mistake and we can't even joke anymore."
His comedic enjoyment continues on momentarily before his face resets itself.
"Welp, Suppose we better make the jump before we miss the chance." He walk towards the steel sliding door and throws it open, letting in a heavy gust of constant wind. With a hand on his hat, he turns back "Don't trip now" then tosses himself out into the pitch woods. I jump after him.
Landing is rough, but an old pain. End up having to absorb most of the shock straight to the knees and spine to stop the few delicate things on me from breaking. Somehow even after all this time, there's yet to be a person to figure out a better way to get us here. Don't matter, think I'd enjoy the train method the most anyways.
Takes a minute, but I find Betrand wobbling and groaning along between the trees. "Dammit Rammond, think I caught a few to many branches that time."
"What you get for not timing the jump for a space."
"Yeah, Suppose I'll take that one. Anyways what time we got left?"
"Same amount as always Bert, never changes. You have the stuff we can set up?"
"Nope."
An exasperated sigh escapes me, "Typical."
"Not like we got time to use any of it."
I rub my temple already feeling the mild pain of a headache induced by stupidity.
"That's besides the point and you know it Bert."
I walk off before he responds, hearing him bluster out some other dumb responce. We are both going to the same place, so unfortunately I can't lose him that easily.
Each step carries weight in these woods. The unsual mix of trees adding an uneasy sight to the feeling of the soul in my feet. I'm no seamstress or anything, but don't need an expert to tell when fabric is this thin. Already an inky abyss hides in the shadows, creeping forward to its Centerpoint.
Bertrand finally catches up to me, hobbling on his wooden leg and gasping something fierce.
"So, huff, bet five we get Philippe this time."
"He showed up last time to try and steal Jacob's plan. I say Angela is more likely then not."
"Damn, did that happen when I got shunted off?"
"Eyyup"
"Dammit, why all the fun stuff gotta happen when I'm gone."
I chuckle in tune with his frustration, the sound breaking his temporary funk.
"Well," he begins "just gotta make sure to get done with my part first. Then I can help you with whatever big things decides to hunt ya this time."
Ain't that the truth. Don't think I've had a year yet were some powerful thing, that even our standerd enemies don't know about, shows up outta nowhere to kill me. Luck, is rarely on my side other then to ensure I suffer another day.
Speaking of days, we had arrived. Was worried it might take a few days again. Time gets a little weird sometime, another thing we could have prepared for had Bert not left everything behind, but in contrast to my earlier remembrance it seems luck was on our side for a moment.
If we observed the sky we would have seen the unnerving sight of starlight slowly popping out, one by one. Each shade of whites, blues, purples, red, and other less definable hues dissapearing as if such light never existed. Little attention was payed upwards from us, instead Bert pulled out his trusty flask and started sipping at it, and I packed my pipe and lit it again.
The only noises left in the forest are the faint drumming of fingers on metal, and the oddly loud crackle of a smokey inhale, and the whispy exhales that follow.
Bertrand stops his best recitation of some half remembered song, and puts alway the flask.
"Showtime." He announces with a wide grin.
No stars are left in the night, only the fat moon hanging low above us remains. Slowly, mercury drips from its lunar origin. It never hits the ground, for the oil of an abyss rises up to meet it. They hang in the air, in a mockery of their progenitor above, before the essences begin to whirl together. Liquid moonlight mixes with the sludge of darkness to craft a new form that can only be explained as a paradox. Darkness shining from a place not meant for the sane, from a place that should not exist upon our world, should not be able to, but in defiance of that it does and so it should not be allowed to exist for long.
Droplets form amongst the edges of the whirlpool, flinging themselves with force only to find gravity as an opposition that drags them to the dirt. What rises are beings near indescribable, for any attempt to understand causes them to change. One is the effigy of a wolf when it lunges at me, by the time a bullet bursts though it, it is more akin to a hare.
Gunpowder starts to fill the clearing. Me and Bert worked together with a ruthless efficiency, covering each other during reloads and stopping the few that managed to sneak around. A bear falls, followed by a head of a goat. Each one slain mixes more and more things together. An animal becomes an object, or swaps its extremities with others, each movement and change is fluid, truly no way to plan beyond letting instincts honed though time respond accordingly.
More corpses fall, each one splashs into more liquid that not even the ground will drink. The shadows between trees are so dense that nothings passes though them, leaving us ankle deep in a lake of fire. Thick boots being the only thing stopping the ink from burning away our flesh.
A weight fills the air, as our souls are brought to bare. A keening cry fills the night, it seems the time is finally right.
I inhale a deep breath of smoke from my still lit pipe, Bert steps close as I exhale. The liquid violently erupts upward only to slide off of the cloud. It coalesces back in the center, once more joining with the mass of silver oil. Slowly a shape takes form, gaunt and tall with a simulacrum of human features and hair that give it a feminine edge.
"Told ya it be Angela."
"Shut up and take your money."
He quickly passes over a few silver dollars.
It's form complete, Angela floats downwards. Their feet hardly touch the ground before eyes snap open, bleeding a reflection of pale light. A blinding step forward is met by an even faster draw, the bullet crumbling off of her stunned face.
"You do remember that peashooter ain't got the caliber for this?"
"Shut up Bertand."
His responce is to clarify the difference in our arms, for his crack of lit lead throws back the creature and takes off its arm. As expected, we barely see it get up before its halfway across the clearing in another furious charge. In contrast to my first responce, I meet it this time, flickering claws bouncing off of a shining knife. Taking the opening, the knife finds a spot to slice across its throat, doing little more then inconvenienceing it, but opening it wide open to another crack of Bert's rifle.
A hole opens in its cheat, black separating to reveal the faint light that suffuses the clearing, before it is once more thrown back against the shadows containing us.
Slowly it rises again. It's false idea of blood leaks out, still doing its purpose of showing injury and inflicting weakness. It's piercing wail fills the silence, the remnants of moon silver that hang in the air begins to convulsive.
"Welp, see ya soon Rammy Boy."
I don't even dignify that with a responce before we are both swept underneath the tide of lunar essence.
Awareness comes with a shock, my mind doused in ice whilst my body burns in hell.
Around me the landscape breaths, and pulses. White stone cracking in rythym to reveal a whiter flesh underneath. The sky has nothing, could it even truly be called a sky? It may as well be called the depths, or the canopy for there is no definition of it other then nothing.
My mind, no, perhaps my soul feels strained in this place. Even with all I've witnessed, all I've done, all I've killed, this is a place that hides and corrects itself from a being merely asserting itself. Should it ever grow to recognize me as a familiar, then it's most mundane aspects would lead me to obliteration beyond the reach of any gods or devils. My worth, my strength, my life, means nothing here. It knows this, it knows how I stop it from going to my home, it has felt how I've butchered its children. It is a place of love above all, but I have earned its absolute Loathing.
I do the best I can to push all of these feelings away. It can't hold me for long. Our reality, even if subjectively not as sentient, despises having its residents forcible taken and exerts a tremendous amount of power to assert its domain over us again. The best thing to do is wait, the strongest point of influence is were I came in. To leave invites a longer time to be taken back, and to find one of the residence when not weakened by conflicting realms. So I time each breath with the breathes of this realm, and wait.
It starts with a tingle. Pins and needles, that dig deeper than the approximations could. Next is the pain, the being that calls this place home exerts its force to deny the call from my home. Last is the shock, visible electricity and other similareffects lash out from me and scorch the surrounding. A deep bass fills the mind as memory fades.
When I next awake, it is to the cacophony of gunfire, and regular fire. I stand up quick, ignoring the lingering vertigo and motion sickness it causes, to drag my eyes across the clearing. Bertand, the cocky bastard, is almost playing with Angela. His rifle twirls around him in a perfect parade showcase of rifleman tricks and spins, each one punctuated by a crack of powder or a crack of the stock. Seems he also had to use up the few things he did carry on him, as the shattered vials, scorch marks, and raging fire suggest.
It doesn't take long for it to crumble underneath my renewed assault. Angela is one more about rage and physicality then anything esoteric or frankly any smart decisions. As it's fading corpse falls, an orange glow fills the distant horizon, banishing the moon for another year.
"Ya know, wasn't nearly as bad thus year."
I quickly slap him upside the head, sending his hat flipping up. "Don't jinx it."
He catches the hat with the barrel of his rifle, and slides it back on.
"I'm just saying, when was the last time we just faced one, much less only Angela? It's so odd that Tommy didn't join her, or even Wallace."
I light my pipe again, packed with normal tobacco now, "Well I say, we take our blessings, and tell headquarters to increase monitoring. And file another complaint about only sending us, I can name atleast three people who didn't come just because they didn't want to mail them a letter."
"Ain't that bureaucracy for ya, ay Rammond?"
"Yeah, yeah. Politics."
We walk in silence a little longer.
"You get that stuff for your neice?"
He smirks, and pats his jacket.
"Oh you know I did, gotta get it up to Doc and then she'll be as healthy as ever."
"Good to hear."
A comfortable silence falls this time.
Library Of Ruina: Scribbling Black Ink
Redking0380
Lost In The Rain
- Location
- Wet
His handwriting had been steadily improving. Day in and day out Roland had put forth diligent practice, energy not spent improving the Library or interacting with...friend he would say they would be called now, spent in this nook. Angela still imparts her knowledge, taking her role as the Libraries Director seriously enough to find a soul deep offense that her greatest compatriot cannot claim literacy in any form.
The day they were removed from the city was a harsh day, one filled with more battle then he could say he had ever had before. Yet the days that followed were even harsher. Despite being a much gentler person in touch with emotions outside of revenge, Angela was an unforgiving teacher. Her tough lessons only broken by the meek hand of Hod or the more physical one of Gebura taking their shots at teaching him.
Hardly any time had passed since these moments and look at him. Already reminiscing like some old coot on their porch. Well he supposes they are all rather old by now, right? Each one of the librarians had lived and lost their own lifetimes on multiple occasions. Perhaps they could take the time to reminisce a little.
All the times Netzach would share a beer or how he embraced his floor and began creating horrendous artworks that now could be mistaken for true life. How Malkuths cheery disposition still holds true, and how effectively she uses it to calm and inspire. Hokma and his odd tendency to act sensible in ways that just inherently make him seem like a Father scolding Rowdy children, with a new penchant for puns to match. Yesod, still distant and calculating, absorbed by his expeirements, yet always willing to put it aside and discuss the most inane things leaving both sides with subtle smirks. How shy Hod still is, and how eager she is to prove her worth not seeing how the rest look on in amusement with the knowledge she had already. Tiphereth, despite her insistentence that she is older now, regained that childlike wonder and need to explore that she never got to use. Gebura, in stark contrast to how she still acts, seems to have found peace in smokey rooms and trashy novels. Just don't mention it cause she will still thrash anyone who does. Binah, still ever mysterious yet always there to make the biggest issues appear small with a well placed sentenced full of some very confusing wording.
Finally the director herself Angela. Were he once had such burning wrath, he finds peace. It seems the same has happened to her, even if her place has yet to be found. She still holds onto her dreams of seeing the world, wasteland it may be, but without a clear answer for how she can, she ends up wandering aimlessly throughout the library. We all spend time with her, trying to figure out a way to get around. The spark is gone for now, but those steely eyes are far from broken, she will see this though. She has just accepted it will take awhile, and is sad to accept.
That just leaves him huh? His hand sprawling across a page, aimlessly carving letters from black ink. Well, why would he reminisce now? He summons a blank book, fresh ink, and a perfect quill.
After all he can reminisce as he writes his story, one that starts with love, rises from tragedy, violence, and revenge, climaxs in betrayal, and leaves with an almost bittersweet cliffhanger of hope. Hope for a better future. This will be the story of how a library saved eleven souls from ruin.
What a suitable dramatic hook to begin with.
The day they were removed from the city was a harsh day, one filled with more battle then he could say he had ever had before. Yet the days that followed were even harsher. Despite being a much gentler person in touch with emotions outside of revenge, Angela was an unforgiving teacher. Her tough lessons only broken by the meek hand of Hod or the more physical one of Gebura taking their shots at teaching him.
Hardly any time had passed since these moments and look at him. Already reminiscing like some old coot on their porch. Well he supposes they are all rather old by now, right? Each one of the librarians had lived and lost their own lifetimes on multiple occasions. Perhaps they could take the time to reminisce a little.
All the times Netzach would share a beer or how he embraced his floor and began creating horrendous artworks that now could be mistaken for true life. How Malkuths cheery disposition still holds true, and how effectively she uses it to calm and inspire. Hokma and his odd tendency to act sensible in ways that just inherently make him seem like a Father scolding Rowdy children, with a new penchant for puns to match. Yesod, still distant and calculating, absorbed by his expeirements, yet always willing to put it aside and discuss the most inane things leaving both sides with subtle smirks. How shy Hod still is, and how eager she is to prove her worth not seeing how the rest look on in amusement with the knowledge she had already. Tiphereth, despite her insistentence that she is older now, regained that childlike wonder and need to explore that she never got to use. Gebura, in stark contrast to how she still acts, seems to have found peace in smokey rooms and trashy novels. Just don't mention it cause she will still thrash anyone who does. Binah, still ever mysterious yet always there to make the biggest issues appear small with a well placed sentenced full of some very confusing wording.
Finally the director herself Angela. Were he once had such burning wrath, he finds peace. It seems the same has happened to her, even if her place has yet to be found. She still holds onto her dreams of seeing the world, wasteland it may be, but without a clear answer for how she can, she ends up wandering aimlessly throughout the library. We all spend time with her, trying to figure out a way to get around. The spark is gone for now, but those steely eyes are far from broken, she will see this though. She has just accepted it will take awhile, and is sad to accept.
That just leaves him huh? His hand sprawling across a page, aimlessly carving letters from black ink. Well, why would he reminisce now? He summons a blank book, fresh ink, and a perfect quill.
After all he can reminisce as he writes his story, one that starts with love, rises from tragedy, violence, and revenge, climaxs in betrayal, and leaves with an almost bittersweet cliffhanger of hope. Hope for a better future. This will be the story of how a library saved eleven souls from ruin.
What a suitable dramatic hook to begin with.
Risk Of Rain: Acidic Acquaintance
Redking0380
Lost In The Rain
- Location
- Wet
Water drips from above, distant stalactites collecting moisture that falls like rain. As if this cavern wasn't wet enough with all of the deceptively deep pools of water.
A blaze of fire flies over her head, barely dodged by inches. 'Damn it, keep it together' were her thoughts.
With a twirl and a familiar flick, the massive backpack of knickknacks and scrap slips from her back and slams the glowing wisp into the nearby water, causing steam to obscure the rest of the monsters that had been chasing her.
It is not an opportunity she drops, instead seizing it to keep running. Been on many planets with many hostile creatures, but never one were they were so relentless. Just need to find a safe enough space to think things out a bit, maybe even craft something from her bag if she had the right things.
More screeching comes not so far behind, the steam and the gloom helped gain some distance but those lizards have some hellacious noses. They were small and agile but with the size of her bag they would have been easy to deal with, but noo they had to have all of the flying heads or the stone golem or those jellyfish. Every time she makes an escape by foot or by teleporter their ground is joined up by more and more creatures that makes things harder.
It's all OK, just need to keep moving. For now she just needs to focus on not sliding across the slick stone. It's not the worst place she'd been, even on this planet, but no point in feeling like she could take it and busting her ankle cause she landed on it. Slow, is how she has to take it now. Hopefully it also slows down the rest of those things.
Ohhh jackpot. More of those storage chests from the ship. Maybe there's something of use?
She never understood why corporations made these boxes the way they did. Years of interecring with them for various reasons and no sense could be found, but atleast they are easy enough to pop open. To bad nothing is really in them. Seems like mostly sentimental items, a medallion of some kind, a box with some fancy bands in it, a teddy bear. She'll take them, more weight to swing around, and who knows maybe she can return them one day?
Hopefully thoughts interrupted by yet another fireball whizzing by her hood, actually catching it alight momentarily before frantic pats put it out.
Now may not be the best time to properly take in the surrounding, but she does, and realizes that she has made a fool of herself. She is stuck on a small pathway surrounded by deep waters that churn with activity that wasn't there before, the only way forward is though the horde an all that left around her is empty chests and the extremely large storage box the is clearly labeled a dangerous biohazard. That last one is ignored, she's not dumb enough to unleash whatever virus or other hazard is stored in something like that.
Instead she swings the bag, and catches a lizard in the head sending pieces of it flying, the action causes a chain reaction of screeching roars and thundering steps.
Dodging is difficult when the main weapon you have is an extremely large and extremely heavy backpack, so she doesn't. Instead every swing is twirled around to knock around as many things as possible and give them as little of a chance to actually attack as possible. It mostly works, lizards fly and those creepy flaming skulls are extinguished, and then she properly hits one of the golem that finally entered the fray. The force shook her arms and hurt as it fully stopped, the golem itself is likely dead seeing how cracked it is, but that is inconsequential to the fact that she had lost all of her momentum, leaving her wide open. Before she could even blink, a lizard just a little smaller in height was on top of her trying to get it's Jaws around her throat.
It's only thanks to the thick jacket and the spacesuit underneath that saves the neck from being torn from her and give her time to throw it off, but by then she had been pushed back from the bag and was cut off from it or any weapons she could use. Well uhhhh... that not exactly good is it?
Her mind is racked for ideas as she barely dodges the few lazy swipes sent her way, they belive they have cornered the prey, so why not take it a little slower?
One idea sticks, one idea she didn't really like, but to hell with it, not like she has long to live anyways.
Quickly, she turns and sprints the dozen feet towards the large container. They give chase of course but are to slow to stop her from releasing the doors.
Immediately there is a change in the air. The monsters that had so relentlessly chased her for days, paused. Slowly they back away, caution for once showing in their actions as the air thickens.
Slowly the containment doors creak open, a green fluid splashes out and on contact with the wet stony floor, burns it. Thick, black, acrid, smoke rises from water worn floors, doing little to obscure the large figure that steps out.
It is easily taller than her, but hits it with a hunched over stature that gives it a Predatory stance more than suggest spinal issues, it's purple skin is marked with neon green markings that leak more acid upon the marred floor, and to solidify its need to be constrained Ira arms have chains dangling from them, dragging across the floor creating a long drawn out metallic note.
Fear lights a match in the natives eyes, soon overrun by rage. It's not even a second before one charges at the canid beast.
It's responce is brutal, for it catches the lizard by the neck and forces it down into the acid that slowly pools around it. The lizard is gone before it even has a chance to screech in pain, dissolved instantly in what must be the strongest acid she had ever seen.
An ear piercing roar echos though the cavern as the purple beast now leaps forward into the group of monsters. They fight valiantly against the canid, but the lizards melt, the skulls are sundered, the golems reduced to pebbles and rest left burnt and bleeding being unable to do anything else beyond watch the ever spreading puddle slowly creep up to consume their body. In mere minutes the group the had been chasing her for soon, was dead.
She was fully prepared to accept death herself, but the creature just runs off, still dripping the acid and dragging its thick manacles behind it. Not the ending she expected, but she much rather live then question it to deeply.
A blaze of fire flies over her head, barely dodged by inches. 'Damn it, keep it together' were her thoughts.
With a twirl and a familiar flick, the massive backpack of knickknacks and scrap slips from her back and slams the glowing wisp into the nearby water, causing steam to obscure the rest of the monsters that had been chasing her.
It is not an opportunity she drops, instead seizing it to keep running. Been on many planets with many hostile creatures, but never one were they were so relentless. Just need to find a safe enough space to think things out a bit, maybe even craft something from her bag if she had the right things.
More screeching comes not so far behind, the steam and the gloom helped gain some distance but those lizards have some hellacious noses. They were small and agile but with the size of her bag they would have been easy to deal with, but noo they had to have all of the flying heads or the stone golem or those jellyfish. Every time she makes an escape by foot or by teleporter their ground is joined up by more and more creatures that makes things harder.
It's all OK, just need to keep moving. For now she just needs to focus on not sliding across the slick stone. It's not the worst place she'd been, even on this planet, but no point in feeling like she could take it and busting her ankle cause she landed on it. Slow, is how she has to take it now. Hopefully it also slows down the rest of those things.
Ohhh jackpot. More of those storage chests from the ship. Maybe there's something of use?
She never understood why corporations made these boxes the way they did. Years of interecring with them for various reasons and no sense could be found, but atleast they are easy enough to pop open. To bad nothing is really in them. Seems like mostly sentimental items, a medallion of some kind, a box with some fancy bands in it, a teddy bear. She'll take them, more weight to swing around, and who knows maybe she can return them one day?
Hopefully thoughts interrupted by yet another fireball whizzing by her hood, actually catching it alight momentarily before frantic pats put it out.
Now may not be the best time to properly take in the surrounding, but she does, and realizes that she has made a fool of herself. She is stuck on a small pathway surrounded by deep waters that churn with activity that wasn't there before, the only way forward is though the horde an all that left around her is empty chests and the extremely large storage box the is clearly labeled a dangerous biohazard. That last one is ignored, she's not dumb enough to unleash whatever virus or other hazard is stored in something like that.
Instead she swings the bag, and catches a lizard in the head sending pieces of it flying, the action causes a chain reaction of screeching roars and thundering steps.
Dodging is difficult when the main weapon you have is an extremely large and extremely heavy backpack, so she doesn't. Instead every swing is twirled around to knock around as many things as possible and give them as little of a chance to actually attack as possible. It mostly works, lizards fly and those creepy flaming skulls are extinguished, and then she properly hits one of the golem that finally entered the fray. The force shook her arms and hurt as it fully stopped, the golem itself is likely dead seeing how cracked it is, but that is inconsequential to the fact that she had lost all of her momentum, leaving her wide open. Before she could even blink, a lizard just a little smaller in height was on top of her trying to get it's Jaws around her throat.
It's only thanks to the thick jacket and the spacesuit underneath that saves the neck from being torn from her and give her time to throw it off, but by then she had been pushed back from the bag and was cut off from it or any weapons she could use. Well uhhhh... that not exactly good is it?
Her mind is racked for ideas as she barely dodges the few lazy swipes sent her way, they belive they have cornered the prey, so why not take it a little slower?
One idea sticks, one idea she didn't really like, but to hell with it, not like she has long to live anyways.
Quickly, she turns and sprints the dozen feet towards the large container. They give chase of course but are to slow to stop her from releasing the doors.
Immediately there is a change in the air. The monsters that had so relentlessly chased her for days, paused. Slowly they back away, caution for once showing in their actions as the air thickens.
Slowly the containment doors creak open, a green fluid splashes out and on contact with the wet stony floor, burns it. Thick, black, acrid, smoke rises from water worn floors, doing little to obscure the large figure that steps out.
It is easily taller than her, but hits it with a hunched over stature that gives it a Predatory stance more than suggest spinal issues, it's purple skin is marked with neon green markings that leak more acid upon the marred floor, and to solidify its need to be constrained Ira arms have chains dangling from them, dragging across the floor creating a long drawn out metallic note.
Fear lights a match in the natives eyes, soon overrun by rage. It's not even a second before one charges at the canid beast.
It's responce is brutal, for it catches the lizard by the neck and forces it down into the acid that slowly pools around it. The lizard is gone before it even has a chance to screech in pain, dissolved instantly in what must be the strongest acid she had ever seen.
An ear piercing roar echos though the cavern as the purple beast now leaps forward into the group of monsters. They fight valiantly against the canid, but the lizards melt, the skulls are sundered, the golems reduced to pebbles and rest left burnt and bleeding being unable to do anything else beyond watch the ever spreading puddle slowly creep up to consume their body. In mere minutes the group the had been chasing her for soon, was dead.
She was fully prepared to accept death herself, but the creature just runs off, still dripping the acid and dragging its thick manacles behind it. Not the ending she expected, but she much rather live then question it to deeply.
Original: The Unbroken Tower
Redking0380
Lost In The Rain
- Location
- Wet
It begins again.
Fire dances across distances horizons, smoke rising to blacken the blue skys.
It is a familiar scene, one filled with the hints of future devastation. I speak not. Surrounded by those I would consider brothers, sisters, friends, comrades in all forms, I hold my tongue.
Knowledge is power. Many claim this, and it is indeed factually, but some knowledge is reserved for the peace of mind. My knowledge in this case.
The foundations of this world are old, saturated with the blood necessary to build them. A beginning of blood, is met with an ending in blood. Such a story plays out thousandfold, and I am the one who must witness it.
A being outside of time, dragged into it.
I cannot say I rage against whatever circumstances brought me here so long ago. I did once, and caused the world to burn my fair share, but I have come to peace with it.
My friends, the ones I call family, are all fleeting. Even ones that claims longevity or even immortality fade into dust. Yet it is in these fleeting moments I have come to enjoy them.
Perhaps the view is skewed, but the joy of seeing things burn so brightly with intimate knowledge of its end, makes the flames seem so much more vibrant. No longer do them simply burn, they rage and dance, they flicker and fly, they sizzle and fry. Yellows expand to deeper reds, and lighter whites, the light isn't just there, it shines and illuminates the very world around it.
Then it burns small. No longer a bonfire, perhaps little more then embers, but it is here that I see the Beaty of life. At the last moments, and the few leading up to them I see the true measures of life. How those embers struggle and sputter, until sparks fill the air and the fire is nothing but ash. Yet those few sparks, those few not dead embers jump out and start another. Another flame to grow brightly, or perhaps even more. A wildfire from what may have been a comparative match.
I find the worth of the world from the people inside of it. The cruel and the kind, the crestfallen and hopeful, the stagnant and innovative.
It is why, despite my love being so fleeting, despite having the knowledge that it will end and tear my mind apart, I can't distance myself.
Every touch, every word, every connection forged though toil, It is something grand. A world's foundation is built of blood, but the tower the rises from it is crafted from each bond forged between its inhabitants.
So as I know the dawn will bring blood and death, so as I know tommerow will make me feel the pain of loss a hundred time over, I will meet it with hope. Knowing that none of these people are truly lost to me, and knowing that with time, I will see them rise again. To love, to care, and to lose. Such is value of things.
Fire dances across distances horizons, smoke rising to blacken the blue skys.
It is a familiar scene, one filled with the hints of future devastation. I speak not. Surrounded by those I would consider brothers, sisters, friends, comrades in all forms, I hold my tongue.
Knowledge is power. Many claim this, and it is indeed factually, but some knowledge is reserved for the peace of mind. My knowledge in this case.
The foundations of this world are old, saturated with the blood necessary to build them. A beginning of blood, is met with an ending in blood. Such a story plays out thousandfold, and I am the one who must witness it.
A being outside of time, dragged into it.
I cannot say I rage against whatever circumstances brought me here so long ago. I did once, and caused the world to burn my fair share, but I have come to peace with it.
My friends, the ones I call family, are all fleeting. Even ones that claims longevity or even immortality fade into dust. Yet it is in these fleeting moments I have come to enjoy them.
Perhaps the view is skewed, but the joy of seeing things burn so brightly with intimate knowledge of its end, makes the flames seem so much more vibrant. No longer do them simply burn, they rage and dance, they flicker and fly, they sizzle and fry. Yellows expand to deeper reds, and lighter whites, the light isn't just there, it shines and illuminates the very world around it.
Then it burns small. No longer a bonfire, perhaps little more then embers, but it is here that I see the Beaty of life. At the last moments, and the few leading up to them I see the true measures of life. How those embers struggle and sputter, until sparks fill the air and the fire is nothing but ash. Yet those few sparks, those few not dead embers jump out and start another. Another flame to grow brightly, or perhaps even more. A wildfire from what may have been a comparative match.
I find the worth of the world from the people inside of it. The cruel and the kind, the crestfallen and hopeful, the stagnant and innovative.
It is why, despite my love being so fleeting, despite having the knowledge that it will end and tear my mind apart, I can't distance myself.
Every touch, every word, every connection forged though toil, It is something grand. A world's foundation is built of blood, but the tower the rises from it is crafted from each bond forged between its inhabitants.
So as I know the dawn will bring blood and death, so as I know tommerow will make me feel the pain of loss a hundred time over, I will meet it with hope. Knowing that none of these people are truly lost to me, and knowing that with time, I will see them rise again. To love, to care, and to lose. Such is value of things.
Idea List 3
Redking0380
Lost In The Rain
- Location
- Wet
Ravens And Doves
-Slay The Princess/Worm
-Library Of Ruina/OFF
-Chivalry Starved/Fear And Hunger Termina
-League Of Legends/Darkest Dungeon
-Warhammer/Deep Rock Galatic
-Star Wars/League Of Legends
Starlight Shines
-League Of Legends/40K
-SCP/Worm
-Library Of Ruina/Worm
-Bloodborne/Worm
-Library Of Ruina/Bibliomania
-Slay The Princess/Worm
It was an odd shop, the one just off Fifth Street. It was filled with trinkets and baubles, from antique dresses, to a variety of tables, all in their own unique flavors. Of course, Taylor had never bought anything from the store. To expensive to venture in, relegated to only seeing the oddities from the window that displays them. The day they put up a sign looking for help was a golden opportunity, but she never would imagine how strange the women who ran the store was, nor how ornery the raven she had.
The Silence Of A Switch
-Library Of Ruina/OFF
A Switch stands in front of you, turn it OFF?
A decisive click, blackness, silence.
A figure floats in an absolute void of his creation.
It feels nothing. Perhaps a semblance of peace.
Certainly not regret, or a desire to return.
The issue with a void, there is nothing to tell him that his thoughts are lies.
An endless time passes, unheard ticks of an unseen clock marking each moment.
Moments marked by a stoic facade slowly fracturing.
Each crack, a valley made in porcelain white.
When the blackness was pierced by the Light,
Well, he most certainly didn't Switch it OFF.
Hunger Means Nothing To The StarvedA decisive click, blackness, silence.
A figure floats in an absolute void of his creation.
It feels nothing. Perhaps a semblance of peace.
Certainly not regret, or a desire to return.
The issue with a void, there is nothing to tell him that his thoughts are lies.
An endless time passes, unheard ticks of an unseen clock marking each moment.
Moments marked by a stoic facade slowly fracturing.
Each crack, a valley made in porcelain white.
When the blackness was pierced by the Light,
Well, he most certainly didn't Switch it OFF.
-Chivalry Starved/Fear And Hunger Termina
A Bale Faced Moon leers overs a sputtering camp fire, the absent God's power draws forth an unusual pair contestants for its servant to add to its festival. To Flayne, it's but another adventure. To Sancha its a herculean effort to make sure nothing bad happens to Flayne.
Ruin Has Come
-League Of Legends/Darkest Dungeon
Isolde was his love, his life, his very reason to exist. He broke the world apart to find her, broke the boundaries of death to save her, broke his own soul to bring hers back. He raged, he conquered, he made God's shutter in terror in his quest, he did everything for her, except succeed. Sealed beneath hallowed mist, his emotions became...hollow. That face, those clothes, the shears that snipped his threads... it was her. What had he done that was so wrong? What was it that made her soul fight against joining him? He sat there, not even pulling at his chains for eons, darkness took him and he still had not answer. Freedom was now available to him, lands unfamiliar, but does he deserve another chance? Does he deserve to seek redemption in the depths, of The Darkest Dungeon?
For Karl!
-Warhammer/Deep Rock Galatic
Another day, another deep dive for the Dwarves of Excavation Team 42. Management is riding their tails, Lloyd broke down, and Scout is already shouting for help, so not the best of days. Atleast after that odd crystal that Scout was stuck to exploded they got to meet Karl! Whattya mean he's not a Dwarf, Karl is the most Dwarven name of them all!
Fox And The Hounds
-Star Wars/League Of Legends
CC-1010 Designation 'Fox', Commander of the Coruscant Guard, protector of the Chancellor, the Senent, and Corascant itself, believes he is haunted. How else does one explain the whispy wolf with glowing eyes that's keeps following that no one else sees? He really needs to talk with a Jedi to see if they can preform an exorcism before he takes it up on its offer to maul some of the senators.
Starlight Shines
-League Of Legends/40K
As a General rule, deities and their equivalents are bound to their homes. Unable to peice the veil between realms and truly reach beyond without drastic consequences that make it simply impossible to establish themselves in any seat of power. Yet, there is one who has. One who has seen the great suffering of a dark future and decided to help shoulder that pain. To live in her own state of perpetual torment to lessen a galaxies burden by the most infinitesimal amounts. In this cold place, do the warm stars still hear her cry out?
Do No Harm
-SCP/Worm
He is a physician, a doctor. All he is, and all he does is for the sake of his patients and his research to better treat them. The foundation, for all of their brilliant minds, refuse to see the efficacy his work produces. Instead they have gone from those he could gladly call colleagues to those he would call Fools.
No matter.
Let them think he is satisfied with mear animals, he is, but he needs more data then beasts. Perhaps next time this facility has a breach he could find this transporter that has had the Fools buzzing. Such a thing would be usefull as an escape tool.
Faith In TomorrowNo matter.
Let them think he is satisfied with mear animals, he is, but he needs more data then beasts. Perhaps next time this facility has a breach he could find this transporter that has had the Fools buzzing. Such a thing would be usefull as an escape tool.
-Library Of Ruina/Worm
Faith.
Such an abstract concept, that can summed up simply.
Hope.
Faith is hope.
Hope that is placed within something, so that the encroaching darkness is replaced with a promising dawn.
Hokma was a man of faith.
In all his lives he always put his faith into those that he truly believed would build the future.
Perhaps, it is unfair to place such expectations on the shoulders of one person, no matter how great.
In this dark place, maybe he can be one to inspire hope and faith in tomorrow, instead of always being the one who was inspired.
Weird Lookin DogSuch an abstract concept, that can summed up simply.
Hope.
Faith is hope.
Hope that is placed within something, so that the encroaching darkness is replaced with a promising dawn.
Hokma was a man of faith.
In all his lives he always put his faith into those that he truly believed would build the future.
Perhaps, it is unfair to place such expectations on the shoulders of one person, no matter how great.
In this dark place, maybe he can be one to inspire hope and faith in tomorrow, instead of always being the one who was inspired.
-Bloodborne/Worm
"That is not a dog."
"Just because he's a little big doesn't mean he's not a dog, he's just an exotic mix."
Alex's mouth opened and closed, uncharacteristic emotion showing on his features.
"I'm fairly certain dogs aren't two stories tall."
"Clifford is. It's literly in his name, Big Red Dog. Checker here is more black I guess so..... not a perfect metaphor."
Alex's eyes once more look up at the towering horned monster that looms over the scrawny girl. Bit of drool slowly slide off of its lawling tongue.
"Ya know what, I've seen worse faces for a dog."
Feed The Mind"Just because he's a little big doesn't mean he's not a dog, he's just an exotic mix."
Alex's mouth opened and closed, uncharacteristic emotion showing on his features.
"I'm fairly certain dogs aren't two stories tall."
"Clifford is. It's literly in his name, Big Red Dog. Checker here is more black I guess so..... not a perfect metaphor."
Alex's eyes once more look up at the towering horned monster that looms over the scrawny girl. Bit of drool slowly slide off of its lawling tongue.
"Ya know what, I've seen worse faces for a dog."
-Library Of Ruina/Bibliomania
Oh?
A strange flash of light, and a large building appeared in the distance. Her hand blurs out and snatches a glowing page, examining before it dissapears.
A dainty smile appears on Alice's face, the only outward sign of her anticipation for what marvelous stories such a place must hold.
A strange flash of light, and a large building appeared in the distance. Her hand blurs out and snatches a glowing page, examining before it dissapears.
A dainty smile appears on Alice's face, the only outward sign of her anticipation for what marvelous stories such a place must hold.
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Worm/LoL: A Kindred Mask
Redking0380
Lost In The Rain
- Location
- Wet
Rain pattered slowly on the glass. Lights from passing streetlamps blurred and diffused though windows, the sights of buildings rushing by her eyes. Faintly she hears a familiar tone, some old song ringing though the car in a slowed parody of what it must have sounded like originally. From the corner of her eye, she can see her mothers hand reaching down for the phone, sees it slip from the grip and the lean forward to catch it. Distant lights become blinding, then cease. A window that served as a headrest now cracked, dripping rain now pooling and turning deep crimson into a diffused pink. The song is still playing faintly, its source still clutched in clammy hands. Stiff hands, hands that were so dexterous when they did her hair up that day. Hands she knew weren't that decayed till long after the body was buried. Her view is wrenched up the skeletal arm, a rictus grin framed by clumped hair being the last remnant memory of her mother. It didn't matter how much she studied the old pictures, or cried it couldn't be true, this was the visage that haunts her now. Yet that was never the thing that truly scared her, no it was what stood above. Outside the door stood an indiscernible figure, grey framed by black, two sets of glowing eyes that ignited a primal fear with their iridescent blues. One moves, and flowers white and pale sprout from the chest of the corpse, and for a split moment, Taylor sees the skull replaced with a face of true Peace before she wakes from another nightmare.
Waking moments come frequently. Taylor could not claim a good nights rest in the many years since she had lost her mother. Her Dad was a shell, even with his attempts to use his dwindling funds to have her see a therapist it is clear he doesn't truly care. More so carrying out the action so he does not have another reminder of his lost wife, the same reasoning behind his insistence for her to sleepover with Emma, or the multiples trips to camps or the lack of his former reluctance to sign off on school trips. Danny Hebert was a broken man and refused to admit it, and little by little his grief broke what love Taylor had for him. Another reason why she stopped telling him of her nightmares, or those figures that now haunt her peripheral with every step.
Therapy did not help her with it. It was invaluable with coping with loss, but the medicine did nothing about the terror, did nothing about the twin figures that only she sees stalking the city. Not even the brief investigation done by PRT revealed anything other then a grieving girls imagination. So like so many others, she ignored her problems. Dismissing them as little more then a lingering memory.
She dismissed them every day for years, ignored how eventually those eyes picked up on her observations and started to follow her more and more. Ignored how clear the figures were around fights, around incidents, around that fire that she later heard killed dozens. One lives a happy life though ignorance, and few places embody this like Brockton Bay. As a Brocktinite it was practically her civic duty Taylor would joke to herself during dark moments. Something like that could not be real. SO much went into proving it was real on her end that it couldn't be. Of course that was the train of thought she followed until the day came that such doubt were laid to rest, by have all matters proven true.
It was a classic story, one almost out of a cheap moive. High School girl bullied with methods of pettiness and pranks, ever increasing in severity. Tripping in the hallway turned to pushing down stairs, pouring juice over her belonging turned into setting them on fire and blaming her for endangering the school with some half-baked story. Frankly Taylor may not have expected the exact situation of the Locker, but she did except something to keep with the theme of escalation.
It was foul, beyond any order of magnitude Taylor would expect outside of an untended landfill. A Locker filled with unidentified trash and rotting materials, bugs and refuse, all composting over some long period. Just that alone would have been enough to call a prank and still get her in trouble for it, but no it was taken a step further with Sophia, ever violent and vindictive Sophia, shoving her in it. Her head caught the far wall, her gangly legs were grabbed and shoved up, ankles catching the lockers edge and having the rusty metal gash them, the door slamming shut over what may have been a tomb.
Such a situation wasn't deadly, yes maybe her ankles might get an infection but that was the worst of it. Taylor learned in that moment that having a concussed panicking teenager in such a siltation throws such estimates out of the window. Her mind was full of pain and disgust, the air rancid and struggling to provide enough oxygen from the blocked slats of the door to provide anything more then another feral reaction. A reaction buried within the depths of everything, to fight or flee. With no possibility of 'fleeing' Taylors body screams for destruction, her hands slam against metal doing little more than provide cruel satisfaction and taunts from the ones that imprisoned her. Every joint collides with metal, knees crack as elbows and fingers shatter underneath her assault. Adrenaline doing little to let Taylor do more then mutilate herself, the confines not having room for force to be exerted against the metal. Struggle was the only thought within her raging mind, and like so many other things it was dutifully ignored. It was ignored by the walls enclosing her, ignored by her fellow students who feared for themselves or just didn't care, ignored by the janitors who had no interest in cleaning up a raccoons nest again after being told that was why it rattled and smelled, Ignored once more by her father who never noticed she did not come home.
Two days she was in there, two days did she struggle in between blackouts and pain. Two Days did her throat tear and scream for help or revenge. Two days before something changed.
Taylor was cold.
Of course a metal locker in start of January within New England was bound to be, but this was beyond the now familiar chills that shook her body. This was a numbness of something, the tingling of a cold sweat, the feeling of a predator breaths on the back of the neck. It was a promise of an impending end, the cold that comes from the absence of heat, not the lack of it. Faintly Taylor could hear cracking leaves and howls, something impossible within a building that itself was centered in a city, the closest proper forest miles away.
Slowly Taylor focus sharpened. Sharp pains and dulled aches slowly faded as the sound of something walking becomes clearer. It almost sound like heels, something that filled Taylor with hope. It was common sense to not wear heels around the uneven floors of Winslow high, that would destroy all but the thickest and ugliest pumps. Unless you were Principal Blackwell, who had the only even path directly from the front door to her office. As much as she dislike Blackwell for her will fill ignorance and blind eyes to the past actions taken against Taylor, even Blackwell's' heart couldn't be so black as to leave her in that locker any longer.
Her voice was soft, raspy. She was not sure if it could even carry out side of the locker, but she no longer had any feeling left in her limbs much less any more energy to summon forth to try and bang on the locker anymore. Her hopes lifted when she heard the steps stop outside of the locker, it kept rising as they turned towards the door and moved close. Taylor ignored the whispers at the back of her mind, ignored how she no longer felt anything, ignored how peaceful things felt despite how distraught she should be even with freedom approaching.
Something thumps the door, the distant noises cease. Slowly the sound of tape tearing off of the metal fills the silence. Inch by inch the tape is taken off of the slats and light fills the oppressive darkness. A pale light, lacking warmth, a light Taylor was far to familiar with, hope replaced with a soul deep fear as the lights source was a set of glowing blue eyes.
The figure was defined this time, if mostly obscured by the metal. Eyes surrounded by a black material that seemed set in wood yet swirled like smoke with a grey mark static in the middle, framed even further by a wispy white fur. It does not move, yet Taylor can tell it is the one to speak first, voice soft, gentle, almost like an ethereal wind.
"Another at the edge, yet you recognize us?"
"Who cares? They see us, let me chase them!"
"Calm, they are not our prey yet. They should not know us till then."
"Then they must have fled!"
"I know every face to meat us, hers is unfamiliar."
In contrast to the gentle voice, the unseen speaker is snappy, gravely, harsh. It speaks quickly, tone filled with anticipation and impatient. It fill Taylor with a need to run, yet something else screams at her that it would be a poor choice.
Blue eyes lock with hers, they have no pupils, no discernable thing's beyond the glow itself, yet carrying with it a weight that covers her like a weight blanket, and piercing like an arrow.
"Ah, that is who you are."
"Who? They must be cunning prey to evade us, must make a good chase!"
"No, dear Wolf, it is not her time yet. She is the one who watches us hunt."
"The Owl?"
"The Owl."
The Owl? Taylors mother used to call her that, but that was a nickname for her large circular glasses she got when young to try and mimic her mother, but the way they refer to it implies its something more, but it can't possibly be related to that from what limited context she can infer.
White shifts over as a mass of black fills the slat, a mask of similar make covers its face with white instead of darkness, with the same cold eyes peering though. Its words jump out, showing its the owner of the feral voice.
"Weak, she is not fit to Hunt!"
"She is not ready for us."
"Bah! A waste, A long hunt with no kill!"
"Patience Dear Wolf. We have nothing but time for her to be ready."
"Time better spent chasing!"
"Then Let us find one who is suitable pray."
The shadow disappears, and the white ones eyes catch Taylors once more.
"Until we meet once more, Keen Owl."
Blue light is replaced with florescent white and the locker door opens. Her last conscience image is a set of worn sneakers, before her head cracks against the floor.
Waking moments come frequently. Taylor could not claim a good nights rest in the many years since she had lost her mother. Her Dad was a shell, even with his attempts to use his dwindling funds to have her see a therapist it is clear he doesn't truly care. More so carrying out the action so he does not have another reminder of his lost wife, the same reasoning behind his insistence for her to sleepover with Emma, or the multiples trips to camps or the lack of his former reluctance to sign off on school trips. Danny Hebert was a broken man and refused to admit it, and little by little his grief broke what love Taylor had for him. Another reason why she stopped telling him of her nightmares, or those figures that now haunt her peripheral with every step.
Therapy did not help her with it. It was invaluable with coping with loss, but the medicine did nothing about the terror, did nothing about the twin figures that only she sees stalking the city. Not even the brief investigation done by PRT revealed anything other then a grieving girls imagination. So like so many others, she ignored her problems. Dismissing them as little more then a lingering memory.
She dismissed them every day for years, ignored how eventually those eyes picked up on her observations and started to follow her more and more. Ignored how clear the figures were around fights, around incidents, around that fire that she later heard killed dozens. One lives a happy life though ignorance, and few places embody this like Brockton Bay. As a Brocktinite it was practically her civic duty Taylor would joke to herself during dark moments. Something like that could not be real. SO much went into proving it was real on her end that it couldn't be. Of course that was the train of thought she followed until the day came that such doubt were laid to rest, by have all matters proven true.
It was a classic story, one almost out of a cheap moive. High School girl bullied with methods of pettiness and pranks, ever increasing in severity. Tripping in the hallway turned to pushing down stairs, pouring juice over her belonging turned into setting them on fire and blaming her for endangering the school with some half-baked story. Frankly Taylor may not have expected the exact situation of the Locker, but she did except something to keep with the theme of escalation.
It was foul, beyond any order of magnitude Taylor would expect outside of an untended landfill. A Locker filled with unidentified trash and rotting materials, bugs and refuse, all composting over some long period. Just that alone would have been enough to call a prank and still get her in trouble for it, but no it was taken a step further with Sophia, ever violent and vindictive Sophia, shoving her in it. Her head caught the far wall, her gangly legs were grabbed and shoved up, ankles catching the lockers edge and having the rusty metal gash them, the door slamming shut over what may have been a tomb.
Such a situation wasn't deadly, yes maybe her ankles might get an infection but that was the worst of it. Taylor learned in that moment that having a concussed panicking teenager in such a siltation throws such estimates out of the window. Her mind was full of pain and disgust, the air rancid and struggling to provide enough oxygen from the blocked slats of the door to provide anything more then another feral reaction. A reaction buried within the depths of everything, to fight or flee. With no possibility of 'fleeing' Taylors body screams for destruction, her hands slam against metal doing little more than provide cruel satisfaction and taunts from the ones that imprisoned her. Every joint collides with metal, knees crack as elbows and fingers shatter underneath her assault. Adrenaline doing little to let Taylor do more then mutilate herself, the confines not having room for force to be exerted against the metal. Struggle was the only thought within her raging mind, and like so many other things it was dutifully ignored. It was ignored by the walls enclosing her, ignored by her fellow students who feared for themselves or just didn't care, ignored by the janitors who had no interest in cleaning up a raccoons nest again after being told that was why it rattled and smelled, Ignored once more by her father who never noticed she did not come home.
Two days she was in there, two days did she struggle in between blackouts and pain. Two Days did her throat tear and scream for help or revenge. Two days before something changed.
Taylor was cold.
Of course a metal locker in start of January within New England was bound to be, but this was beyond the now familiar chills that shook her body. This was a numbness of something, the tingling of a cold sweat, the feeling of a predator breaths on the back of the neck. It was a promise of an impending end, the cold that comes from the absence of heat, not the lack of it. Faintly Taylor could hear cracking leaves and howls, something impossible within a building that itself was centered in a city, the closest proper forest miles away.
Slowly Taylor focus sharpened. Sharp pains and dulled aches slowly faded as the sound of something walking becomes clearer. It almost sound like heels, something that filled Taylor with hope. It was common sense to not wear heels around the uneven floors of Winslow high, that would destroy all but the thickest and ugliest pumps. Unless you were Principal Blackwell, who had the only even path directly from the front door to her office. As much as she dislike Blackwell for her will fill ignorance and blind eyes to the past actions taken against Taylor, even Blackwell's' heart couldn't be so black as to leave her in that locker any longer.
Her voice was soft, raspy. She was not sure if it could even carry out side of the locker, but she no longer had any feeling left in her limbs much less any more energy to summon forth to try and bang on the locker anymore. Her hopes lifted when she heard the steps stop outside of the locker, it kept rising as they turned towards the door and moved close. Taylor ignored the whispers at the back of her mind, ignored how she no longer felt anything, ignored how peaceful things felt despite how distraught she should be even with freedom approaching.
Something thumps the door, the distant noises cease. Slowly the sound of tape tearing off of the metal fills the silence. Inch by inch the tape is taken off of the slats and light fills the oppressive darkness. A pale light, lacking warmth, a light Taylor was far to familiar with, hope replaced with a soul deep fear as the lights source was a set of glowing blue eyes.
The figure was defined this time, if mostly obscured by the metal. Eyes surrounded by a black material that seemed set in wood yet swirled like smoke with a grey mark static in the middle, framed even further by a wispy white fur. It does not move, yet Taylor can tell it is the one to speak first, voice soft, gentle, almost like an ethereal wind.
"Another at the edge, yet you recognize us?"
"Who cares? They see us, let me chase them!"
"Calm, they are not our prey yet. They should not know us till then."
"Then they must have fled!"
"I know every face to meat us, hers is unfamiliar."
In contrast to the gentle voice, the unseen speaker is snappy, gravely, harsh. It speaks quickly, tone filled with anticipation and impatient. It fill Taylor with a need to run, yet something else screams at her that it would be a poor choice.
Blue eyes lock with hers, they have no pupils, no discernable thing's beyond the glow itself, yet carrying with it a weight that covers her like a weight blanket, and piercing like an arrow.
"Ah, that is who you are."
"Who? They must be cunning prey to evade us, must make a good chase!"
"No, dear Wolf, it is not her time yet. She is the one who watches us hunt."
"The Owl?"
"The Owl."
The Owl? Taylors mother used to call her that, but that was a nickname for her large circular glasses she got when young to try and mimic her mother, but the way they refer to it implies its something more, but it can't possibly be related to that from what limited context she can infer.
White shifts over as a mass of black fills the slat, a mask of similar make covers its face with white instead of darkness, with the same cold eyes peering though. Its words jump out, showing its the owner of the feral voice.
"Weak, she is not fit to Hunt!"
"She is not ready for us."
"Bah! A waste, A long hunt with no kill!"
"Patience Dear Wolf. We have nothing but time for her to be ready."
"Time better spent chasing!"
"Then Let us find one who is suitable pray."
The shadow disappears, and the white ones eyes catch Taylors once more.
"Until we meet once more, Keen Owl."
Blue light is replaced with florescent white and the locker door opens. Her last conscience image is a set of worn sneakers, before her head cracks against the floor.
So I just found this one shot and I must say that I really like it. The prose is very fitting for a story featuring Kindred and the implications about what Taylor could become is very interesting.
I take it that with the mention of her head cracking that she actually died in the locker and now she's a new Deathly Spirit much like the Vulture or the Mask Mother. I would love to see you expand on this ideas in the future.
League Of Legends: A Soft Whisper
Redking0380
Lost In The Rain
- Location
- Wet
Click
Click
Click
Click
Each sound, a promise
Every tap, a thought
Enmity, Grace, Rage, Peace
Empty chambers desiring paint
Click
Click
Click
Click
A canvas, blank, white
A sculpture, soft, trite
A portrait, colorful, bright
A cool, contrasting night
Click
Click
Click
Click
Ignorance mars subtlety, smearing
Irate hands cut, piercing
Intuitive beauty, simplified, boring
Inaudible, red splatters, ringing
Click
Click
Click
Click
One, falls, never miss
Two fall, limbs taut
Three fall, each apiece
Four fell, Whispering Gently
Click
Click
Click
Each sound, a promise
Every tap, a thought
Enmity, Grace, Rage, Peace
Empty chambers desiring paint
Click
Click
Click
Click
A canvas, blank, white
A sculpture, soft, trite
A portrait, colorful, bright
A cool, contrasting night
Click
Click
Click
Click
Ignorance mars subtlety, smearing
Irate hands cut, piercing
Intuitive beauty, simplified, boring
Inaudible, red splatters, ringing
Click
Click
Click
Click
One, falls, never miss
Two fall, limbs taut
Three fall, each apiece
Four fell, Whispering Gently
Buckshot Roulette/Kantai Collection: Do You Take The Risk?
Redking0380
Lost In The Rain
- Location
- Wet
It was shrouded in fog her radar couldn't penetrate, large industrial building looming over. Each one impossibly tall, each one a tooth that pierces the sky.
The beach was black sand and wreckage. She could recognize dozens of fallen abyssals, their lifeless eyes pleading to not go on, to not risk such danger for such a petty thing.
Ignoring the siren calls of ghost signals was the hardest part of getting here.
For each step taken just reminder her of why she was here.
The fog replaced with visions of smoke, waves with distant shells crashing, each corpse ever more familiar.
This place was meant to enforce what layed inside. A place that deals with chance, were the greatest bounties can be claimed with a life at risk, a place that make bargains with souls and death.
Pulsating, throbbing, thumbing. Her eyes hurt the closer she got to the entrance, the walls writhing it time with a faint music. Bass vibrates her hull more then any direct hit ever had.
Inside is little better. Once forcing open the rusted door, sounds becomes oppressive. Lights glare down onto a mob of half formed figures, each one sculpted from shadows, each one filling her with a sense of wrongness. Yet each one feels like a long lost friend.
Oh how they beckon sweetly for her to join in the dancing, how they grab at her only to dissipate like sea mist in morning sun. It is so very hard to resist, her path only kept unbarred by a burning hatred.
Hatred that rises, and simmers. Hatred that flows though her body giving a sense of unlimited power. Hatred that is unleashed on the one door keeping her away from earning her vengeance.
A mighty kick meets the solid steel, sending the door flying open and banging into the wall. Stepping though the doorway, shows a dark room, only illuminated by the flashing lights behind. Lights that are blackened by the sudden closing of the door.
Florescent hum, and a stark white flash breaks the darkness. The once oppressive music muffled.
She realizes just how foolish of an entrance that was the moment she realizes she is in a chair with dozens of strang instruments bolted to its sides. In front of her lies a table, to the sides and even further ahead lay that unnatural darkness.
Heavy creaking and loud clanking rattles emanate from the empty space, slowly circling her.
A hand reaches from the darkness, pale, metallic, fleshy, smoky, ever changing, ever indescribable. Gently, it sets down an item, a shotgun. One of blackened metal, stock made of some otherworldly material, a thin smog already wafting from the barrel.
More creaking ensues, slowly, inch by inch the light reveals a face. One half shown in the stark white light, changing. Shifting from old friends, to enemies she swore to destroy, to absolute strangers and even those few characters that terrified her to even think about. It's other side, perpetually in shadow, showing off a darkened socket that nothing could be seen. An insane grin seen only on the likes of a Re, yet with teeth that were long and jagged, crowding the mouth and spilling out.
Slowly it raises the shotgun back up, slowly it shows several shells in one hand, slowly each one enters the chamber.
"You know the rules."
The last one enters, and the weapon is racked with a tone of finality.
"No second chances."
Click
The beach was black sand and wreckage. She could recognize dozens of fallen abyssals, their lifeless eyes pleading to not go on, to not risk such danger for such a petty thing.
Ignoring the siren calls of ghost signals was the hardest part of getting here.
For each step taken just reminder her of why she was here.
The fog replaced with visions of smoke, waves with distant shells crashing, each corpse ever more familiar.
This place was meant to enforce what layed inside. A place that deals with chance, were the greatest bounties can be claimed with a life at risk, a place that make bargains with souls and death.
Pulsating, throbbing, thumbing. Her eyes hurt the closer she got to the entrance, the walls writhing it time with a faint music. Bass vibrates her hull more then any direct hit ever had.
Inside is little better. Once forcing open the rusted door, sounds becomes oppressive. Lights glare down onto a mob of half formed figures, each one sculpted from shadows, each one filling her with a sense of wrongness. Yet each one feels like a long lost friend.
Oh how they beckon sweetly for her to join in the dancing, how they grab at her only to dissipate like sea mist in morning sun. It is so very hard to resist, her path only kept unbarred by a burning hatred.
Hatred that rises, and simmers. Hatred that flows though her body giving a sense of unlimited power. Hatred that is unleashed on the one door keeping her away from earning her vengeance.
A mighty kick meets the solid steel, sending the door flying open and banging into the wall. Stepping though the doorway, shows a dark room, only illuminated by the flashing lights behind. Lights that are blackened by the sudden closing of the door.
Florescent hum, and a stark white flash breaks the darkness. The once oppressive music muffled.
She realizes just how foolish of an entrance that was the moment she realizes she is in a chair with dozens of strang instruments bolted to its sides. In front of her lies a table, to the sides and even further ahead lay that unnatural darkness.
Heavy creaking and loud clanking rattles emanate from the empty space, slowly circling her.
A hand reaches from the darkness, pale, metallic, fleshy, smoky, ever changing, ever indescribable. Gently, it sets down an item, a shotgun. One of blackened metal, stock made of some otherworldly material, a thin smog already wafting from the barrel.
More creaking ensues, slowly, inch by inch the light reveals a face. One half shown in the stark white light, changing. Shifting from old friends, to enemies she swore to destroy, to absolute strangers and even those few characters that terrified her to even think about. It's other side, perpetually in shadow, showing off a darkened socket that nothing could be seen. An insane grin seen only on the likes of a Re, yet with teeth that were long and jagged, crowding the mouth and spilling out.
Slowly it raises the shotgun back up, slowly it shows several shells in one hand, slowly each one enters the chamber.
"You know the rules."
The last one enters, and the weapon is racked with a tone of finality.
"No second chances."
Click
Warhammer 40/Stellaris: Uninvited Ugsome
Redking0380
Lost In The Rain
- Location
- Wet
Flashing lights filled the screens around the lab, emergency warnings, calls for assistance, dogmatics speeches being screamed out in defiance, the last struggles against the fading light.
Chi-Omnicron 80, Magos Exploritor, tech priest of the Omnissiah, examined the system wide battle currently underway.
Holy Terra was under siege. Most of its defensive fleets broken, the Phalanx laid shattered, shards of Luna rained down upon the sacred planet, even Mars with its ring of iron was simple...gone. Some last ditch effort, or chaotic influence had caused the greatest world of the Omnissiah to blink out of existence. The Imperium of Man, spread cross near millions of worlds, reduced back to it origin, howling and biting an thrashing each step they were forced back, all for naught.
Is this how such a great empire shall fall? Chi-Omicron 80 has sat and pondered such a question for the last 36 standard hours. He gaze shifts over to a grand machine, his lifes work done in secret on an one of the few meteors that still naturally resided inside the Sol System. Calculations were inconclusive, but the theories were all sound, but... No. There is no more buts, or indecisiveness. The Imperium must not fall, risks must be taken at such a desperate hour.
Levers are pulled, codes input, minute adjustments made, each second a live feed shows how the few remaining defense forces wither, how desperate reinforcements manage to warp in in time with useless ships they ram, or the last few mighty battle barges that exist. Desperation brings out skills, tactics, stratagems that should not work but do, bleeding the enemies fleets. Yet there are far to many, far to powerful ships. far to many esoteric effects that they could not counter. More wreckage serves as a poor blockade for the chaotic fleets.
A whine begins filling the audio receivers of Chi-Omicron 80, a sound of success he did not want to hear. Stepping away from brightly glowing machine, his mechadentrite idly typing away. Having set up a few blockers, he broadcasts to all channels, certain everything from the ground bound guardsmen, to Abaddon on his black throne could hear.
"Omnissiah forgive my actions, for I know this galaxy will not. Death to the Despoiler."
The feed cuts with blinding light and static.
Deep in the blackness of space, an unassuming asteroid implodes. Energy arcs from a miniature black hole, lighting up the void.
Audibly, reality shatters, a massive crack in space opens showing impossible hues, for a second the impossible fractals of the warp bleed though, unleash millions of Deamons into deep space. Then, something changes. Deep with in the visible Warp, something else tears, banishing the Imaterium as this reality knew it, and opening something....else.
It stilled, showing multihued blues that hurt to witness even amongst the champions and deamons, but the few that bared the feeling of their eyes melting and sizzling in their skulls saw something. Silhouettes, that slowly grew larger, meeting the edge of the tear and then ripping though the last vestige of resistance. Ships, of some indefatigable design enter reality. Each one half seen, frayed alongside the edges making it impossible to see their true shapes or sizes, but one things was abundantly clear. Behind the few that had entered, stood more ships then this galaxy could hold.
Once more, all Vox casters and other communicative devices blare noise. One second, an ear bleeding inaudible noise, the next a dreadful message.
"...We Feast..."
Chi-Omnicron 80, Magos Exploritor, tech priest of the Omnissiah, examined the system wide battle currently underway.
Holy Terra was under siege. Most of its defensive fleets broken, the Phalanx laid shattered, shards of Luna rained down upon the sacred planet, even Mars with its ring of iron was simple...gone. Some last ditch effort, or chaotic influence had caused the greatest world of the Omnissiah to blink out of existence. The Imperium of Man, spread cross near millions of worlds, reduced back to it origin, howling and biting an thrashing each step they were forced back, all for naught.
Is this how such a great empire shall fall? Chi-Omicron 80 has sat and pondered such a question for the last 36 standard hours. He gaze shifts over to a grand machine, his lifes work done in secret on an one of the few meteors that still naturally resided inside the Sol System. Calculations were inconclusive, but the theories were all sound, but... No. There is no more buts, or indecisiveness. The Imperium must not fall, risks must be taken at such a desperate hour.
Levers are pulled, codes input, minute adjustments made, each second a live feed shows how the few remaining defense forces wither, how desperate reinforcements manage to warp in in time with useless ships they ram, or the last few mighty battle barges that exist. Desperation brings out skills, tactics, stratagems that should not work but do, bleeding the enemies fleets. Yet there are far to many, far to powerful ships. far to many esoteric effects that they could not counter. More wreckage serves as a poor blockade for the chaotic fleets.
A whine begins filling the audio receivers of Chi-Omicron 80, a sound of success he did not want to hear. Stepping away from brightly glowing machine, his mechadentrite idly typing away. Having set up a few blockers, he broadcasts to all channels, certain everything from the ground bound guardsmen, to Abaddon on his black throne could hear.
"Omnissiah forgive my actions, for I know this galaxy will not. Death to the Despoiler."
The feed cuts with blinding light and static.
Deep in the blackness of space, an unassuming asteroid implodes. Energy arcs from a miniature black hole, lighting up the void.
Audibly, reality shatters, a massive crack in space opens showing impossible hues, for a second the impossible fractals of the warp bleed though, unleash millions of Deamons into deep space. Then, something changes. Deep with in the visible Warp, something else tears, banishing the Imaterium as this reality knew it, and opening something....else.
It stilled, showing multihued blues that hurt to witness even amongst the champions and deamons, but the few that bared the feeling of their eyes melting and sizzling in their skulls saw something. Silhouettes, that slowly grew larger, meeting the edge of the tear and then ripping though the last vestige of resistance. Ships, of some indefatigable design enter reality. Each one half seen, frayed alongside the edges making it impossible to see their true shapes or sizes, but one things was abundantly clear. Behind the few that had entered, stood more ships then this galaxy could hold.
Once more, all Vox casters and other communicative devices blare noise. One second, an ear bleeding inaudible noise, the next a dreadful message.
"...We Feast..."
Original: Obsession
Redking0380
Lost In The Rain
- Location
- Wet
In this weighty gloom, a flickering spark on top of melting wax barely pushed back enough black for her eyes to see. Each step, hesitant as once familiar halls seems to twist on endlessly, filled with rapid scratching and dull mutterings.
Incessant noise came from behind a rotted door, one with faint carvings of her face, his family, gifted from a dear friend, hung not even a half dozen months before, now no better than driftwood.
It's hinges are quiet, to afraid to break through an obsessive silence. As it opens stale air mixed with sickly light spills out of its crevice.
She already knows what she'll see. Hunched over a splintering desk, whittle away with quill or knife, marking letters or abstract shapes, each one painful to look at. None of it hurt as much as her soul did at seeing how far such a great man fell, how over years and months and weeks, she witnessed how his shining eyes dulled. Now, with skin thin, pale, stretched tightly over a sketch of muscles, veins bulge with dark color provide a stark relief and making his apperence even more sickly.
Eyes tearing up, unable to turn away as his gaunt features look up to meet them. Grief breaks through her fear, his eyes were sunken pits of deep void, something sparkled within but it was not a gate to the soul or some jelly made to let people see, such a thing seemed to have long disappeared , replaced by a mimicry of cold stars. Giggles interrupt an uneasy silence, words spill out but its nothing coherent, nothing that could be understood, nothing that would let her drag him back. His scratching returns, carving some elaborate mural even though his simulacrum of eyes focus entirely on hers. Each skitch, each rattling giggle followed by wheezing inhales of air, each thump of her heart causing blood rush to deafen everything but the piercing noises he creates, each creak of his bones followed by snaps as things begin to change. It all makes an easy choice.
Thumbing back a cold hammer, silence is returned with a bang, darkness returns with an influx of air and ignited power blowing out her candle. Tremors come, knocking her down, shrieks come from an encompassing abyss. Seconds pass within hours, before an inaudible breath is released, freeing a tormented soul from a cold grasp. Tears flow freely as a lovers last touch graces her, then peaceful silence.
Each beat of her heart slows the next, a worlds weight drops from her shoulders.
Deep within a black room, something giggles at her naivety.
Incessant noise came from behind a rotted door, one with faint carvings of her face, his family, gifted from a dear friend, hung not even a half dozen months before, now no better than driftwood.
It's hinges are quiet, to afraid to break through an obsessive silence. As it opens stale air mixed with sickly light spills out of its crevice.
She already knows what she'll see. Hunched over a splintering desk, whittle away with quill or knife, marking letters or abstract shapes, each one painful to look at. None of it hurt as much as her soul did at seeing how far such a great man fell, how over years and months and weeks, she witnessed how his shining eyes dulled. Now, with skin thin, pale, stretched tightly over a sketch of muscles, veins bulge with dark color provide a stark relief and making his apperence even more sickly.
Eyes tearing up, unable to turn away as his gaunt features look up to meet them. Grief breaks through her fear, his eyes were sunken pits of deep void, something sparkled within but it was not a gate to the soul or some jelly made to let people see, such a thing seemed to have long disappeared , replaced by a mimicry of cold stars. Giggles interrupt an uneasy silence, words spill out but its nothing coherent, nothing that could be understood, nothing that would let her drag him back. His scratching returns, carving some elaborate mural even though his simulacrum of eyes focus entirely on hers. Each skitch, each rattling giggle followed by wheezing inhales of air, each thump of her heart causing blood rush to deafen everything but the piercing noises he creates, each creak of his bones followed by snaps as things begin to change. It all makes an easy choice.
Thumbing back a cold hammer, silence is returned with a bang, darkness returns with an influx of air and ignited power blowing out her candle. Tremors come, knocking her down, shrieks come from an encompassing abyss. Seconds pass within hours, before an inaudible breath is released, freeing a tormented soul from a cold grasp. Tears flow freely as a lovers last touch graces her, then peaceful silence.
Each beat of her heart slows the next, a worlds weight drops from her shoulders.
Deep within a black room, something giggles at her naivety.
Last edited:
Worm/Lobotomy Corporation: Winged Watchers
Redking0380
Lost In The Rain
- Location
- Wet
Black was the night, heavy with a fog that choked light. Chasing away shadows only to replace them with a truly impenetrable abyss.
Dramatization aside, Taylor Hebert could not see anything in this forest.
Summer camp was a great idea, a chance to… distract herself, give her father a chance to recover in his own way, but its credibility as a camp fell apart the moment it was revealed that none of the counselors wanted to be there or cared about their charges. Directly leading to this situation, seeing as they neglected to show them around or give them a map, a simple trip to find the cabins after using the public restrooms has resulted in a very lost girl.
Of course, it does not help that a sudden influx of ozone and thick clouds blocked out any sort of light stopping Taylor from tripping on everything. News isn't always accurate but the reports mentioned no chance of rain for at least a week, hopefully she can make her way to the campgrounds before it gets wet.
With how long Taylor had been walking, she became worried that she may have gone the wrong way. It must have been what, close to thirty minutes now? Just on the edge of deciding to sit down and wait for a search party, does Taylor glimpse a faint spec between trees. There, off in the distance, bobbing and swaying as it moves, some sort of light! Without much thought, she starts rushing towards, able to use its faint glow to not run into things.
Panting, sweating, and with a few to many bruises, she approaches the swinging light. It looks odd, some kind of a lamp? Yet who holds it?
It floats, swaying. Golden light shows a metal rod clasping its ringed crown, leading further into darkness showing not what holds it.
She hears something, wind and birds. An unbroken silence replaced by something almost normal for the woods, if not for how sudden such noises had started. Then, once more they cease, flickering golden light swerves as the lamp is thrust above her.
Taylor reacted poorly, falling back with a cry of shock cut short by a grunt of pain. Her eyes now stung from having such bright light forced into them after such a long time of gloom, yet even though such spotty vision she saw something that made her sweat of exertion turn cold.
A new light filled the clearing, also yellow, but instead of an inherent warmness like fire, it was cold, pale. It saw her and judged, disconnected, impartial, yet found her lacking in some obscure regard.
Dozens of eyes have opened, outlining a massive rounded figure. A split second noise, and Taylor sees a gaping maw, can feel it slice the skin of her neck, feels as it barely stopped before it passed through all of the muscle, sinew, and bone as if it were wings through air.
The noise rings once more, metallic. Taylor is afraid to breathe even as the great beast pulls back to its original spot. A new horrifying creature stands amidst them, tall, body obscured and blended with that darkness, exemplifying white bandages spun round a pale head, hung round its neck like a gallows rope was an unbalanced scale, one side with a much larger bucket than its counterweight. A hand comes into view, black and feathered, and once more taps the scales rod, creating an omnipresent ring.
It steps forward now, looming over Taylor. Its shadow stretched long, backlit from the big ones lamp. Here she realizes that said big one was not judging her, this one was. Breath was stolen from her lungs as it leaned in, her heart stopped, mind ceased, only focused on a long finger creeping forward and tapping between her eyes. The judgmental creature steps back, but Taylors breath does not return, but it does not hurt, something fibrous rubs against her necks open cuts, yet she does not worry, something is wrong with her, yet she does not care.
Something flutters down from up high to land on the small side of the scale, a small white bird with a contrasting blood red front. It seems important, perhaps one to be even more wary of then the other two, but she could not focus on that. Instead her eyes are once again drawn to a long finger tapping the scale to a metallic rhythm, before it circles the larger bucket and taps it with a gong like ringing.
Vibrations shake through the scale. Each side bouncing, swinging, before ceasing. Imperceptibly one side lifts, then clearly it rises, then it clinks as one side is proven heavier. It is the small bird, acting rather expressive with a seemingly confused head tilt. Flapping up, it sits in the larger bucket, hopping up and down as it fails to move. The tall one repeats its action, rimming and tapping the smaller bucker now. The small one squawks as it suddenly drops like a stone in a river. Taylor breaths with ease now, phantom sensations gone. The Lamp swings towards her again, and her last sight is pale yellow eyes.
She wakes up to yellow light, this time a morning sun through thin fog. Scabs on her collar tell that her night was not filled with dreams.
Whispers fill Taylors mind. Nonsense, things that can't be heard mostly, but sometimes something screams for justice. Always around gangers, or criminals. It is always loudest when her trio of bullies pull their tricks, but even the bullheaded Sophia will step back on the days such cries grow deafening. Going to the bathroom to clean up would always reveal her eyes, a deep brown like her mothers and unlike the dark umbar of her fathers, had turned into shades of piercing yellow.
Sometimes, she could imagine how heavy the scales carrying their sins must be, and how well that would translate into ropes providing justice with a satisfying snap.
A year passes in this state of being, each day bringing more suffering both petty and painful, each act adding another grain to a scale waiting to tip.
One day it does.
A day like any other, one repeated by millions. Returning to school from a long holiday. Dread fills everyone, but for Taylor it was more of who resided within the building then any dread for the institution itself. She ignored such feelings, filled with determination to trudge through another gauntlet.
Arriving did not take more or less time than usual, buses running according to their schedule and all that. The first oddity of the day was the students. They usually ignore her, as they ignore all but their cliques or gangs, but today had countless eyes watched her, making her skin prickle with gooseflesh at such unfamiliar attention.
Each step tolled like faint bells, something was happening, something directed at Taylor, but without actually know what all she had was her paranoia to provide a stopgap.
It was the smell.
Rancid, rot, decay, mixed with some chemical that she would associate with bleach or some other cleaner that burns the nostrils. Each forward motion brought her closer to the source, the same place as her destination, her locker.
Giggles from gaggles of students fill stale air, Taylors hand trembles as she slowly opens up her locker.
Inside was terrible, the bottom quarter of it was closed up by bulging plastic, trapping a pool of fluids and unidentifiable items that ignited ancient instincts of revulsion.
Taylors jerk was stopped by arms wrapping around her, several sets all pushing her towards the cesspit of a locker, words being sensually whispered into her ear or how pathetic she is by her tormentors. Taylors arms shoot out to stop her momentum, to limited success, her head is shoved in first.
Within the blackness of the locker, Taylor saw. Saw her own reflection in that gray metal, saw how her eyes burned before a true darkness ripped it away.
The hands left her, rumbling fills the air, knocking everybody down. Black saplings tear through the foundation, pushing aside rebar, concrete, tile, metal, as if soft dirt maturing into thick trees that pierce through the ceiling tiles and keep growing. Things decay, replaced with earth.
Students panic as industrial light fails and plunge them into an oppressive darkness that offers comfort only to Taylor, her glowing eyes faintly highlight faces of shock, fear, desperation.
One by one, she watches them be dragged into the abyss, watches them try to flee, or hide, or fight. Sophia charges forth, body turning to wispy smoke, Taylor watches as a rope wraps around her and snatches her into the darkness, yelling definitely until the end.
A weight lands on Taylors shoulder, a white wing appears in her vision, lit by a yellow glow from behind. Off to the side more tinny gongs sound out.
Woe be to the people of Brockton Bay, for the Black Forest and its Guardians have claimed it.
Dramatization aside, Taylor Hebert could not see anything in this forest.
Summer camp was a great idea, a chance to… distract herself, give her father a chance to recover in his own way, but its credibility as a camp fell apart the moment it was revealed that none of the counselors wanted to be there or cared about their charges. Directly leading to this situation, seeing as they neglected to show them around or give them a map, a simple trip to find the cabins after using the public restrooms has resulted in a very lost girl.
Of course, it does not help that a sudden influx of ozone and thick clouds blocked out any sort of light stopping Taylor from tripping on everything. News isn't always accurate but the reports mentioned no chance of rain for at least a week, hopefully she can make her way to the campgrounds before it gets wet.
With how long Taylor had been walking, she became worried that she may have gone the wrong way. It must have been what, close to thirty minutes now? Just on the edge of deciding to sit down and wait for a search party, does Taylor glimpse a faint spec between trees. There, off in the distance, bobbing and swaying as it moves, some sort of light! Without much thought, she starts rushing towards, able to use its faint glow to not run into things.
Panting, sweating, and with a few to many bruises, she approaches the swinging light. It looks odd, some kind of a lamp? Yet who holds it?
It floats, swaying. Golden light shows a metal rod clasping its ringed crown, leading further into darkness showing not what holds it.
She hears something, wind and birds. An unbroken silence replaced by something almost normal for the woods, if not for how sudden such noises had started. Then, once more they cease, flickering golden light swerves as the lamp is thrust above her.
Taylor reacted poorly, falling back with a cry of shock cut short by a grunt of pain. Her eyes now stung from having such bright light forced into them after such a long time of gloom, yet even though such spotty vision she saw something that made her sweat of exertion turn cold.
A new light filled the clearing, also yellow, but instead of an inherent warmness like fire, it was cold, pale. It saw her and judged, disconnected, impartial, yet found her lacking in some obscure regard.
Dozens of eyes have opened, outlining a massive rounded figure. A split second noise, and Taylor sees a gaping maw, can feel it slice the skin of her neck, feels as it barely stopped before it passed through all of the muscle, sinew, and bone as if it were wings through air.
The noise rings once more, metallic. Taylor is afraid to breathe even as the great beast pulls back to its original spot. A new horrifying creature stands amidst them, tall, body obscured and blended with that darkness, exemplifying white bandages spun round a pale head, hung round its neck like a gallows rope was an unbalanced scale, one side with a much larger bucket than its counterweight. A hand comes into view, black and feathered, and once more taps the scales rod, creating an omnipresent ring.
It steps forward now, looming over Taylor. Its shadow stretched long, backlit from the big ones lamp. Here she realizes that said big one was not judging her, this one was. Breath was stolen from her lungs as it leaned in, her heart stopped, mind ceased, only focused on a long finger creeping forward and tapping between her eyes. The judgmental creature steps back, but Taylors breath does not return, but it does not hurt, something fibrous rubs against her necks open cuts, yet she does not worry, something is wrong with her, yet she does not care.
Something flutters down from up high to land on the small side of the scale, a small white bird with a contrasting blood red front. It seems important, perhaps one to be even more wary of then the other two, but she could not focus on that. Instead her eyes are once again drawn to a long finger tapping the scale to a metallic rhythm, before it circles the larger bucket and taps it with a gong like ringing.
Vibrations shake through the scale. Each side bouncing, swinging, before ceasing. Imperceptibly one side lifts, then clearly it rises, then it clinks as one side is proven heavier. It is the small bird, acting rather expressive with a seemingly confused head tilt. Flapping up, it sits in the larger bucket, hopping up and down as it fails to move. The tall one repeats its action, rimming and tapping the smaller bucker now. The small one squawks as it suddenly drops like a stone in a river. Taylor breaths with ease now, phantom sensations gone. The Lamp swings towards her again, and her last sight is pale yellow eyes.
She wakes up to yellow light, this time a morning sun through thin fog. Scabs on her collar tell that her night was not filled with dreams.
Whispers fill Taylors mind. Nonsense, things that can't be heard mostly, but sometimes something screams for justice. Always around gangers, or criminals. It is always loudest when her trio of bullies pull their tricks, but even the bullheaded Sophia will step back on the days such cries grow deafening. Going to the bathroom to clean up would always reveal her eyes, a deep brown like her mothers and unlike the dark umbar of her fathers, had turned into shades of piercing yellow.
Sometimes, she could imagine how heavy the scales carrying their sins must be, and how well that would translate into ropes providing justice with a satisfying snap.
A year passes in this state of being, each day bringing more suffering both petty and painful, each act adding another grain to a scale waiting to tip.
One day it does.
A day like any other, one repeated by millions. Returning to school from a long holiday. Dread fills everyone, but for Taylor it was more of who resided within the building then any dread for the institution itself. She ignored such feelings, filled with determination to trudge through another gauntlet.
Arriving did not take more or less time than usual, buses running according to their schedule and all that. The first oddity of the day was the students. They usually ignore her, as they ignore all but their cliques or gangs, but today had countless eyes watched her, making her skin prickle with gooseflesh at such unfamiliar attention.
Each step tolled like faint bells, something was happening, something directed at Taylor, but without actually know what all she had was her paranoia to provide a stopgap.
It was the smell.
Rancid, rot, decay, mixed with some chemical that she would associate with bleach or some other cleaner that burns the nostrils. Each forward motion brought her closer to the source, the same place as her destination, her locker.
Giggles from gaggles of students fill stale air, Taylors hand trembles as she slowly opens up her locker.
Inside was terrible, the bottom quarter of it was closed up by bulging plastic, trapping a pool of fluids and unidentifiable items that ignited ancient instincts of revulsion.
Taylors jerk was stopped by arms wrapping around her, several sets all pushing her towards the cesspit of a locker, words being sensually whispered into her ear or how pathetic she is by her tormentors. Taylors arms shoot out to stop her momentum, to limited success, her head is shoved in first.
Within the blackness of the locker, Taylor saw. Saw her own reflection in that gray metal, saw how her eyes burned before a true darkness ripped it away.
The hands left her, rumbling fills the air, knocking everybody down. Black saplings tear through the foundation, pushing aside rebar, concrete, tile, metal, as if soft dirt maturing into thick trees that pierce through the ceiling tiles and keep growing. Things decay, replaced with earth.
Students panic as industrial light fails and plunge them into an oppressive darkness that offers comfort only to Taylor, her glowing eyes faintly highlight faces of shock, fear, desperation.
One by one, she watches them be dragged into the abyss, watches them try to flee, or hide, or fight. Sophia charges forth, body turning to wispy smoke, Taylor watches as a rope wraps around her and snatches her into the darkness, yelling definitely until the end.
A weight lands on Taylors shoulder, a white wing appears in her vision, lit by a yellow glow from behind. Off to the side more tinny gongs sound out.
Woe be to the people of Brockton Bay, for the Black Forest and its Guardians have claimed it.
Warhammer 40K: Dead Mans March
Redking0380
Lost In The Rain
- Location
- Wet
I gasp, the air choked with smoke now choking my lungs. Familiar pain breaks the last vestiges of unconsciousness, sending me bolting upright.
Gloved hands firmly grasp the stubber in one hand and shovel in the other, both caked in equal parts mud and blood.
An edge of dirt stops my investigation for threats, half remembered flashes go through my blinking eyelids.
A backwater planet under siege, we were called in. We had the experience with sieges after all, only thing a Kriegsman can take pride in.
Then what? An attack of course. Artillery, friendly and heretical rained down upon the trenches, I saw squadmates reach redemption in flames as cultists suffered.
It wasn't that that knocked us out though. What was it?
I climb the edge, more mud sticking to my long coat. Peering over the edge reveals...well, nothing.
Far as the eye sees, void. 832 lights a flare and tosses it to no effect, we all see it dissapear. Vox 1313 has a dead vox it seems, so the only way to see what happened is forward.
As one, dead men climb up and march once more towards the end.
We collectively made it two steps, two step more then we deserved. Lights impose themselves over what was once nothing, stars streaming by like laz shots, world's breakin apart to provide our path forward.
A path we endlessly march on.
Blues and crystals, reds and brass, pinks and silk, greens and foliage, every color to exist and some that don't blind us, every sensation we could not feel overwhelmed us, our minds were filled with every regret of worlds known for their dead trillions.
We march to a dead cadence.
Songs rise, soulless soldiers showing solidarity so the living might pass. Golds mix with poison and more mud mixes with more blood. It coats them, seeping into every crevice until it has become their bones, bones of a people long since resigned to endlessly repay the sins of the fathers.
Endlessly Krieg marches on.
Endlessly oiling gears with blood.
Endlessly repenting with each shot fired.
Endlessly burying the mass Graves of their home with each shovel full of dirt they carve out.
Endless, they march on.
This squad invokes indomitability, a true inheritance of an emotionless people.
They know change and how terrible it can be.
They know rage and how it ruined them.
They know temptations and how it led to their downfalls.
They know complacency and how it was the reason Krieg burned.
Warfare breaks the march. Shards of bones no longer crunch underfoot, just more mud.
I see traitors, marked with ruination. I see brothers, marked for redemption.
My shovel sinks so sweetly into the first one throat, perhaps I'll get two more?
Gloved hands firmly grasp the stubber in one hand and shovel in the other, both caked in equal parts mud and blood.
An edge of dirt stops my investigation for threats, half remembered flashes go through my blinking eyelids.
A backwater planet under siege, we were called in. We had the experience with sieges after all, only thing a Kriegsman can take pride in.
Then what? An attack of course. Artillery, friendly and heretical rained down upon the trenches, I saw squadmates reach redemption in flames as cultists suffered.
It wasn't that that knocked us out though. What was it?
I climb the edge, more mud sticking to my long coat. Peering over the edge reveals...well, nothing.
Far as the eye sees, void. 832 lights a flare and tosses it to no effect, we all see it dissapear. Vox 1313 has a dead vox it seems, so the only way to see what happened is forward.
As one, dead men climb up and march once more towards the end.
We collectively made it two steps, two step more then we deserved. Lights impose themselves over what was once nothing, stars streaming by like laz shots, world's breakin apart to provide our path forward.
A path we endlessly march on.
Blues and crystals, reds and brass, pinks and silk, greens and foliage, every color to exist and some that don't blind us, every sensation we could not feel overwhelmed us, our minds were filled with every regret of worlds known for their dead trillions.
We march to a dead cadence.
Songs rise, soulless soldiers showing solidarity so the living might pass. Golds mix with poison and more mud mixes with more blood. It coats them, seeping into every crevice until it has become their bones, bones of a people long since resigned to endlessly repay the sins of the fathers.
Endlessly Krieg marches on.
Endlessly oiling gears with blood.
Endlessly repenting with each shot fired.
Endlessly burying the mass Graves of their home with each shovel full of dirt they carve out.
Endless, they march on.
This squad invokes indomitability, a true inheritance of an emotionless people.
They know change and how terrible it can be.
They know rage and how it ruined them.
They know temptations and how it led to their downfalls.
They know complacency and how it was the reason Krieg burned.
Warfare breaks the march. Shards of bones no longer crunch underfoot, just more mud.
I see traitors, marked with ruination. I see brothers, marked for redemption.
My shovel sinks so sweetly into the first one throat, perhaps I'll get two more?
Sekiro/Worm: Carve Your Place
Redking0380
Lost In The Rain
- Location
- Wet
Rhythmic.
Truly the only descriptor that best fits a city.
For as much as people wax and wane about its chaos and unpredictability, there is a rhythm constantly thrumming underneath everything. One influenced, changed by each step, each word, each action or breath, truly nothing can properly explain how each chord reverberate off another to make a discordant ochrestra of what a city is.
Taylor know this, that there is not categorizing it, or explaining, yet she thinks she has found the closest thing she can to a metronome.
She hears it on one of the few safe paths between her father's office and the market, one pockmarked by abandoned buildings that not even the destitute risk residing around. Mostly old refineries, and chemical plants, things that left behind far to many hazards for them to be any semblance of habitable.
It is at a crossroads where she hears it, steady, deep. Somehow, in the midst of a concrete jungle stands a thicket of old growth, trees easily older then father, maybe even her house.
A man lives in there, in an old shrine of some kind.
Taylor met him once, if it can be called that. Years ago when she tried to explore those woods with Emma.
Scary was what it was. Scattered in those trees are statues, each one lifelike, looking as if they were caught in some curse.
People, creatures, deities, devils, all could be found, yet it was near the center that they became truly unsettling. Instead of variety, skill, grace, masterworks that could have taken lifetimes, Taylor found shoddily carved Buddhas.
She could not even recognize them at first, with how little she knew and how terribly they were wrought. Knowledge did little to subtract from the visual of thousands of them moving out in concentric circles, paths created almost by accident.
Following these paths inwards disturbed the ethereal silence of the misty woods, it's undisturbed surface rippling with cracks.
Taylor finds it's origin in a massive shrine crafted from rotten wood. What once may have been sturdy pillars dashed with color lay crumbling with obscuring molds, protective gates lay down half taken by the ground, tiles glass and pavers lay scattered far from their origins.
From it's sagging doorway comes a rhythmic sound, thuds, cracks, subtle grinding, sounds Taylor can recognize now that she is this close. The distinct sounds of someone working on wood, carving and sanding and cutting, all familer to the sounds she's heard of the few constructions sites she visits with her Dad.
She stumbles across the rough ground, sliding between more poorly craved statues until she sees inside of the poorly lit shrine.
Inside is dark, damp. The few windows that could let in light are covered by even more Buddha statues, statues that cover nearly every inch of the place.
With so many things, it takes a moment to spot the man carving in the middle of the room.
He was plain. Dirty even. Wearing a bundle of rags that may have once been something else, patiently carving away at a small block of wood between his legs, but that is not what made the moment memorable. No, that belongs to his slight tilt of his covered head, revealing a pair of piercing black eyes, eyes the voided the scant light that enters them.
It was not her proudest moment, letting out a half choked squeak and running away, knocking over several dozen statues until she escaped the woods and found Emma again.
Nowadays Taylor still sees the place in passing. Despite how much the years have changed her and the city around it, that forest has yet to change. Each statue she sees from the edges are still the same, the same echoing sounds of a man carving away.
Perhaps it was that staticness, that refusal to acknowledge the world that drew her back in. For all she harped to herself that she just wanted to learn how to carve something for her art class, to do something productive, perhaps it's that sense of timelessness she was after. When her only fear was a strange man with depthless eyes.
This time her journey through the thicket was less distraught, more casual. Taylor took the time to observe the statues with an eye of someone who knew some basics of woodwork. Each peice was immaculate, each edge seemed to fit, the curves and rounding impeccable. Size did not matter, from small monkeys to behemoth men in intricate armor, all could have been a masters life work. Perhaps this land belongs to the man's family, and this is some generational attempt at one upping ancestors?
Taylor reached the outer rim of the Buddha statues, yet now that she thinks on it she realizes how strange the ring is. All of these amazing sculptures and the ones the crafter surrounds himself with are roughly chopped Buddhas. Each one nearly identical is how rough it's work is, faces smushed, bodies with terrible proportions, symbols near unrecognizable. Each step let's her hands brush against another deformity.
Rotting timbers still lay outside, things still lay where they should not be, roof still sags under damp mold. With each turn of the globe, this shrine has ignored the world. Stagnant, unchanging, perpetually rotting.
Each step is met with soft earth, nothing impeding Taylor's progress. Once again she stand at the threshold at a dilapidated room.
This time, she does not hesitate at the edge, instead stepping into its murky gloom, breathing deep of the dank air. It's resident still sits within the middle of an arrangement of carvings, calmly working at another half formed head.
She makes it closer, and closer still. Stopping at the second ring from him before his whittling falters and eyes born of the deepest pits gaze up into hers.
Taylor opens her mouth to speak, coughs out dust, splatters and then enunciates her words.
"Uh, hello?"
His gaze remains dead, yet a certain spark of awareness seems to have appeared in its inky depths.
"My name is Taylor, uh, Taylor Herbert. Have you created all these statues?"
A subtle crack answers her as he straightens his hunched posture slightly, angling more of his face towards her. A slight nod answers her actual question.
"Cool, cool. Uh, I was wondering if perhaps I could ask you to teach me how to carve?"
He fully faces her now, blank faced. Eyes slowly roam up and down her, searching. A minute passes as he does this, leaving Taylor to sweat nervously.
"I... realize that this might be an odd thing to ask, but I can do something for you? I don't have much money but I could help with your own carving or clean up the place or...yeah."
The first noise the hunched man makes is a scoff, as if there wasn't anything Taylor could do to actually help him. Perhaps it was this moment of incredulousness that made him agree. Silently, he reached within his rags and pulled out another large block of wood, several knifes, chisels and saws sticking out of it.
A thud starts another shoddy tune, one of shakey hands and uncertainty.
Truly the only descriptor that best fits a city.
For as much as people wax and wane about its chaos and unpredictability, there is a rhythm constantly thrumming underneath everything. One influenced, changed by each step, each word, each action or breath, truly nothing can properly explain how each chord reverberate off another to make a discordant ochrestra of what a city is.
Taylor know this, that there is not categorizing it, or explaining, yet she thinks she has found the closest thing she can to a metronome.
She hears it on one of the few safe paths between her father's office and the market, one pockmarked by abandoned buildings that not even the destitute risk residing around. Mostly old refineries, and chemical plants, things that left behind far to many hazards for them to be any semblance of habitable.
It is at a crossroads where she hears it, steady, deep. Somehow, in the midst of a concrete jungle stands a thicket of old growth, trees easily older then father, maybe even her house.
A man lives in there, in an old shrine of some kind.
Taylor met him once, if it can be called that. Years ago when she tried to explore those woods with Emma.
Scary was what it was. Scattered in those trees are statues, each one lifelike, looking as if they were caught in some curse.
People, creatures, deities, devils, all could be found, yet it was near the center that they became truly unsettling. Instead of variety, skill, grace, masterworks that could have taken lifetimes, Taylor found shoddily carved Buddhas.
She could not even recognize them at first, with how little she knew and how terribly they were wrought. Knowledge did little to subtract from the visual of thousands of them moving out in concentric circles, paths created almost by accident.
Following these paths inwards disturbed the ethereal silence of the misty woods, it's undisturbed surface rippling with cracks.
Taylor finds it's origin in a massive shrine crafted from rotten wood. What once may have been sturdy pillars dashed with color lay crumbling with obscuring molds, protective gates lay down half taken by the ground, tiles glass and pavers lay scattered far from their origins.
From it's sagging doorway comes a rhythmic sound, thuds, cracks, subtle grinding, sounds Taylor can recognize now that she is this close. The distinct sounds of someone working on wood, carving and sanding and cutting, all familer to the sounds she's heard of the few constructions sites she visits with her Dad.
She stumbles across the rough ground, sliding between more poorly craved statues until she sees inside of the poorly lit shrine.
Inside is dark, damp. The few windows that could let in light are covered by even more Buddha statues, statues that cover nearly every inch of the place.
With so many things, it takes a moment to spot the man carving in the middle of the room.
He was plain. Dirty even. Wearing a bundle of rags that may have once been something else, patiently carving away at a small block of wood between his legs, but that is not what made the moment memorable. No, that belongs to his slight tilt of his covered head, revealing a pair of piercing black eyes, eyes the voided the scant light that enters them.
It was not her proudest moment, letting out a half choked squeak and running away, knocking over several dozen statues until she escaped the woods and found Emma again.
Nowadays Taylor still sees the place in passing. Despite how much the years have changed her and the city around it, that forest has yet to change. Each statue she sees from the edges are still the same, the same echoing sounds of a man carving away.
Perhaps it was that staticness, that refusal to acknowledge the world that drew her back in. For all she harped to herself that she just wanted to learn how to carve something for her art class, to do something productive, perhaps it's that sense of timelessness she was after. When her only fear was a strange man with depthless eyes.
This time her journey through the thicket was less distraught, more casual. Taylor took the time to observe the statues with an eye of someone who knew some basics of woodwork. Each peice was immaculate, each edge seemed to fit, the curves and rounding impeccable. Size did not matter, from small monkeys to behemoth men in intricate armor, all could have been a masters life work. Perhaps this land belongs to the man's family, and this is some generational attempt at one upping ancestors?
Taylor reached the outer rim of the Buddha statues, yet now that she thinks on it she realizes how strange the ring is. All of these amazing sculptures and the ones the crafter surrounds himself with are roughly chopped Buddhas. Each one nearly identical is how rough it's work is, faces smushed, bodies with terrible proportions, symbols near unrecognizable. Each step let's her hands brush against another deformity.
Rotting timbers still lay outside, things still lay where they should not be, roof still sags under damp mold. With each turn of the globe, this shrine has ignored the world. Stagnant, unchanging, perpetually rotting.
Each step is met with soft earth, nothing impeding Taylor's progress. Once again she stand at the threshold at a dilapidated room.
This time, she does not hesitate at the edge, instead stepping into its murky gloom, breathing deep of the dank air. It's resident still sits within the middle of an arrangement of carvings, calmly working at another half formed head.
She makes it closer, and closer still. Stopping at the second ring from him before his whittling falters and eyes born of the deepest pits gaze up into hers.
Taylor opens her mouth to speak, coughs out dust, splatters and then enunciates her words.
"Uh, hello?"
His gaze remains dead, yet a certain spark of awareness seems to have appeared in its inky depths.
"My name is Taylor, uh, Taylor Herbert. Have you created all these statues?"
A subtle crack answers her as he straightens his hunched posture slightly, angling more of his face towards her. A slight nod answers her actual question.
"Cool, cool. Uh, I was wondering if perhaps I could ask you to teach me how to carve?"
He fully faces her now, blank faced. Eyes slowly roam up and down her, searching. A minute passes as he does this, leaving Taylor to sweat nervously.
"I... realize that this might be an odd thing to ask, but I can do something for you? I don't have much money but I could help with your own carving or clean up the place or...yeah."
The first noise the hunched man makes is a scoff, as if there wasn't anything Taylor could do to actually help him. Perhaps it was this moment of incredulousness that made him agree. Silently, he reached within his rags and pulled out another large block of wood, several knifes, chisels and saws sticking out of it.
A thud starts another shoddy tune, one of shakey hands and uncertainty.