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GBCE · 05-22-2011, 10:16 PM

Originally posted on MSPA by Drakenforge.

Name: Korta Gonten (Korta the Typhoon by title) and Byou (Pronounced “Byo”)
Gender: Male and Female, respectively
Age: 17 (As a human, he was 16,482 years old before that), and Unknown
Race: Human (Reincarnated demon), Demon (Cat-humanoid in appearance)
Text Colour: [color]Midnight Blue. Twice.[/color]

Description: Korta has dark blue spiky hair, brown eyes and is reasonably tall for a teenager. He wears a blue jacket with a simple grey shirt underneath, white trousers, leather boots and a white cape like scarf that wraps around his neck. It has recently had a hood stitched on to deal with the wet weathers he encountered when he left his home country to join school. He has a jester-like way of acting, which was mostly just a personality he formed during his life. Deep down he harbours a long past that spans out thousands of years, and every once in a while he can speak wisdom he has found through the years. He also has an Irish accent for some reason. His human parents have no idea where he got it from, and neither does he.

Byou is two feet tall. She has very spiky white hair, has red eyes, wears a blue battle dress of cloth, and has large cat ears growing out the sides of her head. She is very feisty and gets aggravated incredibly quickly. She carries a wooden katana everywhere with her, which she uses to smack around anything she feels deserves to be smacked around.

Weapons/Abilities: Korta is a wizard, although he secretly finds that fact just a bit cheesy however he had no other claim to power as a human. When he started his school year he was given a jewel that would help unlock his natural preference in elements. His was a mixture between wind and water, however his water control is scarce since he can only use it in extreme situations, he has no skill with it when he isn’t in a do-or-die situation. His wind skills are phenomenal, and he has long mastered the art of flight. He doesn’t do it often since it puts a large strain on his back if he tries to go horizontal. He has no weapons, but could probably use most if he came across any. Both Byou and Korta share a mental link, if one is exhausted so is the other, if Korta loses consciousness, so will Byou.

Byou carries only a wooden sword however her skill with it is more than enough to kill. While wood on its own isn’t very dangerous she has enough strength to cut through concrete with it. How she does this is a mystery she intends to take the grave instead of revealing. She also gained the power of electricity when she became a familiar but just usually prefers to smack things around with her wooden sword.

Biography: Korta, who had a different name at the time, was the first born son of King Bayle, ruler of the demon world. However he never found interest in the hierarchy and gave up the position of heir to deal with his own life. He abandoned his position as prince, but his father pleaded with him to remain as his son and to stay. So he did so, and spent his life wandering the demon world looking for things to occupy his time. He never stayed in one place too long, and started to make friends in many different places. At times he took on jobs to help people; on others he fought monsters to the death just for the sake of feeling alive. He was filled with troubles, for as a demon he just had too much time to live and nothing to fill it with. Eventually he found himself a rival, a black haired woman around the same age as him. She was a true demon, fights anything that comes close to being as strong as her, decimates anyone who ranks lower. She had been on her way to find a sacred artefact when she attacked Korta, eventually spilling the beans on what she was after. Korta had no other options than to defend himself, eventually landing himself stuck with her on top of a large fallen stalactite hanging over a large crevice. Of course, this didn’t interrupt their fight, but eventually it gave way, causing the woman to fall into the abyss, cursing Korta all the way and vowing to get her revenge. Korta, hanging on for dear life, had no idea what her problem was since they had just met, but with only one direction to go he proceeded on further into the caves. He eventually found the artefact, and sating his curiosity he lifted it from the podium. That was when it all went to hell, figuratively speaking. He instantly had a heart attack as the idol crumbled away into dust. When he came to, he was being dragged across a dirt path like a prisoner, a slave class demon on either side of him grabbing onto his arm. His chest felt incredibly tight, and a burning sensation was wracking at his mind. He was in agony, and his body wouldn’t listen to him. Eventually his captors, who he recognised bore the emblem of his family upon their uniforms. He was being carried by demons owned by his father, but why? His memory was foggy and all he could remember was collapsing inside the cave. However, he could now see that he was his estate. Ahead, the castle loomed over him. On the balcony hanging over him several stories up stood his father. There were many other people associated with his family around his father. The pain in his chest grew even more intense, as his father’s booming voice echoed.

“My son, you once gave up your right to the throne. And now, you have given up your right as a demon. That artefact was cursed, a rare idol meant to bring ones power right down to lethal levels. You are so weak, that just being in our presence is killing you. I have no option other than to forcefully take away your right to be a demon. It is all I can do to keep you alive, you must understand. And so, with my power, I shall give you a new life in the human world. I hope you find life there as interesting as you found your travels. We shall miss you, always.”

That was all Korta could remember. His memory had been lost soon after that, and his body reduced into that of an infant. An agent managed to get him into the human world and replaced him with another baby, thus giving Korta a new life. He lived with a small family in the cold ice country of Loshun. His parents ran the local pub, and he lived a cold but ordinary life. He eventually had a little sister called Ren, who was an energetic bundle of joy for the family. However, when Korta turned 16 he was recruited to join the illustrious school of magic, Fenruis. Magicians rivalled technology in most countries, some where only martial where others were only magic. During his time in Fenruis Korta met many different kinds of people, some strange creatures, and forced a demon to be his familiar. He was supposed to get some kind of animal or spirit, yet he somehow accidently tapped into the occult and summoned a demon. However, due to Korta’s low level of power she was trapped in a small body. With cat ears. And has a speech impediment where she had to say “kyat” a lot.
But Korta’s peaceful (yet dangerous) life was changed when his hometown of Granid was destroyed. Death, carnage, mutilation and despair were all that remained. And yet his sister survived. She was found by a merchant that had been travelling to Granid for business. She was taken to the next town over and hospitalised, while a messenger went to retrieve Korta. Ren remained in coma as Korta and Byou watcher over her, and then the trouble reached them too and Korta had to juggle a lot of fights in a row. Due to a magic mirror, Korta managed to take Ren to the school clinic, where he passed out to do blood loss. After which, he and Byou were hunted down by a celestial army just before Korta had planned to go rescue an artefact that had eluded him as a demon. It was revealed that Korta’s mother had something to do with the angels, so much so that just from hearing her name made the angels retreat. As Korta learned his sister could wake up soon, the school was invaded by a possessed spirit, and both Korta and Byou were lost in the confusion, forever missing from the world.
Korta’s sister was also never found.

Byou's biography is unknown, however she admitted to once being an A Class Demon, and being the Head Lecturer at an academy in Korta’s Demon World. She never admitted it was Ancient Artefacts that she taught about, or that she had met him as a demon, which is why she silently holds a grudge for ruining her perfect reputation for recovering every artefact she had set out to find.

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Theme Song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZDU2nwofGtA

Godbot · 05-25-2011, 08:19 PM

Originally posted on MSPA by Godbot.

Name: Sir Cedric, son of Sigmund
Gender: Male
Race: Bearded swordsman
Color: FF0000

Description: A heavily-built man with light blue eyes, dirty blonde hair and, naturally, a short, messy beard. Cedric wears an ornate suit of plate armor that's been modified with a mix of strategically-placed chainmail, steel mesh and minor enchantments so that he can move quite freely, to the point of almost never having to take it off. It's probably extremely heavy, but Cedric can take it. The armor is scarred but still remains quite shiny, and it's marked with some red trim, perhaps in tribute to Valthen. (More on that later.) The armor has two sizable pauldrons that are engraved with a dragon and what appears to be a very tough-looking unicorn. There's no helmet (his face has to be visible, after all), so the armor has a raised metal 'collar' in the back that offers some protection for the back of his neck. One might expect him to have a cape, but the space on his back is occupied by a large leather strap to sheathe...

Weapons and Abilities: ...a big sword is not creative by the name of Sigrar. Although it's more like a two-handed sword, or perhaps a slab of metal with a handle and an edge, Cedric can wield Sigrar with one hand with as much speed, power and control as a regular sword in the hands of a regular swordsman. (A regular sword in the hands of Cedric would most likely just break after a few swings.)

Cedric doesn't need a shield.

In addition, Valthen has granted Cedric enhanced strength, speed, stamina, reflexes and total mastery over his brand of fire magic. Cedric can swing his sword to throw arcs of fire, create thermals to jump higher, heat up his blade and armor without melting them, and the whole predictable variety of other fire-related abilities.

Biography: Sir Sigmund the Valiant's son Cedric had always been exactly that – the son of his father, and another person as an afterthought. In a way, it was understandable that he was so often overshadowed; after all, Sigmund's name was a lot to live up to.

A young Sigmund had been a trusted friend of a noble named Strathmire for years, even to the point of going with Strathmire when he ran away to begin his own kingdom on a small plot of unclaimed land. Although the newly-crowned King Strathmire had a small kingdom and a smaller band of knights, Sigmund's reputation for strength and wisdom earned Strathmire and his kingdom a lot of respect over the years – enough so that neighboring kingdoms largely left it alone. The small kingdom grew steadily for many long years, though it was never very powerful or notably prosperous. And when news of old Sir Sigmund's death in a skirmish with some mercenaries reached the ears of other kingdoms, people suddenly noticed how weak Strathmire's kingdom really was. Sigmund's son Cedric began training to replace his father, but he had only just barely reached knighthood when the kingdom received warning that Lord Arches was planning to capture the kingdom's land for his own. Cedric traveled to the nearest temple to offer tribute to Valthen, god of war and fire, in exchange for the power to defeat his enemies and save his kingdom. Valthen ignored Cedric, and when the kingdom was attacked, Cedric was defeated, Strathmire was killed and the kingdom fell.

With his pride injured and feeling the need to be affirmed as powerful, Cedric went to Arches and asked to join his knights. But between his inexperience and his quick defeat in battle, he was once again turned down. More angry than anything else, he went back to Valthen. And this time, Valthen answered.

Valthen didn't care about Cedric's lack of strength so much as his lack of loyalty. He was ready and willing to join up with the knights who had invaded the kingdom his father helped build, just to be continually sided with the strongest. Cedric thought about himself first, said Valthen, and his allies later. And that was the reason Cedric wanted power – not to overcome foes, or protect anyone, but to validate himself.

But Sir Cedric's life had been difficult; his father overshadowed him even after death, and he had to fight for a small, defenseless kingdom. Valthen didn't blame Cedric for needing to prove himself, or for becoming jealous and egotistical, and – perhaps, Valthen noted, against his better judgment – he was willing to give Cedric a second chance. He wanted to see how Cedric handled power.

So Valthen enchanted Sir Cedric, improving his strength and speed; he enchanted his armor, making it strong and light; and he enchanted Cedric's father's sword, Sigrar, making it larger and stronger. He also granted Cedric the full extent of the fire-based magic he could pass on to a human, with the caveat that he would be watched by Valthen until he decided whether or not Sir Cedric was worthy.

Cedric's first act as Legendary Hero was to laugh in the face of Lord Arches's knights.

About a week of dragonslaying, fighting corrupt kings and generally showing off later, The Spectator took note of the rumors of a powerful knight who appeared out of nowhere, and whisked Cedric away to join the Vivacious Deadlock.

Theme Song: Through the Fire and Flames - Dragonforce

SleepingOrange · 05-27-2011, 11:46 AM

Originally posted on MSPA by SleepingOrange.

Username: SleepingOrange
Name: Grand Magus of Flow, Cascala bint Ondun al-Bellizhi
Gender: Female
Race: Hootman... no ... Huge-gland… no, I remember, Hunam!
Color: #336699
Description: [Image: howdoianatomy.png]

Cascala is of fairly average build for her race and gender, standing about 5'4" and neither noticeably slender or appreciably plump. She is considered quite beautiful in her own culture, with flawless olive skin, deep-brown almond-shaped eyes, and long, dark hair. In actuality, she would be merely pretty were it not for the fact that her station in life gives her the opportunity to augment her appearance with expensive clothing, cosmetics, and a general regal bearing.

She is dressed in opulent robes of cream and blues and bedecked in what amounts to a few pounds of jewelry[not pictured]. The fabric of her robes and tabard are heavily embroidered and beaded with swirling, flowing patterns reminiscent of waterfalls and waves; the faceted beads and metallic threads catch the light as she moves, giving the impression of water flowing down her garments. Cascala's vanity is one of the few excesses or luxuries she allows herself, and it shows in gold and sapphire.

Cascala's personality is perhaps to be expected, given her upbringing; she is haughty, serious, self-confident to a fault, and little interested in other people. She is also quite humorless and a perfectionist at any task she sets to. Those few people she has deigned (or been forced) to cooperate with find her difficult to work with, abrasive, and often dismissive of others' abilities. She expects the same competence from others that she forces from herself, and is extremely harsh when faced with mistakes or failures.

Weapons and Abililities: As far as weapons go, the only one Cascala has on her person is her staff; its main role isn't even as a weapon, but as a way of powering, amplifying, or delivering spells, but if push comes to shove, it's still about four feet of tempered magesteel. She also has some experience with longbows, as is expected of anyone of even vague nobility, but is not particularly skilled nor even in possession of a bow.

The staff itself, as mentioned, is about four feet long and made of magesteel; magesteel is an unusual alloy discovered by Bellizhian artificers that essentially serves as a conduit and battery for magical energy. Unlike most inanimate objects, through which mana flows unimpeded, magesteel acts in much the way a magically-gifted living thing does; that is to say, it collects magical energy that passes through it, to be unleashed later as spells. In addition to the material's properties, a mage's staff is carved with runes in such a way that it augments their spellcasting abilities and can even store some preprepared spells; as such, a mage without their staff is still fully capable of spellcasting, but at a rather decreased power level. Finally (and most importantly to some mages), a staff can be used to deliver spells that would otherwise require the mage to touch their victim.

More important than her equipment are Cascala's abilities; trained nearly from birth to become the Grand Magus of Flow, she has a near-unsurpassed mastery of magic, especially that which relates to water. While the Bellezhian magic tradition is divided into six general disciplines, those six disciplines are further subdivided into countless specialties; Cascala showed talent for and developed her ability with weather magic, and it is spells that affect the weather that she prefers to turn to given the opportunity.

Even aside from those areas she is most skilled with, she is a capable and versatile mage; however, she tended to eschew studies like alchemy and other so-called ars physicas, dismissing them as "Marialite parlor tricks". For that matter, she has little knowledge and few skills outside the magical spheres, having been forced to focus on magecraft to the exclusion of all else. Without magic, she would only be as competent as an average well-educated person in her technologically-primitive home-plane.

Biography: The nation of Bellizhi, by all rights, should have been a largely-unimportant minor player in the world stage; its position was strategically poor and unimportant, it lacked significant quantities of most resources, and its citizens spent far more generations in insular tribal warfare than its neighbors, leaving it culturally and technologically outstripped on all fronts. Bellizhi's unimportance and possible conquering would have been cemented were it not for one man: Bakir, the first Grand Magus.

Bakir was a powerful mage in his own right, but it's not that that he's remembered for; rather, it was his tactical expertise and skill with diplomacy that allowed him to eventually unite the forever-warring tribes of Bellizhi, organizing them under one flag and one nation. After a decade of constant warfare and political infighting, Bellizhi had finally left the dark ages, the way its neighbors had done so long ago.

What allowed the infant country to rapidly rise to global prominence in spite of its slow beginnings was Bakir's focus on the standardization of magic. He, unlike his contemporaries, recognized magic as the ultimate tool, rather than the ineffable art, quasidivine entity, or frightening mystery many considered it. While the average mage in another country was still toiling in an inefficient master/apprentice setup, Bakir was developing the first College of Magery, modeled after Marial's academic systems. He standardized the way magic was studied and taught, introduced novel concepts of magical theory, and made some study compulsory to all citizens.

The end result was a nation with power unrivaled by any other; where one army might be able to entice a handful of hermitic hedge-wizards to supplement its forces, every Bellizhian soldier could hurl fireballs and lightning bolts, and their generals could boil away oceans and topple mountains. One by one, civilizations fell, and Bellizhi became the Bellizhian Empire.

Their success ingrained the system into Bellizhian culture. Generations passed; leadership of the empire was still officially in the emperor's hands, but everyone knew the true power lay in the Collegiate Council. The Grand Magi of Flow, Heat, Flux, Terra, Sight, and Life not only ran the College of Magery, but had their fingers in every major political event in the Empire's history. It wasn't necessarily a good system, but it worked, and the Empire prospered.

Then, 32 years ago from the Bellizhian perspective, the Grand Magus of Sight was struck with a vision: the Grand Magus of Flow would be plucked from their world by the hand of a vengeful god, pitted against seven others so stolen for the god's amusement. At that point, the vision split in two; in one version, the Grand Magus was victorious, and the Empire's reign continued; in the other, the Magus fell, and his death so far separated from their world shattered the flow of mana. Magic receded from the world, and the Empire went with it; an age of darkness and war followed.

Three days after the Grand Magus of Sight received her vision, the Grand Magus of Flow died.

The Council scrambled to pore through the future and determine who the Magus of Flow would be at the time of the god's game. After a week of rituals and bickering, it was revealed that a woman who was currently an infant would be that mage. The Emperor ordered that she be taken in by the council and made into the perfect spellcaster in preparation for the battle that would decide his empire's future.

And taken in she was; from that moment, Cascala experienced scarcely one moment that wasn't dedicated to turning her into the grandest Grand Magus the Empire had ever seen. Even before she could walk or speak, her every waking moment was filled with old men and women in robes reading her spell-theory, showing her cards with runes embossed on them, and being subjected to experimental mana infusions. As she grew, this lifestyle was refined and intensified, honing her magical ability but leaving her little more than a thinking tool.

The day of reckoning approached; on the morning she was destined to be stolen from Bellizhi, she awoke, bedecked herself in her most stunning robes and jewels, fetched the staff that had been crafted over a period of ten years specifically for this purpose, and entered the Grand Magi's ceremonial ritual chamber. She sat cross-legged in the center of an elaborate pentagram, meditating under the gazes of the other five Grand Magi. At about noon, the Magi momentarily felt a slight presence at the back of their minds; after that, they were struck blind for several seconds. Most called out, but there was no response from Cascala.

When their vision returned, the pentagram was empty, and they knew their fates were about to be decided.

Theme Song: On Occasion Aflame by Rational Thought Process

GBCE · 05-27-2011, 03:50 PM

Originally posted on MSPA by veerserif.

Username: veerserif

Name: Ocularis

Colour: White on red

Gender: it

Species: giant flipping human eyeball.

Abilities: uses a variety of visual hallucinatory magics to confuse, confound, and con-into-walking-off-a-cliff. Ocularis can see from the infrared to the ultraviolet spectrum, though it cannot smell. It has telepathic abilities but these are limited to communication. It can also produce a weak magical barrier to protect itself from scratches and bumps, but objects with enough mass going fast enough can easily break the barrier (e.g. a thrown pebble will bounce off but a bullet won't).

Description: comedic sociopath. Ocularis doesn't quite understand the gravity of death, nor is it interested in doing so. It seeks to pretty much amuse itself with no regard for the consequences. Manipulating others into doing stupid things and/or actively causing pain, whether physical, mental or emotional, is its favourite. There's only so much fun you can have when you're a floating eyeball.

It's a two-foot diameter sphere, floating some four feet off the ground (though this value can of course change). It has some muscles attached to the main "body", with a mass of red tendrils trailing out of the back where the optic nerve would be. These are used to manipulate objects. Additionally, they can sense minute vibrations so Ocularis can 'hear', though it has no sense of smell. These tendrils are quite weak, and Ocularis can only lift objects no larger than itself. Normally, Ocularis' iris is brown with a paler ring directly around the pupil, but this changes according to mood. The pale gold-yellow ring stays, though.

Biography:

Show Content

Theme song: Leeds United by Amanda
Palmer, because I like that song.

GBCE · 05-28-2011, 12:01 AM

Originally posted on MSPA by Pharmacy.

Name: Merrifield/ZIVANKA-FMOCBOC
Gender: Female on default
Race: Living Aberration/Biological Crime Against Nature and Thus Probably Existence
Color: #9D0020
Description:

[Image: genetic2.png]

A glance at Merrifield is enough to calculate how strange and consequently creepy she looks. She has a thin, almost anorexic body that resembles a cross between a feline and a humanoid. This horrible anatomy allows her to switch between a quadrupled and a bipedal stance. Her weak hands and her pathetic excuse of hindlegs uncannily resemble a human’s, particularly that of a baby. Since her limbs are useless other than the support of her frail body, strange fleshy limbs resembling the cartilaginous flippers of a whale decorate each side of her head. These limbs have fine motor controls and can pick up things. On top of each of those particular limbs is a teal-ish barb on the “knuckles.”

Merrifield looks more human than cat, but even then, a person knows how inaccurate that comparison is. Although she has a head full of hair, her face is swollen like a newborn, nose nearly nonexistent, mouth full of weak teeth, so small an observer barely notices it. However, the worst part is her eyes. So undeveloped, so black -like those of a lifeless embryo.

The most noteworthy feature is the patterns on her hairless skin- blotchy, sickly patches of purple-red - almost resembling disgusting hemorrhages. This metaphor is further reinforced by her noticeable astringent smell. Merrifield smells like a sickly hospital - she reeks of antibiotics and rotting flesh.

Although she is mentally on par of an adult human being, Merrifield is somewhat childish. She is incredibly shy and modest. However, this is the same person who takes glee in watching people melting into fleshy-colored goo. Thankfully for the rest of world, she tries her best to be the sweetest genetic abomination on this plane of existence. Unsurprisingly though, her ethics and morality can use some work.

Weapons and Abililities:
Merrifield definitely is not a physical fighter. Although she has the barbed limbs on her head that can cause severe injuries if she is lucky, she simply does not have the stamina and strength to endure a physical fight. Her head limbs (the strongest parts of her body) are roughly at par with as a starving human beaten nearly to death and shoved into a nearby trash can. In short, her body, however strange, is physically pathetic.

However, she has other tricks up her nonexistent sleeves. To put short, she has the unearthly power of biokinesis. The application of these powers are various and sadistic. She can regenerate, heal, necrotize flesh, cause life-sucking cancer, set beings on metabolic fire, cause spontaneous births, control beings, mutate lifeforms, induce heart attacks, to give a few examples. Merrifield tends to get, um, creative with these powers.

Although she can toy around with her foe's body like a cat with her prey, she cannot barely do much biokinetic augments to her own. other than passive regeneration, healing, and removal of status ailments. There is a good reason for this limitation. Her body is simply too frail to handle these boosts and she intends to live the full extent of her short existence.

These powers are not without its caveats though. For one thing, biokinesis is also how she keeps her body together. If she carelessly strains herself, she may degenerate into a loose pile of cells, essentially “dying.” This may explain why she is more eager to flee than to stand her ground.

Biokinetic attacks also have to take people’s wills into consideration. A person who expects her attack has a much better chance at surviving her assault than a person who was caught by surprise. Intelligent, developed creatures are much harder to control than a nonsapient creature (though not possible). Also biokinetic attacks require her full concentration. If she is attempting to induce a heart attack on a person and is interrupted, the person will not suffer a heart attack.

Biography:
Once in another plane of the universe, there existed a society. This society in particular was vaguely advanced enough to have mastery over the discipline of biochemistry, molecular biology, genetics, and other studies of life. Like our society, one of their previous problems that once plagued them was the organ donation and blood transfusions - necessary but often clunky procedures. The problem laid in the matter of convenience. There are too many factors that could ruin these risky procedures. Among the problems that could ruin these precious blood and organs are supply, rejection, and price. What could they do?

Fortunately for them, they were masters of the code of life (well, biological life). Not surprisingly, they had put their knowledge and methods from research into good use to attempt to fix this important problem. After years and years of research, they finally found an unique but efficient way to this problem: the Zivanka Mechanism. The Zivanka Mechanism was a contraption where various siphons and needle were fed into a chamber filled with loose embryonic cells. The use will inject a cocktail of reagents and various organic molecules into the machine and after a couple of hours, viola, an organ or a blood type of their choosing! How convenient!

Despite the moral cries and concerns of ethics, the Zivanka Mechanism swept through their world like wildfire and pretty soon, every hospital and research center had that machine in their laboratories. There was no question that Zivanka Mechanism managed to improved their health care and quality of life. Save for a vocal but small minority, complaints had quelled and most people accepted the existence of such a machine. Thus, all was well

until the "Merrifield Incident."

No one knew what happened. Merrifield Hospital was a normal hospital and like all normal hospitals, had a Zivanka Mechanism tucked away in their laboratories. Suddenly, that incident came along. The hospital itself was intact, no broken walls or collapsed rooms. However, to the patients' confusion, a good portion of the staff had disappeared. A more courageous patient entered the supply room and discovered to his shock the fate of his practitioners. Relaying to the newspapers, the patient claimed that there were puddle of fleshy goop lain around in the laboratory, disconcertingly surrounded by the clothes of the staff. He also told that the Zivanka Mechanism, that crucial machine, was completely shattered! The government claimed it was a biological terrorist attack, but people, however ignorant they are of that incident, knew there was something else was going on...

Anomaly · 05-28-2011, 04:42 AM

Originally posted on MSPA by Anomaly.

Names: Razaran, Nalyg, Kanpeki (or for short, Nalzaki)

Genders: Male, Male, Female

Race: Typhren - Kryesan

Color:#999999 on #191919

Description:

Show Content

Razaran, Nalyg, and Kanpeki are essentially a three-headed dragon, approximately nine feet in height (in a bipedal stance with their "normal" leg structure; actual height will likely vary somewhat). Nalyg is the "main body" of the three, being in the center. Razaran and Kanpeki are essentially fused into his sides, missing significant portions of their former bodies. Nalyg is a neutral gray color, possessing orange-yellow eyes and smaller, blunter horns than the other two. In most cases the only limbs he possesses are two legs, although this changes if the need arises. Nalyg, having previously been a diplomat, is overall very reasonable, and tends to choose the most beneficial course of action in any given situation. He attempts to negotiate when possible, but is equally prepared for violent and nonviolent situations.

Razaran, on the other hand, is located on Nalyg's right side. His body is an extremely dark grey, almost black, and his eyes are deep blood red. He has curved, sickle-like horns, and barely-perceptible black stripes running down the remnants of his body. His limbs tend toward weaponry, be they simple sharp claws to complicated and powerful projectile weapons. In part due to his experience as a mercenary, Razaran is strongly predisposed to force, hence his affinity for weapons. His personality can best be described as "caustic", and he is easily angered, though he is not entirely insufferable.

Kanpeki is roughly the polar opposite of Razaran in appearance. Her features are less vicious in general, and she is very slightly smaller than the other two. Her eyes are a deep blue, and her body is white, covered in stripes the same color as her eyes. Her limbs are also essentially the opposite of Razaran's - as her background was largely in engineering, she generally creates tools and other beneficial structures rather than weaponry. She is very poor in combat, however, but makes up for it with her strategical prowess. Her personality also contrasts with Razaran's, as she is extremely rarely prone to anger or violence, and is in fact quite affable. Her experience in multiple types of engineering lends itself to many different applications, and she is also the most intelligent of the three.

Abilities: Nalzaki, as the Kryesan (essentially an absolute monarch, or triarch, as the case may be; closest thing their race has to a demigod) of Typhra, possesses a limited shapeshifting ability. This ability is essentially limited to their limbs, but under that constraint they have nearly limitless leeway. Shapeshifting only takes a short amount of time, no longer than ten or twenty seconds depending on the complexity of the limb. This ability is only limited to roughly organic structures, although things such as projectile weapons and a wide variety of tools are perfectly feasible.

In addition to this main ability, they also possess a high degree of telepathic skill. They can effortlessly communicate with each other using this ability, making verbal communication between heads completely unnecessary. They can also communicate in this way with other telepaths, but are unable to project their thoughts into the minds of non-telepathic organisms. Along with this ability, they are also able to shield their thoughts from other telepaths, allowing them to mentally plot against anyone without fear of being overheard.

Biography: The death of the Eighth Kryesan came as a surprise to many. Beloved by virtually all of Typhra's population, no one could have imagined that they would die so suddenly, under such mysterious circumstances. But it was done, and the Kryesan was dead. But with this death came the all-important question: who would become the Ninth Kryesan? The choosing of three candidates to be fused into the new leader of Typhra was not a routine circumstance, especially given the longevity of the Typhrens. Once the three were chosen, though, they didn't exactly have a choice. Waves of fear and of hope spread across the surface of the world in anticipation of the selection.

Razaran Kortsanum, a mercenary known and reknowned across the world. Nalyg Zostik, an equally-reknown diplomat, who oversaw many interplanetary exchanges. Kanpeki Katareli, a well-known engineer, skilled in many different fields. In the course of their daily lives, these three received the notifications from the temporary leaders of the Empire. It was at that point that their lives as they knew them were over. Three complete strangers, fated to become the Ninth Kryesan of Typhra.

The ritual of fusion was performed both for its religious significance and its socio-political one. Each of the three selected was of a different subspecies of Typhren - the Kryesan represented a unity between the three. In addition, the Kryesan was in the image of the god of Typhra, and was often thought of as a reincarnation of the god itself. It was for this reason that the ceremony had been performed eight times before, and would be performed again.

The day of the ritual quickly arrived. The three said their final goodbyes, and proceeded to the Grand Temple. It was at the front steps of this temple that they actually met in person for the first time. Three complete strangers would enter, one demigod would leave. Reluctantly, they proceeded up the steps and to the altar, presided over by the High Priests of the Typhren Empire. The ritual involved no pain, no grand show, nothing much of note. The three simply stood on the altar: Nalyg in the center, Kanpeki on his left, Razaran on his right. In a flash of light, the three lost consciousness. Upon awakening, it became clear: the ritual was a success, and the Ninth Kryesan had been born.

The first few decacycles of their rule could best be described as "rocky". As should be obvious, none of them were all that pleased to be permanently fused to each other, especially so since the fusion was said to carry over into the Typhren afterlife as well. But eventually, they had no choice but to come to accept their position. Unlike some Kryesans in the past, they were at least agreeable with each other. With their combined expertise, they too became beloved leaders of Typhra, leading the nations through an era of prosperity. An era of prosperity that was doomed to collapse when the Ninth Kryesan disappeared without a trace.

Show Content

GBCE · 05-29-2011, 03:24 AM

Originally posted on MSPA by engineclock.

The eight contestants were suddenly and painfully aware that they were no longer anywhere near what they had previously been able to call home.

Each was seated stiffly in an oddly curved white chair that they did their best to convince themselves wasn’t moving slightly, paralyzed into identical positions of attentiveness. A few of those gathered tried to cry out in rage or fear, but their throats would not move except to draw breath. They were helpless to do anything but stare at the figure standing in the middle of the ring of chairs, smiling at them with a polite expression of mild fascination.

The Spectator was once again possessed of a massive pair of wings; they nestled on top of what could have been a brilliant red gown if it wasn’t expanding and contracting in a way that strongly suggested shallow breathing. Her hair was pinned somewhat erratically to the back of her head and in an attempt to be less distracting was only slightly occupied with tying itself in knots. She clapped her hands in delight, baring her teeth at the eight unfortunates before her.

“My doves of war,” she laughed, bowing so that her wings fanned out and fluttered inches from the pale floor, “Welcome to life.”

She swayed upright and gestured to the walls and ceiling of the room. The contestants, no matter how unwilling they might have been, had no choice but to look on helplessly and respond with varying levels of horror and discomfort as thousands of eyes stared back, blinking curiously. Occasionally one would flicker with an image of some alien perspective before clearing and returning to reflecting the faces below. Someone in the lineup swallowed noisily.

“My eyes have seen every fiber of the worlds you spawned from and countless more besides. I have called eight of you away, stolen you from the fates to which you would have been otherwise inevitably bound, to participate in something greater than each of you could hope to achieve individually. You will all become part of something that transcends even the beauty of your already fragile existences…You, my doves, will perform a sacrifice to the highest cause any of us could aspire to.” Her face, or what could be seen of it, took on an expression that was almost mournful. “Life… itself.”

She let her hand drop and the contestants’ heads snapped back to her in unison. Slowly she began to thread her way in between them, twisting to gaze into each of their faces through no readily apparent means. “I envy you, my sparrows. All of you. Does this surprise you?... It may. It could not be blamed, I suppose… There are so many things that even eyes cannot see...”

“Understand that I have no life like the kind that burns so brilliantly inside every one of you. My blood and my bones are only shadows on shadows; they are nothing compared to what even the weakest of you possesses. Not since I first came into being from the lifeless form of one much older and greater than I have I ever had to fear for my survival. I no longer know what it means fight for one’s life, to acknowledge that any moment one’s existence could be so cruelly torn away by another in a single, terrible instant… Such was the price I paid. I was given no choice. I envy you indeed, my doves.”

She reached the first contestant, a blonde, heavily armored man accompanied by an oversized sword. She collapsed onto his lap with some pretense of elegance, sweeping her wings backwards and hitting him squarely in the face. Ignorant or uncaring as to his look of stunned horror, she called out to the rest, “And so I have selected each of you from among the countless lives my eyes have observed in their quest to find the perfect sacrifices. There are no mistakes. You are all here to fulfill your purposes; you are here to do what I never could…”

She draped an arm around the man’s shoulders, pretending not to notice that her hair was busily tangling itself in his. “This champion here I do not expect any of you will recognize, though in his land his name is the seed of legends. Sir Cedric the valiant, the noble, the just, the bringer of vengeance to the wicked and those who would dare bring a sword down on the neck of a king… so might he have been more if I had not called for him. A god of war favors Cedric above all others, or so it’s said. Fire and steel. Watch this one, my doves.”

The Spectator twisted away from Cedric, drawing her wings back and leaving a spray of feathers behind her. She danced over to the chair next to him, occupied by a small cat-like being marked by odd splotches of color.

“This fragile beauty we will refer to for the sake of convenience as Merrifield, but what are names to us? Perhaps you won’t understand. Little Merrifield, so marvelously alive she can twist life itself with her biokinesis, and given proper circumstance, can even create it.” Her wings quivered and the Spectator sighed sadly. “Not a fighter, our pretty Merrifield, though she’s far from defenseless. I’ll leave it to you to discover what wonders she’ll work. But if this charmer cannot be called a warrior, neither can our next: the relentless Doctor Melissa Harmon.” She swept sideways, fanning a wing out over Merrifield as she passed and slowing to circle around a slender woman with an odd-looking machine held tightly in her lap.

“Were you aware of one another’s existences before I brought you here? Were you aware of mine? Doctor Harmon was, I expect, somewhat closer than most of you to discovering what lay beyond the boundaries of her own already infinite universe, and so to realizing such things… it could be said that she has already succeeded. There are stranger things then even I lying in wait for what our Doctor can do for them. I wouldn’t wait for such an occurrence to step lightly around her, though…”

The Spectator drifted past Harmon, smiling blankly, and moved on to a vaguely human-shaped shadowy figure with baleful red eyes. “If must we speak of strange things then I suppose our next guest must be mentioned. Such a little anomaly, this one. What can be said of something not truly alive, yet still blessed with the gift of death? Your trust in him goes on its own unsteady legs. I don’t think in this case that names have even their negligible weight, do they?...” Her head dipped towards the motionless Cog and her hair swirled downwards to hide her face; she said something the other contestants couldn’t quite hear and brushed past him abruptly without further comment.

An unremarkable young man sat patiently in the next chair, singular in that he alone was watching the approaching Grandmaster with an inquisitive expression. She bowed slightly in front of him, back arched and wings half extended, and grinned. “Ivan Norst, sparrows. Nothing so impressive to look at as some of you others, but what faith have we in only shapes?” She laughed. “Ivan the brilliant. No stranger to subtlety and force, no few things to hide. I’d caution you against deciding him worthless so early on. He might prove interesting, though I won’t ruin anything further for him or you.”

Digging into the next chair in the circle with a motley collection of claws was what could be described as a triple-headed hydra, bearing a variety of colors and gently twitching limbs. The Spectator circled it unhurriedly, briefly resting a hand on the darkest of its heads. It glared at her furiously from underneath her fingers.

“Most of you I imagine would shy away from the chance to merge your bodies with those of others, even for what good could be gained… likewise, so was this delicate wonder reluctant at first to undergo the process that formed them into the shape you see before you. But Nalzaki, for want of a better name, is all the better for it. These three heads all contain separate beings, though their body may not indicate as such. The fierce Razaran, the just Nalyg, the clever Kanpeki. Marvelous, don’t you think…?” The edges of her dress drew back in discomfort as she wound around them, trailing a finger down their central spine. “They’re something like a king in their world of origin. Naturally I couldn’t resist having them.”

She approached the next contestant more slowly, turning her head in a show of curiosity. The edges of her gown gathered around her and splintered into a host of needle-like legs that clicked on the floor quietly, rippling like a millipede’s.

“Neither could I deny calling away the fine creature you see before you, the Grand Magus Cascala bint Ondun al-Bellizhi. Her shivering empire told of the day we could meet, didn’t it?...” The Spectator leaned down and gently held Cascala’s face in her hands, lowering her voice to barely above a whisper. “Did they foresee this, my dove? Are you prepared as the others are not for what must be done? Do you know what I risk in your place, what your world asks of you for your sacrifice? You were made for me, little Magus. You are mine as none of these others could ever be…”

She broke off and swayed upwards, releasing Cascala and letting the woman fall back into her chair. Another laugh rattled somewhere in her throat. “But not of all you were so fortunate to be forewarned. This last of my eight for all her wisdom didn’t see me coming, though compared to all else this is a petty oversight, I think.”

She drifted behind the last chair, upon which a regal woman in an ornate gown was seated. Her expression was one of contempt and rage, and she managed to twitch a corner of her mouth downward in disgust as the Spectator’s dress slithered near her foot. “The grand Empress Phere, the far-seeing queen. Isn’t she beautiful, my sparrows, my starlings? Her eyes reach nearly as far as a single one of mine, a weaker one, though it’s more than enough to serve her purposes, such as they are. I can’t imagine you’ll be able to hide much from her. Why would you? Such stunning eyes. I’ve no little hopes for our bitter Empress, biased as that may be. So it goes.”

The winged Grandmaster turned her back on Phere as the legs of her gown began to swell in size, shuddering in a wave from front to back as they gained a metallic glare and formed a circle of glittering talons. “But of course I have the right to pick my favorites, my doves, my sacred sacrifices. I am the Spectator. Who is going to complain if my eyes prefer the path of one to another? I imagine you might if you are not one of the ones I take to. What else could be expected…?” The legs directly in front of her grew claws and snapped with a harsh clanking sound. “Even so, my doves. You and I are interwoven now as intimately as any beings can be; my shoulders are the ones to carry your fates, my hands are the ones guiding yours…”

She pointed upwards once more even as the countless eyes covering the ceiling and walls blinked simultaneously, reopening to reveal that each now reflected a miniscule part of a much larger scene. A city loomed dizzyingly above the ringed contestants, the image occasionally disrupted as an odd eye shivered and readjusted its view. The carpet of eyes was silent, but as a man was stabbed in the throat and bled to death just before a cluster of them in the lower-right corner it became apparent that the city they depicted was far from peaceful.

“Such a beautiful place…”

The eyes swiveled as one to pan upwards against the city skyline, revealing very few tall buildings other than the odd skyscraper or two. A dusky smog choked what could be seen of the air and sunk down to the streets, where it spread and obscured the doors and windows on the level of the unkempt pavement.

“But I’m afraid it’s somewhat past its time.”

The city blacked out and was replaced a second later by a disturbingly clear view of an ominous-looking book lying placidly on a featureless surface. A key-like symbol was visible on its cover, though it was partially obscured by the clearly lifeless hand sprawled across it. As the eight below watched, a somewhat more lively hand knocked the first away roughly, and was joined by a matching one as an unseen newcomer snatched the book out of view.

“The Tome you have just seen until very recently belonged to the leader of the Savvy, the most powerful coterie in a city already overrun by such coalitions and divided by constant infighting… tragically her life was cut short just now by some unknown assassin, in spite of her protestations. Her death will mean the total collapse of the already fragile coexistence of the numerous warring factions and perhaps even the destruction of the city itself. Such is life, my doves. I can place no blame on another destroyer and have no wish to do so. But this is not our concern, not at the moment, no. My starlings, my sparrows, your goal here is that Tome.

“Through its own mechanisms, the details of which are unnecessary to what you must accomplish, this strange and wondrous artifact has the ability to shift its surroundings to an entirely different method of vision, and thus, reality. The layers of perception it strips away to do so can affect everything from your bodies to your minds to the nature of your souls themselves…” The Spectator was laughing again, half with joy and half with excitement, her wings rolling in their sockets. “I have watched this city for so long, my doves. I will bring you to the critical moment of its crashing glory and you will all play a part in its slow and magnificent death. Oh, I envy you, sparrows, though I have said so much already…”

“You will find the Tome with the one who has so wrongfully taken it, and you will seize it for yourselves and silence them once more. The artifacts that give the Tome its power can be found scattered across the city with the lieutenants of the Savvy and the members of the now-seething others. All will be chaos, doves. The city is at war. It is perhaps worth mentioning that I will recall you only when one of you is dead by the hands of the other seven or the knives of the city itself. The one who holds the book at this time will earn a small favor from myself; the one who dies may find themselves in the same position.

“I wish you luck, my sacrifices. Die your beautiful deaths in my name and yours.”

There was the sound of wings beating, and the eight contestants were gone.

________________

“Very nice, if I may be allowed to comment.”

The Spectator collapsed on one of the now-vacant chairs, nestling in her own feathers. She grinned over at Crowe, who was rapidly appearing from what had previously been empty air. “You’d lie about your own name to humor me, I think. I thought it was a bit flashy, to be honest.”

Crowe smirked. “You, flashy? I shudder to think.”

“Oh shove off, why don’t you, it was just starting to get quiet in here.”

________________

Show Content

Anomaly · 05-29-2011, 05:45 AM

Originally posted on MSPA by Anomaly.

In an instant, Nalzaki found themselves locked in a cage, surrounded by total darkness. A musty scent wafted through the air, joined by a slight tinge of unidentified chemicals. Except for the breathing of the three, there was no sound whatsoever. A cursory kick at the bars revealed them to be quite solid, although rusted from disuse. The uneven concrete ground was covered in a smattering of cracks, dampened by the steady drip of water from above.

Alright, what the hell just happened, and where the hell are we? And who or what was that thing talking to us? Is this some kind of twisted game or something?

Razaran, calm down, Nalyg calmly replied. We've been taken hostage by a being possibly far beyond our comprehension, and are now being forced to fight to the death for its amusement. You and I both know that we in all likelihood have an advantage over the other...creatures in this twisted game.

Well, sure, I can kill all of them with no problems. That's what I'm going to do if you don't have any better ideas. Killing the shapeshifting thing that brought us here, for example.

And if we can't kill her? If we can't kill the others as easily as you think? Nalyg and Razaran turned to face Kanpeki, who wore an expression teetering between distress and determination. She continued, What makes you think that listening to something with this much power, something able to hold us captive so effortlessly, will actually help us?

We don't need to be hasty with killing, no. It'd be better if we forged some alliances with the others, who were presumably also forced into this battle. There are seven others, surely a few of them would join us in this.

We'll worry about that when we actually run into one of them. How about we get out of this cage first, and talk later? responded Razaran. Above his front leg, a bony framework rapidly burst from the skin, joined by an interwoven mass of muscle fibers and organic tissues, which swiftly knitted itself together. Razaran's newly-created hammer-arm smashed apart the bars of the cage effortlessly, and the Kryesan climbed out of the remnants.

It was nearly impossible to see anything in the musty room. No cracks of light revealing an exit, no electrical equipment giving off even the faintest of glows. Kanpeki immediately modified her legs and part of her body to glow brightly, giving off enough light for dim details of the room to be seen. The cage was shoved up against a dilapidated concrete wall of what appeared to be a long-abandoned laboratory. Dusty, cobweb-saturated equipment lay scattered about the room, complemented by a multitude of spilled-out vials, their contents long gone. A large sign on the wall happily announced that the laboratory was the property of "DR. MATIC'S GROUP OF SCIENTIFLIC INCLINED PROFESSIONALS".

The large room held only one entrance - a small doorway with its entrance covered in bricks. This brick wall, of course, was not designed to withstand an assault from a hydra's organic sledgehammer, as good a business model as it could have been. The bricks were smashed into dust, knocking to the ground on the other side a bright red "CONDEMNED" sign. The stairway that lay behind was equally ill-equipped for a nine-foot hydra - the Kryesan could barely fit in the stairwell, and climbing it was equally difficult. As they reached the steel door at the top, a well-placed air vent revealed to them a conversation taking place on the floor above.

"I trust you have acquired the tome, Fleischer?"

"Yes, sir. Found it in the hands of some wench uptown, just north of Good Bad Uglies territory. Made quick work of her, but she didn't go down without a fight. I've got the tome."

Nalzaki heard the distinct sound of a book being slammed down on a desk.

"Excellent, excellent. Now, then, Fleischer, I trust you have brought with you the Fantasy Bookmark as well?"

"Erm, no, sir. I didn't find it on the girl. Maybe it was stolen from her beforehand by one of Lord Horrorshow's henchmen."

"Lord Horrorshow? You damned fool, Horrorshow has no influence anymore! Are you saying that the bookmark has slipped past us?"

"Yes, sir, Dr. Matic, sir."

"Unacceptable, Fleischer. Get Kirsch and Jaeger at once, and comb the entire city if you have to, just bring me that bookmark!"

"Yes, sir!"

The tome?[i] began Nalyg. [i]I assume that's what our captor told us to find. From the sounds of it it has a great amount of power, and can affect all of us in some way. I think it would be prudent to retrieve that tome for ourselves.

What are we waiting for, then? On with it! Before the others could respond, Razaran had bashed the steel door open, narrowly missing one very surprised Mr. Fleischer.

GBCE · 05-30-2011, 01:30 AM

Originally posted on MSPA by Pharmacy.

A bespectacled old man entered the Astrobiology room. He was your typical researcher at this particular Research Facility, with a protective lab coat, his musty yarn vest, and his denim jeans. He knew his job, to study a new creature that a team of hunters had captured out in the wild. By "in the wild," he meant "I had no idea where it came from, but hey." The stodgy researcher shuffled his way to a cage, a great slab of the wall made of strong metal. On this cage, there was a slot for a the viewer's safety and discretion. The scientist opened the slot and peered inside. He let out a whistle in surprise. "My, my, what a creature we had here," he murmured in horrid fascination.

She could care less.

The genetic abomination that is Merrifield paced around in general irritation and confusion around the white-painted walls of her confines. She attempted to digest what had happened to her in such a short amount of time. Okay, she was trying to escape from a cage. After that, bad people tried to hurt her, luckily she hurt them back. Then, there was this bright flash of light (she remembered because that hurt her eyes) and suddenly, a red-winged woman told her some stuff. She could not quite remember. Well, she could have remembered if she paid attention. Something about tomes and such, but never mind that. Now, she was stuck in this stupid cage with a creepy old guy leering at her. Merrifield placidly looked around. She glossed over the reddish stains smeared across the walls, evidence of her attempted escape. That was pretty stupid of her, ramming into the walls like some sort of mad creature. It hurted her fragile body and she learned her mistake, so better than nothing. She needed to escape. She had to escape, but how?

Merrifield discerningly eyed the hapless scientist, who was marveling at her captivating weirdness. She had that scientist's attention and attention was all she needed from that gaping fogey. Perhaps he could do a favor for her. A small favor, yes. Just a small favor. Merrifield went on all fours and quickly pitter-pattered her way to the viewing slot, the one wall that separated her from that man. The sudden approach had startled the scientist, but yet he did not leave. Was she that interesting to look at? Merrifield continued to stare with her beady, embryonic eyes, taking note of every wrinkle, every piece of hair, every detail of her captive audience.

She began to smear her hand aganist the viewport, leaving ugly streaks of red with her hemorrhaging hands. She saw the scientist jump back a bit, his pupils dilating at the gross show she put on. Merrifield took delight of the quick, instinctual retching of the scientist. At least, she still got his attention. Merrifield decided her performance was still not enough. She pressed her body aganist the separating wall and slowly, slowly pulled back. To the scientist's horror, bits of her body clung onto the wall like stubborn meat on the bone. The old man quickly shuddered at the fleshy mess she made, but he could not pull himself away. At all.

Merrifield decided it was time.

The old scientist started to see red. Was it just the ruined viewport or was it just him? He could not tell, but that did not matter. There was something else going on. He was getting hot, really hot. Was the air conditioner broken? Was he getting a fever? His eyes began to bulge out and he started to rapidly perspire. The general discomfort which he could tolerate quickly turned into full blown agony. The hapless Astrobiologist began to tear at his clothes in a futile attempt to relieve himself. Somehow, the heat just kept on welling up inside him! This was too much. He felt like he was going to explode.

Suddenly, he burst into flames.

A beautiful white, hot flame erupted from the old scientist, whose mouth screamed in silent agony. Merrifield watch in mild interest as the the visage of the man become more and more like a indescribable charred mess. His teeth began to crack, his tongue roasted like barbecue. His hair began to singe away into nothing. Most of all his flesh started to melt away from the extreme heat. This is definitely no ordinary fire. The flaming elder tossed around like a moth around the light, upsetting equipment and furniture. To Merrifield's luck, the scientist finally slammed onto the of the viewport, which immediately began to glow to a hot white. The mitochondrial heat from the scientist was enough to melt through the metal wall. Finally, the charred scientist expired at her feet, half covered in burns, half covered in molten metal. Truly a disgusting spectacle to behold.

Merrifield looked down at the scientist, the scent of flesh and metal wafting into her small nostrils. Then, she looked at the hole. Yes, she was free! With a skip to her step, Merrifield daintily hopped over the dead man and was so full of joy until she hear the cold click of a gun. She looked up. There was security. Armored, featureless men with high-powered firearms. Merrifield was not stupid. She knew what she was up aganist. She did not want to waste anymore energy. She wanted to escape.

She had to escape. But, at least she knew how.

Without a warning, the form of Merrifield melted into a puddle of fleshy goo. Then, she quickly slid her way into the exit. The security futilely tried to shoot at her, hoping to make at least one bullet make contact with her, but alas, her speed was too much for the law enforcers to keep up. She made a tango with the law enforcement's feet and at last. She was down the hallway. Where was she going? Merrifield had no clue. However, she was free and that was that.

Ixcaliber · 05-30-2011, 01:38 AM

Originally posted on MSPA by Ixcalibur.

In a basement in a disputed area of town, an Empress dusted herself down. The room was dark and dismal, cluttered with wires and machine parts, only recognisable as such to Phere because of her excursion to the Deep Forge. She was equal parts comforted and terrified by the recent events. They proved that she wasn’t paranoid, an accusation that her guards had whispered to one another when they believed that she was not watching. While she had misidentified the source she had been correct that someone out there had been scheming against her. Though her satisfaction at this validation did not last long, despite the flowery language and the talk of sacrifices and doves she had caught onto The Spectator’s meaning, a battle to the death which only one of them would survive. She was not sure what to think about that. As a rule she did not like to have her hand forced in any situation and to be placed into a situation completely alien to her against her will should have been incredibly distasteful. But she was as a god, a wielder of the power of the creators themselves, surely no matter what the opposition she was fated to prevail, the Spectator seemed to agree with her upon this point. She was conflicted, and so seating herself upon a pile of mechanical parts for lack of anything more suitable she opened her eye.

In the Shining Kingdom all was as it had been before she had left, this Phere supposed was to be expected, she had been alone inside her chambers when she had been taken and she had not had anything scheduled for the day. Guards, heavily armed with back-engineered weaponry taken from the Deep Forge, stood in front of her private chambers guarding exactly nothing. It almost made her laugh, the amount of time she had wasted setting up security which when push had come to shove had amounted to exactly nought. Phere shifted her attention, away from her kingdom that did not at the moment warrant her attention. Her view focused back on the room full of eyes from which she had been so recently expelled. Inside she saw The Spectator sat back, relaxed upon one of the empty chairs, and a plain looking man in a grey suit stood nearby, silently observing. Phere watched for a minute or so, The Spectator did little other than observe through the eyes that lined the walls as they blinked through her competitors. Then suddenly The Spectator rose out of her chair and walked, though perhaps scuttled was a more apt word, over to the spot from wherein Phere was watching. For a moment Phere did not react as the Spectator’s face, that part of it not obscured by her constantly flowing hair, filled her vision. She was so accustomed to being an observer, watching from the sidelines; intangible to all that she saw that she did not immediately recognise that this was not the case with The Spectator. Phere tried to look elsewhere, to pull away, but pain shot across her face, coming directly from her Hollow, as though someone were gripping it with sharp metal fingers.
“Why do you watch me, my dove?” She asked. “Surely your attention should be on your fellow sacrifices? After all what use is it to you to watch someone who is only spectating?” She paused. “Let me be clear, my dove; do not watch me. Turn your eye to me again and I will take it from you.”

And with that her sight snapped back to the tiny basement where she actually was. Above her head she could hear the sound of footsteps, people hurrying around. Phere supposes she might have screamed out in pain when The Spectator seized control of her sight, and that this might have alerted whoever was nearby that there was someone in their basement. She looked into the room above and saw individuals with high-tech weaponry, alarmingly coloured hair and limbs made from machinery. They were standing at the door that she speculated lead down to the room in which she was currently stuck; one of them leant against it, one hand upon the handle, the other upon the butt of a fancy high-tech pistol. He counted down; three, two one and they burst through the door, flooding the basement with light and illuminating the empress; paralysed with indecision.

Pick Yer Poison · 05-30-2011, 05:10 AM

Originally posted on MSPA by Pick Yer Poison.

[color=#0000FF]Klendel picked himself up from the grimy alley he had been dropped in. He had the strangest feeling of d

SleepingOrange · 05-31-2011, 06:09 AM

Originally posted on MSPA by SleepingOrange.

The High Magus of Flow found herself in a grimy, soot-stained alleyway, littered with garbage and sporting an unconscious (or possibly dead) hobo a few yards from where she'd arrived. It was her first time encountering poverty, and she dealt with it surprisingly well; it was also her first time encountering interplanar travel or battles to the death, but she handled those realities with similar aplomb. She drew herself up to her full height and clutched her staff. This is what you were raised for. The culmination of your life's ambitions and purpose. For the first time, you are truly alive.

Uncertain of where her adversaries may have been lurking, but certain their presence would become obvious in a city where they clearly had no business (especially if they began fighting each other or the citizens), she simply swept along the alley towards the street. As she approached what had appeared to be several large piles of garbage, two of the piles stood up, brandishing knives and leering.

One opened his mouth, intent on making smarmy comments and demanding money in what he surely thought was a roundabout and cheekily-endearing way. He got a few syllables out; Cascala uttered a few less-understandable syllables of her own, and mugger number one's open mouth gagged and retched. After a moment, copious amounts of blood began flowing out of his mouth, eyes, and nose, and he clutched ineffectually at his throat, collapsing to his knees. His companion's face was suffused with an expression of revulsion and horror, and he took a few steps back, apparently having a hard time deciding between lunging and fleeing; with a gesture from the woman, the blood that was rapidly pooling around the first thief's feet rose into the air and flowed eerily towards mugger number two's head, surrounding it with a dark, ichorous sphere. He tried to scream, succeeding only in sending bubbles through the blood, and swatted at the liquid. Cascala hefted her staff and struck him across the shins, eliciting a resounding crack, and he collapsed to the ground with his erstwhile companion.

The pair thrashed for a few more moments, but the mage payed them little heed; she simply stepped over them, carefully gathering her robes to prevent any inconvenient blood from clinging to the hem, and continued moving through the alley towards the street, leaving her would-be attackers to respectively exsanguinate and drown.

As she entered the comparative light of what appeared to be some sort of main thoroughfare, a thought occurred to her. Why, she mused, am I intent on confronting the others directly? Her sandaled feet thumped lightly against the street in counterpoint to the clang of her staff as she walked. I suppose I assumed based off the vague prophecy that the competition would be more... Direct. More localized. Prepared myself for that. She was distracted for a moment by a flickering lightpost before continuing her internal musing. And while a head-on attack has the greatest chance of success with the minimum of collateral damage, what do I care if a city of meaningless ghosts is destroyed?

Coming to a decision, Cascala stopped where she stood and looked around; another nearby alley looked promising. She slipped in, and the moonlight that filtered in through the smog was just enough to confirm what she had hoped. A tarnished brass ladder was attached to the wall to her left, and she began scaling it. A few moments later, she was on the roof, drawing a small pouch of pigment out of a sleeve. A few moments after that, she had several large diagrams, ringed with elegant sigils, traced out on the roof where she was confident no-one would tread and disrupt them.

She grinned to herself and approached the edge of the roof. The spell would take some time to cast and a while after that to take effect, but it would essentially cast itself, and she certainly had time. She muttered a few words to herself and stepped off the roof, feet held up by a cushion of vapor, and began striding across the air. Above, high, dark clouds began slowly forming, roiling in an unseen wind.

Ixcaliber · 05-31-2011, 12:05 PM

Originally posted on MSPA by Ixcalibur.

The first one down had short spiky black hair, a face full of stubble, half of which had been replaced with dull grey metal. His left eye was a perfectly circular red light, a robotic eye. He wore a filthy green jacket and sneered at the Empress in the half-light. The two behind him were different yes, but they all had the same style to them, metal body parts, untidy hair, dirty clothing. All three held their weapons with a casual confidence suggesting that this kind of thing was pretty commonplace and that they would not hesitate to shoot.
“What are you supposed to be?” The one in front asked. “You’re dressed like a Regency Dame, but the eyepatch says one of Roger’s Jolly Boys.” Phere did not hurry with her response. She thought about using her magic to disable and kill these three, but that would likely lead down a path of mindless confrontation. Plus it had been a while since she had used her magic, and at gunpoint was not the optimal time to try her luck. Instead she opted for a diplomatic approach.
“I am Empress Phere.” She responded. “I am not affiliated with any gang in this city. I wish to join yours.”
“You want to be a Cyber Punk?” The first cyborg laughed. “You hear that guys. The ‘Empress’ here thinks she’s one of us?!” Empress Phere, calmly reached up and removed her eyepatch, revealing the smooth black surface of the Hollow.
“I’d wager my ‘implant’ is more effective than yours.” Phere grinned smugly. The laughter stopped abruptly as they viewed the Empress’s shining black eye. “Tell me what you want and I can tell you where it is.”
“This is a wind-up right?” The lead cyborg asked. “Nice eye, obviously, that’s some pretty cool tech you have there, but you can’t just pluck information out of thin air.”
“Try me.” Phere strolled confidently towards the cyborgs, they had as a response to Phere unveiling her Hollow let their guards down. As she approached the back pair guns raised their guns threateningly. “There’s really no need for that.” Phere assured them. “I’m like you guys, a little better dressed but that’s neither here nor there. Even if I wanted to hurt you, I’m unarmed, see.” Phere held her hands out as if to ask where exactly in this dress would she have a weapon?
“Okay.” The first cyborg says. “The Stolen Tome, where is it?” Phere looked, and the cyborgs looked on as purple images ran across her Hollow, faster and smaller than they could follow.
“In a castle, in a laboratory.” Phere said. “Doctor Matic has it.” The first cyborg scowled uncertainly, in retrospect this had not been a very good question for assessing credibility.
“I guess it could be possible…” He said uncertainly. He hesitated for a moment and then grinned. “Okay if you want me to believe you, tell me where the detective and science fiction bookmarks are.” A slight pause, as Phere looked. They were locked securely in a safe on the floor above. The room they were in was huge and partially filled with crates; most surfaces were lined with tools, or surgical implements, though one table, large enough to lay someone on, was empty. Another part of the room was lined with banks of computers illuminating the room with a low green light. A man who was more machine than man, sat behind them scrutinising the data presented upon them and occasionally a rapid staccato battering of keys as he saw something that needed to be corrected.
“They’re upstairs,” Phere said, “in the safe, in the workshop.” Through her hollow Phere saw a cyborg running into the workshop and reporting to the man behind the computers that Byte had heard movement in the basement and taken Tek and Abys down to check it out. Phere’s expression changed and she proceeded to walk straight past the clearly stunned cyborg that had long since abandoned the pretext of holding her at gunpoint.
“How did you know?” He asked. “Nobody apart from us Punks know that. We’ve got the rest of the town convinced The Screaming Eagles have got them.”
“My tech is just that good, Byte.” Phere said. “Now if you’ll excuse me I’m going to go and talk to Mr Zaibotsu about joining the gang. I wish you had told me that you weren’t in charge sooner, you could have saved us both some effort.”

Phere made her way through the warehouse as though she had lived there all her life, with the three cyborgs following her like her personal vanguard. Arriving in the workshop she offered a demonstration of her abilities to a very intrigued Zaibotsu, whose misgivings had been calmed when Byte and the others had assured him that she was the real deal. Reluctantly Zaibotsu offered Phere a deal, that he would let her join the gang if she would help them claim the Stolen Tome from Dr Matic’s Group of Scientiflic Inclined Professionals. Phere asked whether the others would mind stepping out of the room while she had a negotiation with Mr. Zaibotsu. They did so, leaving Phere stood on one side of the surgical table, Zaibotsu on the other.
“I must say Miss Phere-”
“Empress Phere.” The Empress interrupted.
“Sorry, Empress Phere,” Zaibotsu continued. “I must say that you will not find a better offer than what is on the table. The streets of this city can be hard and there’s not many gangs that would take the time to listen to you. I don’t believe that a person of your obvious breeding would last five minutes in this cesspool of a city. This is a good offer and you should take it.”
“Mr Zaibotsu.” Phere responded. “I’m going to make you an offer. You do exactly as I say and I let you live, and I even let you stay in charge of the gang. It’s a figurehead position with no actual decision making responsibilities but it is better than being dead I would imagine.” Zaibotsu scowled, slamming his mechanical hands down upon the table, with a resounding clank of metal hitting metal.
“Perhaps you do not believe how serious I am.” Zaibotsu replied. “I will have the information from you whether you like it or not. You can either be part of the gang or I will have you subdued and extract the information from you by force. It is your choice ‘Empress’, do not be stupid about this.”
“I’m sorry that it had to come down to this.” Phere said regretfully. Suddenly electricity flowed through her hands, and into the table upon which they rested. Zaibotsu was thrown back as the electricity flowed into him, sending him crashing into the unmarked crates. Phere walked around the surgical table to where Zaibotsu had come to rest. She reached down and grabbed his arms, his eyes slowly opened just long enough to see her frown in concentration. Electricity flowed into him, her grip was strong and he was unable to pull away, he had nowhere to go. Within seconds his circuitry was fried and the systems that kept him alive were crashing. He died. Phere straighted up and turned around to see a group of cyborgs pouring into the room, Byte at the forefront of them. They stopped in their tracks when they saw their leader dead at the hands of this woman.
“What happened?” Byte asked.
“Management dispute.” Phere explained. “You work for me now. Does anyone have a problem with that?”
It turned out nobody had a problem with that.

Akumu · 06-01-2011, 10:43 PM

Originally posted on MSPA by Akumu.

With a small pop, Dr. Melissa Harmon appeared in the nameless city. She stumbled slightly and her hiking-boot-clad foot splashed into the sickly stream of grayish water flowing down the center of the alleyway she now found herself in. She cursed reflexively and then let out a small laugh, tinged with a bit of mania. Not only was she taken against her will to compete in a battle to the death, but now her boot was wet!

An insistent tone drew her attention to the probe/display unit in her right hand. Before being plucked out of her life by the being calling itself the Spectator, she had been taking measurements of multiversal resonances in the field, and now the digital readout was indignantly displaying “SIGNAL OUT OF RANGE.” Harmon thumbed the sensitivity down an increment, then another. She frowned and rolled the wheel downwards. At a mind-numbingly high input range, the message finally disappeared, to be replaced with a rapidly dancing Fourier spectrum of the local resonances. A whole tangle of alternate worlds were only a hyperdimensional stone's throw away. It was like no spectral distribution she had seen before, the lack of attenuation of signal strength with increased detuning implying a whole manifold of different world-lines equally far from this one but all radically different from each other. Harmon flicked a stylus out of the side of the probe, scribbled “not natural!” on the screen, and saved the trace. In spite of herself, she was beginning to get excited. Battle or no, she had been plunked down in a scientific goldmine.

It was then that she noticed the small signal spike at the lowest extremities of the frequency range. Something that far away should be completely indistinguishable at this low sensitivity, but there it was. Her thumb danced over the keypad, zooming in on and isolating the low-frequency spike. Centered at one hertz, and a phase profile with two spikes ninety degrees apart.

ba-dum

Like a heartbeat...

ba-dum

ba-dum

ba-dum

KRA-KOW

A blinding flash and a crack of thunder made Harmon jump, and she realized she had been staring emptily at the display for some time. Snap out of it, Mel!, she chastised herself. Looking up to the sliver of sky between the buildings looming above her, she saw wisps of dark grey stormclouds moving quickly overhead. A drop of rain splattered against her forehead. She took that as a cue that it was time to get a move on, and slipped the probe into its holster on the side of her backpack.

Crossing a few yards brought Harmon to the end of her alley, which teed into another, slightly larger alley. Apparently city planning had not been high on the priority list when this place was being built. This one at least seemed to have some foot-traffic, clustered around a particular and peculiar hole-in-the-wall establishment. Amongst the concrete and asphalt of the city, the hitching post, trough and saloon doors were definitely out of place, but then again so was Dr. Melissa Harmon. She steeled herself, strode up and pushed her way through the swinging doors.

The reaction was all she could have hoped for. Conversation stopped as the period-dressed inhabitants of the bar noticed her, and there was even a loud discordant squawk as the honest-to-god pianist in a bowler lost concentration on his playing. All eyes followed her as she moved to the bar, plunked down on a stool and called out “Barkeep! A scotch on the rocks, if you'd be so kind.”

The barman studiously kept polishing a glass with his back turned to her, and before she could repeat herself a rough hand fell upon her shoulder.

“Listen, missy. We don't appreciate Matic's scientiflic folks around these parts. And I'm afraid now we're going to have to send him a message.”

GBCE · 06-04-2011, 07:19 PM

Originally posted on MSPA by fluxus.

Show Content

Six. And then dark.

Six. An incessant pounding. It echoed through his bones.

Six. His fingers twitched.

Six.

No. No, there were seven, and they were moving quickly. Seven pairs, and nearly 500 feet to his left. Their footfalls were heavy; seven pairs. They were men and, if Ivan felt like being specific, they were 486 feet from where he was prone, like a cadaver, on his back.

Ivan breathed in the damp smell of the earth, his fingers lacing into heavy grass and dirt, thick strands tangling beneath his nails and between his toes. The pungent smell of wet soil was thick about him and his tongue felt swollen and dry in his mouth. There was something acrid in the air that set him at unease, something unusual.

Opening his eyes was almost a chore, he’d been so soundly asleep. Ivan found himself staring awkwardly, squinting without his glasses, at a clouded sky, still dark, the stars fighting desperately for dominance over a swiftly approaching storm. He was apparently sprawled in a field of yellowing grass that crackled when he moved. His shirt was stuck to him with a sheen of cold sweat.

It was strange. Ivan couldn’t remember falling asleep in a field. In fact, the last he’d checked, Nevada was strictly lacking in grass fields of any kind at all. And yet, here he found himself, surrounded by tall fronds that smelled of rain and sweat. And there were seven men to his left.

Sitting up with a groan, Ivan clumsily groped the surrounding area for his missing spectacles, a small frown upon his lips. He hoped they’d not been lost sometime during the night, or whatever journey had brought him here… But no, here they were, and in good shape, too- not even a scratch to the lenses. But his hands faltered as he brought his glasses to his eyes. All at once, it seemed, the events of the previous night flooded his brain. He could see the luminescent glow of Las Vegas, lights all around. Then, as if from no where, he’d been pulled down, down… as though dragged by his naval into a deep pit where She’d been waiting. The Spectator.

Ivan pinched the bridge if his nose, eyes rammed shut behind his glasses, and breathed in deeply. Things had certainly taken an interesting turn. He cracked open a glassy gaze and turned it to his surroundings.

Rather than grass, great fronds of some unknown plant sprung from the ground around him, tapered ferns that were so thick he could see nothing through their woven masses; their furry tops ended a good six inches above his head. Ivan found himself in a small clearing, the ferns folded carefully beneath him. He gripped the ground uncertainly, as though to verify that it was truly there, for where he sat had been neatly carved into a circle. His eyes narrowed. If his judgment was correct, his body looked to be its diameter.

Sitting barefoot, his knees drawn up, Ivan could hear nothing but the walking men and the rustle of an incessant breeze through the field. He stared down at the webbing of grass beneath him and broke a few sun-dried fronds between his fingers. There were no bugs crawling there. Strange.

Suddenly Ivan heard a dry sort of crunch as something solid fell into the grasses. Two of the men were very close now. Ivan saw a dark and twisted hunk of metal fly through the air and land, with another sound crunch, in the sea of grass to his left. It had not been heavy enough to break through the fronds and instead was left to lay in a canopy of grass. Ivan’s body stiffened into a crouch as his instincts kicked in.

“Alls I’m sayin’ is that I don’t see any more reasons to keep sendin’ us out here when it’s pretty fuckin’ clear all’s left are some nasty rotters and a few bits of this junk,” one man said as another piece of machinery was thrown into the grassland. It landed , hard, a few inches from where Ivan was crouched. The men were no more than five feet in front of him now, their voices only slightly muffled by the grass. Their footfalls were loud as ever- as though on hard, solid ground- so the field couldn’t end any more than a few feet in front of him.

The second man began to speak, his accent slightly unusual just like his friend‘s. “You know it’s what we signed up for; in the job description plain as day, wouldn’t you think?” A pause. “What, you thought we’d be part of his gang, glorified, and all that? Might as well be the cleaning crew, you and I, so- hey! Stop throwing those!”

Ivan frowned slightly as the two men walked past where he sat, hidden. He was having a hard time deciding whether or not to feel relieved. On the one hand, it was fairly obvious that, whoever these two non-soldiers were looking for, it was not him. Or at least they weren’t working for Ninian. Ivan smiled slightly at that. James would’ve had their necks by now, he was sure. He touched the pen where it hung innocently from the collar of his shirt.

On the other hand, however, he was in a completely foreign location and, if his memory served, he’d been thrust into… what, another universe? In order to participate in a fight to the death? It appeared his life was a valuable commodity, seeing as he was wanted dead in the two universes he was currently aware of. Ivan had to bite his lip to keep from laughing and, not for the first time, questioned his sanity.

“…but what d’you suppose he’s after, anyways? Scouring over this junk? Because it ain‘t the dead, I can tell you that.” The two non-soldiers had changed their course and had doubled back towards Ivan‘s hole in the grass.

“I say were lucky not to have found nothing, so quit with the questions, eh?” Soldier number two was clearly exasperated. Ivan thought he sounded very sensible.

It was then that Ivan turned his eyes to the small piece of black machinery where it lay within his circle, frayed wires sticking out from a melted end. He picked it up gingerly, turned it over in his hands, felt the dull spark of mechanized life still pulsing within it. Emblazoned on one side was a small logo in red and white. Dr Matic’s Mechanical Wares. Ivan’s brow furrowed. The non-soldiers were directly in front of him now. He stood with more energy than he’d intended, his back to the men and the ruined husk of metal still clutched in his hands.

One of the non-soldiers let out a small cry at his sudden appearance. “What the hell you doing?!”

Ivan swiveled to face them, the dried grass crackling noisily beneath his feet. The grass grew to the top of his ribs and there was not two feet of it between them. The two men were, indeed, dressed the part of soldiers, with heavy vests and boots. They couldn’t have been older than thirty and the circles under their sallow eyes were deep. Shocks of brightly-colored hair stuck out at all angles from beneath their helmets. A few miles behind them a great city blotted out the sky, war torn, a dark smoking hulk that marred the night.

Ivan swallowed his uncertainties and plastered on the cheekiest smile he could muster. “Evening boys,” he said, his eyes never leaving their faces. He could see something in his peripheral vision that looked suspiciously like an arm- and only an arm. His smile brightened and he hoped they did not detect the strain.

“Oi! You! What were you- how’d-” the first non-soldier spluttered, his eyes darting between Ivan and the grass field from which he’d miraculously appeared in what had to be disbelief. The second man kindly interpreted his friend’s fractured thoughts.

“I command you to state your name and business here, “ he said, reciting a blank speech he’d clearly memorized. His eyes betrayed nothing but the fingers on his left hand clenched slightly.

Ivan took a moment to observe his surroundings more thoroughly. The field was littered with massive pieces of mangled machinery and- to Ivan’s utter horror- the remains of a few soldiers, as well. As quickly as it had appeared, his smile was gone and he looked down at the metal bit in his hands. Dr Matic’s Mechanical Wares…

His eyes locked with the second man‘s. “I think it’s pretty obvious how I got here,” he said, his voice quiet but confident, a fake strength masking the roiling of his stomach. The mechanized husk in his hands had given him a spark of inspiration. “And as for my name… are either of you familiar with Matic?”

The second non-soldier nodded his compliance while the first‘s thick eyebrows furrowed as his mouth twisted into a slight frown. “Aye, o’ course.” He nodded at Ivan pointedly with his chin. “What’re you playin’ at?”

Ivan sincerely smiled at that. It seemed they took his statement to be facetious. Perfect.

He tossed Dr Matic‘s device to the first man who‘d spoken and said simply: “Matic’s my father.”

Dragon Fogel · 06-04-2011, 11:31 PM

Originally posted on MSPA by Dragon Fogel.

Show Content

Ixcaliber · 06-05-2011, 01:37 AM

Originally posted on MSPA by Ixcalibur.

Empress Phere stood at the head of the table, surveying her newly won parliament. She had been very lucky, plucked straight from one position of authority and deposited into another. Admittedly she was in charge of a small time gang of punks, and her so called parliament was taking place around a surgical table with which she had just killed their previous leader. It wasn’t exactly ideal but it was better than shivering in the street. Her parliament consisted of five cyborgs; all the people that were on the premises in fact. Though according to Byte, who had seemingly appointed himself liaison and second in command, they had plenty more people out on the streets. Byte was obviously there, her right hand man (apparently) standing at her right hand (literally), also present was Tek and Abys, who scant minutes before had been holding her at gunpoint, a girl with a robotic spine and a shock of electric blue hair called Syn and a heavily scarred behemoth of a man called Levi. According to Byte; Tek did the tech (makes sense), Abys was all about the special ops, Syn was the gang surgeon and Levi was security.
“So, first order of business.” Empress Phere began, “I hear that we have been expending most of our energies into searching for this Stolen Tome. I am given to understand that so is every other gang in this town, and I can personally tell you that there are seven new players in town who will be looking to get their hands on this tome as well.” She paused. “I thereby posit that we should stop looking for the Stolen Tome immediately because that situation is about to turn into a serious clusterfuck.” She paused and looked at the gathered cyborgs. They seemed a little disappointed (they were really looking forward to when the entire city was Cyberpunk) but they didn’t seem contemptuous. “Instead what we should be doing is leaking information to all the other local gangs, tell them where the Tome is and let them fight amongst themselves for it. Byte, that’s your job. Try to leak it subtly so they don’t know it’s us feeding them the info but by the end of the hour I want every lowlife in this city at that castle. Abys, you’re reconnaissance, get to the castle, get footage of the Tome and get out. I hear you have stealth implants that completely camouflage you, so that’s what you should go with. Under no circumstances engage the enemy. We might need that footage to convince some of the more reluctant gangs. Levi, we need to tighten up security round here, there’s certain people that if they find out that I’m here they might come after me. I’m not keen to find out.” Phere paused to consider if there was anything she had not covered. “Okay, that’s it I guess.” The assembled cyborgs began to disperse, rushing off to carry out the tasks she had assigned them.

Shortly Phere found herself alone in the workshop, Tek had been in and provided her with a high-tech radio thing. Rather embarrassingly he had had to explain what the thing in question was and how to work it. This was the major technological discrepancy that Phere was finding at the moment, that pieces of technology that would be considered simple to these people would have been baffling incomprehensible to her own, but yet she had seen the technologies of the Deep Forge, machines such as would make these look as primitive as a nail hammered through a board. With her feet up on the desk in front of her, Phere clicked the radio on and listened to a report from a Punk who had successfully managed to leak the information to The Good Bad Uglies. As she did so she watched him, walking down the haystrewn streets of the Western Quarter. There was a couple more reports of successful leaks to various dangerous gangs, with confirmations that said gangs were heading towards the castle, when there was another message entirely.
“Hi! Hello! Hi! People? Hi!” The voice was computerised, dull and monotone and yet there was something about it that sounded almost melodious. Either way the message was incongruous enough that it warranted further investigation. Phere viewed the sender; in a cold grey corridor in front of a pair of heavy elevator doors four people, if you could call them people, were in the middle of a discussion and there was a little machine trundling around in haphazard circles seemingly indifferent to the conversation that was going on. What was going on here? Why was she getting messages from this random collection of weirdoes stuck in the middle of the most monotone place she had ever seen? She listened in for a moment; the gist of the conversation seemed to be that the guy with the green skin and the whole mess of shit on his back wanted out of some tournament or something and supported usurping the host, while the others were not so keen. It took her a moment to figure it out, but when she did she snapped back to reality instantly. They were in another of these battles. She hit the button to send a message but got only noisy static for her trouble. She leapt up out of her chair and rushed off to try and find Tek; she had to communicate with these people. It was imperative she find out the extent of what was going on here.

Godbot · 06-11-2011, 04:43 AM

Originally posted on MSPA by Godbot.

Sir Cedric set his glass down hard.

“But jus' as I get back to Haorot with the head of Horgark, the Beast with No Name,” he continued, complaining in the barkeeper's general direction, “this weird eyeless monsterbitch appears in th' middle of everything.”

The barkeeper nodded disinterestedly. He took off his cowboy hat and scowled over his shoulder at Dr. Harmon stepping into his saloon.

“An' I figure she's Horgark's mother or sum'thing, maybe come for revenge, right?” he folded his enormous arms on the table, completely ignoring the barkeeper and staring into the inch of dark liquid left in his glass. “But then she just sweeps me up in one wing, saying not to worry, she's like a dove o' peace.” The bartender reached for the glass to refill it, but Cedric pulled it away and paused to down the rest. “An' everyone's cel'bratin' an' she might be an angel and no one knows what to do, so they just stand there gaping while she pulls me into... wherever.” He wiped bitter liquid from his mouth with the back of his gauntlet, cutting his lip a little. He carelessly examined the blood on his hand and reached across the counter for a bandana-print napkin. The bartender refilled his glass, keeping his eyes on the scientist as he moved to step around the counter.

“An' the next thing I know, she's throwin' herself on top of me, an' she's introducin' me to some women an' children and monsters she expects me to kill. Crazy bitch could've just asked me,” he muttered, taking a sip. The alcohol touched his open cut, burning into it, and he very nearly spat his drink out. He covered his mouth, clearly shaken. “An' now I'm here,” he growled, “in some town I've never heard of, with no food or money, drinkin' Valthen-knows-what an' tryin' to remember who I'm even supposed to kill-”

“Pardon me, sir,” interrupted the barkeeper with a bit of a forced southern drawl. “Did you just say you don't have any money?” His moustache twitched quizzically.

Cedric blinked.

He raised a fingertip to his lip, checking if it was still bleeding.

The barkeeper leaned forward a bit. “Can you pay for your drinks,” he asked.

“Don't touch me!” barked a woman somewhere from behind him. Cedric looked over his enormous pauldron in time to see an auburn-haired woman using a rather largish probe to beat back the rather largerish cowboy who had been standing behind her. “Pig.”

“That wasn't, a, uh, ma'am, that wasn't, like, a sexual thing,” the cowboy assured her nervously, holding up two hands to protect his face and hat. “It was more of a get-out-of-our-saloon thing-”

Cedric's wooden barstool clattered to the floor as he stood. He hefted his enormous broadsword with one hand and balled his fist, wreathing it in flame. He sniffed.

“ROAAAAARGH!” he bellowed, stomping hard enough to crack the floorboards.

Dr. Harmon and the cowboys stared back at him, confused.

Cedric stepped forwards, widening his stance. Sigrar erupted into flames. He roared at the top of his lungs, raising his blade above his head.

One cowboy drew his revolver.

“RHAAAARGH!” Sir Cedric continued, thundering towards Dr. Harmon and her small crowd of attackers. He effortlessly shouldered a table aside and dragged his sword through the floor as he ran, carving a deep gash in the wooden boards. (Strangely, the floorboards never caught fire for more than a half-second at a time.) One cowboy fumbled to load his pistol while they scattered, leaving the physicist nearly cowering, her composure completely broken.

The sensor in her hand spiked.

Sir Cedric's armored palm slammed into her, knocking her safely out of the way and into a nearby table. With another, even excessively louder war cry, the Legendary Knight brought Sigrar down on the table between two of the cowboys, raggedly cleaving it in two. It collapsed in flames. Two shots sounded behind him, and a bullet glanced off his heavy armor. He turned slowly to face the shooter, who was swearing and trying to un-jam his authentically poor-quality revolver. Cedric held out one hand, directing a wave of intense heat at the man's unfamiliar weapon, which heated up until it was a healthy shade of orange. The man screamed and dropped the gun, which promptly started to burn a hole in the floor. As he scampered towards the door clutching the burns on his hand, Cedric carelessly upended a table onto him.

The doors to the saloon swung shut, leaving no trace of the other cowboys.

Dr. Melissa Harmon groaned, sitting up and rubbing the back of her neck. The two halves of the brittle old table dug into her back uncomfortably, and her sensor lay off to one side. Thankfully, it was still attached to her backpack by a cord – otherwise she might have lost it.

“You should get up,” Sir Cedric's off-hand advised her. She wobbled, not quite sure if she was supposed to be standing or not. As she blankly gathered up her multiple-worlds sensor, Sir Cedric gathered her up and hurried her out the door. She barely had time to look over her shoulder at the scene of spectacular wreckage and stunned patrons behind her. The saloon even looked a little bit on fire. “Wh-” she began, but Cedric hastily rounded a corner.

The bartender glared after them, his eyes fixed on the spot where Sir Cedric and Dr. Harmon had vanished from view.

Bastard didn't pay, did he.

One hand went to the bartender's cowboy hat, pulling it over his brow and straightening it. The other hand went to the shotgun behind the bar.

Ixcaliber · 06-13-2011, 11:47 PM

Originally posted on MSPA by Ixcalibur.

Abys stalked through the gardens run wild that bordered the castle; the main laboratory which the Scientiflics operated out of. It had at one point resembled a regular castle, owned by that fantasy gang that got themselves killed Abys believed. Now it had had improvements upon improvements. The most noticeable thing about the castle was that half of the brickwork had been removed, replaced with sturdy reinforced metals, the windows had been barred and the roof was littered with antennas, satellites and one very prominent retractable lightning rod, which was not up at the moment. Abys knew from experience that the roof was also crowded with generators, pumping power into the laboratories below, though they were not visible from the ground. It was an imposing sight; a mess of spires and jutting metal that gave the impression of being designed by a not quite sane mind. That the clouds above the city were dark and roiling angrily did not help the laboratory-castle look any less menacing. From her vantage point amongst a tangle of weeds and overgrown plants she could see a group of guards patrolling the premises. With a thought Abys activated her camouflage implants, anyone who had been watching her would have said that she appeared to crumble away starting at her left shoulder and then spreading throughout her body until there was nothing left, the process taking no longer than a second. Almost silently she stalked across the gravel path towards one of the walls that was more brickwork than sharp metal. The doors would be guarded, if not through some of that weird science that Matic loved then by one of the abominations against nature this lab churned out so regularly. The best way in was through the roof, it usually was. Abys raised her left arm almost vertically, closing her right eye and sighting along it. After a couple of seconds of aiming, a miniature grapping hook shot out of her cybernetic arm, latching onto an outcrop of metal and with another thought it retracted, pulling her to the roof.

Abys wasn’t really what you would call socially gifted, most of the Punks avoided conversation with her simply on principle. She had that nickname for a reason, the reason being that talking to her was like ‘staring into the abyss’ and that no matter how much time and effort you put into trying to communicate with her the most you could expect to get back as a blank stare or a cursory nod. But this, this was where she came alive. A silly grin invisibly grew across her face as she ascended the side of the building. Sneaking around, gadgets, technology, this was her passion. This was what she loved; this was what she was good at. She climbed onto the roof, checking the area for guards, or any of Matic’s freaky monsters. There were a couple of guards picking their way through the bewildering maze of technology. Abys darted from generator to generator; able to go a little faster now the sounds of her movement were masked by the continual humming of the machinery. She watched carefully assessing the guards routes and then as one neared her she vaulted clean over the machine, and came down atop the guard, her robotic hand clamped over his mouth, her other arm around the man’s neck. Flat against the floor the guard struggled to shove his invisible attacker away, or to attract attention to himself, but his feeble bangs and knocks went unheeded and Abys was on her feet again, dashing through the machinery. She brought down the next guard before he even had chance to notice that the other was gone. As she choked the life out of the struggling guard she smiled blissfully and wondered why all of life couldn’t be this simple. Finished with these two she made her way to the stairwell that would lead down into the castle proper. She paused at the doorway as she felt water in the air, turned and looked up into the sky. There was going to be one hell of a storm very soon.

Phere dashed into Tek’s room. It contained the obligatory computer screens that were everywhere in the Punks’ hideout, but also piles of unfinished machines in various states of assembly. Phere guessed, correctly as it turned out, that some of the older machines were only kept around to provide spare parts for whatever contraption he was currently working on. This being his own personal room somewhere in the back tucked away under all the unfinished devices there was a bed, though she guessed from the bags under his eyes (one real one cybernetic) that he did not sleep often and if he didn’t have to he probably wouldn’t at all. He was sat at one of the many desks in the room working on a gadget, the purpose of which Phere could not and did not care to fathom, one of his hands replaced with some kind of mechanized tool. A shelf of similar attachments, and an artificial hand on the table next to him told Phere that this was common practice. Tek turned his head silently to examine his new leader as she held up the radio he had so patiently explained to her not a quarter of an hour ago. Secretly he doubted Empress Phere was all that technically-minded and wondered whether perhaps she was fit to run the Punks at all. She’d probably turned the radio off and needed a consult on how to turn it back on again.

“I just received a communication on this device, from a being who, I am pretty certain, is from another world.” Phere explained. “When I tried to respond all I got was a sort of screeching noise.” Tek’s only response to this was the casual raising of a questioning eyebrow as he thought.

“Interesting.” He replied after a moment. “What you are saying is absurd of course but I trust that you would not seek to bother me with imagined problems when we have an ample selection of quite real ones to deal with.” He paused thoughtfully. “If what you are saying is true then it is no wonder that you were unable to reply. This machine does not have the capability.” Promptly another message crackled across the speakers.

“If you are hearing this, then you, too, are a victim of the whims of an enigmatic master, whom has forced you into a battle to the death with many other strange beings…” Phere observed the messenger; one Vandrel Reinhardt. He was facing a writhing monstrosity, a humanoid shape made of insects. They were in an area that reminded Phere of a dock, though more technologically advanced. Around them large vehicles moving through the air itself took off rapidly abandoning wherever it was that they were. They were engaged in conversation; the one that had identified as Vandrel upon the message lecturing the bug monster about how he had made an impact upon the world he was in and taught them the supremacy of humans; quite a difference from the good-hearted message that she had just listened to. Suddenly without warning the creature stabbed Vandrel in the heart with it’s own claw.

“Well that line of enquiry seems to be a dead end.” Phere said offhandedly. “Mr. Reinhardt has just been killed.” She added for the benefit of the man who could not see into other universes, though Tek was hardly interested in her analysis of the situation. His focus was upon the radio itself. The data that he was getting from the device making the premise that it was coming from another world pretty incontrovertible.

“I have no idea what I am looking at.” Tek said, his voice rising in bewilderment and alarm. “This is beyond me.” Another voice crackled over the radio, this one a little closer to home.

“Abys to Home Base.” Abys whispered. Phere quickly changed her view to that of her infiltrator. She could see an empty old brick corridor filled along one side with interesting but ultimately pointless scientiflic paraphernalia, while in contrast a burning torch hung it’s original brackets on the other side of the corridor. Her hollow refocused and the shape of the sneaking cyborg became visible to her.

“I’m here.” Phere replied curtly, watching Tek as he busily produced another radio from a box across the room and attempted to tune it to the frequency that Reinhardt’s message had come from.

“I’m inside the castle.” Abys said. “On the top-”

“Top floor yes I know.” Phere replied, “I’ve got you covered.” She began to relay directions through the twisting chambers of the laboratory/castle watching Abys’ progress with one eye and watching Tek’s bewilderment with the other.

Abys followed the instructions, moving quickly from abandoned corridors like the one she had been in to those that clearly resembled the laboratory that this place was; sterile white tiles and long windows into rooms filled with awful genetic aberrations. She had had to go barefoot, the clacking of her shoes against the tiled floor too loud to be ignored. She greatly appreciated Phere’s advice, this was the kind of tactical support that an assassin could only dream of; clear and precise information about where to go, any upcoming threats that were approaching her. She was making excellent progress until Phere suddenly said that something had come up and left her unassisted. After a moment of trepidation, finding herself this deep in the Scentiflics laboratories without some kind of guide, Abys reasoned that she had been doing this for years without the aid of an all-seeing eye and she was not about to start needing one now.

Tek had managed to attune the radio to the correct frequency and the messages had started pouring in, each one a new viewpoint and a new world to look out upon. It seemed from the content within the messages that there were many of these battles like the one Phere found herself in running throughout the multiverse. She felt adrift in the sea of information that was pouring in from every person she observed, there was one thing that she knew for sure; like she had seized control of these Punks upon arrival she wanted to seize control of these people, of this 'Network'.

“What do you need me to do in order that you can communicate with these people?” Phere demanded. Tek paused, scratching at his stubble as he contemplated.

“There is perhaps one thing that we could do…” He said. “But we would need the Stolen Tome.” Phere clicked the radio back on.

“Abys.” She said. “Bring the tome back to us. I have a use for it now.”

Pick Yer Poison · 06-14-2011, 06:24 AM

Originally posted on MSPA by Pick Yer Poison.

The shopkeeper stormed out of the saloon, hat waving dramatically in the increasing wind. Rain began to fall, dampening his wide-brimmed hat. He looked up from underneath it at the rapidly vanishing figures of Cedric and Melissa. "Not yet," he whispered to himself. "First, I must gather my posse. Then...we ride." He turned back, heading deeper into the western section of the town. After he turned the corner, a shadow peeled itself off the wall, red eyes opening and then rolling sarcastically. What a drama whore. Klendel snuck along the wall towards the saloon doors, moving to peek under them. This shouldn't be too hard, as long as left me a few bodies. I just hope there's not anyone left in--SHIT. He pulled his head back from the door into the relative darkness, face still stinging from the brightness of the room. How did he manage to set everything on fire?

Klendel drew away from the doors and back into the concealing shadows. He knew without a doubt that he couldn't do what he had planned in such a bright environment; it would just sap too much strength out of him. I've got to put that out somehow. He glanced up at the gathering storm clouds, considering for a moment the possibility of carting water in to put out the fire, but the idea struck him as mundane, and he discarded it immediately. He preferred to choose the less obvious solutions; it made it harder for others to follow his logic, and doing so had saved enough of his schemes to be worth the extra effort it sometimes required. That, and it was usually much more fun.

Klendel slid up the wall of the saloon, his gear the only thing marking his progress. He quickly reached the top of the one-story building, flowing over the edge of the flat roof and reforming into a humanoid figure. He made a show of dusting himself off, little wisps of shadow spinning away from him and floating to the ground, where they slid back into his feet. From the descriptions the Spectator--Klendel just barely avoided stumbling forward as another memory threatened to overwhelm him. He spent a few moments pushing it back until it subsided, wondering again why such ancient thoughts swirled up from the depths of his mind whenever he thought about that woman. Lightning clashed above him, and he jumped slightly. It wasn't like him to get lost in thought like that. He shrugged it off; no time to chastise himself for what was already done. He knelt down on the top of the roof, the fingers of one of his hands lengthening steadily into claws. He began cutting his way through the ceiling, and was delighted to find that it was only half an inch thick. He began cutting through the entire thing in a rectangle, approximately following the border of the roof, but almost a foot away from the edge.

It wasn't long before the obvious happened, and with an enormous CRACK the roof collapsed inwards. Klendel leaped back onto the nearly-a-foot-long ledge he had left himself, balancing himself with inhuman ease, and watched the weight of the section of the roof that had fallen quickly drag the rest down, until it was hanging by one side, broken in several places from its own weight. Klendel shook his head mockingly. "How poorly designed." He hopped down, causing the roof to buckle slightly just from the addition of his own weight, small as it was. The rain had made short work of the fires in open end of the saloon, and any that were still remaining were blocked by the fallen ceiling. Klendel almost clapped his hands with delight when he saw an untouched body in the corner, the blood beneath it mingling with the rainwater; it couldn't be more perfect.

He walked over and dragged the corpse to one side, then plunged a claw into it, scratching around inside a little, pulling it out when it was covered in blood. He moved it over to the wall and slowly began to ink out a short phrase on the wall. It wasn't long before he stepped back to study his work, licking the remaining liquid from his claw. "SIR CEDRIC THE VALIANT SENDS HIS REGARDS" was scrawled across the wall in the man's blood, protected from the rain by the small ledge Klendel had left hanging onto the edge of the ceiling. He put his unclawed hand up to his chin thoughtfully. "A brilliant piece, presenting a subtle viewpoint of the world at large in a manner easily visible by all...the artist's message could be clearer if he added one final touch." He advanced on the corpse of the man, which he had propped up in a sitting position against the wall, beneath the words, his legs resting on the broken ceiling. With a rapid slashing motion, he cut open the man's chest, leaving his entrails, already cut into several pieces from Klendel's efforts to gather his paint, to spill out onto his lap in a bloody mess. Klendel stepped back, again licking the blood off his claws before proceeding. "Brilliant! Now it's a true masterpiece." He slipped out the saloon doors and melted back into the shadows, leaving his message to be uncovered by the next unfortunate patron who wanted a western-style drink.

GBCE · 06-14-2011, 01:05 PM

Originally posted on MSPA by fluxus.

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Storm clouds were forming overhead, a dark and ominous mass brooding above the nameless city toward which they were headed. Sitting, jostled, in the back seat of a rather grisly looking three-wheeled vehicle, Ivan Norst stared bleakly up at an inky sky, the stars now completely swallowed by purple clouds. Narrow windows stretched like gills along the length of the vehicle and through them Ivan could see two of the men that rode, on horseback, before them. The stench of oil and burning plastic permeated the air.

It couldn’t have taken more than an hour to reach the city walls after Ivan, under the guise of the young son of one Dr Matic, had met his current escort, seven men of varying ages who made up a sadly dressed motley crew. Two of the mustachioed men wore cowboy hats while another was decked from head to foot in medieval armor. None of them proved to be of particularly striking intelligence. The first two not-soldiers (as he’d taken to calling them) he’d had the pleasure of meeting sat in the front seats of the vehicle in which he currently rode. Looking as though they’d been freshly released from the set of a science fiction B movie, they bickered amongst themselves with a familiar ease. They weren’t actually soldiers, as Ivan had been quick to pick up on, but more of multi-genre themed gang that seemed to have dealings with this strange doctor. And if Ivan was honest, they seemed to be entirely comprised of outcasts. They’d elected to escort him to Matic on the odd chance that he was, in fact, the doctor’s ward and thought it too great a risk to leave him in the midst of a battlefield. Ivan was still surprised at how easily they’d accepted his lie.

They were deep within the city’s western quarter now, their space age means of transport strikingly out of place amongst buildings that looked to belong in the old west. Ivan half expected Clint Eastwood to jump out from behind one of the shops, pistol in hand and poncho ‘round his shoulders, but the streets were all but deserted. Thunder rolled in the sky and a lone tumble weed blew pitifully across the dirt road as the rain began to fall. It was nearly a half an hour later that they saw it.

What remained of an old saloon lay smoking in a heap before them, its roof caved in while small licks of flame still thrived amongst its ruin despite the rain. One of the horses reared in fright as the company of not-soldiers came to a halt.

“What the-” one of the men in the front seat began, but his exclamation was drowned out as the doors of the vehicle opened with a clamor of mechanical whirring. He turned around after exchanging a few quiet words with his partner and addressed Ivan directly.

“You,” the man began awkwardly, gesturing wildly with his hands. “You should…. Well. You should stay put. Here. We won’t be long. No need to worry.” He finished with a nod and made to follow his partner toward the smoking ruins. Ivan raised an eyebrow at his retreating form and mused that the supposed gang members appeared to be a good deal more frightened than he was. It didn’t take more than a moment before he was following them to the scene.

The doorframe to the saloon had, amazingly, been left standing and it was almost comical how the not-soldiers made to walk through it, despite the fact that much of the wall had either burned or crumbled away. Ivan followed them inside, raindrops smattering his shirt and blurring the lenses of his glasses. The water’s cold turned his skin to gooseflesh.

“-to be the work of some of the science fiction folk, I’d deem,” said the not-soldier dressed like a medieval knight in a flamboyant drawl. One of the cowboys held his hat over his heart, his eyes downcast. Six men had clustered in a semi circle within the saloon. Dust clouded up from the rubble on which they stood and hovered about their feet while bits of the wall continued to crumble to the floor.

“Now wait just a minute,” exclaimed the man who’d given Ivan orders to stay in the vehicle, clearly outraged by the knight’s proclamation. Ivan inched around them as they began to argue, taking care to step gingerly through the debris with his bare feet. There were many dead here, maybe fourteen, their corpses littered throughout the saloon haphazardly. Three still lived, he could feel their heartbeats through the floor, faint but steady. And he could feel the weight of the dead man around which the not-soldiers were crowded before he could see him. Or smell him.

The corpse over which his escort was arguing had been brutally mutilated. Gutted and torn, the body lay strewn against one of the collapsing walls, above it scrawled in a dark crust of blood, “SIR CEDRIC THE VALIANT SENDS HIS REGARDS”. One of them had been here, Ivan could feel it. Another contestant. And judging by the state of the corpse, they were still close.

The sight was grisly but grotesquely fascinating, and Ivan found himself unable to look away out of a combination of horror and utter shock. The man’s entrails spilled out over his belt where an old fashioned pistol was slung. Ivan’s fingers twitched and, after eyeing each of the present not-soldiers to make sure they were deep in the argument, he snatched it from the man’s holster. The smell that assaulted Ivan then was almost more than he could bear, and he covered his nose and mouth with his shirt in a vain attempt to keep himself from dry-heaving. He tucked the pistol into the waistband of his jeans not a moment too soon.

“Gentlemen!“ shouted the seventh and final not-soldier as he stepped into the saloon. He was dressed like a detective from the 1940s and had painted his exposed skin grey so that it appeared he’d stepped straight out of an old black and white movie. The bits of pink flesh that had been uncovered by the rainwater were all that gave him away. “Useless argument does nothing for us. You know what we‘ve been hired to do so I suggest you act the professionals Matic took you for. Unless you‘d rather I remind you.” He swept aside his coat to reveal the gun that hung at his belt, it’s barrel long and ugly. This man was clearly the group’s commander and Ivan was slightly impressed at the way he dominated their attention. Their bickering had ceased immediately when he’d spoken up.

“Qyp, Asus,” he said, “continue to escort young Mr Matic here to his father’s workshop.” He nodded to Ivan, apparently the only person to have noticed him. The man called Asus’ eyes widened to find Ivan standing behind him while Qyp nodded and murmured a quick “Yessir!”

“And the rest of you lot are staying with me,” the detective began. “We scour the place, you know the drill.” And with that his posse set to work.

Asus grabbed Ivan by the shoulder and muttered, “Back to the car with ye” but Ivan held his ground. “There are three survivors,” he said, addressing the detective. His voice sounded hoarse.

“C’mon, you,” Asus said but the detective held Ivan‘s eyes.

“There’s one beneath the beam there,” Ivan gestured to the far right corner of the building. “And two along the remains of the… of the bar.”

The detective nodded. “Survivors, eh?” he said, and ugly grin twisting across his face. “You heard the man!” he shouted to his crew, “Matic pays extra for the living so get on it!”

Ivan felt as though his blood had run cold.

---

The ride to Matic’s abode was a short one. Ivan watched the two men where they sat in front of him, Qyp at what he could barely compare to the wheel while Asus sat beside him and badmouthed Bartemus the knight. Only when he was certain that they were deeply engaged did he dare to remove the pistol from his jeans and the pen from the collar of his shirt. Gingerly, but with more precision than he knew any human should be capable of, he scrawled a series of symbols onto the barrel of the gun that carved themselves into the metal after they were written.

“How’d you know where those survivors were anyway?” Asus asked suddenly, turning his eyes to Ivan who quickly slipped the pistol beneath his leg. But before he had time to answer Qyp piped in as he parked the vehicle.

“We’re here. And like I said to you earlier, I says. You need to quit with the questions.”

The castle in which Matic had chosen to make his workshop reeked of a Mad Scientist; its white stone walls were unwashed and overgrown with lichen while wires hung from the roof and pored out of windows and cracks in the stonework alike. The two not-soldiers led Ivan to a parlor that at one point must have been grand. Its ceiling was high and vaulted and intricately gilded paper peeled away from the walls. Great machines buzzed and hummed throughout the room and sent off waves of current that set the hairs on the back of Ivan’s neck on end. Considering the size of the place, a fairly limited amount of people were at work within the castle’s many halls. Ivan counted twenty-seven stationed in the nearest rooms, seventeen patrolling the halls, a frenzy of motion in two separate rooms, and one feather light set of footfalls that was slinking its way from room to room, pausing here and there whenever a guard got too close. Ivan’s heart began to race as he watched her. This person, female, whoever she was, did not belong here.

One of the scientists, dressed appropriately in white lab coat and green rubber gloves, had come down to greet them after Qyp had pulled a long brocaded rope and rung a bell echoing deep within the bowels of the castle. The man had listened uninterestedly to Asus as he presented Ivan, while Ivan had held his breath, silently planning.

“Doctor Matic doesn’t have a son,” the scientist began, exasperated, after Asus concluded his tale. “Nor does he want one. Now be gone; we’ve no time for the trivialities of-” But his sentence was cut short as a gunshot rang through the hall; his body collapsed to the floor with a resounding thud, a deep gash at his temple.

‘Please don’t be dead, please don’t be dead, please don’t be dead,’ Ivan pleaded frantically, silently, as he watched the man fall. The program he’d coded into the pistol should have, if everything had configured correctly, slowed the firing mechanism and transfigured the weapon into something of a stun-gun. As soon as he felt the scientist’s heartbeat through the floor, Ivan turned the gun to Asus and Qyp. Asus he swiftly shot at the base of his neck but Qyp was quick and had already turned to face him, a strange sort of laser clutched in his hand.

“They’re not dead, I promise you,” Ivan said, his voice low as they stood facing each other, weapons raised. “Remember what you said? About not asking questions?” There was a desperate edge to his words.

Qyp shook his head and opened his mouth to say something but Ivan fired, not waiting to here what he had to say. He was out of the room before Qyp hit the floor. No one had stirred in the castle at the sound of gunfire but it was only a matter of time before the scene was discovered.

Even with his ever-extending mental map of the Castle Matic, Ivan spent a nerve-wracking forty minutes prowling the halls and avoiding detection before he found what he’d been looking for. But finally, finally she was there. At the end of a deserted and sterile white hallway, utterly invisible to the naked eye, she was there.

Ivan held his gun aloft, pointed directly at her chest. “You’re looking for something.” He hoped he sounded bolder than he felt as he schooled his features into a cold mask. Her movements stilled and he could feel her eyes on him.

“You’re looking for something,” he repeated as she crept closer. They began to circle each other. “And I have every mind to alert the rest of Matic’s people to your whereabouts.” He could hear a guard in the next hallway over. “But it just so happens that I’m looking for something too.” She inched even closer, dangerously close, but he held up a finger. “My body is wired to this place, all of ours are. You touch me and they’ll know. You touch me and the guard in the next hallway over will be on you before you have time to wipe your hands clean.” She stopped descending on him and he felt himself breathe again. “But,” his voice was barely above a whisper. “If you help me, we both win.” He smiled.

“The choice is yours.”

GBCE · 06-19-2011, 11:45 PM

Originally posted on MSPA by fluxus.

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GBCE · 06-27-2011, 09:48 PM

Originally posted on MSPA by Pharmacy.

The workers were confused by the chaos that somehow seeded in this Research facility. There was this something, mottled, pink, and smelly, slithering through their legs. Then armored security, wielding guns, spilled into the hallways. Those faceless men and women screamed for everyone- employee, visitor, janitor, or otherwise- to get on their knees. As each one was individually searched for biological agents or any sign of a lethal weapon, the quarantined civilians could hear an ominous rumbling above their heads, growing louder and louder with each beat of their adrenaline-filled hearts. They did not know what exactly caused that noise, but the sheer panic and the sudden onset of armed personal riled up among the stalled crowd caused some of them to break out into whimpers, which were quickly cut short by the butt of a gun. Whatever had caused that noise was indeed suspicious.

***

When Merrifield managed to finagle her way into the Research Facility’s air ducts, she was dismayed at the three things she had found that marred this otherwise smooth trip to potential freedom. One was that the asbestos-lined passage was incredibly small. She tried her best to minimize her surface area by thinning her malleable form, but to no avail. Even at her thinnest and slickest, the confounding passage was small enough to curl up her side as if she were some kind of fleshy crepe. The air ducts were also incredibly dirty, and it did not help much that her constantly-hemorrhaging skin squeezed out sticky blood that picked up lint, dead bugs, and other unmentionables that could be found in air ducts. In fact, she had picked up so much garbage during her exodus that she kind of looked like a grey shag rug. For a third thing-

While mustering up complaints on her head, Merrifield was unaware of a particularly weak grater beneath her feet (as if blobs could have feet) and pretty soon, her bulk, writhing and changing in surprise, fell through into the room. The crash made a complete mess of the rather small room, with bits of broken furniture flying everywhere and meticulous files spilled all over the place, the surface now sullied with smears of air duct lint and dirt. Merrifield’s body made a gory spectacle all over the stray objects. To put short, it looked like if rotten road kill was put into a blender and the resulting slurry was sprayed all over the place. The genetic horror was understandably displeased at her own carelessness.

She was even more upset when the armed security busted through the door with guns ready. Great,she was all over the place and then those people come. Talk about timing! Merrifield did not want to know what the buckshot from those firearms felt like, so she decided to hastily scram. Using her entire focus, she channelled to all her nearby giblets, which was pretty easy considering the cramped size of the office. Slowly, the reddish sludge and the fuzzy peach-hued slabs of meat assimilated back to her preferred form, the one with the fleshy flippers on her head, the one with those cruel thorns filled with danger; the one with the feeble arms and the soulless embryonic eyes. That was her combat form, her go-to form and boy, was she ready!

- Except she was not. Although Merrifield was a powerful biokinetic, she had not the foresight to realize that her body parts were strewn across the small office, sticking onto bit of garbage and junk lying about. Unfortunately, her re-assimilation included those broken chair legs, important papers, and bits of china. As a result, the vaguely humanoid form of Merrifield was bristling with splinters of furniture, broken pottery, and flimsy pieces of paper. The security guards were surprised when they saw the face of the genetic abomination redden considerably.

Out of embarrassment, but mostly out of necessity, Merrifield, along with the junk inside of her, leaped into the open grater of the air duct (after several tries). There, she continued to trundle forth, the screech of wood across the dirty metal walls loudly betraying her presence. The security guard’s amusement turned into great concern as they observed the creature escape. Unbeknownst to Merrifield, a massive book was embedded into her sticky back. This was no ordinary book, however: it was a potent artifact with terrifying reality-warping powers that came in conjunction with specific bookmarks. Many had fought for, sought for, and even killed for this artifact. It was supposed to be kept in confines of Dr. Matic’s small office, yet by sheer serendipity, Merrifield had, more or less, absconded with the Tome.

Ixcaliber · 06-27-2011, 10:28 PM

Originally posted on MSPA by Ixcalibur.

Phere had watched as her agent had been spotted by the kid she remembered from the introduction. The Spectator had been frustratingly vague about him, as, Phere lamented, she had been about all of her adversaries in this battle. Whatever secrets Ivan had to hide it was clear that he had seen Abys immediately. She’d told her spy to beat a quick retreat, but unfortunately she did not have a map of the castle, a fact she would have to rectify, and people kept getting in the way. Abys had rather unfortunately had to duck into a corridor which dead ended at an abrupt steel wall, probably not an uncommon design feature in this chimeric castle. Phere grabbed the nearest item, which being that she was in Tek’s room was inevitably a half-finished contraption of some kind, and flung it hard against the far wall. Tek glanced at the Empress in alarm, but her furious glare quickly turned him back to his work.

“Pass him the radio.” Phere told Abys abruptly. This situation was bad but it was not one that could not be salvaged.

--------

In a secluded dead end corridor, somewhere in the castle Abys uncloaked, standing before Ivan Norst. At once he was aware of her tight leather suit stretched across her slender frame, her tied back auburn hair, the emptiness that lay behind her dull grey eyes, and the scowl that was etched across her face. In silence she proffered him her radio. Acting more assertively than he felt, so as not to betray the fact that this was not a response he had expected, he snatched the radio from her hands. She folded her arms and continued to scowl at him.

“Yes?” He demanded, speaking into the radio.

“Hello Ivan.” Empress Phere’s voice crackled through the radio. “This is Empress Phere. I have heard the conditions for your cooperation and feel that perhaps you were unaware you were trying to broker an alliance with me specifically. Here are my conditions: firstly you would not be working with me, you would be working for me. Secondly you will tell me now what it is that you want from this arrangement.” Ivan was a little blindsided by Phere’s harsh negotiation. He hesitated for a moment and tried to pull things back into his favour.

“I could kill your spy you know.” Ivan replied. “If there’s to be any agreement I get to decide the terms.”

“No.” Phere replied coldly. “If you can kill my spy you can go ahead. I hold no attachment to her, and although it will inconvenience me it will not significantly impair my plans. Furthermore if you were a threat to her I believe you would have made your move already and got in good with the good doctor. To speak idiomatically the ball is in my court. What is it that you want?” Ivan turned away from Abys so she would not see his reaction as this negotiation slipped further away from him.

“I want protection.” He said quietly.
“Very well.” Phere replied. “Do exactly as Abys says; for the moment consider yourself hers to command. If you cooperate and are useful I am sure we will have a place for you in our little team. Pass the radio back now.” Ivan quietly turned and handed the radio back, a little unsure as to what had just happened.

“Empress?” Abys asked.

“He’s working for us now.” Phere said. “Use him as a distraction to clear out Doctor Matic’s office. Get hold of that Stolen Tome and bring it back. Bring Ivan back with you if there is anything left of him by that point.”

“Confirmed.” Abys replied, sighing internally at having been apparently placed on escort duty.

--------

At Abys’ instruction the pair began making their way through the castle, towards Doctor Matic’s office; though with one of the pair visible they had to be even more careful than Abys had been on her own, a tactic that was fine for a little while, until Tek suddenly needed her attention.

“What is it?” She asked impatiently.

“I, Lord Vandrel Reinhardt, am an experienced master in tactical planning. My armies have conquered lands far and wide and brought all that oppose us to their knees, hacking their heads from their pitiful necks to punish them for their misdeeds…”

“This message is doing something to the radio.” Tek said. “I think it’s calibrating it to send messages out into other worlds.”

“Fanastic.” Phere replied, a grim smile crossing her face.

“We shall come together and strike back at all that oppose us! Together, the empire we form shall extend across never-before-matched boundaries, encompassing dominions never before dreamed of! My friends, my allies from all imaginable walks of life, this is it! THIS SHALL BE OUR HOUR!”

Phere was silent for a moment. She had already been plotting what actions she would take when she had gained the ability to broadcast messages to other contestants. The affirmation of Vandrel’s ‘Network’ in this message made things easy for her.

“What excellent timing.” Phere said. “That Vandrel Reinhardt should bite the dust as I am ready to take his Network from him anyway. Think of all the people trapped in these battles, scattered across the, what was the word, the multiverse, devastated at the loss of poor Vandrel… hmm probably not now that I think about it. But either way a position has just opened up at the helm of this Network and I intend to take it.” She paused again, composing herself. “Do I need to do anything specifically different?”

“I don’t believe so.” Tek says. “It seems to be fully automated.” Phere clicked the transmitter on.

“Fellow contestants.” She began. “My name is Empress Phere, and I come bearing grave tidings. Lord Vandrel Reinhardt was unfortunately perished, cruelly cut down in his attempts to free you from the shackles of the Grandmasters. I submit that I shall stand in his stead, that I shall take the fight to the Grandmasters. I will expose their weaknesses and if you work with me I promise to liberate you from this awful game and return you to the lives that you have been so cruelly torn away from. This I swear to you.”

She clicked off the radio and smiled. This lasted for a second perhaps, before she was all business again. She turned to Tek, whose brow was furrowed and heavy with sweat. He had not been expecting anything as challenging as this.

“If I get you the Stolen Tome, you can make this radio do more than just this correct?” Tek nodded. “I want to be able to choose to whom I speak, and to speak to them in real time. I will not be pleased if you do not follow through with your promises.” She paused. “In the meantime rig up another radio to transmit across the… multiverse… I am going to see a woman about some surgery.”

Akumu · 06-28-2011, 11:10 PM

Originally posted on MSPA by Akumu.

Dr. Melissa Harmon was aware of a couple of things. One, a cold, rasping gauntlet was clasped around her wrist, rubbing it raw through the thick fabric of her shirt. Two, she was moving quite quickly, more quickly than she could really accommodate currently. She stumbled once or twice and continued to be yanked along by her arm. She watched her feet pound unsteadily across buckled and cracked asphalt, splashing in the odd puddle, but couldn't seem to put together a narrative of what was occurring.

Slowly, the muffled rushing that filled her ears gave way to a high-pitched whine, which then resolved into the clank and rustle of armor from in front of her and distant hollering and a rhythmic clatter from behind. She looked blankly at the metal glove clamped to her wrist, noting how the yellow sodium-vapor light of the street lamps reflected off the rivulets of rainwater running down the etched flame patterns and caused them to appear to leap and dance. Her gaze traveled up the metal encased arm to a massive shoulder guard, jutting out with overlapped points on which an inlaid dragon undulated menacingly with the arm's motion. Past that was a high-backed gorget, over which a dripping mop of dirty blonde hair spilled. Suddenly all these details snapped together into a coherent whole, and she was looking at Sir Cedric.

“You asshole!”

Harmon dug her heels in and almost flopped onto her face as Cedric continued to jog forward. He slowed and came to a stop, turning back to look at her.

”Madam? We must hie to safety. Once you are secure I may face the rogues of this festering pit without worry.”

As he was talking, Harmon ripped her wrist out of his grasp and touched it gingerly, wincing. She narrowed her eyes and looked up into Cedric's face.

“Seriously? You punch me in the chest, flinging me through a god-damned table, then nearly set me on fire, then try to rip my arm off, and you're claiming you're trying to protect me?”

Harmon realized she was starting to hyperventilate, and tried to take a deep breath. She immediately yelped in pain and doubled over.

“And I think you cracked one of my ribs, you fat sack of shit,” she hissed through clenched teeth.

Cedric's face had turned a dark cherry red as this abuse was flung at him, and he squeezed his hand into a fist unconsciously. “Commoner whore,” he spat back in a low voice, “I am the Champion of Valthen, and I could crush your skull like a grape if I chose.”

The two stared at each other in astonished silence for a long beat.

“What the fu-”

Harmon's exclamation was cut off by a thunderclap of sound and Cedric stumbled forward as a handful of lead pellets slammed into the back of his armor. He spun around and saw ten paces away a V of five horse-mounted men, lead by the bartender from before and all packing iron. The bartender cracked his shotgun and the two spent shells clattered to the asphalt. He slowly drew two shells out of a bandolier and reloaded, looking Cedric dead in the eye the entire time.

“I'm here to take your tab out of your hide, cur. Nobody walks out of my bar with an unpaid bill.”

Lightning obligingly flashed between the clouds above, underlining this proclamation. Cedric reached back and pulled Sigrar out of its scabbard with an arc of flame. He brought it around to point at the ground, then with a snick of his gauntlet turned its blade to face towards his pursuers.

He turned his head slightly and whispered to to the woman, “Run.”