Re: The Phenomenal Fracas! (GBS2G6): [Round One: Afterparty]
07-16-2010, 05:03 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by SleepingOrange.
Most of the other competitors wasted little time in spreading out or drawing back or sizing up their opponents; Muriegro, however, simply stood with his hands folded in his sleeves as they had been since the cognac had disappeared. The tiniest hint of a breeze stirred the hem of his robe, but no other motion was detectable on the priest's person. No sound escaped from him either; chest still, no rasp of breath, he could have been a statue dressed in tattered clothing.
What he was doing or thinking was entirely ineffable to the other contestants; alone with their thoughts and schemes, they payed little attention to the strange, currently non-threatening man. They had no reason to suspect he might have anything to do with the slight ringing in their ears, and in the strictest of senses he didn't. Some of the more hominid battlers may have attempted to pop their ears or slap their temples in an attempt to ward off the slight sound intruding on the silence, and in so doing would have realized it wasn't an aural sensation at all, but a mental one. The rest realized as it raised in pitch, in perceived volume, and in gratingness.
What began as a dull bell-tone barely worth dignifying with a thought quickly became a cacophony akin to several heavily-distorted sirens wailing discordantly which smoothly became an indescribable noise that was the sound grief and loss and pain would make if they were wounded animals being slowly disemboweled. As the psychic din reached its peak, everyone present felt a sensation of deep longing with nothing to long for and a physical ache like that which comes with living with abiding sorrow for years. As knees buckled and eyes watered, as the mental and physical pain became too much to bear without crying out, as bile rose in throats and knuckles whitened, the sound and sensations stopped, leaving behind empty silence and the fading ghost of pain.
Through it all, where others had staggered or buzzed angrily or moaned in their throats, Muriegro had stood serenely; his hidden eyes hadn't blinked, his tattered lips had stayed motionless in their twine traces, his arms remained folded... No clue was given that he had borne the brunt of Laguja's outburst save for a tiny exhalation through his nose. That wisp of breath carried through the dead silence of the unnatural night, reminding those with the knack for detail that the shrieks that had so recently punctuated the air were gone. As soon as the thought occurred, those same screams were back, savage ululations rending the stillness with more ferocity than they had before the waves of grief had silenced them.
Laguja had been a gift to his people from a god; it had been made from that god's divine self, and was inextricably linked to that god. It was in many ways an avatar of the nameless destroyer. Being plucked from the world they had spent their entire existences in had been painful for most of the contestants, but only the malign pincushion had been torn from itself as well and crudely bandaged by an uncaring Grandmaster. Still, savagely rent or not, whatever divinity was still dwelling in the pincushion hadn't changed its nature; the entirety of its mental lashing had lasted only moments and it had been only moments since it ended, but La Aguja del Dolor was already planning and scheming with the same cold determination it had subjugated a sizable portion of the Amazon with. The same bent that had slaughtered countless jungle-dwellers, the same fury that fueled a god with plans of apocalypse, were now focused on one gaudily-dressed target; this delightful savage and his insignificant divine trinket would make the power that had brought them here suffer.
The priest's sleeves finally parted, and one gnarled hand dipped into the gaudy pouch on his hip. Fingertips that only failed to be claws by a very narrow margin caressed the delicate fabric of their deity's gift and magic began flowing. An exploratory tendril of thought crept across the calm battlefield, tracing contestants' faces and dipping below the edge of the aqueducts. The minds it found that had not been introduced by the Prestidigitator were... Confusing. Animal, almost, but twisted and seemingly only fragments. They were alien, and without doubtless-extensive study, were beyond comprehension or use. Those that had been named by their host were familiar, which meant controllable. If Laguja was to take its revenge, it needed to turn others against the Grandmaster too.
A low rumble escaped the throat of the silenced Amazonian; it was the closest he could or needed to come to a magical incantation, and served less to guide or create a spell than to focus himself and the tool that wielded him. The exploratory survey of minds became more focused, less an inquisitive tendril now than prying fingers. One mind, shattered and full of delusions, was of little use; she would be recalcitrant and difficult to direct. The world for her was not as it was for everyone else, and trying to convince her otherwise would simply entrench those convictions. Worthless. Another was driven by one single goal which served only to further itself; simple, easily directed, but similarly easily derailed. Perhaps a last resort should subtler means fail, but far from ideal. One animal and undirected, full of hunger and a deep-seated disharmony with itself; unhelpful unless the Prestidigitator tasted like raccoon. Artificial and predatory, just like the next one, but without its cunning and hatred of control. Neither were ideal candidates. This one uncooperative, lazy, fearful. May be induced to loathe the one who put her here, but likely to reject cooperation. Solitary and drab and frankly dull. Closely followed by another mind turned in on itself and concerned only with burrowing deeper inwards. A bladelike mind with purpose but little direction. May prove vengeful, may prove combative and unhelpful. No real suitable candidates. But the last mind...
Driven, but reserved. Cunning and intelligent but not callous. Love and anger and a million other deliciously-manipulable tools. History and best of all family. A mind with levers and a mind with tools of its own. Perfect.
Muriegro turned to Riko and cocked his head. The nearest thing his stitched face could muster to a grin was hovering around his lips, but it was probably unnoticeable in the moonlight.
Most of the other competitors wasted little time in spreading out or drawing back or sizing up their opponents; Muriegro, however, simply stood with his hands folded in his sleeves as they had been since the cognac had disappeared. The tiniest hint of a breeze stirred the hem of his robe, but no other motion was detectable on the priest's person. No sound escaped from him either; chest still, no rasp of breath, he could have been a statue dressed in tattered clothing.
What he was doing or thinking was entirely ineffable to the other contestants; alone with their thoughts and schemes, they payed little attention to the strange, currently non-threatening man. They had no reason to suspect he might have anything to do with the slight ringing in their ears, and in the strictest of senses he didn't. Some of the more hominid battlers may have attempted to pop their ears or slap their temples in an attempt to ward off the slight sound intruding on the silence, and in so doing would have realized it wasn't an aural sensation at all, but a mental one. The rest realized as it raised in pitch, in perceived volume, and in gratingness.
What began as a dull bell-tone barely worth dignifying with a thought quickly became a cacophony akin to several heavily-distorted sirens wailing discordantly which smoothly became an indescribable noise that was the sound grief and loss and pain would make if they were wounded animals being slowly disemboweled. As the psychic din reached its peak, everyone present felt a sensation of deep longing with nothing to long for and a physical ache like that which comes with living with abiding sorrow for years. As knees buckled and eyes watered, as the mental and physical pain became too much to bear without crying out, as bile rose in throats and knuckles whitened, the sound and sensations stopped, leaving behind empty silence and the fading ghost of pain.
Through it all, where others had staggered or buzzed angrily or moaned in their throats, Muriegro had stood serenely; his hidden eyes hadn't blinked, his tattered lips had stayed motionless in their twine traces, his arms remained folded... No clue was given that he had borne the brunt of Laguja's outburst save for a tiny exhalation through his nose. That wisp of breath carried through the dead silence of the unnatural night, reminding those with the knack for detail that the shrieks that had so recently punctuated the air were gone. As soon as the thought occurred, those same screams were back, savage ululations rending the stillness with more ferocity than they had before the waves of grief had silenced them.
Laguja had been a gift to his people from a god; it had been made from that god's divine self, and was inextricably linked to that god. It was in many ways an avatar of the nameless destroyer. Being plucked from the world they had spent their entire existences in had been painful for most of the contestants, but only the malign pincushion had been torn from itself as well and crudely bandaged by an uncaring Grandmaster. Still, savagely rent or not, whatever divinity was still dwelling in the pincushion hadn't changed its nature; the entirety of its mental lashing had lasted only moments and it had been only moments since it ended, but La Aguja del Dolor was already planning and scheming with the same cold determination it had subjugated a sizable portion of the Amazon with. The same bent that had slaughtered countless jungle-dwellers, the same fury that fueled a god with plans of apocalypse, were now focused on one gaudily-dressed target; this delightful savage and his insignificant divine trinket would make the power that had brought them here suffer.
The priest's sleeves finally parted, and one gnarled hand dipped into the gaudy pouch on his hip. Fingertips that only failed to be claws by a very narrow margin caressed the delicate fabric of their deity's gift and magic began flowing. An exploratory tendril of thought crept across the calm battlefield, tracing contestants' faces and dipping below the edge of the aqueducts. The minds it found that had not been introduced by the Prestidigitator were... Confusing. Animal, almost, but twisted and seemingly only fragments. They were alien, and without doubtless-extensive study, were beyond comprehension or use. Those that had been named by their host were familiar, which meant controllable. If Laguja was to take its revenge, it needed to turn others against the Grandmaster too.
A low rumble escaped the throat of the silenced Amazonian; it was the closest he could or needed to come to a magical incantation, and served less to guide or create a spell than to focus himself and the tool that wielded him. The exploratory survey of minds became more focused, less an inquisitive tendril now than prying fingers. One mind, shattered and full of delusions, was of little use; she would be recalcitrant and difficult to direct. The world for her was not as it was for everyone else, and trying to convince her otherwise would simply entrench those convictions. Worthless. Another was driven by one single goal which served only to further itself; simple, easily directed, but similarly easily derailed. Perhaps a last resort should subtler means fail, but far from ideal. One animal and undirected, full of hunger and a deep-seated disharmony with itself; unhelpful unless the Prestidigitator tasted like raccoon. Artificial and predatory, just like the next one, but without its cunning and hatred of control. Neither were ideal candidates. This one uncooperative, lazy, fearful. May be induced to loathe the one who put her here, but likely to reject cooperation. Solitary and drab and frankly dull. Closely followed by another mind turned in on itself and concerned only with burrowing deeper inwards. A bladelike mind with purpose but little direction. May prove vengeful, may prove combative and unhelpful. No real suitable candidates. But the last mind...
Driven, but reserved. Cunning and intelligent but not callous. Love and anger and a million other deliciously-manipulable tools. History and best of all family. A mind with levers and a mind with tools of its own. Perfect.
Muriegro turned to Riko and cocked his head. The nearest thing his stitched face could muster to a grin was hovering around his lips, but it was probably unnoticeable in the moonlight.