Re: The Great Belligerency [Round 2: New Shambhala]
05-06-2011, 11:04 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by SleepingOrange.
Hours had passed since the group had left the Rainy Place behind. Hours and distances that couldn't be measured separated Ur from the stabilizing effect of nothingness. Hours and countless lives had come and gone under her still-gloved hand, under her sickle, and through her rapidly-deteriorating mind. The relentless avatar of death and destruction that had scourged the streets had since lost all its motivation to slaughter as her mind forgot why it had begun in the first place. Ur had once again retreated into the unpredictable cycle of taciturn mourning for nothing in particular, uncontrolled creation of nothing specific, and unmitigated rage at things both alive and unliving.
Despite the numerous beings who had fallen to her wrath since the beginning of the round, and even despite her habit of leaving some of her victims alive or unscathed, she was not prominent in the minds of the citizenry. There had been little method to her madness, no unifying thread to make her stick in the minds of those who survived. Prism hated and feared the Administration, the Administration hated and feared Prism, and the average citizen was left terrified of the security forces, but no-one remembered some flying woman who hacked people down and left.
It was because of this that Ur had been left relatively unmolested once the souls that filled her suppressed her violent fugue. She was human enough that she got few second glances in human sectors, exotic enough that no-one bothered her in alien blocs, and dangerous enough that the rare guard who accosted her as she moved from one to the other was quickly silenced; forces were stretched thin as it was, most able-bodied and armed men stationed around the central Administrative building, that there were typically only one or two guards at any checkpoint. When Reinhardt's purge began, this became even more true; most remaining security officers were recalled and organized to serve as alien-extermination squads, leaving borders unguarded, stations unmanned, and Ur free to move as she saw fit. Or, rather, where the spiritual brownian motion of what passed for her mind took her.
It had taken her through various districts, silently drifting through wreckage-strewn streets while constantly mouthing words none could hear or understand; it had taken her through flimsy blockades and protesting guards; it had taken her through most of three levels, her bizarre serenity never flagging and her unblinking eyes never focusing. And then it took her to Srato Business Plaza and in front of a small printing company. By all rights, she should have just drifted past as she'd done for nearly three hours now, but she stopped. She stopped in front of the building, staring up at the frontage reading Sckaxkkastikkxt Printing Solutions, blank eyes fixed on the three-triangles-in-a-circle logo. And her hands flexed. And her face twitched. And, with a shriek, she raised her arms.
Roots burst through the material of the floor, writhing and piercing through the printers' walls; shoots spread from the woody intrusion, wrapping around the building and growing foot-long thorns. Acid-dripping flowers burst open with enough force to knock chunks from the wall. In moments, the vegetation had made significant progress on reducing the edifice that had so offended her to rubble, and she moved on, her floral creation continuing its demolition. However, as the goddess drifted away, it became clear that her previous idyllic (or at least inscrutable) mood had passed; more plants sprung up in her wake and began rampaging, many eschewing vandalism in favor of seeking out living targets. Ur continued on her random way, carving a swath of green destruction through the already-ravaged city.
It didn't take long for the Purge to take notice of her; she was deemed an alien terrorist, a high-level threat, and a prime target, and a squad was sent after her. The poorly-armed Nu squad was repelled with little effort on the goddess's part; those she didn't simply cut to pieces with her sickle or ravage with her bare hands were assaulted by her creations. Most met their demise at the hand-analogues of a leafy creature that looked like its ancestry contained traces of Venus flytrap and fiddler crab; those that weren't painfully digested were comparatively-mercifully bisected. Reports made it back to Administration and straight to Reinhardt himself; he recognized the threat (and the implications for the contest therein) and contacted Epsilon squad with their orders.
The tyrant was nothing if not pragmatic, and had dealt with the threat the best way he knew how; however, he had no way of knowing that the course of action he selected would ultimately prove to be the single act that most contributed to the Purge's failure and his glorious city in the clouds' downfall.
Hours had passed since the group had left the Rainy Place behind. Hours and distances that couldn't be measured separated Ur from the stabilizing effect of nothingness. Hours and countless lives had come and gone under her still-gloved hand, under her sickle, and through her rapidly-deteriorating mind. The relentless avatar of death and destruction that had scourged the streets had since lost all its motivation to slaughter as her mind forgot why it had begun in the first place. Ur had once again retreated into the unpredictable cycle of taciturn mourning for nothing in particular, uncontrolled creation of nothing specific, and unmitigated rage at things both alive and unliving.
Despite the numerous beings who had fallen to her wrath since the beginning of the round, and even despite her habit of leaving some of her victims alive or unscathed, she was not prominent in the minds of the citizenry. There had been little method to her madness, no unifying thread to make her stick in the minds of those who survived. Prism hated and feared the Administration, the Administration hated and feared Prism, and the average citizen was left terrified of the security forces, but no-one remembered some flying woman who hacked people down and left.
It was because of this that Ur had been left relatively unmolested once the souls that filled her suppressed her violent fugue. She was human enough that she got few second glances in human sectors, exotic enough that no-one bothered her in alien blocs, and dangerous enough that the rare guard who accosted her as she moved from one to the other was quickly silenced; forces were stretched thin as it was, most able-bodied and armed men stationed around the central Administrative building, that there were typically only one or two guards at any checkpoint. When Reinhardt's purge began, this became even more true; most remaining security officers were recalled and organized to serve as alien-extermination squads, leaving borders unguarded, stations unmanned, and Ur free to move as she saw fit. Or, rather, where the spiritual brownian motion of what passed for her mind took her.
It had taken her through various districts, silently drifting through wreckage-strewn streets while constantly mouthing words none could hear or understand; it had taken her through flimsy blockades and protesting guards; it had taken her through most of three levels, her bizarre serenity never flagging and her unblinking eyes never focusing. And then it took her to Srato Business Plaza and in front of a small printing company. By all rights, she should have just drifted past as she'd done for nearly three hours now, but she stopped. She stopped in front of the building, staring up at the frontage reading Sckaxkkastikkxt Printing Solutions, blank eyes fixed on the three-triangles-in-a-circle logo. And her hands flexed. And her face twitched. And, with a shriek, she raised her arms.
Roots burst through the material of the floor, writhing and piercing through the printers' walls; shoots spread from the woody intrusion, wrapping around the building and growing foot-long thorns. Acid-dripping flowers burst open with enough force to knock chunks from the wall. In moments, the vegetation had made significant progress on reducing the edifice that had so offended her to rubble, and she moved on, her floral creation continuing its demolition. However, as the goddess drifted away, it became clear that her previous idyllic (or at least inscrutable) mood had passed; more plants sprung up in her wake and began rampaging, many eschewing vandalism in favor of seeking out living targets. Ur continued on her random way, carving a swath of green destruction through the already-ravaged city.
It didn't take long for the Purge to take notice of her; she was deemed an alien terrorist, a high-level threat, and a prime target, and a squad was sent after her. The poorly-armed Nu squad was repelled with little effort on the goddess's part; those she didn't simply cut to pieces with her sickle or ravage with her bare hands were assaulted by her creations. Most met their demise at the hand-analogues of a leafy creature that looked like its ancestry contained traces of Venus flytrap and fiddler crab; those that weren't painfully digested were comparatively-mercifully bisected. Reports made it back to Administration and straight to Reinhardt himself; he recognized the threat (and the implications for the contest therein) and contacted Epsilon squad with their orders.
The tyrant was nothing if not pragmatic, and had dealt with the threat the best way he knew how; however, he had no way of knowing that the course of action he selected would ultimately prove to be the single act that most contributed to the Purge's failure and his glorious city in the clouds' downfall.