Re: The Wretched Rite - Round Two - Inferno Alpha
03-12-2012, 09:26 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by Aryogaton.
None of Barabbas’ words rang with any meaning. The Walker could talk and lament, but M. in its judgment absorbed no responsibility or knowledge of its actions. The Unborn, however, was a more familiar sight. It was the second time M. had seen that chaotic dance of shapes—a second experience warrants new consideration. There was a difference: the Unborn was this time ever so slightly less of a mass of undirected chaos. It conveyed anger, most obviously, but of a different sort than that which drives M. to its natural duty—a personal anger, not towards an encompassing group but towards maybe one specific individual.
Before M. could make any sense of this information, however, it was met with a sudden sensation of falling. This was accompanied an instant later with an immense brightness, searing M.’s infrared sense to the extent that it hardly made an effort to land on its feet. For several moments M. was incapacitated simply by the amount of heat that surrounded it, as if it were being consumed by fire.
There was no fire, though, as M. eventually realized. The sky—the lack thereof—consisted of angular and mechanical shapes that twisted and emanated heat in a nauseating pattern, interrupted only by a series of funnels that led to furnaces. One such funnel was directly above M., and as its sight recuperated, it saw the figures falling from them by the thousands. Walkers.
Everywhere. The cavern floor was covered in Walkers, each clawing at each other with aimless anger. Many began to pull at M.’s branches, tearing off leaves and fruit by the handfuls. M. tightened its canopy, covering the fragile leaves with a thick web of vines, which quickly hardened into spiny wood. M. began to push away and down the Walkers, attempting to garner a better look for a means of escape.
There was one large figure in midst of the crowd. Like the sky, it consisted of cuboids and angular shapes that emanated intense heat, but its form was vaguely similar to that of a Walker—bipedal, but with thick legs and a head that resembled a bull. It carried a machine on its back, where several Walkers hung limp by their heads. The bull machine seemed surveyed the mass of bodies, kicking away whoever it was not looking for, stopping occasionally to pick up one squirming Walker and add it to its apparent collection.
The machine suddenly turned towards M. and paused for a moment before moving swiftly towards it. M. had no means of outrunning it—the crowd simply moved too much to push aside or walk on top. M. thrashed as metallic hand hotter than fire wrapped around it and carried it away.
“This is the second plant I’ve had submitted in the last two hours. I’ve received a report of a—and I quote—“living fountain” submitted in C.6. How do you expect us to operate when we are categorizing buckets of water and malignant gardening phenomena in the same ring as the most violent of humans?”
“They’re more like living idols and witchcraft, but regardless, these oddities all seem to be correlated, one of which we’ve sent to investigate the others. You’ve got an eternity here, be patient.”
“And this one?”
“Excessive violence against all things human, in the name of a supposed natural order. Should be easy to categorize.”
The figures exited the room and M.’s cage sunk into the floor.
As soon as M.’s head penetrated the surface of the water, a serration-tipped metal rod jammed itself into it. Startled, but not particularly sensitive to this pain, M. tumbled down again into a particularly powerful eddy. More attempts at resurfacing and yet more rods striking M.’s body and M. stayed submerged for a moment more, trying to come up with a more feasible way to get out of this whirlpool.
The pool was circular, and the rods seemed to come from several figures posted along the edges, on a ledge. M. waited until the current carried it closer to the edge and kicked itself upwards, grabbing hold of the ledge and pulling itself on top. M. could see now that the rods came from more machines, things that resembled the headless torso of a Walker on the body of a horse, with devices—anyone else would recognize them as crossbows—strapped to their arms, which launched a flurry of bolts at the potential escapee. M. ran along the ledge, getting underneath and pushing into the whirlpool several mechanized centaurs before escaping through a corridor.
Two or three of the centaurs followed, their bulk significantly slowing them down in the narrow hallway. Noticing a draft entering a grating in the wall, M. kicked it in and crawled through the shaft, elongating its body to fit its canopy. After several twists and turns, M. decided to rest in a small chamber on an intersection.
Chaotic, madness, the extent to which this new environment joked on all of M.’s experience was astonishing. These new experiences were worthy of being addressed—necessary even, in order to survive. M. removed the bolts covering its body and washed itself over with some juices—necessary, as M. realized it was soaked not with water, but Walker blood.
M. laid out its books—miraculously dry due to its tightened canopy—and began to ponder.
None of Barabbas’ words rang with any meaning. The Walker could talk and lament, but M. in its judgment absorbed no responsibility or knowledge of its actions. The Unborn, however, was a more familiar sight. It was the second time M. had seen that chaotic dance of shapes—a second experience warrants new consideration. There was a difference: the Unborn was this time ever so slightly less of a mass of undirected chaos. It conveyed anger, most obviously, but of a different sort than that which drives M. to its natural duty—a personal anger, not towards an encompassing group but towards maybe one specific individual.
Before M. could make any sense of this information, however, it was met with a sudden sensation of falling. This was accompanied an instant later with an immense brightness, searing M.’s infrared sense to the extent that it hardly made an effort to land on its feet. For several moments M. was incapacitated simply by the amount of heat that surrounded it, as if it were being consumed by fire.
There was no fire, though, as M. eventually realized. The sky—the lack thereof—consisted of angular and mechanical shapes that twisted and emanated heat in a nauseating pattern, interrupted only by a series of funnels that led to furnaces. One such funnel was directly above M., and as its sight recuperated, it saw the figures falling from them by the thousands. Walkers.
Everywhere. The cavern floor was covered in Walkers, each clawing at each other with aimless anger. Many began to pull at M.’s branches, tearing off leaves and fruit by the handfuls. M. tightened its canopy, covering the fragile leaves with a thick web of vines, which quickly hardened into spiny wood. M. began to push away and down the Walkers, attempting to garner a better look for a means of escape.
There was one large figure in midst of the crowd. Like the sky, it consisted of cuboids and angular shapes that emanated intense heat, but its form was vaguely similar to that of a Walker—bipedal, but with thick legs and a head that resembled a bull. It carried a machine on its back, where several Walkers hung limp by their heads. The bull machine seemed surveyed the mass of bodies, kicking away whoever it was not looking for, stopping occasionally to pick up one squirming Walker and add it to its apparent collection.
The machine suddenly turned towards M. and paused for a moment before moving swiftly towards it. M. had no means of outrunning it—the crowd simply moved too much to push aside or walk on top. M. thrashed as metallic hand hotter than fire wrapped around it and carried it away.
***
M. awoke again in a cage. It circled around in the grated box, finding it unable to be forced open. It could, theoretically, shift into a tangle of vines and escape that way, but the small size of the grating would mean leaving behind all of its fruit and the books it had collected from the previous round. It noticed the figures—again metallic—apparently holding a Walker-like conversation, and chose to wait until one of them approaches and possibly opens the cage instead. “This is the second plant I’ve had submitted in the last two hours. I’ve received a report of a—and I quote—“living fountain” submitted in C.6. How do you expect us to operate when we are categorizing buckets of water and malignant gardening phenomena in the same ring as the most violent of humans?”
“They’re more like living idols and witchcraft, but regardless, these oddities all seem to be correlated, one of which we’ve sent to investigate the others. You’ve got an eternity here, be patient.”
“And this one?”
“Excessive violence against all things human, in the name of a supposed natural order. Should be easy to categorize.”
The figures exited the room and M.’s cage sunk into the floor.
***
There was once again the sensation of falling, and this time M. was prepared to meet the searing heat and land alert. It thus came as a surprise when M. fell into a body of liquid, still boiling hot. The waters churned, continuously pulling M. deeper. Submerged, it could see the hundreds of Walker bodies tumbling alongside an even greater number of strange, short rods. M. thickened its bark and began to form a layer of resin to protect against the boil and struggled to swim to the surface. As soon as M.’s head penetrated the surface of the water, a serration-tipped metal rod jammed itself into it. Startled, but not particularly sensitive to this pain, M. tumbled down again into a particularly powerful eddy. More attempts at resurfacing and yet more rods striking M.’s body and M. stayed submerged for a moment more, trying to come up with a more feasible way to get out of this whirlpool.
The pool was circular, and the rods seemed to come from several figures posted along the edges, on a ledge. M. waited until the current carried it closer to the edge and kicked itself upwards, grabbing hold of the ledge and pulling itself on top. M. could see now that the rods came from more machines, things that resembled the headless torso of a Walker on the body of a horse, with devices—anyone else would recognize them as crossbows—strapped to their arms, which launched a flurry of bolts at the potential escapee. M. ran along the ledge, getting underneath and pushing into the whirlpool several mechanized centaurs before escaping through a corridor.
Two or three of the centaurs followed, their bulk significantly slowing them down in the narrow hallway. Noticing a draft entering a grating in the wall, M. kicked it in and crawled through the shaft, elongating its body to fit its canopy. After several twists and turns, M. decided to rest in a small chamber on an intersection.
Chaotic, madness, the extent to which this new environment joked on all of M.’s experience was astonishing. These new experiences were worthy of being addressed—necessary even, in order to survive. M. removed the bolts covering its body and washed itself over with some juices—necessary, as M. realized it was soaked not with water, but Walker blood.
M. laid out its books—miraculously dry due to its tightened canopy—and began to ponder.