Re: The Grand Battle II! [Round 5: Value City Mall!]
07-15-2010, 06:23 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by Schazer.
Fly.
Vyrm'n obeyed the static-soaked voice, twisting upon herself before springing upward, only checking the oncoming ceiling at its command. It was easier to follow orders, when existence stopped being its usual clamouring, boisterous loud self and demanded you understood this instant. Or, before, it had. The shadow was beyond caring, beyond any attempt to try affix it all again in sound mind and sane time. Too much trouble, too many questions to ask.
She could've been forgiven for thinking the round was ending - clouded by the doubled internal onslaught of unwelcome foreign matter, and the soundless deadness of everything that Conscience kept her chained to, the world was melting. Stores, stalls, walls, ceiling, zombies below, the scattered motes of those sentient and still alive in this hell, the fetid air itself, it was all becoming one undifferentiated mess of confusion; the detritus lodged in Vyrm'n also keeping up its awful protests to tear apart its midnight prison. The sonorous sameness of it all was strangely comforting, even as the Faceless acknowledged it was its own power of perception failing and not the voice of the world.
If only the rain would stop pattering away from the inside out, seemingly ricocheting from an unwelcome core to rap a stinging tattoo on her innards. Like stars singing their way away across the empty spaces, warcry bellowing ahead, leaving a stranded Vyrm'n alone in the universe to watch the edge of peace scream off into the distance.
The Faceless did not so much land, as fly into the floor - not even bothering to pick itself up as it crawled into the deserted theatre. In a somewhat anti-climactic fashion, the room was well-lit - one could've been forgiven for thinking the show was over, the crowds on their way home. A lone figure sat on the edge of the stage, his feet dangling, neck cricked back to gaze up into the scaffolding. Arms raised a little at his sides, their position a little stiff as though set in rigor mortis save for his slowly, gracefully moving fingers. Independent of the rest of the man, the hands plucked at the intangible threads of karma streaming off him.
Vyrm'n could barely detect Samuel, much less see what he occupied him. Finally tearing his gaze from the ceiling, the Karmist appraised the Faceless through his lone, lifeless eye. The other half of his face was as good as non-existent; a mangled visage whose constituent bits of bone and eye and flesh had blessedly not survived the crawl from supply closet to stage. Samuel, or what remained of him, stood stiffly, gaunt semi-features jerking a little as an explosion lit up the doorway behind Vyrm'n. Several flaming corpses hurtled by, before the theater stilled again. Conscience nudged her closer, forcing Vyrm'n to leap on stage by Samuel's side, trying to make sense of all the trails of karma which linked this man to the horde.
Somehow, between Conscience and circumstance, Vyrm'n finally came to a decision. Swirling round the Karmist's feet, the shadow paused for only a moment, before rising like a black wave and engulfing him. The darknesss trembled briefly, before encasing Samuel and steeling itself for whatever would happen next.
Vyrm'n opened her atom-deafened mind to the empty shell of a man, Conscience dealing all of the undead the same fate down the leylines of karma that had raised them. Unlike the shadow's melding with Maxwell, this assault had no stately baseline of the pure constant that had been Faceless matter. It howled with all the destructive rage of the walls of the Labyrinth Field; disorder made aural inside and out as it refused to spare the tortured beasts the chaos of their own selves. The Karmist was little more than a conduit to the blinding enlightenment, true to his design, a channel of Vyrm'n's retribution.
Meanwhile, Conscience slipped from its position as the meld between Faceless and Void, and struck off down the karmic links, perversely delighted at the pain of the sentient undead succumbing to the noise. Vyrm'n felt Conscience's departure as clearly as the Void rushing up to meet her tattered scrap of consciousness, and coalesced in the small of Samuel's back before the insidious force returned, and rammed sharply forward, tearing herself out of the karmic net and the eyes of the myriad zombies.
There was a sickening crunch, then a thud and a crack-splash in tandem as the Karmist's midsection fell forward, and an exhausted Vyrm'n finally ducked, relieved, into the darkness. The Faceless lay motionless on the slight stage left; at rest, content despite the coating of blood and grime and undead innards.
Somewhere in that turgid mess, a lone star blinked back into being.
Fly.
Vyrm'n obeyed the static-soaked voice, twisting upon herself before springing upward, only checking the oncoming ceiling at its command. It was easier to follow orders, when existence stopped being its usual clamouring, boisterous loud self and demanded you understood this instant. Or, before, it had. The shadow was beyond caring, beyond any attempt to try affix it all again in sound mind and sane time. Too much trouble, too many questions to ask.
She could've been forgiven for thinking the round was ending - clouded by the doubled internal onslaught of unwelcome foreign matter, and the soundless deadness of everything that Conscience kept her chained to, the world was melting. Stores, stalls, walls, ceiling, zombies below, the scattered motes of those sentient and still alive in this hell, the fetid air itself, it was all becoming one undifferentiated mess of confusion; the detritus lodged in Vyrm'n also keeping up its awful protests to tear apart its midnight prison. The sonorous sameness of it all was strangely comforting, even as the Faceless acknowledged it was its own power of perception failing and not the voice of the world.
If only the rain would stop pattering away from the inside out, seemingly ricocheting from an unwelcome core to rap a stinging tattoo on her innards. Like stars singing their way away across the empty spaces, warcry bellowing ahead, leaving a stranded Vyrm'n alone in the universe to watch the edge of peace scream off into the distance.
The Faceless did not so much land, as fly into the floor - not even bothering to pick itself up as it crawled into the deserted theatre. In a somewhat anti-climactic fashion, the room was well-lit - one could've been forgiven for thinking the show was over, the crowds on their way home. A lone figure sat on the edge of the stage, his feet dangling, neck cricked back to gaze up into the scaffolding. Arms raised a little at his sides, their position a little stiff as though set in rigor mortis save for his slowly, gracefully moving fingers. Independent of the rest of the man, the hands plucked at the intangible threads of karma streaming off him.
Vyrm'n could barely detect Samuel, much less see what he occupied him. Finally tearing his gaze from the ceiling, the Karmist appraised the Faceless through his lone, lifeless eye. The other half of his face was as good as non-existent; a mangled visage whose constituent bits of bone and eye and flesh had blessedly not survived the crawl from supply closet to stage. Samuel, or what remained of him, stood stiffly, gaunt semi-features jerking a little as an explosion lit up the doorway behind Vyrm'n. Several flaming corpses hurtled by, before the theater stilled again. Conscience nudged her closer, forcing Vyrm'n to leap on stage by Samuel's side, trying to make sense of all the trails of karma which linked this man to the horde.
Somehow, between Conscience and circumstance, Vyrm'n finally came to a decision. Swirling round the Karmist's feet, the shadow paused for only a moment, before rising like a black wave and engulfing him. The darknesss trembled briefly, before encasing Samuel and steeling itself for whatever would happen next.
Vyrm'n opened her atom-deafened mind to the empty shell of a man, Conscience dealing all of the undead the same fate down the leylines of karma that had raised them. Unlike the shadow's melding with Maxwell, this assault had no stately baseline of the pure constant that had been Faceless matter. It howled with all the destructive rage of the walls of the Labyrinth Field; disorder made aural inside and out as it refused to spare the tortured beasts the chaos of their own selves. The Karmist was little more than a conduit to the blinding enlightenment, true to his design, a channel of Vyrm'n's retribution.
Meanwhile, Conscience slipped from its position as the meld between Faceless and Void, and struck off down the karmic links, perversely delighted at the pain of the sentient undead succumbing to the noise. Vyrm'n felt Conscience's departure as clearly as the Void rushing up to meet her tattered scrap of consciousness, and coalesced in the small of Samuel's back before the insidious force returned, and rammed sharply forward, tearing herself out of the karmic net and the eyes of the myriad zombies.
There was a sickening crunch, then a thud and a crack-splash in tandem as the Karmist's midsection fell forward, and an exhausted Vyrm'n finally ducked, relieved, into the darkness. The Faceless lay motionless on the slight stage left; at rest, content despite the coating of blood and grime and undead innards.
Somewhere in that turgid mess, a lone star blinked back into being.
peace to the unsung peace to the martyrs | i'm johnny rotten appleseed
clouds is shaky love | broke as hell but i got a bunch of ringtones
eyes blood red bruise aubergine | Sue took something now Sue doesn't sleep | saint average, day in the life of
woke up in the noon smelling doom and death | out the house, great outdoors
staying warm in arctic blizzard | that's my battle 'til I get inanimate | still up in the same clothes living like a gameshow
clouds is shaky love | broke as hell but i got a bunch of ringtones
eyes blood red bruise aubergine | Sue took something now Sue doesn't sleep | saint average, day in the life of
woke up in the noon smelling doom and death | out the house, great outdoors
staying warm in arctic blizzard | that's my battle 'til I get inanimate | still up in the same clothes living like a gameshow