Re: The Grand Battle II! [Final Round: Dimensional Speakeasy]
02-20-2011, 06:58 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by Schazer.
Vyrm'n's awareness guttered violently as the ritual hold was broken, before an unstoppable need to give in to accursed human emotion won over. She snaked toward the glass, draping herself over the case as though pressing her ear to it in desperation - listening intently for any sign of that particular cacophony tied with this heinous, noisome snarl of flesh and motionless blood.
It was the same old noise. The same awful, awful noise, without that minuscule tone to tie it all together into something vaguely right. The black uncoiled. Vyrm'n charged at the glass again and again and again, oblivious to the night-sky-crossing crackle and deep resonant chime of the impervious glass. It was only when several minutes of this, along with the barrier's prickling paralysis surmounting her berserk grief, left the Faceless sprawled across the unbroken glass, that animal pain gave way to thoughts of vengeance.
Gestalt.
But the schrotgolem was gone. Only a Necropolitan shell, an ambulatory entranceway for something coiled and twisted and echoing with something far greater hidden to Vyrm'n's vision stood there. It tilted its head a little to one side, before speaking in a voice intended for a void, finding its way clear as a midwinter night's sky into the Faceless' muddied senses. Just like the Observer's.
"I've sent Gestalt off elsewhere. I'm not telling you where," the Organizer pre-empted, patient and pleasant (if only in tone), "until you're in less of a state to go and finish this battle off in an quick, messy, bludgeoning match to the death."
Vyrm'n tensed, still wrapped around the case ensconcing Maxwell. Another wave of crackling light passed across her as the glass protested. "Clara" laughed a little at the sight.
"You poor thing. You're not equipped to handle this at all, are you? You couldn't even weep over that human's corpse, let alone begin to rationalise why you want to. It's that mind of yours, is the problem." The Organizer beamed at the shadow as it slid warily over, grinning all the wider as it towered above, seemingly mesmerised by the Grandmaster's words.
"I don't know how I didn't notice before, but it's doubtless. You're just a sheared-off little homesick orphan fragment of one of them. The Entropics."
There must've been some weightier context thrown behind that final word, because Vyrm'n flinched as the dull, screaming cold Gestalt had been subject to slammed her in turn. To the Faceless, though, it was thought-marring, smooth white noise. Everything about the shadow craned toward the Grandmaster, hungering for more words. The Organizer raised a hand, thought for a moment, then ran it across the shadow's fluid, polished flank as it gazed into the stars with a look between pity and admiration.
"Oh, no wonder you can't cope. You've got a scared little mind - no, something scrambling through the facsimile of a mind - caged and raised within a lone universe, while everything else about you is equipped for something far greater.
"There's a disconnect, Vyrm'n, and it'll tear you apart until-" here, the nun's grin faltered a little, right after black eyes flicked past Vyrm'n's shoulder analogue "-no. Apparently, it's not my place to help you with that, entertaining as it'd be. I've certainly set you up, though. Gestalt went that way. Dearest."
The spell was broken, but Vyrm'n lingered for a few moments more before shuffling off in the direction the Grandmaster had indicated. "Clara" watched the retreating Faceless until it turned a corridor, cleared her throat with a look of irritation, rolled her neck - then crumpled to the floor as something humanoid, mist-formed, and intangible stepped forward out of her, unfolding a little as it extricated its larger form from the elderly undead's little frame.
The Organizer, features still definable only by their featurelessness, divested the motionless Clara of the purple fedora, placing it on his own head. There was no flashy hand-waving or finger-snapping to preclude the seventh glass case flickering out of existence, nor the unconscious Necropolitan appearing within its confines as it began existing again.
Only now did the Grandmaster indulge himself in theatrics - he paced with mistimed footfalls over to the nun, placed an insubstantial hand upon the ineffectually sparking barrier, and tipped his hat to her before vanishing with a grin.
Vyrm'n's awareness guttered violently as the ritual hold was broken, before an unstoppable need to give in to accursed human emotion won over. She snaked toward the glass, draping herself over the case as though pressing her ear to it in desperation - listening intently for any sign of that particular cacophony tied with this heinous, noisome snarl of flesh and motionless blood.
It was the same old noise. The same awful, awful noise, without that minuscule tone to tie it all together into something vaguely right. The black uncoiled. Vyrm'n charged at the glass again and again and again, oblivious to the night-sky-crossing crackle and deep resonant chime of the impervious glass. It was only when several minutes of this, along with the barrier's prickling paralysis surmounting her berserk grief, left the Faceless sprawled across the unbroken glass, that animal pain gave way to thoughts of vengeance.
Gestalt.
But the schrotgolem was gone. Only a Necropolitan shell, an ambulatory entranceway for something coiled and twisted and echoing with something far greater hidden to Vyrm'n's vision stood there. It tilted its head a little to one side, before speaking in a voice intended for a void, finding its way clear as a midwinter night's sky into the Faceless' muddied senses. Just like the Observer's.
"I've sent Gestalt off elsewhere. I'm not telling you where," the Organizer pre-empted, patient and pleasant (if only in tone), "until you're in less of a state to go and finish this battle off in an quick, messy, bludgeoning match to the death."
Vyrm'n tensed, still wrapped around the case ensconcing Maxwell. Another wave of crackling light passed across her as the glass protested. "Clara" laughed a little at the sight.
"You poor thing. You're not equipped to handle this at all, are you? You couldn't even weep over that human's corpse, let alone begin to rationalise why you want to. It's that mind of yours, is the problem." The Organizer beamed at the shadow as it slid warily over, grinning all the wider as it towered above, seemingly mesmerised by the Grandmaster's words.
"I don't know how I didn't notice before, but it's doubtless. You're just a sheared-off little homesick orphan fragment of one of them. The Entropics."
There must've been some weightier context thrown behind that final word, because Vyrm'n flinched as the dull, screaming cold Gestalt had been subject to slammed her in turn. To the Faceless, though, it was thought-marring, smooth white noise. Everything about the shadow craned toward the Grandmaster, hungering for more words. The Organizer raised a hand, thought for a moment, then ran it across the shadow's fluid, polished flank as it gazed into the stars with a look between pity and admiration.
"Oh, no wonder you can't cope. You've got a scared little mind - no, something scrambling through the facsimile of a mind - caged and raised within a lone universe, while everything else about you is equipped for something far greater.
"There's a disconnect, Vyrm'n, and it'll tear you apart until-" here, the nun's grin faltered a little, right after black eyes flicked past Vyrm'n's shoulder analogue "-no. Apparently, it's not my place to help you with that, entertaining as it'd be. I've certainly set you up, though. Gestalt went that way. Dearest."
The spell was broken, but Vyrm'n lingered for a few moments more before shuffling off in the direction the Grandmaster had indicated. "Clara" watched the retreating Faceless until it turned a corridor, cleared her throat with a look of irritation, rolled her neck - then crumpled to the floor as something humanoid, mist-formed, and intangible stepped forward out of her, unfolding a little as it extricated its larger form from the elderly undead's little frame.
The Organizer, features still definable only by their featurelessness, divested the motionless Clara of the purple fedora, placing it on his own head. There was no flashy hand-waving or finger-snapping to preclude the seventh glass case flickering out of existence, nor the unconscious Necropolitan appearing within its confines as it began existing again.
Only now did the Grandmaster indulge himself in theatrics - he paced with mistimed footfalls over to the nun, placed an insubstantial hand upon the ineffectually sparking barrier, and tipped his hat to her before vanishing with a grin.
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