Re: Grand Battle S3G1! (Round One: Vio Maleficat)
03-21-2011, 02:50 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by SleepingOrange.
TinTen was... Well, there wasn't really a good word for how TinTen was feeling at the moment. Doubtless some exotic alien culture or, more likely, the Germans had come up with an obscure term that effectively evoked the cocktail of emotions that was currently sloshing around the Meipi's squishy head, but an easily-understandable and accurate word simply didn't present itself to describe his current state of mind. 'Extremely frustrated' certainly encompassed much of the more salient elements, and indeed his body language certainly indicated that such was his predominant mood to those who could read it, but that phrase lacked the elements of fear, suspicion, and confusion that featured rather prominently, as well as the soupçon of of perverse humor that was stirring quietly at the bottom of the mix. Suffice to say that the usually-level-headed scientist was something of a ball of confused anxieties, and it was all because of this damnable place.
Omens could easily be mistaken for other omens, or missed entirely. It was of course possible to mistake something for an omen that wasn't, although that sort of thing was embarrassing for someone who had studied the scriptures all their life. Even the most venerated and wise of prophets and sign-readers were wrong from time to time. There were simply too many variables for perfect precision. Still, never in his long life had TinTen found the signs so frustrating and mutable; all around him, omens formed, their messages clear, only for them to change and muddy in moments. Obvious portents became confusing half-truths, then meaningless coincidences. The world was taunting him; this universe was a perverse mockery of the well-ordered one he came from, and in the scientist's vexed mind, the avatar of everything that was twisted about this place was standing in front of him, calmly twisting honest, serviceable words into misdirection and deceit, building another false world around himself. It was detestable.
"Liar. Deceiver. Scoundrel. Utter... Utter–" Here, TinTen made a largely-untranscribable sound that most present would probably have assumed was some sort of oddly-specific expletive in his native language, but was actually just a squid at a loss for words gurgling angrily. Not eloquent at the best of times, the Meipi's diffuse anger at the situation, the setting, and his competitors' disinterest in doing things the right way had coalesced into focused rage, erroneously targeted itself at the man calling himself Scathford, and robbed him of any kind of verbal restraint or skill.
Jorgensgaard's earnestly cocked eyebrow mirrored Scofflaw's carefully-earnestly-cocked eyebrow as the squid gurgled into silence. With a practiced ease and carefully-cultivated affront, Scofflaw began, "I'm sorry, but I–"
He was quickly cut off by the irate cephalopod, who yelled "Quiet, Scofflaw! Wertham. Scathford." and waved an accusatory tentacle. "Affectations of morality more sickening than blatant villainy. Floundering for angles, latching onto changing world like greedy parasite. Ephemeral, meaningless, worthless. Utterly sickening."
Huebert, who was rather taken aback by his friend's sudden, virulent outburst, chimed in with a halfhearted. "He's uh, not very reliable or nice. Is, I guess, our point."
TinTen was... Well, there wasn't really a good word for how TinTen was feeling at the moment. Doubtless some exotic alien culture or, more likely, the Germans had come up with an obscure term that effectively evoked the cocktail of emotions that was currently sloshing around the Meipi's squishy head, but an easily-understandable and accurate word simply didn't present itself to describe his current state of mind. 'Extremely frustrated' certainly encompassed much of the more salient elements, and indeed his body language certainly indicated that such was his predominant mood to those who could read it, but that phrase lacked the elements of fear, suspicion, and confusion that featured rather prominently, as well as the soupçon of of perverse humor that was stirring quietly at the bottom of the mix. Suffice to say that the usually-level-headed scientist was something of a ball of confused anxieties, and it was all because of this damnable place.
Omens could easily be mistaken for other omens, or missed entirely. It was of course possible to mistake something for an omen that wasn't, although that sort of thing was embarrassing for someone who had studied the scriptures all their life. Even the most venerated and wise of prophets and sign-readers were wrong from time to time. There were simply too many variables for perfect precision. Still, never in his long life had TinTen found the signs so frustrating and mutable; all around him, omens formed, their messages clear, only for them to change and muddy in moments. Obvious portents became confusing half-truths, then meaningless coincidences. The world was taunting him; this universe was a perverse mockery of the well-ordered one he came from, and in the scientist's vexed mind, the avatar of everything that was twisted about this place was standing in front of him, calmly twisting honest, serviceable words into misdirection and deceit, building another false world around himself. It was detestable.
"Liar. Deceiver. Scoundrel. Utter... Utter–" Here, TinTen made a largely-untranscribable sound that most present would probably have assumed was some sort of oddly-specific expletive in his native language, but was actually just a squid at a loss for words gurgling angrily. Not eloquent at the best of times, the Meipi's diffuse anger at the situation, the setting, and his competitors' disinterest in doing things the right way had coalesced into focused rage, erroneously targeted itself at the man calling himself Scathford, and robbed him of any kind of verbal restraint or skill.
Jorgensgaard's earnestly cocked eyebrow mirrored Scofflaw's carefully-earnestly-cocked eyebrow as the squid gurgled into silence. With a practiced ease and carefully-cultivated affront, Scofflaw began, "I'm sorry, but I–"
He was quickly cut off by the irate cephalopod, who yelled "Quiet, Scofflaw! Wertham. Scathford." and waved an accusatory tentacle. "Affectations of morality more sickening than blatant villainy. Floundering for angles, latching onto changing world like greedy parasite. Ephemeral, meaningless, worthless. Utterly sickening."
Huebert, who was rather taken aback by his friend's sudden, virulent outburst, chimed in with a halfhearted. "He's uh, not very reliable or nice. Is, I guess, our point."