Re: The Relentless Slaughter [Round 3: Tormentorland]
09-02-2012, 07:12 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by Sanzh.
The Alvum ominously trudging forward, the haunted house the pair now approached, the thin parade of other tourists-- Zimmer's focus was at several places at once. But his attention was most captivated by the fog-shrouded mansion. A more sane, level-headed individual might approach his situation with some sense of trepidation. But for Zimmer this was a step forward, another leg of a pilgrimage whose final destination still remained unknown. Trepidation had no place in the heart and mind of the crusader; any of the faculties responsible for responding to the simulated fear now present were eroded or dulled to nonexistence.
Vuul, for his part, seemed to have subconsciously accepted his role as a blessing of God. It was impossible to discern the emotions governing the marching leviathan; Zimmer could only make his assessment from the purposeful stride of the creature, there was no face he could gauge. He could certainly hypothesize, speculate-- although, xeno-psychology had never been a field he had paid much attention to, nor one the Orashaldi faith had much interest in outside of small cadres of itinerant preachers. For now though, the once-Battlecleric seemed to be a pliant servant. Such speculation needed confirmation, but that would come in time.
Part of Zimmer contemplating balking at the monumental task of corralling such a majestic, primal creature. This part was silenced in short order as he entered the haunted house.
There were only a smattering of distractions-- a procession of other park-goers, a uniformed attendant, and a long disclaimer noting the simulated perils and torments of The Rolloland House of Terror. A brief scan through the myriad disclaimers and sub-paragraphs earned half a chuckle from Zimmer, before he returned to focusing on Vuul. He briefly contemplated retrieving a journal of some variety, to more accurately satisfy the scientist inside of him.
The ride was beginning. Already, the front end of the line-- or whatever sections of it Zimmer could see past the towering figure of Vuul-- had started to sidle forward. Zimmer settled for simple observation. In front of him, Vuul took a few steps forward. A mixture of curiosity and stimulants fueled an already-burning excitement in the alchemist as his turn to move forward came.
As it began, the ride seemed somewhat innocuous. A handful of what appeared to be ghost materialized through the walls, skirting between any open spaces. Zimmer scanned the ceiling for some form of holographic projector-- and when no such device appeared, he briefly turned to speculating as to how the Rolloland engineers achieved such an effect. His mind flitted to fanciful methods, such as recording intransient echos of paradoxical timelines as a method of achieving the spectres. His proposal was far-fetched, perhaps, but it certainly fit the level of science involved--
--He was now falling, Zimmer realized. The hallway had become a vertical shaft, somehow. The screams of other tourists now filled the sudden abyss, reverberating as they yelled in absolute terror. An accidental look upward and Zimmer saw someone flailing, helplessly trying to maintain themselves. With an uncertain prompting, Zimmer laughed. In front of him, Vuul had reoriented itself quickly, its hooved feet clambering against the sides of the pit as it attempted to find a reliable foothold. A few attempts to scramble upward failed to support the creature's weight, but it was approaching quickly. Zimmer braced for an impact that never came.
As the two nearly collided, Zimmer felt the inexorable tug of an animatronic hand. Above and below him, he could see false panels opening, the ride reconfiguring itself to cordon and isolate its passengers. As he lost sight of Vuul, he privately cursed himself and architects of this ride-- convincing the beast to go a second time would be much harder.
Ensign Vuul landed with a heavy crash. He was now alone-- away from the profligates and heretics and the hated humans, but separate from his charge.
Just as he had pledged himself anew, the Tormentor had worked to separate him from his new shepard-- there was no doubt that this isolation was his work. Was this his punishment for dereliction, for failing to properly serve The Burning Light or whichever of the myriad Names he took? To never again know service under another, to never have a place and to never belong? Vuul considered these questions as he shifted around, hunching forward and allowing his stance to widen as far as the thin corridor allowed. His form was sloppy, he realized-- he moved a half-step slower than he had when he had used this stance last. The decades of experience and now-dead instructors who once stood above him admonished him-- for distracting himself, for questioning himself. Their reprimands were a background to the echoing screams elsewhere in the house.
Vuul loped forward. This penance would be endured-- he would not fail, not again. Long, spindly fingers reached into mounted compartments, withdrawing a set of military-grade combat knives. There would come a time when the brilliant illumination of rending plasma would be necessary, but the vast assortment of his weapons were too cumbersome here. The set of combat knives would do in their stead-- their weight in his hands was a comforting refreshment. He stampeded forward, the almost-sensations of tingling ecstasy driving him as he almost felt the echoes of a martial trance.
A constant stream of information cycled through Vuul's sensory strip as he charged. There were no overt threats, nothing capable of stopping him. An animatronic soccer player briefly blocked his path-- without thinking, a heavy leg kicked the machine against a wall, smashing the crude machinery.
Vuul paused, examining his work. The smashed wall, the fragments of broken electronics, the interplay of shadows-- it all combined. Vuul could see the vague outline of the Tormentor's figure-- the multitude of clawed, fractal arms, the haunting grin, even the multitude of eyes crossing his surface. For a brief moment, it was all there, but just as quickly the simulacrum disappeared, returning back to being the strewn-about wreckage of a robotic soccer player. It was an omen. The Hierarchy had a system for recognizing omens, for cataloguing paraphernalia and processing the vast inventories of its reliquaries, and Vuul knew that what he had seen for a fleeting moment would not fit. But the Alvum could not dismiss it. Even as the Tormentor had abandoned him, he left haunting manifestations of his will. Even now, Vuul felt his scrutiny as The Chaos Unconquerable judged and found those beneath him wanting.
Further away, an exit opened up. With some hesitation-- a feeling Vuul had never experienced in many decades-- he started to leave, uncertain as to what he had just experienced.
Zimmer had already left the ride minutes earlier, and now had several multi-colored balloons-- some careful haggling had barely allowed him to circumvent his absence of any Rollobucks. He perked up at the sight of his new companion, apparently unscathed by its ordeal. He approached, hopefully to persuade the creature to participate in another trial. His inner scientist's thirst for knowledge remained unsatisfied, and he still had little to gauge the Alvum's behavior.
"Ensign Vuul. It is--"
"IT IS THE TORMENTOR'S WILL," Vuul interrupted, his voice a roaring foghorn, "THAT THIS PLACE BE DESTROYED."
Zimmer stopped. His mind almost stopped in apprehension-- both that his hold on Vuul was this tenuous, but the greater fear that just as quickly as he had been granted his servant, it was to be taken away. In an instant he snapped back to his stabilized insanity-- the will of the Divine worked in curious ways, certainly, but it would not be as quick as to remove his blessing yet.
"He wishes to obscure the truth-- the truth of Rollo, that is." He lied.
"ROLLO DID NOT SURVIVE." Vuul said. The tripedal alien twitched uncertainly.
"But surely you see his truth lives on--" Zimmer interrupted his frantic speech with a gesture to the monumental figures eclipsing the park, the smiling face of Rollo watching them from the distance, "--he was merely an icon of a greater belief, a truth greater than you or I. It is that truth that we must divine, Ensign Vuul. Surely you see that?"
Ensign Vuul responded with a deep, sonorous hum before settling to a more relaxed posture. "VERY WELL. WE WILL FIND HIS TRUTH." He finished.
In the distance, an ashen beam of flame leapt from the clouds down to the ground below, punctuating their exchange with an uncertain finality.
The Alvum ominously trudging forward, the haunted house the pair now approached, the thin parade of other tourists-- Zimmer's focus was at several places at once. But his attention was most captivated by the fog-shrouded mansion. A more sane, level-headed individual might approach his situation with some sense of trepidation. But for Zimmer this was a step forward, another leg of a pilgrimage whose final destination still remained unknown. Trepidation had no place in the heart and mind of the crusader; any of the faculties responsible for responding to the simulated fear now present were eroded or dulled to nonexistence.
Vuul, for his part, seemed to have subconsciously accepted his role as a blessing of God. It was impossible to discern the emotions governing the marching leviathan; Zimmer could only make his assessment from the purposeful stride of the creature, there was no face he could gauge. He could certainly hypothesize, speculate-- although, xeno-psychology had never been a field he had paid much attention to, nor one the Orashaldi faith had much interest in outside of small cadres of itinerant preachers. For now though, the once-Battlecleric seemed to be a pliant servant. Such speculation needed confirmation, but that would come in time.
Part of Zimmer contemplating balking at the monumental task of corralling such a majestic, primal creature. This part was silenced in short order as he entered the haunted house.
There were only a smattering of distractions-- a procession of other park-goers, a uniformed attendant, and a long disclaimer noting the simulated perils and torments of The Rolloland House of Terror. A brief scan through the myriad disclaimers and sub-paragraphs earned half a chuckle from Zimmer, before he returned to focusing on Vuul. He briefly contemplated retrieving a journal of some variety, to more accurately satisfy the scientist inside of him.
The ride was beginning. Already, the front end of the line-- or whatever sections of it Zimmer could see past the towering figure of Vuul-- had started to sidle forward. Zimmer settled for simple observation. In front of him, Vuul took a few steps forward. A mixture of curiosity and stimulants fueled an already-burning excitement in the alchemist as his turn to move forward came.
As it began, the ride seemed somewhat innocuous. A handful of what appeared to be ghost materialized through the walls, skirting between any open spaces. Zimmer scanned the ceiling for some form of holographic projector-- and when no such device appeared, he briefly turned to speculating as to how the Rolloland engineers achieved such an effect. His mind flitted to fanciful methods, such as recording intransient echos of paradoxical timelines as a method of achieving the spectres. His proposal was far-fetched, perhaps, but it certainly fit the level of science involved--
--He was now falling, Zimmer realized. The hallway had become a vertical shaft, somehow. The screams of other tourists now filled the sudden abyss, reverberating as they yelled in absolute terror. An accidental look upward and Zimmer saw someone flailing, helplessly trying to maintain themselves. With an uncertain prompting, Zimmer laughed. In front of him, Vuul had reoriented itself quickly, its hooved feet clambering against the sides of the pit as it attempted to find a reliable foothold. A few attempts to scramble upward failed to support the creature's weight, but it was approaching quickly. Zimmer braced for an impact that never came.
As the two nearly collided, Zimmer felt the inexorable tug of an animatronic hand. Above and below him, he could see false panels opening, the ride reconfiguring itself to cordon and isolate its passengers. As he lost sight of Vuul, he privately cursed himself and architects of this ride-- convincing the beast to go a second time would be much harder.
Ensign Vuul landed with a heavy crash. He was now alone-- away from the profligates and heretics and the hated humans, but separate from his charge.
Just as he had pledged himself anew, the Tormentor had worked to separate him from his new shepard-- there was no doubt that this isolation was his work. Was this his punishment for dereliction, for failing to properly serve The Burning Light or whichever of the myriad Names he took? To never again know service under another, to never have a place and to never belong? Vuul considered these questions as he shifted around, hunching forward and allowing his stance to widen as far as the thin corridor allowed. His form was sloppy, he realized-- he moved a half-step slower than he had when he had used this stance last. The decades of experience and now-dead instructors who once stood above him admonished him-- for distracting himself, for questioning himself. Their reprimands were a background to the echoing screams elsewhere in the house.
Vuul loped forward. This penance would be endured-- he would not fail, not again. Long, spindly fingers reached into mounted compartments, withdrawing a set of military-grade combat knives. There would come a time when the brilliant illumination of rending plasma would be necessary, but the vast assortment of his weapons were too cumbersome here. The set of combat knives would do in their stead-- their weight in his hands was a comforting refreshment. He stampeded forward, the almost-sensations of tingling ecstasy driving him as he almost felt the echoes of a martial trance.
A constant stream of information cycled through Vuul's sensory strip as he charged. There were no overt threats, nothing capable of stopping him. An animatronic soccer player briefly blocked his path-- without thinking, a heavy leg kicked the machine against a wall, smashing the crude machinery.
Vuul paused, examining his work. The smashed wall, the fragments of broken electronics, the interplay of shadows-- it all combined. Vuul could see the vague outline of the Tormentor's figure-- the multitude of clawed, fractal arms, the haunting grin, even the multitude of eyes crossing his surface. For a brief moment, it was all there, but just as quickly the simulacrum disappeared, returning back to being the strewn-about wreckage of a robotic soccer player. It was an omen. The Hierarchy had a system for recognizing omens, for cataloguing paraphernalia and processing the vast inventories of its reliquaries, and Vuul knew that what he had seen for a fleeting moment would not fit. But the Alvum could not dismiss it. Even as the Tormentor had abandoned him, he left haunting manifestations of his will. Even now, Vuul felt his scrutiny as The Chaos Unconquerable judged and found those beneath him wanting.
Further away, an exit opened up. With some hesitation-- a feeling Vuul had never experienced in many decades-- he started to leave, uncertain as to what he had just experienced.
Zimmer had already left the ride minutes earlier, and now had several multi-colored balloons-- some careful haggling had barely allowed him to circumvent his absence of any Rollobucks. He perked up at the sight of his new companion, apparently unscathed by its ordeal. He approached, hopefully to persuade the creature to participate in another trial. His inner scientist's thirst for knowledge remained unsatisfied, and he still had little to gauge the Alvum's behavior.
"Ensign Vuul. It is--"
"IT IS THE TORMENTOR'S WILL," Vuul interrupted, his voice a roaring foghorn, "THAT THIS PLACE BE DESTROYED."
Zimmer stopped. His mind almost stopped in apprehension-- both that his hold on Vuul was this tenuous, but the greater fear that just as quickly as he had been granted his servant, it was to be taken away. In an instant he snapped back to his stabilized insanity-- the will of the Divine worked in curious ways, certainly, but it would not be as quick as to remove his blessing yet.
"He wishes to obscure the truth-- the truth of Rollo, that is." He lied.
"ROLLO DID NOT SURVIVE." Vuul said. The tripedal alien twitched uncertainly.
"But surely you see his truth lives on--" Zimmer interrupted his frantic speech with a gesture to the monumental figures eclipsing the park, the smiling face of Rollo watching them from the distance, "--he was merely an icon of a greater belief, a truth greater than you or I. It is that truth that we must divine, Ensign Vuul. Surely you see that?"
Ensign Vuul responded with a deep, sonorous hum before settling to a more relaxed posture. "VERY WELL. WE WILL FIND HIS TRUTH." He finished.
In the distance, an ashen beam of flame leapt from the clouds down to the ground below, punctuating their exchange with an uncertain finality.