RE: The Atavist's Tryst - ((S?) - signups open!)
07-19-2013, 05:26 AM
The Atavist blinked, went through the motions of rousing itself, laying the thousand details it had gathered and sorted and winnowed out in the darkness surrounding it.
Contestants. A first location. A script. The Atavist pored over it again, disregarding the fact it could pause and review each syllable of its monologue for centuries and its audience would never be the wiser. There was comfort in familiarity.
The Grandmaster readied itself, readied the empty space, and sought-
-and looked up-
and five beings stood, immobilised and likely disoriented, awaiting the Atavist's command.
A moment, requested the Atavist, glancing to a space to the left of a man on a motorbike, clearly reserved for a sixth. They didn't wait long before the group was whole, a young man slipping in from no real direction and frozen in that shared moment of confusion.
Excellent. And with that, we may begin.
The Atavaist smiled, stood, and made a sweeping gesture that finished in a bow. Its form was more or less that of a human, if you had to guess, male. No clues could be gleaned from its body or attire, for its inhuman eyes blazed like a sun lurked behind them and rendered the rest of its body in harsh, confounding shadow. The Atavist's gaze was the only source of light in the emptiness, and the Grandmaster kept it averted. Demure, almost, if not for the omnipresent feeling it watched your every futile twitch through some other unseen eye.
Welcome, my contestants. The six of you have been selected for a tournament, referred to by my contemporaries and I as a Grand Battle. I am the Atavist, and it is my pleasure to introduce you all to one another.
The Atavist glanced up, eyes (and light) on a shivering creature with long, red hair. The blinding beam just made him look even frailler, and exposed the sorry state of the steam train behind him.
The train in its heyday was known as Line 12C, and the man standing before it is Passenger. The last it carried, in fact. 12C itself feeds off the negative energy of its occupants, but without a destination or a supply of passengers, its hunt grows desperate.
Its gaze flicked to the next down the line, but the contestant's expression gave the Atavist pause.
Is there a problem, Master Weinberg?
Dmitri couldn't actually say anything in response, but if you listened carefully you could hear the faintest searing noise. The Atavist snickered, and one would realise the shadows on the lower portion of its face weren't odd, they were the sharp angles of a dull metal clamp. The thing resembled a respirator mask, at least superficially, but there was no way for the Atavist to breathe, or even move its jaw. The Atavist itself seemed unfazed, still affixing an distressed Dmitri with its sunlike glare.
Dmitri Weinberg, crisply spoke the Atavist, finally taking the brunt of his gaze off the boy. A vampire. An ancient monster of the night with a surprisingly delicate complexion. Do not be fooled by his disarming appearance - he is no novice with that sword, and much of what folklore would say about his kind holds true for him.
The next contestant also glared back. She looked even younger than Dmitri, but somehow even more furious at this treatment.
Bano Najafi. This formidable young woman's power is manipulation over nearby humours. Blood, phlegm, even the acid in your stomachs is hers to command. The application itself is taxing on her, however, even with her accelerated healing.
The fourth had almost been kidnapped mid-slouch. Unlike Pasenger, his machine (and his immaculately styled hair) fairly gleamed in the sun.
King of the bikers, Rider King. The one amongst you most used to combat, if the suite of weapons he has on him is any indication. There is little about him that would not be extremely detrimental for your continued survival, up to and including that ridiculous hairstyle of his.
The Atavist had a special smirk for the latecomer, which really only registered as something akin to a solar flare. Satu Merk, playing host to Samael the Third Eye. He was travelling the multiverse, seeking Samael's creator to rid himself of the parasite- The Atavist smirked even wider, pulling a nondescript device out of nowhere and crushing some vital component beneath its thumb, before tossing it at Satu's feet -though now his quest has been waylaid. Satu boasts a perfect memory; Samael, when it opts to cooperate, can manipulate vision.
And finally, we have Sachihata, emissary to most any god he encounters on his travels. A magician. A practicioner of rites. His deepest relationship is with... a non-entity. A god of domains unknown, forgotten by the god himself.
And now that we are summarily acquainted, allow me to reveal the first round.
The Atavist closed its eyes, and this time the darkness wasn't mitigated by the faint glow of its pores through its exposed skin. The light which replaced it was sudden day, true day. A metropolis awaited below the still-stationary contestants, zooming up to meet them from below. Their descent slowed as the surface rose up, only to be interrupted by a cold white flash on the horizon.
They didn't feel the shockwave, but the effect on the buildings around them was immediate. Unnatural winds actively tore at everything on the surface, rendering the bustling scene inhospitable in seconds.
The contestants continued to fall, through the concrete, into the city's underground. The subway. The sewers. Humanity's surviving remnants. The Atavist awaited them, standing on the deserted platform like a mere commuter.
Welcome to Ljinstal, or what remains of it. This city was once amongst the most populous in the world; this central station in which we stand would have seen millions pass through every day. Until some cataclysm ravaged the world above, making the planet's surface a hellish desert of scouring winds, ceaseless through day and night.
The survivors were those who, for whatever reason, were underground when the disaster struck. The resourceful amongst them have survived, if not quite flourished, over the years.
The Atavist fixed each of them, one at a time, with a light these human-carved caves had likely not seen in decades.
I have brought the six of you here to fight to the death. You will not leave the ruins of Ljinstal until one of you
is dead.
The Atavist chuckled, dispersing its contestants through the caves with a gesture before vanishing in turn.
Contestants. A first location. A script. The Atavist pored over it again, disregarding the fact it could pause and review each syllable of its monologue for centuries and its audience would never be the wiser. There was comfort in familiarity.
The Grandmaster readied itself, readied the empty space, and sought-
-and looked up-
and five beings stood, immobilised and likely disoriented, awaiting the Atavist's command.
A moment, requested the Atavist, glancing to a space to the left of a man on a motorbike, clearly reserved for a sixth. They didn't wait long before the group was whole, a young man slipping in from no real direction and frozen in that shared moment of confusion.
Excellent. And with that, we may begin.
The Atavaist smiled, stood, and made a sweeping gesture that finished in a bow. Its form was more or less that of a human, if you had to guess, male. No clues could be gleaned from its body or attire, for its inhuman eyes blazed like a sun lurked behind them and rendered the rest of its body in harsh, confounding shadow. The Atavist's gaze was the only source of light in the emptiness, and the Grandmaster kept it averted. Demure, almost, if not for the omnipresent feeling it watched your every futile twitch through some other unseen eye.
Welcome, my contestants. The six of you have been selected for a tournament, referred to by my contemporaries and I as a Grand Battle. I am the Atavist, and it is my pleasure to introduce you all to one another.
The Atavist glanced up, eyes (and light) on a shivering creature with long, red hair. The blinding beam just made him look even frailler, and exposed the sorry state of the steam train behind him.
The train in its heyday was known as Line 12C, and the man standing before it is Passenger. The last it carried, in fact. 12C itself feeds off the negative energy of its occupants, but without a destination or a supply of passengers, its hunt grows desperate.
Its gaze flicked to the next down the line, but the contestant's expression gave the Atavist pause.
Is there a problem, Master Weinberg?
Dmitri couldn't actually say anything in response, but if you listened carefully you could hear the faintest searing noise. The Atavist snickered, and one would realise the shadows on the lower portion of its face weren't odd, they were the sharp angles of a dull metal clamp. The thing resembled a respirator mask, at least superficially, but there was no way for the Atavist to breathe, or even move its jaw. The Atavist itself seemed unfazed, still affixing an distressed Dmitri with its sunlike glare.
Dmitri Weinberg, crisply spoke the Atavist, finally taking the brunt of his gaze off the boy. A vampire. An ancient monster of the night with a surprisingly delicate complexion. Do not be fooled by his disarming appearance - he is no novice with that sword, and much of what folklore would say about his kind holds true for him.
The next contestant also glared back. She looked even younger than Dmitri, but somehow even more furious at this treatment.
Bano Najafi. This formidable young woman's power is manipulation over nearby humours. Blood, phlegm, even the acid in your stomachs is hers to command. The application itself is taxing on her, however, even with her accelerated healing.
The fourth had almost been kidnapped mid-slouch. Unlike Pasenger, his machine (and his immaculately styled hair) fairly gleamed in the sun.
King of the bikers, Rider King. The one amongst you most used to combat, if the suite of weapons he has on him is any indication. There is little about him that would not be extremely detrimental for your continued survival, up to and including that ridiculous hairstyle of his.
The Atavist had a special smirk for the latecomer, which really only registered as something akin to a solar flare. Satu Merk, playing host to Samael the Third Eye. He was travelling the multiverse, seeking Samael's creator to rid himself of the parasite- The Atavist smirked even wider, pulling a nondescript device out of nowhere and crushing some vital component beneath its thumb, before tossing it at Satu's feet -though now his quest has been waylaid. Satu boasts a perfect memory; Samael, when it opts to cooperate, can manipulate vision.
And finally, we have Sachihata, emissary to most any god he encounters on his travels. A magician. A practicioner of rites. His deepest relationship is with... a non-entity. A god of domains unknown, forgotten by the god himself.
And now that we are summarily acquainted, allow me to reveal the first round.
The Atavist closed its eyes, and this time the darkness wasn't mitigated by the faint glow of its pores through its exposed skin. The light which replaced it was sudden day, true day. A metropolis awaited below the still-stationary contestants, zooming up to meet them from below. Their descent slowed as the surface rose up, only to be interrupted by a cold white flash on the horizon.
They didn't feel the shockwave, but the effect on the buildings around them was immediate. Unnatural winds actively tore at everything on the surface, rendering the bustling scene inhospitable in seconds.
The contestants continued to fall, through the concrete, into the city's underground. The subway. The sewers. Humanity's surviving remnants. The Atavist awaited them, standing on the deserted platform like a mere commuter.
Welcome to Ljinstal, or what remains of it. This city was once amongst the most populous in the world; this central station in which we stand would have seen millions pass through every day. Until some cataclysm ravaged the world above, making the planet's surface a hellish desert of scouring winds, ceaseless through day and night.
The survivors were those who, for whatever reason, were underground when the disaster struck. The resourceful amongst them have survived, if not quite flourished, over the years.
The Atavist fixed each of them, one at a time, with a light these human-carved caves had likely not seen in decades.
I have brought the six of you here to fight to the death. You will not leave the ruins of Ljinstal until one of you
is dead.
The Atavist chuckled, dispersing its contestants through the caves with a gesture before vanishing in turn.
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