Briza

Iquenos: In Nomine Domini

I offered to rewrite my post!

And here, I offer to the audience yet another example as to why Briza should not be the leader in a good ole game of Follow the Leader.

Alternate Solution: There is an actual trainstation that is walking distance from the waterway. 'Cause, moneyz.

Slam Poetry Thread

_{Do You?}

I am so black. I am so blue.

The boys, the boys,

They will not stop hitting on me.

I just do not know what to do.

- Briza, Briza's Book of Alright Poetry, 1453

Entomos; Kingdom of Insects [FULL FOR NOW]

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Have all the fun!

Iquenos: In Nomine Domini

Sᴏᴠᴇʀᴇɪɢɴᴛʏ ᴏғ Dʀʏᴀᴅᴀʟɪs, Aʀʀɪᴠᴀʟ Bᴇғᴏʀᴇ Tʜᴇ Eᴏʟᴅʏssᴇᴜs' Dᴇᴘᴀʀᴛᴜʀᴇ

The old, crickety coach tussled Uriel’s small and thin body as it was pulled along the rocky soil. His feet dipped together with the movements; leather boots pressed in unison of nearly inaudible sound at these prospects; and his shoulders cautiously adjusted themselves against the cushioned seats of the coach. The loudness of the horses' steps suggested locations, and Uriel's naivety knew only a handful of these sounds. For now, he was more concerned with what he was holding in front of him, even if his decision to make such a journey was beginning to show itself beyond the scenery.

Some passenger before Uriel had made the curtain of the coach to be undrawn a little, with the forest sunlight pressing a spying eye through the modestly teasing sill. His beams were warm on Uriel’s lap, still shadowed by the curves of the boy’s drooped arms and the strong, curved folds of the book he was reading so adamantly. A shadow of restless worry was carved under his studious concentration, perched with a small frown that seemed too timid to remove itself, and nestled in an ascetic mode of thought, the boy’s head was pressed downwards with an inclined neck. His deep amethyst eyes motioned over the words, sometimes reviewing them twice or more, even the sentences in search for hidden knowledge he had surpassed in his boyish haste and lack of discipline.

A sudden jolt of wheels heaving exhaustively due to old age and thick forestry muscled loose the light curtain, drawing over the window and shielding the light from intrusion. The darkness of the blind was sedated by two dim ceiling lights, gently making swings and trembles with the rocking of the equestrian powered vehicle. In response to the the curtain making more use of itself, Uriel’s head absentmindedly decided to lift itself from some foreign cloudy haze of self-unawareness. His mouth moved, and he looked about the car. There was a juvenile passé in him that he wore so well like it might have been the only noteworthy quality about him. During those several seconds, his book was lowered and shut, and the pages pressed over his thumb as a mark.

For several more seconds, the boy seemed to be returning to his senses as the whimsical mist of his mood lifted and dissipated. His thumb respectfully allowed the book to sleep by removing itself from between it's pages, and along with his hand, his thumb was brought upwards to idly feel over the fabric of his shirt, which covered his hidden pendant. The edges of the pendant hinted into his skin due to the weight of his touch, and with his eyes closing, Uriel drew his attention to the pendant, repeating a small prayer in his mind and sharpening the edges of his core.

For secrecy, only, and the will to not tempt any other person’s notice, his back relaxed into the chair despite his body awakening from its literary slumber. He was exhausted despite such an educated rest. So childish he felt in his weariness, weak from such a small read and a wagon trip. How did his parents travel like so by wagon, across the kingdoms for so many ages? Their strength was something he was longing to hold as his own. It had been stolen from him. They had many more ages to travel, and yet… Each net he cast in order to capture such lost talent, he seemed to only bring about tangles of webs and knots. And, although his fingers were hardened from Artemis’ training against the Earth -- so calloused he could not anymore feel the smooth richness of the pages of books against his fingertips (such a childish desire he held close to only himself, much like a whispered confession), these knots were often not something he knew how to untie.

He was determined, though. His ether was a strength burning brightly inside of him, and he knew for one that his pendant strengthened this power. If his pendant was the key to finding his parents’ strength, he had much more studying to overcome. He would not let his parents’ death be in vain, nor would he allow himself to disown the memories of the ones who had taught him magic of which he held so close to him during his youth.

His eyes slowly opened, but his hand remained intrigued with whatever was beneath his shirt. Perhaps, an itch or a chest pain. Alaric Fasarus, yes, he was a small pain, like a sharp thread that needed to be cut as to allow the seams of Iquenos to unravel. Again, Uriel rested his eyelids. However, his hand rested as well, finding a place on the antique cover of the book lying in his lap. He needed all the energy he could muster. Casting spells was not always as easy as simply making some foreign noise in a distant language. How he longed for it to be, though.

𝐀𝐁𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐔𝐓𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐍𝐈𝐓𝐔𝐃𝐄

Ｅ ｉ ｍ ｉ Ｎ ｏ ｘ

The lack of muscles flexing and trembling underneath Eimi’s thin body caused her to stop slamming her gun into the man’s thick skull. Her eyes narrowed and scanned the face, unconscious and beaten as small pants of lustful anger quivered from her thin lips. She had cracked part of his beefy face, and if he did not look inbred before Eimi got ahold of him, he sure did, now. A small smirk breathed from her, while she admired her work, the deformity of his damaged cartilage and swollen nostrils, clogged and battered with his own fluids.

Satisfied with the results, Eimi straightened herself — letting herself cool down — adjusted her blazer, and carefully removed herself from the situation with one foot politely placed to the right while the other foot was ballet’d gracefully in toe-step. Her body made a satirical, half-assed twirl as her balance was repositioned into a small saunter. She made a small glance over her shoulder towards Jeremiah, as he made some commentary. Apparently, Lynnette had made her own breach, entrance, and announcement. A roll of the eyes brushed past the scene and she faced forward, again, “To the ship,” she grimaced back at them.

Jeremiah’s lucky he has crew-mates, Eimi silently reprimanded, as she tucked the gun neatly into its holster. Secretly, she was unsure if beating some prepubescent boy on some children’s video game would have been more satisfying than violently smashing a grown man’s skull bloody. She’d forgive Jeremiah, this one time. He did seem a little out of it, today. Everyone did, but some things were more noticeable than others, like Lynnette’s seemingly plastic pale cleavage — it glowed in the fucking dark, like a night light. Other foibles of her crew-mates passed through her head as she headed back to the ship.

She was half-dreading it and half-relieved to get off this Godforsaken planet. There had been a small adrenaline rush of excitement to visit Mars, again. However, Eimi could not quite pinpoint the exact reason why, and if anything, she was annoyed with herself for having any recollection of the place. Granted, the only familiar faces she saw were those of The Absolute Magnitude.

With a small pause in her walk, Eimi swung her backpack around to her breast and shifted her Samsung-Galaxy ionPlayer 2 (S-GiP 2). It was an old Samsung device, but Eimi rigged it alright. She could potentially have gotten a new one, but Wes had given her this one. As much as she loved new technology, she had sentimental value for the old stuff, like Poole. He was alright. They all were (even Jeremiah), but she wasn’t about to make that known. Her finger pulled the earphones from the clunker, and placed them over her ears. If walking around with a frown like Xaara didn’t make her look like someone who didn’t want conversation with Jeremiah or Lynnette or anyone else, then the earphones sure would.

★ ★ ★

Semi-successfully making it through the ship and to her room with no comradery with her crew-mates, Eimi unlocked the door to her room. It was dark, but the light from the hallway lurked bright enough for Eimi to navigate her way through the already memorized ‘maze.’ It was not really a maze, though. She probably could have walked straight to her bed with her eyes closed. A neatly organized bookshelf with gizmos, gadgets, and yes, some books were pushed together for some techno-baroque aesthetic lined the right wall, and her single bed, neatly made, was to the left. Completing Eimi’s necessities was a desk, (seemingly) trashed with electronics but definitely not without her most-used computer and a vacant seat next to it, where she could place her laptop. It was eclectically quaint if not solemnly stale. Whatever it was, it was enough for Eimi.

Creeping her fingers along the front wall, Eimi flicked on the light. In a hopping motion, her backpack was displaced onto the cold floor, and her hand quickly made its way into her pocket to pull out the newly obtained wallet. Without taking off her boots, Eimi landed stomach first onto the bedding. Her fingers flipped open the wallet and crawled inside to see what she had found, all the while, the music in her S-GiP played a heavily hyper-warped biwa ordained tune. It was chill. But, not chill enough.

Eimi’s face fell flat as she stared at the ‘plethora’ of fake IDs of Jeremiah Strong. A hesitant thought passed through her, and then she carefully closed the piece of trash, contemplation of pocketing the money dripped from her movements. She rolled over onto her back and studied the worn creases and bruises on the material. The wallet fell from her hands and landed on her abdomen before losing balance and falling next to her on the dark bedding. She closed her eyes and let out an exasperated sigh. This song sucks.

Entomos; Kingdom of Insects [FULL FOR NOW]

I call dibs on playing a cockroach!

You are able to see into the future. How does the avatar above you die?

Arbitrarily.

"You Are Your Avatar"

A young, unattended little girl in a school uniform comes traipsing along. She has the blade of a Katana slit through her head, and in all honesty, she should probably be writhing in pain or dead. However, as it appears, she is unaffected by the injury. In fact, she is nonchalantly adorning a sweet succulent smile of contentment across her clueless face, and upon further investigation, it is fairly easy to assume that even if there is a possibility that a hint of agony is buried beneath her obliviously complacent eyes, asking her about such a thing would be far less satisfactory than inquiring on a more important question such as:

"What is your favorite color, my sweet summer child?"

She is, after all, functioning like a normal human being. It would be rude to poke at her deformities. But, then again, the narrator is not everyone; just merely a writer making suggestions to the other players.

You are able to see into the future. How does the avatar above you die?

Tactfully.

𝐀𝐁𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐔𝐓𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐍𝐈𝐓𝐔𝐃𝐄

Ｅ ｉ ｍ ｉ Ｎ ｏ ｘ

While Poole was deciding which song to choose, a small blink on Eimi’s Holo-Link S3 flickered a few times, complete with an inaudible rumble on the countertop that tickled her skin through her clothing. Eimi picked up her head and slid her elbow from the counter. Her eyes morosely moved to look at the screen. Loser Boy decided to make a move, a small, half smile gently tugged her lips, Excellent. She quickly plopped the butt of her cigarette between her smug lips, as her dead eyes somehow managed to lighten with unmerciful excitement.

Several buttons and commands were automatically adjusted by her fingertips, “Your pixel army can't save you, now, boy,” she quietly rumored to herself. The cigarette hanging from her lips moved with her speech, and she leaned back in her chair. She was lost in the coma of New Age Technology, intoxicated not on some cheap liquor (God, cigarettes and alcohol just didn't mix well with her, anymore), but on the deep sweeping motions of her digital exercise. Holographic fantasy tanks with too many weapons and artillery options to not be seen as gaudy moved along a fine coordinate grid.

Sometimes, Eimi really enjoyed herself, like, right now, as she completely dismissed any interaction Poole was having in front of the Jukebox -- by using temporary digital stimulation to escape reality as she congratulated herself for having predicted and strategized correctly. The little jerk, who probably still lived home with Mommy-dearest, was about to get annihilated. This was too easy, her smug grin completed itself as her playful eyes narrowed.

The music and lyrics to Spirit in the Sky echoed somewhere in the background of her mind, which should have sighed with annoyance at Poole’s classically, predictably old choice. It wasn't that bad, but his Born-Again Christian attitude could get really tiring, after awhile, and only rarely was it amusing. It was clear, Poole had been through some shit, but everyone on The Absolute Magnitude had. So, what was the point? With his age, he should know better, out of all people, God is dead. Just like Wesley…

Just like Wes.

Her head tilted sideways, and her short, dark hair dipped in a guilty design onto her covered shoulder. A small pout protruded the dying cigarette further from her mouth. She pulled it out nervously and snugged it inside the ashtray. The neck crinkled into its snuffed ashes as her fingers twisted prominently. Her forefinger then pressed one of the bright green buttons, turn-based operations filtered through the signals. He was going to lose. She had the kill switch for him. He might have stood a chance if he hadn’t taken such a long break between turns. Maybe he had probably been eating dinner with his family like a good boy. It didn't matter, she was about to shut him down. Unfortunately, snark aside, the exposition of him wasn't feeling as pleasurable, now, Wes having somehow managed to make his memories known in her conscious, again. She kind of wished he had been a harder opponent.

Eimi leaned forward in her seat, a subtle attempt for comfort on her part, “Say, ‘Good by-,’” her head quickly turned around as commotion clattered through The Hall. Deevee was--? Her Holo-Link was instinctively put to sleep with the side press of her thumb. The projection blinked and faded, blindfolded into the pocket of her dark pants. Her fingers swept several strands of hair caught on her cheek from the humid ambience, and the untouched Spar-Letta soda didn't even catch her eye as she slid from the tall legged chair, swooping her brown, leather backpack around her. Loser Boy’s gunna have to wait.

She had to go mess with a different set of losers. However, they were probably more so adults, even if they didn't always act like it. (She had no idea who Deevee was, right now.) Her boots skidded through the slick, dusty floor and rounded through the exit. And, somewhere, upon passing through The Hall, Eimi's sticky fingers picked up on the grimy scent of money in a wallet, now nonchalantly swiped and resting next to the Holo-Link. Familiarity aside, free money was free money.

Her palm caught hold of the frame and swung her body towards the action. Her gun was already out by the time her body came to a hault, triggered and ready to fire. Jeremiah's fist was grinding its way into the bouncer's face. What an idiot. By the looks of the crime, it was only Jeremiah who needed saving, maybe. There was very little if any redemption in that.

She lowered her gun as her eyes shifted about the garbage of flesh slinging. A diddle rattled in her pocket, breaking the nominal noises of a petty street fight. She knew that noise. It was the opposite tune of the jingle she had heard hours earlier when she beat her first opponent on the turn-based MCSG. A ghosted gaze hazed over Eimi’s face. The clichéness seemed all too unreal, yet here she was. It was real as can be, “You are the spitting image of a fucking loser, Jeremiah,” she mumbled to herself. And, now she was, too, if not by associating with him but because, she lost that stupid children's game. Who loses games against children who still live at home with their mothers and eat family dinners together? People like Jeremiah, probably, and again, now, her, as well.

Interrupting her brooding mental tantrum were four larger men, walking through the alley way. They seemed pretty ominous in size, like Poole but not really -- maybe more brute-ish, if that were possible. Yeah, it definitely was. They were living proof.

What the fuck… Why not? Jeremiah was indeed one of her crewmates, and she needed to release the tension somehow or another. Her gun was immediately raised, again, almost embarrassed to have been lowered originally. With her elbow bent and the other arm extended, her right foot took several advances before her lean body leapt into the air and whipped one of the men in the face with loaded metal. Her body landed, retreating several swift steps backwards before advancing again, physics and geometry at her side as she squatted her legs and tackled the man at his lower abdomen, knocking him off balance. He might have had a ‘Deer in the Headlights’ look if she wasn't bashing it maroon with her gun.

If Jeremiah wanted some sort of redemption, he would distract the other three big guys long enough for her to get this pawn knocked-out. He had a hardhead, though -- most brutes did. And, sure, she could have used bullets, but goddamn, if only making a mess didn't feel so bloody good, right now. Plus, with the wallet she nabbed, she had a decent sum to afford a good dry cleaning for her blazer. She wasn't about to give up on this opportunity, as her feet restricted the big guy's arms. As muscular as they seemed, they were exhaustively helpless against the raging teenager, “Try to beat this, Loser Boy!"