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Sanity is not statistical.

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The sorcerer remained nefariously quiet, as palms and fingers etched stone, malleable to his utmost preserved concentration. The flame of the young wizard cackled, on his left-hand side, a spurning Megaera which enviously punished his jealous lack of insight. The Goliath abruptly halted the conducted orchestra of molded earth, committing the crime of broken taciturnity. The requiem wept a suggestion of a passage, an involution which would require his skill and testimony.

He cracked his knuckles, obnoxiously, as the petrified stone met its Perseus, the promised hero against the Medusan labyrinth afore them.

"All I can do is twy."

Sweat rent from his filthy fingernails, as dread posed and pressed closer to the walls of the allegorical cave. Brim focused again, half-expecting the muddy maze ahead, would incur a proverbial Gorgon. He pivoted and turned back to the mute and the mage.

"Hope this wock is not as fwustwasting as my attempt of a wadde'."

Either this was too good to not be a trap.

Or.

This calm individual had already meticulously wagered the odds, rolling the devilish dice that the Scroungers were, in fact, the lesser of the two evils, which in of itself, implied a likely harrowing encounter with these Slavers.

And.

What was in it for this Jace? Liberation of his home planet? Revenge? A war of attrition to lessen the competition as two immense powers exhausted resources for jewels and metals?

These inquiries and more plagued the engineer, like a fog of locusts swarming her withering neurons, masticating and consuming angst, fear, trepidation as she attempted to full process this meeting, of yet another refugee of import. Sooner or later, the angel of death would catch up with their race, either in the masqueraded form of friend or foe. Trust must be earned, not swallowed, since being a giant fleet made them merely a larger target.

Curious, Vropda edged closer, allowing the tubes that constantly plasmapharesed her thin blood, to buzz, vibrating a sinister melody as she chanced another query.

"Do these Slavers have a name?"

@scifidude47@Hekazu
Does Cyanwrath knows he is a druid? Plus, Torus doesn't know they are on to them, correct?
The hue of blood was visibly absent on the battlefield, yet smitten with harm, which delivered the brief temptation of cowardice upon the warlock, as she beheld her Beloved become engulfed in radiance, spewing forth retaliation against the mutilation the Face of this World, revolved upon the wardens of light. Sooner repressed within her was a new color as the luminosity, that of pale impairment and of dire need of reparations. She stopped attentive, ignoring the Green Man who would not listen to their pleas, slash through her armor of shadows once again, imbuing destruction, to what seemed to her very grey soul.

Because her eyes could not conduct and sway away from Katia, through the dissipation of her circumscribed black air, the cleric halfheartedly struck back against the paladin, in reprisal, missing as her concentration remained affixed upon the injured Tabaxi. Wick weaved through the heavy fog of combat, towards the monk, laying hands of healing and warmth.

“Rise, milya, that pain may not cut off hope.”

There was a word quite different from her previous cantos, a saying given slightly from fear, but also in confidence. Because the broken phrase implied another meaning of adornment as restoration permeated the feline’s body, the diviner suddenly fled, keeping a distance and mindful of the monster slayer’s range.

Gritted teeth beckoned back. “If it comes to pass that one of us transcends, let it not be you.”

The flush of anger refilled the wizard’s cheeks on seeing the pallor of the graceful mouser, encouraging the mage with blind assurances of success, but betraying her many mental convolutions, as she yearned, with a prodigious exhaled stench, to conjure the pitiless shades, not only upon her own corpus, but also unto her friend's body, as they remained both naked in the flesh and soul, against the threat of the knight.

What does Torag see in the Mess Hall? Any rolls needed?
Once the beasts halted in both skirmish and vivacity, the music of the murky spheres of darkness seemed to be dispelled by Jill. With it gone, Koan’s once offered golden heart was simply intercepted, masticated and cast back into the fiery depths of the final Cerberus’ permeable exsanguination. Like a freshly consumed apple, now demonstrating its rotten core, full of cancerous amygdalin, she bobbled in the abyss as her red orbs glared at the novel duo. The anti-heroine quietly pouted, striving to brew a cure to this newly discovered malignancy which so quickly metastasized as a sweet death to her lust for this fallen Andras, now plucked of his wings, his wolf, his weapon, and, now, his very woman.

“Sauron? But I thought…”

A vain war won and lost, as discord churned and spurned further a seething melancholy, while witnessing the shadowy Paris eventually selecting their beguiling Captain, the apparent Aphrodite of the crew. Her hair chose and breathed luminosity with her almost unparalleled charismatic beauty, angelically outshining the corporeal wealth of the surrounding tigress Hera and mystic Athena, and the obviously dejected Eris, subduing the silvery buffoon’s strife with an unheard song.

“…we were…”

The jester slowly tailed, from a deafening distance, the rich and delicate hands the partnered celestials shared. The sight birthed a tremendous lethargy her soul would have to encumber as silent thunder impregnated her mind with a millennia of screaming ululations, whispering and sowing sorrow onto the face of the grey geisha. This, a nebulous emotion never truly festered by the prankster, for more than a brief instance, weakened her chin as her hood floated over her wet eyes. It soon wrapped her weeping body with its blinding world, delivering a hushed pity and muted lamentations, heard only by those sensitive and inquisitive to a sad clown’s sins and aborted hopes.

“…a team.”

@The Grey Dust@JBRam2002
Zelthis fell.

Again and again. Because of betrayal. The Ragnarov had immense comprehension of many refugee races, but zero tolerance with rebellion.

Weeks and many deaths later, imprisoned within the weapons testing facility, the physiology manipulator succumbed to new toys, technomancered to deliver the most pain.

In the slowest feasible way. And as long as possible.

Captain Vropda had just marched away, behind a transparent barrier, from the last crimson rays of the waning subject painted again on the walls of the engineering canyon. The dark scar left by the impact reeked of mortar and brimstone. A blemish which grew thicker as Nick’s body continued to endure it. Such a will against the literal burnout of explosive torture surprised the sister of General Creft. The cliffs of flesh on either side narrowed, as the universe contracted into another detonation around the shapeshifter. The vassal appeared human in its still extant remains but with an inhuman luminosity about him, as radioactivity stemmed from the corpus as it slid slowly to the bottom of the crash well.

There were no signs of evolution. Yet.

As Vropda was hopeful that Zelthis would yield fruit, that might benefit her mother race, the scavengers of space, extricating life, in any and from any form or fashion. She ceased her experiments as the digital monitor reminded her Exosuit of a gathering with her brother. With another button, the chamber cryogenically frozen and with it the rebellious changeling.

---

Her boots barely broke the office as Jace completed a synopsis of her recent existence.

Rancher.
Slavers.
Mining Planet.
Revolution.
Escape.

Buzz words ACASIAS automatically gleaned, discerned and verified. The tale seemed to be authentic, according to the statistical boot-logging methods, the AI provided. The mechanically enhanced woman's unseen pale eyebrows beneath a cocooned visor leaped in excitement.

“What were you exactly harvesting?”

@scifidude47@Hekazu
"I know you're not a mercenary group. So, what the fuck are you doing here?"

The pirate was seized off guard, slightly by the tyrannical abruptness of the inquisition. The feet of the sailor scuffled, with durst dislike his reign of his words, imbuing an adverse power against the dubious query.

“Tiamat’s hunger knows no rapture, friend. Left unbridled, her harvest will feast on all the fruits of Toril.”

The cryptic ambiguity was intentional, as Torus did not trust the young merc. He lingered for a moment, to discern whether his guide would disclose further incriminating or liberating evidence. The old man truly yearned, to shake the ark of the hooded man’s mental sanctuary, in a subtle fashion as to not attract attention nor to relinquish the previous farce, lest the surrounding propitiation redeemed with immortal revenge against those not sharing the wrath of the hoard, be forfeit. The beard and eyes swiveled its paired gaze over the encampment, indulging in the enormity of such an enterprise.

“A famine quickly depletes a region of prey. Hence, predators must migrate from hill to coast to feed their ilk’s massive bulk.”

The sailor entered the Mess Hall, seeking to understand their extent of provisions or rations and to delineate numbers, by the potential occupancy of such a deranged cafeteria.

@Hekazu@Irredeemable
From the haunted knight’s infelicitous reprisal, the realms of light and darkness congealed into a haze, by his perspective, where neither setting nor rising horizon mattered. Clothed with transcendental and ancient brightness, a myriad of pain dispersed, from the guardian, unto the dark mantle of shadows guarding the warlock’s petite constitution, scurrying the capricious wisps away, far from the mortal angel. The enraptured celestial soon suffered another mighty blow by the hand of the cryptic paladin, as she suddenly became entangled in a brief web of ethereal lianas. The face of this world revolved slightly, turning his attention to fight and smite the slayer of monsters.

Their undesired foe was resolute with the accosted defenders of luminosity, as he turned his back, allowing the league of obscurities to return, shrouding Wick with dim and cloudy strength, once again. Her staff glimmered the other broken twin, in furious angst, searching for its other geminin of the jewel heralded from the lost Shujaat. The Green Man made a mistake, as the sailor tempted him with further desecration of his shrine, about facing away from the wizard, seemingly angered with the bard’s recent misery of events. Fostering a glorious enterprise, Wick hazarded a strike, that shouldered united mistrusts and thoughtful counsel, landing and securing a hope against such a mighty adversary.

But to no apparent avail.

The reincarnated cleric realized the defiant light, to which Birbin’s former friend, seemed partial, hastening with equal ruin, the pit that Cesar now plunged further into. The race was thunderous, as the force of those dire arms scrambled to reach the pirate and his insults. The diviner desired to aid her friend but to also to seek out the recently vanished Ruron, the reagent in this affliction of repentance and infliction of revolution. Summoning strength, the outward luster of the vines, intemperate against the murky miasma hovering about her breastplate, withered. With a fixt mind and high disdain, her boots quickly prostrated the temple’s floor with a sensed of injured merit, hoping to seek eventually, once more, the fierce contention of her master’s prodigy.

Only after the throne of this unconquerable will was usurped.

M’s pale nails assigned irritated canals through Bar’s sheared torso, much to the annoyance of the sorcerer. It was unlike a gent of unparalleled narcissism and abusive natures, to dig like an animal through a corpse. If Brim truly knew the feng-shui of the man’s mind, the actual dictator that heralded over the lineage of his frantic movements, diving into sinew, ligament, and bone, with such rancor, for a man bereft of muscles himself, this would be a mere moment of contemplation. The goliath pondered, out of ignorance, the duality of such a despoliation marred and contrasted against the exactness for his minimalistic purity, as the muffled vizier eventually arrested his activities and finally gestured him towards the perilous ledge.

Perhaps this was the manner of mute mystics.
Everywhere.
To torture all by hand signals.

However, the pain of these charades would steal likely minutes from both their brief lives.

Was he that ravenous for silence that he would risk miscommunication?

“M….” He paused, a slow, Parkinsonian thought wormed across the expanse of nerve clusters and his direct knowledge of the particularities of this mild, miniscule director of progress. His eyes slid over in a cool glance, curious, caught, hooked upon the subtle implication, frustatingly questioned by his own lack of whispered baritone.

“I don’t know what you’e talking about.”

An unassumingly, harmless sheaf of rope, enlisted by the mental shaman, was offered for the perpetual descent below. “Wope?” The nose turner grasped hold and buckled it to his belt reflexively as he looked with piercing eyes further into the depths of the cave. The next level below was distant, clear, spiteful and riddled with intentional harm, if someone was not careful. After some lengthy deliberation, the fetid giantkin released his hand from his chin and began to wave his arms in a methodical crux, as he attempted to chisel a stairwell, or ladder, if too cumbersome, propelling the carved stone upward next to the desecrated carcasses, hoping not to spill any silt, tipping off any circuiting patrol.

He hissed softly once again. “This will be betta to cwimb down.”


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