The solidarity of silence was far reaching. The void of voices meant...
Freedom.
Laughter suddenly jetted from the younger elder, pervading the storage room housing the two old men, as wrinkles of ineffable joy seismically creased upon the druid's countenance. The liberated Torus giggled with glee, standing promptly vertical to match mouth with Falconmoon's sacred medallion, shedding the stagnant knees of confession, stained with the blood and sweat of a defiled war. A multitude of kisses overwhelmed the cleric's hand and his symbol, eventually succumbing to the need to breathe and express his gratitude.
"It is meet and right to sing, praise and worship you, Chauntea, for not condemning but deeming me worthy to partake of healing, of spirit and flesh. The receipt of your divine graces, Father, has repelled the adversary, illumined my heart, and granted peace to my powerless days. Now with a faith unashamed, a love unfeigned, and the promise of wisdom, I pledge to pursue the knowledge and practice of holiness, so as to finally pass from this plane in hopes of attaining that everlasting rest, where the tongues of friends, family and festival are unceasing, alongside the gladness and goodness of the Gods, once we, at last, enter their courts."
The pirate slowly became mute, allowing the banishment of the bard to take hold. No condolences entered his uncrowded mind, for the witch, who sought manipulation at every beguiling turn, was seemingly dead. Xaron's borrowed temple had now become her tomb. Then, a tabernacle of tears bellowed a waterfall of expired release.
“She was insane, blinded by rage and vengeance for her mother's death.” The crooked nose sniffed haphazardly. “All to hunt and destroy any citizenry involved in her demise and betrayal. The last few decades were utter pandemonium as we exhaustively roamed the Sword Coast, in search of an elf by the name of Nox, a supposed Harper rumored to be her father. An elusive hunt that claimed both of our souls.” Wiping his eyes, Torus inadvertently snorted once more. “Until this very moment. We no longer should waste moonlight and join the others, as this night of terror has not yet ended.”
Scurrying to the exit, past the priest, he halted mid-stride, about-faced, and whispered.
Thanks be to all, for your input. I agree with your statements, especially Harbinger's. For now, I've decided Torus will likely still wear a tiny scent of demonic possession, but with, more than less, complete autonomy. I will plan and hope to develop his/her backstories as we have natural openings, without derailing our posse from our module, unless DM & co feels we can integrate them seemlessly together.
Again, mucho gracias everyone! I will likely post tonight.
Torus/Xaron would like to not only pool the DM but also, OOC, the audience.
Currently leaning for Xaron's ability, to control and converse our elder buccaneer, to be largely dampened but not completely nullified. Yet, her memories and thoughts should be historically submerged and embedded into his psyche, so much so, that the telepathic imprint subconsciously continues to spring into a mixed dialogue (purple text) and potential flashbacks. Or should there be triggers for her involvement (i.e. battle) instead of being ever-present?
What do y'all think? Any suggestions/comments/complaints?
@Norschtalen I'm always a sucker for internal catharsis; it anthropomorphicizes the character, demonstrating that righteousness is impotent without the contrast of depravity.
Trailing behind the cleric, the short trek was riddled with sighs of tension and elation. The slothful promenade into the closed quarters culminated with inquiries of rationale and purpose. The mettle of conversations prior were eventually positioned before the makeshift altar of justification, ironically constructed out of timber pallets filled with munitions, all allowing the aged defendant to validate a raison d'être. Curiosity of Kyra’s interaction underpinned the ethos of the priest’s dialogue.
Worthy of hushed voices?
The druid’s plagued yin and yang coalesced into an emotional mandala, where each soul endeavored to both exercise strength and exorcise weakness over the other. The spiritual game of tag frenzied into a full contact sport of psychotic dogpile, as drips of eccrine sweat and blood oozed from the clenched fleece. The pool of impurities slowly collected from the once blanche swathe into the crevice below the Acacian crates, formulating a vantaged nystagmus of a bubbling sickle under a wooden gavel.
Within the asthmatic pause, the betrothed gyalpo and rakshasa finally became wed, in utterance.
“You mistake us, sir. The inquisition, meant for you, was merely intercepted by your successor.”
Their blended voices mimicked a churning ocean, heralding unsegregated instigation from the sedate pirate. The right palm jarred suddenly from its statuesque hibernation onto Torus’ beard, frenetically paging over the metaphorical whiskered facial papyrus, with his tantric fingers, while gripping the top third of his dragon-fanged scytale. The Tethyrian staff curled adjacent his knuckles into the Curna fuzz.
“She only echoed why a toad trapped in a well should never question the…"
“… Sea’s tide.”
A grimy lock pad slid out from the wall. Peeling fingernails followed suit.
Alphanumeric code accepted. Welcome to the Arcade.
“How fitting, Yorick. How do you like your new lab now within Moonhall’s third floor instead of Delosar’s basement?”
Xaron beckoned with a muffled shriek, while pulling back the azurite hood revealing an ashen male rictus with a tongue-ring, worthy of a volcanic eruption. The Turing-like gadgetry littered upon the cluttered tile was a feat in of itself, as their Krakatoan creator must have ruthlessly inactivated the self-scrubbing program installed that ran every janitorial vigil, upholding the integrity of cleanliness and the façade of godliness. Despite tip-toeing, with childlike stealth, through the cemetery of mildly obsolete contraptions, a dark navy sleeve haphazardly jarred a countertop near a spell book with Sylvan script, triggering a contingent Warding into a virtual transparent Dragonchess board to propagate perpendicular to her gaze, wherever she turned, illusions buzzing to life circumferentially.
A voice cried out from the blazed gizmo wilderness. Then slowly an icy generated gnomish silhouette bubbled into the air. “Sir, I have been here for about a year. Xaron, is that you? If it isn’t pomp and circumstance here for another rematch! Yes, what a pleasant surprise! I didn’t recognize you. Another youthful Mind Seed, I see! It seems you don’t remember everything, since each time you germinate into another psyche, your recall springs anew. Let’s get started then, e4.” The white pawn treaded forward two spaces, resting on an opaque digital square.
“No, Yorick. Okay, e5.” A charcoal piece mirrored the opening advance. “I’m here for an appointment. Yet, your timing always seems to be impeccably cumbersome, as if you know my itinerary before I do. And. Sometimes, a hint of appeasement can be seen through these jovial gestures. You would never lose ... to gain. Would you? You, crafty artficer?”
The ordinal snowy inventor’s tones became softer. “Losing on purpose? Pishah! My gosh, what do you take me for? A heartless venus fly-trap?” A slight grin etched across his right analog cheek. “Speaking of plants, you know, they are just as much machines as any other living thing, even if it be the mold beneath your toes. If you take biotech synthesis to its logical conclusions, there’s no reason why I couldn’t program a vegetable. Oh and knight to f3.”
“F5, then. Now, I promise to heed your ever novel spawn. Afterwards, though, okay? But, first, let’s get to the meat of the matter. Before you release your near infinite applications of everyday matter upon us, how’s the screening process coming along. I only have a footnote or so before my meeting on the second tier.”
“Must be grandiose, then. Hmm… Likely Edwin and Hexxat, routine customers of my previous cabaret, were summoned as well. Am I right? How I miss such regulars to my vaudeville! E takes f5.”
“Stop reminiscing. Black knight to c6.”
“Admit it! You love games. Stage. Table top. Bondage. Bishop to b5. At least I do. They are the ancient opiate of the masses. Most do nothing more than turn Amn’s adolescents into mindless peons wired for constant stimulation, but a select few provoke careful thought and encourage players to develop their mental acuity and critical thinking. They can also be recruiting tools, utilized to ultimately sift for potential soldier fodder, harnessing the natural aggressions and frustrations of hormone filled pubescence to refine their reflexes into the next future Athkatla force.”
Hundreds of see-through video panes plopped, before the young druid-bard, into existence, a ceiling fan of a possible future of adults as both curmudgeons and victors. Some screaming in delighted frenzy. Others tearful for the early maturity beset upon them. All in all, human experience was sluggishly and youthfully rotating around the unveiled eye of the silent Torus, like a hurricane of vexed testimony.
“I adore the idea, but what if it generates more havoc than value. Half the Council are not ardent enough to enslave society, if it does not profit them. Bishop to c5.”
“Trust me. I’m not a mere engineer, but a wizard who dabbles in divining, as well. Bishop takes c6. It’s a perfect safety net to not only mold the next army, but to also entrap and weed out psychopathic rebellious behavior for further rehabilitation, if needed.”
“Excellent work. Any other propositions do you have for us, before I depart? D takes c6. I'm always late ... with you.” The cerulean witch shuffled her left foot, in anguished nervousness.
“By Crom, yes,” a Schwarzeneggerian chatter stereoed, “Wait ... before you take flight, your promise, remember, to my new venture. Ready? Here’s the sales pitch on my Kaleidoscopic Repigmentation Organic Memory Module. It uses a fungus that’s been bred to be incredibly sensitive to certain narrow bandwidths of light. When exposed to a laser of the appropriate wavelength, the mildew instantly toggles colors from a dull green to a bright red or an illustrious violet, generating a quantum bit of sorts. The hue change precisely matches the illuminated area, spreading no more than a nanometer, remaining perceptive even when dried out and dead. White knight captures e5.”
“Bishop takes f5. Have you…”
The Simulacrum interrupted her, mid-inquisition. “Yes, my mind has been missing for some time. White Queen to h5. Moreover, I have constructed a glass case to cancel the beam’s refraction through each surface, assuring its arrival straight through without deviation. Thus, the prototype system, I’ve devised, can store 1 million q-bits in a one millimeter square area, translating to a storage of slightly over 4.5 giga-q-bytes. Using lattice framework to maximize body surface area and mirrors, a 75 centimeter cubic platform can sieve 150 terra-q-bytes of data in seconds.”
“Pawn to g6. Let me guess. There’s a catch.”
The smirk now incised across both chilled dimples. “White Knight captures g6. Unfortunately, the yeast’s powerful sensitivity to light is also its weakness, instantly reformatting in the presence of any stray ray, that of a candle or even the smog obscured sun. This eliminates the possibility of a portable storage unit. But KROMM can be renegotiated along with my sentence. If I only had the funding and the freedom, that is.”
“H takes g6. If only we could meet face to face. I have so many questions. But, for some reason, I don’t fully trust you.” Xaron hissed with her parched uvula.
“White Queen captures h8. We did, except you were in the womb. And, what’s there to fret? I’m in an eternal prison, now.”
“Black queen to e7.”
“King to d1. Indeed. And. Maybe. Just possibly. Flesh and blood might not be too far off.” The sleet imitation eerily mumbled and cackled.
“Now, you’re getting sloppy, Yorick. Black King to d7. I hate when you throw a match away, especially when I’m already tardy.” Via retaliation, the possessed pirate vehemently waded in tongue and in boot, towards his exit, crushing semi-sentient objects in her Stygian path.
“White queen to c4. You win again. Checkmate in 2 moves.” The addictive sighing bellowed. The lights were killed, as the Glyph was dispelled.
“Rook to e8. Alas.” Xaron scurried swiftly past the portal of entry, as if consumed by a fresh fear of the dark, as the laboratory entombed the voice. Without hesitation, she scampered to the adjacent stairwell, marching towards the kingdom below.
In her aspiring approach to a foyer buoyant of Camelot ideals. Gathered together.
To destroy the City of...
“Splendor, is what I seek and have always sought.” Kneeling suddenly into the miniature Bethesdan portico, whilst visibly staining a corner of the labyrinthine hide, Torus wrestled the windigo within his body.
“Time has rendered her vise weaker with every passing year. From Chult, her grasp was that of a dreadful man-eater’s. Inescapable. Now, in Greenest, her temper tantrums beget that of a lost child who has abused refuge.”
The verbal trepanation hit its mark, with the bardic Preta screeching in the suffocating chamber, as the sailor of many ships petitioned for rubrics of absolution from the Father to solidify his atman. The left hand released the sheepish scarf and prodded for the crescent elk antler, to procure a suicidal vajra with the kartika tusk. The Tertullian lobby proclaimed the last vestige of a penitent parent.
“I beseech your god, Teacher. Grant my turbulent flesh a tranquil heart, free from this evil dream. Strengthen me against the nightmarish darts of passion spoken within me. And pray for my polemic spirit, if my soles cannot keep unshaken at the remembrance of your mercies.”
A final metanoia to liberate himself from the Vritra’s rule, either by burr hole or by blessing.
EDIT: Phew! Hope I didn't disappoint, too much. Forgive, though, the flamboyant color scheme. I also subtly referenced different spells in the Flashback. I know it's daunting and confusing, including a real chess match. I can clarify with a mechanics tab for any and all those interested.
As you can tell Torus is seeking for not only a conversion but for any help! Greater Restoration, confession, forgiveness, and/or a mere absolution rite? Anything. The aim is to foreshadow and prepare his backstory for a multiclass dip into a Tempest Cleric 1 at the dénouement of this encounter, at our hopeful next level.
Posted. Not that a disclaimer is needed, but for those who wonder.
Apologies for the persistently weird delivery of Torus in the IC, in both scintillating syntax and enigmatic discourse. It is all intentional, I assure you. Just simply trying to match the style of writing with his backstory, of a cruel psionic poet possessing a pirate weed wizard. :)
The fiendish lyricist received, in stride, Kyra’s response, but remained insatiate. ‘Til finally the famished aim of her hunger approached.
Father Falconmoon.
Torus, too, starved. As a lost chick yearning for his mother hen, in hopes of complete propitiation from Xaron.
"You have my thanks for saving my flock and myself from the assault and I would like to talk with you. Will you allow me this?"
His modus operandi was simple. Offer gratitude visibly and captivate confession in solace. The pirate melted in congruent acquiescence, to seek his transgressions' pardon before the grave, a false dawn to come.
“As wax before the fire, let us vanish like smoke to an inner sanctum. I desire to bury a tyrant beneath a wave of tears.”
However, the psionic bard hissed in regretable angst, whilst manipulating a bit of lamb fleece in the druid's left hand. Her curiosity no longer beckoned the vicar of Chauntea, now vigilant and fretful of the threshing of her unholy Seed by the possible restoration of the holy priest.
She issued a warning, in blemished anger.
“The hour is nigh; the fading King paces forth to reign the later night, crown’ed with the shine of a wing and enthroned on a globe of pallid light.
The wolf’s tail sweeps the blanching feast to expire a deeper gloom behind, the Fey uprears her shining beast, sighing within the semblance of a mind.”
The briny elder trembled visibly, in the inherited Minotaur mantle, before the inquisitive presbyter, leaning upon his adopted staff; his glossal ornament constantly shifted upon its axle, prompting their quick departure.
“Let us lament in secret, before the wick fully ignites.”
Xaron utilizes Torus' Minor Illusion to convey her own raspy feminine voice when delivering her cryptic ballads, as eerie whispers, to Falconmoon's earshot. Those close enough may be able to decipher the murmurings. All other speech is easily heard, if one is eavesdropping.
Nonetheless, the druid is ready to follow, to discuss further, after Falconmoon's lead.
icmasticc