jdh97

Torn Across the Rift

I don't know how long it took Eyeris, but it took me about an hour because I closed the window I was doing it in and had to start over.

Torn Across the Rift

Some of the lines are probably out by a space or two, but here it is:

                           ________________________________
                           |   |
        Below is the rooms   |   |
        That people woke up in   |   |
        connected by hall   |   |
        Herbert and the gang   |   Ta-Da!   |
        are currently in one   |   Conference Room!   |
        of these   |   ____   |
____________________________|   /   \   |
|   |   |   |   |   |   /   \   |
|   |   |   |   |   |   /   \   |
|   |   |   |   |   |   |   |   | Projector screen
|_____|_____|_____|_____|_____|   |   |   | Is on this side
{}___________________________   |   |   |
|   |   |   |
|   |   |   |   |   |   |   |   |
|   |   |   |   |   |   \   /   |
|   |   |   |   |   |   \   /   |
|_____|_____|_____|_____|_____|   \___/   |
  |   |
  |   |
  |   []
  |   {} <~~~ Airlock door that everyone is using
  |   [] to get in and out
  |   |
  |   |
  |________________________________|

Torn Across the Rift

Mallaidh

She smiled at the talking ball of light, having come to accept anything and everything wondrous that happened before her eyes. It’s fascination with her was a bit of a surprise, but then she supposed it was not only man that worshipped the Tuatha Dé, and so not only man who should come to their world in some sort of arcane and spontaneous pilgrimage.

What a strange idea, talking light, Mallaidh mused. She was truly falling in love with her situation and the utter fantasticalness of it.

Giddy electricity thrummed through Mallaidh’s body. The whole prospect promised adventure and further magic, and a dragon; if she were to slay that and return she’d be a hero, and could sell the teeth for thrice their weight in gold. She’d have glory… but her mother would still succumb to the illness. The family bonds that shackled her bound her to put the cure over her seething pride, and it ached and swelled against her chest at the mere prospect of missing a sainthood to rival that of Patron George of the English. Even then, she had still been invited to join the ranks of the Tuatha Dé, and stranger Otherworlders, an honour she knew was rare indeed.

Then an elder man in their presence collapsed, and was quickly carried away with much interest following in his wake. Twain retreated from the room to pay the unconscious man further attention, apparently concerned. A fair portion of the room flittered after him. Even the ball of light left, after making Winston rather flustered, which was odd, considering he was only describing what was natural. Winston left also. Mallaidh locked eyes with Rozalind.

A dark man drinking coffee, who Mallaidh had noticed previously, spoke up, pledging his assistance also.

“It is true; we are bound by our honour. I must help,” it was destiny. It had to be; divine forces, moving her on a righteous path. She would overcome any adversity and prove herself worthy, and her mother would be saved.

A wolf sauntered into the room and sat on a chair, observing everyone in a regal silence. How awesome. It was then that she caught the eye of the man with the impatient face. He and his friend would no doubt be useful companions in this endeavour; they had already shown initiative and efficiency. She gestured him over with a flick of her head, and then turned back to Rozalind.

“You compare us to puzzle pieces. I want to know where I fit. What else can you tell?”

Torn Across the Rift

Herbert

The flowing shadows lapped gently at his ankles. He felt a sensation, one that was far too singular to describe, but the word that reached closest might have been “cold”. It was unnatural. His body was beyond shivering. He felt as though he were being strangled, his brain starved of oxygen, keeping his mind in a constant state of disarray. The river beckoned him. He felt it, deep inside his chest, as though the urge to advance was tugging at the strings of his heart, as if he were a stubborn dog on a leash.

He stepped forward. Images flashed inside his eyes, burning his brain. Memories of life. His father’s study, his nanny Eileen, carefree summer evenings, ingenious games with friends, the smiling faces of all in his town. The embers of his home. He wobbled, and almost fell sideways.

Fog, thicker than any London particular, and a curious shade of blue, fell over the water in a thick blanket. The water was treacle, flowing as if time was drawn out and stretched here, like hot toffee pulled upon a hook. It was all wrong, but Herbert’s thoughts were scattered and falling like firework sparks. So, unconsciously, he took another step.

His father’s coffin lowering into the yawning ground. The boarding school, a new best friend, University in London, the brilliant mind of professor Otto Lidenbrock, their happy stumble upon fortune. The first time he met Smith.

Herbert felt lesser, as though the insignificant thing called “self”, that beast over which everybody obsesses desperately, had been slowly drained away from him, the thread of life unravelled by the Plutonian current. What use was it to resist?

Elizabeth’s smile across the room, their first dance, the courting, the wedding, the sweet nothings and promises of a fairy tale future, an intangible goal they hoped and strove for day in and out. Her illness.

“Sweet Liza.” He swung his head about, looking, but then realised they were his own words that had escaped his lips. His purpose in life was the pursuit of his own happiness, but he needed his Liza for that, and without her he was lost. He knew what memories would torture and wrack his mind if he took another step, so he stood, rooted by fear, and by the shards of a broken heart, held together by the fragile stitches of futile hope.

But then, seemingly as he resolved to move no more, a ghostly vision at the edge of the mist, blurred, but human, with the voice that chimed in the pure melody that the heaven’s even envied. It was his Liza. He grabbed for her, running. Memories bit his mind painfully.

Liza, motionless in a coffin of glass, perfused with an arcane liquid lent by science, to preserve her until means of her resurrection could be conducted. A man with a crop of neatly combed ginger hair and a conceited smile. Their talk in the study. The ruffled red hair and torn suit that same night. The body on the slab.

Then the monsters.

Liza was gone. The water was at his mid-thigh. His mind was reorganising itself, and forgotten memories floated to the surface. He had to get her back. He’d already sold his humanity to that end. Abandoning his passion would be self-damnation. It had become his existence for the past… how long had it been? He looked down at his hands. They were shrivelled and liver-spotted, loose flesh hanging from his bones like sack-cloth.

He sunk to his knees, and the water flowed through him, up to his shoulders, and washed away his pain. Life is pain. Yet he wanted to live. His own meagre existence was all that he could offer for Liza, who was taken too soon by unseen forces. He tossed his head back and cried in anguish as he teetered between life and death unknowingly, on the edge of oblivion.

Stars through the fog. Their warm light pierced from the heavens, though Herbert had a strange feeling they were not meant to be there; an ingrained wrongness pervaded them. In the shadows of the stars he could make out the faint impression of colossal bodies, moving cosmoses, beings of whose great and incomprehensible power and presence he felt crushing his mind even from here. He closed his eyes and thought of Liza.

“I will get you back, my darling dearest, sweetest truest.” He stood, his body feeling younger than it had in many a year. The stars smiled down upon him. They were not of his own night sky, so could guide him neither east nor west, hither nor thither. He stood in the river shrouded in fog, with no idea where he had come from or where he should go. He was truly lost.

Torn Across the Rift

Herbert

Crumbs and flakes of the croissant stuck to Herbert’s fingertips, so he wiped them off with an unpleasant handkerchief made of soft paper. He looked around the room, at the gathering crowd. That was when the monk entered. Something inside his head clicked. Then it felt as though someone had scraped all his internal organs and squeezed them into his skull, except for his heart, which ached hollow in his chest.

He wasn’t in a hospital. He’d been in denial believing that. However, that meant he had surely gone insane. Can I no longer see the partition between the waking world and the ephemeral nuances of the imagination, of that sleeping world? For what he had experienced was too fantastical to be actuality.

A grey-pink tongue flicked out of his mouth and licked his top lip.

Herbert clenched his stomach and closed his eyes, trying to stop the room from spinning, trying to supress the nausea as everything caught up with him. He rested, hunched against the wall, forehead buried into the nook of his elbow. Half-remembered dreams and memories flashed behind his eyelids.

When the two men in uniform entered, one asinine and the other austere, it barely registered. He licked his lips again.

His starchy collar felt like a noose around his neck. Sweat poured, running down his brow in rivulets, raining from his nose. Everything smelled too strongly; it suffocated him. Blood thundered in his ears to the rhythm of his storming heart. It was all he could hear. The bellows of his lungs puffed air in and out, his chest rising and falling like the piston of a steam engine.

White lights danced across his vision when he opened his eyes. The walls seemed to be closing in on him. The faces, alien and strange were snarling at him, he was certain, twisted by hatred and malevolence. He staggered back into the hallway, away from the room full of people.

Pain crushed his stomach, and his body convulsed. Acid burnt his throat and tasted foul in his mouth. His vomit puddled in the hallway, half dripping down the wall.

Then Herbert collapsed sideways.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mallaidh

The grin did not vanish when Twain clapped her on the back. As much as she was wary of him, comradery was always welcome in a place so strange. In the back of her mind she groaned, and hoped this didn’t mean she’d be expected to drink anymore coffee.

Across the room, she noticed one of the men in crisp uniforms seemed to have trouble in controlling his face. She regarded him with cool, emerald eyes. The slightest of facial alterations conveyed much, so relatively this man was dancing a fíor céili on his lonesome. To be expected; he was a cocky one, whose friend had berated him for such. It caused her to wonder if a “gangbang” was a tradition the Tuath Dé were not supposed to share with outsiders, perhaps a dance also.

She went to rest her hands on the pommels of her axes, but they were missing, so she fumbled with empty space. Knowing she had at least one set of eyes upon her, she turned away to hide her flushed cheeks. She happened to look at Winston entering. She smiled openly at him, and hurried to stand next to him and the floating orb of light at his side, which she was not sure how to react to, but Winston seemed calm enough about it.

“This is more than I could have imagined,” she said. He smiled, and might have said something, but Twain began his speech, and so he closed his mouth and nodded towards the man, a gesture for Mallaidh to watch and listen.

Forces beyond the gods reeked of menace. A cult ritual heavily insinuated the Fomorians, in her mind at least. It unsettled Mallaidh, but forged an iron resolution in her heart; if they wanted help, she would lend it readily. Then she could return with tales of glory, of triumph over evil, and, most importantly, the magic of the gods to cure her mother.

“Doc Tur Twayne, you have my sword,” She said, in the silence that followed, “but how might I put it to use?” She was, of course, sword-less, but she was speaking in metaphors.

Torn Across the Rift

Mallaidh

The man oozed charisma like an exotic frog seeped poison. Mallaidh was, however, placated by the gesture, and was even glad of it, feeling her confidence grow more than was wise.

She followed the two, noticing how the cyclops woman seemed to be judging her. For her part, Mallaidh kept her face carefully blank, not wanting Rozalind to read her; that sort of knowledge was twice as valuable as even the finest steel, and thrice as dangerous.

However, the shifting of the whole room made her stumble, as it caught her by surprise, but not as much as when she saw the portholes, and what was outside them. They were underwater! Truly, magic was far different, but no less awesome than Mallaidh had expected. She marvelled as they passed an eight-armed beast, tiny eyes below a swollen head. She’d never seen an octopus before. Its body was fluid and flowing and it propelled itself along. It never occurred to question how they themselves were moving; the answer was simple to Mallaidh: magic.

Too soon, they came to a halt, and it was time to come away from the window into the vastness of the deep blue, but that took great effort for Mallaidh to pull herself away from such beauty, previously unknown.

The room they entered next was larger, and much busier. It was all quite intimidating, so much so that Mallaidh found herself accepting another coffee, despite having nearly vomited from it before. This time, however, she doubted she could spit it back into the cup, as the room had too many eyes. She puffed out her chest and downed the hot liquid when it was given to her, as she would a flagon of ale, supressing the grimace with all her might.

She grinned manically, mainly at Twain, but also cast it across the room, and placed the empty vessel upon the table.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Herbert

The deafening lack of sound seemed to wake Herbert. He was on his back. He saw the night sky, a total black, completely starless, and the face of the moon was missing in all its lustre. The whole world seemed muted; everything was grey, as though the night, rather than gifting a sombre blue-caste, had drained the colour away. The blades of grass were glassy and ashen, the type you could cut yourself on, and reeds rose around like colossal skeletal fingers, a hand reaching upwards for the heavens.

Once he had pushed himself into a sitting position, he then, with protest from his knees and back, pain that screamed only dully and far off, much more conscious than subconscious, a placebo as opposed to a reality, got to his feet. He looked around. From horizon to horizon, the abysm of the void sky yawned. The land was incredibly flat, but there appeared to be grey wisps in the distance, more substantial than grass or emaciated reeds. A river ran underneath the sky, with no beginning or end in sight, a winding, infinite snake of black, with silver strands flashing through it, like bolts of liquid mercury. It was huge but deathly silent.

“I did not expect you back so soon.”

Herbert felt himself jump, but the sensation was hushed and removed; like everything else.

A figure was standing ankle-deep in the slow, shallow waters near the bank. Herbert formed the impression it was woman, though this thought was alien and not his own. She was made of shadows, she was made of rags, she was dressed in fine silks, and she was not there at all. Herbert did not struggle to comprehend this; again, the confusion and nausea of the contradictory realities did not reach his forefront of awareness. The dim tinge of recognition swelled in his brain, but the grogginess and un-clarity meant he could pin no time, place or name to her.

She smiled. Well, one of her smiled; the amalgam of planes managed to instil no small measure of fear, without being immediately apparent as to why.

“It’s not your time yet.”

A thousand questions. All would go unasked, for now, by the leaden tongue. She looked off, far into the abyss.

“I would not recommend sleeping again for a while. The divide has thinned and your being is in flux.”

He managed a slow step, as though he were moving through treacle. She halted him with a stare, a snarl, a smile, nothing.

“The Living are waiting for you. Go to them.”

A command he followed.

Voices swam in Herbert’s skull as he came to. He must have somehow slipped off, despite his fear. Truly, he was exhausted then.

There was a hive of activity, down the hall; the voices and smells reached him: coffee and tea, and sweet pastries and cakes. His stomach growled, demanding he go and eat, or it would induce an awful pain in his gut. Herbert abided. He threw back the sheets and hobbled on his ill-rested legs, stifling a yawn, but oddly, he did not feel like sleeping.

He staggered into the room with the table, and took a moment to observe the congregation. Gears were set in motion as the engine in his head began firing on all cylinders, piecing together the machination and working towards realisation. Soon, he would no longer be able to hide from reality.

For now, he was hungry enough that he could. He took a crescent of a buttery bread-like substance from the young man, and began appeasing his restless stomach.

Torn Across the Rift

Sos' new CS sheet here for your considerations. Let me know if it fits

@Affili

Personally, I'd like a little more clarification as to what exactly her powers do, and the extent of them, as currently it is very ambiguous.

Torn Across the Rift

Any one of her eleven powers could be interesting if you fleshed it out, and potent enough on its own.

Torn Across the Rift

Winston had been true to his word then, and was trying to help; that much at least reassured Mallaidh that she might not be quite as adrift as she feared. Leaving the plumpness of near threadbare seat, she stood before them.

The more than cursory glance Mallaidh gave Rozalind put the halted conversation into perspective. The bandages largely hid flesh that was mottled and reminiscent of dried plums. It seemed as though this woman wanted death over disfigurement, which made Mallaidh, who wore each scar as a badge and a sign of adversity not only survived, but also conquered, form all manner of disrespectful preconceptions. The man reminded Mallaidh somewhat of a wolf, and if she had ever seen a snake, she would have drew better comparison from that. His smile was too easy, and his mannerisms too offhand; she suspected it was all superficial, that his humour was misdirection, and wondered what lay beneath, when the smiling mask cracked. Suddenly, she was very aware quite how far gone from realm of her comprehension she was; with the giddiness of reaching Tír na nÓg, or what she believed to be so, fading ever so slightly, the notion that something more sinister was afoot rooted itself in the back of her mind. It made her hairs stand on end and her heart beat just that little bit faster.

Nevertheless, that seed would not sprout and bear fruit yet, and, in hope-blinded folly, she put her trust in these two strangers.

“I am no child, Doc Tur Twayne,” she said, her chin tilting ever so slightly skywards. Her heart was racing, despite her outwards calm, beating against her ribcage, calling her a fool for caring about an affronted pride. Mallaidh felt more strongly, though, in her spirit, that she must show that she was worth helping, that she was not some fireless lass. Fragarach, the hefty sword, would have comforted her with its solid touch, but alas, she was alone, yet her gaze held steady and intent at Twain.

“But I shall come.”

Torn Across the Rift

Eyeris will shortly be returned to working order, we apologise for any inconveniences caused due to her absence.