jdh97

Worlds Apart

Stormy

Drowning was a painful sensation. The overriding panic. Water everywhere. Your lungs hurt, but it was your chest that exploded in pain, as if huge, invisible hands crushed it. Every neuron would fire. You would try to find escape. Random memories would flare into you brain. You would have to fight the very instinct to breathe. But, eventually, the sheer will to draw breath would overpower you, and then it would be over.

That was nothing like what Stormy experienced. She was floating in a warm ocean current, and thousands of tiny bubbles were massaging every inch of her skin, but there were none to be seen. Near-weightless, she drifted, slowly rolling on all her axes, breathing the water as easily as air. Sunbeams did their dappled dance upon the seafloor, and the sands sparkled and gleamed, uncountable tiny diamonds. Distant whale song called out, heard and felt in equal measure, and then, closer, it was answered. Apart from the slight, trundling flow of water in eardrums, that mournful bass was the only sound in the serene blue world. Stormy drifted at peace.

It was odd, but the octopus was heard before it was seen. After untold aeons, the sweet resonance, like a wet finger running around the rim of a champagne flute, pervaded Stormy’s mind. Then, wishing to be seen, it bobbed into her vision. Inquisitive eyes met her gaze, the horizontal-oval pupils dancing jovially over every feature, drinking them in deeply. Stormy smiled back. It was quite beautiful; a deep blue thing, flecked with black patches, which were encircled by thin rings of glowing gold. It bobbed up to her face, glowing brighter and brighter. Tentacles toyed with the edges of her face, at her chin and cheeks.

HELLO.

A bright cloud of marmalade ink spilled over her.

The world came back into focus, like an unwelcome dream.

"What's your name? I'm Anni."

Memories took their time to recollect, dusting themselves off and straightening their collars. Anni had an arm around Stormy, and her hair was bright orange, like a…

“Pumpkin,” Stormy smiled dreamily, “I’m Stormy Jeans. In the flesh.”

It was then she realised the whispers had vanished now, silenced or replaced, that remained uncertain, by the swishing of bubbling surf, the faint whistle of a buffeting breeze, and was that the occasional gull crying overhead?

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to sit a little longer,” she sighed in the barest of whispers, and Anni might feel her lean in slightly, tired. Eyelids drooped down until they were almost shut. Something warm and tingling was now in her grasp, so she glanced at her hands, resting in her lap, and saw a cephalopod visage staring blankly up at her. She frowned, those wrinkles unfamiliar to her face.

Then everything escalated quite dramatically, rending her attention from the mask and suddenly there were guns out, and a tension so thick and heavy that Stormy daren’t move, save for the deep sigh that escaped her lips. Quite why this all happened, Stormy was unsure, but the catalyst was not in question. This had been foolish, but now it was also dangerous.

“‘Bullseyes and Targets,’ say the Bells of St. Margaret's”

Yet this was a night of halves, and so she hoped the hidden half would reveal itself soon.

Worlds Apart

Stormy

The station was large and grim and oppressive, squeezing at all sides with slime-slicked walls, dirty floors, worn smooth from the passage of a million million footsteps, and sagging ceilings, ablaze with electric iridescence from piteously humming lights.

Stormy squeezed the iron on her finger. Each step forward into the belly of the earth was hard, as if she was striding through treacle, her limbs growing more and more leaden, more resistant to her will. Once she was at the bottom she must have weighed a tonne and one, and life passed by in a dream-like lethargy. An unfelt sweat was beginning to bead upon her brow, and small hairs clung to her neck and nape. The whispering voices were harsh here, spitting venom and red-hot coals. Stormy’s eyebrows gathered in a tight knot. She watched herself carry on forward. Shadows danced in defiance of the lights, and deep crimson afterimages played across her vision. Brown mosses and dead leaves fought for space in cracks and crevices. Wasted grey shapes skittered in darkness. Everything here seemed ill.

There were others gathered in the station. It made sense. Grand events didn’t happen in isolation. Some of the faces she knew; Zoe, who she waved meekly at, Will, and Tristan. Others hid their names. Yet the gazes of all were like oil slicking across her. Brimming in their eyes she saw hatred and distrust. The whispers had risen to a grand crescendo now. Her heart was pounding. Her ribcage would burst. Sweat was a river, rushing down her face. Malice-tipped words sung into her flesh, as tangible as the world around her. Knees quivered. She fell onto a bench; cold steel and chipped paint.

And then she arrived. The world was silenced. Her presence was galvanising. Yet the whisperers teetered in crystalline hush. All but one. The voice that had been heard, even in the cacophony. The one that told her that this was where she needed to be.

"Greetings…
The train is coming, after all."

At any other time, this revelation might have spurred a degree of excitement. Now, however, it didn’t do so. Stormy had always suspected the pixies or elves to be responsible for the urban legend that had sprung up around the very tracks no more than ten feet away. The human form was somewhat… disappointing.

Not that Stormy cared much at that time. When the others spoke, it was as though they were trapped in a far-off cave, wrapped in cotton wool. She clutched her stomach. Tears gathered in bulbous droplets at the edges of her eyes. Breaths raked their way through her teeth, desperate to get into her lungs. The world spun. Everything seemed to shrink and grow, as if reality was made of rubber. Darkness encroached at the periphery of her vision, icy fingers reaching in…

Then it all went into a blinding white light.

There was a dim awareness that she was still in the station, or at least, seated. Her head lolled to one side as she through the floor with glassy eyes that had pinpricks for pupils.

Torn Across the Rift

I'm good, thanks though. ;)

Worlds Apart

Stormy

Stepping outside, Stormy stretched like a tree, breathing in deeply, her hands splayed wide to the heavens. The night was a cosmological menagerie, obscured by the greying opalescence of cloud and the raking fingers that clawed up from the earth. The moon was perfectly divided, caught between gibbous and crescent. A night for mischief, for losing and getting lost, but also one for finding secrets and hidden hiders; it was a night of halves.

It was important, therefore, to follow the rules. Looking town from the twin-torn moon, Stormy locked her door, and checked it thrice, hiding the key underneath the welcome mat; she had to be proper about this. Before she had left, she had politely asked the spider, which lived in the dusty corner never to be cleaned, to watch for sprites, pixies and feyfolk.

The chill air toyed with her flower garland, tussled with the hem of her orange-gold dress, and tickled the hairs of the back of her neck to attention. Pulling her patchwork cardigan tighter, she checked her bag, and began walking. Each step was well placed, avoiding any cracks; she didn’t want her mother’s back to break.

A heavy lantern swung from her right hand, throwing out light from the thick, black-wax candle ensconced inside. This was the first of her three items. As she walked alone under the bustling buildings she intoned, almost in ritual:

“How many miles to Babylon?
Three score and ten.
Can I get there by candle-light?
Yes, and back again.
If your heels are nimble and light,
You may get there by candle-light.”

The signs all pointed to it: she would find Babylon. A life is made up of a great number of small incidents, and a small number of great ones. Tonight might be the greatest of them all; it was a tangible weight upon one’s shoulder, and if you stuck out your tongue you might taste it on the air, leaden and electric, or if you listened, you could almost hear it whispered under the tinkling silver bells of pixie-laughter.

It may have seemed, to the outside observer, that Stormy was staring too intently at the ground. On any other night, this would have been true. She was, in fact, paying close attention to the unseen path the starlight tried to hide but the candle flame revealed. To stray from the path would be disaster. She had to find the true voice amongst the thousands trying to lead her astray. So, Stormy listened to, but ignored, the whispering folk that danced in twilight, and let her feet follow the path.

Upon reaching the great black river of tarmac, Stormy stopped. Cars and people were few and far between at this hour; the night life bustled further up the thoroughfare, closer to the centre. The path was hidden here, but she had come prepared. It was a simple enough thing to cross a river, for you only needed a bridge. From one pocket she produced a lumpy piece of milky stone, and placed it on the curb. A deep breath was pulled inside Stormy’s lungs, and she strode across the river, brazen and defiant. One step. The another, and another, until she was across. At the other side, she gulped down air greedily. From her other pocket she pulled another piece of milky stone, and knelt to place it on this curb, the twin halves of moonstone longing to be whole again. Stormy watched with bated breath, and then nodded, straightening up. It had been done as was proper.

Furtively, Stormy crept along, seeing nary another soul, save for the prancing beings forever at her periphery. Unnoticed to herself, her slender fingers rubbed the ring on her wedding finger, a band of iron to keep her safe, whilst her diamond-bearing promise sat sequestered in a box underneath her pillow. This was the last of her items three. Despite her slow steps, her heart beat with furious anger, her ears rung with blood, and her breath came in deep and left uneven. So, it might not be a surprise that another rhyme slipped from her lips:

“‘Gold is for the mistress - silver for the maid’ -
Copper for the craftsman cunning at his trade’”

She stopped and placed her hand on a wall.

“‘But Iron - Cold Iron - is master of them all.’”

The path was at its end. Before her, stretched wide, was the maw of the subway station. C-Route. Stormy nodded, having suspected, but never quite wanting to believe.

She entered.

Worlds Apart

AHHHHHHHHHH!

Torn Across the Rift

Seeing as Herbert's going to be staying out of the way, I'll wait for other people to post.

Worlds Apart

Name: Stormy Jeans
Age: 48
Personality: In three words: tender, calm, forgiving.
History: “It’s pretty far-out; man… maybe later over tea, yeah?”
Occupation: Reveals secrets hiding in the soul and marks them upon skin with indelible ink; she’s a tattoo artist. Also, a part-time mystic.

Appearance I:
A seemingly ever-present smile is plastered on her round face, underneath a large slope of a nose. Narrow, droopy eyes the colour of almonds sparkle, and above laze unkempt eyebrows. Her hair is the colour of hazelnut shells, and dances in disorderly waves to her lower back. Often she thinks birds might be nesting in it. Fine wrinkles line the corners of her lips and eyes, giving her a rather kindly expression.

Semblance Type: Enlightened

Semblance Appearance:
It’s a visage that might be made from folded waves of the deepest blue polished lapis, in possession of unnaturally bright flecks of gold that one would be forgiven for thinking emanated their own light. A bold brow crashes over two, perfectly circular eye-holes. Towards the lower edges, eight, thick tentacles splay off from just below where the absent mouth might be on such a façade. Two reach back on either side, designed to caress the skull, above and below the ears. The remaining four curve in such a way to hold the chin and trail down the neck. Suckers of exquisite detail cluster around the tips of these wandering appendages.

Semblance Abilities:
“Quit harshing my mellow” – Can reduce or completely negate the sound within a small area or that produced by an individual. Manifests itself as shimmering white light at the edges of its affect, almost like the shadows underneath a rippling pool.

It goes up to eleven – Can take the sound within an area and amplify it. Appears as an aurora of bright greens and orange-reds around the target.

Sugar Magnolia – From her form, emanates supernaturally-calming, ambient sounds and a faint pulsing of violet light. What each individual hears will likely be different, and the sound may well be different each time it is heard.

Don't Think Twice, It's All Right – Creates a glittering stream of pink smokes that chimes with a thousand tinkling bells and smells of sweet and foreign mysteries. When inhaled, pain, both physical and psychological is numbed. It only lasts for five minutes and then needs to be reapplied or it fades quickly over the course of about thirty seconds.

Appearance II:


The colours of her person become more vibrant, and flowers seem to forever weave their way into her hair.

Worlds Apart

Stormy Jeans

Name: Stormy Jeans
Age: 48
Personality: In three words: tender, calm, forgiving.
History: “It’s pretty far-out; man… maybe later over tea, yeah?”
Occupation: Reveals secrets hiding in the soul and marks them upon skin with indelible ink; she’s a tattoo artist. Also, a part-time mystic.

Appearance I:
A seemingly ever-present smile is plastered on her round face, underneath a large slope of a nose. Narrow, droopy eyes the colour of almonds sparkle, and above laze unkempt eyebrows. Her hair is the colour of hazelnut shells, and dances in disorderly waves to her lower back. Often she thinks birds might be nesting in it. Fine wrinkles line the corners of her lips and eyes, giving her a rather kindly expression.

Semblance Type: Enlightened

Semblance Appearance:
It’s a visage that might be made from folded waves of the deepest blue polished lapis, in possession of unnaturally bright flecks of gold that one would be forgiven for thinking emanated their own light. A bold brow crashes over two, perfectly circular eye-holes. Towards the lower edges, eight, thick tentacles splay off from just below where the absent mouth might be on such a façade. Two reach back on either side, designed to caress the skull, above and below the ears. The remaining four curve in such a way to hold the chin and trail down the neck. Suckers of exquisite detail cluster around the tips of these wandering appendages.

Semblance Abilities:
“Quit harshing my mellow” – Can reduce or completely negate the sound within a small area or that produced by an individual. Manifests itself as shimmering white light at the edges of its affect, almost like the shadows underneath a rippling pool.

It goes up to eleven – Can take the sound within an area and amplify it. Appears as an aurora of bright greens and orange-reds around the target.

Sugar Magnolia – From her form, emanates supernaturally-calming, ambient sounds and a faint pulsing of violet light. What each individual hears will likely be different, and the sound may well be different each time it is heard.

Don't Think Twice, It's All Right – Creates a glittering stream of pink smokes that chimes with a thousand tinkling bells and smells of sweet and foreign mysteries. When inhaled, pain, both physical and psychological is numbed. It only lasts for five minutes and then needs to be reapplied or it fades quickly over the course of about thirty seconds.

Appearance II:


The colours of her person become more vibrant, and flowers seem to forever weave their way into her hair.

Critical Space [ Cyberpunk | Thriller ]

Interested.

Worlds Apart [Interest Check]

I haven't played the inspirations, but I am interested. I do have a question though, what is this significance of this "Wearing a Semblance allows the absorption of that essence." ?