Lugubrious

Living Reflection: A Psychological Alter Egos RP

This is moving regrettably slowly, even with five more or less regular posters.

Dungeon Keepers

IMO there is no need to rush at all. Cavartem's really making headline, but a lot of the people who've been here from the beginning haven't made a huge lead. I myself have two creatures, a construct, an adjunct, and fewer than 100 total minions not counting macula.

Dungeon Keepers

Lube!? Never could I imagine a more humiliating yet arousing faux pas of my name. Thank you though.

On the subject of text walls, I do think everyone should make an effort to read them all. If you don't bother reading other peoples' hard work, why should they be bothered to read yours?

Dungeon Keepers

Aeternam stepped forward, the spokesman of the three. “To remind you of your destiny.”
“My destiny is here. To provide a shelter for the wounded, the sick, the deathly, to sustain life and grow strong again.” Her rough hands now both clasped the staff.
“A staging ground for empire, to spread the sickness, to fester the wounds, to hold off death by corrupting life and serve your own ends,” He retorted boldly, drawing gasps and snarls from the assembled denizens. “You are not so different from us in that regard.”
The woman loomed forward, revealing both hostility and interest. She did not seem to mind being challenged. “And who are you?”
“The nullifier of civilization, the herald of despair, the kindling of vengeance. We number only three now, but seven of us exist. Four brothers and three sisters. You may not remember; you may have chosen to forgot. A holy being may have kept you from knowing who you are, but he has not destroyed who you are. Look within yourself, around you. You are no philanthropist. You are no Dungeon Keeper. You are, have always been, and will forever be, Pestilence itself. Will you join your kin, or will you be content to remain in a mudhole in the middle of nowhere and perform witchery for the sake of your swamp rats?”

The afflicted people, rising steadily in anger throughout Aeternam's speech, finally found it could stomach his words no longer, whether for the sake of the pride of Malady or the aura of Eris. Like animals that scurried out from the shadows and shelters to attack. In seconds the trio was surrounded. Over the furious din, however, came the call of the witch. “Prove the truth of your words.”

In response, Aeternam drew his cane saber with remarkable speed and, in one blow, decapitated the nearest blighted man. His next stroke, too quick for the victim to react, slit the throat of a second. The black metal absorbed the blood of the contorted people upon contact; the humid air was filled with a deep, metallic sigh from the weapon itself. Crimson energies swirled around Aeternam, and for an instant there was the visage of a warlord, easily ten feet tall, with armor gleaming in the shantytown's sulfurous light.

The next instant, the image was gone. With the blade sheathed once more, Aeternam stood still, old and wrinkled as ever, amid the raging, howling swamp people. Three of them rushed at him at once, one with a nicked, rusty cleaver and the others with crude clubs. Eris and Moros instinctively moved in to protect their leader. One blighted human fell, stunned, by the woman's blow to his temple; the other stood transfixed in the grip of Moros, life force fading fast. The third leaped over his disabled comrades, club descending upon Aeternam's head. A blade sprouting from his chest, however, caused his weapon to drop from his nerveless hand. Out of nowhere, the woman called Malady was behind him, only a few feet away from the trio, gripping the spear lodged in the blighted man's torso.

Awed and terrified, the other swamp denizens did nothing but stare. Malady removed the blade from the wretched corpse proceeded to use it to pry the huge cow skull from her head. It fell with a thick splash into the stagnant water, exposing a face equal parts beauty and horror. Ritualistic lines were carved into the tattooed skin, and pitch-black eyes gave her a haunting look. As the trio watched, an oily black fluid leaked from them, and the blighted people in the area were all afflicted. Their own eyes turned black and wept oily blood, and one by one they fell, choking, to the murky ground. Eris, Moros, and Aeternam, however, were unharmed. It seemed the witch had made her choice. “Give me a few minutes to prepare. I must reabsorb the essence from my makeshift Heart into myself to be able to move freely once again.”

NPC Compendium Entry

Blighted Men - inhabitants of a swamp in the eastern plains and followers of the witch doctor Malady. Twisted and contorted by constant sickness, they more resemble goblins than humans and act more like animals than people. Their matriarch took them in as outcasts, lepers, orphans, and wounded soldiers, and while she kept them alive she forever corrupted them. Recently, their numbers have been reduced by a third due to the sudden defection of their leader to a band of intruders claiming to be her kin. Without their leader, however malicious and manipulative, they've come to rely upon a much more aggressive leader styling himself the Pandemic Chieftain. Exposure to the saliva or blood of a Blighted Man will almost always spread the affliction to the victim, affecting mind as well as body.

Dungeon Keepers

The diseased soldiers escorted Eris, Aeternam, and Moros through the night to a crude shantytown. The further they tread into the dead zone, the swampier the ground became, until just as much muck and putrid water lay underfoot as earth. Though they held no light, the soldiers found their way with a surefootedness that could put a mountain goat to shame. Clearly they knew the area well, or some sort of power was guiding them. Perhaps both, ruminated the red woman as she navigated her way through the wretched bog; after all, the luminescence of their eyes denoted some sort of sorcery at work.

Her thoughts were interrupted as the lantern light hit a structure in front of them, followed by a dozen others like it. The term 'building' truly overstated them, as they were little more than shacks made of wood, sod, rusted metal sheets, anything really. Together they formed a dingy mockery of a shantytown, huddled together like lepers over a fire. As they were led through the narrow spaces between the shacks, the three observed all too well the squalor permeating this miserable residence. The people were no less repulsive than their dwellings. All looked alike, thanks to a coating of mire and generally stooped, ragged personage. Here and there brimstone torches interrupted the darkness with seething, crackling yellow fire, and in their mad illumination the denizens of the swamp looked less than human. Long, hooked noses, gray or drab olive skin plastered with blemishes and scabs, sunken skin, and long chins gave them the appearance of goblins.

The triumvirate hadn't long to examine the natives, however, before their escort stopped them at a packed dirt plinth at the shantytown's approximate center. Immediately, a different building became obvious. Tucked in between the trash dwellings was an actual wooden abode on stilts, thatched in black grass and laden with all sorts of occult paraphernalia from hanging charms to skulls to wax candles. Into this building one of the blighted men ventured, and from inside dim voices could be heard over the irritating, high-pitched drone of mosquitoes. They seemed to avoid Aeternam, and when they landed on Moros their tiny lives were drained into him, leaving the bodies to fall to the ground, so they converged on Eris instead. A short time later the blighted man reemerged, slamming the creaking door wide open. After him came a woman.

At her presence, the night grew ever more ominous and silent. Everyone present, including the trio, felt a creeping illness in his or her gut, tugging and twisting. The woman was an inch taller than Eris, with skin the color sepia but blanketed by pox scars. Her long, white hair fell down to her upper back, but her face was hidden beneath a huge, yellowed cow skull. More bones, accompanied by green lengths of cloth and stained bandages, defined her garb; she wore a sleeveless robe that reached to the ground supplemented by dark, ornate leather armor. In her hand was a crooked staff tipped with a mess of barbed wire wound around a huge needle. Her voice, deep and echoing due to the skull, reached out to the triumvirate, “Why have you breached the land of Malady?”

-=-=-

Some distance away from Ifrit and Shaige hovered an unusual revenant. This specter, no mere mundane apparition, was like them; it hadn't been in the stark, sepulchral spirit world for long. Though in previous existence it had been a being of incredible power, it was only a ghost now, ravenous like all its kind for life and warmth. Purpose, however, was something it did not want for. The drive present in this indomitable spirit had assisted in untold destruction before, and it was what would raise it from this gloomy world of the dead back to Elysium. At least, that purpose was part of the revenant's salvation, as it needed some sort of link to the other side to find a way through. As such, the presence of Shaige and Ifrit in the spirit world -particularly the flames and burning pride of the Infernal King's Scion- was an incredible temptation, discernible even through Shaige's stealth enchantments. Slowly, inexorably as death, the revenant drew nearer.

Dungeon Keepers

Cyclone said
Sure. The more the merrier.

Actually, I would not advise any more people to join. Nine separate stories is a whole lot to follow, read, and so on--particularly for our compendium keeper. I won't deny anyone who wants to join, but I'm not relishing the idea of open invitations either.

On another note, the most recent post with Kalok just screamed the 'Saruman and the Uruk-hai' scene from Lord of the Rings. Was this evocation intentional?

Dungeon Keepers

Good to see you both!

Living Reflection: A Psychological Alter Egos RP

In response to the taunt, the negative lifted up a spearlike leg and drove it toward Ironclad's heart. The huge limb was pointed enough and fast enough to impale even the armored alter ego's cuirass, but luckily the negative's fighting style hadn't changed between each of its 'lives'. In a silver flash, Ironclad brought up his zweihander to block the blow while shifting to his steady forebalance stance to avoid being pushed off his feet by its kinetic force. With a heavy clang the leg connected, and while Ironclad's almost buckled and dropped his back leg to its knee, he held firm. Miffed that its potential one-hit-knockout was intercepted, the negative cackled and raised the leg again. This time, rather than blocking, Ironclad stepped to the side and allowed the full strength of his monstrous enemy to sink the leg into the soft soil. “Not any smarter, either.”

The savage claws of Ironclad flipped forward into active position and he leaped onto the negative as it struggled to free its leg from the clingy, root-laden dirt. He held the zweihander in reverse grip to keep it handy. Though large and fearsome, the negative's shadowy composition meant that its weight was less than what it appeared to be, and Ironclad's quarter-ton form almost tipped it over when he latched onto it with his claws. As such, while it took only a moment to release its leg from the ground, it was kept occupied by its endeavor to stay on its many, thin feet and not fall onto its side. Seemingly realizing that sooner or later Ironclad would be able to kill it if he remained on its back, the negative took off skittering toward the forest, attempting to brush its metal rider off with the dense autumn foliage. Ironclad saw this and stepped up his progress; he was now on the creatures back, every slash of his claws eliciting a new pained shriek and releasing a murky seep from the tenebrous skin. Using his tail as an anchor, he stood up shakily and prepared his zweihander for a critical blow to the base of the negative's biggest skull. The light glinted off the blade as he readied it, eyes gleaming gleefully, to take the foul beast's life a third time.

Unfortunately, the negative had evolved after all. Behind Ironclad's back, it raised a fell stinger akin to a scorpion's, and just as the alter ego held high his blade it struck. Totally unprepared for such a strike, Ironclad tumbled from the negative's back and fell onto the ground hard. The sword lodged in the ground roughly eight feet away. Cackling, the monster turned back around to face its prey. Only a few dozen feet away now, the forest was swarming with smaller, jeering negatives, ready to pile on like hyenas once the lion had secured the kill. Ironclad pushed himself to his feet as its maws extended forward, ready to rip his metal apart.

Over the bestial laughter of the negative and the howling of its smaller brethren came a whistling sound. Once he had heard it, Ironclad's tension faded. “Do me a favor and keep standing still.” Before the jaws could close around him, a projectile lodged in the negative's main head with a meaty shnuck, causing it to pause. It was some sort of arrow, shaped like a corkscrew and glowing with intense blue light. The sight of it filled Ironclad with satisfaction. “Much obliged.”

The energy stored in the arrow discharged into the body, and it exploded into a black mist. Suddenly very quiet, the other negatives shrank back into the safety of the forest. Laughing cruelly, Ironclad turned away from his trees to face the fortress in the distance. Its windows pulsed with blue light, far softer than that which had made the arrow so lethal, and despite the miles between them Ironclad could hear, “Come. I am waiting.”

Dungeon Keepers

Eh, I generally don't like bandwagons, just added it to my signature to see what it was really. I plan to replace it once I find a suitable replacement. And that's today.

Dungeon Keepers

The captain's body, gaunt and wan, lay limply on the deck in the dark of night. He wasn't dead as far as Moros can tell, but with his life force siphoned away he might as well have been. The northman stepped back, physically unchanged yet stronger in spirit. “Pity you didn't make us show you the money we promised you,” he drawled as he turned away, boots creaking on the caravel's aged boards. On the main deck, he found Aeternam and Eris waiting for him. “Why didn't you just kill him?” crabbed the old man, wiping blood and hair off his thin, dark metal saber on a pitch-stained rag before replacing it in his cane. “Our quest is to find our kin, not waste time building ourselves one brick at a time. The payoff will come when we stand united, little brother.” Moros simply glared in reply, disgruntled that his methods were being discredited so thoroughly for interfering with the quest so little.

Meanwhile, the feeling of commitment was really starting to sink in to Eris. She, though having only choked out or beaten unconscious her assigned targets, could acutely sense how serious her new comrades were, particularly the elder. Though playing along with these murderers for now, she could always come out on top later; they were relying on her in several aspects. First and most broadly, she was their conduit to her alleged sisters, able to vouch for them and persuade others to join the cause. Secondly, her ability had been instrumental in their takeover of the caravel: in the late evening, when the crimson sun was peeking over the horizon, she had released her aura to begin a brawl among the crew. Afterward, everyone was tired, irritable, and wanted nothing more than to be alone—perfect for elimination. Now that she ship was theirs, only a few miles remained between the trio and the rumored dead zone.

One by one, they disembarked, carrying with them various equipment and provision stolen from the ship. From the torchlit vessel they entered an oppressive, swaddling darkness, stuffy and thick like some infernal fog. The solitary lifeboat arrived at the shore of the Myra River without incident. Illuminated by the light the lifeboat's lantern, Eris, Moros, and Aeternam walked steadily through the darkness, following the river southwest. The plains here were untouched by man, long and thick, full of insects and the occasional sleeping rodents that bolted when its slumber was intruded upon by determined footsteps. Once, about thirty minutes into the hike, the night's silence was broken by a keen, whooping cry in the distance. Remembering the tale of a riverman who frequented her Sand Pits, Eris guess that it was a manticore. Her allies only grunted in response. For the remainder of the trek, she couldn't shake the feeling that the beast was following them through the gloom, waiting for the right moment to strike. Though not a fearful woman, Eris quickly became aware of an intense, primal terror of the unknown, all too characteristic of humans. As a result, her self-doubt increased; if she was what these people said she was, such human instincts would be far beneath her.

Finally, the land beneath themchanged, and Moros stopped dead. He knelt examined the grass beneath him with wide eyes. If there was something special about it, Eris could not identify it, but Aeternam seemed to feel the same way about the black vegetation as Moros did. “It's not dead,” he said at last. “But it is very sick. I don't understand...”

While the two fretted over the grass, Eris continued to peer out into the darkness, searching for any threat. Gradually, she realized that there were, in fact, eyes staring back at her. First one pair, then two, then five. Only when they started to move toward her did she conclude that these ghostly eyes were more than figments of an uneasy imagination. “Eyes! Coming at us!” Moros and Aeternam, surprised and initially skeptical, shot to attention when they, too, saw the eyes spreading out to surround the circle of light radiated by the lantern of Eris. Moros grinned and put up his fists, while the old man's hand latched onto the hilt of his cane, ready to draw the hungry blade within.

Rather than a pounce and a shriek, a low voice issued from the darkness. “Intruders. Drop any weapons and put your hands above your heads.” Into the lantern's light came five men, though even in good light they would have been hard to look upon. Their skin was incredibly blemished, discolored and rotting in some places. By was of clothes they wore damp rags, grimy bandages, and scraps of rusted armor, none of which concealed their deformities. Plainly, they were diseased. Despite their condition, however, they brandished nasty-looking spears and swords and seemed as fierce as any soldier...perhaps even more. All this Aeternam took in instantly, and he raised his cane over the chest of Moros to prevent him from attacking. “We are envoys. Take us to your master.”

At that, the supposed leader of the vile squad seemed somewhat surprised. “M'lady? Very well; we will escort you to her. Make no sudden moves.” As the group began to move as one into the area marked by blackened grass, the old man commented to his little brother in a whisper Eris strained herself to hear, “We thought to find a brother in these dead lands. We may, in reality, have found a sister.”