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New collab released and an update on the future of Futility! New players always welcome. roleplayerguild.com/topics/…
2 yrs ago
Finally some new Futility content is up! Two more collabs are underway/finishing up. We're writing longer-form content for this finale scene, so keep eyes out! Cyberpunks rise up.
2 yrs ago
Two or three 10-35 pages of Futility Collabs are coming, I promise. The time is nigh.
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3 yrs ago
Guild Cyberpunk gang currently popping off
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3 yrs ago
Slowly, Futility rises from the ashes. Very soon, I hope, we'll be able to wrap up this next round of scenes, but that's like 3-4 posts out at least. The hustle does not stop.
I am a writer and poet aiming to create surrealistic and abstract imagery in my work. I also greatly enjoy worldbuilding, roleplaying, and collaborative writing in general. I also work as a writing advisor, so I enjoy working with, critiquing, and supporting writing in most of its forms. If you would like to work with me with any piece of prose or poetry, let me know. If you have roleplay concepts, questions, or ideas I'd be happy to listen. For those that enjoy the projects I GM, contact me as necessary. PM at your will.
โOne of the abbotโs monks came to me days after my first public appearance. Learned about the platform, and what I thought of the Reclaim. Made introductions, asked his questions, and left quick. That was their Way. โLook not for the solution, but for the center of everythingโโฆโ
โ๐๐ฃ๐ฅ ๐๐๐๐๐ โ๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ฃ๐๐ฅ๐ ๐๐จ๐๐ โ๐๐ฅ๐ช ๐๐ก๐ฃ๐๐จ๐ >>> โฆ โAnother series of Neurosynth shipments headed from the Phoenetek distribution center HQ in the Twin City Sprawl has โvanishedโ en route to major corporate suppliers and clinics around the sprawl. Phoenetek has yet to comment on the delay, and corporate voices on the other end of the supply chain are thus far silent. Where is the Neurosynth for the people of Americaโs west coast?โ
โSpeculations have been made that the shortage is part of a much larger espionage campaign between the incorporated giants of the west, but so far we have no news on the disappearance. Stay strong South City. Hart Media signing off...โ
This time too. She could have sworn that just beyond her gaze another of those Matrix hitman creatures reached and reached and reached its claw her way.
But she turned her tragic glasses on no such strikeโฆ
โMiss? Your friend is in a dire condition. He may need treatment now.โ
Delilah looked towards the monk in ๐ฃ๐๐ and Shade in ๐๐๐ฆ๐ luminescence. The intermittent flashes back to the forced server crash at the Knightsโ Labyrinth node wouldnโt go away, and with their persistence remained a persistent headache; but it didnโt quite stay contained in her head. Both brain hemispheres, flashed back and forth in red and blue dimensions. Or could it really be that simple? She felt her body and the Earth and the air sway in haphazard patterns.
โThe Shade can handle himself. The man I knew would take care of unfinished business before tending to his wounds.โ
The monkโs hand twitched but Delilah missed it. In just a fraction of a second he let his fingers curl and uncurl, never quite reaching a fully-formed fist. He opened his mouth to speak, but he didnโt have to. Someone across the mats spoke for him, but the abbot hardly used any words.
โNovice,โ called the abbot before raising a serene open palm. His subordinate needed no words to relinquish his task to Dao. The young monk was directed towards the door, as though his master knew what perils lied beyond. Delilah turned, and she could have sworn she prompted a fist to swing Shadeโs way. No response. Just stillness, thenโ
>>>โ๐ ๐จ๐๐ฃ ๐ป๐ ๐จ๐โฆ
The issue with artificial clarity is that it emerges from an abnatural connection to the mind. Proctor could feel it through every aching bone and bit of metal, but the flesh cried only for relief from that very same torment. A figure approached almost silhouetted, though radiant glare reflected from the templeโs lanterns unto her own silver limbs as they reached out through the crowdโthrough the fogโtowards the cyborg. She looked into Proctorโs eyes but she wasnโt paying attention to him. It didnโt seem like it at least. The monk focused only on the machine within.
Proctor had his own mat amongst the sea of man-mixing-with-machine, but other lost souls and broken borgs were no more than an outstretched armโs reach away. The whole front room of the clinic had been transformed for inpatient care. Even in the bustle, he didnโt have to wait long in the fog. The monk that had guided him in was quick in working her way between the busted bodies and bolts.
โYouโve seen combat, havenโt you?โ She didnโt quite expect an answer. That, or she wasnโt too keen to hear one, as she yanked on Proctorโs leg. As soon as she had the limb flat, an industrial drill nearly pinned him to the floor. โOr something else took your mind. Youโre a vagabond maybe?โ
The drill whirred again and phantom jolts of pain climbed up any remaining nerve endings that escaped their replacement with plates and gears. She had to almost shout over its mechanical cries. The outer armor of Proctorโs prosthesis was off in seconds, and the monk leered that empty gaze at its inner workings, as though she were doing more listening to the cybernetics than looking. Her hands were gentle against the unfeeling metal, at least for a moment. Proctor felt the whirr of the drill again, then a heavy yank accompanied a small firework show contained within parts of the vagabond that heโd likely never planned on seeing.
โNot always, though. You did something much bigger than wandering, probably for someone built more of gold than steel. We donโt see too much Strider class Furytech stuff in the Reclaim. Itโs a bit out of fashion, but still pricey for any older aug operations.โ
Her silver hand flexed like it had a mind of its own, ripped a piston away still steaming within its grasp. The monk tossed the defunct apparatus behind her before going for one of her own machinations amongst the tools spread out on her mat. She went back to tinkering away, and the installation of a fresh gas piston brought with it the relief of a tightness that seemed to linger with Proctor for yearsโthe cause of which may or may not have even been remembered. Just like that, lifted away.
Again. Another time, the Shaman found herself at the centerโlost in an omnipresent mess of wires and signals. She could sense it. This time she wasnโt the only major player.
>>>๐ธ๐จ๐๐๐๐...
The monks were blank but eager faces, statues in a Matrix, surrounding their two brothers at the roomโs dead center. One red and one blue, opposed not only in their respective tints but also in combat. The duel between them almost appeared more a gracefulโbut unrelentingโkata than a fight. Heavy cybernetics grinded against one another and smashed bolts loose with clouds of sparks. Those watching gave quiet commentary at key moments. Yet, after every bout, the monks recovered, drew back, acknowledged one another, and began another respectful round. The whole display felt hypnotic, like Delilah was back in the Labyrinth. She tried to shift back, but didnโt manage, and wondered if some foreign substance had muddled her blood once again.
โYouโre mesmerized.โ
The chaser of the matrix snapped back into bodily sensation. Like a rubber band, Delilah could feel her brain awaiting the โโ๐ธ๐๐ผ ๐โ๐๐ฝ๐.
โIโโ she cut herself off, thoughts swarming like eidolons from just beyond sight. Back to the ๐๐๐๐ช๐ฃ๐๐๐ฅ๐. Then, back to reality. โThis is what the monks are doing behind the scenes? Itโs just fighting. Like in Koena Dome.โ Delilah grimaced. There was a cutting edge to her tone.
โLook closer,โ the Monk offered, redirecting Delilah before she too closely inspected his silhouette in the dim dojo. โWhere upon their faces do you see the festering anger that brought you here today, netrunner?โ
โAre they not calm and aware? This is the Way of the Machine.โ
โIf theyโre not careful, Iโll step in and show them what it really means to be hit by a machine.โ
โIs that how youโve confronted your problems? Perhaps not uncommon for the Reclaimโs netrunning sort, but does it work is the real question. What really causes your anger? Did you really come to the dojo in search of your credits?โ
โWhat?โ Delilah wrinkled her brow. The interest, intent and focused upon her, threw Delilah off. How long had it been since sheโd had the ear of someone who dared to question her method while still listening in? โI need to find someone whoโs tagging the Labyrinth. An artistโฆ Thereโs information everywhere, and something dangerous is entangled in it all.โ
โConsider, my friend, that the Way of the Machine may offer you what you seek if you render yourself unto its Way, as youโre afflicted just like the othersโby your own machines. That is why each face you see is here. That is why your friend is hereโโ
Shade?
It looked like himโat least, his depiction. An image? Just across the tatami mats. Just beyond the battling men and machines. It couldnโt have been. She, the Shaman, was well acquainted with the nature of figments. Delilah could have sworn the monkโs hand reached for her. She didnโt feel it physically. It was just another ectoplasmic claw crawling forth from the beyond, but nonetheless, she let her body fervently twist to escape its grasp from the shadows just beyond her vision. She stumbled forward across the dojo.
>>>โ๐ ๐จ๐๐ฃ ๐ป๐ ๐จ๐โฆ
The robed figure greeting those at the door of the clinic waved Sโvenia inside the moment she offered praise unto the operation. Before turning back to the journalist, he wrapped his hand around the shoulder of a colleague. With one whisper, the young monk was sent scurrying across the clinicโs floor to secure another.
โOf course,โ he said. โAll are welcome to gaze upon the operation, take part in our practice, and lend aid to the destitute of the Reclaim Zone. Allow me to introduce you to someone who may be able to better direct your inquiries, missโฆโ He trailed off in search of a name.
>>> โฆ
โDharma,โ the young boy tugged at her sleeve, ignorant to her interest in Proctor. A quick exchange left her eyeing the journalist just across the room. The monk that provided her with the message soon settled next to her toolkit, inspecting it and beginning to tidy those tools that werenโt already rolled back up in the mat.
โIt seems Iโm needed elsewhere,โ Dharma tapped the fixed plate of steel over Proctorโs prosthesis. โYou can rest here. Stay for more treatment if youโd likeโฆ Of course, no oneโs stopping you from leaving if youโve got other business to take care of.โ She laughed.
>>> โฆ
โPressโฆโ She didnโt approach the doorway or the reporter directly. Tracing her silent step across the clinic would create more of an arc lacking any sharp angle. She didnโt check Sโveniaโs press chip. The young monk hadnโt either. โWelcome to Baolei Clinic, Reclaim outpost of the Mekanedo Monastic Order.โ
Almost as soon as Dharma had reached Sโvenia, her steps reversed and she began to reenter the doorway without looking away from her new subject of interest. โYouโre welcome to examine our operation yourself, and while the other monks may be busy taking care of those in need, I believe I could answer any questions you might have.โ
>>> โฆ >>> โฆ >>> โฆ
The Machine clinicโs operation was a thousand moving pieces. The once disturbed bearers of the discrete litter carried their heavy cache into another back room, off into a further passage, and Dao soon disappeared after them. While the floor was covered in writhing patrons who still battled off the agony of a Machine?, others conversed with as much heart as they could offer, bolstered by the brews of their monk caretakers. Each monk conferred and greeted the others in passing, present for small moments before bustling tasks called to them. Even beyond the temple, the Reclaim streets buzzed with inhabitantsโdrones, worker bees, wasps...
The Enforcers scarcely appeared outside their carapacesโthat telltale black body armor, full helmets with eyes alight in the night. That was how they alerted the world to their presence, and how it worked. So often, the denizens of the Reclaim could feel them coming from blocks away. Streets could clear when the armed brigades marched, but never quick enough. The Reclaimโs people were never quite able to recognize the earliest signs. Simplistic kevlar weaves poking out beneath white collars; belts on a little bit too straight, a little bit too tight; no obvious weapon bulging from the lining of a jacket, but instead improvised electronics embedded in sleeve linings or holstered on the ankle.
There were two or three such bugs working their way throughout the crowd. Eyes gleaned as much as they could from glances at the temple, but their gazes never lingered too long. Entering incognito gave not a perfect camouflage, but instead a lack of clear motive. They were vagabonds, like the rest of the crowd, but even the most derelict denizens of the Reclaim reflexively gave them an armโs length of distance. The hidden wasps merely watched, but the Reclaim watched back. The Machine watched back.
On the FrontierโThrough the Ice Tatiana Leviatan
Her movements had changed. Something about the way her arms twisted and her body shifted. Maybe she wasnโt as snappy as she used to be. These days, there was a malefic grace to the way Tatiana flicked her rifle between her hands. She smiled at its worn state. The firearm had seen plenty of battles, but most of the scratches and warps in the wood were certainly from misuse and regular drops from her idle hands. Every so often, Tatiana leaned forward on the stairs and peered around the Sword of Dawn. The shipโshe had to contain laughter upon learning it was their choice scouting vesselโran more smoothly than she thought. She remembered the snap it made,
And she thought about the Terviclops.
What did it mean? When could you say an inquisitor had fallen? Her warband had to know by now. Some of them had already drawn the line. The Black Shepherd was sure. Tatiana climbed her way up the stairwell to the upper deck and approached the racerโs side. Its lengthy viewport was already scarred by hoarfrost. She scratched at the foggy condensation over the window and peered down. An airy chuckle escaped her lips as she saw the warped metal socket. There had been an antenna there once. Strangely, no one seemed to notice its absence. Perhaps the racer missed any major inspections since it was Ilyaโs personal vessel. Tatiana turned away before she distracted any chance onlookers.
Just a glance towards the racerโs pilot was all it took. It was almost as if Tatiana could still see her next to Mother Superior aboard the Karamzina, but she didnโt glare, or bare her teeth, or leap into some capran charge. No. Despite the differences, those blank eyes could conceal anything, always looking inward. Tatiana had plenty of things to worry about in the days prior to her warbandโs casting into an icy exileโwould it be forever?โbut she wasnโt ignorant to the discord of their once autonomous union of condemned Seminary souls. She would have to adapt, she figured.
As Ragnar snapped at Galahad, Tatiana could only smile. Why? While both her warband brothers danced in dialogue, their listener leaned forward, engrossed. To see Ragnarโs frustration almost made her forget that she and Galahad were locked in some sort of game of evasion. One or the other was always on-duty, busy, or uninterested. Now, though, Tatiana was ready to parley again. Or, at least she had to prove that she could appear that way.
โI can keep this up and fightโฆโ
โEveryone needs someone to protect themโฆโ
โNo singular piece can defeat an opponentโs kingโฆ Usually. Itโs an effort of coordination,โ Tatiana said, though she was quiet. โExcept for the knight, of course. Smothered mateโthe knight utilizes the enemy pieces to corner and overwhelm the enemy regardless of allied structuresโฆโ Rather than the usual attempt to jump herself into the conversation, the Black Shepherd was comfortable in her position on the periphery. Another twist of her wrist sent her rifle in another circle. She caught its center, around a length of white tape wound around a cracked forestock. Her smile remained, but Tatiana was careful to let her eyes linger on the floor so as to allow the two boys to continue.
Galahadโs words, however, were all it took to bring the Black Shepherd to attention.
โSquad Leader... โ
โRevelations...โ
โGreat Dangerโฆ.โ
โProtect Them All...โ
โThe thingโฆโ Tatiana started, speaking not exactly to either of her comrades, but almost aloud to herself, โabout that game is that the players often welcome gambits of both pawn and queen. Thatโs often all it takes to gain the positional advantage.โ She jammed the rifle against the wall, its bayonet scraping the Sword of Dawnโs floor in the process.
โAn army can coordinate their sacrifices and make their positional plays to corner the enemy king.โ
"But only one piece delivers the checkmate."
Tatiana grimaced, and turned away to conceal her face. She was content to gaze unto the unending ice. She pressed a claw to the glass viewport, and wondered what it might take to escape to the other side.
โEvery operator in the Reclaim ends up in their fair share of bouts against the GCZ. Itโs like everyoneโs got a hustle and thatโs where they keep itโout of the sightlines and away from prying eyes.โ
โNow thatโs a place where the ๐พ๐๐๐โ๐ค players are made.โ
โ๐๐ฃ๐ฅ ๐๐๐๐๐ โ๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ฃ๐๐ฅ๐ ๐๐จ๐๐ โ๐๐ฅ๐ช ๐๐ก๐ฃ๐๐จ๐ >>> โฆ โShit. Back up.โ โIs the camera off?โ โDoes Valentine know weโre here? Does somebody know?โ
โHe sent us. Had to be for a reason. And he said not to turn it off.โ
โCalm down. Everybody just calm down. Calm down. Weโve all got to calm down.โ Gatch was already calm, but he figured if he said it over and over again the bombardment of questions might stop. โCan somebody get me connected to APEX Twin City proper? You know what? No. Justโฆ Someone connect and ask for Turkish. Heโll know what to do, or something.โ
Gatchโs withering, bloodshot eyes never left the wall of displays. As his advisor marched out of the room, he collapsed back onto a couch that was worth more than monthly wages for anyone below the sixth floor. The crowd was too amorphous for him to really follow the man behind the megaphone. He didnโt have the attention span anyways. Lott stole it away. She did that a lot, but still she was one of the shills who did it the least. Busy with her own anxieties, the candidate figured.
โThis is already the worst. I am the worst. APEX is the worst.โ He clicked a switch on the side of the couch and its cupholder rose to meet his bronze hand. The sight caught him for a second. He still wasnโt used to the new color. Used to be slick silver, untilโ
So maybe the whole ordeal wasnโt THE worst.
โSchizophrenic woman? What? Did that actuallyโ you know what I donโt care. We can pretend like it didnโt or someone can find her andโ... Okay questions, yeah, shoot.โ
For a moment, Lott continued to just stare at the interrupted camera feed. Her eyes were an unresponsive blue screen of death that reflected a black screen of death to come. Gatchโs proclamation that he was the worst had sent her mind spiraling. Lott had always assumed, regardless of who surrounded her, that she held the title for being the worst. It had been a comforting thought for the woman. She liked knowing exactly where she stood, even if that was at the bottom. However, if her bossโwell, one of her bossesโsaid that he was the worst then she would still somehow manage to be beneath him. Yet what was worse than the worst?
Lott didnโt know, but she imagined hypotheticals would fall somewhere in that abyss of awfulness. She snapped herself out of the downward spiral, jerking her focus back up to reality that she almost gave her brain whiplash. The worst mayor had told the even worse publicist to start asking questions, and regardless of how embarrassingly terrible Lott was at playing her part the game still required her piece to be moved. She moved to the chair in front of him and sat down stiffly with crossed legs, her PDA balanced carefully on her knee.
โAs Mayor of the Reclaim Zone, you have been credited by multiple corporations for bolstering what had once been a fragile, risky market into one that is now considered a smart investment. However, many critics in the labor force claim that unemployment has grown despite the rampant relocation of many businesses to the Reclaim, and that the freedom given to corporations have only ratcheted up tensions back to the state that they were thirty years ago,โ said Lott in a droning monotone, her eyes flicking up on occasion as she read from the prepared questions. โIs there anything youโd like to say to address these concerns? Likewise, would electing you for Councilman see the corporate deregulations practiced in the Reclaim Zone spread to the rest of the Twin City Sprawl?โ
โWaitโare you actually asking me? Did somebody not write answers or something?โ Gatch sighed and nearly collapsed back into the couch. There was a knock at the situation room door and the voice on the other side spoke without acknowledgement.
โGatch, I got Turkish. Heโs not in the GCZโฆโ
โโฆโ
โIโll get him hereโฆโ
Gatch shook himself and looked back to Lott, finally willing himself to play the Game. โThe unemployment gauges utilized by journalists and fringe politicians donโt even scratch the surface of what the people in the Reclaim do to get by. Thereโs a way for everyone if they find it. Thatโs how things are in this zone. Thatโs how theyโve always been and thatโs what the people wantโto find their own way regardless of a dead man walking around with an inspectorโs clipboard allocating jobs and funds and...โ
โThe deregulation of the Reclaim Zone just brought more of what the people were craving, and now whether you notice or not, weโre all thriving just as much as we planned to. Whether itโs me, or the Reavers, or factory workers slowly dismantling machines for their own benefit. Everyoneโโ
Gatch sat up and stared into the static beneath the TVโs LEDs. It was like Lott had evaporated from the room. Had he actually been talking for once?
โEveryone takes.โ โCome in members of the round table. Iโm considering shooting a harpoon zipline into the R&D building and dangling precariously over the crowd for advanced reconnaissance.โ The sound of the classic โold schoolโ radio static played over Knights Enterprises satellite communicators as he finished. The crunch of static appeared again only a moment later, preemptively striking its opponents (other radios) before he came back in. โAdvise.โ
Another artificially added chunk of static.
Salt flicked the grappling gun in between his hands, inspecting the Knightsโ newest piece while his digital display of infrared lasers traced over the crowd. The commandoโs visor caught one face that didnโt belong in the crowd. A second glance would have been impossible as the radiating fires overloaded the goggles.
The molotovs had done their jobs, though the puddles of still flaring gasoline acted in part as a wall that APEXโs doormen could shield themselves behind. Olex could see the invisible lines drawn between its masses. Through the thickening smoke, certain parties exchanged glances and others maintained distance. The dangerous ones were more coordinated. Firebombs, though they tried to appear sporadic, could be tracked to a coordinating cluster of rioters that dispersed amongst the crowd to throw and then retreat soon after. The major attacks on the corpโs hired killers werenโt sustained. There were other plans, or the concealed crowd hadnโt brought enough firepower.
โAn excellent motto, but I think the company would prefer if we go with a more marketable slogan for this election. Everyone Gives? I will workshop ideas with my team later,โ said Lott, her focus more on the screen in her hand than the other person in the room as she made notes. She was thankful that the Mayor didnโt ask further as to why there werenโt already written answers for the questions. Lott still felt uncertain when it came to being a publicist, just like she felt uncertain when it came to being herself, but she imagined crafting answers would fall under her responsibility.
A notification blipped on her PDA, but Lott was able to hide the concern on her face like she was able to hide the fact that sheโd been slipping in her duties. Lott shifted her legs and continued playing the moderator, โWhile the Bay has enjoyed a continual stability, South City and, more specifically, the Reclaim have endured more tumultuous times. Why, it was only yesterday that your offices were besieged by rioters. How do you plan to protect the Bay and stabilize South City when you cannot keep your own home office safe?โ
Two men wrestled one another back and forth in the crowd out front until chance had it that they came too close to one of the mercs. The camera picked up a spray of blood that must have traveled 10 feet from the manโs skull. Gatch hardly reacted. โLooks safe to me,โ he said. โBut uhhhโ...โ
He paused, watched some more of the live action. The crowd had become a pot with a tight lidโ98 degrees celsius. โAPEX wonโt fall. Thereโs plenty of Reclaim goons looking for jobs. Half of โem are even dumb enough to freelance gang work with a corporate name attached. Just give โem guns. Itโs not the safety they want. Fiends. They want the violence. Watch...โ The doormen barked orders that were amplified by their exosuits. The crowd yelled expletives that were amplified by the alcohol. Two opposing forces like a sliding fault line, but nothing came of it.
Stella was already catching onto the hustle. Each different gang and group in the crowd dealt with the strange, out-of-place, independent variable differently. Some avoided her, sent her looks. Others hassled her, but fielding them was as easy as fielding a Limboโd patron into a pneum transport to their station quarters. The megaphoning had stopped alongside the greater assault. As the vial emerged from Stellaโs console, she smiled, as her Clairvoyance Optics gave it the best scan they could without a live sample.
Analyzed. Fine. But with too many missing variables. Could that even happen? A sliver of glass.
Half-full. Half-absent.
Not empty, but unscanned.
The Ultrabartender flickered back to the club. Back there, frozen in time, the Mixologists were taught to embrace the confounding factors. Suspended in space that way, you knew they were there for a reasonโpre-placed.
They were made.
By Agents.
Sh ado w d e mon s.
Chaosโs invocations.
The Mixologistโs right arm split apart in slivers of artificial flesh and metal to reveal a chamber whose hypodermic fed into the cyberwareโs greater interworkings. Stella slipped the vial into place, punctured it, and just as quickly as it had opened up, the autonomous machinery sealed away, spewing new readouts were fed to the Ultrabartenderโs optical implants.
It was hard not to get jostled in the crowd, but Olex hadnโt been bothered too much. In that sort of land, where violence ruled for those who so chose it, everyone else had other concerns. Just like the courier, each piece had their own intentions to disseminate among the masses. One such subject did collide with Olex, though the assailant hardly recognized the hefty shoulder check. He looked towards Olex from behind dark glasses. His face was that of a ghostโpale, gaunt, and forgettable. The dark-red and unkempt hair, however, were quite the sight.
โExcuse me,โ he said before slipping by, careful not to knock his briefcase into any other passers by. Another wave of molotovs kept the flames fed. He disappeared into the smoke.
>>>๐ก๐ก ๐ป๐๐๐ฃ๐๐๐ค...
โHoly shit.โ This time, the sound of static was overlaid with the sound of Salt stumbling back upright. โThe infrared actually picked up one of the Reavers.โ He leaned over the lip of the roof from the burnt out building where he was posted. The grappling gun, for better or worse, no longer stole away his attention.
โClass one operator, โSaltโ, reporting to Reclaim Command. My team has spotted one of the Reaversโฆ Older guy with a rough beard. Kind of looks homeless and definitely doesnโt look like heโs here to kill someone.โ Salt paused and surveyed the thugโs proudly displayed jacket. He had all the marks of one of the Reavers, and by the looks of it he had little to fear in the heat and haze.
โOne of their elder members?โ
Is it possible that thereโs essence to the emptiness? Is my scanner blemished? Missing something? Seeing darkly?
That explained why the megaphone coordination had gone silent. The master of the masses draped in his green rags was fixing for a drink. He didnโt come alone thoughโhad a whole entourage with him. They stayed in a tight circle. Not their first riot, it seemed.
Sell your soul to the Shadow Demons for a pair of Optics so fine that you look down and the countertop reshapes into 88 ivory keys with a looper pedal to add effect. You have everything you need. Play to your heartโs content. Let the dazed, hazy state determine the decisions to make.
When Stella looked back up, the drink was in her hand. She swirled the glass along the table. No ice. Not this time. The glass looked halfway like a test tube with metal columns reinforcing its sides. Stella had never seen such a vessel for her art. The B - A - R was even stocked with a spare few. Stella slid the drink across the bartop, but she didnโt release her hand from its brim. A thick hypodermic still extended from the base of her palm into the liquid. She stirred. The man in rags just stared her down. His associates had formed a tight semi-circle around the B - A - R and one of them held out a velvet sack for her. She took it in her offhand.
Fizzing. A touch of green bioluminescence. It was perfect for him.
โA custom cocktail for the consumption of the coordinator.โ She lifted her hand from the drink and her Clairvoyance Optics swarmed the bag to devour and digest its stimuli. โA man very down to Earth. All-natural. He who cultivates. On the come up...โ
The man in rags pulled something from beneath his cloak. He screwed it onto the cocktail like a lid. Stella rarely did to-go orders. The Limbo was part of the experience. But the Limbo was everywhere. It was ubiquitousโfloated through the air on unseen currents.
He screwed the lid on top. Looked like a sort of spray bottle. Then he addressed Stella: โPut it on.โ
She spent a long moment just admiring the deviceโs clean hardware and design. The man in rags and his associates had already distributed and put on their own masks. It comfortably sealed against her face, and when she took her first breath through the rebreather, she could feel it whirring to life with its own internal machinery. The man in rags and his goons turned on heel and stamped off to their own designated spots. He must have done a lot to make them all feel like important pieces fielded.
Nothing bested pure oxygen to settle and focus the mind.
The Knights operatives had cycled on and off the radios about Reavers sighted, but Salt stayed on the older not-so-gentle man. Even locked in their sights, though, the Reavers couldnโt be stopped. Knights Enterprises had no men on the ground, so when it happened, it spanned only fractions of seconds. A ghost, obscured with dark sunglasses and a thick trench coat, stepped from the crowd with a timed step. He carried a briefcase. The elder Reaver was looking the other way when the ghost closed the distance. Half of the Knights Enterprises onlookers may not have even been able to see their encounter before the comm-line was filled with noise.
โHeโs beenโโ
โWho is that guy?โ
โTargetโs down. Repeat. The targetโs beenโฆโ Salt let his words trail off as he squinted into the infrared. It was one quick move. Behind his briefcase, the ghost had pulled a serrated blade that carved into the Reaver on a twisting chain. The elder fell to his knees.
โThe targetโs insides have become outsides.โ The Reaverโs flesh still caught on the blade as the ghost started back into the crowd like nothing happened. Few of the rioting groups even reacted to his presence. They were all preoccupied, but those who felt the splatters of blood couldnโt ignore the sight.
โKeep eyes on the assailant. Iโโ Salt cut out abruptly. Just static. Then, silence.
Lott struck like a cobra, snatching her precious tablet from Gatchโs hands as it wobbled and pressing it against her chest like it was a crying child whose callus father had unintentionally hurt it, and then became a statue once again. The mayor seemed distracted, as if heโd never seen someone disemboweled before. If it interested him so much perhaps she should invite him out the next time the Koena Dome had a Saws & Dolls match. Then again, a subordinate inviting a superior out to anything would be unprofessional.
โGood,โ said Lott. She actually smiled. It was discomforting. If it ended up being necessary, Turkish would also be gone soonโthe blame for the security fiasco at the Swathe Street Commons pinned solely on his shoulders. A little explosion here and a bit of police brutality there was hardly something that raised an eyebrow in the Reclaim. However, if a minor fabrication happened to imply that his ineptitude wasnโt actually ineptitude but intentional malfeasance to create negative press for the Central Party then all the better for her. Her superiors would have someone to point the finger at, and sheโd have a momentary relief from the stress that was turning her insides into one giant ulcer.
โThere is one more thing we should prepare for,โ she said, studying the Mayor. He seemed nervous. She figured that meant she should also be nervous, but she didnโt feel much aside from the chair below her and the nice breeze coming from the climate controlled vent shaft. Could someone who couldnโt manage a life-threatening riot raging just several dozen stories down below manage the day-to-day stresses of being a council member? Lott didnโt know the answer. Despite being infatuated with watching old vids of political assassinations, she never even considered that there could be any dangers in being a politician.
Maybe she would consider sticking with politics after the election.
โJoshua,โ she said. Using her bossโs first name was a big deal, and maybe a risky step, but Lott figured it would have the head-turning impact akin to an angry mother using their childโs full name. โDid you knowingly use votes of the deceased to win the mayorship over the Reclaim Zone?โ
For once, there was a sign of life in the way Lott glared at her boss. It wasnโt a question that would be asked by a moderator at the debate, nor was it something that APEX had tasked her with finding out. She asked simply because she had to know the truth. It kept her up at night, at least until the sleeping pills and vodka shots did their magic. If she was going to keep playing the Great Game honorably, Lott needed to know if the player her piece was supporting had cheated.
>>>When a pot boils over, you can see the signs early on bubbling up, but the physical change takes place in an instant. Ninety-nine to one-hundred.
It was almost undetectable. The untrained laymen would surely have seen Gatch in just another zombified moment, but Lott saw him when he froze. The mental calculations dissipated as a new problem perplexed his brain, right when she said his name. He sat up a bit and spent a long moment staring straight forward. Then, in an instant, he looked into Lottโs eyes for perhaps the very first timeโreally meeting her gaze, which transposed into its biting glare.
He let a touch of perplexion waver his expression as if he was searching for a name. Gatch felt it was only justified to play the ๐พ๐๐๐, use its tricks when Lott thought it was time to question him. Heโd bet his money on how easy it was to get to her. โYesโฆโ
Gatch stood up and moved to the table at the center of the conference room. Embedded at its head was a console, and with a few somatic commands, the array of display screens lurched backwards in time. A few of the displays combined and zoomed into the smoke.
โLook at those peopleโโat usโ if you prefer. The constituents, the people, you and I...โ
The ghost flashed across the screens. One panel to the next. The cycling chain on his blade met the Reaverโs stomach again. Time, in the digital depiction, slowed.
โWhat do they all want? Your next job is to tally up all their votes. To really make change, we can find all their problems, come up with a holistic solution. The monks, thatโs what theyโre telling you. Theyโre going to be the guys that invade the lower bureaucracy, thinking they can change the whole Game from the ground up. Should we do that too?โ
โYou can see the people on the screens, Ramana. They can only see themselves from inside the smoke. Donโt waste the blessing. Use the information available...โ
The displays evaporated back into static. The live feed of the buildingโs surroundings started to play, looping between side alleys and central coverage of the riot.
โWhat do they want? What do they really want?โ
โThatโs the thing. None of those people throwing stones want a unified system where votes get tallied up. They want to spill each otherโs blood and get away with it. They want to deface and destroy a corporate faction because it makes them feel powerful. They live all their livesโlike usโgiving into desires. The desires are just different.โ
โAnd what happens to the desires of a dead man? His influence remains in the Reclaim in the stones heโs kicked and bricks heโs lifted, but his opinion evaporates? If there were someoneโby pure chanceโthat could go through the system and allow the Reclaim to live on, and its chaos to reign. Sometimes we focus too much on changing the Constant, that we canโt change a thing.โ
โWho dares to tell the man whose guts were shredded that heโs no longer a part of any of this when his signature is imprinted on the asphalt of the Reclaim?โ
โIs it you?โ
For the first time since his speech, the man in rags dared to enter the crowd rather than lurk at its edges. Stella caught him in glimpses, weaving in between a hive-like beast of a thousand different misaligned goals. Each arm of any anarchic hecatoncheires was marred by its own mental shadow demons. He flowed through them like he was sympathetic, the bottle in his hand.
Surely, one could conjure up allusions to holy water. Dusting denizens and derelicts and devotees and dead-men-walking like they were all part of one unified Gaia in the biosphere. Everyone, after all, is equal in their carbon components.
In the heat of the momentโthere, up close to the flames, in the frying panโthose passing by could hardly notice what the man in rags was doing. He kept the bottle close to his waist, loosely flicking and flittering it back and forth in his hand in time with his hurried pace. But occasionally, it would rise. He would depress the trigger, nozzle facing out towards someone caught in the action, distracted, but maybe catching just a sliver of the rags tinted like shadowed grass as he disappeared back into the madness.
โWho, then, speaks for the dead men who lived in the chaos? Who can speak for the Constant?โ
โOutpost three. Thereโs signs my perimeterโs been breachedโฆโ The Knights Satellite line cut off.
โ. . .โ
โOutpost three?โ
The upheaval came quick, and this time, there were no more molotovs. It started with one or two cases, looking like the riot was no different as shoving matches began and fists were thrown. Soon the doormen braced themselves to confront what lay beyond the dying flames, and it did come. Two men charged through the dying flames. It couldnโt have been more than 15 feet from the courier caught in the crowd; one of the Reavers lurking in the smoke grabbed the collar of the nearest protestor and crossed his hands, locking the leather around his victimโs throat. From behind, the shrill cries of a young man cracked through the air. The bottle fell from his hand and flame enveloped him.
Frenzy in Death. Assimilation or Rejection.
Left and right, front and back, one after another more vicious combats broke out among groups. Some of the protestors battled back their own. A ganger fell back into the flames. A journalistโs ribcage crunched against the pavement. At the gates of APEXโs stronghold, the tense men raised their weapons with fingers hovering over triggers, and lashed out with metallic boots. The ghost was gone. The man in rags was gone.
โOutpost One to Command Post. Three of my operatives at their outposts are reporting unknown parties have entered the abandoned complexes surrounding the APEX facility. One Knights operative not responding...โ Salt had already packed up all his gear strewn about the rooftop. The zipline gun, it seemed, would have to wait for another day. He honed his infrared headset in on the only other outpost in his sightline. Another block of protestors flooded its entrance and began fanning out on lower floors.
โOutpost two. Come in, Glory. Youโre getting swarmed. Stay on guardโuh...โ Salt paused, slapping his hand hard against a busted coolant unit. He surveyed his gear once again. โUnits reroute. Pull out if necessary. Mobilize towards those that need extraction, and find out what the hell theyโre doing in there...โ For the first time in many weeks, all the play melted away from the Operatorโs tone.
The uproar had been more than enough to distract most of the chaotic crowd from the abrupt arrival of two open-top armored trucks that drifted into stops only meters from the APEX facility. The closest civilian rioter that stepped towards the vehicles lost the mounted plasma-laser lottery and the upper-half of his head began to liquefy. An old man appeared from the passenger side and nodded towards his companion manning the turret. Unlike the others, he wore no more armor than a muscle shirt that exposed his armโs interworked machinery and old cargo pants. He puffed a cigar and stared directly into the nearest security camera.
โSomeone get after Gatch,โ he said whilst waving his arms to get as much attention as he could from the inanimate building. He raised his voice, so the thick Irish accent would pick up over the raucous crowd. โCleaning crewโs here, isnโt it?โ
In the street, Olex could see the people of the Reclaim as the newly arrived variables divided them from one another, from their own plans, from any order that had emerged. Those who stood against the paramilitary metal titans lost eyes or broke bones. Those who sank back into the crowd found other rioters, gangers, and civilians turning on them. Even still, as smoke gave way to stampedes obscuring vision, the APEX megalith came alive with light. The old man coordinating the GCZ shock squad strolled through a lifting garage door that opened into the east alley along the compoundโs block.
As if moving harmoniously, one superorganism, the west side of the crowd also split away. At the head of the tight cluster of rioters, the man in rags arrived just in time after a dose of thermite pulsed with heat and light from within an abandoned husk adjacent to the west alley. When the man in rags was ushered inside, some of his collective fragmented off to watch the alleyway.
โBossman.โ Gatchโs advisor flung both doors to the meeting room open and the facility manager followed. The candidate flashed Lott a final look, before fixing up his posture. โYouโve got a video call from HQโand youโre gonna want to take this one.โ
โThe integrated security field alerted us to a breach in the east and west alleys of this column.โ The facility manager stepped in before the situation roomโs occupants could respond. โIt must beโโ
โTurkish. Yes. We called. He likely wants more info about whatโs happening, and a drink or something.โ By the time he looked back towards Lott, Gatch was already letting the double doors careen shut behind him with his advisor leading the way. โPublicist. This is the perfect time for you to get acquainted. Heโs probably still down on the factory level. Take over while I answer HQ. Ask your questions orโ...โ
โYou know.โ Gatch shrugged his shoulders and the doors swung shut.
The facility manager remained squinting at the array of screens. With her mouth agape, she fervently interacted with the switchboard on the table. โThere was another breach, too. Iโm sure of it. West end of this columnโฆโ The displays zoomed in on the west alley. There was nothing but smoke. Dark shapes.
Is conscious absence possible? Or are we just oft caught upโ Lost in the chaos.
The Mixologist really couldnโt resist. As the world tore open its chest with wicked claws of shadow and bared its fleshy core, she was gifted the position of dousing dangers in drink. The B - A - R was beyond stocked. Ingredients, reagents, tinctures, and toxins of the sort Stella hadnโt seen since she admired the wide selection of Limboโs storage. She was inspecting a variety of the glass reagent containers, idly tossing them into the air, when a nondescript, unmarked drone dove through the crowd and halted to hover just in front of the B - A - R. The Mixologist stared into its singular camera eye. It stared back. She hardly noticed the violenceโrisingโtoo enraptured by the captivating gaze of the black-glass scanner. She wondered how it saw her.
Did the scanner, then, see clearly into her mind murked by dancing shadows. Did it see beyond motivations to mix and make merry? Or did it see darkly?
Stella raised a glass to her lips and felt its cool contents spill over her, warded off by the oxygen mask.
Considering my own time constraints, I'm sorry to say that Doomsayer's is going to have to go on hold for the moment. I've not got the time to upkeep the RP to a satisfactory level, and I'd rather wait until I can tackle the project in full before moving on. Thanks to those of you who submitted apps. When Doomsayers comes back, you're welcome to pick up where you left off.
We are currently in the rather thorough character creation process with most applicants. If there are any other interested parties still looking to apply, there's plenty of time to do so.
Feel free to contact me on discord or head over to the OOC.
As we begin to jump into the (rather intensive) character creation process, I'm going to be on standby for questions as needed. To provide better correspondence, the Doomsayers discord will now be live, but please note: the selection process is not finalized. We may not be able to accept everyone, so entrance into the discord is preliminary for character building. If you'd like to be added to the Discord, hit me up. My tag is in the rules.
Also, we are still looking for any new interested parties that dare to tackle the whack Doomsayers character sheet. Throw a reply in the thread if you're interested and the other players and I can help you with any confusing aspects of the OOC.
TO BE ADDED: -Specific locations in High John's House of Saints -Core NPC in High John's House of Saints -Specific locations in the Land of the Dead
โChaos and Order." "Harmony and Discord." "Stasis and Flow." "Balance; Counterbalance." "The Right and the Left Hand Paths."
"It is the choice of the individualโDestruction or Creation.โ
Layer 01:::
[[[P R O J E C T ::: M E S M E R]]]
[[[F R A N C I S C A X O C H I C A L L I]]]
Patient Profile:::
โIt is the choice of the individualโDestruction or Creation.โ
Name: Francisca Xochicalli โ โChicaโ
Gender: Female
Age: 23
Classification: Human
Physical Description: Chica moves through the world like a serpent slithering to strike with every step. Each gesture she makes is rife with graceful animation, as though sheโs attuned to the subtleties of her minute movements. While she is no athlete, Chica has seen her fair share of hardships and her sturdy but gaunt form reflects that. Brown hair falls around her crown down to her neck and she seems to spend more time dusting it out of her eyes than she does leaving it be. Her dark eyes seem to wander her environment regularly, but thereโs never any absence in her gaze. She appears always pointed and focused on whatever may captivate her attention. Chica is almost always wearing a tatterdemalion hooded sweater woven with a red fabric that has maintained its color through the weather and is covered in Aztec art patterns.
Patient Observations::: All clinicians and staff of C-Class clearance and below seem to unanimously observe that Chica is โafflicted by delusionsโ. Her disdain for the House and its staff is unparalleled and multiple psychological experts have listed Chicaโs desire to destroy the House and its creators โin a grand spectacle of fireโ in reports. Known for her outbursts, Chica always seems to be planning cunning schemes to get her way. If it were not for her short periods of lucidity between โextreme hallucinatory episodesโ, she would be listed as a CRITICAL PATIENT.
Despite her harmful outbursts, Chicaโs conditionโthrough the Houseโs unique therapeutic techniquesโseems to be improving. While she is more lucid regularly, her desire to panic has been replaced with a constant scheming. She is so captivated by her own thoughts that she hardly thinks of leaving the House any longer, and is satisfied so long as she can entertain herself within it.
Deepest Desire:::Ometeotl In her ever turbulent life, Chica has found only one craving in her weakest moments: balance. She knows in her heart the power of duality and what its exertion upon the world can accomplish and strives to achieve a perfect balance with the universe around her. While it may be esoteric and abstract, Chica feels her desire is quite sound and believes she knows what steps she should take to achieve it. She aims to harness both chaotic and harmonious forces as a sword, for with ultimate knowledge of lifeโs constants, it can finally be she who tips the scales of fate.
Quest::: Above all else, Chica is intent on seeing the destruction of High Johnโs House of Saints. As her prior life fades into distant fog beyond any memory bank, she takes solace even in the Houseโs desolation, for in her mind, its end would bring an end to the misery of its occupants. To defeat the hierarchy of the Houseโs researchers and clinicians, and to topple the Houseโs very foundations until it is leveled to rubble remains forever in the back of Chicaโs mind. The dual nature of her grand quest may be the reason Chica may never see it to fruition, for a part of her cannot yet follow through on her ultimate purpose. She finds that the reliance of its patients, who have become the only group that Chica can still identify with in any capacity, prevent the destruction of the House until the time is right.
Virtue:::Executor Chica above all else sees herself as an agent, the means to an end, and the executor of her own fate. Using her intellect and street smarts, she has become a student of the tactical applications of all things. When a problem is presented to her, an outside-of-the-box solution will follow shortly. Since Chica has grown up relying on very few others, the execution of her own will is based entirely in herself. She doesnโt fear acting herself even in messy situations. Thus, once she sets her mind to a task, any opposition certainly has something to fear.
Vice:::Rite of Ruin Chica has been called a force of nature more than she likes, but she herself is only one piece of the forceโlike tsunami waves and earthquakesโthat ensures her actions are exacted upon the world. Hidden within her head, between knowledge of sacred rites and pantheons of dead gods, is a great reverence to the act of destruction. It exists even in her blood, in the blood sheโs spilled, and she canโt escape it. Following Chica down whatever path she treads is a wake of Ruin that affects everything she touchesโa Midas of Fire and Nails.
Likes::: โบMagic โบChocolate โบAccepting Bribes โบReading Old Texts โบThe Upper Hand
Dislikes::: โบNonbelievers โบBeing Confined โบObedience โบNot Getting Extra Cereal
Oddities::: Chica has a habit of hoarding collecting treasures and hiding storing them around the House. It is not uncommon for her to dash over to one of her old books to pull out a concealed document, or try and reach into the walls looking for the broken piece of an old cafeteria tray. Everything, from trash to treasure has its place, and Chica is ready to find the use of it all.
Background Information:::
โHere lies another recording, Telling tales of lost civilization, lost days, and lost stories, That maybe one day another lost soul will find worth reporting.โ
Wisps of Memory::: Chica was born to an indigenous family in Central Mexico. Living closely connected to their historical land, she was raised very close to nature and took quite eagerly to the mysticism and philosophy of her progenitors. It seemed that Chica had the make of a scholar or religious leader in her community. Unfortunately, Chicaโs stay in her homeland was not long, for it was not their home alone. Cartels contested the territory and danger grew quite rampant into her young adulthood. Chicaโs father eventually fell victim to the violence and she was forced to flee north with her sister, moving alongside an assortment of merchant and migrant caravans.
Upon reaching the more arid lands of Northern Mexico and the United States border, Chica and her sister were drastically slowed down. While she had no desire to continue and escape her homeland, she couldnโt abandon her family, and the hearsay regarding the knowledge available in the United States couldnโt be passed up. Most of the caravan did not reach their desired goal, but Chica wasnโt one to so easily give up on a goal.
What lied in wait on the other side was what truly made the determined turn back. With little means for survival, no modern skills, and a sister to look out for, Chica soon learned that there was no salvation on the other sideโonly a different gamble. She turned to the only group she could find that would accept herโa southern California gang made up of a small collection of other Nahua and indigenous Mexicans. Chicaโs personality was all she needed to get others to take a liking to her. The esoteric language of her fatherโs neoshamanism made her quite the center of attention at times, but she became part of the gang all the quicker.
It took Chica a long time to ever cross paths with lawmen. It took a long time and many grave misdeeds, but indeed, she eventually was bested by law enforcementโor rather, she awoke from one of her โvisionsโ surrounded by patrol cars and covered in swathes of red. After a series of strange interviews, chains of custody, and military transport vans, Chica was a resident of High Johnโs House of Saints without really knowing why. The notion of going back has become more of a distant dreamy idea rather than a goal.
In the House of High John::: Known by her peers as the oldest patient at High Johnโs House of Saints, Chica has certainly adapted her lifestyle to her new circumstances. While sheโs never quite content to be trapped at the House, she delights in finding ways to exert her own influence on the otherwise ubiquitous organization that keeps the patients at the House. Her cooperation, after all, is conditional on her ability to bend the rules, ferry information to other patients, and entertain herself despite restriction. At times, Chica will wholeheartedly undergo the foggy testing processes without complaint. She claims to be pulling great knowledge from the tests regarding her own visions. While she isnโt interested in the scientific acumen of the Houseโs project, she believes that what she comes away with in her amnesiac state is akin to her old โvisionsโ, and any attempt to clear that sight is worth it.
Because of her strange demeanor, Chica has a bit of an aloof reputation in the House, even among its patients. In between her sessions, she occupies herself by reading old codices she acquires from the staff and trying to decipher them. These are the only possessions the House staff allows her to have. As such, when sheโs not reading, itโs not uncommon to find Chica stalking the House and planning some sort of chaos that others often find itโs best to avoid. It is rumored that Chica has seriously injured a staff member before in an escape attempt, but all desire to flee seems to have been squeezed from her. Chica now prefers to sow her own bubbles of chaos and complacency in between her visions to subtly influence and manufacture the constants of the House.
Fragments and Connections::: When Chica left behind her family at the United States borderline and became an inpatient at the House, she abandoned with them her hope that sheโd see them again. Chica, already plagued by her visions, seems to have little left in the material world that she is connected to or striving for. Her life began to revolve solely around the goings-on of the Houseโwhat she could get away with, what sheโd learn, what she could uncover about the established facilities.
Those are the only driving factors that keep her anchored these days. While it seems like a momentous goal, Chica desires only to topple the forces that spawned the House and return herself to a free and natural state. Sheโs never quite focused on that goal, though. Itโs always in the background of her mind, but distractions abound. In recent weeks, Chica has grown rather understanding and sympathetic of the other patients at the House, though she may not show it. At the heart of her vendetta against the House lies a desire to see them all freed and stable as well.
Layer 02:::
Description of a Doomsayer in the Interim:::
[[[DOOMSAYER:::THE MESMER]]]
Title::: MESMER, the Deceiver
Description::: The Mesmer appears very human upon first glance, but what hides beneath the assortment of masks that conceal the Mesmerโs identity is entirely a mystery. While the masks change based on the encounter, the Mesmerโs visage is often shrouded by the skeletal depictions of great primordial serpents. The Mesmer wears an eye-catching assortment of modern streetwear clothes intermixed with shamanistic flair. Most commonly, she has appeared in a designer bomber jacket with white strips of leather crossing along her lower abdomen as though the depiction of skeletal bones. She seems to appear and disappear throughout the Land of the Dead with no grand goal in mind, but destructive acts follow her path, and a brutal weapon carried in her right hand is never a welcome sight.
Doomsayer Paragon:::Metempsychosis The Mesmer is known to the dead as a shifter, a deceiver, a master of masks. In the Land of the Dead, where all souls that enter exist only in flux, purgatory, and pandaemonium, the Mesmer opts to break the mold. The entropic void that threatens to eat the Land of the Dead does not consume her like it does the Dead. Sheโs become too adept at her own metamorphosis, adapting to the Landโs flux and flow, order and chaos, as necessary. To place the Mesmerโs motivations is a difficult game. It seems to the watching entities that she only grows closer to a vessel of emptiness, ready to relinquish her soul and adopt a new one with each passing challenge. She is rebirth. She is resurrection, alternating between states of stasis and flow as necessary and adapting to any new nemesis.
Doomsayer Prophecy::: When the Mesmer caught glimpses of the End, she was at its center. A masked Mesmer not quite trapped, but stood atop a mighty ancient ziggurat could only watch the pyramid bisect itself and let the depths swell up from its insides. As the Doomsayer stood surveying the Land of the Dead, it was painted by plumes of rising magma emerging from the very temple on which she stood. Whether a purification of the tainted place or an evisceration of nature not quite dead yet, the Mesmer only stood complacentโlike a spectre. With time more ziggurats did rise and spew their lava into the sky until the Land of the Dead was bathed in ash and any sort of light was Masked.
A Legend::: The Mesmer, damned deceptive master of masks is mentioned in orally-passed stories as more than a force to be reckoned with. She is an embodiment of vengeance. Whether Devil, Demon, or Dead, itโs said the Mesmer is a collector of the final seconds of entities in the Land of the Dead working for the Big Man Downstairs. While her motives are uncertain,one must be careful where they tread lest they be the Mesmerโs next opposition. Some of the more esoteric legends mention that the Mesmer was born of the vestiges, emerging from lava plumes hidden in crumbling ziggurats left still standing but ready to collapse. Perhaps, then, she is a prophet of the End, trying to bring the rest of the Land of the Dead into a harmony with the state of her dead civilization. Or perhaps its just the chaos and danger that guides the Mesmerโs mind.
A Sighting::: She had just walked boldly into one of their bureaucracy hives, they say. The Mesmer was always like thatโshows up in town like her own omen of the End. The Dead started talking as soon as she was sighted, but lookouts were too slow. She had entered one of those damned Devil Hives of bureaucracy before any of the cityโs inhabitants could react. The next thing the city had known, one of the Devils was thrown through the doors and got his head bashed in with a bat. That particular gang of beasts never forgave the Mesmer after that. Hit squads and assassins did their best to follow her tracks, and they eventually did find the ephemeral Doomsayerโcornered her on a peninsula with nothing at her back except for the voidโs blackness.
The nearby Dead gathered to watch any ensuing madness, and they were not disappointed. The Outsiders dared to slowly push the Mesmer closer and closer to the edge at the tip of flaming spears. In the heat of their battle fervor and heinous chants, however, they missed the sound of stone grinding against stone. It grew louder and louder until the Doomsayer herself disappeared and gave birth to a serpent of earth that lashed and dove and devoured Devils. Hardly a soul could see through the blaze and clouds of dust, but as the sediment settled, Dead watchers claim to have seen the serpent thrust itself skyward in a coil, devour its tail, and collapse into rubble. There, amongst the crumbling stones, the Mesmer emerged and disappeared back into the Land of the Dead without words.
[h2][color=#008B00]<<<โ๐ผ๐๐๐ ๐๐โ๐๐ป...>>>[/color][/h2]
[color=#008B00]>>>๐ธ๐ฃ๐ฅ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ฅ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ฅ: ๐โโ๐๐๐๐๐๐โ
>>>
>>> "๐ ๐๐ ๐ ๐๐ ๐๐ก๐ฆ๐ฅ๐๐ฃ"
>[/color]
I am a writer and poet aiming to create surrealistic and abstract imagery in my work. I also greatly enjoy worldbuilding, roleplaying, and collaborative writing in general. I also work as a writing advisor, so I enjoy working with, critiquing, and supporting writing in most of its forms. If you would like to work with me with any piece of prose or poetry, let me know. If you have roleplay concepts, questions, or ideas I'd be happy to listen. For those that enjoy the projects I GM, contact me as necessary. PM at your will.
Contact me on Discord at Opposition#4407.
[h2][color=#008B00]<<<โ๐ฆ๐ฃ๐ฃ๐๐๐ฅ โ๐ ๐๐๐ก๐๐๐ช๐ค...>>>[/color][/h2]
[url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/topics/167756-the-last-embers-dark-steampunk-fantasy-closed/ic]The Last Embers[/url] --- Tatiana Leviatan : The Black Shepherd Summoner
[hr][hr]
[center][h1][color=#44F03E]๐ฝ[/color][color=#42E93C]๐ฆ[/color][color=#40E33A]๐ฅ[/color][color=#3EDD39]๐[/color][color=#3DD737]๐[/color][color=#3BD136]๐[/color][color=#39CB34]๐ฅ[/color][color=#38C532]๐ช[/color][color=#36BF31]:[/color] [color=#32B32E]๐[/color][color=#31AD2C]๐[/color][color=#2FA62A]๐[/color] [color=#2C9A27]๐พ[/color][color=#2A9426]๐ฃ[/color][color=#288E24]๐[/color][color=#268823]๐[/color][color=#258221]t[/color] [color=#21761E]๐พ[/color][color=#20701C]๐[/color][color=#1E6A1B]๐[/color][color=#1C6419]๐[/color][/h1][/center]
[center][color=008000][b][i]Dare you stand against Titans in a Great Game?[/i][/b][/color]
[color=008000][b]Enter the ๐พ๐๐๐. [url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/topics/180490-cyberpunk-political-intrig/ic]Move your piece[/url][/b][/color][/center]
<div style="white-space:pre-wrap;"><div class="bb-h2"><font color="#008b00"><<<โ๐ผ๐๐๐ ๐๐โ๐๐ป...>>></font></div><br><font color="#008b00"><span class="bb-greentext">>>>๐ธ๐ฃ๐ฅ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ฅ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ฅ:	๐โโ๐๐๐๐๐๐โ</span><br><span class="bb-greentext">>>></span><br><span class="bb-greentext">>>> "๐ ๐๐ ๐ ๐๐ ๐๐ก๐ฆ๐ฅ๐๐ฃ"</span><br><span class="bb-greentext">></font></span><br><br>I am a writer and poet aiming to create surrealistic and abstract imagery in my work. I also greatly enjoy worldbuilding, roleplaying, and collaborative writing in general. I also work as a writing advisor, so I enjoy working with, critiquing, and supporting writing in most of its forms. If you would like to work with me with any piece of prose or poetry, let me know. If you have roleplay concepts, questions, or ideas I'd be happy to listen. For those that enjoy the projects I GM, contact me as necessary. PM at your will. <br><br>Contact me on Discord at Opposition#4407.<br><br><div class="bb-h2"><font color="#008b00"><<<โ๐ฆ๐ฃ๐ฃ๐๐๐ฅ โ๐ ๐๐๐ก๐๐๐ช๐ค...>>></font></div><br><br><a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/topics/167756-the-last-embers-dark-steampunk-fantasy-closed/ic">The Last Embers</a> --- Tatiana Leviatan : The Black Shepherd Summoner<br><hr class="bb-hr"><hr class="bb-hr"><br><br><div class="bb-center"><div class="bb-h1"><font color="#44f03e">๐ฝ</font><font color="#42e93c">๐ฆ</font><font color="#40e33a">๐ฅ</font><font color="#3edd39">๐</font><font color="#3dd737">๐</font><font color="#3bd136">๐</font><font color="#39cb34">๐ฅ</font><font color="#38c532">๐ช</font><font color="#36bf31">:</font> <font color="#32b32e">๐</font><font color="#31ad2c">๐</font><font color="#2fa62a">๐</font> <font color="#2c9a27">๐พ</font><font color="#2a9426">๐ฃ</font><font color="#288e24">๐</font><font color="#268823">๐</font><font color="#258221">t</font> <font color="#21761e">๐พ</font><font color="#20701c">๐</font><font color="#1e6a1b">๐</font><font color="#1c6419">๐</font></div></div><br><br><div class="bb-center"><font color="#008000"><span class="bb-b"><span class="bb-i">Dare you stand against Titans in a Great Game?</span></span></font><br><font color="#008000"><span class="bb-b">Enter the ๐พ๐๐๐. <a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/topics/180490-cyberpunk-political-intrig/ic">Move your piece</a></span></font></div><br></div>
Creative Chaos
NoriWasHere
Atrophy
