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wickedsrest-rp-archive · 4 years ago

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High Tide || Season 1 Finale Chatzy

TIMING: Current LOCATION: The beach PARTIES: @wardinasrani @carbrakes-and-stakes @inconvenientsimonstrocity @hackysackace SUMMARY: Ritual at the beach

“Hey Bill.”

Bill Took looked from counting money behind the General Store’s cash register. He absently glanced across the counter to meet the unblinking stare of Sam Rainsbottom. A long silence passed as Bill waited for his teenage clerk to offer up some inane lacrosse trivia or give some hyperactive opinion of how ‘lit’ something was. But Sam just stood there absolutely still, only the slightless rise and fall of the short boy’s chest letting Bill know that he wasn’t having a staring contest with a statue.

“Um...yeah Sam?”

“They're calling me,” Sam said in a dull monotone. “I must go.”

“Sure Sammy, I can clock you out. Who is…” It was then that Bill bill noticed the bloody boxcutter on the store’s floor and shifted enough to see the designs cut into Sam’s palms, welling up like eyes crying red tears. “Oh my god, wait Sam! What..”

But Sam Rainsbottom was already out the door, each step matching a rhythm that sang through his veins. The chant filled Sam’s ears and rushed along his spine like ice, drowning out the words of friends and relatives that attempted to stop the boy, features transfixed in mounting concern. Sam apologized with a drugged smile and insisted in a soft far away voice that the stars Vanth and Orcus stood ready at the gate, and the great vaults of Amansinaya echoed with the cries of those who’d been born adrift from time. He mustn’t keep them waiting.

The cloud’s had congealed into the red-stained amber of evening by the time Sam’s slow steady steps carried him over Jericho Hill and through a small patch of woodlands suddenly devoid of bugs or birdsong. The wordless melody guided him past Dark Score Lake and beyond the habor’s docks where Sam’s father was probably anchoring his fishing boat for the night.

The waters of the ocean seemed to stretch out like a vast sacrificial slab, churning with strange whirls and ripples despite there being no wind. Hooded figures cavorted in a festival of antediluvian worship on the shore. Sounds of fire, lightless caverns, lightning turning sand into glass came from the congregations’ lips, bathing Sam’s ears in alien psalms that played havoc with his neurochemistry and instilled the air with a pressure that felt like the moon had drawn too close to the Earth.

Sam’s tennis shoes crunched on the sand as he approached the beach.

Simon didn’t normally find himself at the beach, especially after the last couple weeks he had. First the wolves, then the full moon and its… horrors, the past week with whatever illness he seemed to have contracted, the vision at the Morgue... All of it was worrying, almost so much so that he nearly didn’t even notice as he was walking to his car that he… wasn’t actually walking to his car, abandoning the things he had bought uh... Somewhere as he instead walked in the general direction of the ocean. He didn’t have a chance to go home as he was initially trying to head to his car with food for his dog nor did he have a choice for what he WANTED to do - there was a thought in his head, a new set of sounds that he couldn’t understand that felt like a string of ink being woven through his neurons, getting mixed up with the wires already crossed from his being a wolf and he wanted to stop walking but he couldn’t. He walked, feeling almost like a zombie that aimlessly shuffled though he did his best to make it look like he DID know where he was going and why and he didn’t let the facade drop until he found himself with a small collective of other people, two men and… Alain? What was he doing here? He glanced down and saw the things that he presumed one of the men had drawn, and though it didn’t look immediately recognisable to him, he deduced that it was magic of some kind. Another ritual? He noted the rock in the center and, not entirely sure what to do or why he was here other than some otherworldly compulsion, he rubbed an arm with his hand awkwardly and stood there, quiet and waiting for… HOPEFULLY some form of explanation, wondering if any of this had to do with the vision he saw from the supernatural eyeball that stuck to his hand.

Years of practice, hours of preparation, and yet Darwin's forehead was damp with sweat as he traced the lines of the Circle in the sand. It wasn't ideal, he'd have to make sure the waves wouldn't erase all his hard work, but the ritual had to happen at the beach. That's where everyone would be summoned, and where they'd stop the madness that's been plaguing the town. Or die trying, but Darwin tried not to dwell on that.

People started gathering, and Darwin finally decided to show himself. He walked toward the others, hands raised in an offer of peace. His movements were slow, calculated, and he used the shadows to mask his nervousness. When he spoke, his voice was calm and even. “Good evening. You might be wondering why you've been called here, or by whom.” He paused dramatically and turned to point at the area he'd prepared a little farther down the beach. A big rock had been placed at the center of the circle, forming a rudimental yet effective altar, and on it he placed his tools: a dagger, a bowl, and a small wooden box that somehow seemed to shake every now and then as if something inside was tossing and turning. “We're here to put an end to a great menace that could very well wipe this town out. We all have a role to play today, and it is imperative that we do it well, or we might be doomed. We'll only get one chance, so I expect everyone to follow my instructions carefully.”

Again, he paused. How did you explain to a bunch of strangers that you were a demon expert about to summon a monster in front of them and force them to fight each other in the hopes of channeling some mystical force and banishing a creature that they might not even have seen? Darwin pinched his nose and sighed. Tonight would be harder than expected. He let his eyes focus on each of the others, studying them, trying to figure out who everyone was supposed to be. “I know none of you have any reason to trust me... So trust yourselves. You all came here following an impulse, deep inside you know we must act now. I promise... And those of you well-versed in the supernatural know that's not a word that should be used lightly... I promise that everything I'll ask of you will be for the good of everyone. Now... One of you should be able to change their form. Now would be the time to do so. Their natural enemy should encourage them.”

The hunter still had patches of grey ash in his hair as he approached the sea shore. This was not his plan for the night, but he had left the cemetery with no complaints, crossed the road ignoring the sound of honks and ended up stepping on wet sand, toward the group of people who he knew he had to join. His true purpose was to be here, with these people, with that kid who worked at the store next to his garage, this guy with the really excellent barber, and Simon ? What the hell was Simon doing here? The last time the two had been near water, Alain had ended up in jail. Yep, he did not like how this was going.

The promise made by Barber guy did not convince him, but he was right about everything he had said. Something had brought them here, something bigger than them all, certainly. Completely ignoring whatever rules he had on discretion, the hunter drew his sword out and turned toward Simon. There was something in the way Simon had reacted to the news of a shifter being present that did not sit well with the hunter. Pointing his sword in his direction, Alain stepped forward. The look on his face was neither grim nor menacing yet, but the threat was very present. He spoke calmly, although his tone and attitude would change, should he not listen. “Simon, I have no idea what is going on, but, I think this guy is right?” He would not have been able to explain why, but the man was right. He had to be.

And so it was that Sam Rainsbottom found himself on a beach with a bunch of Metallica Fans, a guy who believed the lake was possessed by demons, a guy who looked as confused as Sam himself, and a last guy who apparently was a preacher trying to get the other guy change and accept Jesus into his heart...or be stabbed?

“W-woah woah,” the teenager said, trying to interpose himself between Alain and Simon. The chanting and growing sense of dread had taken Sam’s nerves to a feather pitch. But though Sam was visibly shaking in the face of horrors he didn’t understand and the lacrosse championships were about as “violent” as he was up for. However he wasn’t going to let some guy get stabbed because of this creepy lake jesus religious stuff.

“Stop!” It suddenly occurred to Sam that he was interposing his attractive yet very soft and slashable body in front of a dude with a sword. ...Regrets? Yes. “I don’t know what’s going on, but don’t hurt him!”

So in one moment, Simon had no idea what he was doing but in the next, the man with the fantastic facial hair had given a succinct, yet understandable explanation for why they were gathered - well, understandable as it could’ve been given that he was correct about this being a ritual. The part he was a little more concerned with, however, was how the man with the facial hair mentioned that one of them should be a shifter. He wasn’t referring to… Simon, was he? Maybe he was talking about the younger man… he didn’t peg Alain as a shifter either and he obviously wasn’t talking about himself. “Y-yeah, about that last part--” He didn’t get to finish his sentence when Alain suddenly pointed a… sword at him. Alain owned a sword? “Hey!” He held his hands up, taking a step away from Alain. “Alain, it’s… me? Simon?” He asked uncertainly. He wanted to mention that he was not, in fact, a shifter; just a normal person with other people and this was all some massive misunderstanding. Even if he was, he didn’t CHOOSE to shift - that was something only born wolves could do, right? Then the youth jumped in front of him and while he didn’t necessarily feel protected, it was slightly comforting to see someone so noble as to take a sword for him, if only for a couple seconds until the sword pierced through him and into Simon himself. “Uh… I think you have the wrong guy,” Simon mentioned, looking over at the ritual-performer despite something inside him knowing that something was wrong. Well, wrong-er.

“No, no, no!” Darwin blurted out, shaking his head. “First the shifter will change, then blood will be drawn, you're doing this all wrong!” Amateurs. He had to remind himself that these people didn't know what Darwin knew, and admittedly his explanation had been vague. At least they seemed the heroic, self-sacrificing types, that bode well for the ritual. With an exasperated sigh he took another couple of steps backward, moving closer to the circle. “Very well, let me be more clear. One of you is a shifter, one is a hunter, one is a human. And then there's me, I'm the magical one. And the sharpest dresser, clearly.” That last bit wasn't necessarily true, but it helped him: while the dark clothes, the many mystical symbols hanging from his neck and the eyeliner only made him look like one of the bad guys they gave him confidence, and he needed to project the aura of a man perfectly in control if he wanted to inspire trust. “Now, I don't care who's who. And if you're worried about your identity being discovered, there are spells we can do to make people forget. We're here as allies, not enemies. But,” he paused dramatically, his eyes focusing on each of the others. “Balance must be restored. Hunters hunt, and shifters shift, that's how it's always been, and how it must be tonight.” Of course, he kept it to himself the role the human would have to play. Somehow he figured it would be best to save certain revelations for the very last moment. “We don't have much time. The cultists might find us. So, you, with the sword...” He focused his attention on Alain. “I assume you're the hunter here. If a change won't happen in the next moments, it is your duty to make it happen. By force, if necessary.” Darwin took another long pause, this one clouded with genuine fear. Then, after a moment of hesitation, he opened his arms. “You can even attack me if it'll make the shifter change. Just... Not the face, please.”

Alain’s attention went back toward sharp beard, who looked exasperated, at best. Alain, who was far from impressed by the man’s accusations, did not comment, and instead listened, lowering his sword. It wasn’t like he had anything to fear from grocery boy and Simon. Yet. If anything, he was more worried about the man who claimed he was a magician. He reminded him of Felix in some aspects, and that was not really a good sign for the hunter. “So this is about bringing balance back to the force? Dude, that’s the plot of Star Wars.” If he shook his head with disapprovement, he did not leave. He would have left, maybe he should have left, but he had this feeling he couldn’t quite catch, that kept him here, with this group of seemingly normal people. He had to play his part, and if whatever this guy said was true, then maybe they would finally stop getting fish rain, eyeballs everywhere, endless nights, and other types of horrors. He was not the kind to get his hopes up, as he could not afford being disappointed again. And so he listened, and looked at Simon from over the kid’s shoulder. “Simon, you have to shift. You need to shift,” they did not have time to lose. Cultists were everywhere and they would find them if they did not get this over with, and that’s what brought him to get his free hand on Sam’s shoulder, pushing him aside as easily as if he were a toddler. “I don’t know why you’re here, kid, but let’s make sure you don’t get hurt.” And if Simon turned, then Alain would keep on making sure of that. “Now Simon, don’t make me do things I don’t want to do, and turn.”

Black waves lapped at the shore. Sam’s lived near the ocean all his life and been running around his father’s fishing boat since he’d been old enough to walk. Each wave usually had gradations of color that reflected the hues of the sky, topped by white froth as the tiniest particles of water reacted with friction against the air. Sometimes algae deepened it with green or undercurrents dredged up bioluminescent creatures that made the sea look a starry tapestry unto itself.

But now the waves were just a cold stygian void, broken only by beach debris of eyes whose neve cords tangled together on the sand like some perverse nightmare version of kelp.

Sam Rainbottom did not believe in magic, demons, aliens, werewolves, superhumans, or wizards. Even God, karma, and the angels seemed like wishful thinking in a world where so many were hungry and hurting for seemingly no reason.

But as he looked at the grim travesty that afflicted nature and say cavorting cultists beseeching the chthonic depths of the sea and outest reaches of space with sounds no human tongue could utter, something instinctive in Sam knew that something was wrong. Not wrong in the sense that this preacher guy was going to stab this other guy, or weird as in whatever sexy Gandalf over there was talking about. There was a more profound wrongness in the air right now that Sam felt in his bones, but didn’t have the words to explain or deny.

Sam wasn’t thrilled about being pushed by sword-preacher guy, but had been manhandled so easily that even Sam was stupid enough try his luck on that front.

“S-so uh...what d-do you need me to do,” he asked Sexy Gandalf, glancing nervously at the clusters of hooded figures by the shore whose chanting was rising in sonorous urgency. Sam wasn’t really sure why he was actively volunteering for whatever Satanic ritual was going down here, save that Sexy Gandalf seemed to be the sole point of certainty in a world going increasingly mad.

Wait wait wait WHAT? What was going on right now, where did Simon make the wrong turn and how did he get off the ride? He still held his hands up in surrender and looked at the strange cast of characters he was around. “I don’t know what you’re thinking is going to happen,” Simon didn’t address anyone in particular but his quiet voice was taking a tone to it - fear, most likely. He didn’t think they knew what was going to happen because HE didn’t; up to this point, he had no memory of when he’d transform and was forced to put the pieces of the night together going by clues he was left the morning after. He wanted to protest that he wasn’t a shifter insomuch as an ‘involuntary curse-bearer'; when he thought ‘shifter’, he thought of someone like Nora who could control her form or even a Born wolf like Salva or Ariana. Simon not only didn’t have control, he didn’t have memory of those times. “I, uh… I can’t,” He decided to conclude lamely. “I have no idea what I’m doing or how I’m… doing.” This was awkward. He hated talking about himself and what he... Could or couldn’t do. “You sure you can’t find any actual shifters?” He was pushing the problem off and he wanted to help, almost more than anything at the moment given the evident peril but he had ACTUALLY no idea of how to help.

“I haven't seen Star Wars, but I can only assume it ripped off from other ancient stories, because this is the plot of many rituals older than the written word itself.” Darwin replied to the Hunter, a hint of annoyance in his voice. Comparing magic to some ridiculous sci-fi flick. Tsk. At the very least the Hunter seemed willing to go through with things, as was the human.

Darwin turned to the kid and put his arm around him, doing his best to sound reassuring and comforting. Not a role that fit him, but he tried. “Young man, you're going to have the biggest part in this. Aside from mine, obviously, I'm the main character in this play.” A wink, playful, meant to ease the tension and to buy some time. How could it break to him the news that he was going to be a sacrifice? Darwin hoped it wouldn't be fatal, they needed the human to survive, but with the cultists so close, a demon about to be freed and a shifter that was obviously as green as the lettuce he had earlier... Things were looking grim. He hid his concerns behind a practiced smile. “You, my dear, are going to make this whole ritual possible. Without you,” without your blood he mentally corrected himself, “We wouldn't be able to do what needs to be done. You'll make it vulnerable.” Darwin didn't elaborate on the 'it', deciding to turn to the shifter instead.

The very reluctant shifter. “You don't seem to grasp the situation here. Hear the chantings? That's a bunch of cultists. You know all the eyes? In the sky, in the sink, in people's flesh...” To further make his point, Darwin raised his palm, showing the empty eyelid still there, sleeping quietly in the center of his hand. “They're working to bring forth something even worse. The magic we'll perform here will stop them, will stop everything. But we need you to transform.” With every word he took a step closer to the shifter. The instructions were clear, the hunter was supposed to force the change. But things weren't going according to plan, he needed to improvise. Of all the hunters and shifters he could get, he had to be stuck with the peaceful ones... He had to push them, somehow. With a sudden movement, he raised a fist toward the Shifter's face. Darwin closed his own eyes as he swung his fist, hoping that an old-fashioned brawl would get the Hunter and the Shifter into the proper mood.

The hunter looked at the self proclaimed leader, who sure had a lot of wrong opinions, with all the disdain he could summon. He must have been the spitting image of his father right now, and his disdain grew bigger, but for himself this time. His wrinkled nose still there, Alain watched as Darwin wrapped an arm around the kid.

If there was something Darwin could do, it might be to make sure that Sam was kept from harm’s way. However, something the magician said brought another frown to his face. What could he possibly mean by this? Was Sam in danger? A bigger danger than this situation, being near those cultists, was? Pinching at the bridge of his nose, Alain gave Mr.Talkative a look. “And what part exactly does he play?” Although, instead of an answer, all he got was Darwin raising his hand on his friend.

He had to react, fastly, and that’s exactly what he did although, now that Darwin’s fist was out of the way, they still had to find a way to make Simon shift. Force him to shift. If he was close to dying, he would have no other choice, no matter how good a person he was. “I’m sorry, bud,” with no warning, he wrapped his hand around Simon’s throat, and started squeezing the life out of him. With his hand on him, whatever happened next, he would at least have some sort of control over the situation, right? Unless…

This whole situation seemed like a bunch of bad ideas rolled into one grandiose bad idea. Everything the snappy dresser said made the hair on the back of Simon’s neck stand up all over again. The more he talked, the more Simon was being put under the impression that this was another one of those blood rituals. GRANTED, the last time he participated in one, they only needed a couple drops so surely that might be the case here, right? But then the man turned to him and he tensed up instinctively. The cultists, the unnatural eye the man flashed on his palm, the recollection that there was possibly a supernatural eldritch squid in the lake and the sun being reduced to a giant eyeball… the werewolf took a step back for every step the supposed spellcaster took towards him to maintain that distance but stopped when the other man did. There was a soft exhale, maybe it was-- Aaaand it wasn’t over. While he didn’t flinch necessarily, Simon’s reaction time already prepared him for getting decked in the face but the impact never came, instead blocked by Alain’s hand. What was wrong with these people? If they could just talk things out, this could be solved, right? “Look, I’m sorry but I can’t just--” He didn’t have a chance to finish his sentence when Alain went from blocking the mustachioed man's incoming punch to starting to strangle him. He was caught off-guard by it and at first, for just a split second thought that it was a ploy but he quickly realised that it wasn’t as superhuman strength dug fingers into his neck, rapidly blocking off his circulation. Without thinking, his hands went up to Alain’s, scrabbling at it to get him to let go but he felt like he was in the lockjaw of a crocodile. “Alain--” He gasped, managing to figure out what was happening in those few seconds and if he was permitted to remember this, he would be sure not to blame Alain in any way for his decision. It made perfect sense; neither of them knew what would spark a forced transformation and the thoughts refused to cross Simon’s mind. He was killing him, that much he could feel. The human kept struggling fruitlessly, trying with every fiber to regain control of the situation because in the bottom of his gut, this was not going to go how it was planned anyway. At this point, he could only hope for forgiveness for what he was about to do. “I’m-- sorry…” Then it began; unimaginable pain coursing through his body, ripping over and under and in between every cell of his being. Grunts morphed into yelling that one usually heard on a battlefield accompanied with a missing limb before the shock took them. The hands that grappled Alain’s sharpened, lengthened and mutated where the claws started to dig into the skin. Clothes were ripped as though they were made of paper mache as fur sprouted like grass in tufts; this was no partial transformation, not this time. The yells turned into snarls and growls as Simon was twisted around and subsequently unfurled like a blooming flower, a writhing mass of sharp bits and angled limbs, gangly and wiry. Though the process might’ve seemed like it took several hours, it was over in a matter of minutes; where the man stood before was now a lithe, deep brown beast with piercing blue eyes and a long, scraggly tail that hung behind him, swaying faintly and breathing heavily through its nose as if it just ran a marathon. And it was fast. Eyes dancing over Alain’s features for a few seconds, then the spellcaster’s, a thin snout took to the air briefly before it dropped onto its long front legs and turned sharply to find Sam. Weak link. First prey. It leapt for the human, hearing only the call to destroy something, someone.

Like most human residents of White Crest, Sam lived in a state of a pathological denial. On some level it was a defensive tactic that the mind employed to shelter itself from grim truths best left unknown. Since colonial antiquity, Sam’s ancestors had been born and raised on land that teetered on the liminal horizon between Earth and Non-Euclidean dimensions whose alien realites defied hominid understanding. The only way for a powerless mortal to cope was to censor their own perceptions. The blindfold had been handed down generations and placed over a child Sam’s eyes by parental admissions whenever he mentioned things half-seen in the night.

But now, as a man contorted and seemed to split open before him, there were no more safe lies that Sam could tell himself. There was no sanitized logical explanation for the cracking of bones as they forcefully elongated or the serpentine slithering of muscle cords beneath the skin as organs and fibers reshaped themselves in seconds. The familiar form of human being was punctured by claws and fangs before distending until a sickening skull-crunch followed a man’s visage vanishing into something elongated and lupine. This was impossible..wrong. Sam must be dreaming, crazy, or high maybe. But when that feral sapphire gaze met his own, the young man knew in his blood that he was fully lucid.

Sam’s pale blue eyes widened with the terror of revelation, as if rose-tinted glass had been finally shattered to let in true light for the first time.

The teenager staggered a few steps back as the hulking russet-furred predator charged at him, stumbling on the slick occipital nerve seaweed as his pale lips mouthed soundless words of panic.

Darwin didn't fight back when the Hunter pushed him away from the shifter. That sort of quick reaction, when blood boils hot and instincts take over, that's exactly the sort of reaction he was hoping for. He didn't bother answering the other men's questions, he just hurried back to the circle. The sound of bones shifting and rearranging was disgusting, but to Darwin's ears it was music: it meant the transformation was underway. He checked the circle on the sand, still intact despite the waves lapping at it. This would work.

In the few seconds they had before the transformation was complete, Darwin shouted “The shifter needs to draw blood from the human! I know it's horrible, but it's what must happen.” Again, he regretted being the bearer of such bad news, but he had no time to reassure the group: he opened the box and picked up what looked like a glowing orb covered in runes. That was a family heirloom, or the closest to it Darwin had: a powerful artefact he'd stolen from the Asrani and had used to trap the demon with Nell's help. Without warning, Darwin grabbed the dagger and used it to stab the orb. The blade dug easily into what looked like stone, cutting it as if it was flesh, and demonic energy started flowing from it. It fell on the lines in the sand, and expanded, filling the circle and making it glow with an eerie light that mirrored the moon's. Darwin started chanting, ancient words of power he had committed to memory, and the light shone brighter, blinding even, as something started to take form in the center of the circle as the creature was being released by its magical bounds.

“In a moment, a demon will rise from this.” Again, Darwin made sure to raise his voice, making it loud enough to be heard over the growls and fighting. “It'll attack us. I need its blood. And the human’s blood. And time to perform another ritual. And no one must die!” Channeling his own energy into the circle to give the demon form was already draining him, truthfully Darwin wasn't sure they were going to make it, but he had to act confident. The creature in the circle was almost solid, drawing his magic and using it to feed its own appearance, and Darwin felt he could move his focus from the summoning to the fight behind him. He turned to watch the wolf, the hunter and the human. “Remember, I need blood, not death!” Reeeally helpful, Darwin.

The leap was the quick part but the Wolf was soon inches from Sam’s face, drained of colour and frozen with shock. He was on the ground, not as exciting for the kill. The wolf loomed over him, dark umber fur brushing against Sam’s pale skin as its nose took in the terrified scent of the boy, his face, his hair, his neck. As it absorbed the stench of its prey, pitch-black claws held Sam’s arms, digging into the soft flesh as though they were made of melting ice cream. It drew back its head, the mangy fur on its thin neck bristling with a snarl that rumbled in its throat and it pulled its claws out sharply, leaving eight deep, dark gashes on his arms, four for each. The smell of blood flowed through his senses and it panted with a cruel desire. With another deep, guttural growl it reached forward again to put a paw on Sam’s stomach when suddenly it yelped and recoiled, feeling something pierce its hide on its hind leg and it whipped around to see Alain with his sword puncturing its skin, deep and sure as it sliced past part of the bone and leaving it notched. The blood dripping from its claws, it abandoned its previous quarry and instead turned to regard the slayer, keeping low to the ground with a limp immediately noticeable.

Demon. Blood. No dying. Ritual. Motherfucking magic nonsense.

Simon did not leave Alain any chance to protest or actually do what he wanted to do. Punch Darwin in the face. This pretentious fuck. He couldn’t stop the wolf from lashing out at Sam. Far from the hunter the idea of killing his friend, but some silver would have been nice to have. He did not really think this through, and while he was not entirely sure that this would work, clearly he could still do some damage with his sword, and stop Simon from hurting the poor kid. And so, as the wolf lifted his paw to strike again, the hunter bolted forward. The sword went easily through the flesh. He barely had time to breathe out in relief, for the beast was turning toward him (which he expected), menacing as ever. He had no other choice but to keep the damn thing away from Darwin and Sam, and so, readjusting the weight of his sword in his hand, Alain stepped back, luring Simon away from the two. Although the more he stepped back, the more he got close to the cultists. Perhaps this would end up being a two birds one stone situation. If he was being honest, facing a werewolf was not something he often had the chance of doing (to say the least) and improvisation being what it was, the hunter could not help but have a bad feeling about this. He had no idea, whatsoever, of how he was going to get out of this situation. If anything else failed, perhaps he would have to go for his usual methods, but losing Simon would truly be heartbreaking, and he wondered, what if, if someone died, none of this would even work?

One of the few tangential benefits of overwhelming confusion and terror is that your brain is so chock full of white noise that pain has to wait its turn. Sam looked down at his arms, palms bearing dried cuts from a boxcutter in the shape of eye-like sigils and now cruelly symmetrical slashes that welled up in scarlet. The athlete had lived a rough and tumble life with plenty of hard knocks and pain during practice, but the gulf between that and what he was experiencing now was so wide that Sam felt like he was being swallowed.

He had tunnel vision, eyes rimmed with wet red and darkness as the huge beast and man with a blade gracefully danced like deadly shadows at the edge of his consciousness, their movements like flickering flames as everything else threatened to be swallowed in smoke. For a time Sam heard only the steady crash of ocean waves and the ragged sound of his increasingly shallow breaths.

But something in Sam fought against the descent from shock into unconsciousness. When rational thought failed, instinct took the wheel, and a stubborn neanderthal part of Sam didn’t give a damn about things making sense so long as he lived. The teenager’s breathing steadied, perhaps having his coaches to thank for years of being hollered at as he powered through the enervating weakness brought on by blood loss and overstimulation. He staggered back to his feet and made his way over to Darwin, the memory of being needed there managing to cut through the dark fog in his head.

Darwin watched the fight, secretly grateful that he was a few feet away from that monstrosity. He had no qualms against werewolves, but seeing the wild beast going on a rampage only fueled his convictions: demons were better. You could reason with demons, bargain for your life. There was no talking to that bundle of muscle, fur and fangs, and seeing it in action he realized the Hunter would be too busy dealing with it to help Darwin with patching the human up.

The human was soon becoming Darwin's favorite person: even with deep gashes on his arms, he still made his way toward Darwin and the circle, and for that Darwin was grateful. He stepped closer to the wounded human and helped him walk where he needed him, right at the edge of the still glowing circle. “You're doing wonderful, just a few more steps, a few drops of blood and then it'll be over.” Darwin paused and quickly added “In the good way, not that you'll die. I won't let it happen.” As he spoke Darwin moved Sam's arms gently, so that they were right above the circle, and then... “I'm sorry, kid.” With only that as a warning, Darwin squeezed one of Sam's arms, watching as the blood dripped onto the circle where the demon's blood still awaited with an ominous glow. “With this sacrifice, thou art free,” he murmured, fueling those words with his own magic.

The moment Sam's blood touched the magical energy on the sand, it quickly spread, painting the lines of the Circle a deep, rich red, glowing with the demon's life force. The human's blood mixed with it, swirling and bubbling as it anchored the demon to this world, and the glowing figure in the center of the circle grew more concrete. The light solidified in a humanoid shape, wearing a dark suit that would be more fitted in a fashion show rather than here, on a beach, next to a rampaging werewolf. The creature's head, though, was far from human: instead of a face, a giant round mouth filled with curved teeth, the sort that would leave their victim no chance to free themselves.

The demon hesitated, bringing his hands to his own throat, and Darwin let out a sigh of relief: the magic was working: Sam's blood not only anchored the demon to this dimension, it also made it breathe. The logistics of it were lost on Darwin, he wasn't a scientist, but seeing the demon gasp for air let him know one thing: it could be drowned. And so...

“Hunter, wolf! Over here, drown the Dator! In the water! When the moon is at its peak!” Which was right about now, and would probably only last a few more minutes. They had to act fast. Of course, wolves were not known for being able to follow specific instructions, and the hunter was probably too busy to really listen to Darwin, so he had to come up with a new plan, quick. He considered using mental magic on the werewolf, something that normally he hated: he'd sworn he wouldn't use his powers to bend someone else's will, he was better than his family, but did he have a choice here? He focused, and tried to tune his magic to the wolf, sending it images of the demon, hoping it would make the wolf focus its attention on a new target, but as soon as he started channeling his energy, the Dator Vitae sensed Darwin's magic and turned its head toward him. Still struggling for air, the creature jumped forward, and Darwin wasn't quick enough to dodge: the demon tackled him to the ground, and the two started struggling on the sand. “Little help, here!” Darwin grunted, doing his best to keep the demon's mouth away from him.

He could hear Darwin shouting from afar, although what disturbed him the most was what he could see in the darkness. What the fuck was this monstrosity? Thoughts of beheading and burning it crossed his head, and this sounded like a much more pleasant option than Darwin’s. “Fuck no, I don’t wanna spend the next week hiding my hands and legs,” he cursed in French, and then started cursing at Darwin, and his whole family while he was at it. Alain knew what would happen if he put his hands in the water. He had ended up swimming in it just two weeks ago, and what followed had not been pleasant. No matter how hard he scrubbed, the ink did not fade, and he had to wait, and wait, and wait.

Alain, however, knew that he did not have a choice, and instead of keeping on dancing around Simon with his sword still in hand, the hunter darted on the wet sand toward Darwin, Sam, and the demon. In the long term, he doubted that he could outrun a werewolf, but what mattered now was to keep Darwin alive. It turned out that his habit of wounding legs was really a good habit to have. Taking advantage of his short advance, the hunter kicked into the demon’s side, sending it flying a few meters away, head falling into the water. Heh. Maybe they wouldn’t have to walk into the water, after all. “Don’t thank me,” he shot a sarcastic smile at the all too proud magician, who had lost a bit of his glow now. Walking past him, the hunter kicked against the demon who was trying to get up, shaking his head. Glancing over at Simon in worry, Alain pressed his foot to the demon’s back.

The Wolf kept its bright blue eyes on Alain, seeing the glisten of its own blood on the blade he held up and pointed at it but not acknowledging that the blood was its own. Sam's gore filled its senses but now Alain was the prey and it circled with the hunter in a staring contest, eyes boring through the slayer, waiting for an opportunity to lunge, a spot of weakness, a move to counteract. Other voices were heard but ignored, other sounds tilted an ear but the man with the sword was the target.

Then it shook its head briefly but fervently, as if hearing an acute noise that punctured its concentration, images of something it couldn't understand but didn't inherently fear flashing before its eyes and in its head. The images were short enough not to fully register but in those few moments of distraction, Alain had made a move. Teeth bared and dripping saliva, the Wolf started to give chase and staggered with the first bound as its leg gave out before it had a chance to send adrenaline through its system to keep it going, sending the beast skidding along the ground. Once it righted itself, steeling its muscles, the second push was enough and the Wolf pursued, seeing Alain occupied with something. Perfect. It leapt at Alain, mouth gaping and claws out like a cat about to catch a bird.

Sam had responded to the appearance of a lamprey faced monster from the tribute of his own blood at first with dumb incomprehension. However when the creature had summarily attacked Darwin, Sam had immediately attempted to football tackle the Demon. Sam’s body was quickly losing blood, life, and strength. Nonetheless he fought against the creeping feeling of numbness in his limbs and tried to wrestle the strange suited thing off Darwin, teeth gritted in a blind determination to make the madness stop. Unfortunately Sam’s strength was purely mortal and wouldn’t have likely budged a Demon even if Sam’d was bodily sound and four feet taller.

The fact that the dude with the sword then interrupted Sam’s fierce mortal struggle to simply punt the lamprey monster into the water and do a Captain Morgan pose on it might have been a bit emasculating if Sam had the mental space to think about anything other than pain and the enormous wolf-thing making another charge.

“Dude heads up!”

Darwin was thankful to the human: even with his wounds still fresh he tried. Granted, he only managed to get the Dator Vitae more upset and to bleed all over Darwin's clothes, but that was secondary to the fact his intervention kept the demon from latching its face to Darwin's body and sucking him dry of magic. When Alain arrived and kicked the creature away, Darwin crawled back, trying to put a few more feet between himself and the fight.

“I'll thank you all once this is over,” he replied to Alain, voice tinted with a hint of frustration: his part had been done, and now that brawns were what truly mattered he felt useless. The Wolf's growling drew Darwin's attention to the giant shifter charging at them, and he panicked. The wolf seemed out of control, and headed toward Alain. He doubted the hunter would be able to handle both a Dator and a werewolf, so Darwin gathered the few magical energy he had left and focused again on the wolf, trying to create a mental connection between himself and the creature.

Despite being a skilled magician, and having studied mental magic for years, it was difficult: a shifter's mind was always slippery. Ever changing, and working on instinct more than rational thoughts, it gave Darwin very little to work with... There would be no communication with the wolf, at least not with words. Instead, Darwin pictured the Dator Vitae, and sent that image to the wolf, along with visions of raw, succulent meat, the smell of a grill and the woodlands, and hoped that would be enough to lure the wolf into attacking the demon instead of Alain. Still on the ground, out of breath and almost magicked out, there was nothing more he could do, and he lacked the human's stamina (or maybe it was willpower, the human truly seemed to be a remarkable individual) to push his own limits. Not to mention, he needed to save his strength to conclude the ritual once the demon had been drowned.

The Dator Vitae, for its part, refused to just stay down quietly. Using its supernatural strength, it struggled against Alain's foot, grabbing it with both hands and pulling, trying to make the hunter lose his footing and drag him into the water instead. In the distance, the chanting grew louder and louder… There was a good chance the cultists were approaching. Darwin could only hope Bertrand had somehow managed to lure them away from the ritual and would be able to distract them long enough.

“Putain de…” Alain frowned and did what he should have done seconds ago. Chopping off both the Dator’s arms, he turned toward the whole coming right at him. Good luck getting yourself up with no arms, the hunter thought to himself, although he didn’t really have time to check whether this thing could regrow limbs fast, as he now had to worry about Simon, who was leaping at him. A glimpse to the left and he saw Darwin and Sam looking somewhat safe. While he doubted that the human would help (and he did not blame him for it, or expected him to), Darwin sounded both like someone he would detest, and like someone capable, who knew what he was doing. Maybe it was the comment about Star Wars being a rip off, but the hunter had a bad feeling about the magician.

He tried to grab the wolf’s front legs, but the claws dug into his arms as he did so, and his foot slipped from the demon’s back. Alain really hoped that having cut off the arms would play its part into keeping this thing drowning. Right now, this was not really his priority anyway, razor sharp teeth were inching closer to his face the more the claws dug into his arms, forcing him to give more room to the wolf. “Bordel de coui- Simon, tu fais chier,” there were more curses in French as the hunter struggled to get the damn beast off of him. “A little help here,” he called out. Alain had not noticed it yet, too focused on Simon, but the chanting of the robed cultists had gotten louder and louder, as they were getting closer.

Everything seemed to be going in a blur yet standing still in time and the Wolf was no exception, in one area for a moment then advancing on Alain in the next, static yet in motion. It struggled with the hunter, snapping wildly at his face as its claws pierced the skin on his arms, being held at just enough of a distance though it pushed with strength that certainly belonged to it and not the human it was forced to share a body with. As it lunged and growled and drooled, however, its mind was filled with something else, something familiar yet distant and it recalled the images it suddenly saw, having been from minutes before. The combination of the images coupled with the new stench of whatever was coming from the armless thing in the water overrode the wolf’s instincts; Alain wasn’t the target anymore. The sensation was roughly akin to seeing another predator threatening to take away its prey. The wolf, with no trace of care, tore its claws out of the hunter’s arms and twisted in a fluid motion until its bright blue eyes fell upon the demon. Threat, thief, enemy of what was the wolf’s. With a barking snarl, the wolf dropped onto all fours again and dug its claws into the ground to get an extra burst of thrust as it aimed for the armless creature in the water, sharp night vision seeing that it LOOKED like water but it was pitch black. It didn’t need to focus on the water though, it only had eyes for the creature and it landed on the demon with the many rows of teeth, taking its paws to the snappy suit it was wearing and clenching its teeth into the shoulder of the other as the two rolled into the water, falling beneath the surface and becoming invisible in the murky black depths save for bubbles and splashes of activity from a stray limb.

Sam sat exhausted on the bloodsoaked sand watching as both wolf and lamprey creature vanished beneath black waves. It was easy then, as blood poured over his arms, to imagine that this wasn’t anything more than a dream. The pain was real though, climbing up his spine and guts. He coughed in thick shuddering gasps. Wide blue eyes drifted from Alain to Darwin, but nothing about their bloodstained appearances and bearing offered up any alternative explanation to Sam’s mind.

They’d murdered a wolf that’d split open from a dude, and a fish thing in a suit that’d been lubricated with blood out of a rock.

“This isn’t...that doesn’t.” The sky, sand, and sea began to spin like a gyroscope, switching places with each other. The world somersaulted and Sam felt like he tumbled off its axis. Damp sand and slick eyeballs pressed against his cheek as Sam slumped down on the shore and the world went dark.

The Dator Vitae had let out a terrible screech when its arms had been severed, but it didn't lose any of its fighting spirit, and only the weight of the werewolf kept it from lounging. Instead of attached to the spine of the hunter who'd hurt it, the Vitae found itself tackled by a wolf. Unable to fight back, it was dragged underwater, the black liquid filling its mouth. There was some sort of magic in the water, the demon could feel it, but it wasn't a magic it could feed on. Instead of strengthening it, it made it weaker. Its movements were sluggish as it tried fruitlessly to struggle against the beast keeping it underwater. The Dator's legs kicked, its teeth scratched, but the wolf was just too strong, and without its arms the demon couldn't get the upper hand, nor could it get free. And eventually, once the water was all it could taste, see and feel... The Dator Vitae stopped struggling.

“Good boy, keep it down!” Darwin mumbled to himself as he watched the wolf disappear under the pitch black water of the ocean. As the one who'd summoned the demon, he could somewhat sense its energy, and he smiled in feeling the way it faded with each passing second. He tentatively stood up and took a couple of steps toward the hunter, keeping a safe distance. “I think... Only a few more moments, and then it'll be over.” He sounded far more exhausted than panicked, but the look in his eyes spoke volumes of his concern. Gone was the façade of the confident magician, he was too tired, too drained to keep it up. He looked up and sighed. “Right on time... A few more minutes and it would've been too late.” As tired as he was, Darwin couldn’t keep a small smile off his face: the ritual had been completed, he could feel it. He gathered the last of his magical energy to send out a quick signal. A small flash in the sky above them, so that Nell would know they made it.

“Now we just need to find a way to calm the wolf and get out before the cultists arri” Darwin's voice was cut off by a sudden thump, and he turned to watch the human faint, his fall softened by the sand. “New plan. He needs a doctor, he lost a lot of blood.” Darwin silently vowed to keep watch on Sam's unconscious body once this was over, they owed it to him. Slowly, he reached the human, and did his best to lift him up, ready to carry him away, on his own if he had to. “Hey, Hunter...” Darwin frowned. They all worked together, risked their lives together, and he didn't know how else to call him. “We can’t do anything for the wolf, but he’s gonna be fine. He’s a wolf. And the cultists… They deserve an angry wolf.”

#wickedsevent #wickedswriting #chatzy

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lore-of-the-silvereyes-rwby · 5 years ago

Text

Remnants Silver Legends

Chapter 9

The Sinda Castle/Silirin/ Endemar

“Okay this might sting a bit,” said a Hospitler as they try to mend the wounds of the knight before them.

“Understatement of the age, he responded.”

He holds in his screams as they do their job and try to heal him. Restraining himself he tries to ignore the pain. He thought losing his arm was painful enough but this was worse. Then again he probably fared better than others. He was just one of hundreds that needed aid. Each one with a wound worse than the other. While they receive treatment their leader is pressured to reveal the events that led to this defeat.

“By the time we arrived, Nenlant was the only stronghold left in Anarsta, Laban stated.”

He stood facing The Grand Marshal; David, The Lord of Silirin; Herod, and The Arbiter of the Ostirio; Prisca. All of them questioned him about how and why their most distinguished legion had lost. To find the truth they continue to hear his tale. Herod then asked something he had been wondering about for a long time.

“What about the Lancer Wing from Gadronma, or the U.K.R.’s Northern territories?”

“Aneirin and his forces never came. Without their support the city was doomed, he answered.”

The Kingdom of Nenlant had requested all available aid from their allies. The only ones to be able to respond were The City of Silirin and The United Kingdoms of Rawmaite. Nenlant was under threat from The Grand Eccumene’s Armies. Nenlant was one of two major trade cities in Anarsta with it being the largest on land.

If it fell the north was doomed. Numen and the U.K.R. would be cut off from one another. The plan was for Silirn to send their best ground Legion, and Rawmaite would send in a Wing from the Gadroma Lancers. Air superiority and high quality warriors, Nenlant was guaranteed to survive. So what went wrong they asked? Why didn’t their allies come?

“Judging by the large force that came from the north, Rawmaite most likely lost their territory, Laban stated.”

After hearing what he just said puzzled them. Of all the known civilizations in or around Numen; Rawmaite was by far the largest and most dominant of them all. Thanks to their large armies and resources they rose to be the world's dominant empire. The thought of them losing any ground was unlikely to happen.

“That’s not possible, It can't be. The United Kingdoms’ wouldn't dare lose their main foothold in Numen or their land trade routes, argued David.”

“Well apparently they did, and we were forced to retreat. As for Aneirin I have no knowledge to explain his absence, he testified.”

That last part seemed to have distured Herod the most. He and Aneirin were after all close friends. They have known each other for years, even before they rose to positions of power. They had always been able to socialize with one another with ease. But now the times they are in now have put a strain on their friendship. He just hopes that his friend is alive and well. Prisca began to ask Laban.

“What was the strength of the enemy forces you encountered?”

“The Eccumenes’ forces numbered over 28,000. Even with the city’s garrison we were still outnumbered by a 2-1. An even fight in my opinion if you ask me, laban said.”

“If it was an even fight, then how did you lose the city?”

Prisca asked him softly without insult. She knew how sensitive he was about losing. Especially with Nenlant being his greatest loss to date. Laban noticed her tone, and acknowledged her concerns. He continued and answered.

“My Knights and the local Nenians held the city as best as we could. Warring off every threat that came our way. Eccumene soldiers, Grimm and the growing fires that spread through the city. At first things were going well for us until a ship from the West came. An Eccumene warship.”

“How many of them were there, Herod asked?”

“There was only one ship my Lord.”

“One, are you sure, asked Prisca?”

“Yes but it wasn’t common among their known Fleets. This one was special. Its hull was painted all black marked by white and red designs which gave it a grim appearance. They called it; Essence of Dying Worlds. Had you seen the ship you’d agree with the name.”

The three of them turned to each other sharing the same gaze of concern. This all seems a little far fetched, but Laban has never lied about matters like this. But that begs the question? What kind of force aboard that ship?

“How could one ship turn the tide of the battle, David inquired?”

“The ship itself was equipped with artillery that I had never seen. It could possibly rival that of the Royal Navy’s Serne class-cruiser. But that wasn’t why we lost. The troop complement aboard the ship was, Laban declared.”

The Knights and Dames of the Silote Legion were held in high regard. Most of its members had almost 5 decades of experience. Some have talents too exotic that most can’t replicate. The leaders were brilliant of the mind that it would be rare to outsmart and maneuver around them. The warriors aboard that ship must have been something else to send them running.

“What was so special about these, . . . reinforcements that they can send our best legion running home, implored Herod?”

“To start, these reinforcements didn’t appear to be part of the Eccumene Army. Their Uniforms matched the same grim appearance of their ship. At first we thought they were pirates, then they released their first wave. They attacked us soon after, making way for the rest of them to join the fight. Soon after they then led whatever forces were left of the Eccumene.”

“What was the quality of these Warriors, David asked?”

“Far above the eccumene’s normal standards. The Grimm aesthetic aside they were a force to be reckoned with. Even the ones that appeared to be the low class can rival a Silirin knight after 30 years of service, Laban answered.”

That only worsened their fears. Some of those knights’ held over 80 years of service.If a human force can be on par with them, it could only be the result of unnatural means. Which begs the question: how many are there?

“How many of them were there, Prisca asked?”

Laban gave into deep thought. Trying to get an estimate. Trying to remember how many of these Demons were there.? Trying to remember without the horror they instilled in him. He soon gave him their answer.

“When they began their assault, and assuming the ship met their naval standards at least 600.”

That caught them by surprise.

“600 unknown enemy warriors turned the tide of the battle, David inquired?”

“Like I said these weren’t any warriors.They caught us off guard and exhausted us. After they accomplished that the rest of them came. At first I thought It was Anerin finally arriving, but it wasn't him.

That raised more questions.

“Who, who wasn’t Anerin, Herod asked, confused?”

“Thousands of them making their way to the city. Not by land or water. But by the sky they came. On the backs of Nevermores Wyverns, and other winged Grimm. Soon after thousands more came on the back of other Grimm,” he stated as he remembered that terrifying sight. He then told them all the details of his most devastating defeat.

Nenlant/ Anarsta/ 10 days ago

A city of wonders, and trade. That was Nenlant in its golden years. Towering spires, reaching small towns built upon the lands flying in the sky. Held in place by large crystals of dark violet hues. Vast rivers, and streams below leading inland to coast. Truly a marvel of its time. Till now.

The Grand Eccumene had sent an Army group numbering over 28 thousand soldiers. On the first day they had laid siege to the lower city on the ground. As well as the river network. Though it cost them a few hundred troops they still had enough to continue the fight. One advantage they didn’t have in this battle was air superiority. Nenlant had converted their airships from travel to war. These were meant to ferry people from the main city on the ground to the sky lands. Now they lay fire upon their invaders.

However the battle in the air is not the crucial part. If the garrisons of Nenlants spires fall then the upper cities are doomed. But all is not lost yet. For the Eccumene to win, they must first fight through the Arhon of the Silote legion. Three thousand silver eyed warriors are all that stand between Nenlant and its enemy. After all they were born to fight.

Four days have passed since the battle started. The Eccumene control over half of the lower city. The city garrison had taken heavy losses. Less than four thousand were left. As for the sky less than half of their airships remain, and continue to drop from the sky. But the tide has yet to turn in favor for one side. For in the minds of the combatants they can only guess who will triumph.

On the ground a fight most dread takes place. The Arhon hold their ground as their foe continues their siege. Swords clash as spears break against raised shields Some are prey to the dark beasts drawn by their hate for one another. Till someone claims a victory this bloody battle goes on.

“HOLD THE LINE,” screamed the Marshal.

He parry’s his blade against another. Their eyes locked, as their swords stress from the pressure of strength forced upon them. With his right hand he releases his grip and forms a fist. With it he slugs his foe across the face. He repeats this three more times till his opponent is disoriented. The force against his blade is weakened. With the advantage he pushes his foe back, so he can do a swift turnaround and kick. He succeeds and his foe now lays 2 ½ meters away on the ground.

His foe tries to rise only to meet an unfortunate end at the claws of two Beowolves. Sensing his hate and fear, to them he was seasoned to perfection. One of them had his arm in his jaws as the other went for the abdomen. Screams emanated from the poor soul as the beowolves had their way with him. He pulls out a dagger and stabs one of them in the eye.

They retaliate as he continues to stab the beowulf's head over and over again. The beowulf who had his arm in his jaws bites down hard. Causing the arm to fly away. He screams even louder in pain. Cursing the beast he tries to stab the head of the beowulf one more time. With the last of his strength he went for it. Only for the beowulf to turn his head from the stomach to the oncoming blade.

The beast gripped the hand in his jaws. It then bit, and tore off the only hand the man had. He screams in agony and realization that he was now unable to fight back. Then the wolf that had tore his first arm off bit down on his head, and swallowed it whole. They resumed their meal as the screaming stopped. The victim’s foe that had put him there, only watched as he stood there.

He had yet to move from the spot after their fight. Taking in the carnage he had witnessed it had seemed to entrance him. Then the beowolves turn their gaze from their meal to him. He stood his ground as one lunged after him. Swiftly he moved, drawing his sword so that it had slashed the creature’s throat. As it lay on the floor the Marshal brought his sword up and severed its head.

This enraged the other beowulf. It then charged him. To avoid the wrath of the beast he jumps into the air. As he falls back down he turns using the momentum to throw his sword through the monster’s back. The weapon had pierced through it. The tip of the blade exposed from the chest was covered in blood blackest night. He then rushed to grab the hilt of his sword. Both hands gripped the blade and with all his strength moved the blade upward.

Swinging away from the creature its head, and chest split into two. It collapses to the floor and begins to turn into black smoke. He turned his head to the other to see it was further ahead into becoming nothing. His gaze then turned to the remains of his foe, or what's left of him. For some reason he couldn’t understand why his defeated foe caught his attention more than the battle around him. He’ll have to think about it for another time though.

He makes his way back to the imaginary line. On one side were friends and allies and on the other the enemy trying to breach it. He enters the ruined buildings they now fortified for the battle. He passes through several knights resting and mending wounds. He makes it all the way to the building they turned into a makeshift command center.

Once there he sees the Serviens aim their longbows down at the enemy keeping them at a distance. He also sees the young Nethrahari do their best handling logistics. He wonders if bringing the youngbloods was necessary. He makes his way to the top of the building’s balcony where the main command was located. He approaches one of the knights there, and asks; “Captain status report?”

“Not well Marshal Laban. A majority of our Serviens are wounded with scores of them dead. Less than half of Nenlants makeshift war balloons remain in the air. The same can be said about their ground forces as well,” the captain declared.

“What's the status of our enemy, Laban asked?”

“Not faring any better than us. Most of their Optimati have fallen. At least a few hundred of them are left. Their main force stands at about 17 thousand. As for the Faunus they brought with them they have yet to suffer any losses that we know of. But they still have a large number of troops that still out number ours.”

That put pain to his thoughts. When the battle began the Eccumene’s forces numbered over 28 thousand. As his forces numbered over 12 thousand with 5 thousand being his own people. Now days have passed and they still outnumber them 2-1. The only advantage they had was quality over quantity. But the biggest question still lingered in his mind. One that he needs answered.

“What of the Grimm Captain? How many of them are there, and what is the damage they have inflicted on both sides, he asked?”

The Captain hadn’t put much thought into, but now that Laban mentioned it he noticed something. Something he didn’t realize till now. He shared his thoughts with the Marshal.

“Strangely enough the grimm have been more focused on our forces than the eccumene’s. Only rarely do one of their troops get attacked by a grimm. In comparison to our forces they’re the aggressors. They should be the primary beacon for the grimm. Not us. Yet, what is also strange enough is that our battle is only attracting the lesser classes of grimm, such as beowolves, the captain stated.”

What he said brought more concern to his mind than relief.

“A battle this large should have attracted grimm of different classes. Yet the grimm we're facing can easily be slain by our combat skill rather than our power.”

“What do you mean sir, he asked?”

“First Aneirin and his forces have yet to join the fight, then the enemy somehow manages to have a large force come from the direction we least expect. Now we face lesser grimm. Something we can handle without our power and yet they arrive in massive hordes. Combine that with the threat of the Eccumene’s army and by the time we survive to see the end we would’ve exhausted all of our endurance. Something tells me that the worst is yet to come Captain.”

The words of the Marshal have left the room silent. Everyone who had heard began to have thoughts very dreadful. But for now they soldier on till the new treat arrives.

“What kind of threat is yet to come, Marshal, the Captain asked?”

“I don’t know, but for now focus on the current fight for now, and inform Marshal Chaleb and the other commanders of this regiment to hold their ground, ordered Laban.”

An expression of pain and sorrow was spread over the Captain’s face. Laban picked up on this and asked; “What is it, Captain?”

“Sir . . . Marshal Chaleb is dead sir and all the commanders but one are dead. However Commander Selah is injured beyond the chance of returning to the battlefield anytime soon Sir,” he said.

The situation is getting worse and worse, he thought.

“Where is she, Laban asked?”

“I had a team move her from here to the center spire sir. At least there she can get the proper help she needs, he declared.”

“Good thinking, complimented Laban. What's your name Captain, he asked?”

“It’s Belshazzar Marshal, he answered.”

“How long have you severed?”

“Five decades sir. My service began since my days as an Edenyar.”

“Congratulations Belshazzar, you are promoted to Commander, and until the battles over command of this regiment are yours now. Lets see this fight to the end, said Laban.”

Both of them saluted and parted ways. Laban left, leaving the newly promoted Commander to take charge here. Everyone in the room only gazed in silence to what just happened. Belshazzar noticing their dumbfound expressions elected to get them back on track.

“You heard the Marshal, we have a battle to win here. The sooner we finish the sooner we can go home now move, move, move, he commanded!”

Everyone in the room returned focus to their task at hand. Hospitelers tend to the wounded. Serviens keep aim, and the knights hold the line. While the New bloods tend to the supplies and help in any way they can. As for the new commander he hopes the Marshal was right to give him this rank, and responsibility. May there be a swift end to this conflict.

As the Marshal made his way to the other regiments of his legion a strange noise was heard. A noise from the west spread through the city. This caught the attention of many on both sides. Laban hurried to the next command post to get a better view of what was coming. Once he reached the high vantage point he used a fieldglass to see what it was. It was a ship quite large. Its appearance; strange yet familiar. Both its hull and sails were black in color. Marked by lines of red, and white. The way they were stayled were almost grimm in appearance, he thought.

Then black clouds began to show above the deck. They then launched from the ship over to them. Flying through the sky at rapid speeds that if it weren’t for the smoke trail they left, no one could’ve kept track. Scores of those lines landed on the upper city as well as behind their lines. What those black clouds were, Laban didn’t know. Till two of them landed near him and he saw them.

Two tall figures stood in the middle of the court behind him. Hooded, and cloaked in black robes the only color standing out on them were the red markings. Highlighted by the white armor they were painted on. Their crimson blades adorned by black runes began to glow as they drew them. Holding their swords in a ready stance the glow of the blade revealed what was under their hoods.

White masks adorned by red markings. But they pale in comparison to the one feature that gave their grimm appearance further merit. Their glowing red eyes surrounded by a black rim. Almost giving the impression of a soulless monster. Whatever they were, they can’t be good.

NOTES

Finally got this chapter finished. I’ll admit it wasn’t as battlepacked as I wanted it to be. But hey that's what the next chapter is for. Also let me know if this chapter was a bit much or if you have any questions

Also here is the Silote Legions command structure and personnel at the battle

Marshal Laban

Under Marshal x 4

Commander x16

Captain x 48

Lieutenant x 192

Standards x 768

Knights/Dames x 2043

Serviens x 1536

Nethrahari x 768

Arhon(SEWs);3072

Serviens(Humans & Faunus); 1536

Nethrahari(young sews);768

Total; 5376 members

#rwby7 #rwby grimm #rwby salem #rwby ozpin #rwby ozma #ruby rose #silver eyes #summer rose #ozpin #silver eyed warriors #the silver eyed warriors #rwby fanfiction #rwby oc #rwby ruby #rwby

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villainousshakespeare · 5 years ago

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For the Price of a Book An (eventually) smutty Loki Fairy Tale

Summary: In the days before the events of Thor I, Loki inadvertently comes upon a female servant being punished by a pair of guards. Her crime? Stealing a book from the rooms she was tasked to clean. Curiosity captured, he decides to break through the shy exterior by any means necessary.

Work in progress, multiple chapters

Pairing: Loki/OFC

Warnings/tags: Some allusions to attempted/prevented rape in the beginning. (not by Loki) Eventual Romance, Angst, Sex, Fluff, Eventual Smut, Pre-Thor (2011)Master/Servant, Loki (Marvel) Has Issues, Dom Loki (Marvel), Feels, Romance, Loki (Marvel) Angst

AO3 Link: Chapter 1

This was not supposed to be her life, Lysse thought in despair. It was not that she was opposed to hard work - indeed, she had toiled away all her life, but she had always done so with her mind. Raised in a seat of learning and educated by the finest tutors, who also happened to be her family, she had grown up with the understandable expectation that her life would also be in academia. Books were all she knew, all she was good at. They were meant to be her life.

So to find herself now reduced to a chambermaid in the Palace of Asgard was an absolute horror. It wasn’t the work that was the problem. Alright, yes, she was not fond of scrubbing floors or doing laundry for pompous nobles with more free time than they could fill. Who would be? But she could endure it. She could even endure the contempt in the eyes of those she waited on. Plenty of the gentry who came to the University to be educated had nothing but disdain for the teaching class who worked thanklessly to try and hammer some semblance of knowledge into their over-bred minds. Sneers from lordlings and ladies were nothing new to her.

No, the problem for Lysse came at the end of the day. When she at last put down her rags and buckets and returned to the servants’ quarters, she inevitably wanted to weep. There was not a single thing there to read. It was no surprise, really. The vast majority of servants at her level were illiterate. But to Lysse, for whom the worlds of her stories were as real if not more so than the world around her, it felt like death.

Lysse would lie there on her cot, staring at the ceiling and pine for the literature that had been her lifelong refuge. No one understood, but that was nothing new. No one had ever understood her need to escape, to travel to distant lands through the words emblazoned on a page and to live out dreams she would never dare in actuality. But now she was stuck, living out this one dreary nonexistence with no escape to be offered. None of the other maids had ever owned a book. They all thought her addled and avoided her.

When word came a few weeks into her servitude, weeks that seemed as years to the clever girl, that one of the young lords living in the palace had requested her for a parlor maid, Lysse had been over the moon. It was a huge promotion, and earned her the instant spite of those she worked with. Lysse hardly noticed their enmity, as they had never been kind to her to begin with. All she cared about was that she would be allowed upstairs. True, most of the time she would spend tending to Lord Fandrall’s rooms, but she would also run errands for him, occasionally accompany him outside of the palace, and she would at least be in the company of those with curious minds, even if only as their servant.

Her first day in his employ went well. Lysse was shy and tongue tied as always around the handsome blond warrior. She wished once more that she could be as clever vocally as she was in her brain. She was never at a loss internally for a thought or an opinion, but as soon as the opportunity arose to share it aloud with someone else her tongue seemed to be made of lead and her words ran away from her. Still, Lord Fandrall seemed pleased with her, and she was able to listen in when he spoke over a light lunch with a dark haired noble woman. Their talk didn't particularly interest her, being composed as it was of battle gossip, but at least it was something.

As the week wore on, it became alarmingly clear why the young lord had requested her presence, and Lysse began to feel panic. On more than one occasion, she had caught him staring at her with a look in his eye that she dreaded. It was not that she didn't think he was handsome, he was undeniably so (if not particularly her taste), but Lysse had learned early that nothing good came of it when a noble lordling dallied with a servant. The last thing she needed was to become embroiled with her master. As his hands began to wander when she stepped near to him over the next few days, grazing as though by accident over her rear or across her breasts, Lysse began to feel trapped. To leave his employ would be to go back to the cold, dark world of the servants quarters with no reprieve. It would also be sure to offend Lord Fandrall, and he would have no difficulty making Lysse's life miserable should he choose, even were she not assigned to him. On the other hand, he was making no effort to hide the fact that he found her avoidance of his attentions an amusing game, but that he expected it to end sooner rather than later.

"Tonight, Lysse, I will be going on an over night trip to Reigdorn," he told her offhandedly one afternoon as she served him lunch. "You will need to pack a bag for me."

"Yes, my Lord," she responded dutifully, rejoicing inwardly. The longer he was gone, the longer she would have to come up with a way to deflect his attentions.

"You should pack one for yourself as well," he added with a smirk. "It gets cold on the road, so I've decided to take you with me for warmth. I'll meet you in the stables at sundown."

Lysse tried to keep the terror off of her face as she nodded to the floor. Fandrall merely chuckled and strode out of the room, off to do whatever it was that amused him all day.

Lysse was horrified. No matter how she told herself that it would not be so bad, she could not bring herself to the point where she was willing to submit to his advances. The very thought made her blood run cold. As she packed his bag and prepared everything for his departure, the truth kept ringing out in her head. She was not going to do it. She would go back to the dungeon of the servants quarters if she must, but she was not going to be the easy conquest of a smug lord just because she had managed, through no fault of her own, to fall on hard times. When sundown came, she decided, Lord Fandrall would find his bag neatly packed in the stable, but Lysse would not be there. She would leave the palace and seek employment else where. She should never have come here to begin with. Lord Fandrall might be angry, but he had no true interest in her beyond a passing fancy.

It was very possible that she might have gotten away with her plan, were it not for her one great weakness. As she was putting the last items in the satchel for the lord, Lysse's eyes happened upon a book that lay, discarded, on the back of his chest of drawers. It was a book of fables, and from the look of it the binding had never even been opened. Longingly, Lysse ran her hand over the spine. She realized that this was the only book she had seen in Lord Fandrall's room, and she opened it in curiosity. On the inside cover was scrawled the sentence, "Fandrall, perhaps this will instill in you some sense of curiosity. Many happy returns, Loki."

Lysse couldn't help herself, looking around foolishly as though someone might be lurking in the shadows, she tucked the book under her arm and, grabbing the satchel, left the room.

***

Loki sat on his balcony studying the book laid out before him. The spell described on the page open on his table was incredibly complex, and he had been trying to perfect it for days. It wasn’t often he had to do much more than glance over a set of instructions to be able to complete any given spell, which made his difficulty with this particular incantation infuriating. He hated not being perfect at anything, usually choosing to avoid those activities that gave him the most difficulty. He was naturally gifted at enough things that this didn’t limit him unduly. But when it came to sorcery he refused to admit that there was any spell he couldn’t master.

Closing his eyes to aid in his centering, Loki drew a deep breath and envisioned the transformation in his mind. He was almost there, he could feel it. This time he had it! So when a piercing, high pitched scream tore through the air and startled him out of his concentration, he was ready to do violence.

Upending his table with a wave of his hands as the shrieking continued, Loki surged to his feet and disappeared off his balcony in a flash of green. A moment later he was in the gardens below, tracking the sound through a maze of flora. He would find the source of the caterwauling and make them regret even having a mouth with which to disturb his work.

He did not have to go far before he discovered the offenders of his peace. In a small clearing, two burly guardsmen had third person pinned to the ground. As Loki approached the men, a scream rose from the obviously a female captive they had trapped between them. Loki stopped a few paces away and curled his lip in distaste, not caring for what he had obviously walked in on.

The woman in question managed to turn her head away from where a burly, red bearded warrior was pressing his mouth to her lips, eyes wide with fear and anger.

“Help me!” She cried as her eyes met his, desperation in her voice. "My Lord Prince, please!"

Loki could understand her alarm. Her dress had been torn down the front, showing an enticing amount of cleavage. One arm was twisted beneath her, the other pulled over her head and held in place by the hulking man, while his companion was in the process of raising her skirt. At her plea for help the two men stiffened and turned to look at him where he lounged against a tree at the entrance to the clearing.

"Oh, Prince Loki, it's only you," said the one by her head, relief flooding his face. "For a moment I feared it was someone important."

Loki felt his teeth clench and his temper prickle at the insolent disrespect in the guard's voice. The fact that he was not unused to it did not lesson his ire.

"Indeed," he said in a voice dripping with contempt.

"Please, My Lord Prince," the woman on the ground begged again, huge blue eyes pleading with him. "Please don't let them do this!"

"Ignore her," the man holding her legs pinned advised, giving the struggling girl a quick glare. "This need not concern you."

"On the contrary," Loki corrected him in clipped tones, "it concerns me greatly. I was in the middle of something important when the shrieking of this... female interrupted me. It had taken me days to get to where I was, and now I will have to begin again."

The woman gasped at his remark, and he spared her a quick flick of his eyes. What did she expect? That he play the knight errant and demand satisfaction for their besmirching of her honor? Clearly she had the wrong brother. Still, he did not like to see bullies attacking an obviously weaker target.

"Forgive us, my lord," the first guard said, with an ill conceived roll of his eyes. "It was not our intent to disturb you. It will not happen again. I am sure we can find a way to make sure the thief stays quiet."

The guard's leer left little doubt what he meant by the words, but Loki's interest had been piqued by something else.

"Did you say thief?" he asked. Looking down at the girl he could not imagine a more unlikely suspect. The wide blue eyes were dangerously innocent, and the whole appearance of her, torn dress and distracting cleavage not withstanding, was of nothing more than a lovely young school mistress.

"I did, my lord. We apprehended her trying to leave with Lord Fandrall's belongings."

"There she is!" a voice from behind him called, and as if summoned from the beyond, Loki turned to see Fandrall stride into the clearing along with Thor.

"My Lords!" the two guards instantly leapt to their feet, bringing their poor prisoner with them, and bowed before Loki's brother and his companion. Loki gnashed his teeth, not so much at the response, but at the clear disrespect of their not giving the same consideration to him.

"Brother. Gentlemen," Thor nodded to the men. "What is going on here?"

"Theft, Lord Prince," the smaller man hurriedly proclaimed as the girl struggled to pull her dress together.

"Lysse?" Fandrall asked, looking to the girl.

Clearly scared beyond speech, Lysse merely shook her head and stared at the ground.

"Brother, is this true?" Thor asked, turning to Loki.

"I know not," he sighed, wishing he had never gotten involved in this whole tawdry affair. "I heard a commotion in Mother's garden and came to discover the source and put an end to it. I found these two... noble guards with the woman pinned between them, struggling to free herself."

"Who is she?" Thor asked, voice full of command.

"My parlor maid," Fandrall answered, looking hard at the girl. "Her name is Lysse. You say she stole from me?"

"She did, my Lord," the burley guard confirmed. "We found her trying to sneak out of the palace grounds through the hidden garden gate. When we searched her, we discovered your belongings."

"A grave crime indeed," Thor said seriously. "Why did you not bring her to the Head of House?"

"We, we thought to save her that disgrace, My Lord Prince," the small man replied, looking for an excuse. "We had Lord Fandrall's property back, we thought we would... teach her a lesson, scare her, you know, and then toss her out."

"How very kind of you," Loki drawled, seeing the smaller of the two turn red.

"Hush Loki, I'm sure they were just doing their duty," Thor tried to ease the situation, totally missing the obvious. "Fandrall, she's your girl, what say you?"

"What is it she stole from me?" the blond man asked, eyes wandering over the expanse of chest Lysse was unable to hide.

"This, my Lord," the large guard replied, pulling a large book out of the knapsack to one side of the clearing.

"A book?" Loki asked, voice dripping in disbelief. "Fandrall, I didn't realize you could read!"

Thor burst out in a big, booming laugh and the guards echoed him uncertainly. Loki looked closer at the book, realizing that he recognized it. Of course! It was a book of fables he had given his "friend" on his most recent birthday. Turning to stare at the girl, he saw that her face was flushed and she was worrying at her lower lip with her teeth in distress.

"Do what you think best with the girl," Fandrall said stiffly, angry now from the mockery of his friends and the guards. "I want no thieves in my employ."

"But by Odin's beard," Thor added, looking around, "don't make such a ruckus in my Mother's garden!"

Loki heard the girl whimper as the guards exchanged wolfish grins. Turning, his eyes caught hers again, and he was met by those endless pools of deep blue. The entreaty in them seemed to go straight down to Loki's soul. Glancing back at Thor and Fandrall, he saw that they had already turned and begun discussing something else, the fate of the unfortunate servant all but forgotten. The guards, clearly assuming this gave them leave to have their way with her, began dragging their captive off.

"Wait!" Loki heard his voice ring out, surprising even himself. "You will take the girl to my quarters."

"My Lord?" the smaller guard asked.

"You heard me," he barked, trying to ignore the way they all turned to stare at him. "As of this moment, she is a member of my household staff."

#loki #loki fic #loki/ofc #eventual romance #fluff #eventual smut #fairytale #servant/master #pre thor #young loki #eventual explicate sex #multiple chap #work in progress

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kenshi-vakarian7 · 5 years ago

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MERweek2019 - Day 6 - Confessions/Secrets

Event hosted by @cactuarkitty with fanfic prompts by @vorchagirl

Prompt - Relationships are all about confessions … or the things we don’t confess. Go on - tell me a little story about your characters deepest darkest secrets.

This one is about a long-kept secret.

I admit, I’ve been hesitant for a long time to write about this part of my Marc Shepard’s past, mainly because I wasn’t sure how to approach it. But thanks for tons of research, and @rpgwarrior4824 for providing great material (thank you, my friend!), I feel more confident. After seeing this prompt, I figured now was the time to go into a little more detail on Marc’s past.

With that, while there are no explicit details except for environmental and psychological descriptions (especially in the paragraphs written in italics)...

Trigger Warning for past severe child abuse.

---

“I am not what happened to me, I am what I choose to become.” ~Carl Jung

“Unbroken”

Commander Marc Shepard jerked upright from his bed, his blue eyes wide with horror as he gasped for breath. He barely reached for his neck, swearing that he felt nausea burning at the back of his throat. He found himself in that place between dreaming and awake, but the nightmare that gripped him moments ago was still seared into his mind...

A ten-by-ten room lined with bricks; eleven thousand seven-hundred and sixty-two to be exact. The cold air made him shiver no matter how hard he tried to stay warm. He was too short to reach the single window, his only indication of whether it was light or dark outside. At least the rain kept the room from being completely silent. The thoughts of being confined and trapped with no escape always frightened him. He was almost certain he would never find the courage to escape. He would have to run away while he was in school, he knew, but the fears and the threats that were instilled in him forced him to bury what bravery he had left...

He was always haunted by memories of the year before; a time when he had a bright future, and knowing how lucky he was to have parents who loved and supported him... only for it all to be taken from him in one night. The foster system that took him in – and who promised to make sure he was taken care of - failed him within a few short months by sending him to this place. His trust in people shattered to pieces. His faith was stolen from him and, with that, the belief in the God his mother loved so dearly.

Intense fear made him shake like a leaf the moment he heard footsteps, followed by the unlocking of the door that held him here. A sickening dread flooded his soul, and he could only guess what kind of pain he was about to endure...

The nightmare, thankfully, stopped there and Shepard took a deep breath, willing away the images of past memories that still plagued his mind, even nineteen years after his horrific experience in the foster system (and he never, ever called it foster 'care' like most people did...).

Soon after, despite his heart still pounding hard against his chest, Shepard became aware of the soft, cool sheets that gently touched his skin, the warm temperature of his quarters, and the hum of the Normandy's engines... metal hulls instead of brick walls, a much larger room than the ten-by-ten 'cage' he was confined in so long ago...

Shepard buried his face into his hands, taking a moment to calm himself down. Under his breath, he murmured the same manta he repeated to himself over the years any time his past ordeal came back to haunt him, to help ground himself to the present;

“It was only a dream. It's not real anymore. You're as safe as any soldier can be. You escaped. You're not broken. It's been over for nineteen years. Your tormentor is long dead. No one will control or hurt you like that ever again.”

Some nights, he repeated his words over and over until he was too tired to continue. But tonight, Shepard only had to say them twice. Though his heart still beat rapidly against his sternum, he didn't feel as panicky as he did when he first woke up.

For the last twenty or so years of his life, Shepard was plagued by bad memories of his past; the death of his parents, his time on the streets and the gang he was forced to join in order to survive, the violence he witnessed at Elysium, leaving Ashley behind on Virmire... Occasionally, he dreamed of his own death over Alchera, but that didn't happen very often despite how recent (in his mind) the event took place.

He was willing to endure any of those memories night after night for the rest of his life if it meant he never dreamed of his time in the foster system ever again...

Dreaming of being back in that room was much less frequent these days, but it had been a constant 'companion' of his as a teenager on the streets. Back then, Shepard thought that simply freeing himself from his prison would end his torment once and for all. Instead, he learned the hard way that the kind of trauma he experienced had a way of following him like a shadow no matter how much he tried to escape its grasp. The nightmares were persistent, certain triggers sent him running, shaking, or screaming at the top of his lungs... and then there was the lingering fear that he would be found by his tormentor someday. Street life notwithstanding, it made his teen years confusing, emotional, and terrifying.

Falling into melancholy in the present, Shepard quickly reminded himself – before he fell into that dark pit of despair - that he was no longer trapped in that cage. He was free, he was safe, and he was not broken.

“My father hurt me, but he didn't break me. As much as he tried to turn me into exactly what he wanted, I'm my own person.”

That was what his XO and lover, Miranda Lawson, said to him after the events surrounding the mission to maintain her sister's safety. The words resonated with Shepard more than she would ever know. That day, he nearly told her that he understood (though the piece of shit in question – the one who hurt him - was his foster 'father'), but... how could she know how he understood? With the exception of his time in the Tenth Street Reds, not a single soul would have knowledge of his past beyond his days in a gang.

He made certain of it a long time ago.

For all the research Miranda claimed she did on Shepard during the Lazarus Project, there were still missing pieces to his past in her eyes. He kept the remainders a closely guarded secret since the day he started living on the streets...

No one knew about his parents, who loved and cherished him until the day they died – a car accident caused by a sudden snowstorm took their lives while he was spending the night at a friend's house. No one knew about the terrible abuse he endured during the one year he was in the foster system, nor the day he found the courage to finally run away while he was in school. No one knew the full story about his six years on the streets, where he bided his time until he joined the Alliance to make a better life for himself on his eighteenth birthday. Back then, the Alliance was his best chance at a better life. No one knew that, on the day he enlisted, he changed his original surname to the one now so well-known to the galaxy as a way to start fresh – it was an attempt to bury the past for good, though that hadn't worked as well as he hoped as time went on.

Would Shepard ever tell Miranda any of this? After twenty years of carrying his secret without ever opening up to anyone, it felt as though talking about it would make things so much more complicated. He didn't know how, but he had the feeling that it would. That, and he simply didn't want to open up any of the old wounds that were still barely patched up even after all this time. The nightmares were bad enough as it were...

Speaking of Miranda, Shepard turned his head to the right and saw her next to him. Lying on her side and facing him, she was sound asleep and undisturbed by his movements. Her face was relaxed, serene, and it brought a semblance of calm in his heart... and a reminder of how much he loved her.

Shepard wasn't the type to care about someone's looks, but there was no denying the awe he felt over how beautiful she was. He admired the way her raven locks splayed over the pillow she laid on, how she clutched the sheet covering her breasts with her dainty hand while the other was tucked underneath her head on the pillow. The soft, blue glow from the fish tank, the only thing illuminating the room, created a ethereal light over her fair skin.

Slowly, Shepard reached a hand out and carefully brushed away a strand of hair that laid across her cheek. He tucked it back behind her ear before he bent down to press a gentle kiss to her temple. He then removed the sheet covering him before taking a moment to make sure that she was warm. Once that was done, he pressed his lips to her forehead before he got out of bed and headed to his bathroom on the other side of the cabin.

He always needed to shower after the kind of nightmare he had tonight...

Shepard made sure that the water was at the hottest temperature he could handle before he turned it on. He was certain that EDI would reprimand him for it later, but he didn't care. For anyone who served in the Alliance, long hot showers were a rare luxury.

His eyes closed, Shepard leaned his back against the wall. As the heat rose and steam began to fog the room, his nightmare lingered in his mind and his eyes shut tighter, a weak attempt at willing away the invading visions.

It's not real... it's not real... not anymore...

Shepard wasn't sure how long he was in the shower as he tried to clear his mind. So far away he was from reality that, when the door to the bathroom eventually opened, he nearly jolted from the noise it made, as light as it was. At the very least, it was nothing like the sound of the door that once locked him in, so he was able to calm down quickly...

He also didn't have to open his eyes to know that it was Miranda who stood at the door's threshold. That was definitely a change from years ago, back when he had to see who walked into the room...

“Marc?” she called, and he noticed how her voice was laced with worry. Somehow, it had a calming, peaceful effect on him. He was almost certain it had a lot to do with the fact that she was calling him by his given name, which she only started to do very recently whenever they were alone together.

Shepard took a deep breath as he raised his head up and opened his eyes to look at her. “Miri,” he uttered, using the nickname he'd come to love to call her even before they began their relationship. He frowned as he realized something. “Sorry, did I wake you?”

“Not until you turned on the shower,” Miranda replied. She went ahead and stepped into the bathroom, closing the sliding door behind her to keep the cold from getting inside. “Is everything okay?”

He was afraid she would ask that.

Shepard slowly pushed himself off the wall and moved underneath the shower head to get a full blast of the hot water, which quickly soaked his short black hair. The whole time, his eyes never left her. “I'm okay,” he was able to say while gently shaking his head. He then slightly craned his neck forward and his eyes averted away from her, focusing to the floor. He felt somewhat ashamed suddenly.

“Just... dealing with some old memories...” he admitted quietly.

Miranda gradually moved towards him until there was only a few inches of space left between them. She then reached a hand up to gently cup one side of his face, the tip of her fingers barely caressing the base of his temple. He closed his eyes and slightly pressed his cheek into her hand, letting his mind focus on that warm, single touch.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she murmured with concern.

Shepard drew in a quiet breath at her words, his emotions attempting to overwhelm him. Sometimes, in moments like these, it was hard to believe that this was where his life was now...

Nineteen years ago, Shepard thought he would never trust anyone again. And though he still faced his own struggles – past and present – he somehow found and retained the strength to carry on. The day he enlisted, he made a promise to offer those any help they needed... because he knew what it was like to not receive help when he needed it most. And despite no longer having faith, a part of him believed that, somehow, his efforts were rewarded.

He found good people through his journey and formed lasting friendships with them, or fond memories of those who had come and gone. He faced his fear of intimacy and became a tender and caring paramour. He opened his heart to his crew and, though they'll never replace his parents, they became his cherished family.

And recently, at age thirty-one, he fell in love for the first time in his life.

Shepard grasped Miranda's hand - the one that touched his face - with his own before he moved it downward over his jawline and passed his neck until her palm touched his chest... right over where his heart was. It was not the first time he moved her hand to his heart. The simple touch helped ground him to the present. It helped to remind him of all the good things he experienced since those dark days. It helped to remind him of how much he loved her.

It helped to remind him how far he'd come after all these years.

The past may forever haunt him, but he swore long ago that those dark days would never break him, no matter how hard it tried and no matter how many times it invaded his thoughts. He'll never let it have the chance to completely consume him. More importantly, he'll never let his long-dead tormentor win.

Shepard wanted to be truthful with Miranda about his past... but despite his resolve, he wasn't ready to tell her just yet. Maybe someday, when the Reapers weren't knocking on their door... and if they both survived the inevitable war... perhaps then, he would tell her.

“Believe me when I say that I'd like to talk about it,” he finally breathed as he clutched her hand, his gaze on her never wavering. “I promise I'll tell you someday. Just... not now.”

Miranda looked into his eyes and nodded with understanding. “Okay,” she whispered.

No pushing, no questions... funny how a simple word made Shepard so grateful to her. It made him love her even more. Closing his eyes, he pulled Miranda close to him until he was holding her in his arms. She returned the embrace as his hand gently carded through her hair and he leaned his cheek to the side of her head.

I love you, Miri, Shepard thought as he tenderly pressed his lips to her temple. Someday, when the time is right, I'll tell you my story.

#merweek #merweek2019 #Mass Effect #fanfic #tw: past child abuse #marc shepard #miranda lawson #shiranda

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tomfoolsery · 5 years ago

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carry that weight -- an aftg chapter fic

hunger games au pairing: neil / andrew chapter: 1/?

summary: The 75th Annual Hunger Games have arrived. For years, Neil Josten managed to dodge the reaping by being meticulously careful and as invisible as possible. With only one more reaping until he ages out of the process, he makes a plan to escape the Districts (and his father's henchmen) once and for all. But when he realizes he's been plucked from the masses to partake in this year's Quarter Quell, his plans for escape are dashed. Being reaped for the Games only magnifies the target on his back, and District 12 has never had good luck in the arena. It will take every survival instinct Neil has to make it out alive.

trigger warnings for this chapter: past child abuse, torture, suicide mention.

read on ao3 or here!

The first game that Neil remembered watching was the 66th. The potency of the memory seemed to taint everything else that followed in his life, painting it in that shade for better or worse.

The Games were all about survival. A tribute could train for years, as most of the Career Districts did, but still not be guaranteed a victory. It wasn’t the strongest that always won the Games. Oftentimes, it was the most clever. The one who knew the dark places a human could go in order to ensure survival. The one who was willing to sink to those depths before anyone else could reach them.

The 66th Hunger Games was won by a 15 year old named Hugo. He didn’t look like much to begin with, and most of the commentators throughout the game assumed he would be an early victim at the Cornucopia bloodbath. Hugo’s scores hadn’t even been noteworthy prior to arriving at the arena. For all intents and purposes, he was an easy kill that could be taken care of at a later date. It was that oversight that cost the vast majority of the tributes their lives.

Neil could remember watching Hugo on the television broadcast, all but blending into the shadows that the densely populated forest arena afforded him. His footsteps were always silent, allowing him to traverse wherever he pleased without being caught. It meant he could hunt easier and sustain himself physically, and it meant that he could watch his opponents from afar, always a step ahead. The people watching from the Capitol ate it up.

In years past, the Gamemakers would generally speed things along, forcing tributes to encounter one another and spill enough blood to bring the Game to an end. Any wise Gamemaker would want to maintain a captive audience in the Capitol — lest they be punished for an underwhelming Hunger Games.

An avalanche would bring the tributes to one spot together, or an offer of food, water, or medicine would lure in the desperate to the Cornucopia. Everyone knew what an event like that meant, but most still attended. The alternative was certain death. At least if they attempted it, a chance at survival still existed.

In Hugo’s year, the Gamemakers barely had to lift a finger. The tribute was a master at setting traps and snares, using them to catch both his dinner and his opponents. His methods weren’t grotesque or violent, like past tributes had been. He was sneaky and practical.

On the surface, Hugo didn’t look like a killer or a terrifying figure. What made him scary was his behavior when the tributes were narrowed down to two: him and a Career Pack boy named Palus — who, ironically enough, was an initial standout with the Capitol sponsors. The tables turned once Palus injured his left leg, the bone nearly exposed after falling down a steep cliff. With no way to mend it himself, Palus carried on as best as he could, hoping that the elements or stupidity would do Hugo in so he wouldn’t have to attack first.

Instead of earning a simple, perhaps even cheap victory, Hugo opted to stalk Palus throughout the arena. The cover of night was his weapon, as well as mounting dehydration and starvation on Palus’ part. He was able to instill paranoia in the other tribute, lingering close enough to impart terror but far enough not to be noticed. It was a mental hell that even the Gamemakers couldn’t have dreamt up. Worse yet was the knowledge that Hugo was very much enjoying the unfair game of cat and mouse. Watching Palus’ sanity deteriorate was a decadent feast for him. He would draw this out for as long as allowed, ensuring that Palus’ last moments of life were drenched in nearly psychotic terror.

After a full twelve hours of this treatment, Palus took a drastic turn for the worst and, in an attempt to rid himself of the constant feeling of being stalked, wound up taking his own life. He’d already lost too much blood by the time the Gamemakers realized what was happening, too late to intervene. All the while, Hugo waited in the wings and watched the grisly scene play out.

During his victory tour and first interview with Seneca Crane, Hugo would come to admit that he would have happily continued tormenting Palus had he not killed himself. He was unashamed in his insistence that he survived because out of all the tributes, he was the only one with a thick enough mental-skin to endure the challenges of the game.

Hugo’s ruthlessness sent chills down Neil’s spine even when he was just thinking back on it. But he also knew that if he were ever dropped in the arena himself, he would have to embody those same traits. Neil felt admiration and horror toward Hugo in equal parts.

When it came down to it, he would do whatever it took to get out of the arena alive.

---

On reaping day, the district came alive with the hustle and bustle of business. Though District 12 was far from the most affluent, the heightened presence of Peacekeepers and Capitol attendees stirred up local merchants. The citizens were split down the middle in terms of disposition.

For families, this was a day of dread. Many households had to request tesserae multiple times, making their likelihood of being reaped that much higher. From those families, Neil could see the dread hanging off them like a heavy cloak, shrinking their already slouched shoulders and diminishing their hope. Many were dressed in the best clothes they owned, as was expected for such a day.

For Neil, dressing up meant finding an ill-fitting pair of slacks and a baggy button-down from the local seamstress — an outfit he stole when no one was paying attention. There was no way he could afford even the most tattered of clothes with what little money he had. Neil had perfected the art of pickpocketing and petty theft, a skill created out of necessity. By the time anyone realized their merchandise was missing, he would be long gone.

In some parts of the district where the more unruly folk flocked, bets were taking place regarding who would wind up being reaped. Neil tried to hide his grimace as he overheard an older man estimating how many tesserae one particular family had taken out. He couldn’t help flinching when he heard him say “that kid of theirs is as good as dead.”

As much as Neil wanted to believe that he was above that kind of cruel self-interest, he didn’t have much to say in the way of a defense. He wouldn’t bet on someone’s life, but he himself was hoping that literally anyone in the world would get reaped instead of him. He was on the brink of turning eighteen — after that, he would no longer be in the pool for the Games. Just a month longer and he could follow through with his escape plan. Given the fact that Neil had never taken out tesserae in his life, he figured his odds of getting reaped were extremely slim. Still, they existed at all, and Neil couldn’t shake the enormity of that fact.

He could hear his mom’s words echoing in his ears every time he fought the rising panic.

“What if I get reaped?” he would fret, imagining the countless scenarios that could play out.

Her reply would always be punctuated by a tight yank of his hair or a smack to the back of his head:

“Make sure you don’t.”

---

With the entire District gathered in the square, Neil felt like there were walls closing in on him from every angle. Claustrophobic though it was, he could take comfort in the fact that he blended in easily with the other people in his age group. Neil worked hard to be a mundane, ordinary presence in the world. His survival depended on being invisible.

The tension in the air was thick and uncomfortable, everyone’s fears laid bare and only intensified by the setting. Peacekeepers lined the permitter of the square, stun guns and tasers at their belt, ready to be used. It hadn’t come to drastic measures like that in recent years. The Capitol had beaten District 12 thoroughly into submission.

All of the shaking, fussing, and nervous movement among the crowd stopped at once when the speakers cut on. The Capitol escort onstage was ready to begin.

“District twelve! I’m so happy to be with you all here today,” she began, her voice nauseatingly saccharine.

It was clearly a lie — all Capitol citizens stuck up their noses at the districts and were eager to leave at the first available opportunity. But given the fact that they would be the one benefiting from the games, Neil supposed that perhaps her enthusiasm was real. A bloodbath was guaranteed with each year.

That notion nauseated him even more than her voice had.

Her hair was teased up high into a poof-like style, the color a mixture of orange and pink. Neil wasn’t sure of the last time he’d seen a color so bright within the district. Though he’d only seen a handful of Capitol citizens in propaganda videos and even fewer in Twelve itself, he could tell that they were a flamboyant bunch; not only did the people there don every color of the rainbow, but body modifications weren’t unusual either. He’d heard stories of people who had cat-like ears attached to their skulls, or full-body tattoos that blurred the lines of human and animal.

“As I’m sure you all know, today is Reaping Day. And this is no ordinary one, I might add— ” she paused, effectively lodging a boulder in Neil’s gut, “It is also a Quarter Quell. Every twenty-five years, we add a twist to the game, so to speak.”

It was dawning on him now that this was indeed a Quarter Quell year. He’d gotten so caught up in his hopes for an escape that the whole thing didn’t even occur to him.

There were always different adjustments made to the Hunger Games during the quells. One year, tributes were reaped from the districts by a vote among their own peers. Whichever two citizens had the most votes were sent into the arena. Families were pit against one another, leaving the districts frigid and tense long after the tributes were sent away. There were numerous murders and assaults within the districts that year as well — the Capitol didn’t want the bloodshed to be limited to the arena.

Neil had no idea what the cruel twist would be this year, but his imagination was already leading him to terrifying places. He wouldn’t put anything past the Capitol.

“During this Quarter Quell, the number of tributes will be doubled. Let this serve as a reminder to the districts that two rebels died for every Capitol citizen during the Dark Days. Instead of twenty-four tributes from the twelve districts, forty-eight will be reaped.”

Neil took a moment to do the math in his head, his pragmatism working hard to beat out his terror. Doubling the tributes reaped would mean four individuals being chosen from each district — two girls and two boys.

Even with this alteration to the Games, his likelihood of being picked wasn’t very high; Neil had only been entered in the reaping pool a handful of times, and he never received tesserae. The odds of him being chosen in comparison to the dozens of other kids in the district — namely the poorest ones from the Seam — were very slim. He silently chided his heart for thudding so painfully and his skin for sweating uncontrollably.

This event would be fleeting fear, he told himself. After the tributes were picked and the town square was dispersed, Neil would be able to narrow down his plan for escape. He was roughly half an hour away from the biggest sigh of relief in his entire life.

The Capitol escort onstage went into a lengthy monologue about the history of Panem, which Neil had already heard a thousand times over. The supposed history of their nation was beaten into every citizen’s skull, to ensure that they knew exactly whose boot they would always be trapped under. This was a tired, propaganda-laden tale that Neil had no interest in hearing. He found himself tuning out until a silence fell among the crowd. Neil’s focus turned back to the stage, where the woman was now walking over to the two clear glass bowls with names scattered within them.

As the woman on stage chirped out “Ladies first!”, the entire crowd held still. Neil could see a few girls in his age group beginning to tear up, a sense of fear falling over them at once.

With an exaggerated twirl of her hand, the attendant swiped a name out of the bowl of girl’s names.

His attention was scattered between his own thoughts and the goings-ons around him, but Neil caught the name Laila being spoken. There was a gasp within the crowd and a muffled sob could be heard a few feet from him. Neil watched on as Peacekeepers escorted the girl onstage. She couldn’t have been much older than fourteen. The sight of her tear-stained face and heaving chest only worsened Neil’s dread.

The entire event was inhumane. The Games were carried out for the sadistic pleasure of the Capitol, and there was no conscience to be found in people like that.

After a brief interview with Laila, the young girl was directed to the side of the stage and the escort moved on to the next reaping. This would be the first of two male tributes. Neil’s fingernails bit painfully into his skin as he clenched his fist, watching the escort’s hand swirl daintily into the bowl. Despite his effort to look as composed as possible, Neil couldn’t stop himself from closing his eyes just before the name was called.

“Matthew Boyd!” was the name that rang out in the square. Neil’s eyes instantly shot open and his hands relaxed at their sides, the tension wrung out of them for now. Matthew Boyd wasn’t a name Neil was familiar with

The person who stepped out from the crowd was older than him — probably reaped during his very last year of eligibility. Neil hoped that he wouldn’t suffer a similar fate. He was so close to being done — so close to being free.

There was a slight commotion as Matthew stepped up on stage, but Neil’s focus was ebbing. His hands still shook at his sides, awaiting the second and last choice for a male tribute. Time slipped by without notice and before Neil knew it, Matthew was being ushered to the side of the stage and the second female tribute was being reaped. No one he knew. No reason to care. The only way Neil could cope with the insanity of it all was to remain as pragmatic as possible.

“One last tribute!” the attendant chirped, strolling over to the bowl with ease. This, of course, only spelled the end of her fun for the day. Not potentially the end of her life, as was the trend for District 12. Neil could only remember two winners from their district, and that wasn’t an encouraging average in comparison to the Career districts.

Closing his eyes again, Neil stuffed his hands in his pockets and dug his nails into his palms. They burned as he clenched his fingers tighter, and his whole body felt rigid. If he wasn’t called, he knew it would take everything in his power not to break into a sprint right then and there. Tonight would be his last one in the Seam one way or the other. He just hoped—hoped with painful intensity—that he would be leaving of his own volition.

Not me. Not me. Not me. Not me. Not me.

Once the paper was pulled, the Capitol attendant fumbled with it for a few seconds before coaxing it open. A beat later, the name came. Neil’s breath hitched, soaked in fear from head to toe.

---

The strange thing was, Neil couldn’t recall hearing his own name. He couldn’t recall hearing anything in the few seconds between standing there, paralyzed with fear, and being yanked forcefully from his place.

He struggled against the Peacekeeper’s grasp, attempting to kick out his legs so he could escape. Had he been thinking clearly, Neil would have known that this was as good as futile. They would catch him, hold him down, and make sure he wound up in the arena. They would have their entertainment. His blood would be shed for the sake of cruel tradition.

He was so close. This wasn’t fair.

Neil fought the Peacekeepers all the way up to the stage, shouting every indecent thing that came to mind, his arms and legs still fighting to be free. Once he was pulled on to the wooden stage, a plastic zip tie was secured to his wrists. This wasn’t enough to temper his rage, though. Neil flailed a moment or two longer before he felt a shock at his side. It sent him falling to the floor, the impact shuddering through his whole body.

The one shock was enough to subdue him, but Neil felt three more on different parts of his torso. Electricity coursed through him; it was a mind-numbing pain that began to dull his senses. He could hear the crowd growing uneasy, talking amongst themselves to make sense of this unusually violent retrieval of a tribute.

The last thing he could remember before his vision dimmed was the sound of his name.

“Neil Josten, our fourth and final tribute from District 12!”

#tfc fic #aftg fic #andreil #the foxhole court #tfc #finally posting this after 6+ months of letting it sit #i write everything out of order so it made it difficult for me to actually pin down the beginning #but i finally posted it ok good #fic tag

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cerneala · 5 years ago

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Review 1 - Murdered: Soul Suspect

I thought a long time about dipping my toes into the waters of video game reviews. While I do play quite a few of them, I know that I have a very specific set of criteria regarding games that determines my enjoyment of them, and I’m not quite sure that I’ll do a good job remaining unbiased regarding those criteria. However, I decided to give it a go, if only to try something new! Please keep in mind that all viewpoints and opinions here are my own.

With that brief introduction out of the way, let’s get on to the first game I’m going to be reviewing:

Murdered: Soul Suspect

For this review, I’m going to be breaking it down into these categories: Introduction, Gameplay, Aesthetics, Story, Replayability, and Closing Thoughts.

Introduction

Released on June 3, 2014, by Square Enix, Murdered: Soul Suspect is an “adventure mystery stealth” game developed by Airtight Games (previous work: Dark Void, Quantum Conundrum, Pixld, DerpBike, and Soul Fjord) using the Unreal Engine. It was directed by Yosuke Shiokawa (director: Death by Cube; misc. crew: Dissidia: Final Fantasy, Kingdom Hearts), and earned mediocre reviews at best, receiving a 59% on Metacritic.

Gameplay

The gameplay of Murdered: Soul Suspect is simplistic at best. With a small “open world” that unlocks after certain chapters are completed, ghost abilities that are rarely used, and ghostly blockades scattered throughout, any interest in the premise is quickly lost amidst the repetitive, not quite puzzles. Players are introduced to the ghost aspect at the very beginning of the game: the tutorial/exposition given by a spirit named Abigail explains that there are basic rules to the world, which the player needs to remember if they want to survive.

Abilities are “unlocked” via different scenarios that make them necessary to progress. Possession is by far the most commonly used, though the player cannot control the people they possess outside of influencing their thoughts to get clues to aid in their investigations. Remove is used to dispel ghostly walls to open new areas, reveal aids the player is seeing ghostly echoes and collecting the pieces of ghost stories, exorcise kills demons (the only enemies in the game), poltergeist manipulates electronics, teleport allows the character to shift from one area to another within visual range, and hide allows the player to conceal themselves within pocket dimensions to escape demons.

The only collectibles within this game come in two categories: Ghost Stories and Life Stories. Ghost Stories are unlocked by collecting a set amount of ghostly objects (boilers, gas cans, rocks, engraved stones, spellbooks, etc.) and, when viewed, consist of a story narrated over a static background image. While interesting in theory, the execution makes them dull to watch. The Life Stories consist of different objects ranging from letters to ghostly echoes that give the backstory of five of the characters; these are meant to lend more depth, but they quickly become just another thing to check off of the completion list.

Most of the game is spent collecting different things. If these collectibles were removed, two or three hours of gameplay would be lost as well, because without the effort needed to run around and find them, the story is short and fairly quick to get through. Each area of the game is small and relatively linear, with any puzzles easily solved using a combination of poltergeist, possess, remove, or teleport.

The only enemies in the game are demons, but even they can be avoided if the player is careful enough. “Battling” them consists of hiding away and memorizing their patrol path to sneak up behind them and exorcise them, or, in the case of Floor Demons, walking around them or possessing a character to walk over them. Exorcism consists of a short quick time event where the player presses a combination of buttons, and this mechanic persists into the “final boss” of the game. While the first encounter with demons can be startling, they quickly become tedious and, at times, frustrating due to the fact that being spotted by one can quickly result in a game over due to how fast they drain the character’s life.

Aesthetics

The game world is dark, and permanently tinged with turquoise and burnt orange shades. Because of this, I had to turn up the brightness just to navigate the world, and the monochromatic color palette strained my eyes and caused quite a few headaches. There were a few visually appealing images in terms of composition and layout, but even those come with the caveat that they were static backgrounds for the ghost stories or that they were, in terms of how ghosts show the method of their death on their bodies, easily overlooked and not fully developed. I know dark palettes are common in games with horror elements, but when compared to games such as Silent Hill, or Penumbra, where the colors were limited by the environment and served to instill dread/uneasiness within the player and still contained vibrant colors, there’s a lot of missed potential in how the game is presented.

Story

Murdered: Soul Suspect revolves around Ronan O’Connor, a cop who is killed in pursuit of the notorious Bell Killer. Told by his deceased wife, Julia, that he cannot enter the Light without first resolving his unfinished business, he works alongside a medium named Joy Foster to both find her missing mother and put an end to the Bell Killer’s spree of terror in Salem, Massachusetts.

Replayability

Despite this game containing collectibles, there is no replay value to it. There are no difficulty options, and all items can be grabbed on the first playthrough by keen-eyed gamers. Getting all of the collectibles while completing the game will also unlock all of the trophies.

Closing Thoughts

I was really, really exciting for this game. I remember watching the trailers and thinking how new and refreshing it seemed, only to get the game and realize I was playing a heavily restricted version of L.A. Noire. I completed the game in just under eight hours, the majority of which was spent getting the collectibles and watching the ghost stories. While it made me happy as a trophy hunter — being able to get a platinum in one run without having to devote days to it was nice — as someone who loves story driven, exciting games, it was a bit of a letdown, and I would not recommend it unless you want an easy platinum to bolster your collection.

#video games #video game review #murdered soul #hexxed review

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enambris · 7 years ago

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In Waking, In Sleep

Dreams are strange things. They come in sideways, finding one’s way to them never really as much a falling as it is a drifting, gliding diagonally through scattered memories in their nebulous cosmic clusters, the tiny stars that make up the mortal mind. For some they hold little fleeting images on a silver screen, to which the beholder is privy only a passing glance, the images and actions themselves often lost but for one or two key details. For others they hold worlds of wonder, an escape into the recesses of the subconscious and the grand possibilities that may accompany it.

But some, alas, find no pleasure in the art of dreams. Plagued instead they are by night terrors, monsters that drift up from the deep black ocean beneath neural constellations. Tonight they nestle her, caress her ears with dark whispers and words as the absence of her ever-present shadow becomes more and more distinct as each new layer through which the maiden falls brings her into a darker, and darker, and darker place. The whispers at the shell of her ears are familiar. They are soft, at first.

W̨̩̱̃a̴̩̮͚͈͎̓̈ͅkͫͩ̀̓͏̹̜͉̩͚ȇ̳̜̮͚̦̌͛͊ ̷̮̗͈̦̝̳̍̄ȗ̴͍̠̱̯͈̞̑̂̑͌p̙̙.̨̩̙̻̠̥͂ ͍͇̃̋ͩT̮̬͇̯̦̤̩̾h̠̺̰̮ͫ̉ͤ̓ͨͪ̐ȇ̞̄̃͒ͅ ͇̹̟͖̭̄ͦͭť͚̠̩͙̼̙͙i̡̱͋͂ͫm̰̜̲̐̇e̝̩͒ͩ̊ͩͬ ͓̯̻̃̓ͫḧ̳̤̹̻̯̹́ͫ̏̐̇̓̽͞a͖ͤ̅s͕̫̥̬̺͉͝ ̰̝co͉̻̜̮ͯ̊̈̈́͂͐mͤ͌͗̂e̗̫̰̹̪̫ ̩͚͇̳͈̠̾̏̈̀t̗̦͆̀ỏ͍ ̚͞w̷͎͖͙̯ͯ͊ͩ̌̐a̭̠̻̖͚ͨ͑̾͌k̷̻͔̖̜̤͙̮e͌̎ͣ ̡̮͔̥͖̭̺͍̓̓̍ͫư͐́̓́p̴͕̞̠ͭ.̼̳̺̘̺̮ͪ

Were she able to, she’s quite certain she would comply. The terrors that fill her now, that no waking creature could instill upon her, encircle her within the vast expanse of the mindscape, great forests of gnarled black trees with branches like long, spindly fingers grasping at her, trying desperately to ensnare her as she passes them by, running to the edge of the ocean and still somehow deeper into the forest. The shadows close in, with their spidery appendages reaching, ever reaching...

W̯̯̪̒̓̿ͩͪ͋̚a̶̭͚̭̠̹̟k̨̥̱ē͓̦̾ ̥͕̩̱͍͚̿̆̉ͩ̆ͅu̳̩͈͖ͬͤ̆̑͗̈ͮ͢p̜̭̫͚̭̻̃̃ͦͮ̓͝ͅ.̞ͨ͗ͩ ̯̀͢Y̶͉̻̰̥͙͓̺͊ͮ̏o͚̪̳̦͖̺̚u̥͕̲̼͋͊̏̑ͯ̔̊ ̣̦̙̪ͬ̀ͧ͆m͍̟͓ͨͥ͋̽̽͗͆u̧ͨͣͥs̸͐ͬ̓͐̊t̪̥͇̟̮̀͊ ̪͒̉ͣͣẇ̷̻̈ͫ̽́a̷̬̭ͮk̲ͮ͂ě̞͚͚̘͖̤ͨ̋̒̍͋͡ ̬͓̝̆ͫ͂͆ͭu͉͚̒̇͐p̆̊̍̏͗̂҉̬͕͎̬̝̜.̜̣̱͈̘̫̌͂

Their grasp closes around her, ankles and wrists, elbows and throat, drawing her ever down...

Yͩͧ̂ͨͤ͌ͭo̯͔͕͕͛ͮ͝ͅṵ̸̥̭̬͚̙̮ͦ̍ ̩͇̑͢m͇̜͉̱̠̗̺̈͞u͍͉͓̖̮͋̆͛̿̃̈ş͚̰̯̰͙̺̋̀͋t̴̖͙͔͖̠̺̼͊̏͐͐̂̀̚ ̤̾̈̂̍̓̾͢w̧͈͍̺̑̿̑̅ͧ̓ǎͭͮ̑k͔̭̟͍̫̙̂̾ͮ͑̊e̤͚̘̤͖ͬͤ͌͆ u͖͔̟̖͙̣̇͗ͨ̽̒̊ͅp̨͇͚͕̼̣͓͍̐ͮ̊̉!̙̲̠̖̪ͅ

Mentions: @abyss-stares-back @derelict-noctis

The room is still mostly dark, as she’d left it; two large, heavily-laden wooden crates stand open near the door, one filled to brimming with an assortment of ancient books, each delicately wrapped in leather and secured with a tied-off strip, the other filled with shards and scraps of brilliant, multi-colored metal shrapnel and pieces of plate armor long-since destroyed, remnants of what was left of the star-metal plate she had donned so long ago. Her plate armor lay beside her in a neat pile, sword and shield lain gently atop the breast plate, just within arm’s reach.

Against the base of the small stage she lay, fast asleep, curled up upon a soft down mattress she kept in her redesigned apartment, now a tiny music studio filled with all the trappings of performance preparation. Exhaustion claimed her in the small hours of the morning as the toll to pay for refusing sleep for so long, in her worrying over what’s to come. Her breathing is slow, regular, but occasionally fitful as the night-terrors wrack her exhausted mind in waves like the banks of a river, a steady ebb and flow of black marys behind closed eyes. Around her, the room is perfumed with the sounds of whispers, pleading with her to wake. She does not.

“She looks sort of peaceful, doesn’t she?” a small voice asks the room, though her audience is limited. Her well-cobbled silk shoes tap delicately against polished wooden floors, a trail of black dust and heavy mist following in her wake. Her hands are clasped behind her back as she sways side to side with her every forward step, the black of doll-dead eyes leaking out slowly, bleeding into her sclera until all is occluded in sable.

Just behind her, a snuffle of assent can be heard just faintly, the labored, abnormal breathing of the herculean horror the same as that of a bloodhound picking up the scent of its prey. On all fours it follows, great, bulbous and jagged knuckles pressed forward as it walks in some Lovecraftian take on the gait of the offspring of a canine and a primate. The heavy, amaranthine fog that rolls in behind them leaving the bouquet of lilacs and burning ozone.

Slowly the girl plucks the ring from the middle finger of her left hand, her fingers flexing idly as she steps nearer the sleeping woman. From her hair she pulls a lilac ribbon, sliding the ring down its length to the center and tying it off at the back in a makeshift necklace. The fog around her fills the room, the poison slowly seeping into the wood, tarnishing it with black, creeping rot. “Hold her down, Fluffy,” the girl instructs.

It’s not a command, but a statement of fact that this will indeed happen, and without a thought the beast complies, lifting one massive, cracked-clawed hand and slamming it down upon the young, sleeping woman with brutal force.

CRACK!

The wood beneath the mattress splinters beneath the force, her rib-cage straining and fracturing under titanic stress, a gasp of air all she can manage before the rest of it is driven sharply out of her lungs. “N-!” she manages, but the second “hand” comes down and presses to her mouth to silence her.

Enambris’ eyes are wide, wild, as she stares between the two. Into the pit of her stomach crawls a tiny worm of dread, and there it blossoms into near-panic. She bucks and twists in a sudden and furious attempt to free herself from the beast’s clutches, to claw her way free of those talons. Eyes snap up, flitting around the room, looking for something, anything she can use.

And there, she spots it: her sword is nearby.

The smile on the girl’s face spreads wide, lips pulled back to show off a twisted, gleeful grin. “Don’t kill her yet, Fluffy,” she coos softly. “She’ll get us into the halls, into the Labyrinth,” she sings. “She’ll take us home first.”

There against the wooden floor they grapple, bits of wood splintering off and scattering like shrapnel into the air. She reaches, but it’s two inches too far for the tips of her fingers to reach the banded and intricately-inlaid metal. Need more room she thinks desperately, clawing, scratching, kicking and shoving. Her blows leave indentation upon the beast’s body, cracking hardened bones and splitting bulbous muscles. Her arm snakes between its paw and her throat, giving her just enough room to rip its grip free and, turning over, scramble to get to her feet--

Galaxy spiral irises fill with fire, as the slip of ribbon finds itself wound around her throat. Against her neck presses a ring, a simple metal band of softly-weeping whispers, faces floating to its surface and vanishing again in an endless ocean of cold, liquid steel. Sparks dance to life on the surface of her skin, ripping up her arms in synaptic patterns. The fire fills her. It fills her eyes, her lungs, her veins. Her lips part to issue forth a soundless scream, trapped in her lungs and drowning in molten light.

“Ssshhh,” the girl says with a baleful grin. “I would tell you there's nothing to worry about, little Sunspot,” she purrs, brushing a lock of hair from the maiden’s face, “...But I’d be lying.”

#ffxiv rp #plot happenings #impecunious days #going under #enambris rosen'ash #the shoat of the mire #derelict noctis #i promise it's short-term #don't yell at me

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ramajmedia · 5 years ago

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Who Is The Best Pennywise: Tim Curry Or Bill Skarsgard?

Who was the better Pennywise in IT: Tim Curry or Bill Skarsgard? Stephen King's novel IT was first published in 1986, concerning a group of childhood friends known as "The Losers Club", who are terrorized by a supernatural force that takes the shape of a clown named Pennywise in order to prey on the unsuspecting population of Derry, Maine. After defeating the murderous clown as children, the return of Pennywise a few decades later leads The Loser's Club reunite as adults to destroy the otherworldly monster once and for all in IT Chapter Two.

As was the case at the time for most adaptation's of King's literary works, the novel was first brought to life as a two-part television miniseries in 1990, with Curry giving an iconic portrayal of the villainous clown. For 2017's IT, Bill Skarsgard would tackle the role of Pennywise in Andy Muschietti's big screen adaptation of the novel, along with reprising the role for the sequel. Both the miniseries and the theatrical films would also divide the story into two separate chapters, with the first devoted to The Loser's Club as children, and the second depicting the group returning to Derry as adults for a final showdown with Pennywise.

Related: Why IT Waits 27 Years Between Attacks

In the years since each actor stepped into the role of the carnivorous clown, both Curry and Skarsgard's respective performances as Pennywise are fondly remembered as highlights from the career of each. However, both would also take a very different approach to portraying the character and truly make the role his own in both adaptations of King's novel - but which one is better?

In his performance as Pennywise, Tim Curry was a cackling, flamboyant cartoon, which by itself is hardly a detour from a typical Curry performance, but it was those very qualities that made him ideally suited for the role. Curry's Pennywise injects as much levity into the film as he does terror, and he could legitimately be mistaken for a genuine clown by the denizens of Derry, which is exactly what makes Curry's performance work.

His first scene in which he lures the young Georgie into a sewer is every parent's worst nightmare, a true "Don't candy from strangers" moment, so much so that the film even directly addresses it, with Georgie commenting that he's not supposed to talk to strangers. Pennywise, in turn, commends the wisdom of the parental advice Georgie's been given, before introducing himself by name, thus circumventing Georgie's concerns on the grounds that "Now we know each other". Pennywise then proceeds to lure Georgie to his demise with his toy boat as bait, but its his ability to gain the trust of children and present himself as a friendly, affable clown that is his true deadliest weapon against those he preys upon. What's more, the design of Curry's Pennywise has a predatory edge on that of Skarsgard's, with the latter much more tailor made to frighten children (and adults), while Curry resembles the innocuous look of a clown seen at any carnival.

Elsewhere in the film, Curry is more haunting and antagonistic towards The Loser's Club, particularly once they encounter him again as adults. However, he still maintains his blend of dark humor and circus antics in a clear bid to drive them insane. This is particularly exemplified in the scene in the Derry library, with the adult Richie being the only person able to see or hear Pennywise and being left unnerved and panicked as the evil clown cracks jokes and blood-filled balloons pop all around him. By this point, Pennywise is a pure force of terror on The Loser's Club, but the film hasn't lost sight of his ability to lure his prey into his clutches either, as we see when he corners Bill's wife, Audra, with his "deadlights" and turns the group's old bully Henry Bowers into his own personal assassin against his returning enemies.

Scenes of Ben suddenly discovering he's kissing Pennywise rather than Beverly or of the clown aggressively asking "Don't you want it?" repeatedly after offering Audra a balloon work as well as they do because we've seen his skill at penetrating the defenses of anyone he targets, either by telepathic ability or offering them a bit of forbidden fruit. With his performance as Pennywise, Curry is able to embody everything a child would expect from a clown, while interweaving it with a subversive sense of humor and skill at pushing the right buttons to keep every member of The Loser's Club petrified and unprepared for when he finally chooses to pounce. The Pennywise portrayed by Tim Curry knew how to lay a trap for the children he hunts and lure them into his waiting claws, the hallmarks of what makes a killer clown scary.

Related: What Happened To Bill In The IT Book

There's no better word to describe Bill Skarsgard's Pennywise than monstrous. His clown look more resembles something one would expect to see in a Marilyn Manson music video than a pie-tossing, unicycle-riding clown, as Curry's Pennywise so convincingly embodied. However, it also works in Skarsgard's favor due to the how much it leaves the audience genuinely dreading what he's going to do to the unsuspecting children. His voice and body language make him that much more terrifying, with the latter carrying an especially nightmarish anti-rhythm to it.

Skarsgard's Pennywise also makes virtually no attempt to hide his own viciousness, something we see right away in the new film's version of his meeting with Georgie. While the plot device of Georgie's reluctance to talk to strangers is still present, Skarsgard's Pennywise can barely contain his obvious bloodlust, and the manner in which he offers Georgie his toy boat back is almost Faustian in his transparently wicked intent. The scene is also far more graphic in its depiction of Georgie's demise, owing to its wide theatrical release and R-rating, but it's the clear delight that Skarsgard's Pennywise takes in preying on his young victim without ever masking his evil intentions that makes the opening of IT possibly the most tragic scene in any Stephen King movie.

Pennywise continues to terrorize The Loser's Club throughout the film, and only grows more chilling with every encounter. If anything, there's much more of an arrogance to Skarsgard's portrayal of Pennywise, with how little effort he has to put into frightening his young enemies and how minimal a threat he perceives from them. Skarsgard has such command over his character's menacing qualities that his sinister grin would become of staple of the film's marketing campaign. Indeed, it's a facet of the character that Skarsgard has so perfected that it's often the only thing his Pennywise resorts to in order to send shivers down the collective spine of The Loser's Club and that of the audience.

Skarsgard's aforementioned body language as Pennywise is also disturbingly abnormal and erratic, something that he fully exploits in his battle with The Loser's Club in a dilapidated house and later in the final showdown in the sewers of Derry. The circus dance Pennywise does before a captive Beverly has inspired countless memes and YouTube parodies, but its undeniably unsettling in its subverting of such a seemingly innocent concept, the very goal of Pennywise himself as he terrorizes and hunts the children of Derry.

Related: What Happened To Richie In The IT Book

Both Curry and Skarsgard portray Pennywise splendidly, and each actor's interpretation of the character is uniquely his own. However, Skarsgard is ultimately the more horrifying movie monster of the two. Curry's Pennywise fits the profile of what a child would expect to see in a clown and has an advantage in being more adept at blinding children to his malevolence, as we see in his first scene with Georgie. Curry's performance is also far more outright comedic, albeit darkly so, with his Pennywise cracking one-liners and frequently engaging in a genuine circus act, while frightening his victims, in an all-around wacky performance not too far removed from Dr. Frankenfurter in The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

On the other hand, Skarsgard's turn as Pennywise is the embodiment of pure evil right from the start, more resembling Satan himself than a circus performer in his very first scene with Georgie. While Skarsgard's makeup is the more explicitly frightening look, and thus less easily equipped to mask his predatory intentions, that ends up being irrelevant due to his very straightforward methods of instilling unspeakable terror in the hearts of The Loser's Club. Skarsgard's voice and body movements are also more unsettling, with the latter especially having the disturbing dance-like feel, while Skarsgard's devilish smirk in the role would sear itself into the memories of moviegoers around the world.

The distinction between Curry and Skarsgard's respective performances as Pennywise is akin to the difference between how Lance Henriksen had been conceived for the title role in The Terminator and the mountainous killing machine Arnold Schwarzenegger would ultimately embody. One flies under the radar to ensnare his victims in the shadows, while the other jettisons with all stealth and goes straight for the kill. While neither actor's approach to Pennywise is lacking, it's ultimately Skarsgard who most effectively keeps the audience in a constant state of dread, after convincing viewers from his very first scene of just how sadistic a monster he really is. The respective performances of both Tim Curry and Bill Skarsgard as the murderous, supernatural clown Pennywise are among the personal best of each actor's filmography, but it's ultimately Skarsgard who floats a little higher.

Next: Every Returning Character In IT Chapter Two

source https://screenrant.com/it-movie-pennywise-best-tim-curry-bill-skarsgard/

#screenrant

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dungeonsandberries · 5 years ago

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Session 10: Seeking Shelter from the Storm

With Tidesoria behind them, the party travels north and encounters strange things in the wilderness...

We decided to head north, through Xueki. To aid us on our journey, we purchased a few horses and a wagon for us to ride. They wouldn’t make things much faster, but they would make the trip much more comfortable. And it was, truly, considerably more comfortable than what we had just left behind. I never thought that I would be glad to be out in the wilderness and away from the comforts of civilization, but after the stressful few days in Tidesoria, being alone with my friends again was a welcome return.

While on the road, I finally got around to asking Felfedau about her status with the head priest, if he was her adopted father or not. She confirmed that he was, and that he had adopted her when she was sick as a child and nursed her back to health. I asked for more information, and she said that she knows that she once had a mother, father and sister, but remembers nothing of them, though she suspects that the red glow in her dreams may have something to do with what happened to them.

Before I could contemplate that eerie statement further, the very earth beneath our feet came to life and attacked. Multiple creatures made of pure rock and dirt waylaid our caravan. Thankfully, we had Maeiva with us, and her dwarven ancestry’s affinity for smashing stone was put to good use here, as she hacked them apart while the rest of us fought to protect our horses.

Right as we defeated them, the ground beneath our feet gave way, and we landed in a pit. It was some kind of buried magical forge, and the rock creatures were already in the process of being remade within it.

With a bit of investigation, we were able to discern that it was a part of Aniland in ages past, and that a dwarven explorer had gotten trapped in here while looking for relics from that bygone kingdom. He had activated the forge, hoping that the earth creatures it creates would help him escape, but instead they simply began to attack anyone traveling by.

The land was clearly a more dangerous place than I had anticipated. I once again found myself wondering if I should ever have left the safety of my master’s care. I pushed those thoughts from my mind again, as I did every time they crept back.

Marv and Maevia worked together, and were able to destroy the rock monsters for good, while empowering Maevia’s equipment in the process, instilling her armor and weapon with the power of earth. I felt more secure already, knowing that she had grown even stronger after this chance encounter, and she would be using its gifts to protect us.

We climbed our way out of the pit and continued on our journey. It was another blissfully uneventful few days, until a terrible storm pulled in overhead, just as we were passing by a small fishing village. It had seemed at the time to be a welcome refuge from the storm, and a pleasant place to stay after sleeping out in the wilderness. If only we had known what horrors that village held.

The villagers welcomed us inside, despite the weapons we carried. They even took care of our horses and provided us with food and drink, and an elderly woman offered us a place to stay. For a brief time, I felt more certain of my belief that the rich were unworthy of their wealth, and that the commonfolk deserved better lives than their lords would provide them. I should have heeded Felfedau’s suspicions that something was amiss.

We woke up in the middle of the night as the villagers thought us easy pickings. They had spiked our food with some kind of poison, but we had proven hardier than they were expecting. I felt a fury begin to well up inside me as these people who I had come to trust were simply faking it in order to rob us.

As we began to fight them, it became obvious that something was wrong. The villagers fought with no concern for their own safety. Even the elderly attacked us. We were forced to cut them down, as the experience began to try on my sanity. Cutting through commoners armed with rakes, as a storm lashed at us. I suspect I will never forget this night for as long as I live, and yet there were still more nightmares to come.

In the midst of the battle, one of the villagers transformed into a large frog monster of some kind. We cut it down quickly enough, but the creeping dread came over us as we realized that the more sick among us had been infected with whatever had transformed that man into a frog. As we cut down the last of the villagers, I quickly used my magic to try to excise whatever it was they had put in our food. I forced three of my friends to vomit out the embryos of those monsters.

I was so shaken that I used the magic on myself out of paranoia, and I felt immense relief wash over me as I realized I was not infected. My draconic constitution had managed to fight off whatever it was. But that relief turned to rage, as I wanted to know who had brought this darkness onto this town, and make them pay.

We found one survivor, who looked annoyingly calm despite being cornered. He admitted that all of this was the work of someone named Lord Kajwok. Whatever this Kajwok was, it had taken over the town by offering to cure their lord of a sickness, but had simply decided to kill him instead and take over in his place. They had also been using travelers like us as incubators for his offspring.

I wanted this man to suffer. He seemed devoted to the monster who had caused this. Maevia had the same idea, and tossed him into the sea amid the storm, despite Felfedau’s protests. She thought it cruel. I thought it too merciful.

We proceeded down into Lord Kajwok’s lair, where the frog beast presented itself, full of bluster. It attacked us with legions of its young, as mounds of human bodies lay behind it. But clearly a fury to avenge this town had overcome us, as we fought against the monster with every ounce of our fury.

I cloaked Veilour in my magic, enabling him to attack at their weak points and be safe, as Marv melted the young frog monsters with his own magic. The mighty Lord Kajwok fell before us with a swiftness that surprised even me. I should have been satisfied, but instead I felt a dread rise up inside me, as with Kajwok’s last words, he admitted that he had once been a servant to Aurmilx, the same entity the cult served.

What other horrors serve Aurmilx?

#d&d #d&d 5e #dnd #DnD 5e #Dungeons and Dragons #homebrew #homebrew campaign #Norma #norma campaign #norma setting #ttrpg #session 10 #Session recap

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rnbannick19-blog · 8 years ago

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Video Games and Society- Rian Bannick

In the book, To Kill a Mockingbird, by Harper Lee, we see the journey of a young child learning about the real world, escaping their childhood premonitions and seeing the injustices of race and how certain groups are put down in society just because of that group treatment in the past. The game industry started off with basic arcade games that required payment for each game played, and largely targeted children and adolescents, as they're young minds would hopefully not realize that these games were meant to be impossibly difficult as to extract the most profit. So the seeds had been planted for this new type of media; a trap for children to lose their allowances accomplishing nothing and most likely begging their parents for more quarters so they can finally put that feeling of “I was so close that time!” to rest. This frightening many parents into a scare that their children were being made into addictive adults with no sense of willpower. However, this was just the beginning. With the massive success of arcade games, larger industries and experimental methods started to pop up. The first home consoles were appearing in the stores with their games, and their pixel graphics and iconic soundtracks. Games like Super Mario Bros in 1985 introduced many players to the idea of local multiplayer. A space where teamwork would be the only ideal way forward, teaching the new generation of players how to work together with your peers effectively. This is something that our American Schooling system has always stressed to students, as it's implications in the adult world are paramount. However, as early game companies like Electronic Arts and Nintendo began to move into the digital era, their staff began to include people who grew up with Super Mario and M.U.L.E., and the industry itself had shifted from strictly a children's pastime, to a new form of media for all to enjoy, similar to film, music, and literature.

The problem we see today is the same fear from the industry’s beginnings as roguelike adventures and endless games of increasingly difficult levels, where people fear Rockstar’s Grand Theft Auto V turns harmless teens into chaotic criminals. For many, these are sensationalized ads meant to grab the attention of gullible parents, because news companies need profits to stay afloat. Also, only a small number of studies have actually been done on the topic, and their results haven’t concluded that games cause reduced empathy or violent behavior. In fact, a study done at Brock University dove into this back in 2012, finding that the games subject played correlated with their behavior, but that this behavior existed before the gaming ever took place. In other words, people with violent tendencies may be attracted to darker, more violent video games, but just because a normal person plays a violent game, they won't be indoctrinated into being more violent, or committing acts of crime.

Other arguments have been made about games harming eyesight, desensitizing players to horrific acts, and being dangerously addicting. However, Sara Winters, an adult living Ocular Albinism, experienced an increase in her eyesight of 200% over two years, going from 200/20 vision, to 100/20 vision after being exposed to the games Breakout and Pokémon Red for her Game Boy during her youth. As an adult, she helps educate visually impaired children, using similar games that encourage reading and coordination to help her students get better in a way that comes naturally; having fun. Also, some groups make the statement that games desensitize players to the terrible things that occur on-screen. Such as horror games and violent action shooters depicting gore and grisly crimes. Though, this is the same case with violent movies, horror books, and even the news, which constantly depicts crimes and tragedies to increase ratings, so why should games take the blame, and be forced to censor themselves, when horrific imagery in H.P. Lovecraft has gone uncensored for years. Additionally, people have said that games are addicting, using Skinner-Box mechanics to reel in players to a never-ending loop of play that takes over their lives, getting them kicked out of college, ruining relationships, and tormenting the player an activity they don't really enjoy, but can't stop sinking their life into. Many people can admit to this, even very popular YouTubers like James Portnow of Extra Credits and Austin Hourigan from ShoddyCast, but they tell a different story. The games didn't cause the problem, there was already a problem, that games were just an outlet for. As Austin put it: “...it’s not just the games themselves causing the compulsion, but rather they're just a symptom of something lacking in someone's life. Either autonomy, a sense of purpose, or, maybe, like in my case, a state of mental illness.” Thus, it's not that games are somehow evil, or addictive, or worse than any other form of media. Sure there are bad developers and shovelware, but this true with all expressive mediums, and games shouldn't be treated any differently just because their troubled beginnings.

Games can also be a force for good, not just a source of entertainment. Undertale by Toby Fox is an outstanding example. Where most developers would make a colorful, eighty-hour RPG in an underground, fantasy setting, with the common features we've come to expect; grinding in a zone to level up, beating all the bosses, and defeating some grand villain, Undertale told a very different story. In Undertale, by all means, you could still do all those things, but the game questioned the morals of that fact in a way that most triple A game industries haven't done for their entire existence. You could go the way of most games, slaughtering everything in your path until the fateful end, when you've reached the highest level, with the best gear, when it's time to fight to final boss, and you realize, you're the bad guy. In order to avoid this however, you have to painstakingly persevere through frustration and show mercy to the opponents and monsters that mean you harm, showing that, doing the right thing isn't always easy. Other games like Battlefield 1 show a great deal of respect towards veterans, giving players a singleplayer campaign that isn't solely supposed to be entertaining, but also, especially in cutscenes and the opening minutes of gameplay, show the futility of war, and the struggles real soldiers face, so that, just for a brief moment, you come close to perhaps understanding the dread of being in the trenches waiting to die, or coming home to world that just wants to weep for you, and pity you as you are haunted by the scars of your past. Games also can instill empathy in players, as games tackle darker elements of the human experience that other media simply can not. This War of Mine does this by showcasing some awful choices during your gameplay. For example, while out scavenging for supplies you desperately need, you hear a young woman who is about to be raped. You could rush in there to save her, but the criminal is well armed, and you don't have a weapon. You'd be putting you and the people who are counting on you to bring back water and medicine in danger by doing this, but you might save this woman. Or you could ensure that the family you've made makes it another day in this harsh world, but you'll have to live with the knowledge that you left this poor woman without even trying to save her. This gives players a new understanding of the tragically difficult choices people in underdeveloped and war-torn nations have to face on a daily basis. Giving players a new appreciation for their own lives, and empathy for others that have to make these impossible choices. It just wouldn't be the same watching that choice unfold in a theatre, or reading it in a book as it would be to actually be forced to make it yourself.

Games are still young; they only really began to catch speed forty years ago, and only in the last fifteen or so have they really began establishing themselves as a true form of media in which people of all walks of life can play and be affected by. Just because games have a history of exploiting children out of their parents money so they can make a profit doesn't mean that the new companies and developers on the scene shouldn’t be able make something amazing and atmospheric for all people to immersed into. Books depict a new world for us to reconstruct in our minds, films show us that world in ways we couldn't conceive, and games give us the chance to interact with that world in a very real way. It is foolish to say that video game companies shouldn't be allowed to continue making games that tackle serious topics solely on the basis that some desperate news stations said they're dangerous, or because of their somewhat questionable history, especially when they can teach us ideas and emotions we've never known.

Despite all of this, however, games are still being censored on the claim that they’re too mature for young audiences, but games aren’t just childspay anymore. When games are mature and dark, telling a sophisticated, tragic, or hopeful tales of normal people who, by the player’s own willpower and inner strength to keep going despite the difficulty of this particular boss, or whatever the game tends to feature, sure young people will try it, simply because that’s what kids do, they break the rules, play games with M ratings, and watch R rated movies; it isn’t Spec Ops: The Line’s Fault that your child that your child wasn’t ready to experience the gritty, self-loathing terror that came with playing it. Games can show us what it means to literally “climb into [someone else’s] skin and walk around in it" (Lee 87), and feel what our movie and book protagonists feel. We make their tough choices, overcome their insurmountable challenges, and understand that, in the seemingly hopeless last moments of their world, that just maybe we can save everyone we’ve come to love by giving ourselves up, with no care of our own survival, only the saving of this world. Games can allow us to stand with our heroes, be them, feel the fear of death, the curiosity of the unexplored, the blood-pumping stress of a ticking clock, the joy of camaraderie, the pain of loss, and the tragedy of sacrifice and that is truly a beautiful thing.

#video games #society #censorship

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