#my fpc obsession is showing through oops--

[tunastime]

12? 👀

wrow hi guys! sorry it took me so long to get back to these again, I had some more free time open up between doing d&d campaign things and submitting applications! let's see what we have

MWAH. another FPC classic LOL. surprised this did not make my top 5 tbh. this song was half the reason I built a d&d character the way I did, but also worked pretty well for my new mcrp character Haunt! they're a hero of the wilds origin knight who is mostly a sentient suit of armor. at least. that's what they say if pressed >:3 featuring also a character of a friend of mine!! haunt and xylem get pretty close in the events proceeding the server, so take a little bit of exposition about them and haunt's past! (851 words)

“Have you ever been scared?”

Haunt smears sealing wax onto the recently fixed drape of chainmail over their knee. It jingles tunelessly against their leg, metal against metal greave as they pause for a moment, gloved hands stained, slightly glossy in the sun. 

“Of course, I’m scared constantly,” they hum flatly. From in front of them, a few feet away, Xylem snorts. He tips his head back in that signature way that implies, more than anything else, that the sardonic response Haunt’s just threw at him as a knee-jerk reaction isn’t really the answer he was looking for. He frowns a little at them, the soft features of his face pinching in a way Haunt has learned to read. It’s a serious question. Haunt didn’t lie—their answer was as serious as the question. Something else, though, hangs slightly with the rest of his question, like a scale balancing.

Terrified? Scared to death? Scared of death? Haunt, have you ever been really, really scared?

Haunt takes in a breath. Sometimes they forget they need to be doing that.

“One time,” they start, hands returning to the familiar chainmail. “At least one time.”

They don’t need to look up to know that Xylem is pinning them with a look that ushers them to go on.

Like stepping into a dream, the pure-white sand of the colosseum spread out before them, below them, as they looked out of their room and into the empty pit below, like a mouth, the rows of empty seats like teeth, like a beast. The colosseum was a beast Haunt alone had learned to tame—or, not tame, per se, but cohabitate with, cosign wins and losses alongside. The seats would be full today, and every voice would ring out their gifted name—the man with no face, no name, nothing to lose.

Haunt. The Ghost of the Colosseum Floor.

Their boots made dull prints in the sand as they stepped into a blinding array of lights, fading to slats inside their helmet as they shut the visor, obscuring the colorful arrangement. The world dulled only slightly as they made their way toward the center of the ring. It was a usual pattern, for a usual fight, for a usual day, and Haunt felt something familiar, and confident, and proud weasel up in their chest as bits of cloth and petals scattered at their feet, as their name reverberated through the crowd in waves. They turned slowly in the sand, the weight of the world resting at the crest of their shoulders, stretching and twisting as they pulled their sword, Requiem, free of its scabbard. The sound of metal rang out across the empty field. They dragged their gauntlet-clad palm over the blade’s fine edge, and the enchantments across the silver-black metal shimmered in time with their own armor—two, pointed, dog like ears curving back from their temples and the sharp, imposing visor over chestplate, pauldrons, deep red cape. A knight, glittering in the sun, soaking praise.

If Haunt had not caught the flicker of movement, they would have been swallowed alive in that moment. 

They turned. Their eyes widened as if it would do anything to help understand the shape that scrambled toward them, snarling and angry and teeth as large as their forearm, twice as wide. The breath they tried to take caught hard in their throat as they scrambled forward, boots hitting packed sand and dust as they pushed themselves. The creature made no move to stop. Its feet raised clouds of dust as Haunt gasped for breath, trying for useless cover in an empty field. Their heart beat frantic against the base of their throat. What a horrible, painful respawn this would be. Blood on the colosseum floor. First kill, and it was them. 

But not today.

They slammed their heel into the ground. The jolt nearly cracked their ankle as they whipped around on their own axis, Requiem still heavy in their hand. In one, jerking, shaking motion, they swung the blade back behind their head, and straight up. The beast slammed into them full force.

As their blade caught buckling resistance, it parted flesh, and blood, and bone, as they were shoved backwards, nearly crashing to the ground, knee buckling as it hit the earth. Haunt skidded several feet as their blade caught the creature’s pelvis and refused to give further. It sunk against the blade with no movement, its guts spooling like yarn. Gore splattered their armor as they yanked free of the massive shape and hit the ground, scrambling back, seeing stars.

Haunt wasn’t sure if they could vomit, but maybe in that moment, whatever crawled up their throat was almost bile. They tried to blink back the vignette of their vision as they stood, shoving Requiem into the nearly-solid earth below them to stand. As they did, they removed the blade, drew their hand across the side to pull gore from its surface. Flicked off the blood. The crowd roared. They spun the sword in their palm, blood still dripping from their helm.

The prickle against the back of their neck told them this wasn’t over.

Not yet.