thesyndicatesghost

[thesyndicatesghost]

Broken

The world goes still.

Ink is hunched over the enchanting table, softly cursing the damned book to give it depth strider, when it feels the change.

Back snapping straight, it waits with bated breath. The stillness could be a fluke, a moment of temptation before the world righted itself and continued as normal. It doesn’t though, the stillness going for a minute, then two, then three. By the tenth minute, Ink decides to see for itself. Holding out its hand, it takes a deep breath and focuses intently, an ethereal black shackle slowly materializing around its wrist, with two chains dangling from it. The chains, a mix of black and white metal, fade off into the floor, but Ink can tell where they lead, or more accurately to who they lead.

Ink’s gaze flicks to the first chain, as strong as the first day it had been made. There’s no chink or crack from beginning to end, and when it tugs there is no give.

Mordid.

The other chain is cracked, chipping away in front of Ink’s eyes as the metal weakens, groaning with the threat of snapping when it’s pulled sharply.

Average.

Ink can’t help but huff in amusement, pleased to see its estimation had been correct. Average, the reckless ‘prince’, was currently meddling in Mizu business, on the verge of breaking his Deal with Mordid. It had to give some credit, it supposed. Average had managed to uphold his end of the Deal for much longer than Ink had been willing to bet on him. Nearly a month, much better than a week. Another crack races up the chain, Ink’s gaze following it intently as it smiled, body practically vibrating. Absently it wonders what’s going on, whether this is something serious or of insignificant. It doesn’t matter, but curiosity nicks the back of its mind.

It's gaze flicks to Mordid’s again.

Well, it hopes it isn’t too serious.

Still, there’s time for Average to salvage this. The universe must be feeling kind for the disillusioned prince if it’s allowed the Bond to be broken this much yet remain intact. Or…

Ink holds the chain to the light, lips curling in disgust as it sees faint lines of pulsing crimson as they try desperately to keep the metal together. Looks like someone was trying to intervene. For a moment it considers trying to push it away, to exert what power its gathered to purge the Entity (and really, how rude, how fucking arrogant to try to intervene), but instead lets out a huff of dark amusement as it leans against the enchanting table. Fine. Let it try to hold this weak chain together, see how far it can go before it crumbles.

It’s almost embarrassing how quickly the chain breaks after that thought, Ink letting out a startled laugh as it shatters into black and white glass, speckles of red glinting in the light.

Pathetic.

Grinning it holds out its hand, the shards breaking down into light as they zip into Ink’s open palm, skin tingling where they touch. Humming to itself, it grabs the whole chain and yanks, releasing Mordid instantly as it races back to wrap around its hand. Fingers curling tightly over the gathered energy, Ink closes its eyes and breathes deeply as it absorbs it, body shuddering at the rush of power. A kept deal would be better, it knows, it knows, a steady source to pull from in times of strife, but oh it has missed this.

Opening its eyes, it sends a wicked grin in the direction of the Badlands. It wonders if the Entity can feel the smugness radiating from it, even with the circle of soulfire around Esempi. What an unfortunate loss. “Good luck Average,” it said with zero sincerity, a manic gleam in its eyes as it considered all the possible outcomes, “you’re going to need it.”

The world shifts.

[thesyndicatesghost]

There’s no threat, no fear, it started as most things did in Inferna: it would be funny.

Ink can’t remember what was so funny about putting iron shackles on it, but it’s not laughing.

It can barely breathe.

It pulls, but the chain between the cuffs doesn’t give. It pulls again. Nothing. It pulls again.

There’s people and conversation around it, but it’s all faded out, muffled under the buzzing at the back of its head. A knot is wound in the center of its chest, growing tighter. The edges of its vision are hazy, focused solely on the unyielding, sickeningly familiar metal.

It’s not the same.

It’s shackles, the ones it wore in its Realm, were covered in intricate designs, carved by its own hand and flowing with magic. They were a comfortable weight, the chains dangling from them breaking and forming at a single thought. Ink had worn shackles but they were Its, and could only be as restricting as much as it allowed.

These iron shackles don’t answer to it. They won’t bend or break no matter how many times Ink pulls. It strains, trying to pull on a power it no longer has, hands shaking as metal digs into flesh.

There’s a sudden pitch in the conversation - a laugh, a shout, another voice, it can’t tell - and Ink hates it. “Would one of you,” its throat aches with a shout it can’t hear, “get these things off me?!” It gives a harsh yank for emphasis, the metal biting into the first layer. Black liquid bubbles up under the shackle, staining white sleeves and dripping on the ground.

It pulls again.

Someone is near, but Ink doesn’t react to them until a pair of hands slide into view. It jerks but doesn’t pull away, watching as the hands curl carefully around its own before bringing a key forward. With a ‘click’ the shackles fall away, landing with a clatter on the ground.

The knot begins to unwind, the buzzing slowly fizzling out as its vision begins to clear. There is no relief. Instead it’s swept under with exhaustion, shoulders caving as if a weight has been removed. It takes a shaky breath, “thank you.”

[thesyndicatesghost]

Sorrow

“Hm.” Gloved fingers prod at the dirt in the clay pot, careful not to disturb the Wither Rose too badly. Taking a pinch of the soil, Ink rubbed it between their fingers. It was dry, gritty, crumbling easily under pressure. “Yeesh, you drink fast for a little thing. Soils dry after only ten minutes. Maybe we should use you for ocean draining.” Wiping off her hand, she pulled a book closer to her, careful not to disturb her own notes. Tapping her pencil against the desk, she leaned her cheek against her hand. “It makes sense, you drain the water out of whatever you touch, and anybody who comes in contact with you -”

The glowstone embedded in the large mirror nearby pulsed, the pieces of magma blocks beginning to bubble as they glowed a smoldering orange. Ink hummed as it watched, head tilting as it listened to the mirror vibrate with energy. “I wonder who that could be,” it drawled, before leaning closer to the rose to whisper, “I bet I know who it is.” Leaning back, Ink stretched its arms and then a little further for good measure before making its way to the mirror.

The gold, carefully carved into the top and bottom of the frame, had already begun to change. A deep blue bursting from the center, a drop of water casting a tidal wave that completely consumed the gold within seconds. The mirror itself shook, settling down as the glowstone and magma returned to their original brightness. To anybody else, it looked like the mirror had become smudged, it’s clear surface dark enough to barely make out an image. Ink smiled.

“Sorrow, it’s good to see - hey! Don’t cry that hard!” Ink shifted from foot to foot as condensation began to gather quickly on the mirror. A laugh escaped it, equal parts amused and distressed. “I know you miss me, but if your Flood breaks through it’ll drown out Esempi!” Ink paused, arms crossing as it stared contemplatively at the tiny rivers starting to trail from the mirror.

“Although.”

Esempi being consumed in a giant bubble of water would be pretty interesting. Ah, but then Nocturne and it couldn’t live here...but hadn’t it read something about a device that allowed one to breathe underwater? So it could work. But then everybody would get depressed, and Ink didn’t want this game to end so soon after just getting here. Plus, trying to dry out the place would be a pain and it wasn’t fond of water in this form.

It’d keep the idea for next time.

“Hey, come on, pull it back a bit, it’s gonna be hard to talk if I’m underwater,” Ink said, voice light. It waited patiently, lightly rolling back and forth on its heels. “There ya go.”

...

It waved dismissively. “Nah, don’t worry about it, it’s just a bit of water, shouldn’t be too hard to clean up. So!” It threw its arms out to the sides before twirling around a couple times. Coming to a stop, it grinned proudly at the mirror. “What do you think of the new look? Made it myself!”

...

“Cute!? This isn’t - I’m not cute, Sorrow!” Ink placed its hands on its hips. It’s eye twitched, lips twisting into a scowl as it crossed its arms. “Honestly what about this form is ‘cute?’ Creepy, weird, maybe handsome but cute?”

...

It threw up its hands in exasperation. “What does me being younger have to do with it?! You’re not even that much older than me!”

...

“By five seconds!”

...

Ink groaned, burying its face in its hands. “Ugh, forget it, I’m changing the topic. How’s Stabby? Still reforming?”

...

Ink snorted, already able to hear the shouting in the future. “It’s gonna be so mad.”

...

“Yeah, but it’s so fun to rile up,” Ink said, shrugging helplessly with a mischievous smile. “Besides, maybe this way they’ll try to stay alive for more than a week to beat my time! I’m motivating them!”

...

“I can motivate and flex, Sorrow. I’m very good at multi-tasking.”

...

“Hm?” Ink tilted its head in thought, surprised by the topic change, “Esempi? It’s the faction I joined. Pretty quiet place, just me and another member, but the castle’s nice and we got a magic quarters. I’ve been spending a lot of time there recently, so I might as well be the court mage.” Ink rubbed it’s chin for a moment, staring thoughtfully at the cieling before shrugging. “Eh. It’s just us here, we get to make the rules. Yeah, I’m the court mage.”

...

“When is Teeny not mad?” Ink rolled its eyes with a scoff, before shooting the mirror a smirk. “Besides, you know that’s part of what makes this fun. If I wanted approval, I wouldn’t be here at all.”

...

“Because joining a faction sounded interesting, and Esempi offered a good challenge with only one person. It’s really not anymore complicated than that.”

...

“Actually things are pretty peaceful right now. A lot less fighting than I was expecting, feel like I missed most of the action. But...” Ink trailed off, staring into the distance. It was faint still, but stronger than the first day Ink had arrived. Just a bit, but that was enough. “Say, do you know any demons associated with red flowers? Like the ones from the Crimson Forests?”

...

“Just curious. Don’t tell me if you do find any info though.”

...

Ink smiled, far too wide to be natural for its face. “Because that spoils the surprise! Now,” Ink clapped its hands loudly. “Enough about me, let’s talk about you! How many lost fish swam into your net today?”

...

“I’ll stop the fish jokes if you stop referring to me as cute.”

…

“Well then I guess we’re both going to have to suffer. Oh!” Ink leaned closer to the mirror, shifting around to get a better angle. It grimaced. “Another young one. You might have to change locations at this rate, that town does not have a good environment.”

…

Ink settled back, arms crossing as it nodded along. “Yeah, yeah, can’t really make a good meal out of something that tiny. Gonna turn it into a Lure?”

…

“Good idea. Ya know, I have been traveling around, I may know a town or two you could move to.”

[thesyndicatesghost]

Cat Nap

Five times Nocturne found Ink sleeping wherever they please, and one time Ink finds Nocturne

1.       

The sun is just beginning to set when Nocturne lands at the entrance of the castle, shaking his wings out to rid them of dirt and grime from mining. “Ugh,” he gave another hard shake, dusting his clothes off and stomping his feet. Not that it did much, he could still feel the bits of rock between his feathers, but he didn’t want to go tracking dirt through the castle again. He wasn’t used to having someone else here, much less working on the interior, and had made a mess of the carpet last time. Ink had brushed it off with a laugh, but Nocturne had still felt guilty.

Leaving his shoes at the front, he made his way inside. “Ink?” he called, peering curiously up at the new light fixtures before looking around.

Ink was easy to find. A splotch of black on the golden throne, stretched out longways with her limbs tossed carelessly over the arm rests, head tilted so far back it was a wonder her head hadn’t snapped off. Nocturne quietly made his way over, wings shifting nervously as watched Ink snore away. Hesitantly he grabbed her shoulder, giving a gentle shake. “Ink? Hey-”

Ink’s head jerked up, “Whuh – ” looking around in confusion until his large, black eyes locked with red ones. “Oh, hey Nocturne,” he yawned, but made no move to get up, shifting instead further down into the seat. “What’s up, need anything?”

“No, no, just checking in,” Nocturne said, spine aching just looking at the awkward position, “uh, are you okay?”

Ink blinked. “Yeah? Why?”

“Isn’t that uncomfortable?” Nocturne asked, motioning towards Ink. “Wouldn’t you rather sleep in your bed.”

“Yeah, but it’s too far away,” Ink said with a little whine. Nocturne looked to the right, where a black bed sat not far from the throne, perfectly made and waiting to be used. “And I don’t have bones, so it’s fine.”

“…Well, if you’re comfortable!” Nocturne said, trying not to worry too much if Ink wasn’t.

Ink was staring downwards, tilting his head a little with a confused expression. “Where are your shoes? Did you fall in lava again?” he asked.

“No!” Nocturne said quickly, huffing when Ink continued to stare skeptically. “I didn’t want to track dirt in the castle again, so I left them at the door.”

Ink hummed, shifting to fold his arms behind his head. “…I did manage to get some magma cream a while ago, I can make you some fire res potions later.”

“Well, thank you, but I really do still have my shoes.”

“Hey, you don’t have to prove anything to me, I really don’t care if you did.”

“But I didn’t!”

2.       

“Hmmmm.” Fingers skimming the backs of the book, Nocturne pursed his lips as he read the titles. Where was he supposed to even start? His hand paused over a book with a red cover, gold lettering on the spine. “Eret: The First King of Esempi?” Pulling it from the shelf, Nocturne turned it over and over, looking from it to the small pile of history books he’d collected. Compared to the others Eret was much thinner. “You’d think for the first king, you’d have several books here.” Opening to the first page revealed a picture of someone dressed in royal garb with a golden crown, curly brown hair falling over black glasses. “Eret, artist – ”

Nocturne screamed when a hand touched the top of his head, throwing the book as he tried to jump back. Slamming into the bookshelf behind, wings aching, his hand flew down to his sword –

Ink, stretched out on top of the bookshelf, howled with laughter, face buried into the crook of her arm as she trembled. She stopped briefly, gasping for breath, only to look down at Nocturne and burst into another spiel. “Your face!”

Nocturne sputtered, feeling heat rush to his cheeks as he let go of the sword. “Ink! What are you doing up there?”

“W-well I was sleeping – ”

“You have a bed!” Nocturne threw his hand in the direction of the front of the library. “We have couches here!”

Ink cackled, leaning over with a wide grin. “Y-yeah but – ” they cut themself off with a screech as they tipped too far and rolled off the top. Nocturne yelped, just barely managing to catch them, almost falling himself before managing to find his balance. Ink stared up at him in surprise, but immediately grinned. “Hey, nice save!”

Nocturne sighed, carefully letting them down. “You’re welcome, please be careful.”

3.       

“Ink, do you have any – ” Nocturne paused when he saw the Brewing room empty. Weird, he could have sworn Ink was up here. Maybe she’d gone somewhere else when he wasn’t looking? Shrugging his shoulders, Nocturne pulled himself the rest of the way up and began to search through the chests. They had a pretty good supply of potions now, and Ink tended to keep them stocked well on fire and strength potions. Something he was becoming very grateful for the less he had to deal with lava. Why did the nether have to be so –

A snore interrupted his thoughts.

Sighing, Nocturne crouched down to find Ink sleeping under the desk, curled up into a ball so tightly it was a blessing she didn’t have to worry about snapping her spine. Shaking his head with a soft chuckle, he straightened up and quietly continued the search for fire resistance potions. With no luck. Frowning, he stole another glance below, wondering if he should just wake Ink up. But he looked so peaceful, he must be exhausted if decided to sleep here rather than head upstairs. It couldn’t be that hard to make a fire resistance potion anyway, Nocturne was sure he remembered the recipe.

…

“So,” Ink held the concoction up to the light, watching the thick purple glob slowly slide from one side to the other. “Fire resistance.”

“Yeah,” Nocturne said, rubbing the back of his neck as his wings shifted. Ink popped the top off and cautiously waved the odor towards her, face twisting as she recoiled from the stench. What he wouldn’t give to fly away right now. “It, uh, didn’t – whoa!” He grabbed Ink’s arm as they began to raise the bottle to their lips. “What are you doing?!”

Ink blinked, tilting his head. “Testing.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Nocturne asked, keeping an iron grip on Ink. “We don’t know what that’ll do.”

Ink shrugged, giving his arm a little shake to try to get Nocturne off. “Yeah, which is why I’m testing it,” he said, huffing when his attempts proved fruitless, “for all we know it could be something good, or it could do nothing. And if it does have any negative side effects, we’ll just go see Mordid, I’m sure they’d like some business. Or we’ll give Lichen a call, they have some odd magic vibes.”

Didn’t Mordid work mostly with enchantments though? And who was Lichen? Nocturne looked between Ink and the bottle, torn between trying to stop this likely terrible decision or avoid an argument. An indecision that Ink took quick advantage of, swapping the potion to his other hand and chugging it. “Ink!” Nocturne’s face twisted as he watched the purple liquid disappear, trying not to gag. Lowering the empty bottle, Ink stared at the wall with a blank expression, completely still. “Ink?” Nocturne asked, squeezing her arm when there was no response.

“…We should visit Mordid.”

4.       

Nocturne hissed, shielding his eyes as he stepped out of the portal into the harsh light of day.  How long had he been in the nether? Stretching his wings, he let out a sigh of relief as the warm sun washed over his feathers, a stark contrast from the suffocating heat. At least it had been a good trip this time, with plenty of gold and quartz, even a couple ancient debris. Keeping his wings out, Nocturne went to the newly made chest he’d placed down a while ago to dump the more useless materials. He wasn’t sure if they really needed the basalt or blackstone, much less netherrack, but at the same time it was always possible they could need them in the future. Better to have it now instead of worrying about it later.

Nocturne opened the supposed to be empty chest, staring blankly down at Ink snoring away inside. They groaned softly, curling up more as the light shined down on them but didn’t wake up. Looking between his bag and Ink, Nocturne wondered if he could get away with putting the items inside. Without bones, he almost bet Ink wouldn’t notice, they’d probably be more comfortable with a rock blanket.

Sighing, he quietly closed the lid and made his way to the crafting table, pulling some wood planks from his inventory.

5.       

Nocturne, perched on top of a basalt pillar, wings stretched out for balance, clasped his hands and brought them to lips as if to say a prayer. Actually, he was debating if he needed to have an intervention, staring down into the one-by-one hole that went at least ten blocks down. Ink was curled up at the bottom, asleep.

“Ink!” Nocturne shouted finally, rubbing his sweaty face as Ink snapped awake with a yelp.

Staring up at him, the white face was a stark contrast against the gray pillar, black eyes blinking rapidly. “Nocturne!” she called back, making absolutely no move to get up.

“Why? Why the nether?”

“…we both know my answer.”

“The portal is literally right here!”

“Yeah, but I fell down here.”

Nocturne buried his face in his hands with a strained laugh, “oh my god.”

1.       

Ink let out a low hum as it crouched down in front of Nocturne, curiously studying the others sleeping face. “And you say I sleep in weird places,” it said, glancing over its shoulder down the newly constructed strip mine. Nocturne’s response was a low murmur as he curled more into the wall, pickaxe clutched in his hands. It frowned, carefully prying the tool away before leaning it against the wall. Humming, it rested it’s chin on its knees, mulling over whether it should wake Nocturne up or let him continue sleeping. Ink wasn’t strong enough to carry anybody anywhere, much less up a bunch of stairs, across a bridge, and then up more stairs.

It didn’t like the idea of leaving Nocturne down here though, even if the tunnels had been lit up well along the way. Which meant there was only one option. Grinning devilishly, it took a deep breath and shouted “Nocturne!” then immediately “Fuck!” as a foot connected with its chin.

Nocturne jolted up, limbs flailing as he tried to gather himself. Heart pounding, he stared at Ink nursing her chin, face scrunched up in pain. “Oh! Are you, shit, are you okay?” Nocturne asked, hurriedly pushing himself from the wall towards Ink, hand’s hovering in the air.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay, fuck,” Ink said, waving the concern off with a grimace as she continued to massage the area. She began to laugh, smiling easily through the pain. “Good thing I took your pickaxe, you might of took my eye out.”

“Yeah,” Nocturne said softly, stomach rolling at the thought of hurting Ink even worse. “I” he started, but stopped as Ink got to their feet, dusting their pants off before offering Nocturne a hand. Hesitantly he took it, unable to help but stare at Ink’s chin. The paper white skin was turning gray and seemed almost like it was dented inwards, just a little. “I’m sorry.”

“Eh, don’t stress over it, I’ve had worse,” Ink said, waving off the apology as it began to cackle. “I was stabbed in an alley once, that was pretty intense.” Turning on its heel, it motioned for Nocturne to follow. “I can tell you about it on the way back up.”

“Back up?” Nocturne echoed in confusion, but still followed quickly after hooking his pickaxe to his belt.

“Well, I figure since you’re so fond of beds you’d rather sleep in one.”

“…You’re not going to let me forget this are you?”

Ink didn’t answer, giving a toothy smile.

[thesyndicatesghost]

Inky

(For the Inferna SMP)

Name: Inky, Ink

Species: a living drawing, supernatural in nature

Age: six months but definitely older, prefers to be seen as an adult

Pronouns: it, any

Appearance: it may appear at first that Inky is wearing a white mask with large black eyes and a playful smile, attached to a tight black cloth that covers the rest of their head and neck. Until the eyes blink and the mouth moves. It is very much just their face.

They wear a black vest, with white trim, over a white shirt with black cuff links, a red rose is placed in their breast pocket. Black dress pants and shoes. The attire seems to be physically attached to Ink, though they are noted to be able to change clothes.

Personality: Ink is a generally happy character looking to get the most out of life. Whether that be in peace or chaos is irrelevant so long as she gets to have fun, and thus is just as willing to join in the events as she is to sit back and watch. To them everything is just one, long game and, win or lose, they’re more than happy to play.

Nothing really scares Ink. Loss of items, injury, death? All of it is met with a laugh and a quip. They’re more likely to be annoyed if the event that led to their ‘misfortune’ isn’t interesting. The only time she expresses strong, negative emotions is when her freedom is threatened. Inky holds freedom, particularly personal freedom, very highly and anybody who tries to take that from her is to be taken care of.

History: Inky describes themself as a “successful failure,” the result of humans trying to bring drawings to life. Although he refuses to elaborate on much else, often changing the tale and the fate of his creator each time. For the past six months Ink has wandered wherever his feet take him, and has recently found his way to Inferna. With so many people and factions scrambling around for land, there’s bound to be some excitement.

WARNING:

“Let’s make a deal.”

While Inky appears to be as normal as an Inky can be, making deals with this entity is unwise. Whatever agreement is decided upon MUST be completed by both parties, otherwise misfortune, equivalent to the severity of the deal, will befall one or both members.

[thesyndicatesghost]

Spirit doesn’t need anything.

It’s a simple, unavoidable, obvious fact that comes with death.

She can’t breathe anymore, her heart and lungs still, and any breath is just a stubborn habit. She doesn’t feel hunger, what food she did eat settles uncomfortably on her tongue as ash, smoke, overwhelm her tastebuds. Thirst has never plagued her, despite how scratchy her throat feels sometimes. She grows tired but she doesn’t need a room with a bed when she can slip back into the Beyond to rest. She doesn’t have a home

It’s far away, destroyed, burned like

To place her things, and then what could a ghost need with objects? She had no reason to hold onto anything except for the brief rush when her targets mourned the loss of a favored item. And then time, accursed time, would pass and they would have moved on. Or died. Making the items worthless, scrap collecting dust within her Space. Time especially had lost all meaning, blurring together until she couldn’t be bothered to keep track. It all came back to the very simple fact she was dead, and that too meant she had no need for fear. A sword through her gut was nothing but an annoyance now, and even if she was banished by a strong adventurer she always came back.

She always came back.

So that was it. Spirit was dead, and being dead meant she no longer had needs. And that was fine, naturally it was fine, she had accepted that. She was a ghost, a poor reflection of some girl from a time long ago, and she had no reason to want anything.

...

Except.

If Spirit didn’t have needs, why was she staring intently at a book? She’d been wandering through the library, debating on if she should prank Caro again, when it had caught her attention. She’d seen the type of book before in other places, wandered past it with barely a glimpse in the past. Except now something snares around her chest, tight and almost painful in a way she doesn’t understand, holding her in place. Spirit doesn’t need the book. It’s completely worthless to her.

Except there’s a faint memory fighting through the haze. Of hands - hers? Another’s? - carefully forming dough balls, the smell of chocolate chip cookies. It’s small, barely enough to be considered worthwhile, but she hasn’t thought about, about,

She doesn’t understand why she’s remembering it now, carefully pulling the cookbook out. She stares blankly down at the cover.

Somebody clears their throat.

Spirit flinches in surprise, turning to see Caro staring at her, Glaukopis on one shoulder and thermos in hand. Neither of them speak for a moment, Spirit’s thoughts too scrambled to even consider communicating. Caro is looking her up and down critically, as if searching for something, before a small smile hesitantly appears. “Did you need something Spirit?”

[thesyndicatesghost]

Awaken

The warmth of the Beyond trembles, gentle but insistent, urging her to wake. Slipping back into the mortal plane with a groan of discontent, she took a moment within the ruins to gather herself. The sun is just rising, the sky smeared with shades of red, orange, and yellow, as if a hand had dragged itself through the colors. They drip onto the ruins, painting them with blood and fire, the old embers reigniting along the blackened buildings. The air is clean though, the flowers that had managed to grow among the decay filling the air with sweetness. She listens to her name through the Beyond, whispered to children to scare them into following rules, travelers on the road scoffing to hide their unease as they peer into the forests. Researchers don’t cling desperately to their charms as they pour through ancient texts. It had been a long time since her last venture into the mortal realm, but it was not by her will that she’d awaken. Something was travelling through the World and the Beyond, leaving them trembling with a whisper of -

With a growl she turns her sight far, to the beautiful city of the damned. The Beyond writhes there, pulsing, as ghosts tear their way through the streets. Wronged, lost, in pain and furious, demanding justice from a city where the blood soaked scales are fixed eternally against the weak. It still screams now, but it is the same constant, low buzz, not the source of what had awakened her.

No, there is something rippling gently through the World. It is small and barely noticeable under the rest of the noise, but it carries farther, slowly wearing down the sharp edges. Focusing, she follows the ripples to the center of the pond, farther and farther, until she finds herself in a desolate snowy biome. Of course. She groans, loud and agitated as her energy wanes, legs curling up tightly as she levitated a little higher above the ground. The cursed flakes that land on her hiss, small wisps of smoke rising. She was sorely tempted to slip back into the Beyond.

The Beyond laughs, pressing back, and with a huff she continues until she reaches the center.

A stronghold, hidden within a mountain, and within the ripples become waves. Small but slowly growing, something that could sweep over the whole SMP if left alone. It carried a desire for change, but this felt...different? Curious she began to press forward, only to freeze, slowly turning to look down.

A grass block, freshly watered, sat in the snow, uncovered, not far from her. To the normal person, while unsettling, it is a normal block. To her the World and Beyond arch, blending together in a cacophony of silent noise around the block, stretching out into the realms, through the cracks in the universe itself.

Hey, you. You’re finally awake.

MCPE. She approaches the block with a small smile, humming in appreciation when the snow melts away around it and stops falling. Warmth radiates from MCPE, despite how soaked the block is. Slowly descending she sighs happily and curls her black-smudged toes in the dry grass. The weather remains unchanged, creating a curtain of snowflakes around them.

Rude, shouldn’t you introduce yourself first?

But MCPE already knows her name.

Still, it would be polite, there is a pause, it is a lovely name.

Thank you. She crouches down next to the block. What is this place?

You know.

She huffs at the mocking tone, but doesn’t disagree. The Beyond whispers in her ear about the Syndicate, and carries the stories that have quietly spread through the populace. Seekers of knowledge, attempting to correct the false histories. Artists and writers with immeasurable talent, always growing. The lost, looking for a place to belong when there was nowhere else. On cue another waves splashes into the pool, gently washing over her. She laughs, a quiet, shaky sound she hasn’t made in so long without the intention to harm. They’re going to be loud.

They already are. There are a thousand layers of exasperation and fondness. Are you going to join?

She hums thoughtfully, standing up and straightening out her cloak.

You’re going to have to talk to people.

She recoils, lips curling at the thought of talking. The mere idea sounded exhausting, form rippling as she considered going back to sleep.

Don’t be a baby. I’m sure they’ll be happy to have you. They’re all terrible.

She scowls as MCPE leaves, allowing the cold back into the area, snow quickly covering the ground. Taking a slow breath, she studies the wall for a moment, listening to the Beyonds urging as waves pass over her. Then, carefully, she slips through the walls, undetected by the guards, into the Syndicate.

“PINK! GIVE ME BACK THAT KNIFE!”

“NO!”

A teenager with pinkish skin barrels past cackling, a knife clutched tightly in one hand. Not far behind, a tall man with a fox tail chases, face twisted into a scowl. He sounds like he’s cursing someone’s name, a Spooce, but it blurs together with his shouts after Pink.

They’re gone in an instant.

She stares after them, before turning her gaze upwards where an eye nestled in the ceiling watches. It isn’t acting as a guard, gaze following the wandering members with curiosity. It blinks out of existence.

Voices catch her attention, drawing her to another room with a long table, blue lanterns adorning the walls. There are people here, discussing something she can’t discern with how quickly they speak. The Beyond directs her to one in particular, a woman with long brown hair and amethyst eyes, a golden feather glinting in the blue light. She stands at the head of the table, lost in the discussion as her hands fly in time with her words. Aelyn, the Beyond whispers, the name carrying more weight than a mortals.

Head tilting, she turns her attention towards a pile of notes near Aelyn. Humming to herself, she pushes the words to the edge of the page, plucking out the needed letters before discarding the scraps

mAy I jOIn the syNdiCATe

She hesitated, before adding:

- SpiRit

[thesyndicatesghost]

Name: ????

Alias: Spirit (most responsive to), Shadow, The Wandering Curse, The Singing Heart (a very old title)

Pronouns: she/her (most responsive to), it, they/them

Age: ???

Appearance: if you were to ask the public, you would find several descriptions for Spirit. Each different yet similar, sometimes mangled together by the terrified people. She is the creaking floorboards, the whisper of the wind, the chill in the air. She is the shadow lingering just around the corner, gone in an instant when you gather the courage to look. They whisper about the black tendrils that writhe from her form. Long gnarled limbs like dead tree branches. A mouth, mouths, full of too many teeth stained with death. Her chest is open, exposing a beating heart nestled between her ribs that thrums to an unknown song.

To the Syndicate, she appears human, maybe a little under five feet. Clad in an old black cloak that falls to her knees, with long sleeves and a hood that falls directly over her eyes. Logic would dictate she should be unable to see, but does a Spirit need eyes? Keeping her cloak tied is a red heart. While her cloak is always closed, she wears a singed beige dress underneath (it stops a little above the cloak). She is barefoot, feet smudged black, same with her hands. Black hair is just barely visible from under her hood.

Purpose: At the moment, Protecting the Syndicate. Long term, Spirit wishes to snuff out misinformation, intentional or not

Personality:

Spirit is...lenient when it comes to the Syndicate. She has a strong soft spot for the organization and it’s members, allowing them to get away with far more than an outsider. She meets them with small smiles and soft hums, and mischievous smirks for the ones that flee. Whatever their opinion of her, she is loyal to them alone. It would be wise not to test that limit.

Until that day, Spirit finds herself wandering through the halls of the Syndicate, always just out of sight. Members find favorite foods or drinks nearby, soft clapping for art and writing, the faintest laughter at whatever chaos is unfolding. The most common sign of her presence is the humming, as soothing as it is disconcerting. As much as Spirit may assist, she has her own mischievous streak. Stealing small items to return at inconvenient times, altering books so the pages are out of order, knocking items from tables. Spirit greatly enjoys toying with the members.

For whatever kindness and playfulness she may show the Syndicate, Spirit feels nothing for the world outside. Her patience is short, her temper quick to ignite. She is unreasonable, hunting down false histories and those that willfully spread lies. While violence is never her first move, she feels no remorse or regrets for the lives she’s dragged into the Beyond

Abilities:

general ghost powers (levitation, invisibility, intangibility)

Telekinesis - easier to use on objects than people

Create Hallucinations/Illusions

Pocket dimension (used for small items such as pens, silverware, books etc.)

Noise cancellation

Freezing temperatures

Reality Bending

Weaknesses:

Finite energy - Spirit will eventually grow tired the more she uses her abilities, especially when she pushes past her limit. If so, she will be forced to disappear and rest for an undetermined amount of time

Water/snow - burns and weakens Spirit, snow is more manageable but still hurts

Charms and Wards - can be used to keep Spirit out of areas and weaken her influence

One at a time - Spirit mostly focuses on one person when attacking (ex. Creates an illusion only one person can see), targeting more than one is taxing on her. Same with rooms, Spirit can affect a singular room but trying to affect an entire building is dangerous

????

????

Lore:

Legends of Spirit go far back, hundreds and hundreds of years, a wandering shadow that is most commonly spotted at historical sights of the SMP such as the crater of The Place That Should Not Be Named. While her activity fluctuates, disappearing for months to years only to appear and then disappear again, her nature does not. Drawn to history, Spirit is commonly found in places where it is spread easiest, such as libraries or schools. These are not her only haunts, as many adventures whisper in the presumed safety of taverns of her lurking in the shadows, listening. Most commonly she is known for mischief, defacing historical texts and playing pranks on whoever crosses her. She places signs to mock them, steals items and moves furniture to frustrating places. Travelers tell tales of the cries of children coming from the woods, only for it to turn to laughter after they’ve lost sight of the trail. She follows them, humming an indiscernible song, the shadows jumping to spur their frantic escape.

However, the Curse is anything but harmless. Places that try to cast her out have found their homes invaded, creaking under the weight of an univited guest. Those that challenge her hear her whispering in their ear before she drags them down. Shadows watch intensely from the corners, and don’t disappear when the light is turned on them. Humming, in tune with a beating heart that echoes in your bones, marks her steady approach as the air chills. Not even those lonely travelers are spared, disappearing from main roads to be found days later with no pulse.

The most common tale is that of Geoffrey Muller, a famous writer who found his retelling of the Butcher Army’s attempt to bring the Blood God to justice (Justice Paved in Blood) completely destroyed in several locations. Schools, libraries, even civilian homes hadn’t been spared. Furious, he sought every option to destroy the Curse, spewing profanities between breaths as he wasted all the money he could spare for a solution. All of this was carried to her from the Beyond, and her heart thrummed with bloodlust in response. She found him easily, and slowly tore apart his wards until she could slip through the cracks. Not long later he was found dead, curled up in his garden with dirt caked under his nails as he must have dragged himself from the house. Justice Paved in Blood, the pages neatly removed, was placed next to him.

It has been quite sometime since her last appearance, enough that she has become an old tale used to scare children, but now she is awake. There is something about this Age that hisses promises to her, the World itself rippling with change. She follows the ripples to the center, to a familiar snowy biome, to the hidden base of the Syndicate. Within the walls she watches them from a distance, humming along with the World, as they meander to and from rooms. Writers, artists, debaters, historians, there is an openness here that she hasn’t felt in so very long. A desire to know and understand, to correct false histories and face truths that hold no clear answer. To foster a community, offering a home to the restless and wandering. Yes, The Beyond whispers, this could be something special, and if this Syndicate will have her.

She is theirs, until the pool stills and the World is silent.

Notes:

Spirit has weak communication skills and responds mainly through humming, other non-verbal noises, or action. Can use signs and write, but is limited. Can talk but usually in short sentences, anything longer will eventually tire her out

Spirit has a connection to the Beyond (what she and I call the afterlife) that grants her infinite knowledge. However, she is unable to convey this properly, whether it be because she cannot fully grasp the information or because it is impossible to tell in exact words, is unknown.

Spirit does not bleed.

[thesyndicatesghost]

There’s something, somebody, there at the edge of your vision but when you turn to look you find nothing. It’s already drifted away, following the wind to a different destination, a different village, a wandering group, a lonely traveler. It lingers wherever it goes, listening in on twisted stories with a chilling silence, waiting with vain hope for something that alludes the general populace. Those that have the misfortune of unknowingly encountering this spirit find their homes defaced with signs of mockery, small items of unimportance going missing, furniture is rearranged and placed in strange areas. I would say it means no harm but that would be a lie. A warning for those that are particularly vicious with their recounting: when the temperature drops severely, when the shadow lingers a little too long and a lot too close, when something whispers uncomprehendingly in your ear, when ghostly hands become solid and latch onto you with a grip stronger than netherite. It would be best to hold your tongue for more fitting company. 

 And yet, as it appears in the Syndicates walls it is calm. At peace. It hums softly to itself and the others, drifting gently just out of sight as it watched the activities unfolding. It nudges favorite foods and drinks next to members, it huffs softly at those that that refuse sleep until the ungodly hours of morning. Signs appear randomly in rooms and halls, teasing the members. When discussions and debates are had, there is a faint murmuring underneath it all as the spirit listens attentively. Yes, the spirit is content here among people who seek to correct a false history, to understand and learn complicated truths that hold no easy answer. If it is welcomed into the Syndicate, it is more than happy to stay And for those unwelcomed, they will find the air freezing and the shadows drifting closer 

Closer 

 Closer