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 Posted: Mon Aug 12, 2013 6:28 pm
[ task 1 ] It was a simple thing to return to the shrine now that he had new shiny weapons to defend himself with. Ortam had been feeling better than he had before after all those fights, and he had a good feeling about the task this time. He approached the Goddess of Paranoia carefully, keeping his head bowed as he was so lowly in comparison. He was not worthy of a gift, not even of the empty bag he was given—but a chance to aid? He could not ignore that.
Ortam wanted to fix, to help. It seemed to dull the edges of his longing just a little bit.
A heart in a chest and scissors. It sounded simple enough. Perhaps less pesky than those fragments, he thought with an optimistic smile as he turned and ducked into the narrow hallway. If someone didn’t need their heart, it ought to be a snap.
The area seemed to thud gently around him, though he kept his feet steady as he approached three odd little doors. Huh! Look at the smile on that one . . . The other two were clearly radiating odd, negative energy, but that wasn’t the sort of heart he wanted to bring back. Ortam wanted to bring back something that would make the goddess happy.
 It had such a funny little smile. Wasn’t that what Annabell said would lead to victory?
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Posted: Mon Aug 12, 2013 6:50 pm
The hallway was dark, but as he predicted there was no fear of the unknown here. The lanky shadow instead found himself beginning to drift inwardly. The smell of pumpkin spice and fresh dirt, things he did not know he knew the names of, wafted to him, so vivid in his imagination he almost could literally believe they existed. And as he smiled, he realized that they, in fact, did.
The door shut softly behind him.
Grass crunched under his feet as he moved forward, his eyes lit up by all the pumpkins lit by—by fire? By fire! He knew the word but had not imagined something so small and beautiful could lead him along, and childish delight swelled within him tempered by the serenity of the atmosphere here. Ortam’s steps were light and barely felt as he followed the path, watching as green grass and orange pumpkins gave way to even brighter flowers. Something stuck out in all the color, however: something gray.
He was not troubled at first when he knelt down to read the tombstone. HERE LIES MORTICIA GRUESDALE. There were a bundle of fresh yellow flowers there. And there was a soft sound down below.
Thump-thump.
Ah! That must be what he was looking for. Thank you, miss~
Ortam hummed tunelessly as he dug the scissors into the ground, shoveling the dirt between his instrument and his bare hand. He could not help but feel like something else would be more appropriate . . . But he liked getting a little dirty. It gave him color. He wanted to stay in the fields longer than he needed to because it felt nice here. And if he could bring others, wouldn’t that be grand . . .
But the deeper he dug, the stronger the tug of longing in his heart seemed to get. The heart pulsated yellow beneath him, small and frail. He reached out to touch it—
And it had been so cold and peaceful, the Still Earth packed with only an insect here and there, sometimes scavengers or a bird. Quiet. Embracing. And yet something had dug him out, something was shedding light upon him that felt odd and bright. And the earth was taken from him as he was scooped up.
He was lifeless, yes, but not without a little sentience. He had been aware of soft sounds from the thing holding him, words that held meaning and power he did not understand. And then a spark shot through him, a heat that had made him cry out unexpectedly in a disused, rusty voice.
“Did that hurt him?”
“Of course not, ma’am. I was just rebooting his systems so ta speak.”
He felt himself being offered up to something—someone. Warmer arms came around her, and he felt the figure shiver and softly coo. “My, he’s cold . . . Is there anything else, then?”
“Nawp if y’finished the paperwork. Check in with Darcy at the door so he can inspect the lad.”
“Thank you.”
And it was so warm, so very different from the Still Earth . . . And yet the very same. An embracing, unconditional gathering around him, keeping him close and held. Better than the Still Earth, because even then, even when he was learning how to open his eyes as she moved with swaying, smooth steps, he knew that this one could offer him something the land could not: love.
“You’re a tall one already,” she hummed. “Maybe you’ll want to get taller than me, huh?” She made a rich sound he did not know the name of, but it made him feel warmer too. The walk was short but seemed stretched to him even further, until the light was blocked by a cool interior.
“Is that him?” someone asked. “Bring him over, I need to get his measurements. Name?”
“Morticia Gruesdale.”
“I know your name, miss, you’ve been here enough. I meant his.”
“Oh!” She made the warm noise again, softer this time. “Mortimer. I’ve decided on Mortimer.”
His little fists held death grips to her clothes.
And the little heart beat slower and slower in his hands until, almost sighing, it stopped.
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Posted: Mon Aug 12, 2013 7:08 pm
When Ortam stood, heart now placed gently in the bag, he realized the field had disappeared somewhere between picking up and putting the heart within. The colors were there, but they were running together like water—rising like water.
He began to move.
Slosh. Slosh.
The memory warmed him, despite the coldness of the liquid. And he stood taller than most, so he was not worried at first about drowning . . . But the level kept rising and rising, and just when he thought he might have to take a breath, something rasped.
“Please give it back.”
He stopped, the warmth in his heart fading. The water rose as he looked around, trying to find a sign of something: of what spoke, of the door, of something—
“Please give me back my—”
He thought he saw something and stumbled.
At first Ortam thought the water had been sucking him in, though he came to find out something far darker had him in its grips. A curvy, gray figure with sagging skin and hollowed eyes and teeth bared as it bore down on him.
He had gone treasure hunting again with the piggles, trying to find the truffles Mama so liked. It . . . hadn’t gone so well, since a shock fox had distracted him, and these looked so cool! Well, it had been cool up until he found a den on accident. Then it got a little . . .shocking rather fast.
Mort had forgotten the truffles then, his body jerking at odd intervals from the occasional leftover energy zapping him. Oh Jack, his hair was ruffled and puffed out, he could see the marks the bites had left, and on top of that he had torn a hole in his shorts Mama had just given him . . . She was gonna be so mad, and he hated seeing her cross about him. His cousins told him how she had always wanted a reaper scareling, so if he messed up too much she might give him back . . .
Wincing, he made his way back out of the forest, his hands behind his back as he shuffled into the house. “M-M-Mama?”
“Mortie? Oh dear sweet Sally!”
Morticia gathered him into her arms and immediately garnered a little shock. Her eyes wide at him, she scrutinized his clothes and came to a quick assumption: “You were out in the forest again, weren’t you? Oh Jack, Mortie, your hair . . . ! What were you doing?”
“I-I-I want-ted t’g-get you . . . t-t-to get . . .” His words kept failing him. It was like—
—his throat was sealed shut by how hard she was holding him down.
“I told you countless times not to go in there on your own! Oh, darling . . .” She set him on the counter and got a wipe to begin cleaning the dirt off, casting him a questioning look at his hairdo. “You’re not allowed to leave this house, understand? I’ve got a whole list of chores for you, and you’re been ignoring them. I’m stressed as it is, pumpkin, and I can’t watch you like I should be.”
The disapproval hit him harder than any pain the minipets had inflicted. Fearful, Mort pulled his hands out from behind his back to revealed a crumpled flower.” I-I g-g-got this f-f-or you,” he mumbled apologetically. And Morticia paused, sighed, and ruffled his hair, because she couldn’t stay mad at how earnest he always was with his efforts.
“A boil after my heart.” The reaper smiled gently and took the almost destroyed flower carefully as she could. “Thank you, Mortie, it smells freshly dead!”
“J-Just how y’like?”
“Mmhmm.” And she pressed a kiss to his forehead. “I love you, dear, even if you make me so flustered sometimes.”
“Give me back my heart.”
Why? Ortam thought wildly as he struggled. It belongs to me too, doesn’t it? He wished he could give her his to make it even, but . . . But Mama, you left. You loved me and you left, why . . . ?
The lingering sadness made him struggle all the more, the hollow eyes that stared back at him offering no solace.
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Posted: Mon Aug 12, 2013 7:12 pm
The scissors had been more of an accident than anything else. A flailing limb that struck too hard, because he wanted to live, he wanted to exist more than he wanted to love her—love a memory.
The scream was like betrayal all over again.
His Heart lurched with unnamed emotion, and he trembled and shook and coughed as the water left him, the pressure at his neck gone. The bag was still with him as was the heart (still glowing a soft yellow). Mission complete?
And et with two memories he still felt incomplete. They were candles lighting up just how dark the room really was.
Fiddling for his scissors, Ortam saw the light of the door once more and strode forward. A movement made him turn his head; and he wished he hadn’t.
His mother, his first one, the one who had brought him to Halloween in the first place, who had cherished the fact that his body was older than his mind, glared icy daggers at her son. And the scissors gleamed wickedly in her bony grasp.
Ortam couldn’t leave the place fast enough.
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Posted: Wed Aug 14, 2013 6:31 pm
[ task 2 ] Eat or be eaten? Sounded simple enough, though frankly Ortam didn't want to have either happen. Couldn't they co-exist harmoniously . . .?
Then a dagger got put into his hand.
Guess not.
Well, fears were intangible, and he was at least a little solid--so that meant he'd win, right? he walked into the task rather naively, but he had optimism on his side at least . . .
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Posted: Wed Aug 14, 2013 6:34 pm
Hello, room. Who turned up the light and turned down the thermostat?
Ortam squinted as he came to, sitting up with a wince; he felt rather stiff on the cold metal table, though . . . Come to think of it, how did he get here? Must be part of the task, then. Ignoring the ominously whitewashed surroundings' vibe of eerie portents, he ambled along the long hallway patiently, spying the exit up ahead.
Thud. Screech. Thud. Screech.
He . . .probably should get a move on, then. One look, two looks, and then three--Oh dear. It seemed he was being followed by a woman who did not look pleased to see him
Yeah, let's move.
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medigel rolled 1 4-sided dice:
2
Total: 2 (1-4)
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Posted: Wed Aug 14, 2013 6:35 pm
Okay, so running, running, runninggggggg. Why was he being chased at all? Was this the fear he was told to face? So much for that. The hallway was too narrow as it was, he told himself, that's why he was running. Not because he was a coward.
There was a slip of paper with suspicious red markings on it, though its message of A C E G did little to help him at the moment.
[ distance: 35 ft ]
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medigel rolled 1 4-sided dice:
1
Total: 1 (1-4)
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Posted: Wed Aug 14, 2013 6:38 pm
Okay, thinkthinkthinkthink, Ortam. Maybe if you just punched in a few random numbers, you'd get it eventually--
Thud. Screech.
"Want some pumpkin juice, pumpkin~?"
"Y-Yes, p-p-please!" It had been a long day outside, and while it was always autumn in Halloween, it didn't mean it couldn't get hot. He could always count on Mama to provide.
"Want ssssssome?" the figure hissed, setting his nerves off.
[ distance: 30 ft ]
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medigel rolled 1 4-sided dice:
4
Total: 4 (1-4)
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Posted: Wed Aug 14, 2013 6:40 pm
In his wide and wild search, Ortam managed to spy another piece of paper that gave him the key to the first page. Interesting! He would be praising its simplicity later, quickly keying in 0, 2, 4, 5 onto the pad.
The door swung open and he could not get through fast enough.
[ distance: 25 ft ]
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medigel rolled 1 4-sided dice:
4
Total: 4 (1-4)
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Posted: Wed Aug 14, 2013 6:42 pm
His momentum carried him forward. It was amazing he didn't simply trip over himself, but the adrenaline and will to survive mixed were powerful things to have going on. He barely breathed as he all but parted the forest in his haste to put distance between him. And yet always Ortam could hear the figure clear as if she were right behind him:
"Mortie, dear, all I want is your heart. Don't I get payback for what you did to me?"
He didn't understand what she meant, but he did hear the intent; and his heart beat faster.
The shadow all but flew over the bridge, hearing a crack seconds after he reached the other side. Relief flooded him when he saw his pursuer trapped on the other side, though he could still make out those rusty scissors in its hands.
"Pumpkin, come back! I have something for youuu~!"
He would have covered his ears if he hadn't needed his arms to balance him out as he ran some more.
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medigel rolled 1 6-sided dice:
6
Total: 6 (1-6)
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Posted: Wed Aug 14, 2013 6:47 pm
The cul-de-sac was an unwelcome sight. Where was the exit? The door? Unless . . . this was where he was meant to fight her. The dagger's glow was indicative as such and, warily, he took it into hand. He didn't want to hurt things that were almost sentient (just as sentient?) as he was, but . . . He had to survive. He still needed to know what he was longing for, what ached at his heart so much.
The figure caught up within seconds, scissors gleaming. The dagger was swung--
Quiet sobs. Warm arms around him, touching the bandages at his throat.
"It'll be okay, pumpkin," came her soothing voice. "I had a chat with them and their parents; they won't be going beyond their houses any time soon."
It only gave him a little comfort. Nothing seemed able to override the pain and horrible fear he had felt when his head came off, the shame of their laughter as his body flopped uselessly, spasming before coming to a halt. Like a chicken, they said.
"Did they say anything to you? I won't stand for your cousins to run amok like that again, but you've got to tell me, Mortie." Her warm brown eyes came into view, gazing at him imploringly. "What were they saying?"
Once a dirty human, always a dirty human. No weapon, no power. Smelled like the sewers and probably had the brains of one, if he had any to begin with. Perfect bait for their Halloweds and Hunters game.
"N-N-Nothin'," Mort mumbled.
Her brows crossed as if disappointed, but she kissed her forehead nevertheless. If he snitched, things would only get worse; they were already going to get him back for crying as it was. Crying blood! What a freak.
--and buried into her chest as it if was meant to be there.
The scissors fell away as she disappeared without a sound. Ortam stared at the spot she had once been, sighed, and turned for the exit, running a hand through his hair. These tasks were starting to get to him . . .
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Posted: Fri Aug 16, 2013 11:56 pm
[ task 3 ] "Small?" Ortam echoed, very amused; he was hardly small! But the Goddess of Longing made him smile, even if there was an unnaturalness to that effervescent cheer. Nothing here was really natural, he was starting to realize, from the blood red moon to the landscape that rarely ever stayed the same.
He was sort of excited to hear about a tea party, though, because teas and parties were not things he knew either of--perhaps they would help him with his own personal longing? Ortam took the cookie and munched away happily as he was given his next task, bobbing his head as he wiped his face of crumbs. "Yes, goddess!" he piped up, inordinately pleased to hear she loved him. "I love you too! So I'll try my very best, okay?" It was the least he could do.
He entered the world of the gray gardens with a doofish, if sincere smile. There were also still some bits of cookie stuck between his teeth.
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Posted: Sat Aug 17, 2013 2:09 pm
The scrapyard graveyard shift had its perks, however; namely that he was allowed to take home a few parts here and there if he reported it to the manager, and if they were within a small number per month, and if they met such and such requirements, and if the minotaur felt generous that night. Thankfully, T-Rod was a cool sort of dude and had been letting him slip by with a little extra lately, and now Mort was sure he had enough to finish his project.
The only noise upon entry was the quiet creak of the door and the quiet murmurs of whispers in his head—but that was so constant now that, despite being louder and despite their slowly but surely dire effects on his mental health, he could power through it if he just kept himself busy. And with two part time jobs, the Student Council, and looming graduation upon him (ignoring the fact that Insanity was as pervasive little bug in all those plans), the zomboil had found plenty of escape. He felt guilty for not having done more research for the past handful of weeks (and he still felt a lingering sting after his meeting with Red made him realize how narrow-minded that focus had been), but he could only do so much at a time: and right now, he felt like completing something small yet monumental.
Robots. Oh dear Jack, his first love.
Dubstep played in the background to get him in the zone as he worked, grateful for the fact that he could count on Thor to keep steady and be precise when his fleshy fingers could not. The cybernetic left arm, while still roughly constructed, had been his first true project at Amityville: a instrument designed to help him control his Fear’s natural byproduct of electricity so that he wasn’t shocking himself to hell and back. And now it served to help him get into the harder to reach places (as its thinner fingers were able to sneak into nooks and crannies he otherwise couldn’t) as well as act as the medium for the energy he would be giving the little golems later.
Several hours passed by, but Mort barely noticed them. Grease, oil, and just a little bit of grime from the scrapyard covered his limbs by the time he was finished: and that was just one robot. No, doll. That’s what these two were meant to be: his props and sidekicks for Prom. And now for the final test.
Rubbing his hands together, Mort focused on a particularly new part of himself he had recently discovered since the Seven Kings debacle and sent a small green lightning bolt at the ‘bot, resisting the urge to allow the transformation into his royal garb that always came when he used the power. In seconds the doll came alive, curtseying and grabbing at an invisible dress. “How do you do,” it asked in a rather flat, mechanical voice. Good, good, the voicebox was working . . . he’d have to tweak it some to give it more emotion, but that wasn’t hard: affects were easy to copy.
The zomboil grinned and patted the doll’s cracked head like a pet’s, immensely pleased with his progress as he pumped a fist of triumph into the air. For a while, he had felt like nothing short of a loser: bumming at his ghoulfriend’s room to feel better about himself, barely attending classes, forgetting about his gym membership and staying holed up in his room only to spend it either staring or playing video games, hardly talking to his family. The creation of the little golem was more than a step towards Prom preparation: it was a small, but important victory to Mort, a sign that despite the stress he could still work, still create something of value, and be productive. That maybe if he worked hard enough, he could rise above all of it and come on top.
It was, in short, exciting and satisfying to see his work begin to come into fruition. It was a spike on the graph of his life where there had been only a line slowly trailing downward.
Mort grinned to himself as he began to move the golem through a few simple motions, knowing he only had a few minutes to make it look “alive”; the rest of the time he was not recharging the twins, they would need to be set up with pre-programmed runs. Man, wait until the council saw them!
He was sure Amrita would be flattered most of all.
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Posted: Sat Aug 17, 2013 2:15 pm
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Posted: Sat Aug 17, 2013 2:32 pm
Tea Guest Log Colour of Tea Tasted: Pale peach Description: Wonderment, creation of life without life, dedication, achievement. Your commentary on its flavour: Raumias felt familiarity in this memory; distantly, it called to her, the idea that she knew who this was, and that while the memory was of a proud moment for him, she felt pride in witnessing it, pride in knowing him on some far away shore. She didn’t know where from, or why, or who, but he seemed so familiar. It felt familiar.
The memory made her witness things far beyond her scope, things she could not have accomplished even if she tried. The finesse, the creation of life that was not life: these things reminded her of a theme she’d struggled with, once. Even if that was also locked to her, most of it. Most of all, she was impressed by the way it moved. With a little time, she knew, the robot could be refined and made near perfect, couldn’t it? By the end of the memory, she pretty much believed whoever this belonged to could create absolutely anything they wanted.
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