Welcome to Gaia! ::

Mason sat behind his desk, the red light of the diner sign casting slanted bars over his office through the partly closed blinds. He played with the dial of the radio on his desk before a flickering shape outside of his door caught his eye. Music played from his radio as the door slowly opened, causing him to straighten up in his chair and place second glass on his desk, pouring some hooch from his new guest.

The light shown behind his new guest as the door finished opening. She stepped in, starting to close the door behind her. She wore a slimming black blazer with a matching skirt and legs that went down to the floor. Her hair was short and pulled into a tight bun, not loose like those flapper girls he used to meet with at the speakeasies. Atop her head rested a pillbox hat with a veil draping down and covering her face.

“Nice get-up, bunny. What brings a choice bit of calico like you around to ol’ Mason, hm? Has word finally gotten ‘round that I’m quite the cake-eater?”

She crossed her arms, “I’m no quiff, Mason. Dakota sent me. You see I have… a bit of a problem.” She stepped further into the room, motioning briefly to the chair across his desk, “Mind if I rest? My plates are sore.”

Mason, nodded and pointed to the glass of whiskey in front of her, “Tell me your problems, doll, and wash ‘em down with some hair of the dog.”

She sat and swigged the whiskey, a feat that even impressed Mason, before moving her veil. Across her face were oddly shaped burns, they almost looked like letters but non Mason had ever seen and he liked to think of himself as a learned individual. “You see, Mason, I seem to have been dragged into some… trouble,” she paused to lift her left hand, revealing a wedding band, “My husband got himself in deep with some bad Joes and after a while he decides he doesn’t want to be a goon anymore. Well his boss didn’t take too kindly to that and sent some gunsels after him. And someone else. Guy’s name was Hotsquat, y’know like the chair. Well hotsquat was a lot more skilled than the dumb gunsels and took my hunny out. So here I am, Mason, asking for your help. Pretty sure he’s after me now because I know what happened.” She sighed loudly, putting her head in her hands, “I’m too young to be killed, Mason.”

“Too pretty, too,” he muttered, his eyes tracing the burns on her face. Despite the scarring and the recently eighty-sixed husband this broad was butter and egg fly. He'd heard of Hotsquat before, a few years back. There were some strange murders, people getting electrocuted in obscure places with the word Hotsquat burned into their flesh. They never caught the guy and he ended up killing fifteen people before just stopping one day. Mason shook his head briefly, trying to get the thought of— he couldn't bring himself to think of it. No. Focus on the present, Mason, the dame. You have to help her.

She fidgeted in her chair as he stared in her direction, lost in thought, "Mason?" she tilted her head a little causing the veil to fall back over her face.

He shook his head, sighing, "I'll help you, doll. Y'got a name?"

"Ellie. My name is Ellie," she fixed the veil, a small smile on her face.

He smiled sadly and poured himself another glass of whiskey, "Have you called in the coppers on this one?" Ellie shook her head. "Alright," he finished up her freshly poured whiskey and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stood up from his chair, "I'll need to see the scene, Ellie."

The got in his car and drove across town, the moon lighting Ellie's face beautifully. He shook his head, needing to focus on the task at hand- driving- before reaching a large crowd, police lights bouncing off of the cold brick of the buildings along the street.

He stepped out of the car, a note pad in hand and pulled his hat down a little, scooting under the police line. It was time to get down to business.


(( continuing in the morning i really need to sleep! ))

Scream.

The sound of metal scraping across metal.

Scream.

The sickening, sloshy thud of a decapitated body falling to the ground.

She listened closely as the crowd cheered trying to make out the number. seventy-three the crowd chanted, bloodlust dripping from their words. These people lived in the arena, day in and day out waiting for ninety-nine to see who would be released from the cages for good. She was at ninety-eight. She was so close to freedom. So close to fresh air. She closed her eyes, her nose twitching as the scent of fresh blood wafted down to the cages. Inhuman snarls were heard. Death meant fresh meat for a meal that day. Their numbers were dwindling, there would be another hunt soon. She looked around her cage, seeing others through the bars. Everyone was so malnourished, muscles built over years of enslavement for the Royal's entertainment. She shifted to the back of her cage, knowing if she was too close to the door she would get prodded and she needed her strength for tomorrow.

She caught her reflection in a pool of water on the ground, she reached up, touching her face. Her cheeks had sunken in over the years, her fur thinned and had bald patches, her once bright eyes were now dulled and welcomed death however in the back of he mind there was hope. Tomorrow she would be free. She looked up as her cage door was swung open by a figure in a black mask. A cattle prod entered before the meat was tossed onto the filthy floor.

"Eat up, 98," a voice grumbled from under the mask, "I have money riding on you for tomorrow. Maybe if you win I'll even share with you." He started laughing, a sick deep laugh, "As if, you'll be eviscerated. Good luck, girlie."

She snarled a little after he was out of range with the cattle prod. He could laugh, he would see. She would win. She tore into the meat, blood trickling over her chin as she idly wonder who this had been. Regardless, it was delicious. She finished her meal and lapped up some water from the pool on the floor before curling up in a straw pile, her burlap tunic and pants not keeping the straws from stabbing into her skin.

She woke to a deafening clang as a cattle prod was slammed against her cage. She bolted upright to see a procession of hooded figures, urging her out of the metal box. She followed their lead and was led to the armory. She was allowed a leather tunic and pants with matching, blood-stained gauntlets. She was allowed her choice of weapon. Her hand floated over a pair of twin daggers for a moment before opting for a two-handed greatsword. She felt its weight and smiled. This would do.

She entered the arena, hearing the crowd picking up a chant of ninety-eight, ninety-eight. And she knew she wouldn't disappoint.

From the opposite end of the arena she saw a strange figure enter. Cloaked in black with a white porcelain bird mask on his face, carrying a long scythe. The arena continued to chant ninety-eight. So, it would be a battle of finality. The winner gained the ultimate prize. Their freedom. They charged, a primal yell emerging from her throat, greatsword raised.

Ninety-nine.

Mosh was a ranch dog. She spent her days laying in the sun, herding cattle, eating, and sleeping.

Her master was a sheriff who kept the bad guys in check. He was awesome. She was a good dog.

One day there was a terrible rustling from the fields where her master’s cattle stayed.

Prairie dogs.

Mosh hated prairie dogs because they tore up the prairie and were actually not dogs at all. Liars.

She snarled and tore into the grass, spooking a few cows and dove headfirst into a prairie dog hole.

Hours later as the sun was falling she returned home, her tail in the air and a dead prairie dog in her mouth.

At last, with her hard work, the tree had almost fully grown. It swayed a bit, delicate, but with a life of its own.



"Not quite," whispered a voice, and she was obliged to return back to the lake, back to where she started. However, instead of a lake, Mosh was faced with a strange sight.

There was a beautiful castle in the distance, but it seemed far, far in the distance. The colours were strange and still, and waters poured from multifaceted rocks in tiers and layers.

"Take some of this water, and my blessing. This is my last request. Show my children your world so they will grow each unique and different."

She reached out, but she noticed there were so many tiny pools reflecting back. Which pool would she pick the water from?

(( OOC: [ A Dark Pool ] ))

She picked water from the dark pool. Heavy, regretful memories from her life seemed to spring to life. As she poured the water onto the tree it grew one more time, and then was complete.

Her tree had become something truly spectacular.



A singular apple grew on the tree, as a voice asked her, "Are you satisfied with what I have become?"

Mosh pressed a paw to her tree, closing her eyes and smiling, "Yes, darling, I am. You are beautiful."