Loot obtained: x2 Violet Moon Link to arena win:xxx
Posted: Fri Aug 23, 2013 3:46 pm
Main Blessing obtained: Zone obtained: 5 Link to blessing:xxx
medigel
Anxious Spirit
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medigel
Anxious Spirit
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Posted: Fri Aug 23, 2013 3:53 pm
Main Blessing obtained: Zone obtained: 2 Link to blessing:xxx
Posted: Sat Aug 24, 2013 6:49 pm
Quote:
Text to Belladonna I'll come back with a smile just like I promised. But only if I come back as your boilfriend.
. . . Well that didn't sound very romantic. Mort actually stared at the words he somehow managed to send, wondering where the hell that came from. Wasn't there was supposed to be more of a build up to it? A swell or crescendo?
Was asking really so difficult in the end . . .?
"We continue forward, warriors, those noble in cause, who fight. Now, step forward, all of you, and I will bestow upon each of you a gift for your victory and victories to come."
One of the Lost? He wasn't sure how to take the idea . . . Coming together was something of an ideal that had seemed beyond their grasp, if in their sights at all.
But Medea promised power. Victory. A calling. Things he couldn't ignore. And so the zomboil cross his arms lightly and awaited for further instructions, lips pressed together in a thin line.
"Oh you young ones, always so eager." With a head tilt and a dramatic sigh, the Sage unwound one of the scarves around his head and shoulders; it took a few seconds of unwrapping before it was free and deposited on the boil's head. "Wear this~" He instructed, not offered. "It will keep the human sun from biting." It was an almost bored footnote reasoning; he had gotten used to it. The second wrapping was produced off of his shoulders, this one deposited on Alex.
He had to take care of his Zombies, naturally.
"This is your first time, you should savour it."
How had he died? How many cared enough to come to the funeral? Had there even been there a funeral?
And the more Mort sank into nonconstructive conjecture, the more he compared his miserable self to the beatific Thomas Quinn, the more he came to the grim conclusion that he was a wretch no matter what because there was no family who would truly come to accept him and his very flawed decisions; after all, he was a being who had thought it logical to wash his hands of blood with more blood, who had sought out death in the hopes that its inevitability would have given him focus, and who had now been reduced to a sobbing pitiful mess over what was essentially inconsequential in the grand scheme of things.
That was, most likely, the clincher: the insignificance of his own existence. And here he was grasping at power like a security blanket, so desperate that he had been driven to try and reap souls. Everything about this task was fundamentally wrong. Everything was wrong. And the worst part about it was that his own flawed self would not leave this morbid cause, not when it proved to be the most viable path that lead to the Hunters’ destruction. He would have to kill and kill and die and die and Jack knew what else, and there was nothing he could do about it because he had chosen, right or wrong, and he was going to have to see through it, insignificant or not.
And if it ended up being the wrong choice? He’d have to own up to it. But then, fate always made sure he had a trial by fire anyway, because wasn’t it funny to see the little zombie burn?
Friggen' finally.
After putting off the booth for later time and time again, Ramona had managed to at last reel the zomboil in to put on the finishing touches. Even so, Mort felt a bit nervous as he leaned over the counter and watched visitors, students and horsemen pass by.
"Don't fidget so much," his mother told him, sliding his hood down. "And put on a smile, Mortie! You did a good job and I know people will see it."
"Mrrr . . ." He only nodded and sipped some Spite, watching Lancelot turn his head this way and that excitedly.
Festivalfestivalfestival~!
He felt something shift within him, and without warning he felt himself tapping into it out of curiosity.
Fog surrounded him, but he was alright. Better than alright, he felt fantastic. The fog condense and his limbs fell away to be replaced by large paws, gray wispy fur, and glowing green eyes that matched his new weapon (which seemed to also spontaneously appear: hello, Crescent Haze!). Whether it was real or not, Mort found himself to now be a rather oversized canid creature.
Bitchin'.
"This is for you. Its my token of favor... I... I wanted to give it to you before, but ah... It, um, it... Glows. Or its supposed to," Belladonna tried to explain, suddenly bashful as she pulled the satin from her finger and began to wrap it around the bicep of his arm closet to her. "I wore it, while you were gone... But, it glowed every time I wished for you. When you wear it, its supposed to glow when you think on it... So you always have a bit of light with you, no matter how dark it may get."
Mort no longer looked so dazed but he retained the quiet awe as with each loop of the ribbon its light grew in increments, until the finished ribbon cast a small but distinct light around his arm. For a span of seconds he watched its glow, his expression softening as Bells spoke. Magic could do that? "You made this? I . . . Thank you," he managed to say, surprised that his voice didn't crack. Maybe because it didn't hit home at first.
For days she had worn it . . . Days spent hoping he would return. Time. Texts. Wishes and tears. All of them came with her gift and made it that much more special because it wasn't just something she made, but something that she had put herself into. Was there any way he could give her something as precious in return?
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