Ever Ambrodiel: Creation, Loyal to Deus, Ancient of Tongues
Your weapon now has gold metallic trim around it, replacing parts of it, giving a more ornate design. - Every time you MISS add +1 to your counter. When it hits +5, add that to your HP to heal yourself. It cannot be stacked with any other ability.
By the time he reached the top step, magically enhanced by his weapon or no, Ever was breathless: exhausted from the trek up, but even more so, exhausted by his wandering through room after room, his first exposure to the monsters that lived in their world. Still his head spun, just faintly, as the last step crumbled behind him and he twisted to examine the space behind.
There was no going back. Only forward. And so he'd turn to study the doors in front of him.
Promises: each one offered him a promise, a temptation. They picked at the passing fancies, the deep-rooted desires, hunting for the thing that would draw him forward, and only one seemed to understand him. Adaptability. Harmony. It promised the ability to fit in, to make the world the way it should be.
And so he stepped through the Green Door.
Likely every door had made a twisted promise, an offering that didn't match the truth beyond. This one had promised him harmony, and like the traditional genie in a bottle, that was exactly what it would give him.
____________________________
His creation is a bridge, an idea: it is something that ties people together so that the distance between them seems less. It takes their words and distills from them meaning, tears away the confusion that can come with translation, not just from one language to another but between people. It is passed from one to the next, and to start, it seems a godsend. Fewer are the days when couples split over simple misunderstandings, or arguments grow from nothing, and it seems that Utopia is in sight. After all, it's hard to disagree when you can understand, feel, the other party's side.
This is the gift that he leaves humanity with when he passes, and this is what they glorify. They understand each other better, they harmonize each other better, and they remember him for it.
In youth, he was promised his utopia after death, and while this wasn't the version of heaven his parents had meant, for a while it is still perfect. He watches as minds and hearts meld together in perfect understanding, ideas flowing between them like water and even the memory of words fading away. No one speaks for decades, centuries, he loses track, and all become the same: part of a whole mind, a whole brain.
No one fears.
And then they do.
It starts as a resistance, a handful of young minds that rebel against absorption into the whole, that fight against the sameness and the harmony that were the source of their creation. He is a god, and then he is demonized, and instead of moving through the stream of all human consciousness, he loses connection. Corrupted by the fear of a few, torn from the utopia he thought he wanted, he grows and changes into something else.
Many stay in the web of his creation. His name is forgotten, now, but not what he made, not what he was, and what he did. It is only the few that taint his love for the world he has created and turn him to an Ancient, instead. They fight against him like gnats -- and yet their methods are successful. They steal one person from his bridge here, and another there, and while it's no more than plucking up the small stones, it turns his joy of knowledge into something dark and dangerous.
____________________________
Nothing like its promise. Ever was left gasping at the strange altar, the memories of an impossible power thrumming through his blood, access to billions of peoples' stories, more thoughts and ideas than he could hold onto pouring through his head. The Ancient was equipped for it, but beneath that surface sat a young man who wanted nothing like the future that had been poured into him like an empty vessel. It was a wish fulfilled, but not the wish he'd wanted.
He could ease their tongues, translate their words, could tie them together in a way that seemed inextricable, and yet still humanity would fight for that which defined it: a certain kind of individuality, a rebellion that sat at everyone's core. Even his own.
The two sides warred in his mind. The Ancient who wanted to bring these people back to their knees and, even if it was kicking and screaming, force them to understand each other, to share with each other, to be each other. The confused Trainee ill-equipped to deal with a power that threatened to overtake him, and twist all the things he thought he wanted into what it needed of him.
He wasn't strong enough. The Ancient would win, transcended, intent on making humanity stronger, its own ties sliding back to a tropical island that was still new, still familiar, but for all intents and purposes home. He looked down at his weapon, and instead of its usual flat black, it glimmered in gold that laced up its hilt and around his hand, barbs that didn't quite pierce the surface of his skin.
When he smiled, his smile was too wide, and his tongue was too long.
Posted: Fri Jun 13, 2014 11:42 pm
Rosy: Destruction: Loyal to Self: Ancient of Trickery
Rosy wasn’t sure how many stairs she had climbed, they seemed endless, but when she finally reached the top, she stared at all the doors around her. Seven in all, each sang a different song to her soul, but only one sang strongly enough to pull her toward it.
The Red Door – the one that promised Destruction and Power. She floated slowly toward it, placed her hand gently against its glowing red surface, and then slowly slid inside.
She greeted the altar with a slightly curious look, moving closer and closer as the strange emblem atop it called to her – sang to her. She reached out to it, taking the emblem in both her hands. And was consumed. There was no fighting the rush of power that flowed through her body, took her to a different place – a new place.
Rosy lay there, battered, beaten, hard eyes staring up into the cold and heartless sky. Her chest pierced by a spear, she felt each breath bring forth another gurgle of rich red blood to her lips. She did not feel regret, save that she had not been able to fight longer, to wreck more havoc upon those who fought against her, to see the fire that was their village burn brightly in the night. But it mattered not, she could imagine it, she could savor the pure terror and power she and her fellows had wrought as they had come, pouring from the pass down upon the unsuspecting townsfolk.
Her death was not the end. The horde would continue its sweeping destruction of the land until it was sated or there was nothing left to ruin. She smiled, holding onto that thought, using it to feed her existence even as the light of her life faded from the world. It formed an egg for her to grow strong in once again. She became one with the force of the horde, with the ruin and destructive power they brought. She became one with the storms, the fires and landslides. She wrapped herself in a cloth of pure destructive power, and soon, very soon, she felt her life growing again.
But there was a destructive power that she savored the most. The guile and trickery of those who brought destruction and ruin from behind the backs of others, of trickery and treason. These forces of destruction brought her so much glee she took them for her own.
Rosy arose from her reverie long enough to see the shadow over take her. It swept her up, and solidified. The emptiness was cloying, she called out for her friends, her family, but there was no answer. She begged them to stop hiding, to stop playing tricks on her, but still no answer came. Just silence. Lonely, cold, silence. She felt the shift, it was gradual, she felt her mind was no longer just her own. There was a soft whisper, a gentle caress on her mind which soon clamped into painful dominance. She tried to cry out but no sound came. The shadow consumed her.
What rose was no longer Rosy. The Shadow held her mirror tight in its hand, it smiled mischievously at her, its grey skin, blue eyes staring deep into her mirror. Rosy stared back at what she had become, the Ancient of Trickery. Her shadow grinned that forever mischievous grin of one who knows more than they’re letting on. Its hood was dark and low over her face, leaving only her grinning lips for the world to see. Numerous knives, daggers, vials and bombs graced her cloaked figure, black as night and silent as the wind. Her cloak barely stirred as she moved, her armor leather and tight fit to her body, her boots supple and silent as she moved. It was her silent shadow – her Trickery made flesh.
And she would destroy them all, with this new power, with her shadow, she would free her family and friends.
Xyra made a mental note that she hated stairs. After all the walking she’d done during this while debacle, she was quite ready to be done with moving for a long time. Nor did she really have any desire to race the stairs as they started to degrade under her feet.
When she did finally reach the top, she took a moment to catch her breath, before looking at the doors. None of them seemed to be all that important to her, but then the golden glint of the golden door caught her attention. She moved toward it slowly, then without much further thought, jumped in.
She was greeted by the emblem and altar, and she wondered for a moment what strange rituals must have gone on in this tower before her arrival. She felt the siren’s song on of the emblem, and reaching out for it, she grasped it in her hands, and she felt everything…
Shift.
She stood in the center of her own home, looking down as she tries to explain to her father why she disobeyed him "It wasn't my fault, it was Kerra fault, I was just trying to pick up the mess..." a growl comes room her father, causing her to stop.
"You always blame your older sister, why not take the blame." she pinches the bridge of his nose "Instead of acting like a scareling, act like a grown demon. You will get nowhere at the rate you are going, you are worthless to me Xyra. You show no pride in who you are if you continue to lie." she trembles, shaking her head as she tries to not lash out at him.
"I am telling the truth....its her fault." she yelps as a hand backhands her across the face, sending her to the ground.
"THAT ENOUGH!"
She looks down at the ground, holding her cheek as tears run down her face...
Xyra eyes fell close the moment she felt the shadows overtake her, consuming her. She welcomed it in, wanting nothing more then to prove she could be everything she was told she couldn't. She didn't scream out, nor did she try to stop it.
From the shadows, a form much like her own steps forward. Garnished in gold from head to toes, holding a mirror in her hand. She was the Ancient of Oaths, sworn to uphold what she believe was right. A smile slips across the shadows face as gold eyes look into the mirror.
She heard the whispers, of home...
She knew where to go...and what needed to be done.
And she was more then happy to do whatever it took.
Posted: Sat Jun 14, 2014 12:02 am
America Jones : Protection : Loyal to Deus : Ancient of Change
Destruction calls to you in ways that remind you that change does not come so quickly or wholly. You've branched out, but that means the old paths aren't still there, that you don't skip toward them heedlessly out of habit or in the heat of the moment. That you don't still enjoy them. That you are different now is true but as he said, you always keep a little fire burning. You go towards Protection anyway, despite those less admirable desires that well up, it is the path you've chosen and you are different now.
It begins with the town, which soon becomes your town, because of course it does. They always remember the girl who declared herself president of a basement, only to use it as an excuse to throw parties and indulge in benign meddling. They never quite forget that you are the woman who makes sure things happen, but they do ignore what that means. You go out into the world and recruit, you help, you guide. You take other people's ideas and put them into action and you are the one who will be remembered for it. You fill your town with people and lives and protect it in dozens of ways, large and small, because hunters are so much more delicate in ways you never accounted for. The children are made of sterner stuff. They always are. (He never quite forgives you.)
A mayor is not a president is not a division leader, and no real power or authority come from position, but you are not without influence. When Deus is thrust onto the world stage, everything changes and it is you who represents the humanity of hunters. You are the one speaking across a billion screens about the desire to build and protect and create a safer, better world. You are the one to say trust in us. Trust in the changes to come because they are right, and just, and for the good of all. You never were much for lying, when you spoke you meant it, you would make it so. Even if those standing behind you did not.
You are the face of those who protect. You are the face of the overturning of power, tradition, and the world all once knew. You are the face of change and your body is still warm, the wounds still fresh, when blood begins to spill in your name.
They turn you into a martyr and figurehead and soon every cause is your cause. You are the symbol of better tomorrows. You are the warning sign of unrest. You are hope and destruction and where your name is whispered it soon turns to screams because it is the signal of change. You are feared as much as you are desired and you wake among flames and angry chants and fleeing bodies. You are strong and you are hungry because change is inevitable but there's always, always a price.
You are the corruption of one man and the redemption of another. You are progress and breathe new dreams into reality while tradition decays in your wake. You are bloody revolution that burns all without discrimination and scars a generation into new ideals. You are the end that preludes the beginning. You are Change and you are...
...here. Standing tall and strong and hungry, gold upon fiery gold is within your grasp even if the power of Ancients slips beyond it. You are human but the clarion call of flags burned and voices raised in your name rings across your mind and the echoes will remain with you long after you've left this tower of strange and secret selves.
Kasja: Grief: Infected with Insanity: Anicent of Silences
Kasja hurried up the stairs as quickly as her legs could carry her. So much was going on and the poor mare didn’t know what to do. All she knew was there were answers at the top and she intended to get there as quickly as she could. She took the stairs two at a time in places where she could, but otherwise just sprinted as hard as she could until she finally reached the top, stopping only to gather her bearings.
All the doors seemed strange, but not out of place. She moved over to the white one, it’s pearly luminescence drawing her in. The next thing she knew, she was moving past it and into the room beyond.
The altar filled her with a slight tingle, and she reached toward the strange glowing emblem, not sure why it drew her in so much, but curious to see what the result would be. Her fingers grasped the icon and she felt the world tremble around her.
She stood alone, the others were gone. She was the last, and she knew regret. They had taken the long road to the sea, and one-by-one, past beyond her reach. She lamented them as she too, now took this road, each step taking her closer and closer to the final place.
Finally she reached the sea, slowly walking into it, arms outstretched toward those who had gone before her. She felt the water wash over her, felt their hands wrap around her, pull her into their midst, as she felt her last breath bubble out of her lungs and into the water around her. She felt the grief in her heart the loss of those around her and she could not hold it in anymore. Her body sank, and her soul did not.
She wrapped herself in the blanket of her grief, the lament of her loss so strong that it continued to keep her afloat, drifting as she lamented, her shell growing stronger, her form taking shape slowly as her mind lost itself to the insanity of her wailing and lamentations. Her form twisted, taking on the shape of the water around her, flowing and never quite whole.
Finally it solidified and she rose from the water. Her eyes continued to stream salty tears, but no sobs wracked her body, for she had no mouth from which to scream. She would forever lament in silence. She was the Ancient of Silence, cloaked in the tear soaked robe of the drowned, whose deaths no-one heard. Her grey skin and yellow eyes swam with her tears, her fingers needles and in her hand a bobbin of thread.
She would silence all of them, one way or another.
Posted: Sat Jun 14, 2014 12:40 am
Erebus | Reflection | Loyal to Death | Ancient of Tartarus
The purple door draws him in, and he walks toward it without even glancing at the other colored entrances. It reminds him of family, and the emblem reinforces that, drawing up mental images of a place long ago where he had dived in with determination because it had been his duty, a place where he had lost himself and memories had been clouded over, replaced with constructed falsities.
"You're a disappointment." Are the last words they say to him, eyes glittering with fury amidst dark fur as a steel collar clamps around his throat. He tries to speak, but the look upon their faces silence him, especially the contorted anger that she attempts to conceal.
"You betrayed us." She hisses as the guards begin to drag him away. He digs his claws into the ground in protest, desperately glancing up at them, begging them to release him. To help him. "How could you do this to us? TO your family?"
'I didn't mean it.' He tries to say, but then he catches sight of his brothers' faces. The disbelief they expressed upon learning what he had done had hardened into resentment and sadness. They will not even look at him now and something shatters within him, causing him to go limp entirely as they haul him through gravel, the rough stone pavement to the dark pits of a dungeon.
He is nothing.
He has always known it, but he has always tried, attempted to prove his worth under the crushing weight of expectations and the family name. But it was like a neverending climb out of a deep, dark well, and however hard he tried to claw his way up, he slid down, either out of incompetence, or of others shoving him back down. So when he was given a choice to be more than what he was, he had taken it.
But there was a price.
There was always a price to pay.
Even in the distance, he can see them; his parents, his brothers and-- his breath catches in his throat as he sees her arrive. Pale-haired and dressed in a purple kimono, tucking her arm in the crook of his older brother's, and she does not even glance in his direction.
He is bruised, bloody and beaten when they confine him in a dark, dismal cell. He is known as the traitorous Cerberus, and it is a legacy that is forever attached to him, that he cannot shake off. That his family cannot shake off, no matter how hard they try, and it is forever a parasite to the prestigious family name.
He begins to understand, after what feels like an eternity of being locked up. There is a full length mirror in his cell, and as he stares into it, day after day, he realizes that, no matter what, he has paid the price.
And with that price, he is who he had always wanted to be.
They had put him behind lock and key because they feared him. But he was not afraid, and he only found humor that others were told to keep their distance from him.
They saw that he had been judged and he had been punished. And deep down inside, they knew their deepest, darkest secrets, and they feared that they themselves would end up in a position he had landed himself in.
Little did they know that he drew strength from their idiocy and indecision. From their fears of punishment for their sins, for the secrets that sealed their lips and the lies they told to convince others, and more importantly, themselves.
Serafina Arai | Grief | Loyal to Self | Ancient of the Unseen
Suddenly, the rooms were gone.
With the steps' appearance, forward she moved, one foot in front of the other, drawn like a drone towards the seven doors and seven rooms that the tower itself wanted to bring her to. Her eyes were, for a few moments, still out of focus, before they came back into focus again, taking in everything that was around her with a deep breath and a sense of calm. It was okay.
There were multiple doors that called out to her heart. A strong pull was coming from the room that glowed in blue. She knew that door, she knew that legacy. Once, in another life, she was of the Blue Kingdom, and since that time, Blue rested close to her heart.
But what caught her mind was the White door, and slowly, her feet began to drag her off in that direction, pushing through the door to view the altar and the symbol that glowed on top of it. Instinctively, she reached out to touch it --
============
All around her, so far as her eyes were able to see, and so far as she could blink towards the sky, she watched her world burn.
Everyone she had known from her observations, not even face-to-face, they began to fade away and dissipate into the darkness, leaving her with no one to observe. But that was okay, she still had her friends. Her bonds of friendship, which were weak and little, slowly fracturing the more they spoke together as they realized what Serafina was -- a fake, a coward, unwilling to show her true self and keeping her truths hidden behind the mask she wore, both physical and emotionally -- and those bonds began to fracture, and break.
And they, too, faded away, leaving her with no one to even greet or say hello to.
And then she, too, began to fade, moving into the nothingness that her life had become. It was better this way. Perhaps, then, she would be able to join them, wherever they had gone, and gain her life back once again.
But all she felt on the other side was sorrow. It was the grief that no one knew her, the grief that no one had seen her for who she truly was, the grief that she was all but invisible, all but unknown entirely. It consumed, and spread, and began to take hold of what of her there was left, spinning and growing within her.
Eventually, she recognized that people did think of her, but only when they were at their lowest.
When they, too, were alone and unnoticed.
When they, too, were unloved and uncared for.
When they, too, no longer mattered to the world beyond their eyes, just an unnoticed observer, hidden away in their corners, shaking and crying and alone.
The Fear grew, and she grew stronger.
Eventually, she was recognized. It became obvious what she was, to everyone who had ever felt the terror in their lives. It was almost ironic, in a way. She became recognized, like she had always wanted, and people worshiped her in their fearful way to keep her away. She was recognized for the one thing that she had despised the most about her existence, where she just watched and did nothing...
And she had become an ancient for it.
============
Serafina came back with a loud gasp and a clutching of her chest. Long held bonds broke, bonds that she had given to break away from the Legacies, leaving her where she was, something the same but something different. Her mask was gone, leaving the long, flat split in her mouth exposed, running from ear to ear Her eyes had faded, leaving in their place nothing but shadowed holes, digging into whatever dared to look in her direction. She wore a long, black dress that seemed to fade into the ground, and she was surrounded by black and purple shadowed mists, swirling all around her.
Behind her, something large and terrifying loomed, pinpoints of bright purple light shining through a mass of shadow which concealed her, and concealed it. She had become what she had most feared, a version of herself that was lost and never known, thrown away and unseen forever.
She mirrored the Ancient she had seen, the Ancient of the Unseen. This was her mantle, now.
In her hand, she held a mirror, where she felt the mourning and regrets of her whole life, banging against it, begging for release. It wanted to be free, to be where she stood, just a shadow of the former ghoul she was. "Please, let me go," she heard, but there wasn't a movement made, eyes staring forward. The shadow heard the begging from herself, but the words fell on deaf ears that did not care to hear.
All she could feel was vengeance.
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Loyal to self: (No allegiance whatsoever) Something strange happens. A shadow overtakes you, standing in front of you. It solidifies, looking like your worst nightmare in a world where you survive. You become a weapon, you become a horsemen, you become a mass of insanity and only insanity. The shadow whispers, tells you this is your rightful path and you feel yourself fading. They take your place. - You now rp as the SHADOW, a replacement, a better form of what you were. IF you are a student you can choose to become a weapon (with the Hunter) or you can choose to become a terrifying Insanity beast or a vengeful horsemen accomplice. If you are a horsemen you can choose to become insanity, if you are a Hunter you can choose to see your insanity or student form/ etc. This is basically their worst possible outcome they fear visualized into reality. In their hands is a mirror where their TRUE consciousness lies. The shadow version (that you are now rping) contains only vengeance while the mirror contains their regret. Both parts can communicate with each other, but only the shadow has control.
- If it is still a student, you can upgrade one of your charged/Fear attacks to a year higher only once per boss fight/ battle.
Posted: Sat Jun 14, 2014 9:45 am
Mort had told himself he wouldn't get involved with any more shenanigans, thank you very much. Student Council was enough to keep him busy as it was, Insanity not withstanding. And yet the moment he felt Medea's call, a tug at his Core would not let him rest until he understood what was going on, why he felt so compelled. He had assured Bells that he would only go to see what was going on, not to throw himself into more trouble.
As it turns out, he had no choice. The moment the zombie stepped out into the tower, he was yanked up, over, and out to a room. A very specific room with seven very specific doors.
It pretended he had a choice as he shuffled through the green door, instinctive, curious-- And it was like greeting an old friend.
He truly remembered himself now, not just as the king but as the inventor he had always aspired to be. Toys wound about him like birds, new life gamboled about the land, walls to protect, weapons to destroy, old things turned new. Whispers told him that he was as much feared as he was loved as he grew in power, and they were justified to think so: he could unmake things just as much as he could create, not destroy but change into something new--one soul reborn into a new body, one dying given new life. Those that threatened his reign became part of that which protected those who were loyal.
They feared what he could change them into, that they would lose themselves. He feared they would never know their true selves without it, would never adapt to the constantly changing world around them.
But he had transitioned himself, became something more than his physical limitations had allowed, became the ultimate example of his own growing power. He was not simply an ancient but an idea, the hardest of all things to kill.
And when Mort came to, he was indeed something better, something familiar and right. Gone was the mumbling zombie who couldn't even graduate properly: the king of creation had returned.
He fiddled with his cloak, somewhat miffed that its stats were not readily available to him (perhaps this was still part of a cutscene?). But the whispers in his head had grown stronger, reminding him of what was important. Namely that a raid boss of his particular allegiance was being slowly swarmed, which sounded absolutely boring for a final boss if you asked him. It was time to spice things up a little for the endgame.
green door - king of creation - ancient of evolution
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One of the Seven Kings: Your appearance shifts, and you regain the appearance of your old seven kings version. You also wear a cape, with the colour of your crown. Emblazoned on the cape in thicker gold is the sigil of your alliance. - You begin to lose a little sense of yourself and remember yourself more as a king the more you use this ability. Summon and enchant a former ally of your kingdom (in 7 kings) to you. They also lose their sense of sense the second you use it and also think of themselves as part of the former kingdom, their appearance shifting back to their old selves. Add + 1 to both your attacks. You can summon 5 people max. You cannot enchant someone already enchanted.
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Infected with Insanity: Your appearance shifts and you are all grey-black, eyes yellow or blue. A thick smoke shifts from you and it seems you are losing your appearance around the edges. The voices speak of home and you can't help but indulge, easily losing your sense of self. You attack arbitrarily. - Your damage modifier is now -5 instead of -6 all battle.
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Posted: Sat Jun 14, 2014 10:09 am
[Falair - Creation - Loyal to Self - Ancient of Curiosity]
There was no time to question, no time to assess what exactly was going on. Falair had been pulled here by some strange need. Perhaps a need born out of curiosity. Her feet had wings as she was pulled up the stairs. A twisting, winding set of stairs that crumbled behind her.
What lay a head was even more curious. All she knew was that something big was happening. Something that would shift the world as she knew it. She had to know.
The doors in front of her now called her name. Beckoned her to choose one of them. But the one that called the strongest was the green door. It promised her things that only the deepest, darkest parts of her mind desired. Desires that she shared with no one. And so she stepped through.
The world she found herself in was a world dedicated to her. To her greatness. To the knowledge and discoveries in which she had obtained. She had gone far in her life, Falair's cup running over. Having become the Alchemist she had always wanted to be.
The one she yearned to be.
All looked up to. All sought her out to gain what knowledge from her they could. But they could not comprehend what it was she knew. What it was she had discovered. What she had created. They were fools to believe that they could. And they would suffer all the more for it.
With a wave of her hand she could bring life to the lifeless. Create potions that healed whatever ailed those with disease. Or poisons that could flow through a generation. Infecting an entire lineage with a disease that ceased it's existence.
Falair had become more than a god. She had become Creation itself. And only she could change the world. Only she could show the others the way. To create balance in an unbalanced world.
Before her soon stood a shadow. It moved with her, engulfed her. When it completely surrounded her a lock snapped and the memories she had locked away flowed like a river. She could not stop them. No, not these memories.
Her body was on fire as everything exploded around her. She was not the god, was not the simple Alchemist who couldn't even put a potion together right. She was an Ancient of Curiosity.
Quote:
The Green door promised Creation. It promised fluidity and adaptability. It whispered to those who wanted to see the world harmonized, and to those who wanted to be inventors.
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Loyal to self: (No allegiance whatsoever) Something strange happens. A shadow overtakes you, standing in front of you. It solidifies, looking like your worst nightmare in a world where you survive. You become a weapon, you become a horsemen, you become a mass of insanity and only insanity. The shadow whispers, tells you this is your rightful path and you feel yourself fading. They take your place. - You now rp as the SHADOW, a replacement, a better form of what you were. IF you are a student you can choose to become a weapon (with the Hunter) or you can choose to become a terrifying Insanity beast or a vengeful horsemen accomplice. If you are a horsemen you can choose to become insanity, if you are a Hunter you can choose to see your insanity or student form/ etc. This is basically their worst possible outcome they fear visualized into reality. In their hands is a mirror where their TRUE consciousness lies. The shadow version (that you are now rping) contains only vengeance while the mirror contains their regret. Both parts can communicate with each other, but only the shadow has control. - Select one of the bonuses above depending on what faction you end up as. If it is still a student, you can upgrade one of your charged/Fear attacks to a year higher only once per boss fight/ battle. .
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Locked memories: The lock containing your memories snap as suddenly you recall everything you sealed again. ((OOC: It is optional after this whether or not you want to regain these memories or have them reseal, both are doable))..If you are one of the old sealed creatures ( legacy auction pieces), all you remember is being promised something, but the yearning to belong is strong. - + 5 HP added onto your stat
Posted: Sat Jun 14, 2014 10:16 am
[Mexiang - Protection - Loyal to Self - Ancient of Shielding]
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The Blue door promised Protection. It promised a fierce need for safety and shelter. It whispered to those who wanted to see the world conserved, and to those who wanted to be the hero.
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Loyal to self: (No allegiance whatsoever) Something strange happens. A shadow overtakes you, standing in front of you. It solidifies, looking like your worst nightmare in a world where you survive. You become a weapon, you become a horsemen, you become a mass of insanity and only insanity. The shadow whispers, tells you this is your rightful path and you feel yourself fading. They take your place. - You now rp as the SHADOW, a replacement, a better form of what you were. IF you are a student you can choose to become a weapon (with the Hunter) or you can choose to become a terrifying Insanity beast or a vengeful horsemen accomplice. If you are a horsemen you can choose to become insanity, if you are a Hunter you can choose to see your insanity or student form/ etc. This is basically their worst possible outcome they fear visualized into reality. In their hands is a mirror where their TRUE consciousness lies. The shadow version (that you are now rping) contains only vengeance while the mirror contains their regret. Both parts can communicate with each other, but only the shadow has control. - Select one of the bonuses above depending on what faction you end up as. If it is still a student, you can upgrade one of your charged/Fear attacks to a year higher only once per boss fight/ battle. .
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Locked memories: The lock containing your memories snap as suddenly you recall everything you sealed again. ((OOC: It is optional after this whether or not you want to regain these memories or have them reseal, both are doable))..If you are one of the old sealed creatures ( legacy auction pieces), all you remember is being promised something, but the yearning to belong is strong. - + 5 HP added onto your stat
Yayoi
Super Sex Symbol
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Seussi
Ice-Cold Hunter
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Posted: Sat Jun 14, 2014 10:50 am
Rathisvith // Pride // Loyal to Medea // Ancient of Indulgement
Posted: Sat Jun 14, 2014 12:03 pm
[ Thackery / Reflection / King of Reflection / Loyal to Death / Ancient of Lost Keys ]
Thackery was a good boy.
He was a very good dog, because that was what he tried to be, even when the lines of 'good' got a little blurry. He was good nonetheless, and good dogs came when they were called. That was what it meant to be a faithful Cerberus, above all else, and he was nothing if not true to his species.
The structure reminded him of the tower they had climbed as collective kingdoms, down to the seemingly endless stairs themselves. With an eager giggle as he began his ascent, he wondered if the Voice would be waiting up there for him. Or the other Kings, maybe. Or the Queen! Was that where he had been all this time? Locked away in a tower? Didn't the scareling stories have something like this in them?
While the possibilities that he considered were endless, the stairs were finite, as it turned out. They led to a room with seven doors, but he only needed one of them. Only the violet door knew his true name, tugging at him like an old friend who was eager to play, and he didn't want to keep it waiting - especially when it spoke of betrayal, because that meant the door probably needed a friend to help it through this difficult time of sadness.
He understood that.
There was something waiting inside for him - for him alone, he felt certain - which he recognized as a gate that he had been charged to guard in another place. Maybe another time, really, but that didn't matter much. He was here now, and so was it, waiting for him on top of something that seemed to be keeping it safe. It made immediate sense to him that Reflection would be calling for him, when he saw that it was being guarded by a tree: a tree was a terrible guardian! The very idea of it made him laugh, and his tail wagged eagerly as he approached the structure.
"Hi, gate," he whispered, assuming that it was the best way to be reverent. "I'm here now! So you can come on down from that tree, and you don't have to be scared anymore! I won't let anyone betray you, mainly because I don't really know many ways to betray a gate, but I promise that I won't let it happen anyway. That's my job!"
The gate did not come down.
Because he was a very good dog, Thackery waited. He waited, and waited, until it became clear that the gate had no intentions of coming down. In that case, he would just have to go to it. Very, very carefully, he reached up and--
--immediately betrayed the gate.
"Wait," he choked out, hands on his head, fingers tightly curling into his thick, messy hair. "Wait, no! I...wait, what did I just do? It wasn't me! You have to believe me! I don't remember doing anything, I don't even know how!"
Desperate for redemption, he dropped to his knees and searched the faces of those around him, in hopes of understanding what he'd done so he could make it all better again. They didn't want to look at him, and those that did looked so disgusted.
Neither of his brothers were even here.
"No. No." A panicked whimper quivered against his trembling lip, and he began to cry. At the first sign of his tears, it only got worse - they laughed in disbelief, and mocked him for being so incapable of owning up to his failures.
Someone grabbed the back of his coat and began to drag him towards a cage. No one did anything to save him. No one looked like they cared at all. If they didn't want him, then there was no use being on their side of the bars, was there? If they thought he had done something wrong, that meant that he probably had been very bad, didn't it?
Nobody wanted a bad dog. It was right to put him in this cage. It hurt, but it was right, and he hugged his knees to his chest as he tried to accept this fate.
He couldn't remember closing his eyes, and didn't think he had been sleeping, but he felt himself being startled awake by the squeaking hinges of the cage door opening. As he blinked his weary eyes, ears twitching towards the sound, he discovered that he was alone. That was odd, unless the door opened itself, but he'd seen stranger things.
Something jingled as he moved to crawl out of the cage, and when he stretched up to stand, he discovered that he was adorned with so many keys. More keys than he had ever seen in one place, in fact, all affixed to (a very heavy) cloak.
"Woah," he gasped, testing the weight of it by shaking his arms a little bit. The keys chimed happily in response, and he smiled at their song.
If he couldn't keep the gate safe, he felt certain that he could protect all of the keys. That was something that he'd done for a long time now, and if he couldn't do this, he didn't want to do anything ever again.
That might have been a slight exaggeration, even if it didn't feel like it at the time.
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One of the Seven Kings: Your appearance shifts, and you regain the appearance of your old seven kings version. You also wear a cape, with the colour of your crown. Emblazoned on the cape in thicker gold is the sigil of your alliance. -You begin to lose a little sense of yourself and remember yourself more as a king the more you use this ability. Summon and enchant a former ally of your kingdom (in 7 kings) to you. They also lose their sense of sense the second you use it and also think of themselves as part of the former kingdom, their appearance shifting back to their old selves. Add +1 to both your attacks. You can summon 5 people max. You cannot enchant someone already enchanted.
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Loyal to Death: Around your neck is a chain and instead of a lock, at the center a small clock that has stopped ticking. -Every time you MISS add +1 to your counter. When it hits +5, add that defense to your next defensive roll. It cannot be stacked with any other ability.
Concetta DiGregorio || Reflection || Loyal to Self || Ancient of Oppression
Should she have been surprised that years of betrayals for her own advancement would finally bite her back? Should she have been surprised that those she spited, one by one, had linked together in a plot of revenge? Betrayal beget Betrayal but she would not be quelled. She would not be killed. She took evry step possible to avoid her own destruction until they trapped her and kept her, safe as houses. Or so they thought.
Didn't they know that the most dangerous thing was a woman scorned? Worse... two women scorned. Because a hunter was not only themselves, they were only partner in power. And for every scorn to Cee was a double scorn to Snap. The imprisoned pair could stew and wait until they became more. Until they became the tool of their own. They didn't need to be in the spotlight, that wasn't important. What was important was making people doubt, making them look to their friends with paranoia. Backstabbing and manipulation.
The pair sowed their seed, imposed the oppression of dishonesty and betrayal until they had all cowering. All lived under the figureless influence. Brother vs Brother. Husband vs Wife. No one had trust or security. Big brother could be watching.. the 'what ifs' sown merely by whispers and worries. The pair could hold society in their tendrils of manipulation without even being seen.
And she emerged from the door a new being. Loyal to herself, what used to be Cee was now the Ancient of Oppression. Grey with insanity her arms clutched a mirror of her former self, young and beautiful. Her arms bound in vines which then formed another set of arms. Snap's vice like grip on Concetta remained, even in this form, binding her eyes and mouth and using her humanoid body in a now, fully mutual existence.
Posted: Sat Jun 14, 2014 12:16 pm
Mmur's bright eyes snapped open, his arms tightening across his chest as he turned his sightless gaze on Nkosazana. He was so afraid of everything: where he was, what they were doing here, the priestess herself. He couldn't even summon the words to tell her to back away, to leave him while he recovered from his sourceless hysteria. Mmur lowered his hand, intending to summon his whip, but that attempt at defense failed as well. He didn't even notice her compulsion to speak in riddles at first, not until the maze of rooms around them dissolved into thin air, or rather, a delicate spiral staircase with no end in sight. The horseman's racing heart began to slow, especially when he realized that the stairs were not in his head. He could see again. The soldier's grip around his torso loosened, and his giggle was soft but wild.
"This horseman is not as sullen as he was a moment ago," Mmur said, pushing himself to his feet and holding out his hand to help Nkosazana back to hers. "Did your strange questions leave with my blindness?" He was still quite shaky, but relief lent him strength and the resulting wobbliness was easy enough to hide. He peered around her at the stairs, remembering their mission to get to the top.
"Shall we?"
- - -
He lost sight of his companion once he reached the landing, the rainbow of portals surrounding him capturing his focus more effectively than the presence of one of his own. Seven doors. Was he meant to go through one? All? He supposed the only way to find out was to try one. Which one wasn't a question. Mmur strode forward, and without hesitation, entered the golden door.
Once inside, he wondered why his choice had been so immediate, so inevitable. The emblem in front of him felt unmoving, old-fashioned, and not at all welcoming. He longed to change it, but it reminded him so much of home that he couldn't bear to touch it. Instead, he flowed around it, engulfing Pride, and he adapted himself to it.
Ever since he had grown conscious of himself and his place in the herd, Mmur had been happy in his role as a fighter, protecting those who had more value as thinkers than soldiers. He upheld the traditions of his people just as rigorously as any other of his kind, and even as he changed in the face of Pride, Mmur still longed for that structure and the power horsemen commanded as a result. Or maybe he simply wanted that power for himself.
He stood tall beside nobles, chieftains, and priestesses, making his voice heard, but not in the usual ways. He was insidious, suggestive, persuasive. He had all the time in the world to convince them that he was right, and he used the hours in between to see the worlds. Humans might have been inferior to his kind, but they were no less interesting to him than a parrot would be to a human child. Colorful, chattering creatures that sometimes made delightful snacks.
Mmur paused, a single thought crossing his mind before he made his true transformation. Did humans eat parrot?
The horseman's skin began to crack, fine fissures of gold running from his shoulders to his fingertips and from his hip bones to his toes, consuming his existing tattoos and marking him with new ones that ebbed and flowed as he did. His eyes glowed a brighter, almost blinding blue, and he felt more at ease with this form and everything about himself, at least until he stepped out of the room, away from the altar and Pride. His confidence dipped drastically then, but his determination did not waver. He had to see this through. It was his duty.
[ Mmur / Pride / Loyal to Death / Ancient of Adaptability ]
Night - Black Door - Loyal to Self - Ancient of Superstition
Night didn't know how he ended up in a tower but here he was. Wandering around. Like usual.
He actually followed the stairs up, skipping and whistling as he hit the top. Doors doors doors. So many doors. He eyed each of them carefully but none of them really called to him.
Well that wasn't true, The black door did call to him. But did he want to go through it? Did he want to play this game?
His tail flicked back and forth as a grin spread. Of course he did!
---
He entered the room, gazing carefully at the emblem and then proceeded to go up and touch it. It fast forwarded him to a time he knew. A time he wanted.
He knocked over a container of salt. He walked under ladders. hell, he was a black cat who strolled moonlit nights on Friday the XIII. he was every epitome of a symbol of bad luck, of something cursed, of misfortune.
He loved it. Watching them suffer, watching them grow in fear of his power. When he died, his deeds lived on, like a spider web that everyone was caught in. It would start so simple, the little rumors, the little tips and tricks to keep yourself lucky. But they were careless and they grew in fear of stupid things, like stepping on cracks...of breaking mirrors, swalling bubblegum. And he grew in power, until his curse spread so far, everyone feared it.
It was fun fun fun fun fun.
He felt the power awakening, calling to him. He was Superstition at it's finest. And all that would meet him would meet with a very...unlucky fate.
