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The world started dissolving around them, leaving them exactly one escape route. That was fine, the top of the tower was where Taima wanted to be anyway. She was disappointed to find that, once there were no more stairs to climb, there was no promised portal home but seven doors. Unfortunately, none of them were clearly marked with an "EXIT" sign.

Taima paused, hesitant as she felt the pull of the doors. Some of them were repellant to her, and she knew without opening them that they would only lead her to places she didn't want to go. She paused by the blue door, intrigued by the warmth it exuded and the safety it promised. It was familiar in a way that felt like it could have been home, but only in another life. Taima didn't dwell in the past more than she had to. She lived for today and tomorrow and the days after that, for the promise of new experiences and adventures. She didn't need safety; safety was boring. She walked through the green door and found only an altar with a strange symbol burning on top, beckoning her closer.

One day, Taima was so enamored of a storm that she created from nothingness and willpower that she relinquished her hold on her corporeal form and became a part of it. It grew to become a devastating monsoon, fed by her care and the power of all that she had once been. It was as close to death as her species ever came, but it wasn't anything to be scared of. There was no greater feeling than creating something and sending it out into the world, loving it so much that you literally gave everything to it.

She would live on in the memories of those who had hid from her, terrified, who would have to rebuild as a result of their efforts and would feel anxious and worried anytime they ever saw a cloud in the sky again. She was the sky now, and the rain, and every chuckle of thunder. There were parts of her in everything for as long as it took for her to fully disperse, and then there was only the memory of her devotion.

Her dedication to her creation was shared by many who could not give themselves so fully to their own labors of love. Artists, writers, inventors, anyone who felt so enamored of the things their time and efforts were being poured into could relate, even if wasn't quite to the same degree. Their blood, sweat, and tears were tribute to her and the sacrifice she had made in the honor of the things she loved. Their devotion escaped with every brushstroke, word, or recalculation, and eventually, the sky began to take notice.

What started as a gentle rain soon became a torrent that discouraged people from leaving home unless they had to. It gave the devoted more time to work, and it allowed the uninitiated the opportunity to find something that drove them to equal heights of passion. The torrent became a hurricane that washed those less committed away, leaving only the truly faithful and their undiluted love.

From the sky, a bird was born.

Taima, who always kept herself so determinedly temperate, knew she had potential she hadn't yet tapped not for lack of wanting to, but for fear of the consequences. She wasn't old or powerful enough to lose herself to the storm, not nearly, but she could create--and she could destroy just as easily. There was a thin line between passion and fury, and it would be up to her to find a balance between the two. She needed to. It was the only way for her to grow. She couldn't--would never--rely on anyone to pull that out of her. As ever, she would find her way herself.

((taima; creation; loyal to self; unlocked memories; ancient of passion))

The staircase was an endless thing that stretched upwards, yawning up into the dark oblivion. There was nowhere else to go, if he wanted to move-- lest he stymie there forever-- nowhere but up. The stairs crumbled beneath skeletal feet with every step, the wreckage evaporating before fading away entirely in silent protest.

Lurks did not want to be here.

But, still. He ascended, wishing that the stairs were sand and that the walls were limestone, that the air above him was clear and blue instead of a black and eternal void. There was no going back, now: there was a force shepherding him along, ushering him upwards into the beyond. It was hard to remember, sometimes, why he was here. It wavered in the corners of his mind, foggy and elusive.

(He did not know it, but it was Death, ageless and timeless. It was one thing to be old-- Lurks was old, the Mother was old, the clans were old-- but Death had always been and would always be, a key part of the grand, universal cycle: Watch. Kill. Reap. Rebirth. Young scavengers are taught to wait reap their harvest but leave enough cowering behind to recover, so that you may destroy again once the chattel have replenished. Human history was painted in blood, and Halloween's, too, had a hideous underbelly, rife with secrets and pacts and broken oaths.

But what was his history? What was his cycle?)

The top of the stairs bled out into an open space: seven doors, seven rooms, seven fates to behold. They whispered promises and lies, but there was only one that fit the scavenger Lurks Beneath.

Black was close, and he fluttered to it, shadowy wings unfurled behind him, a collection of scattered black insects falling from his hands and mouth to explore it. It was close-- near and dear to his heart-- but it was cold and Lurks was anything but.

The only other option-- Blue, Gold, White, Violet, Green: all disregarded-- was red.

He laughed to himself, manic. For the first time, the idea dawned on him that perhaps it was not so bad, here, in this tower of potentials. Beyond the red veil was an altar, singing its siren song for him to get closer and closer still. Curling skeleton-bone fingers around the emblem, Lurks Beneath held it and in turn--

It held him. His mind. His essence. His fear--

--

This skirmish is not the first you have seen, not by a dozen, not by a thousand-- but it might be your last. You thought you knew what age meant, once, but that was a long time ago. Humans have advanced far beyond what you thought capable, and the weak ones stand by the strong, wielding technology as weapons together, charging in sync. Your brother is gone, the mother is gone, all the chattel you once knew-- all gone.

They are taking the lair, and it is the only one you have left. Feral and wild, you lash out to protect what is yours: the cages of the crying and the meek, the cellblocks of stronger-willed creatures tamed to be your pets. They are the fruits of your harvest, decades of work and breeding and culling from around the globe-- and they are here to take it all.

You may be old, but you are not strong enough to stop them from taking your most precious possessions. The glow of yellow light slices through your ribs, and you think of your first chattel so long ago, willful and strong and hateful that he needed you.

Since then, you have made better pets, forged from tears and wrought from flesh removed, branded chattel kept docile the way animals should.

It means nothing, now, because you dissipate beneath the flames of your burning home, and they kill you again, and again, and again, and again--

Until you do not die.

Instead of fading away to reform, your body gleams red and black, the air rushing out of the room with the force of your awakening. The flames do not extinguish: they leap, licking at the walls and spreading down the corridors, and like a revanant, you follow suit. They thought they kill you in your home with all your belongings, but you are--

What are you?

You do not have a name, not anymore. You are the Ancient of Imprisonment, and they have breached your lair. You are the Ancient of Imprisonment, and you will drag them down into the ground, until they are yours, too.

Howling with laughter tinged with fire, you realise this:

No one will take anything from you ever again.

--

Lurks snapped out of the vision with a startled jump, inspecting his god-self with awe. This is what he could be? If it would take losing everything to never lose anything, would the sacrifice be worth it? There were wisps of smoke emerging from his cracked bones, the tell-tale yellow of insanity.

"Oh," he said, grinning in a way that showed every one of his teeth, "Oh."

[ quillan - green door (creation) - ancient of triteness ]

Quillan had been hoping that when the rooms had dissolved, leaving only a staircase, that the staircase would lead him out of wherever this was, but as he climbed higher and higher, it got harder and harder to believe it, as much as he wanted it to be true. Ever since he’d somehow ended up in the desert, he’d had a bad feeling about what would happen. He’d managed to enter the vicinity of the Haunted House, as he’d found out later, by carelessly wandering after eating lunch. Drowsy, the door handle the ink demon had grabbed, thinking it was the entrance to his dorm room, had actually belonged to the Haunted House. He’d entered the building after being transported, only to find it vacated for the most part, and the few remaining creeple running for their lives. Quillan followed them into several rooms. At the moment, all he had were himself, these crumbling stairs made of stone, and the darkness. He was worried that he would trip or miss a step and down, down, down he would fall. He could only imagine how far down it was, considering how long he’d been walking and how everything merged into the void. After what seemed like forever, Quillan noticed glowing lights coming from above and what seemed to be an end to the stairs. He quickly made his way up, the task eased by the light and the knowledge that there was an end. At last, the boil reached the top.

On the last floating island of stone were seven rooms, each emitting a different color – red, gold, green, black, blue, violet, and white. Quillan knew he had to pick a door. However, he didn't know which one. Each of them seemed to have different aspects that correlated with the color they glowed, and they called to him – some stronger than others. He finally decided to walk through the green door, which he seemed to call to him the most. He walked through and glanced around, but there was only an altar. He reached for the symbol, the fact that it seemed to be burning over the altar didn’t even pass through Quillan’s mind, and touched it.

He was lying on his deathbed, old and weary. His physical capabilities were fading, just as his creativity had many long years ago. After graduating from Amityville Academy, he became a writer. His first book was praised far and wide and acknowledged, but it only went downhill after that. Each succeeding book got worse and worse until his name drifted into the darkest corners of ancient rooms, never to be mentioned again. After dabbling in other professions without much success, he gave up writing once and for all – after all, his passion in life had always been writing fiction, and Quillan being who he was, found it impossible to write anything decent without inspiration. His family refused to acknowledge that he was related to them, as if admitting so would only bring them bad luck. Now as he was dying, he knew what he would be remembered as – not as the author of a few very successful books but as the author who ran out of ideas and wrote books that hardly qualified as readable. Quillan couldn't help but wonder what went wrong – what made him different from his ever so successful sibling and parents. What he’d sought were ideas that no one ever had before and he wanted to be the “original”. However, that highly improbable of happening, considering how many beings there were and how long they've existed. Realizing this and greatly needing money, the writer had turned to popular ideas and clichés. In the end, he came to represent those overused ideas that he tried as hard as he could to avoid, but always followed him.

He moved slowly up the steps, and was surprised to find he was not alone. The tower didn’t seem as conscious as other Halloween buildings, or maybe it knew and just didn’t need to bother splitting them up.

He walked, close to Rin, surrounded by hunters and darker shadows he couldn’t make out. The stairs were filled with the echoing shuffle of many soles, all marching up and up on the stone steps. Up to where? They had no idea, but all logic said that everything valuable in a tower was on the top, and they were here for that end, be it treasure or answers. There was only the hope they would be rewarded for their efforts and persistence.
The stones behind them started to fall, a silent statement that said that going back now was not an option. There was only one direction now, and their decision was final. Even the falling stairs did not clatter and crumble with a crash and clang, but just simply acted, as if politely escorting them all from behind.

Was it a trap? He wasn’t sure. The bad thing about a tower is that, if the stairs were taken, eventually you had to make yourself down.

It was dark above, a gapping sky with no stars, and he followed up with the others, feeling as if he was falling up into an abyss, swallowed by a black hole to become nothing. With this many people around, he had to take a deep breath and calm himself. At least if he went to whatever destination, he wasn’t alone. There were people around him, people he knew and did not, but all a collective unite of one goal and desire under the same flag.

A flag he was part of and could take safety in.

The darkness changed and Melvin jerked as he miss-stepped and found that the stairs stopped and they were all in a large, circular room.
Was this the top?

He stood, and all around were colored doors. Colored – just as how the pools had been. It seemed that the tower was very aware of some sort of meaning to these colors, and he wondered if he would find one where he aged forever. It was a terrifying idea.

A door called, and like Rin, he too turned to the blue door. She moved and he was beside her, and he stared at this door. Blue. He had been blue once. A kingdom of blue where he had “a thousand enemies,” as reminded by the King and Queen, where his best friends stabbed him through face to face, in order to protect him from others. A form of distorted love that had left him shaken and frozen to the core.
It had only been a few days before he and Rin had gone to the tattoo parlor together, and he touched his arm where the gauze patch was still placed, the sting of the blue rabbit still healing. The memory of the sting from that blade having yet to.

In that world, he had been valuable as a key player to the group, but he had been just as frightened and scared as a rabbit would have been. Even now, he clung to his friends for their help and protection, and envied those around him with more experience and power. He wanted and desired their security and acceptance, felt calm in their safety, but was always worried when they were too far or when he upset them and lost their trust. To be alone was to be vulnerable. To be alone was to stand alone.

In that envy, he wanted to be the protector. He wanted to be strong, powerful, and to be the person that could stand on his own and offer his own power and protection to others. He wanted other people to need him, rely on him, and to take comfort in his security. He wanted to be the branches to which they could stay under and heal. He wanted to keep tehse people safe, and most of all, he wanted them to need him and value him. To look up to him. To be the hero they talked about in good terms, happy for his company instead of upset or agitated by every word he said. To treasure the time together, to be a family he could help. To be a team he had often wanted and never got.

He wanted these things, and in that want, his skin started to crack. It turned dark, hardening to a shell, and split to expose blue, glowing markings that grew on his body. His body extended and rose, and from his ears, hair, and shoulders, branches grew. Around him, large, blue daggers formed, rotating about him with a blue glow of barriers that reminded him of safety from allt he times he was in battle. The leaves above split open to show blue leaves, giving off a harsh glow, and his eyes, already blue, turned almost white. The colors of his clothes turned o white and gold armor, and he felt sturdy, strong, and all encompassing. Those near could stay close and be safe, and those against him would meet resistance.

Those who would harm him would find themselves unable to reach him, as each body grew a new limb, and a barrier prevented those from getting close that were not otherwise close to him. Those close to him, those he cherished and wanted beside him, would find safety under his leaves. No harm would come to them. He wouldn’t’ allow it.

He inhaled deep as he rose up, touching his face as he took steady breathes and looked around to gain his bearings. He touched his skin to find it soft still, not rough like bark, before he noticed Saliva beside him. Her weapon was a lavish gold among red, much like his own scarf matched the gold of his uniform.

“Saliva?” He asked.

I’m fine. She responded, and he felt relieved.
He picked her up and got to his feet.

Melvin Wood – Protection – Harm

Darren had been climbing for a very, very long time. He wasn’t sure how long it had taken to reach the top of the tower but he was quite glad to have gotten there. With a small sigh of relief, he took a moment to try and gather his bearings and when he did, he noticed all he doors. Darren had never been good at puzzles, and this smelled like a puzzle. He frowned, looking around the doors. The blue one seemed to draw him the most and he slowly moved toward it.

Once he reached the door he entered cautiously, on the off chance it was a trap. Finding it led to a room with an altar and an emblem he froze for a moment, hoping he would not run into the room’s primary occupant and ready to act as subservient gofer for that creature should it return. But finding the room empty, he nodded and slowly drew closer to the altar, reaching out gently toward the emblem. If he’d ever done this at the coven he’d of been beaten near to death if not to death.

His fingers grasped the blue glowing emblem and everything began to fade…

He had been a hero, he was loved by those around him, by those who did not know him. He had saved them all from a horrible fate – the end of the world and worse. He was the strongest protector they had ever had, and now he lay dying – one last battle to save the world had been too much. But he had averted the crisis, he had saved them all and his death was not in vain.

They wept for him, reaching out to him as he lay there, dying. He reached out to them, his last shaky breaths fading away even as he did. But he did not fade completely. Their love and adoration kept him bound, kept him there to protect them – to ensure that his legacy would continue. They erected statues, monuments, they made films and specials about him.

He continued to live on in their hearts and so did he grow in strength, he continued to protect them, even as they protected him from the cold void of whatever Aether would claim him. He grew stronger, stronger, until finally the shadow came. The Night Hag was old, and worn, she bore a pair of scissors, and she chopped up his soul, sewing him together into a strange amalgam of grey parts. He whimpered as she worked, but she just clucked her tongue at him and continued her work.

Darren did not wake as Darren, but as the Ancient of Obedience. His eyes were covered in a dark cloth, but they shown through with a bright blue glow. His wrists were bound with long shackles connected to a worn collar around his neck. His clothing was ragged, his face a wolf’s maw, ears nicked and worn.

He would make them all obey. That was his legacy.

[ Harland ] [ Blue Door of Protection ] [Locked Memories]

It was strange. It was new. Harland was unused to thinking, consistently, of a person he wished he was with. As he found himself at a platform, rising step by step to a selection of glowing doors, he couldn’t help but think I wish Alistaire was here, so I could speak with him. He ran a hand through his sunny hair, and looked over at the glowing blue door.

Like Alistaire’s eyes, he thought. He turned red, smiling to himself. Well, so long as Alistaire didn’t know he’d thought that, he would just go ahead and let himself in. Which he did. Inside the door, there was an altar. It had an emblem burning above it, and as Harland reached out to oblige its call it reached into him. It gripped him.

He stood in a plains land where life was just beginning to return: plants were coming back, one of a few recent rains wet the earth, it was a good temperature. And his sheriff’s badge glinted as he turned his head. He was lying on the ground, and both his hands were being held. The water below him was slick with blood, but he was smiling.

They were saying his name, cheering for him. He had saved them. Protected them. Loved them, brought life back to their piece of land. He was their hero. Harland felt his heart swell; all he had ever wanted, all he’d ever needed from life. To save, as it was his own salvation. He felt someone pull him up into their arms as they wept, and he smiled as he felt life slip away. It hurt. Dying hurt a lot.

And yet, afterwards, he was passed down as a legacy. His story spread, and in that way he protected the land even after his death. A formidable power, set to keep them safe beyond the veil. He grew, in order to keep them safe. Grew stronger. Taught threats to fear them, to fear him and he did so with absolute resolve.

He finally knew what he was meant to be. A pure form, a pure being, Harland distilled to the last form. Transcendence. How was it that he had grown, had drawn so much power? Fear of Transgression; it was self-perpetuating. As he was cast back into his body by the tower, his dream of being a hero faded, but he still remembered.

His locked memories were unlocked, and he grieved for what he remembered, but it hurt him more that he had ever lost the truth of what he had known. Auberon’s death, the sheer agony of his childhood after he had become strange. His mother’s fear of him. Harland bore those burdens as part of who he was, and what he stood for. He had no desire to shed them again.

She doesn't quite understand what she is doing here, nor what this place is.

But the black door calls out to her, and that emblem reminds her a time long long ago, that stirs in her memories, and she cannot help but reach out to it.

Before her is the witch, white-haired and looking oh so amused as her tentacles dangle out her skin in front of her. So close, and yet so far... she wants to take a step forward, but something in her mind yells out caution, and warns her that it could very well be a trap.

There is always a price. She has learned that the hard way.

"I don't believe you." She whispers, rooted in her position.

"Just take it." A voice hisses from the shadows and her blood turns to ice. It is the voice of her father, and Marzena finds that she doesn't quite understand what is going on. Why is he here? What is he...

She watches, wide-eyed and perplexed, as he steps out in front of her, and the witch reaches forward to rest a tentacle on his shoulder. "Now, now, Manfred."

She is at a loss for words. She attempts to choke out words, but there is only air and disbelief, her fists slowly clenching at her side as she slowly starts to piece it all together. "How could you?" She finally speaks in a low whisper, every word punctuated with anger and despair.

"Take your skin." He says.

"No." She whispers, shaking her head. "You... and her... How could... why would you..."

"If you don't take it, I will burn it away." Her father hisses and she can only watch as the witch dangles it over an open fire where her cauldron once bubbled.

And then she snaps.

She lunges forward and claws at his face with her fingernails, but he is stronger than her, and always will be; he reminds her as his hands close around her slim wrists and shove her towards the rocky walls of the cavern.

They burn it and she feels as though the fire is within her, shriveling her insides. She curls up in anguish and screams, yells murder and treason, her ocean blue eyes dark with hatred as he picks up her limp body and tosses her out.

She lies there, in the shallow waters as the waves wash over her empty husk of a body. No. It is not empty.

It is festering with emotion, dark angry burning emotion that are like tendrils that take root in her and slowly spread throughout her body, from her stomach, reaching out to her toes and the tips of her fingers.

The darkness takes a hold of her.

A shadow appears right before her and reforms into a dark beast with spotted fur. It resembles a cheetah, lean and with a narrow waist, with long powerful legs and a dark snarl, as it tells her that this is who she is right now, and who she will be.

And she lets it take over.