Spit You Out

[Pharaoh]

SPIT YOU OUT

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Resigned though he may have been to his own fate as the bayonet pierced his flesh, the sting of its kiss stirred the former demon's soul. For his own soul was the least of his worries as the blade tore free of his torso to be aligned beneath his chin. As the blood began to pool, his final fading thoughts were not of his own eternal soul, but of those he'd doomed in an ill-starred gambit. Intercepted by Divine Forces ere it could empower him, the Sacrifice was rejected... redirected to what may have been the worst possible doom, for the God of Suffering's domain could hardly be described as a final resting place. What misery the staff of The Hobbled Gobbler had endured in life would be nothing compared to the cruelties Malgar would innovate for them in his abject hereafter.

If only...

It was a half-formed thought, interrupted by the bayonet piercing Franky's brain, but behind that nascent notion was a force of will; an intention potent enough to fight the pull of eternity that beckoned his soul toward some other plane. He didn't know what the end of that tunnel portended, peace, perfidy or oblivion, but he knew he was not prepared to go gentle into that night.

It was no simple thing to vie with natural forces as ancient and primal as death. Reality quaked and quivered around him, and it was already passing strange to exist incorporeally, let alone to navigate his formless existence away from its intended course. He didn’t even know where he wanted to go, only what he wanted to do… Save them. That clarifying intention was enough for the universe, it seemed, and soon he was hurdling far from Zaichaer. He didn’t know how far or for how long he travelled, as he shifted in and out of consciousness perceiving things in different terms than he ever had in life. It might have been seconds, it might have been years, but by and by he was somewhere. Waking he would glance down to find he had hands, a torso, legs. But something felt off. He wasn’t resurrected, he was just… elsewhere. His body was illusory, as were his surroundings. It was as if he was in a dream, because that’s exactly where he was, albeit not within one of his own subconscious devising.

At the centre of this finite world surrounded by boundaries of individual perception, Franky would find a familiar face. A strapping young man, formerly of Zaichaer, who was currently engaged in a battle with some sort of fungal-feline hybrid which leapt around an unpopulated plaza in a non-descript city that resembled Zaichaer, but not very much so. Once his dream assailant was dispatched, Myles would notice Franky in his periphery… looking as he had the last time the human had laid eyes upon the goblin.

!

Message from: Pharaoh

Note: Myles and Franky may continue on from here. I’ll keep an eye out and bomb if it seems warranted, but I have no specific plans to contribute beyond this opening prompt. You may choose to continue on in the dream or wake Myles from his slumber, at which point he will known that Franky is still tethered to him. I purposely left the date open-ended, so you can choose a time that suits you both. This can take place moments or months after Franky’s death in Zaichaer on 33 Searing 123. Aegis has chosen to have Franky continue on as a ghost, per the evolving rules for undead PCs. Franky is now tethered to Myles Arnett. As a ghost, he can only use Ghost Skills unless Possessing someone. The rules and caveats are similar to those under which Æros currently writes and the tether between Franky and Myles operated similarly to the bond between Æros and Hilana outlined here: viewtopic.php?t=4459&start=20 Rules/Caveats pertinent to Franky are as follows: 1. As Franky possessed no magical skills in life, his soul remains unmarked by runic magic and it may not be practised in death (Aside from the magicks endemic to a ghostly existence, e.g. Possession & Haunting). 2. When not Possessing someone or Haunting a location, Franky is forcibly snapped back to Myles which expends both his miasma as well as increases his mental deterioration. The further he must travel, the greater the cost. 3. Ghost skills function similar to Magic in the sense that they must be actively used in thread in order to gain points in them. 4. Possession may be used on Myles as the Tether solely if he gives consent. It cannot ever be forced upon him, regardless of Franky's skill level. 5. Franky’s entire bond to the plane of the living is due to his unfinished business. An unknown agent of Fate bound his spirit to the body and soul of Myles Arnnett. Myles will feel an inexplicable compulsion to help Franky and Franky will inherently understand that Myles is meant to participate in his quest to spare the souls he doomed to Malgar’s ruthless realm. If Franky ceases to pursue this path, his spirit’s hold upon the mortal plane will deteriorate. If he wholly abandons this mission, he will dissipate into the afterlife, unable to return. Franky will understand that once his mission is successful, he may choose to join the souls he saved in a kinder hereafter than that in which they currently suffer. If Franky pursues personal ambitions that forestall or work in opposition to his primary quest, this will take a toll on his sanity and connection to the mortal plane. Personal ambitions that complement his quest, will sustain his sanity and strengthen his connection to the world of the living.

[Myles Arnnett]

Ash 2nd, 2:47 AM

Never a word, never a sound from the girl he’d traveled with for a year now, voice stolen by the end of Zaichaer, by shock or by magic had she lost her voice, Myles was never sure…

When he awoke to the scream he knew however immediately whose voice it was crying out. As his eyes bolted open he was not met with the darkness of night but violent dark violet light that burned his eyes and warped the visage of the room. Across the room the girl sat holding her head as she cried out in agony as arcs of black lightning crackled out from the dragonshard in her brow. Myles had seen it flare before, but never to this degree, never to a degree where he’d seen Eyla in such pain. A fearful realization of what needed to happen flooded over him like a calm rush of boiling ice in his veins. Fumbling in his pack Myles produced a vial of black ink and a brush. Halstily uncorking the stuff Myles dipped the brush into the vial spilling it’s contents in his haste but getting what he needed nonetheless. Marking his palms with inverted arrows pointing towards his wrists he completed the initial rune with two prongs or teeth facing his fingers, the bite, the draw rune, Myles absorbing mirror rune, then from the arrows sloppy vines down his wrist. Drawing as quickly as he could he watched the magic that danced around Eyla, it seemed the more destructive effects of the magic avoided her even as they scorched the bed and walls around her. Finally the roots and thorns of the vine which were to disperse the magic from the bite to his flesh where without direction it would run rampant through his body. Parts of him screamed for him not to do this, even without trying to absorb the chaotic magic from the girls voidrillium shard he’d been scorched by it many times, yet he would now invite that ravaging magic into himself.

With the runes from palm to elbow completed Myles pressed his elbows together rolling his arms against each other and pressing the wet ink from arm to both. Looking at the shoddy desperate runes Myles was satisfied with their symmetry, they’d last long enough to drain the worst of the excess magic he hoped. “I’m so sorry Eyla, Just bear with it, I’m gonna make it stop.” Stepping through the field of magic that now surrounded his foster daughter Myles moved quickly even as the dark static made his muscles twinge and spasm, in what felt like many moments but had only been the span of a second from the moment he’d stepped forward Myles clasped the dragonshard with both hands.


There was a sound like lightning striking the tallest trees in drathera. Then all was black, at least for Myles…


Somehwere in the blackness he swore he could here her calling, his daughter, or some part of her stollen by magic, but he wasn’t strong enough to see her. Floating in the black nothing his consciousness had retreated to escape the physical agony of what he’d done.

But there was more to it than that, something had pull on his mind, as if the blackness he lay in was not that of deep sleep or unconsciousness nor even coma, but that his soul was truly balancing on the knives edge of the void he’d grasped.

Fighting the comfortable sleep offered by his failing system Myles fought, to hear the call, to open his eyes. Rather than darkness however, a strange, familiar but totally foreign arena lay before him, Facing him in this unfamiliar arena was a familiar foe, a creature from the depths of the world where Myles had once ventured, something he’d killed before, and he could again. Rushing forward Myles embraced the madness of his dreaming mind even as a nagging sensation of something being off pervaded through his bones.

These… fungelions, he believed were apex predators and a threat to even an armed unit, but Myles had learned, that with being on the attack at all times, the creatures had not evolved to handle animals that stood their ground, and so like before, he waited tell the creature lunged before falling backwards beneath the creatures leap, sword upturned allowing the creature to sunder it’s innards with its own momentum.
In moments it was over, and Myles shoved the heavy corpse off of himself, rising covered in it’s viscera. Myles cast his eyes about looking for what was next, dark violet energy crackled across his nearly translucent flesh, tracing dark veins that pressed against the flesh like roots of an old growth forest.
Pointing the sword at the phantom before him Myles grimaced. A memory of zaichaer, a vestige of failure and regret stood before him. His grimace tore into a snarl as he charged the apparition, wanting not to be reminded of his shame.

[Franky]

If only... I could free them.

I could free them.

Free them.

Free.

A gasp broke through before the specter of a man did. Tumbling through a universe, where time, space, mind and matter seemed to matter little, seeing an infinitely incomprehensible vortex of everything and nothing, a ghost stumbled into a dream. The gasp was not required of the ghost of the Hobgoblin, or of any ghost, but was simply a relic of a life he no longer had.

Nor yet realized.

Taking in his surroundings, Franky felt his brain confused, in a fog. Wasn't he just in Zaichaer? Where were the buildings? The rift? He winced as he remembered the face of the unknown goddess that had bound him, dropping to a knee, clutching his chest, remembering the pain of having Hobbie ripped from him and destroyed.

Raising his gaze, he saw a face that looked sort of familiar, and somehow not. A man wielding a sword, swirling with dark energies, lost in a maniacal rage. The man was built like an absolute brick shithouse, all muscle and confident in his attacking approach.

Franky's training as a soldier kicked in immediately and with ease. He reached for his own sword, not finding it. He looked down. Shit. Unarmed. Eyes up. Stance lowered, prepared to move, he saw the man death gripping his sword, practically crushing the pommel with those muscles of his.

As the first slash came down, it did not sing as a blade wielded properly should. It wobbled, too much strength, not enough finesse. Sloppy. Franky was already stepping in beneath the swing. He gave the man a shove on the turning shoulder, grunting at just how heavy this beefhead was. And how solid his back was.

Fuck.

But sending the oaf off balanced was enough, the sword lodging into the ground, the man's weight carrying him forward. Franky was swinging out the sting in his hand as he approached the sword that was wobbling back and forth. He snatched it up, out of the ground, wondering why this man looked familiar and why he was attacking him in such a craze.

He was quick to follow the man, not looking to get himself killed. As he moved, the sword flowed as a fluid extension of himself, and he swung it towards the man's midsection, a feint to lure the man's guarding arms down to protect himself. Then with a quick flick in the wrist, Franky looked to crack the man right in the brow with the dull edge of the blade. It would break some skin but certainly not some bone, the intention being to knock this man out and see if he might find his senses when more restrained.

[Myles Arnnett]

When Franky’s blade struck Myles brow, the world exploded, or at least seemed to, the forces of the explosion were not present but the sounds and visuals very much said the world was ending. The Sky shrieked as the scene was ripped asunder, a maudlin werelight flooded the scene in crimson and violet light, many dream like remnants of Zaicher lay crumbled about the scene. Malformed and warped corpses of what had been soldiers and citizens alike shambled in the periphery, faces shifting, always familiar, but never quite right. It was the fall of Zaichaer, dramatized, filled with hyperbole created in nightmares. The very cobblestones crackled with energy and squelched up black ichor when strode upon as if the very ground had become saturated with death. The black and violet static that had clung to Myles was present on more things here, An undamaged corpse of a soldier no older than sixteen, a sign for a shop that pictured a faded but still clear image of a cinnamon roll wrapped in bacon, and a doorway behind Franky, that seemed to be crackling with energy, the door was covered in claw marks that the static danced in between.

Now in the center of the courtyard set a pillar of roiling dreadmist, frozen in the form of a great mushroom cloud, a great rift in the sky spilled its contents of bloody rain and clouds of poisonous aether, all frozen in the very air as if the moment of Zaichaers destruction had never ceased but paused indefinitely illuminating this wretched moment in time. This, was the nature of Myles mind, unnable to move on beyond what had been, and what was.

There was a keening wail above it all, an unfamiliar scream hosted by a mute child, the imagined voice that Eyla did not possess. As the scene stabilized Myles Still stood, still cloaked in black static, but his countenance had changed, rage, tempered by sorrow, by fear.

Standing opposite Franky Myles pointed his sword at the hobgloblin’s chest. “You’re dead! Zaichaer is DEAD!” Bellowing as he rushed Franky again Myles grimaced, Franky had indeed knocked some sense back into him with his strike but he was not made of that which would shatter from a single blow. Running forward Myles prepared another heavy crushing strike Sword arm raised above his head well in advance. But before they collided, about two steps before striking range Myles Flung his sword forward letting it fall from his hand while letting his body fall to the left drawing his knees up to himself and interposing his shield between the two of them before kicking off the ground as hard as he could launching himself shield first into Franky’s Mid section.


“Just let me be!” He shouted, fearful of never being able to escape these constant nightmares, the presence of a figure that did not shift or seem to be an apparition of his mind standing before him shook him. Always in his dreams had these visions been warped, malformed by his terror, but the goblin, didn’t look like a monster, just a sad man… not a vision, something else, and that scared him all the more, he did not want to be judged for, he knew how he would have done the judging himself.

[Aegis]

REVIEW TIME

Per this SF post, viewtopic.php?p=29726#p29726 this is being retconned. As this was no fault of Myles own, he will receive full experience from this unfinished thread for this.

Myles
Loot: N/A
Injuries: N/A

Points: 12 EXP (10 for Collab, 2 for modbomb), may not be used for magic

Skills Used Eligible for Expert/Master Progression: N/A

Lore Development Opportunities: N/A

Comments: Best of luck, Short King.