ChickenBonanza
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Some time ago, I had thought about the reasonings for certain choices made by others, here. “Recklessly given freedom?” I would ask myself. “A warping against the vision of the world?” But then, I saw the light. It was an absolutely genius decision, and all that I know to be true shall assuredly be vindicated, frabjous.
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Anything that needs to change can be, no sweat. Understood, boss!
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As warning, much is uncertain. After all, to live is to exist in a state of uncertainty. Especially names. What even are those? Iunno if such an item is suitable, but that’s what you’re for!
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Hmm… I am conflicted upon this. Is it just to use the fruits of the Enemy’s existence to depose that Enemy? What is the range of ability of crimsion-infused items? The level of power? i gots the urge to Sommerswerd
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Crimsion? That which originates from Torvath? Whyever would someone even tolerate the existence of such filth, let alone use it?
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What would be the limits of something like this? We got magic-mind-health-bracelets, what other kind of things can exist?
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You fool, to leave a hook without bait! Thems what chums the waters. Those Blessed of Avaran? The fools. If this one were to make a character… hmm… to form an apostatic union… Then I doth say you shall surely rectify such disorder!
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Greetings and salutations! I usually refrain from posting on topics without prior involvement, but there be questions to ask. First, about the nature of the setting. What is ‘the City’? Why is it great? What is the Rivens, a district? Do there be other districts? What are gods? Human-like? More eldritch in nature? Whatever is common knowledge and such. Second, about the nature of the RP. Me needs a bit more elevator-pitching. What type of characters are we to be making? Are we to be emissaries, if we have a god’s blessing? True relationless wanderers? Members of the Valorous, maybe? What will be the general direction of the plot? Back-of-book blurbs. Third, terms! We needs ‘em defined all clear-like. Some are inconsistent or have some potential overlap, like swapping between ‘god’ and ‘deity’, or ‘effect’, ‘power’, and ‘gift’. ‘Materials’, I take it, are descriptions of words like ‘crimsion’, ‘ebony’, and such. Needs standardization!
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…the perfidious allan… needs to give me more material, so i can continue to bait with the future! -
In my heart. Routinely, we are bogged down by bureaucracy, you see. Details, bah!
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Released seal’s hiss. Claws retract. One set, another, more. Freed from the ports embedded within and between the gaps of one vertebra, another, more. Gasping, the inert corpse shuddered to life once more, born again for the thousandth time. Pale and bloodlet, shivering, feverish, sweating.
Exuvia opened as was bid. Front folded itself outward, exposing the endo and its therm to one compartment of many within a lone capsule suspended in the void.
“Howdy, Chaucer,” the homunculus greeted. “State yousself.”
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One cannot tell from this snip alone, but theoretically this would be a glimpse into an alternate Cosmere future scenario. Fanatics of the black half of the Harmonious Duality, or something. My own take on something else I’ve read on here. In this case, your answer would be ‘mostly no, the metaphor ran away from me.’ Suitably visceral, though, hopefully.
But! Call me EL James the way I could easily do away with the trappings of fanwork into something marketable. There, your answer would be ‘all is holy fusion of metal and flesh!’ Or one could go full ‘ganic, too. I am too shortsighted to see clearly.
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With a certain kind of attention—the one that she was best at, inexplicably, among her siblings—the Wind could see more of what really was, beneath the miasma that suffused the place of spirits. A gift her creator had bestowed upon her, she supposed. A penchant for the upcoming, a predisposition towards insight and musings of the future, inclinations best suited to assist in the carrying out of her bestowed duty. And Wind’s capacities had since grown beyond her creator’s expectations. Or, what she could only assume was her Origin’s expectations. A portion of their body lie within her grasp, free for her to use as she wished. For the moment, she wished to see. Existence could change so suddenly. In doing so, every new little thing demanded her attentions. They were made all the more available and enticing by the mantle Wind now donned. She could see a new world, so close to her own. A new people, humans, so different yet not from the singers she protected. Wind liked to think that by watching them, she could better understand her newest charge. …and the hints of his growing irritability, felt through the burgeoning Connection they all shared, and the neurosis coinciding with his initial departure. There was something to that, she knew, and it was imperative that she find out what.
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snip of an elder piece melikes. ignore tenses; it is an artifact untainted by editing
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It had sunk deep into the mire. The tree it sat against, long dead, had been slowly shorn in half. Dragged down by the dark stone ruin embedded within. A once vertical, larger than man threshold become an almost-burrow. Dregs of the world dug their way in to die.
Not these dregs. Not the Artau who stood above, reminiscing, arms crossed and hand-to-chin—nor the Whisper Wastes, whose face pressed close to the dark within, eyes peering with enlightened vision inside that place. Her hair dipped into mud and wet dirt. Artau made note of this.
With scoff and scowl, she tied wild hair behind her head, confessing a lack of knowledge to what lay further in, in her Wildlands way. A moment of consideration passed. Artau repeats, slowly, her words, verbatim. As if they took time to parse. He’s mocking her, as he has a hundred times before.
The Kai Lady flings mud.
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if you know, you’re an old
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The urge to write grows, but I am bereft of any clear task or target. No outlet with which to appease the building pressure. Many are the things in the past, but there they shall remain. Of the new? Nil. Hmm.
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“Bitterness does not flatter you,” Grace chides. “Please, place yourself above it, try on another feeling.” Desire begins their merciless extraction, but finds themselves stymied. The power of Odium, with similar animalistic zeal, interposes itself between Desire and their quarry. With every passing moment, the grip Desire has on Ambition’s creations weakens. They have given themselves over to a more beneficent goddess, and in doing so are placed entirely within her power. Instead, it is Odium to whom they are pulled. “Do not worry,” Grace says. “Unlike some, I see value in these poor beings. Not even you will harm them.” Enveloped in golden light, those who were once of Nerakalis transition from one Realm to another, cradled in the arms of a new patron, destined for elsewhere.
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Within Nerakalis, there existed a population who could only barely be classified as ‘people.’ Made not to live in truth, instead only to serve. To be enslaved as living tools, endowed with little but their reaching minds. Given a single directive, a sole purpose and reason to exist, from their source, creator, and god. Who was now gone, that god split and perhaps lost forever. Their position was vacant, and there were none more suitable for it now than Grace. To Desire, Grace sent congratulations on their Ascension, and kindly offered to handle a problem of theirs unbidden; the unwanted. They were so pitiful. Their huddled masses lost and struggling in the dark. Isolated in the lone cavern which housed them. Contending with that for which they were not built. Fear, pain. Odium adored them. To come to emotion despite their nature. But, they wouldn’t last forever, down there. Doomed to dwindle and die, discarded with disdain by Desire; they to whom Grace told that she would handle a problem for them. So, Grace appeared to those poor wretches. A dim, golden light suited to their untrained eyes and radiating through their souls. The Essence of Odium… with its more raging aspects toned down, regulated. Passion. The wonder of the wholeness of the spectrum that was emotion filled Nerakalis’ dregs, and to them Grace Isilyar spoke. Told them of a paradise. Of color and life, where they would experience what they deserved to experience, as free living beings. All that was needed was to turn themselves over to her power—those warm emotions—so she could protect and shelter them from the pain they now experienced, and worse. …every single one was to accept.
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With nothing more to gain from mere glimpses at the conversations of others, and spurred on by a growing incessant irritation sourced not from boredom, the power of an ordered world slipped subtly away. It’s presence to fade swifter than others of its class, out into a too-wide world, with an unknown trajectory towards an unknown one in particular, that which was unable to be parsed by the sight of others.
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Mascarose may be gone, but Order is not. No longer within the spotlight of the mind, but present. Lurking around the Selish. Waiting, watching. Muffled, but near enough for Mercy, Odium, and Desire to detect.
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The binding force of an Ascended being’s word locks into place, revocable only by mutual agreement. Mascarose’s heightened state falls away, and his Shard is once again contained within the guise of his simulacrum. A hard stare presses into the thing called Desire, then softer unto Odium, before landing unfocused upon Mercy. “Good,” is all he has left to say. Shadows from the folds of clothes black and silver claw and crawl across his features and form, burning him away into a dark, deathly incorporeal smoke, his presence gone.
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A nod of the head. “I will do nothing to impede your attempt to fulfill this agreement, so long as it does not bring harm to me or mine, and it’s completion is truthfully and consistently pursued.” There is a sensation. A force which brings the Shard called Order or Dominion and the Shard Mercy subtly but firmly closer. A pact is about to be made, all it needs is but one more word of assent.
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Sant Sommer purposefully ignores certain comments. “You will do so, wholly and only, with no ulterior motive, purpose, or effect, other than to gift the fuel required, and I shall leave Desire unharmed, at this junction. How much time do you request?”
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Mascarose turns to stare into unknown distance, the source clouded. “More distractions. Please, be available,” he utters in whisper, before turning back to Mercy, glowering. “You don’t care for any of this, do you? Espousing whatever you need to justify pursuit of a tainted vision. We could be United against a purely destructive force, but you all keep refusing and asking for incentives. Talk, Mercy.”
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Conviction burns. The entrenchment of an ideal, welling and fortifying itself. “I am,” Mascarose asserts. “You wish to stop me in a task I have already explained to you. I do not care about strength. It is not why I am here. You can have me promise to refuse the rest of Ambition. Leave ‘Desire’ alive. I do not care. I require only its Virtuosity.” He turns to sneer at the creature before him, emotions heating by the second. A rare sight. “This thing is unsuitable. I am unsuitable. You are unsuitable. Nothing is, then. Nothing we say can be trusted as the best option. You moralize to me that there are better choices than others. Tell me what is best, then. The ‘Maw’ is ‘unsuitable,’” Mascarose scoffs, “What should be done about it? I, too, act for others in this matter. I have been forced to.”
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