[Twi]Chronicles of the Impaler: Crisis of Infinite Draculas OOC

[industrious]

What's with the glacial rate of posting from everyone lately?

Anyways here is the second Chapter of Marcone's story.

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“No way in Hell Marcone.” Karren Murphy growled. Between the power vacuum created by the fall of the White Council and President Luthor’s deputation of every super powered individual with anti-social tendencies Chicago was not in good shape. The former police Captain was forced into an alliance with the Crime Lord to keep as much of both wars out of Chicago as was possible. Even with that in though she did not approve of Marcone throwing in with Foundation X, what little they knew about it did not sound good.

“What choice do we have? Sonozaki is uninformed but he is not a fool. He will call my bluff unless I follow through.” Marcone replied calmly, if anything the forced alliance amused him more than it really bothered him.

“Then follow through. Send some Berserkers to his front door and burn the factory down. We don’t need to join the Legion of Doom.” Murphy said.

Hendricks smirked. “Awfully brutal for one so into law and order.”

Marcone shot his man a glance which kept him quiet for the time being.

“As much as I’d like to see that it’s not an option. Amatersu does not take well to my kind coming on her turf. Even if it’s not divine business.” Gard spoke up. Unlike the others who started to feel the state of two cold wars crush their spirits and bodies, she looked even more lively and able than usual.

“I for one agree with Marcone. With Michael gone to Nightside and Molly on her little rampage in Europe we need some heavy hitters.” Bob the skull said from his place on Butter’s lap its eyes alight with amber glow. “Not to mention they got assassins like that Hopper woman,” followed promptly by a distressingly accurate replication of a grasshopper rubbing its legs together.

“Why did Planetary mail you back to us?” Gard asked with a slight sigh, while useful for unraveling magical mysteries Bob’s perverted tendencies were incredibly grating.

“Elijah said one perverted genius was already too much to deal with. Besides, The Drummer had already read all my information.” Bob explained.

“Back to the matter at hand,” Marcone said sternly to silence the derailed discussion. “I have no intention of letting Foundation X control us. This meeting is primarily to gain more information on them and to keep them out of our backyard until they can be dealt with. Is that satisfactory, Ms. Murphy?”

Karren ground her teeth as she got to her feet stepping away from the table. “I don’t like this Marcone, but go ahead. Meet with Sonozaki.”

***

Marcone was almost glad that the Foundation was based in Nightside, the mystical heart of London was just as alien to Sonozaki as it was to him. They were both men of windy cities, the hostile cold rain of Nightside was disconcerting. The small Japanese man stood at the entrance to the sub-city with a wide smile and a slight bow. “Marcone, I was worried you got lost.”

“Afraid not.” Marcone said as he returned the bow, another bit of unfamiliar custom but one he could get used to in time. “Lead the way.”

Sonozaki nodded and lead the gangster into Nightside. Marcone tried to internalize his reactions to Nightside's 'colorfulness'. To not let his horror show in the face as they were nearly run over by a truck with headlights blazing with the same hellfire as Denarian magic, the locals cursed it's name “Highwayman”. He managed to hold back for the most part, the only time he hesitated was when a stray line of anger crossed his face as he watched what appeared to be a Toddler insert a Gaia Memory into the back of it's neck to become some kind of anthropomorphic snake. A child barely alive had one of Sonozaki's memories, all the external destructive power of a gun with all the internal devastation of narcotics. It took all his might not to end the Memory Kingpin right then and there.

They made their way to a rather plain office building. Anywhere else it would be entirely inconspicuous but in Nightside amidst the overarching Gothic cathedrals, rundown pubs of soccer hooligan nightmares, post sanity Neo Art deco and other alien feats of impossible architecture a clean and orderly office building was by far the oddest sight. “We're here.”

“Not exactly subtle.” Marcone said as he made his way into the building. With no more than a foot in the door the influence of Nightside on the building was made apparent. It was halfway between a corporate board room and a war room. Hundreds of beings from ordinary humans to alien beings the likes of which Marcone ran from one room to another with a direct mindset that boarded on hive minded. Everyone of them had a purpose and knew it quite well, for someone who fought so hard to bring about order to the chaotic world of crime Marcone couldn't help but feel a certain sense of respect for the Foundation.

“It doesn't need to be. We control almost every shadow in Nightside, those that don't hold too close to their home worlds. We are expanding into the worlds but that will take quite some time.” Sonozaki explains.

“I see, well take me to whoever is in charge of this.” Marcone demands.

Sonozaki chuckles and shakes his head. “You don't just get to meet the leader. You have to prove you are serious about joining us.”

“Need I remind you who has the phone number of your local Warden?” Marcone threatened as he reached under his jacket for a gun.

Sonozaki smiled wider as he lifted his shirt to reveal a large metal belt with a USB slot. His other hand went for a Memory that declared it's function to be Terror. “We're not in your world anymore, nor is my local Warden a threat to my operation seeing as she was killed by a member of Nightwatch last year. It is your choice you can either join us or you will join the countless dead littering the back alleys of Nightside.”

If there was one thing Marcone doesn't like it's being played. Sonozaki had known the whole time that calling in the Japanese Wardens was a bluff and now Marcone had fallen into his trap. The gangster lowered his weapon and sighed. He could try to shoot the man but knowing what the Hopper dopant could do it is unlikely his weapon could do much here.“What do you want?”

“We seek to maintain a certain order amongst the dark side of the multiverse. Despite being a pure human with no special abilities you have kept order in Chicago.” Sonozaki explained. “We have many places that require order.”

As of right now I am opening the doors for membership into Foundation X. You guys get to help fill it's roster. I am looking for villainous men and women who do not want to watch the world burn nor do they want it to flourish but instead wish to see a status quo maintained. They are not omnicidal maniacs or terrorists who want to change the world but the Friendly Neighbourhood Gangsters of the whole multiverse. They are gangsters, dictators, kingpins and just about anyone who will save the world solely because "No Earth is bad for business."

Right now I have three members.

Leader -To be revealed later
Division head in charge of transformative narcotics - Sonozaki "Terror Dopant" Ryubee (Kamen Rider W)
Division head in charge of mundane Organized Crime - "The Gentleman" Johnny Marcone (Dresden Files)

I need some more members.

I don't know how willing Marcone is to be someone's underling, but if it's powerful enough, he's pragmatic enough to wait until he learns how to run the business and then take it over.

How about Wilson Fisk(Marvel)?

[Cracklord]

That, Colesign, was gorgeous. I take it the next one explains his actual joining of the Order?

Well, that is an interesting idea. Marcone isn't exactly taking orders, he's still running his own show, it's just he now works alongside a wider organization of badguys to keep things running nicely. If your taking cues from the Dresden Files, then I'd add Lara Raith. Given that it seems to be mostly gangsters, or at least two main members are, I'd extend that. Lots of organized crime roots in this organization. Maybe a less mad Batman villain?

I'd suggest Lex Luthor, except he actually brought down Shatterworld, so not really an option.

[industrious]

Given that Marcone is in it, Black Mask can't be there, since Marcone won't let kids get hurt.

It's also midterm time for me.

[darkblade]

I don't know how willing Marcone is to be someone's underling, but if it's powerful enough, he's pragmatic enough to wait until he learns how to run the business and then take it over.

How about Wilson Fisk(Marvel)?

Marcone's story is far from over. He is not going to take well to being under Sonozaki and the as of yet unseen leader. Much of the rest of this story will be him working to move up through the Foundation's ranks while trying to undermine their efforts.

[Cracklord]

Well, Black Mask is a fairly dull character anyway. No flair, no real application. Unfortunately, the only gangster who comes to mind who does have that is Tony Montanna, who, while awesome, is not cut out for this sort of work. Others, like the Corleone family or the Sopranos, have no place whatsoever.

Alexander Luthor Junior perhaps, he of the golden armor and full head of red hair? This sort of thing is right up his alley. Or was, before the real Lex and The Joker carved him up. Sinestro, maybe, he'd be right behind this sort of thing.

[Colesign]

That, Colesign, was gorgeous. I take it the next one explains his actual joining of the Order?

...Ahem.

Now that I mention it, I believe so, Cracklord:

The next one will explain how Seaton decides to join the Order, how his sorrow shifts into a hatred of Phyrexia Captain Picard style (as well as Borg, Cybermen, and other 'assimilation' happy folk), and how he learns to play the violin.

[Cracklord]

Well, I imagine they come to him, given he's got no way of knowing they exist. Remember, they guard the multiverse, and he's the only one to have survived the contagion that's spreading.

[darkblade]

He met some of them, Ramirez, Taylor and Hellboy gave him information he needed to try and stop Empress Blackstaff and he pulled Eddie from her dungeons. Michael was implied to be dead but I'm rethinking that choice since he is such a key part of what the Order has become. He just decided not to intervene on that world because despite his faith and dedication he couldn't truly fight his daughter.

[Cracklord]

Sorry. Starting to have a bit of trouble keeping all this straight.

[Colesign]

I dread the person who has to coordinate all this information into a setting Bible

Edit: I just realized...

Every single heroic character who has perished over the course of our long, esteemed Roleplaying mythos can theoretically 'Return'...as summoned Heroic Spirits.

[Cracklord]

I've about sorted out the Urban Fantasy World, and Draxx sorted out Shatterworld with his timeline. It's the parallel worlds that confuse me.

[Colesign]

Let's not forget the 'Overrun' World (Where the those Damn Nazis brought everything into ruin, and there were roving armies of zombies, ghouls, evil robots, and whatnot laying siege to a few remaining outposts), Fantasy World (the setting of our latest Fantasy Lynching game: speaking of which, is that going to be picked up again?), and the 'Path of the Beam' (the rambling road that passes through Midworld and other places, winding it's way to the Dark Tower).

[Cracklord]

If you want it to go on? Then I'm more then happy to do so. Having my own game to run would probably stop me from hijacking yours, too, which is a bonus.

As for parallel world, well what confuses me more is the various copies of characters with radically different origins. Do we take cues from the Dark Tower, and assume that if the prime version dies the rest stop being born as well?

[darkblade]

I was actually operating on a different assumption. The Dark Tower and it's worlds are essentially a cosmic ven diagram of stories. Every world is the result of the stories it was just so randomly given coming together to form a new whole. There are many worlds with the same stories but due to the nature of the other stories present they have to change slightly to accommodate each other.

Shatterworld Light had to account for there being other magic beyond the Death Note so he came to taking those powers himself to further his delusions of God-hood with the Denarian, the Sword of Truth and the Sinestro Corps ring.

Shatterworld Lelouch had to account for an entirely different Empire and parents.

Crossover World (that's the Eragon/Twilight game) Smedry had to account for Elijah destroying the conspiracies of his world.

Our current Light has already adapted in a similar manner with Sabastian and no doubt will continue to do so in the future. Where as the Lelouch and Smedry are closer to their canon counterparts and thus not effected as much by the differences in this world.

[Cracklord]

I agree with that, I just meant the 52 Prime worlds where everything in the target genre existed. Then again, I'm not actually too sure that was such a hot idea, so maybe we should forget about that concept.

[Colesign]

...I do so hope we don't try to wrangle out the continuity snarls like DC tends to do...

And I actually enjoyed the Space Game a lot more: playing Tavi and all the important military figures was stressful: screw up, and a lot of people die, you know?

[Cracklord]

Nah, it's better to just live with them.

And I disagree about the 'returning as heroic spirits' thing, as what it's about isn't your heroism, no matter how impressive it may be, so much as your position in the collective unconsciousness. Unless your deeds are appearing in song and story, then you'll never return that way.

[Prime32]

darkblade, ever heard of Gilliam Yeager?

Also, for Foundation X

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[Cracklord]

And I actually enjoyed the Space Game a lot more: playing Tavi and all the important military figures was stressful: screw up, and a lot of people die, you know?

Well, yes, but we're playing during an apocalypse. Even if you do everything perfectly, 90% or so will still kick the bucket.

[Colesign]

Mmm. But if you do things extra-special super-dupper right, you can maybe bump that 90% death rating down to 89% percent, right? And if you plan carefully, maybe that 89% can go to 88%, and...

Besides, I tend to take these things a tad more seriously than I should: I suppose that's why I felt uncomfortable with you proposing that the dropped Space Game ended with Phyrexia conquering everything: that potential downer ending didn't occur because of bad character decision or plot development, but because people lost interest in the game.

In other words, we, the players, let down our characters.

...That's how I feel sometimes. It's a bit machoistic, I'll admit.

[Cracklord]

And this never struck you as slightly sick behavior (joking). If you want to be that meta, then the entire human race is at fault for leaving us to fight the battle to save creation alone, rather then all chipping in.
Personally, I don't think of the characters as something you are obligated to. Because that's not what they are for. They are vessels for telling a story. And the stories I'm capable of telling have plenty of conflict, and rain that falls on the just and the unjust alike. Sometimes, things do go wrong. Sometimes, they go wrong in ways beyond the ability of human ingenuity to deal with. Sometimes it's human ingenuity that makes them go so wrong. That's what happened here.

Oh, and to clarify the meaning of perfect (as used in this context): Do everything in the best way possible, without flaw.

The next stage of the fight. Good work, if I do say so myself.

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Their blades flickered, meeting once, twice, with a twist and sway of their steely bodies, then they both drew back, once more taking the measure of their opponent, Nicodemus’s lazy eyes meeting the steel of Solomon’s.
“Not bad. You have no idea how rare you are. Most people have only a few decades of experience to draw upon, leaving them quite outclassed by myself. It’s rare to meet a man like you, one gifted enough to do so much with so little.”
Solomon Kane was silent, although he didn’t believe the dark man's boasting. Time had taught him that knowledge came with age and experience, that was true enough. Still, at forty two years of age, he went through as much adversity as he had lived through his youth, he’d met the peak of his skill long since, and his improvements and understanding became honed in tinier, finer detail. The changes he made became increasingly minuscule with every year. He doubted that the difference of learning for a decade and a century were really all that much, if one applied themselves to the task. No, Nicodemus may have more experience, but they’d both moved long past the point where such details were telling.
Instead he takes the staff in his left hand and drives it into the earth, the point sinking easily into the soil, and lifts the tip of his blade again, still and silent. His focus was absolute, his devotion to the task unquestionable. He had every intention of killing Nicodemus, and while there was life in him nothing would deter him.
Nicodemus smiles a little, his shadow huge and indistinct in the paltry torchlight, seeming to pulse in time to some unearthly drumbeat. Then the spell is broken, and he leaps forward again in a textbook lunge, his blade whickering forward at Solomon’s breast.
Every instinct - all of his carefully hoarded expertise, warned Solomon to leap backwards, or aside, or upwards, anywhere but in the attack. He disregarded it, tapping the rapier aside with a quick parry, then tore his dagger out of his sheath and drove his shoulder into Nicodemus’ as he did. He caught his opponent in the center of his chest, sending him staggering back, then twisted the knife to one side and cut upwards.
With a sound of surprise Nicodemus lurched backwards, trying to reverse the angle of his flailing sword arm. But before he could, the dagger’s edge had sliced through the muscle of his bicep as neatly as a wire through cheese.
There was surprisingly little blood for so significant a wound. A trickle, not the spurting river one would expect. It oozed lightly out his neatly torn flesh, then stopped abruptly, the gash pale and ghastly.
Nicodemus narrowed his eyes and stepped back smoothly, swapping hands as he did, his movements not that of the newly crippled. He was naturally right handed, but had worked hard to get ambidextrous, and was just as competent with either hand. Reversing his grip on the dagger, Solomon pressed forward, his mind full of predatory concentration.
Nicodemus lunged again, the exact same move as last time, and Solomon lunged into the blow once more, this time slashing at the pale white flesh beneath the chin. The steel connected with barely a sound.
The ancient man’s eyes opened into twin circles of shock as the knife ripped upwards into the soft flesh beneath his chin. Then his mouth gaped open into an expression of perfect outrage as Solomon pulled the blade out of his throat, and left him gurgling through a death rattle. Again, there was surprising little blood, considering the severed artery and cut throat.
Solomon watched him stumble and fall with solemn silence, befitting the grim Puritan. He said no final words, sought no closure despite the five years he had spent in hunt of the Black Apostle, taking him across the world. Such was as alien to the man as the rest was. He felt a certain satisfaction, but more he was conscious of a strange feeling of futility. Somehow, it felt that no real good had been wrought, as though, afterall, his foe had escaped his just vengeance. Then he shook it off, and cleansed his sword mechanically on his tattered garments. He’d done what he came to do, and that was all, no further ceremony observed or required. He’d hack his way through the jungle, catch a merchant ship and make his way back to Europe, once more a landless wanderer. He had no need to remain in Africa any longer. Pausing a moment, he wiped the blood from his sword, and replaced it at his hip, then turned and began to walk away.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself.” Says the urbane voice that only recently stopped mocking him, and Solomon turns to see Nicodemus getting steadily to his feet, picking up the blade in his suddenly functional right hand, and turning to look at the puritan once more. His skin was marred and ugly where the blades had sunk into his flesh, but repairing itself by the second with a rippling movement, the skin rippling until it was clear again. “A fine start, however. You didn’t even hesitate to kill me.”
Kane turned, eyes wide with amazement and superstitious terror. Mind reeling, he almost dropped his sword as his flesh crawled with something akin to horror. Superstitious enough to believe in portents, curses and foul magic’s in the way that others believed in ships and houses. He did not doubt his sanity, or the evidence of his perceptions. No, he had no doubt that Nicodemus had died a real death at the point of his blade, and had lived again. At some point, Nicodemus had come upon some Secret, overcoming the limitations and shackles of the flesh and allowing him to surpass Death, that oldest of enemies.
What thoughtless, timeless journeys had he taken? How had he gained this dark wisdom? Then came a clarity, lent to his subconscious mind by his hate, and he raised his blade once more. He was a moment too late.
Nicodemus’ sword whipped silently forward, tearing through the leather and cotton of Solomon’s clothes with an angry whine. It sent a lance of white hot pain slicing across the muscles of his midsection. “I wonder, is this the result of all you have seen, justifying my execution, or do you kill everyone who crosses your path?” Nicodemus said, his shadow spreading still further, until t seemed he stood before a wall of pure dark. “You certainly don’t give the impression of a particularly tolerant fellow.”
In answer, Solomon tosses aside the knife and wrapped his hand around the pistol tucked securely to his belt. Cocking it with a single, thoughtless twitch as he draws and aims it, all in the one, flowing movement, he pulls the trigger. There was a crisp detonation and pain exploded in Nicodemus’ chest, as the lead ball took him clean between the third and fourth ribs. He staggered back a step, jerking and twisting, then slumped against the wall, but he didn’t fall.
Nicodemus dug a finger into the hole, rooting around until he dug out the hot lead ball with a fingernail, and held it between his thumb and forefinger. He dropped it to the ground, shaking his head. “Well that was hardly in the spirit of things, was it?” he smiles, getting back to his feet, and leveling his blade. “Now are you quite done with distractions?”
Solomon nodded once, not seeming all that surprised by the result. Having survived the blade in his throat, in his heart Solomon had begun to doubt that he truly could triumph here. “Enough. Come on then, hellspawn. Kill me if you can.”
Those were fighting words, but Solomon was discomforted, He’d expected as much, but he’d wanted to confirm it, beyond any doubt. Nicodemus was immortal.
Those who dabbled in the dark arts did so at the peril of not only their immortal soul, but their very ability to reason. Those that drew upon them were twisted and corrupted, until they forgot what had driven them to this point in the first place. Nicodemus, however, was not like them.
It was all too easy to dismiss Nicodemus as a madman, but under-estimating him in such a manner was a fatal error. Nicodemus was a twisted and evil man, but not truly insane. He was all too aware of the horror and perversion of what he did, he appreciated in full that his actions were lawless and murderous, indeed, he even took a certain craftsmen’s pleasure in them. That great mind, that powerful intellect had been twisted, perhaps even tainted, but it had never been broken. It was not the base cunning of a madman that had allowed him to remain at large committing his atrocities, but the wicked application of that wicked intellect. No, there was no such excuse for his all too willing seduction into the ways of evil. None at all.
Again the uncertainty wormed it’s way into Solomon. He had seen what this man could do, had seen first hand the awful, devastating power at his command. There was no question that the abominations he served were all too real, and there was no question that they had bestowed their dark gifts and favor apon the man.
He had just struck him a fatal blow, he’d watched what should have been the end of him, and yet here he stood, a few droplets of blood on his otherwise pristine clothing the only sign he’d been wounded at all. Could he even die?
Solomon brought up his sword, as he saw his enemies blade flickering towards his eyes, ducking a moment too late. Another thread of agony zipped across his forehead, and a spill of hot blood ran down into his eyes.
He counterstroke, but hit only air, Nicodemus flitting to one side with the grace and finesse of a dancing instructor. With a practiced flick of his wrist, Nicodemus struck again, the blade of the rapier swishing playfully through the air. Solomon ducked aside, then tossed the knife, only for Nicodemus to skip lightly back and bat it aside with the edge of his blade.
“Come on, can’t you do any better?” he asked, nipping forward to send the tip of the blade stinging across the Puritan’s nose, then tapping the blade aside. A sudden whirl of blades, and then the fight settled into a rhythm.
Minutes flew by, the clang and clash of steel not diminishing. Now they stood squarely in the center of the town, Nicodemus seemingly untouched, seeming almost casual, Kane’s garments red with the blood that oozed from the wounds that oozed on his breast, arm and thigh.
Nicodemus knew the wounds he had inflicted on Solomon were not deep, but even so, the steady flow of blood should have sapped some of his speed and strength. But if Kane felt the ebb of his powers, it did not show. His brooding countenance did not change expression, and he pressed the fight with the same cold fury he had exhibited from the beginning.
Both lashed against the other, their blades meeting vis-à-vis in the air, and the two strained against each other, seeming equally matched. “Come on.” Nicodemus mocked, smiling at Solomon’s dark countenance as though he found the whole affectation of a duel amusing, which is completely correct. “Don’t tell me that’s all you have. Is it? Because it’s not even nearly good enough…”
Solomon Kane hit him.
Nicodemus felt as though he’d been slammed face first into a stone wall, the blow nearly taking his eye out. Blood ran from his brow into his left eye, as the socket swelled up purple and tender. Half the world blurred as he lost most of his vision from it. Nicodemus only smiled. “That’s more like it.”
Solomon didn’t reply, stepping back a step, his sword snaking at Nicodemus once more while the momentary advantage was his. His breath came fast and his arm began to weary, though one would be hard-pressed to see the effects of exhaustion on him, he was reaching his limit, and Nicodemus could be fresh for all the discomfort he showed. Who was this man of shadow and steel who never seemed to weaken? The same thing that preserved his life seemingly preserved his body from the rigors of exhaustion.
But Solomon didn’t surrender to the tolls of his body anymore then he would surrender to Nicodemus. Rallying his strength and hate, he dove forward, a sudden, unexpected attack too swift for the eye to follow, a dynamic burst of speed no man could have withstood, and Nicodemus blinked in shock as his blade was sent singing from his hand, then was sent reeling as the englishmen’s rapier made a silver line in the moonlight.
Blood, just a little, bubbled from Nicodemus’s throat, then was pushed aside to make way for the mocking laughter.
A slow, deadly rage surged in Solomon then – the fury of helplessness. The blood churned in his temples and his eyes smoldered with a terrible light as he eyes the Dark Apostle, his sword still planted in his chest, impaling his heart. His fingers spread and closed like claws. They were strong, those hands, men had died in their clutch. Nicodemus’s slender column of a neck would snap like a rotten branch between them, and yet it would do him no good. For his enemy would not die. Kane could not even have fled had he wished – and he had never fled a single foe.
With a haughty arrogance, Nicodemus pulled the blade from him with a wet sound, and tossed it aside distastefully. “I don’t think anyone’s ever beaten me so decisively twice.” He says, and some quality in his voice has changed. For all his civilized air, Nicodemus does not like to be thwarted or defied. “Do you think you can do it again?”
Although the night was black as pitch, Solomon could tell that dawn was not far off. It had something to do with the smell, the first faint stirrings of the ocean breeze had started to stir through the smell of blood and death. This revived him, and he straightened, hoping Nicodemus would get it over with, before his growing weakness sent him crumpling to the earth.
And the Denarian didn’t disappoint. A second set of eyes opened on his forehead, glowing sickly green. They were slanted like a cats, their iris and pupils the wrong shape, and they were unreadable and emotionless. His shadow surged and gathered behind him, and then rolled forward like an oncoming tide, sweeping Solomon away.

That's the opening stages out of the way. Next, the battle of old magic, and far, far older magic.

[doliest]

Sorry about...yeah.

Biology is started again, I think I mentioned that before. Luckily, I'm not in Majors biology anymore, so it's a lot easier. Still time consuming, but I'm better now.

.
..
Did you have to wait until I was gone to start doing setting work?

I'd sort of assumed the Dark Tower, while an actual place, wasn't just 'The Tower' in our shared verse. More, it was the focal point of a sort of 'Prime World' from which all worlds originate. That in the Tower, rests the world where Light never got involved with anything other than the Death Note. That had a Bella and an Edward that got together and lived happily ever after. Etc.

[Cracklord]

To be honest, I tend to see it as the lynchpin that holds all the worlds together safely. If it was removed, then they'd all collapse back into Nothing, and we'd all be playthings for Arioch and the other Lords of Chaos for oblivion.
Hence it's in Leng, the primordial land, where all was created from.
As to those worlds, they're just parallel universes, where things are a lot less complicated then the main ones.

[Colesign]

Like I said: I take this more seriously than I should.

I understand the need to 'Kill your darlings', as Hemmingway put it: nothing worth having has value without something being sacrificed for it. Sucess means nothing without failure.

But when a bad ending gets slapped onto a dropped game, I feel like we never even give the characters a good chance...

Oop, there I go again with the Meta. Pay me no mind.

In any case, you story blurb of the fight between S.K. and Nicodemus is unparalleled: you've got Howard's pulp style down flat, while maintaining the wonderful 'Culture Evil' of Nicodemus's character voice from the DresFiles. Molto Benne.

Here, in any case, is my blurb for the Seaton sequence: the last portion of the 'Skylark of Mirrodin' arc, one might say:

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In the Orion Spiral Arm of the Milky Way Galaxy, on the planet of Normalon in the arrangement of emerald suns and planets known as the Green System, within one of the gleaming spires of the proudest city of that ancient and revered race of scientists, Dorothy Vanemen Seaton drew a weathered bow across the strings of her pristinely and delicately kept Stradivarius Violin coaxing forth proud, resonant notes of unmitigated depth and emotional intensity! Slowly, and deliberately, her deft and strong fingers flew across the next, her bow moving in smooth flowing notions, so that the pitch and timbre and tone of each string was expressed to it's fullest and most rich extremes!

Finally, she let the last note softly fade away and lifted her bow from the strings with a sigh of pure, utmost satisfaction!!!

"Oh Well done, Mrs. Seaton! Well done!" A matronly looking Normalonian lady dressed with loose, billowing robes said, clapping her hands together in admiration, a box hovering in the air next to her, suspended on a precisely balanced rod of pure force!

"The melody was–well, how to say– quite subtle, simple and yet filled with such emotional depth!"

Dorothy eyed the Noramlonian with a sideways glance, then chuffed a single, wry chuckle. "Telamon...I was tuning."

Telamon's smiled faded. "Oh. I...feel rather foolish now, and believe you me, that's not something I feel quite often! It's a rather counterproductive emotion, I must say..." She cocked her head to the side.

"Your 'Violin': you must tune it every time before playing: yes, I see how the taut strings slowly loose elasticity, the means of correction is quite simple and elegant...still, wouldn't it be more efficient, to use strings made from strong materials? I could create an alloy as supple and resonant to your fingers as pure titanium alloy: never weakening, never slackening. Or perhaps a simple computer mechanism and automatically turns the pegs, keeping it constantly in tune: or the composition of the wood...some fiberglass materials..."

"Telamon..." Dorothy said, holding up her hand, bow clasped between her thumb and palm, smiling gently. "That's quite alright! I honestly wouldn't have it any other way. This violin's a piece of art, and I...I think tuning it manually is truly a better way of doing things!"

"I think I understand!" Telamon replied. "It's some quaint Earth tradition: artisan manufacturing, the old ways and and that...oh dear, that sounded rather patronizing: Oh, dear me!"

Dorothy laughed. "I think I can forgive you, 'Teleey'! It's not tradition...or at least, not tradition for the sake of tradition. It's..."

She paused. "I've played violin ever since I was eight years or age. Every day, I've been tuning it, using tuning forks at first, and then later fixing the tones right in my head and in my blood. Because of that...I know this instrument: I know the music I can make on it, how far I can push it...think Muscle memory, intuition, that sort of thing."

Telamon frowned, and nodded. "I think I understand: of course, there's a subjectivity to your viewpoint..."

Dorothy cut Telamon off as gently as she could. "Is it in the box?" She asked, nodding to the suspended box floating next to the First of Chemistry.

"Oh! Yes it is!" Telamon blinked, then picked up the box from it's cradle of energies and offered it to Dorothy. "A simple matter of molecular replication: the base components were rather elemental..."

"I understand." Dorothy hastily said. She set her Stradivarius in it's case gingerly, then took the box from Telamon and opened it.

"...Looks good. Perfect, in fact." Dorothy closed the box and set it to the side.

Then she hugged the First of Chemistry.

"Thank you." She whispered. "This'll...help."

Telamon's green skin darkened at the cheeks, and as she returned the embrace.

"Uh...well, it was no trouble at all." Telamon gently extricated herself, and toyed with a lock of his dark emerald hair, staring off into the distance.

"Has he really not left the observatory after all this time?"

"No," Dorothy said with a sigh. "He leaves to eat meals at the dormitories: he goes to one seminar at day, mostly cosmology related. He does some lab work during the Time of Work, and participates in one athletic activity during the Time of Relaxation. And then he goes back to the observatory, until the next day."

"Oh!" Telamon said, brightening a little. "Well, that's good, isn't it?"

"No." Dorothy said, picking up both cases and shaking her head softly. "No, it isn't"

%%%

Dorothy leapt up the inertia chute, wind rustling through her hair as beams of force levitated her up through the many floors of the observatory tower. She lightly stepped off at the top floor and approached the double doors to the Deep Space Probing room.

How do I want to do this? Dorothy thought, as she stopped outside the door. How do I make my entrance in such a way as to rouse my depressed, discouraged other half?

Dorothy Seaton pursed her lips in thought.

Well, She thought. What would Richard do in this situation?

%%%

Richard Seaton, dolorously staring into the visiplate of the Normalonian Grand Deep-Space 5th Order Prober at a distant Nebula, was abrubtly jostled from his melancholy ruminations, when the door to the Observatory room was abruptly blown off his hinges by a Ray Gun Blast of Luminous, Ravening Destruction!

And through the smoke and fire, as Richard whipped out his Colt Automatic in anticipation of combat, strode his wife, Dorothy Vaneman Seaton, carrying her violin case in one hand, and brandishing a Infra-Ray blaster in the other, hair tousled and wildly strewn from the concussion of the energy beam!

Behind her, suspended on a delicate needle of force, floating wherever she roamed, was the mysterious box containing the object she had commissioned under mysterious circumstances!

With careless regard, Dorothy Seaton tossed the instrument of destruction to the side with a flick of her hand.

"Hello dear," She said dotingly with a smile. "How was your day at work?"

Richard lowered his guns back into their well-worn holsters, though he could banish his queer eyed expression quite so easily.

"Dorothy...what in blazes! I thought you were a vengeful Fenachrome or Skrull or Sontarran looking for payback...and the door! What about knocingk! It is in fact possible to knock on doors, as opposed to...you scared the living daylights out of me!"

Dorothy leaned her head to the side, and nodded. "There we are then: a passionate response, at last!"

Richard ran a hand through his air impulsively. "What...Dorothy, I'm fine. I've...dealt with it. I'm not being reclusive anymore."

Dorothy sighed. "No, now you're acting like an automated piece of machinery: for heaven's sake you're obeying schedules, of all things!"

She shrugged.

"I figured you needed something to knock you out of your planetary orbit of morose rumination, dear. I'm sorry if I startled you unduly."

Suddenly, she snapped her fingers and began walking forward.

"But you still need a bit of help, ****: and I think I know something that'll help."

With a well manicured and strong hand, Dorothy reached out and grasped Richard by the wrist.

"Dottie." Richard protested as his wife dragged him to the descending chute. "I'll feel better in time: please don't trouble yourself on my account...you've borne too much already..."

"That's all noble and self-sacrificing, Richard." Dorothy said, rolling her eyes and still dragging her husband along with her into the inertial chute, the mysterious box still floating along with her. "But this isn't about feeling better. Not really anyway.

They stepped off into a conservatory area, a greenhouse style affair with fat-leaved, purple stemed Normalon vegetation, a small running indoor fountain whose water looped back and forth in fractal patterns, and a series of stone brick pathways leading to a small, well-lit platform.

There were two armless chairs. And in front of each chair was a simple metal music stand, with two thin books placed on each.

Seaton stopped in his tracks. "Oh?"

Dorothy reached over and flipped open the gently floating box. Nestled snuggly inside it, on top of a bed of a velvet-like substance, lay a complete molecular replica of Dorothy Vaneman Seaton's one-of-a-kind Stradivarius Violin, small in every way, even down to a few nicks and scratches.

"Dorothy?" Seaton said.

"It's yours." Dorothy said quietly, setting her case on the ground, picking up the violin from it's box with two hands, and offering it gingerly to her husband.

Richard hesitated, then reached out with one hand–

Dorothy gave him a cross-eyed look.

–Richard reached out with both hands and took it with both hands, cradling the Violin to his chest as awkwardly as he had with his newborn son.

"I thought I'd teach you how to play a bit." Dorothy said. "It's challenging, ever so rewarding..."

She smiled as a thought occurred.

"And it'll be just like Sherlock Holmes: all the great geniuses had a thing for music, right?"

"Dorothy..." Richard said with a heavy sigh. "At another time, this would be interesting, but..." He shook his head. "I don't think I'm in the mood for it."

Dorothy arched a thin, curving eyebrow. "Mood?" She asked dryly. "Music isn't like romantic wooing or a friendly barroom brawl: Music's too powerful a thing to be restricted for when you're in a Good Mood, ****."

She picked up her own case and took out her own violin. She set bow to string and began played a soft, slow tune of a few notes, pitched low enough that her voice could carry.

"You know so much about the nature of the universe and science, dear, but I know music. If the universe was a fire, it'd be the smoke. It surrounds and binds us and..."

She lowered her violin for a bit, pausing. "And the funny thing about it, is, everything is fodder for it. The happiest moment of your entire life..."

Her bow flew across the strings as she coaxed for a folksy tune of bright staccato notes.

"The most exciting..."

She increased the speed of her strokes, switching the tune to a swift bluegrass style song.

"Anger..."

Her bow scraped across the string, loud brassy notes vibrating forth as she played some bars from a song of Paganini.

"Sorrow..."

She slowed down, drawing out the notes into long, melancholy sounds of lament.

"It's all relevant. You can take the events of your life, all it's height and depths, and pour it all into your music."

She lowered her violin, gazing into Seaton's eyes.

"And it doesn't make your sadness go away. But if you pour your sorrow into your music, and coax beauty out of your suffering..."

Her eyes twinkled suddenly, and she held both her bow and violin in one hand as she rested her other on Richard's shoulder. Richard lifted one of his hands from where he held his new violin, and clasped it over his wife's.

"Well, then your sadness isn't so bad anymore, is it! It has worth, it has meaning, because it's been used to create something great and wonderful. And if you can use the lowest moments of your existence to create something good and beautiful...well, then that means it's all worthwhile, doesn't it? Life is worthwhile, always and ever."

She held eye contact with her husband, then averted her gaze and chuckled.

"Or at least...that's my cunning plan. So come on then. Fingering first, then learning how to draw the bow properly."

She beckoned. "Come on."

Richard hesistated. Then he let out a breath.

"All right." He started forward. "I should warn you I'm going to be really bad at this."

"This was anticipated." Dorothy replied as she sat down in front of one of the music stands. "Now then, posture and fingering: imagine there's a ball under your right hand, a ball of air..."

The business of tuning and posturing and techniques of fingering quickly flowered, and Richard Seaton grasped them handily enough in the end. Finally, Richard lifted up the new bow and new violin, copied from the design of a long dead renowned earth craftsman, and set it to the freshly tuned strings.

The first note was very soft, almost too soft to be heard properly.

In the depths of space, a whirling fleet of cylindrical craft maneuvered into battle formation, their cold steel hulls numbering in the hundreds of thousands, some large, some small, but all alike.

Within the cold, gunmetal grey halls, metal men marched to and fro like ants in a hive, pistons clanking, faces of steel expressionless, all of them uniform and emotionless as the grey. In the fleet control room, their designated leader stood over a tactical display. One of the subordinates spoke in a buzzing electronic voice.

"Cyber Controller, unknown vessels approaching from subspace."

The Cyber Controller turned. "Display. Ascertain whether it is the enemy."

Far off from the Cyber Fleet, a flotilla of Cubes and Spheres appeared, uniform in shape and bereft of hull-plating.

A message was dispatched from each of the ships.

"We Are the Borg. Resistance is Futile. Lower Your Shields and Surrender Your Ship."

A reply was dispatched.

"Your Order is Rejected. We are the next stage in bipedal evolution. We shall convert you to the superior Cyber-Paradigm. You will be like us."

"Incorrect. You shall be assimilated. Your paradigm shall be incorporated int our own."

"Incorrect. We shall enforce unity and uniformity. All who do not cooperate with upgrading shall be del–."

And then from several parsecs away, a single plunger was depressed.

And each and every Cyber Warship and Borg Cube were pierced through and through ravening particle beams of unfathomable intensity.

The very ether was flooded with jamming frequencies and electronic warfare blocks, overloading the sensory arrays of the various ships as they all crashed and burned as one.

No data was recovered, no adaptation possible. No survivors were left.

The hunt had begun. And as the civilized species of the galaxies fought their skirmishes with the Cybermen and the Borg, preparing their fleets in fear of an overwhelming invasion from the two...none of them knew of the many fleets that were being obliterated in the cold of space one by one, with no sign of who had caused it.


Richard tried again. This time it was louder, a shrill, warbling scraping sound. He winced.

Drifting between the void between galaxies, trawling the endless void of night, the Hive Mind listened to the songs of the planets, hearing the cries of the other biomass, clinging to their planets like moss on a rock, ready to be plucked and consumed and digested. Every single organism connected to the mind shivered in anticipation as the Tyranid Hive Fleet drew closer and closer to the beckoning star system.

And then they started dying: their front ranks exploding one by one as they ran head on into the dust cloud of pure antimatter, ripping through their baryonic flesh like acid, souring into death like lemmings...

Seaton tried a third time, drawing the bow close: the sound was a little shrill, but smooth. This time, he felt he was starting to get it.


A Projection of Seaton materialized within the secrets halls of the Knights of the Dark Tower, and he coughed politely as Taylor and Hellboy and the Wandering Puritan looked up from their deliberations on possible fractures in the temporal lock barring the Time War from the rest of Creation.

Seaton nodded. "I'm in."

He summoned a series of holographic images. "I have some concerns I want to put forth, and some proposals for a secret redoubt that I think you'll find interesting..."

I also found some new Amazing Stories Images of 'Skylark Three', originally serialized!

Spoiler

Show

[Cracklord]

But when a bad ending gets slapped onto a dropped game, I feel like we never even give the characters a good chance...[/SPOILER]

Life isn't fair.

[Colesign]

Finally finished my final Richard Seaton Blurb: I think the flash forward portions could use some work, since I may not now certain bits of canon information.

This is also a bit of an explanation for why certain apocalyptic invasions by aggressive assimilating swarm species never quite come to pass: someone is pulling the weeds.

Assumes too much?

[Cracklord]

Huh. I like it.
Well, a tad over-powered, him being a one man genocide apparently capable of taking out a race capable of inter-dimensional travel on his own might seem a little exaggerated, particularly the assumption that they are incapable of mounting any counter attack, or even realizing that they're under attack. They manage to fight back (perhaps not particularly effectively, but regardless) against someone capable of time travel. Seems a little rich to assume that they can't get him simply because he's in another galaxy. Distance is far simpler to traverse then time, afterall.
Also, the antimatter killing the entirety of the tyranids is cute, really it is, but it doesn't work like that. I forgive you, as one unfamiliar with the usual content of warhammer to mistakenly assume that antimatter is anything like enough dakka, but the sad fact is, it's not. The Tyranids fight the Necrons, and their weapons actually strip your atoms down to non existence, rather then violently react and turn you into a puff of energy. Notice how they are still going strong? And if you took on the entire Great Devourer at once, rather then the spores it launches as feelers into neighboring galaxies to see if they are worth eating, if you actually did so much damage that it's enough for it's entire gestalt consciousness to notice something was wrong, then the psychic backlash would probably turn your body into a new hell dimension. The Eldar alone managed to make the Eye of Terror, and the Tyranids are something like the entire biomass of four galaxies.
And hell, even the assumption that he can show up to the guardians of the multiverse and name his job, and they'll just accept him seems the height of arrogance.
Not to be venomous at all, just to put it all in perspective. It's a bit like Nicodemus being able to survive being run through by Stormbringer. It just doesn't wash when you actually examine them.
Also, correct me if I'm wrong, but reading over them again I'm a little confused. Doc Smith always made a big deal of conservation of energy and transference, even in the Lensmen series. Making energy from nothing is more in the realms of Sufficiently Advanced Alien then Science Hero.
That aside, me griping as usual, it's very good work. It's engaging to read, the characters are spot on, despite being unfamiliar with them beyond a superficial level I feel like I can connect to them in this, share their struggles even if I can't understand them, and despite your enthusiastic and liberal use of exclamation marks I can't really criticize the description, which does imitate the purple prose of those early pulps spectacularly.
I even like the Borg and the Cybermen meeting, it reminds me of the time the Daleks and Cybermen met (heh). And him playing the violin as he burns the ships of his enemies reminds me of that famous scene of Nero as Rome burned, which is certainly a dark turn for the character, and one I'll be very interested in watching you pursue further.
All in all, an excellent composition.

By the way, you asked me to restart the Fantasy lynching game. I did, but if you really want it to start again you will have to give me something to work with.

[Colesign]

I'm not offended at all. I don't quite know enough about the Warhammer 40k settings, and I'd actually appreciate your help in fleshing things out in that regard.

Ultimately, I wanted to show how Richard Seaton, Captain Picard style, has a bone to pick with assimilation-happy entities: if I can portray this in a different way, that's perfectly fine.

Also, correct me if I'm wrong, but reading over them again I'm a little confused. Doc Smith always made a big deal of conservation of energy and transference, even in the Lensmen series. Making energy from nothing is more in the realms of Sufficiently Advanced Alien then Science Hero.

Huh. I don't remember trying violating the conservation of energy: The Skylark of Valeron can literally manifest energy and matter from out of the blue using pure thought and imagination, but it doesn't come from 'nowhere': roughtly half of the Valeron's mass is a series of giant power plants that directly convert the latent energy of uranium, as well as a Giant Cosmic Convertor that taps into energy radiating from the center of the Galaxy. So the Skylark of Valeron is hella powerful, but it still needs juice to do it's thing.*

I have a feeling I used some improper grammar somewhere.

But I'm glad to hear that you liked my characterization.

By the way, you asked me to restart the Fantasy lynching game. I did, but if you really want it to start again you will have to give me something to work with.

...I only asked if you were going to start it again: I never really wanted to jump back in. Sorry.


*Think of the artifacts of the Krell civilization from "Forbidden Planet": big planetary generators to supply the juice for a civilization to reshape matter and energy with their thoughts...until monsters from the id started rampaging...

Actually, that would be a interesting confluence of plot development...

[Cracklord]

Jumped to the wrong conclusion when you claimed that he was capable of materializing any matter from nothing in his main room. I didn't realize he was actually siphoning energy from elsewhere in the ship and reforming it into solid matter elsewhere. So it's only violating physics in the instant transferal sense rather then the something from nothing sense. My mistake.

...I only asked if you were going to start it again: I never really wanted to jump back in. Sorry.

Ah. Then why did you ask? I'm not bothered, it's a shame but everyone was getting sick of it anyway, but if you don't want to play it why ask me if I'm going to restart it?

[darkblade]

Fanfiction.net page has been updated with the Seaton, Foundation X and Nicodemus vs Kane stories.