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

[Terry576]

Unfortunate that Touma's pretty much as well put together as he can be. His only strength is punching things.

I'll go work on Shiki.

[Draxx]

So explain what sort of martial arts he knows, how his canceling other people's magic works, and all the rest.

[Terry576]

The ancient and mystical art of punching things is now a martial art.

Also, his right hand.

And now I think I'm done. I'm off to post in things I've been avoiding for a few days now.

[darkblade]

I'll bring you into the game with my next post, either later tonight or tomorrow.

[Terry576]

Neat. Which is the IC Thread - Crisis of Infinite Draculas or "School Days"?

[darkblade]

School Days

[Colesign]

Hey! Welcome, Terry, to the Lynching Mythos. We don't Canon-Weld here. We sear things together with Lasers.

Of DANGER.

...It's pretty fun.

[industrious]

We really do.

Speaking of which, more Nicodemus is here.

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He was thankful that they were devouring him slowly.

The pain was excruciating, but his diminishment was still only slight. He could still think, plan, reason. He could still remember. He could still focus.

He was no great talent with magic, but he had experience and concentration and dedication and desperation on his side. And the mystic arts rewarded those qualities almost as well as raw power.

He could not affect anything beyond himself; he had lost the ability to truly create long ago, and until now, had not missed its absence.

Every time the agony grew too much, he had to start over. And every time, the amount of soul-wrenching torture he could withstand, and the clarity of his focus grew.

At last, the spell had been fully realized. If he had been within the reaches of the Dark Tower, it would have been complex. Here, in the wild realms beyond Creation, without resources or or symbols but using only will and imagination, it had been nearly impossible. But it had succeeded.

He could not create in this place. And he could not escape, for there was nothing to escape from. He could not strike at his attackers; they were emptiness made into echoes of himself. To project his own power at him would only worsen the hell he had been sent to.

The ritual would change that. The ritual would change him. A desperate move by a desperate man. But he had planned for that, as well.

He had eons before he had been diminished enough that performing the ritual would be impossible. But he was ready now.

If there had been light in this place, and an observer, they would have seen a smile cross the man's face.

In the wyld realms beyond Creation, Nicodemus performed the ritual, remembered, forgot, and then was no more.

It isn't over yet.

[Draxx]

Ha. Looks like he'll be back. Of course, I've always found demons scarier then eldritch abominations. Beings of pure evil are worse then beings of pure incomprehensibleness.

[industrious]

I don't have an opinion either way. You can sort of understand demons, and depending on the situation, that either makes them scarier or less scary, because you can use that knowledge to your advantage.

The next chapters are going to be the hardest. Darkblade, would you mind posting the above snippets to our ff account? They collectively make up chapter one.

Another snippet. If they seem disconnected, it's because this is just a first draft.

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They agreed because they had no further choice.

Old hatreds and prejudices had to be disassembled; old plots and conspiracies broken down and explained to the puppets who had danced on strings of starlight.

They didn't have to trust each other. They didn't have to like each other. But needs must when the Dragon rode.

So they agreed, and so they pledged, and so they forged an alliance never heard of in the history of Creation. A warlord, and his wild bride. A monk from a now tarnished faith. A schemer. And a traitor.

Any guesses what is happening?

[Terry576]

Something terrifyingly soul-crushing?

I like it.

[Cracklord]

Imagine something that hates you unconditionally. To this thing it is not enough to destroy you, it wants, no, it needs to make you suffer. It needs to humiliate you, it needs to destroy your sanity, make you suffer agonies so excruciating that they are incomprehensible, to break you so completely that nothing is left, no vestige, no remnant. To this malign intelligence, evil is not second nature, but the be-all and end-all. Not the sort of evil we think of as passion, but the cold, rational sort of evil that comes from the rejection of all that allows us to live. The sort of evil we can't really comprehend.
To this intelligence, suffering is all that matters, all that there is. To this intelligence, you are incomprehensibly valuable simply because once it possesses you it can strip you apart a layer at a time until nothing remains, and once it has you you can never wriggle free from it's grasp. But this intelligence cannot simply reach up and take you. No, it is bound by limitations, and as long as you follow the right path they can only covet. Unfortunately, if you slip, even once, they could very well have you. SO the threat depends entirely on the intelligence in question, which in most cases of presentation, is not very much at all.
Now imagine something incapable of perceiving you, something to which you have no value whatsoever. Something that, with a single thoughtless twitch, no more effort then a man rolling over in his sleep, could extinguish you, your entire species, and all memory, all evidence that you ever existed, leaving only oblivion. This thing will destroy you not because it has a reason to, but simply because it doesn't recognize that there is any reason not to.
In a way, the demons are preferable because of the illusion of control. You have to sell your soul, you don't just suddenly die, no explanation given or needed. And because demons offer the hope that if they exist, if evil exists in a actual physical form, so must good. Where as eldritch abominations offer nothing. The universe doesn't care about one tiny soul burning in oblivion, anymore then it cares about the abominations themselves. Everything is incomprehensibly insignificant, C'thulhu himself died before awaking, the stars never turned back to give him what he needed.
So that's why some people look on eldritch abominations as scarier. It's not the evil in question, it's the lack of control, the way nothing can be done to fight back, or keep clear of them. It's not the abominations, it's where this leaves us in a cold, uncaring universe that will forget us the moment we're gone, where the end could come at any time, and we wouldn't even see it coming.
So that sort of presentation would, hypothetically, be scary. Of course, nobody actually writes them that way anymore, because then the plucky hero would simply go insane and die, unlikely circumstances or not. I mean, once they need to be summoned, once they actually deign to acknowledge the existence of humanity, once they fit neatly into this cosmology and are scared of magic of a certain sort then they are pretty sad excuses for terrifying. Certainly have nothing on demons, whether you call them outsiders, or eldritch abominations or whatever.
There are ways to get around this, of course. My try was to have them come into existence spontaneously, the same way the supreme being did, and so be above the laws of the cosmos (including those personified by the Endless). Nothing born of creation can even harm them, and the only reason they deign to exist here is they don't have the imagination or power to create their own multiverses that won't fall apart. It was an alright try, but to be honest I think it fell kinda flat. No the only chance at horror we have is that the universe is huge, and working to undo itself, and we're all stuck in a world that's falling apart.
You can't fight that. It doesn't even have a name that you can wave your fist and scream defiance at. It's just inherent in the system, and that's not bad, if I do say so myself. But since you can't fight that, we have the Twilight vampires.

But I digress.

Anyway, I think it's nice. Great minimalist style that hints at but doesn't confront, letting our own black imaginings fill in the details. Not much in the way of cohesion, I'm sorry to say, in that I'm not sure what is happening exactly, but I do like what I get hints of.
Said abominations remind me of the amoebae shaped spirits in Hellboy, that birthed The Conqueror Worm to bring about the last race of men. Which begs the question, what is at work on the devil's grandson?
Furthermore, one has to question, where is Nicodemus' magic coming from? I take it we're not using Luthor's unified theory (which is a shame, I like that idea), or whatever it is in the Dresden files (leylines controlled using applied will, judging by book eleven and ten), so the source must originate from within in some way. Presumably not a self-replenishing one.
Almost Lord of the Rings style, actually, which is the best, most logical magic system I've ever come across (If you're not obsessed with Tolkien, you might not understand why this is. Don't worry about it. Essentially, it's simple, the theory makes sense, and doesn't contain tonnes of arbitrary rules that only confuse things). That, or something else that hasn't revealed itself yet is helping him along for reasons unknown...

By the way, the first of the Hellboy spin-offs will arrive shortly, once I do a bit more on my current projects, and work out how to do it without treading on Industrious' toes by upsetting his plans for the upcoming war with the fey (I kinda read issue twelve, and want to work Nimue's ascendancy in, as anyone who's read said issue can understand. I've always been a sucker for King Arthur, and it would work so well...)

Also, judging by the amount of text I just managed to type on nothing at all, perhaps I should change my screen-name to exposition_man.

[industrious]

Well, I used minimalist because Nic was outside of the realms of the Tower; it seemed to fit.

I'm probably going to switch to a more detailed style once I get the next segment up.

[Cracklord]

Don't get me wrong. I like that style. Just wanted to give you a detailed review.

[Terry576]

I thought I would be rooming with GARY MOTHERFRACKING OAK, not Gary from Alphas who is one of the coolest characters ever!

I keep throwing money at the screen but I'm not sure if Cole is getting any of it

[Draxx]

So in regards to his talent, let's say it will come back in two weeks (three weeks, since it will, as expected, arrive late). That's severely nerfing the attack, it should probably be somewhere in the realm of never...

Nope. Always was a matter of weeks.

[darkblade]

I doubt the game will last weeks in universe time...I'll need to rethink this but it's going to stay gone until I say otherwise for the moment.

Seaton vs Hive minds, Slades vs Batman and Nicodemus meets Outsiders are all updated on the FF account.

[Colesign]

I know! He's so awesome! And I'm psyched that you're psyched, Terry!

But Bwhhaaaa....I've got a 6 page paper to finish up tonight, which blocks me from posting in more detail: tommorow, when I can...

[Terry576]

Same here, I have to wake up at 530 tomorrow, so I can't do much.

[Cracklord]

It got worse:

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Rand could not have said what he expected, standing on the cusp of the edge of the world, looking into the blackness beyond, six hundred of the best channelers at his back and adding their power to his own. He had lived in preparation for this moment for so long he could barely follow the actions anymore.
He'd thrown the entire might, the destiny of man against the hordes of twisted things that barred his way. All those he knew, friends and enemies alike had stood and died on those fields, fighting their way into the Blight and the Wastes of the land of Chaos. He'd lost friends and comrades, devastating continents with the forces at play, and eventually broken through to stand here, at the manifest of his destiny. The purpose of his existence, that had come to weigh heavily on him, once again. He just wanted to rest, to lie down and let it all slip away. He had barely anything left to give.
But not yet. Duty was heavier then a mountain, and there was one more obligation before he could at last set it aside. This was what it had all been for, all the blood spilled, all the tears shed, all the miles crossed, this was the moment that would give meaning to all their lives, or end them all.
No pressure.
Shai-Tan towered above them all, a mountain, clad in ice and crowned with smoke and fire. It's features were almost impossible to make out, but the light of its eyes was like a flame that withers with heat and pierces with a deadly cold. Yet he made no designs towards them. He simply stood there, watching with his burning eyes.
"Even now I could reach out of my prison and snuff you out as easily as a brief candle." It said, its voice soft and eerily quiet, that seemed to be carried on a dismal breeze from some desolate corner of the world.
"And yet I live." Rand replied, defiantly, meeting the gaze of the King of the Dark.
"For now." The voice allowed.
"And you are about to be destroyed." Rand added, though he could not have said how he hoped to do that. "I vowed I would see the end of you, and you corruption, and so I shall."
Shai-Tan does not laugh. Rand almost wished he did, that would be human. But this thing has no capacity for amusement. "You mortals have such short memories. You, a billion like you and the Hosts of Heaven besides could not so much as hinder me. Nothing could lest I will it. I was in the beginning and shall be forever, the first and the last, all and nothing. This world comes and goes in a full circle, returning to this point again and again, and yet still I am. You think you can fight me, kill me, as you would an animal? As you would those poor broken things those who think they serve me enslaved? You could not even comprehend what I am. I am not the Wheel, but the hand that turns the wheel. I am Time, the Destroyer, the Primal Darkness before I allowed Light to exist. I am Forever. I was the wind in the stars before this— Before planets, before Heaven and Hell, before Time, before Reason and Law— And when all's done I will be wind again, to blow the world as dust back into endless space."
"Even so, I shall trap you once more."
"Then do so. Do you really believe I suffer in my prison? I am the origin of life, of all things, the hub of the Wheel, the purifying cycle to which all souls must be drawn. I am more then you can so much as comprehend, and I am patient. I shall be free, but in a time of my own choosing."
"And I will always be there to stop you."
"You will, for those who seek the darkness always find it, but each time you only play into my hands. You don't understand the nature of the universe. You never do, you never will, you never did. For I am not some demon bound by a stronger entity, nor some mere outsider trapped outside creation. I am the Dark Side of the Creator himself. My destiny is one so terrible to know of it would shatter your mind. This is, indeed, the last turn of the wheel, just as you promised. I have had to be content with killing and torment; but now my plans are laid, and I have begun. I shall not rest until I have eradicated hope from all the worlds. So do as you came to do, then enjoy the few centuries left to you. For you shall not be born again." The Dark One prophesied. "Everything that happens, happens for a reason. And that reason is me."
Then Rand tied the weave, and all was darkness.

And the first chapter of the Silverlance.

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In a place that wasn't, where nothing held any meaning, the figure sat, still and silent.
Winds blew, and they were not winds. Without source, without direction, they tossed the figure's snow white hair one way and his loose, flowing clothing another. They were hot gusts of an arid desert, the frigid breath of a the whirling blizzard. They bore the perfume of growing things, the rancid tang of death, and scents unknown to any sane world.
The ground rolled, and it was not ground. Shifting grays and blacks - not a color so much as a lack of color - formed a surface scarcely less treacherous then quicksand. Through it, deep beneath it, high above it in what could barely be called sky, snaked rivers of fire, of lightning, of liquid earth and jagged water, of pure energy. Colors unseen by human eyes flew overhead, refusing to congeal, soaring on wings of forgotten truths, borne aloft by stray gusts. Mountains of once and future worlds, wept tears of sorrow for realities that never were, unchosen futures that nobody would ever mourn.
And on the very edge of chaos, where dreams met nothing, the elf sat unmoving, his back to a rock, appearing almost part of the chaotic jumble of a landscape. His face showed not so much as a glimmer of emotion, seeming more like a mask then flesh and blood. It was so pale it was almost white, framed by long white hair that had more in common with a lion mane then the silky tresses most elves wore, with a strange scar beneath his eyes. He was handsome, like most of his people, though in a cold haughty way that seemed more accustomed to suffering then joy. But most surprising of all were his eyes. The golden color alone was strange, but when properly examined they did not resemble gold so much as molten brass. But in these eyes was a crack in the mirror, a window into the turmoil of his soul. One burning emotion could be seen in his eyes: they were feral.
Nuada had been gone from the Twilight Woods a long time, and it wore heavily on him, spending so long alone wandering the edge of reality. He was a warrior born, in his long life his hands had taken more lives then his body had drawn breaths, yet it was and never would be enough, there were always more humans, perverting that which was never theirs, and his people were still fading, soon to be lost forever. As a wanderer, there was nothing he could do.
And as a king, what more was there to do then watch his people wither and fade, robbed of their inheritance and power, becoming less with each passing second. No, what was there left?
But his name was not forgotten, despite his banishment. The memories of elves were longer then the memories of humans, and those that longed for the old land would hear him, those that saw if an ending was coming that they would have one worthy of remembrance. Not all were content to let the world fade away and be reduced to a memory, forgotten.
Perhaps they were too far gone. Perhaps their strength had bled away, and all that was left was the broken remnants of a people who had breathed their last long before, unnoticed. But he didn't believe it. They had strength enough for this.
If the greatest had forsaken their birthright and accepted the Twilight Woods, then he would rally the lost and the broken, the weak and the downtrodden, and make an army of them that would shake the great places of the worlds, then return and put them all to the sword to make room for his new order.
He watched the chaos for some idea of what awaited beyond it, some hint of the nothing from which all was built from. The Nothing that awaited his people, should he fail to rouse them one last time. But if there was some secret, some wisdom to be gleaned from the seething jumble of raw dreams and disharmony, he missed it.
Instead, he thought of his sister, now a hand-maiden of Lord Morpheus, The Weaver of Dreams. He was glad for her, she was too gentle, too fragile to survive in the world he was to forge with the edge of his spear, so it was well she had left it. No doubt she'd think him a monster for what he intended to do, but for all their bond she'd never understood him. She'd never felt what motivated him, what put strength in his spine and courage in his heart. Nor would she ever now. Perhaps it was for the best. The man he needed to be could never have the intimacy of another or the weakness it inspired. Better he was to prove a monster.
He got to his feet, still staring and the raw chaos. It was time to go home, leave the border and returned to the more stable worlds closer to the land they had lost. It had been long enough. Longer then history of mortals now recorded, but Midsumer Night was here, and the dream had begun. As if to herald it, one forgotten, broken thing came to rouse the elflord.
"Are you sure about this, master?" Snuffled the Gruagach, his stunted, ugly body hideous enough to defy imagination, like that of a malformed Boar that had learned to stand on it's hind-legs. Once he had been one of the Lord Marshals of the Tuatha Dé Danann, the highest of the high sidhe, a warrior with few equals and powerful magic. He could take any form he wished, the world opened before him. Then he'd fallen in love with a human maiden, and been diminished. When he tried to be reborn a changeling, Hellboy had burned him with iron and imprisoned him in the shrunken form of the last Formorian Giant. He was of little value as a servant, except that he could, in a small way, appreciate the dreams of Nuada Silverlance.
It was pettiness that had brought him to seek the exile out, finding him in the hopes that he would be able to give him his vengeance, and in doing so, had given his loyalty to someone he didn't really understand. And he had put terrible things into motion when he had told him things. He had told him of the death of Summer Mother Evienne, and the conditions of the new Court. And so he had awakened something in Nuada that would have been better to have left sleeping.
One day was no longer enough for him. No. It would be now, and he would make it happen with his own two hands, and pity anyone who got in his way.
Nuada looks at the lesser spirit, his golden eyes grim and commanding, and he bares his teeth in a look of vicious contempt. "She used to be a mortal, and now claims the entire court, this Lily. It is not to be borne, that our kind will suffer her to lead them. No, the only service I shall render her is a quick death, and knowledge of what is to come." He promised darkly, in the tone of one who had learned to hate so very well he had forgotten how to do everything else.
"..Master?"
"Vengeance. Justice. Fire and Blood." Nuada replied. "Perhaps Death. Lets go find out. But one way or another, we shall not fade."

Now, I have to finish that dream sequence, Nicodemus and Solomon's fight, and Dresden and Ramirez's stories, correct? Then perhaps we can return to Nuada, and the coming of the Queen that was promised.

[industrious]

Where were we with old Nic?

Oh, right. He doesn't exist anymore.

Chapter One: Vengeance, thus sayeth the Lord (Part I) (Not finished yet)

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Six Hundred and Sixty Six Thousand Years Later

The man in the red sash had thought this through perfectly. Two months of planning. Five weeks going over scraps of ancient texts. Three practice runs in the finest gambling dens in the Realm, one in Creation. More preparation than any reasonable man would find sane. But this was not a task for the sane.

It was a task for the ambitious and slightly unhinged. The sheer audacity of the plan's execution and end result would, were circumstances different, have granted the man in the red sash with one of the most precious gifts in Heaven or Creation. But he did not need such a gift, did not desire one. He already had one far rarer and entirely more fitting.

"...Any questions?" asked the man in the red sash to the woman wearing only ropes.

"...You...you...you dare blaspheme against..." The woman wearing only ropes was tied to a chair. The chair was in a room with thick walls and floors and no window save a small one made from very thick glass on the equally thick door.

The man in the red sash smiled, showing slightly pointed teeth, and sketched a mocking bow.

"It is, after all, what I do."

He turns his back on the woman, who if she were free, would have foiled his scheme, destroyed his plot. He had chosen her well. A nascent sorcerer with a talent for linguistic wordplay. She had figured it out all too easily, the various clues and puzzles he had sent her, and then...well. Here they were.

"And with that, fair lady, I bid you...adieu."

The man in the red sash exited the room, locking and sealing the door behind him. The woman wearing only ropes cursed and struggled and strived to untie herself, but the man had woven his knots too well.

From a small grate above the ceiling came a drop of water. And then another drop. One fell on her head, and she stared upward, momentarily confused.

It took her an hour for the room to fill completely, and then for the woman to drown.

This chapter is tricky. But if anyone can guess what's happening, lots of kudos to them.

[Colesign]

Mmmm.

My interpretation is that the drowning (of a practitioner, no less), plays a part in a subtle ritual to opens the Gates to Outside and to the End of the Universe, bringing what was once Nicodemus back.

I've no clue of who the Man in the Red Sash is, but I can't help to theorize that since you bandy about the words 'Heaven' and 'Creation' with such...Capitalizing emphasis, this might have something to do with Exalted?

Abyssals?

Further...when you give the date of 6600 years later...later from what? From the End of the Universe, from another date?

[industrious]

A small amount of kudos.

That being said, Abyssals aren't really known for deathtraps and revealing their plans.

The years has been since Nicodemus cast his spell and then was no more.

[Draxx]

Ah. Yozis. Well, I suppose Exalted was going to play a part sooner or later. How's he coping with the big gaping hole in his soul where Anduriel used to be?

And as for years, you mean subjectively, since he cast his soul at the end of the universe where time has no meaning.

[industrious]

I view their arrangement more like two apartment-mates than anything, actually.

And Nic didn't get sent to the End of the Universe. "Just" beyond it.

[Draxx]

Then why hasn't he traded up in two thousand years, if that's all his resident demon is to him? Not like it wouldn't be fairly easy for him, is it?

Make no mistake, I like your take on Nick quite a bit, but I've always thought it diverts from Jim Butchers. Butcher's Nicodemus is powerful and smart, but his real power is that he knows his own limits. He keeps well out of the way of the Gilgamesh's and King Arthur's and the rest of the heavy-weight champions, and works to his own abilities. He's now, according to Jim, terrified of Dresden, so he'll do his best never to see him again, but when Dresden's gone, he'll still be there, and he'll still be working to the scheduled apocalypse.
While yours is more of an Alexander Luthor Junior type character, one who is so evil and has such vision that you just fall into line behind him. With style, charm, and black charisma.
However, I can't help but feel by this point his trials should be taking more of a toll on him. He's been gnawed on by space ghosts, had an eternity of solitude and total sensory deprivation in which it would be expected he'd go slightly mad, and now has Mournblade shadowing him, wearing him down before it strikes (it doesn't know yet whether to eat him, or make him its new holder. Both are pretty bad.)

[industrious]

I always figured that he wasn't exactly spoiled for choice; I mean, after a personal relationship with a Fallen Angel (the strongest of the 30, I believe), spanning 2000 years, offering him power and knowledge and wisdom...I really don't see much in the way of upgrades from that.

As for my Nicodemus being different...I don't really see my portrayal as all that different from Butcher's at all. Barring Butcher's word on the character, it's just how I interpret him.

Trial-wise...I don't think he's coming back for a good while just now. After I finish my interim piece, he'll be in a position removed from the main focus of the game until after the next epic, at least unless Cracklord or someone decides that they should unleash him upon our hapless protagonists. He's an amazing villain that shouldn't be wasted by being overused or killed off.

[Draxx]

Don't get me wrong, I see that you're interpretation of the character is very valid, it just defers from mine a little.

[Colesign]

Mmmm.

Ultimately though, I feel that at some point Nicodemus should 'get his' for good. A story is only as good as the journey and the climax after all, and definite endings are good as well.

And Yozis was my guess as well, Draxx.

[Cracklord]

He always does, Colesign. He got hung by the neck until dead by Alexander Anderson and sent to Hell. Then he got stranded by Dresden at the end of the universe after losing the only being ever to exist who really understood him. He doesn't beat the system as such, it's just that several conflicting powers envision him as a piece in the ongoing war for control of creation, so keep him around, and he's good at staying useful.