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  1. - Top - End - #91
    Orc in the Playground
     
    OrchestraHc's Avatar

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    Default Re: [Nexus] Stories etc

    More*Sevet will have to wait a bit, I'm not exactly smart, so a clever escape plan will take a while.

    More Alfred will have to wait a while, because it would have to be the parent's perspective and I am a lazy dope.

    So...
    Emmi and probably the Guild if i ever make it.

    Make the World Beautiful

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    The rolling rattle of skate wheels on concrete echoed that night. Wearing a plastic fair mask of a kitty cat, and red head phones over curly hair, a girl by the figure, skates up to the empty wall. It would make a good canvas. Lifting the mask up to free her mouth, she takes a whistle from her rainbow colored camo-patterned hoodie and blows.

    "Hwack-Hwack" the duck call sounds out into the night.

    More rattling. This time several skaters, all in different masks. The first to speak up is a skater in a surgeons mask. "Nice wall, Emmi. It'll be perfect."

    "Glad you think so, Doc" the kitty mask says, "Who's picking the subject today?"

    "Yo." says a younger kid in the back with a pig mask. "I figured today we could try a little life drawing." he says micheviously as he pulls out something that sounds like a magazine. He shines a flashlight on the selected page revealing it to be a calendar. A naughty one.

    "Is that the freakin Remnant Cheif?" a skater in the back asks.

    "Little perv", Doc says snatching the calendar and thwacking the kid on the head. "The point of this club was to decrease that nonsense. Kids go to school this way y'know. Who am I kidding? Of course you know. You probably go to school this way." He finds that Emmi has taken the calendar and looks over the painting.

    "I have been meaning to practice anatomy." she says, intrigued by the idea.

    "Eh, Eh?" he says to Doc.

    "Don't get me wrong, Joker is still a little perv and his picking priveleges should be revoked for like, ever. But we can clean this up, and make it presentable. Is Eve here?"

    "Yeppers." a short blue haired girl in a Smiley mask rolls to kitty mask from the group.

    "You've got all the mecha pilot plugsuits memorized, right?"

    "Baaaackwards and forewards."

    "Good you're on suit detail then. Everyone else, you know what to do. And someone keep joker from the naughty bits."

    "Never get to have any fun." Joker pouts.

    The only sounds for the rest of the night are the hissing of spray paint cans, and later the rolling of skate wheels away from the scene.*

    That morning, over what should have been a big empty wall, a bigger than life painting of Remnant's own Vasquez in a sexy pose that shows off her chest. Only instead of being naked, she's wearing the red mech pilot suit of a particularly popular anime. Neither perfectly skin tight, nor exactly modest, the suit manages to show off her form that the artists worked so hard on without coming off as, at least intentionally, perverse. Next to the picture is a vertical list of names

    General Surgeon aka "The Doc"
    Freakin A!
    All-hallows Eve
    Shady Spring
    Speakeasy
    Impractical Joker
    Beautiful M.E.
    Last edited by OrchestraHc; 2012-04-19 at 06:16 PM.

    Pirate Justin avatar by myself. Emmi avatar by Gulaghar, Much Thanks!

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  2. - Top - End - #92
    Barbarian in the Playground
     
    Rotting Baron's Avatar

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    Default Re: [Nexus] Stories etc

    I figured I'd post a few more comments before I posted my next story. I don't know if it'll be more about the Operative or something else yet.

    Quote Originally Posted by OrchestraHc View Post
    Like Sight to the Blind

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    *snip*
    I like the humor in this story, and it makes me want to read more about Sevet.

    Quote Originally Posted by happyturtle View Post
    Billie
    Billie/Elaine Part 5: Mother
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    *snip*
    This story just gets sadder with each part, but it's very captivating.

    Quote Originally Posted by Morty View Post
    Rise of the Prophet, Part 2

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    *snip*
    Brutal story here, but a very well-written one.

    Quote Originally Posted by Kid Kris View Post
    Doctor Deforestation
    Suspicious Circumstances
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    *Cool image*
    I like the unique format here, and the story's really good.

    Quote Originally Posted by Lost_Deep View Post
    I must dig
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    *snip*
    Like Morty said, this is a creepy story, and it leaves me wanting to know more about the character.

    Quote Originally Posted by OrchestraHc View Post
    Emmi

    Make the World Beautiful

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    *Snip*
    Another funny story that leaves just enough information to be intriguing. Nice job!
    Avatar by Matthias2207.


  3. - Top - End - #93
    Barbarian in the Playground
     
    Lord Magtok's Avatar

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    Post-Death MagJournal Entry 1 – Day One of New Life/Existence in Dreary Little Dump Called Limbo. Paper and Pen Provided by Libby, So Thanks For That, I Guess.

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    Died today. I suppose it was sorta inevitable, and it shouldn’t really surprise me as much as it does, given how many clones I’ve had come and go before, but somehow…somehow I guess I just always assumed I was going to be the greatest Magtok who ever lived. It sounds silly, I know, but I just naturally assumed that I would be better than everyone else. I thought I’d be that one very special clone, the first MagClone to live a normal human length of time, to make it through several decades instead of a handful of months or weeks. Death-defying stunts, dangerous schemes, ravenous AMENite maniacs with more guns and magic in their hands than brains in their heads, all of it wasn’t meant to stop me. I thought destiny expected me to outwit and outlive them all.

    Destiny clearly had other plans though, unfortunately. Well, destiny and a massive harpoon gun, of course. Libby said that incident means I’m technically qualified to spend my afterlife in Valhalla, should I decide that place would suit me best, since apparently I get a choice out here. I don’t know where she’s getting this ‘technically qualified’ garbage from, though. I was totally kicking ass and chewing bubblegum right up until the part where my torso had a five foot length of steel sticking out at both ends. I mean, I’m not the best marksman, and I’m not sure if I took anyone down with me, or got any wounds on anyone either, but five more minutes and one less harpoon gun and there would’ve been a gods-damned throne of corpses for me to lounge around on. An entire throne’s worth of them, I tell you! Stupid jerkface bastard with a giant harpoon…

    Aaaaargh! What kind of sick bastard kills a guy with a weapon like that, anyway?! Gods, I’m just so upset right now. Why the hell didn’t I fight harder?! Why didn’t I just dodge that harpoon?! Where the hell am I going to go now?! Why don’t I just have someone use resurrection spells so clones don’t have to deal with this?! Libby is the only person I know out here, and even the creepy reaper goddess lady says I can’t stick around for much longer. I have to make a decision soon, I have to pick out a place to spend the rest of forever, and I don’t get a do-over if I screw up and pick the wrong set of pearly gates. Choosing might sound easy at first, just pick a place with clouds and angels and a bright, pretty name like Paradise or some junk like that, but then I went and actually put some thought into it, and gods, do I ever regret doing that.

    If I pick a hell, pick out someplace terrible and soul-crushingly painful and unpleasant, does some angel come down from above and say that my humility is totally impressive and awesome and qualifies me to go to UberHeaven? Or do I just burn and look like an idiot for all eternity? It’s probably too late for me to do that, since at least part of my mind will be subconsciously expecting a reward for asking to be put in hell, and that feeling of entitlement would probably screw me over here. If I just ask for one of the heavens, of course, I’ll look greedy and selfish and then get cast down anyway! Also, no matter what afterlife I choose, even if I get a good one, pretty much everyone there will be smelly nobodies I’ve never met before. Everyone always perma-deadtimes or gets resurrected in the Nexus, nobody worth noticing ever really stays dead in any sort of meaningful way.

    …Okay, I think I’ve got a plan. I’m going to stretch out my time here in Limbo as much as I can, prolong the inevitable by any means necessary. I don’t know what the rules are here, exactly, but I’m pretty sure you can challenge Death to a game, and get your soul back or something. It’s definitely too late to ask for a resurrection, since my body’s probably been thrown into the dead clone furnace by now, but maybe I can negotiate my way into sticking around here just a few days longer. I’ll gamble my soul for a few weeks to decide where I’m going, choose a game I have some sort of obvious advantage in, and then research as much as I can until I find an afterlife that doesn’t suck forever. That way, even if Libby can’t let her feelings for me get involved, and is obligated somehow by her death goddess duties to actually try to beat me, I’ll still win. And then I’ll…I’ll do something, I guess. Gamble my soul again for even more time? I don’t know what I’ll do yet, really, but I’m sure I’ll figure it out when the time comes.

    …Right?
    "What is a man? A miserable little pile of secrets! But enough talk... Have at you!"
    -Dracula
    Vamptok by Fullbladder

  4. - Top - End - #94
    Ogre in the Playground
     
    Kris on a Stick's Avatar

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    Default Re: [Nexus] Stories etc

    Damn, every Magtok that dies ends up going to an afterlife? That's... a lot of dead Magtoks kicking about up there.

    Or down there, even.
    Last edited by Kris on a Stick; 2012-05-23 at 10:28 AM.
    Quote Originally Posted by Douglas Adams
    In the beginning the Universe was created. This has made a lot of people very angry and been widely regarded as a bad move.

  5. - Top - End - #95
    Ogre in the Playground
     
    happyturtle's Avatar

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    Default Re: [Nexus] Stories etc

    Betcha Lady Morgana has a collection.
    Is it okay to skip me? Probably.
    In three words, I can sum up everything I've learned about life: It goes on.
    ~Robert Frost

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  6. - Top - End - #96
    Ogre in the Playground
     
    Kris on a Stick's Avatar

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    Default Re: [Nexus] Stories etc

    >.>

    Hey Magtok, you don't mind if I just assume that there's going to be a multitude of Magtoks populating most of the Circles of Hell, and thus have any future characters from Down There react as such upon meeting him in life, do you?
    Quote Originally Posted by Douglas Adams
    In the beginning the Universe was created. This has made a lot of people very angry and been widely regarded as a bad move.

  7. - Top - End - #97
    Barbarian in the Playground
     
    Lord Magtok's Avatar

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    Default Re: [Nexus] Stories etc

    Go right on ahead.
    "What is a man? A miserable little pile of secrets! But enough talk... Have at you!"
    -Dracula
    Vamptok by Fullbladder

  8. - Top - End - #98
    Titan in the Playground
     
    Morty's Avatar

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    Default Re: [Nexus] Stories etc

    This is silly, and yet rather sad when you read it through. Makes you wonder why Magtok didn't commission a demi-plane to store his dead souls or something.
    And I have to admit, I'm not sure how I feel about Magtok's story getting more comments than half of mine combined.
    Last edited by Morty; 2012-05-24 at 06:06 PM.
    My FFRP characters. Avatar by Kid Kris. Sigatars by Gulaghar, Kid Kris, Zefir and billtodamax, respectively.

  9. - Top - End - #99
    Barbarian in the Playground
     
    Lord Magtok's Avatar

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    Default Re: [Nexus] Stories etc

    Oh hey look, a sequel.

    Post-Death MagJournal Entry 2 – Day Two of New Life/Existence in Limbo. There's No Sun or Anything To Mark the Passage of Time Down Here, But Libby Says It's Been Close Enough to a Whole Day Since I Showed Up, So Whatever.

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    Okay, so the whole gambling my soul on a competitive thing that I said I was going to do last night? Unnecessary, as it turned out. When I approached Libby and explained my plans to her, she just shook her head and smiled that irksome little creepy smile of hers. Turns out I misunderstood her, that my time limit with which to choose an afterlife was never really a set rule, but more of a polite suggestion than. So I guess I'm not doing any of that, then. Lucky me, I guess, that a death goddess has a silly infatuation with me, and doesn't mind telling me these things, or I could've gambled my soul over nothing.

    See, the reason why it's a suggestion is if I stay here too long, folks are going to start to notice. Demon folks, that is. Angels too, and those weird robot ant afterlife guys from Dungeons and Dragons or whatever. Everyone is going to look down at Limbo, and see a MagClone soul, sitting around in indecision, and basically try to jump me like big, fat, smelly, steaming stack of fried cave rat nuggets in gross mushroom sauce, sitting on a plate right under that stupid Dippy's ugly goblin nose.

    So yeah. The afterlives are mobilizing, and I need a new game plan. In fact, it might even be too late for one. Kal has already dropped by, the first of the eventual horde, giving me a rather half-assed sales pitch and a full-assed grope, which either implies that he's gotten too arrogant because his hell-thingy already has plenty of MagClones, or he's gotten too accepting of failure, for all the clones before me that rejected him and his smelly 'You'll finally have a look that will match that one awesome infernal week avatar you got a while back' offer that he only comes around just to mess with me. I asked Libby, but she just put a hand over her mouth, repressed a giggle or two, and said she's not allowed to disclose much information about previous Limbo souls people. That's minotaur poop, I know a white lie when I hear one.

    So anyways, I took to asking some more questions after Kal left, figuring it'd be best that I clear up any additional misinterpretations of afterlife rules I might've made, as well as investigate my other options, if any, outside of picking an afterlife or waiting for someone sufficiently powerful to come along and pick for me. Firstly, I asked her about making my own plane of existence, for MagSouls. She said approximately six other clones had the same idea before, and ran their own planes for a short time, but never saw much business. The problem, y'see, was that the average MagSoul didn't want to go to a MagSoul afterlife. That would imply the ruling clone was superior or had seniority or something. Libby was always nice enough to provide fliers and such, but those new souls coming in would say "Fudge that noise, I'm opening my own afterlife. It'll be better than that clone's afterlife. It'll have blackjack, and hookers, and lasers attached to things!" And then they'd go do the same thing the first guy did, and fail just as badly. Failure isn't just a matter of wounded ego, either. All of those little baby planes inevitably got eaten by El Diablo when they failed to convince a single soul to join them and help defend against the fiery devil hordes. Libby says that it wasn't quite as bad as it sounds, though, that those clones whose souls were extinguished had ended quite painlessly. Libby is terrible at lying.

    Next, I asked her what would happen if I stayed here in Limbo, besides the whole 'demons out to kidnap/make deals with me' thing. Turns out that there's a whole bunch of faithless rebel soul peoples hiding out in various little hidey-holes. Downside to that, of course, is that if I die in Limbo as a faithless, I die for good, and that's it, and there's a terribly large chance one of the rebel soul people might find an excuse to kill me, what with me being me and all.

    So...that's pretty much the full extent of my choices. I can hide here with some smelly atheists and wait for one of them to eventually shank me, I can hide here all by myself until the demons kidnap me, I can make my own plane and wait for devils to eat me, or I can take a gamble on one of the afterlives, and hope I don't get eaten, kidnapped, or shanked in someone else's home turf. I asked Libby to give me her best estimate on the odds of each choice, and it looks like, as expected, the afterlife choice one is the only option that has even a remote chance of permanently keeping me alive. So I'm sure you can guess what I'm going to do next. I mean, it's pretty obvious to anyone secretly reading this journal behind my back (Yes Libby, I know you've found a way to do it. You're a goddess, of course you were going to find a way, and of course I would know. Don't look so surprised when you finally get around to reading this, jeez.) what my plans are.

    That's right, I'm declaring war on and invading Kal's place! Some first and second circle dump run by a Lady Morgatha or something. I don't recognize the name, but she sounds like the sort of dumb broad who'd sit in a river and throw Zweihänders at people. Should be a piece of cake. That'll show that jerk for groping my butt! D=<
    Last edited by Lord Magtok; 2012-05-24 at 09:32 PM.
    "What is a man? A miserable little pile of secrets! But enough talk... Have at you!"
    -Dracula
    Vamptok by Fullbladder

  10. - Top - End - #100
    Orc in the Playground
     
    OrchestraHc's Avatar

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    Default Re: [Nexus] Stories etc

    Quote Originally Posted by Lord Magtok View Post
    Oh hey look, a sequel.

    Post-Death MagJournal Entry 2 – Day Two of New Life/Existence in Limbo. There's No Sun or Anything To Mark the Passage of Time Down Here, But Libby Says It's Been Close Enough to a Whole Day Since I Showed Up, So Whatever.

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    *snip*
    Magtok has made a wonderful decision. There is absolutely no possible way that this plan can backfire at all. His arrogance wont get the better of him. Things will not go south, or as south as things can go when you literally decide to conquer (a) hell, and Magtok certainly won't end up trying to backpedal like an out of control swanboat.

    Pirate Justin avatar by myself. Emmi avatar by Gulaghar, Much Thanks!

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  11. - Top - End - #101
    Ogre in the Playground
     
    happyturtle's Avatar

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    Default Re: [Nexus] Stories etc

    The repeated failure of the Mag-Clone demi-planes made me lol.
    Is it okay to skip me? Probably.
    In three words, I can sum up everything I've learned about life: It goes on.
    ~Robert Frost

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  12. - Top - End - #102
    Barbarian in the Playground
     
    Rotting Baron's Avatar

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    Here's the not-all-that-awaited third part of the Operative's backstory. I'm not all too satisfied with this, but I'm not entirely sure how I can improve it.

    The Operative
    Patient Interview 3

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    The week following up to Hayes's next session passed without incident. Dr. Oakley made much more progress with some of his other patients. It helped him build up the smallest bit of confidence leading to the challenge that was Merrick. But then, his other patients were mundane criminals. Hayes was the first psychic he had even met, let alone needed to try and treat. He wondered if the genetic condition that caused psionics had addled Hayes's mind to some degree. Given what he'd heard of psychics, that seemed the best explanation.

    Eventually Thursday came again. Oakley sat at his desk ten minutes early, to organize the notes he had made on Merrick. He recovered his tape recorder and began his notes for the day. "Preparing for session two with Mr. Hayes. The number of pages of notes I've made on this man is easily an order of magnitude higher than those of any other patient I've seen. He is an anomaly, of sorts, something that is only aided by his abilities. It is my hope that the psi-blocking device will have allowed Hayes to consider his own thoughts over the week instead of others's, and perhaps he will be more accommodating."

    He put the recorder down again a few moments before the door to his office was opened. As before, the stationed guard shoved Merrick in, and was quick to shut the door. Merrick, though, had apparently seen a few changes. He was ever so slightly less gaunt than before, and the ball and chain had disappeared from his ankle. The manacles and handcuffs were still present.

    "It seems the security are taking better care of you. Mr. Hayes," Oakley began, while gesturing for Merrick to take a seat.

    "I have been released from solitary confinement," Merrick said, "and I am now allowed three meals daily."

    "But you're still bound." This was a point of confusion for Oakley. Normally, prisoners that weren't in solitary were also allowed their freedom of movement.

    "Of course. Security and the other inmates are afraid of me. As they should be." Merrick's voice was still cold as ever as he spoke.

    "If it's your condition they fear, then do th-" Oakley could not continue, as he had just provoked the first emotion that Merrick had shown. And judging from the narrowing of his eyes and tightening of his jaw, it was not a positive emotion.

    "Don't. Ever. Call my abilities a condition again." To anyone else, the look in Merrick's eyes was indicative of simple anger. But Oakley had worked with soldiers before. Those black eyes were filled with the intent to kill.

    "I- I apologize, Mer- Mr. Hayes. That was inconsiderate of me." Oakley almost broke the air of professionalism by using Merrick's first name, but he was convinced that such a transgression couldn't possibly go over well.

    The killing glare that Merrick had did not remain for long. He soon returned to his 'normal,' nearly blank expression. "Remind me where I had left off in recounting my case."

    Oakley was shocked by this development, and wiped his brow a little. "Ah, you and your squad were just returning to base, and you'd sent the HQ plans to the orc terrorists."

    "Yes, that was it," Merrick said. "Now let's continue."

    The squad disembarked from the helicopter. MacGregor was escorted to the infirmary for psychological diagnosis. Most of the other troops headed back inside to celebrate a job done relatively well (and of course, to talk about how Hayes really needed to cool it,) but Merrick stayed at the ready. He fully expected the orcs to retaliate. After what he'd done to their hostage, it was only a matter of time before they came with guns at the ready.

    He waited five minutes. Ten. A half-hour. Two hours. He was beginning to feel disappointed in these Pakistanis. He'd killed their precious refugee, and yet they hadn't even sent one man to find who was responsible? How lethargic of them. Merrick turned back to the base, reaching under his gas mask to remove them.

    Then he hear the raid sirens. About time. While he was sure the rest of the SAS were gathering their gear, all Merrick did was turn towards the direction of the orcs he was beginning to sense, and pull his pistol from its holster. His ice pick was already in his other hand.

    As he steadily walked toward the nearest intruders, a few other troops in full combat gear joined him. "Hayes, do you know who they are?" was the main question he heard.

    Merrick suppressed a snort. Despite how much these people hated him, they still relied on him for any information. It was just funny to him. "Orcs. Pakistani. I think the same ones from Karachi."

    "The hell, we gave them their hostage, now they're here for more?" Coutts said.

    "Clearly. Keep your guard up." Merrick knew this was a silly suggestion. If this attack went according to plan, nobody in the SAS beside himself would need to even fire a shot. Not that they knew that, of course.

    It wasn't long before the SAS team came across the crude helicopters that the Pakistanis were using. No less than five dozen orcs exited the vehicles, immediately with their AK's pointed at the small team of eight. Their leader, who was clearly much bigger than the rest of the orcs, began shouting in Urdu. Orcs liked to talk in languages they thought were difficult to understand.

    Unfortunately, Urdu wasn't difficult to decipher, not for Coutts. "He's saying... we're going to pay for killing the young one? Hayes, what the hell did you do?" The accusation was instant. Though not entirely unreasonable.

    "Nothing unnecessary. That orc is lying to us."

    The leader started to give orders. Merrick didn't need the translation to figure out what was going on. But he was much faster than some Pakistani. In five seconds, the orcs started firing. Right into the psi-shield that Merrick had raised.

    Another second later, Merrick's ice pick was embedded in the enemy leader's throat. Merrick, thanks to his abilities, had been able to much faster than any naked eye could detect. In another second, three other orcs had received a bullet between the eyes. Only one of those was from Merrick, though. The rest of the SAS team were starting to catch up.

    With the leader dead in an instant, the rest of the battle was not much challenge to the Special Air Service. The shield Merrick put up moved with the team members, keeping them from enemy fire. Merrick moved like mist while in the fray. Nothing could come even close to touching him, even at the range he put himself at.

    In fifty-seven seconds, every orc that had attacked the Wales SAS headquarters was dead. Of the sixty that had arrived, forty-one were stabbed or shot by Merrick. Merrick himself stood atop the last of the corpses, stomping on its neck to confirm the kill. He was practically soaked in orc blood. The team, however, did not celebrate their success, like with the prisoner exchange. Instead, Merrick found himself being approached by both Coutts and the unnamed (to him, anyway,) helicopter pilot.

    "You're to see Captain Baker. Now," the pilot said, in no uncertain terms. This part of the situation certainly hadn't gone according to plan. Without another word, Merrick reported to the Captain's office. Probably to receive further orders.
    Avatar by Matthias2207.


  13. - Top - End - #103
    Barbarian in the Playground
     
    Lord Magtok's Avatar

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    Default Re: [Nexus] Stories etc

    @Patient Interview 3: Damn Merrick, you crazy. More, please.

    @Make the World Beautiful: Poor Joker.

    @Suspicious Circumstances: Idly curious as to how you went about making this thingy.

    @Rise of the Prophet, Part 2: Damn, goblins are scary little monsters.



    Anyways, here's the next MagJournal thingy. I'm as surprised as anyone else at the speed with which I'm cranking these things out. Already have a pretty good idea of what I'm going to do with the fourth, too.


    Post-Death MagJournal Entry 3 – Day One of…Crap, Which Circle Am I On? First, Second? Screw it, I’ll Ask Someone and Add It In When I Get to Entry 4.

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    So I did exactly as I said I would at the end of the last MagJournal entry, and got a job at Kal’s place today. It’s pretty nice for a Hell, actually. He wasn’t lying to me about that, I’ll give him that much. It’s a bit lewd for my tastes though, which should come as a surprise to absolutely nobody, seeing as how I’ve made it clear before that I’m not really a fan of the whole ‘spiky codpiece and flaming pasties’ aesthetic. There’s only so much of what I’ve seen that I can actually put to ink and paper, of course, for fear that Libby will somehow find it and then go catatonic at the thought of a uvula piercing or whatever, but goddamn, they’ve got some really messed up stuff down here. I honestly have no idea why anyone would want a barbed-wire top hat, nor do I want to.

    Luckily, I’m not really going to be hit with the dress code that badly. Not right now, at an entry level rank, anyways. See, it turns out the harpoon I got hit with back when I was alive counts as a piercing, and a big enough of one to meet all their silly stylistic requirements. I’m sorta glad for that, I guess, but I was finally about to get around to trying to remove the thing from my midsection, so it’s a bit of a mixed blessing. The big ol’ thing makes getting around insanely difficult, of course, since not everything is just open space like it was back on Limbo, but I’ve been able to manage well enough so long as I don’t try turning around in narrow hallways or anything. I’m also told that it can slide right out of my chest without any effort at all (well now I feel really stupid for not even trying), my chest will just reform until it’s time to put the thing back in, and it can be used as a spear, if we’re ever invaded and I’m without a better weapon, so that’s definitely a huge bonus. Not allowed to remove it unless I have a fight to the death situation or I’m sleeping with someone or something, for dress code reasons, but I’m sure I’ll find a battle soon enough. A battle, not that…that other thing.

    I haven’t seen Kal around, or Decker, but that’s probably for the best, really. Hopefully they’re both on a really long Nexus vacation or business thing right now, because I really don’t need anybody I already know giggling at the new guy as he stumbles around with a huge lump of metal in his torso, gawking in horror at every last eyelid piercing, animated winking butt tattoo, and extra set of eyeballs his poor little mind fails to block out entirely. Most of these fools seem to be mistaking my horror for shameless ogling too, and as friendly and/or a kid as Decker might be (I can’t remember, did she go back to being a grown-up again, or what? Blargh, so confusing), I know for a fact that she’d be laughing her head off if she was here for all of that. Fudge, even the tour guide, who knew I wasn’t from around here, thought my unbridled horror and terrified babbling was a sign of some sort of awkward infatuation, and not the disgust and revulsion for the extra mouth he had at the end of his tongue that it really was.

    Speaking of the tour, I forget what they said my job was going to be. It was either lowly footsoldier or part of someone’s harem, I think. Seems like the sort of thing I should’ve been paying attention to, but I guess I’ll be able to figure it out when they get around to assigning uniforms. I mean, I’m sure it’ll be easy enough to tell the difference between Lady Morgana’s military force and her personal collection of-



    On second thought, I think I’ll go back and double-check with the tour guy. You know, just to be on the safe side. The roles might all be one and the same, too. Since this is Hell and all that. I’ve said enough about the fashions around here as is.

    Beyond the weird way everyone dresses and stuff, and also the fact that this journal is being monitored now (I left the first two entries with Libby, and told her to incinerate them if anyone asked about it because all of the embarrassing stuff I wrote about Vasquez in there), I think I might actually grow fond of this place. The food’s alright, if you like the souls of the unworthy, the locals have made it loudly and uncomfortably clear that they’re up for anything with anybody, and nobody is asking me potentially compromising questions! Yep, this is definitely the place for me!
    "What is a man? A miserable little pile of secrets! But enough talk... Have at you!"
    -Dracula
    Vamptok by Fullbladder

  14. - Top - End - #104
    Ogre in the Playground
     
    Kris on a Stick's Avatar

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    re: Suspicious Circumstances. Since two people have asked already. Basically grabbed a newspaper article off of Google Image search and fiddled around with it in the same art/image manipulation program I use to create avatars. Clone stamp erases all the text while keeping the grainy paper background. Photo also courtesy of Google, with a few quick filters to make it look authentic. Add text, with a few filters again to make it appear faded and grainy. Stick some blurs on there as 'censorship'. Finished. Is simple.

    Will read, comment on other stories in the morning, though of course I've read and enjoyed Magtok's story already since he sent it to me for approval.

    Possibly add my own. Possibly.
    Quote Originally Posted by Douglas Adams
    In the beginning the Universe was created. This has made a lot of people very angry and been widely regarded as a bad move.

  15. - Top - End - #105
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    Quote Originally Posted by Lord Magtok View Post
    @Rise of the Prophet, Part 2: Damn, goblins are scary little monsters.
    Well, the story is meant to describe a people who have been pushed so far they snapped, and everything that looks human has become a target. So "scary" is definetly what I was going for.
    Last edited by Morty; 2012-05-27 at 12:50 PM.
    My FFRP characters. Avatar by Kid Kris. Sigatars by Gulaghar, Kid Kris, Zefir and billtodamax, respectively.

  16. - Top - End - #106
    Ogre in the Playground
     
    Kris on a Stick's Avatar

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    Um... excuse me while I make a note never to make fun of Dipsnig again. >.>

    Patient Interview 3 was awesome, and Make the World Beautiful was hilarious.

    And now:

    Marked: Prologue
    Kal Backstory

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    The worst thing about the Broken Hills was the wind. This far south, as far south as one could go on the continent of Hybras before hitting the frozen seas that marked the Bottom of the World, it was everywhere. It was strong. And it was cold. And it was miserable. It blew across the plains. It blow across the heights. It blew across the valleys. It blew through the great halls of Blackwell, where the mighty kings who had ruled the Broken Hills with an iron fist had ruled for generations. It blew through the ports of Reddale, wrestling with the fishing ships that fueled the vast armies of the Blackwatch, armies that as of yet had been unbeaten for hundreds of years. It even blew, or at least tried to blow, into the deep caves of the Whitepick dwarves, reclusive allies of King Blackwell who emerged from their dark tunnels only to provide their finest crafts, whether in metal or warriors. The only place that the wind did not blow at all was in the Castle-at-Blackthorne, where thick stone walls that had whethered countless assaults on the kingdom of Blackwell, now whethered a no less violent and determined assault on the 10th wedding anniversary of Lord Eamon of Blackthorne, and his lovely wife, Lillanthil. The gods forbid such a momentous occasion be ruined by a chilly breeze.

    Said lovely wife, however, was not currently celebrating the occasion with her husband, but rather on the short walk back towards celebrating the occasion with her husband, after having stepped outside for a visit to the Little Half-Succubus' Room. The tapping of her high-heeled shoes echoed hollowly through the cold, dank halls which, though lavishly decorated, nevertheless remained dank and cold, for not even the finest Elvish tapestries plundered from the North (Elves rarely gave up their posessions willingly - especially not to the 'inferior' races) could disguise the fact that the castle's original designer had clearly decided that such petty concepts as 'style' and 'beauty' were abominations to be avoided at all costs.
    Somewhere, hordes of devils punish him by dressing him up in the latest fashions from Gempri, while he is forced to lounge in an elaborate Pelusian suite as the soft strains of an Amphoran symphony drift in the air like hummingbirds.
    Lillanthil smiled at the image, even as she dismissed it. If anything, Hell was even less creative.

    Abruptly, she was at a crossroads. To her right, the dining room where her husband awaited, no doubt waiting to spoil her in ways not yet invented in all the Seven Heavens. The husband who, for the rest of the night, would proceed to wine her, dine her, romance her, and then take her to the bedroom where they would soon be in so much bliss it was almost criminal. To her left, her newborn son. The bawling little orcspawn that had sat in her abdomen for nine, miserable months, stretching and malforming her lovely body so that even now, on her anniversary, she had been forced to have a new dress made for the event to replace the one she could no longer fit into. The diminutive terror whoses cries pierced the walls which had taken rock and arrow and cannonfire without shaking like paper, keeping herself, her husband, and half the servants up all night, every night, for weeks. The latest scion of a family of monsters and murderers... and that was just on his father's side. It was almost no choice at all. She went left.

    What she saw there punched the breath right out of her lungs, sliced it up, stole its cash, and left it bruised and bleeding in an alley crying weakly for help. Her heartrate quickened. Her fists clenched. Her legs trembled in conflicting desire, one wishing to turn and flee, one wishing to charge forth, saber in hand and screaming the harshest battlecries she knew. Every nerve in her body screamed in equal parts terror and rage. A real scream, one born out of pure hatred and outrage, swelled up from the bottom of her chest, gained momentum in her lungs, and roiled forth in righteous fury before ultimately dying in the back of her throat, emerging as a feeble gasp.
    "Oh do please hush, child. You'll wake the baby."
    Morgana sat in a deep armchair, clad in a silken white robe and rocking back and forth gently, cradling Lillanthil's infant son in her arms. The previous occupant of the armchair, the boy's wetnurse, lay splattered across the far wall and part of the ceiling, the steady drip of her blood punctuating the near total silence of the room, broken only by the rhythmic creaking of Morgana's chair, and the faint, mechanized clicking of her two bodyguards.

    Morgana looked up at her daughter, noticing the aura of magic surrounding both her fists.
    "And you can put those away as well, darling. You know full well my guards and I can shrug off any attack you are capable of mounting. All you'll do is endanger the child."
    Swallowing heavily, Lillanthil released her hold on the Arcane, and struggled to find her voice for a moment.
    "What more do you want from me, Morgana? What more can you take?" She hissed.
    "Why, nothing." Replied Morgana, with unconvincing surprise.
    "I'm merely here to visit my new grandson."
    Morgana smiled, returning her gaze to the infant cradled in her arms. She brushed a lock of hair out of his forehead for a moment with a finger, before letting the wispy red strands fall back into place.
    "Little baby Kal. Your uncle will be so pleased to learn you've named a child after him, even after how you last parted ways." She said, her words laced with malicious glee.
    Lillanthil closed her eyes, struggling to maintain composure.
    "The child's name is Kalfinn, not Kal'selthezaar, and as far as I am concerned he will never hear that name, nor yours, for as long as he lives."
    "Such harsh words, for your family. Are you sure you can keep him from his destiny?"
    "He has no destiny! At least, not with you! Leave now, and never come back!"
    Morgana smiled.
    "You can't keep him from me. He'll be mine eventually. His blood marks him."
    Morgana slowly traced a spot on the baby's forehead. A raised nub that would eventually grow into a horn, marking his diabolical heritage.

    She stood.

    "But I'll follow your wishes for now."
    She placed the child back in his crib, pausing to arrange his blankets and tuck him in properly. Then she straightened, turning once again to face her daughter.
    "Eighteen years. That's how long I'll give you. And then I'll be back. And we'll see if what you said to me the last time we spoke holds true."
    Morgana smiled one last time. The broad, smug smile of someone who knows, deep down, that they have already won.
    "But I think we both know that I'm going to turn out right. Again."
    And then she was gone.

    Adrenaline left Lillanthil, and she leant against the doorframe, slowly sinking to the ground. For the first time in a very, very long time, she was afraid.
    Quote Originally Posted by Douglas Adams
    In the beginning the Universe was created. This has made a lot of people very angry and been widely regarded as a bad move.

  17. - Top - End - #107
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    Morty's Avatar

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    Well, it's been 500 years. The goblins have turned into more... sophisticated methods of getting back at their enemies.
    Now, for Kal's story. I wonder what the story behind Lillanthil and Morgana is. And as always, mortals get caught in the middle and splattered all over the walls and ceiling.
    Last edited by Morty; 2012-06-01 at 09:36 AM.
    My FFRP characters. Avatar by Kid Kris. Sigatars by Gulaghar, Kid Kris, Zefir and billtodamax, respectively.

  18. - Top - End - #108
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    You walk into the nursery and see the splattered wet nurse all over the walls. If the baby is still alive, it was done by devils. If the baby is also on the walls, goblins. If the baby is in the smoothie maker, it was Magtok.
    Is it okay to skip me? Probably.
    In three words, I can sum up everything I've learned about life: It goes on.
    ~Robert Frost

    Spoiler: Interested in Nexus FFRP? Newcomers welcome!
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    We're friendly! Join the fun!
    Ext. Sig.

  19. - Top - End - #109
    Ogre in the Playground
     
    Kris on a Stick's Avatar

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    Quote Originally Posted by Morty View Post
    I wonder what the story behing Lillanthil and Morgana.
    Me too, frankly. I'm still working it out.
    Quote Originally Posted by Douglas Adams
    In the beginning the Universe was created. This has made a lot of people very angry and been widely regarded as a bad move.

  20. - Top - End - #110
    Barbarian in the Playground
     
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    Quote Originally Posted by Lord Magtok View Post
    Post-Death MagJournal Entry 3 – Day One of…Crap, Which Circle Am I On? First, Second? Screw it, I’ll Ask Someone and Add It In When I Get to Entry 4.

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    *snip*
    I think this is funny, just like the rest of this story's been so far.

    Quote Originally Posted by Kid Kris View Post
    Marked: Prologue
    Kal Backstory

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    *snip*
    This wasn't so funny, but I still want to read more.

    I'm a little burnt out on writing the Patient Interview series, so here's something entirely different.

    Cassidy Scarlett
    The Shadows of Seattle, Part 1

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    Cass woke up and lifted herself to her feet. She looked at the wall across from her, with its always growing and changing mural of graffiti. It had been the closest thing she had to entertainment since she'd come to the underside of this bridge. Signs of pride for various no-time gangs, crudely worded messages to Lone Star regarding their corporate badges and where they can shove them, and various other typical sprawl-related lines and images covered the arch Cass had decided to sleep under a couple of weeks ago. New ones had been added the previous night, partially covering some statement about Aztechnology. Cass had paid little of this graffiti any mind throughout these past few days, though she did enjoy watching it shift and change – sometimes just a few square inches were painted over, other times it seemed like half of the arch had changed.

    She shivered a little. October was never much fun out in the streets. Cass pulled her coat closer to her. It was an old military-styled greatcoat, three sizes too large for her. It wasn't really hers, of course. She'd taken it off of the dead body of some homeless guy. Shot in the head, and Lone Star doesn't bother to do anything about it. Damn typical of the pigs. She searched through all the pockets of the coat. Sure, she'd already done so more than a few times, but some part of her still wanted to believe there was some kind of credstick in there, even if it only had ten nuyen on it.

    Eventually, she sighed, and started shuffling off from her spot. It was about when she got all the way out from under the bridge when the smell hit her. Most people wouldn't have smelt it, but most people weren't adepts. Cass was, though, which was why she was smelling something that she didn't like at all. The ghouls were on the move, and they were coming in this direction. Fortunately, they seemed pretty slow, and they were far enough away that she didn't have to leave today. Definitely tomorrow morning, though. Maybe she could find some condemned building to squat in while she was out in the streets. Maybe she'd have to swallow what little pride she had and climb down into the sewers. She didn't like thinking about that much more than the incoming ghouls. Before leaving, she took the one thing she had out of her pocket – a SIN identification card. She hid it underneath a large rock – can't be too careful when you're about to commit some thievery. Then she shook off the bite of late autumn, buttoned up her coat, and kept walking.

    Though this was a relatively new area to Cass, she still knew how to navigate the streets well enough. Today, she was heading to a nearby mall to look for a good mark. Pickpocketing was really the only thing that she could consistently make money off of. At sixteen, she was too young for any decent jobs, and that sliver of pride kept her from doing much of anything on the other side of legality. That combined with no sort of financial safety net resulted in her life becoming a life on the streets or very occasionally inside a squatter's haven.

    Cass shook away her thoughts. She was being oddly introspective today. Thoughts like that kept her from making her money. She arrived at the mall she'd spotted yesterday - a pretty typical place for a sprawl. Crowded with people of all metatypes, even some trolls. Here, the stores were cheap and the food was even cheaper. Still, Cass couldn't much afford to pick and choose. There were plenty of people around. She looked around for someone suitable. Unfortunately, most of the people were obviously veterans of the slums, and were watching everyone near them. Today wasn't going to be an easy day. At least, that's what Cass thought at first. Then she saw someone that wasn't as street-smart.

    He was a well-dressed elf. Too well-dressed for any sprawl. Too neat-looking too. His well-groomed face and tailored clothes made Cass subconsciously fret with her long and unkempt hair. That only lasted a few seconds. She didn't know why this high class guy was in this place, but he was going to be a pretty easy mark for a quick swipe.

    The approach was a simple one, especially for someone as small and non-threatening as Cass. All she really needed to do was keep her head down and look passive. She didn't have to worry about her own pockets being emptied; she didn't have anything on her. The elf was too busy looking at all the various shops to notice her coming towards him. At least, until the moment of truth – when Cass “accidentally” bumped into him, and slipped one of her hands into a few of his pockets and grabbed everything she could in one quick and fluid motion. She quickly took a step back and muttered an apology, knowing that her relatively innocent face would do all the work for her. The elf said that it was nothing, and told her that she should be more careful.

    Cass stuffed what she took into one of the pockets of her coat, and got out of the elf's sight so she could get a look at what she managed to take. At first, she was a little disappointed in herself when she saw it. All she'd managed to get was a single credstick. But then she saw its color. Silver. That meant this credstick could have up to five hundred nuyen! All Cass had been able to snag before now was a bunch of blue sticks, that never had more than thirty stored, but this? Five hundred? She almost didn't know what to do with that much-

    Cass slowed her breathing down. She didn't want to look too much like she'd just scored big. But she does take it to a nearby scanner. The scanner picked up the credstick's tag, and displayed what was left on it. When she read the hologram in front of her, she almost danced a little. 500. Even.

    She'd hit the jackpot! That elf hadn't even used the nuyen yet! It was all hers. She still didn't know what she could possibly do with that much, but it was a hell of a lot better than the zero nuyen that she had when she woke up. This was almost enough for an entire month, but Cass decided to keep going for the day. She changed locations a couple of times to throw people off of her trail, and found a few other credsticks, but nothing even close to the silver one off of that elf. She kinda wanted to thank him.

    By the time the sun set, Cass was counting out the credsticks she'd taken while walking back to her spot under the bridge. Without that silver one, this would've been a pretty bad day, she'd only stolen thirty-one credits otherwise. But five hundred thirty-one, that was a wee bit better.

    Cass saw that the graffiti on her arch had changed yet again while she was gone. That message about Aztech and their blood rituals was now completely covered, thanks to a new Halloweener sign. But it was when Cass came to her spot for sleeping that she found something a lot more interesting.

    It was a small package. In the exact spot she'd slept last night. What the hell was it? She went to pick it up, and saw “Ms. Scarlett” written on the side. That was the name her SIN was assigned to! How the hell did whomever dropped this know her name?

    Cass tried and failed to calm down as she picked up the package. It was pretty light, even for something of its size. She unwrapped the paper it was in. The actual contents of the package became less interesting when she saw that there was more writing on the other side. It read:

    Good job swiping my credstick – if it weren't for my guys, I might not have noticed you. You can keep it. Consider it, and this gift, as a taste of things to come. If you want to know what may lie in store for someone of your talents, meet me at 901 5th Avenue tomorrow at two o'clock. I have a job for you.

    -Jack


    Cass couldn't believe this. That elf, apparently named Jack, not only knew she'd taken his silver credstick, but wanted to offer her a job, as some sort of reward? This was stupid. She couldn't do any sort of job, she was just a sixteen-year-old pickpocket. Then again, though, not only did he know she was a thief, but he knew who she was, and where she slept. So maybe if she didn't go, he'd just come and take the credstick back.

    At about this time, Cass's attention came back to the actual package, and she saw why it was so light.

    It was a pear.

    She tentatively took a bite out of it, and was shocked at the sweet taste and the juice spilling onto her chin. No soy. It was a real pear. Less than a minute later, there was no trace left of it.

    Maybe she could go see this Jack.
    Last edited by Rotting Baron; 2012-06-03 at 02:55 AM.
    Avatar by Matthias2207.


  21. - Top - End - #111
    Barbarian in the Playground
     
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    New MagJournal entry! And I have an avatar to go with it, too!

    Post-Death MagJournal Entry 4 – Day Twenty-Seven of Hell. Would’ve Updated Sooner, But I Was Busy, Fudge You

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    "Get up, maggot."

    I should’ve seen this coming. Should’ve known they wouldn’t go easy on me because of my name and history. Back in the Nexus, being a MagClone meant something. Down here, stranded in Hell without any of my brethren around? I might as well be just another mortal with a stick in his chest. Nobody made any concessions, nobody gave me free stuff or promised me easy promotions or did any of the things I’d expected them to do for someone of my prestige and infamy.

    "I said get up, maggot. You know what I’ll do if you make me repeat myself again."

    Exhibit A, my lovely drill sergeant in boot camp, Ms. Rubyteeth McDiesIfWeEverMeetAgain. A more cold-hearted and psychotic hell-tramp probably exists somewhere, but I’ll be damned if she’s not at least the fourth worst person this side of the Styx. If she gave any sign of recognition when she first heard my name on day one, I definitely missed it, and she didn’t seem to care about its significance later, either.

    "Go **** yourself," I spat out, along with some blood and a couple of my teeth, one of which, I’m proud to say, almost nicked her right in the eye. It was the second week of boot camp, and we were in the middle of our usual afternoon flirtations. I was lying in a ditch for failing to successfully navigate an obstacle course that required the use of magic I refused to learn, she was standing over me with a healing wand, and the rest of the cadets were watching from afar, at they assumed to be a moderately safe distance.

    "Excuse me?"

    "I said go **** yourself. I’ve seen this movie before. You hit me, I fall down. I get up again, you hit me, I fall down, and the whole process keeps going on until you hit me really hard and say something profound that motivates me to stop lagging behind, or you call it quits because I won’t stop standing up and all the Magtok-punching is bruising your knuckles. Also, you’re like the forty-eighth person to call me maggot. At first I thought you did that to everyone, but no, I’m the only one here who gets called that. It’s not clever anymore, it’s not even insulting, ma’am, it’s just vaguely sorta annoying. I don’t-"

    I really wish she hadn’t interrupted me. I had this really clever remark lined up about how if she didn’t have her smelly demon magic, she’d lose any sort of fight in an instant, but then she decided to butt in preemptively and stomp down on my right arm, and keep putting pressure on it until it made that awful snapping noise. Y’know, the one that sounds sort of like a tree branch cracking, or like an arm being stomped on so hard it breaks into a million pieces? That one. Oww.

    "Fifteen laps around the barracks, or fifteen minutes in my quarters, maggot. Either way, you’ll get your arm back when you’re done."

    Yeah, I was in no condition to do even half that many laps. But I did, and then the healing wand fixed me right up. The next day, I did a few more, too. And so on, until it was firmly established I wasn’t going to budge on the whole 'Magtok doesn’t do your stupid lame-face elf magic nonsense' stance that I insisted upon sticking to, and that I wasn’t into whatever kinky torture curtains she had in mind. A bit more broken limbs, some extra fireballs, and in a month I’m sure they could’ve convinced me to change my mind about the whole wimpy elf magic thing, but seeing as I was just an insignificant piece of rubbish with a whale-hunting stick in my torso, I guess they figured it wasn’t worth it. When our time in boot camp finally came to a close, I graduated to the Infernal Guard just like everyone else. Or at least, that’s what my papers said.

    In truth, after earning my gun and uniform, I ended up spending an inordinate amount of time working with Clockworks. So someone down here knows who I am, I guess. They’re warforged, for those not familiar with this particular kind of hell, by the way. The Clockworks are these huge metal guys, big ol’ magitech robots, made up of equal parts gears, servos, steam, and the wailing souls of forgotten children. Dumb as Magbots, and just as blind and subservient to anyone with enough ribbons and medals to hand out orders. Since they fall under the command of some doofus called General Klank (I’m serious, that’s his actual name. Figures that the only people he can command respect from are designed from the get-go to have absolutely no sense of humor), they’re technically outside the chain of command of the Infernal Guard, and vice versa. Though we’re supposed to work together, there’s usually a fair amount of bickering, rivalries, and all sorts other stupid nonsense about who has more pin-ups of Lady Morgana stapled to their tank or whatever going on in the background. I don’t know, maybe I made up the pin-ups thing, I don’t care. I never really pay attention to that sort of thing anyway. The point is, the Guard needs Clockwork to absorb most of the casualties and be all non-magicky Terminators or something like that, and the Clockworks need us to be magicky portal support and also to keep them operational and wind them up like silly little children’s toys or whatever.

    Now, as you might not be aware, warfare in Hell sucks. Seriously, it’s just an absolutely stupid mess of stupid out here. I came in expecting orderly little lines, two massive armies charging recklessly into one another, that sort of thing. Devils just hacking at each other with pointy pitchforks, the occasional fireball spell, and maybe even a siege of some obsidian fortress covered in superfluous black spikes, like that one part of the Lord of the Rings. Basically, I expected war down here to play out like movies, more or less. As I’m sure even the most naïve propaganda imps who might be secretly reading this already know, I was wrong about all of that. So terribly, terribly, terribly wrong.

    It all comes down to magic here, and who has more of it. Trenches, supply lines, most sorts of close-combat…none of that is really used, because none of it really matters when someone can just pour gas fumes into your base through an invisible portal, and then wait for someone to light a cigar. When you have to deal with a large number of people who can fly, turn invisible, bar entry to locales with flesh-consuming forcefields, do mind-control stuff, take on the physical appearance of others, and shoot you down with long-range, uncannily accurate magical clockwork weaponry, you have to be ready for everything. I, being my usual self, of course, wasn’t ready for anything.

    It all started one dismal little morning, about a day after I’d finished some class on Clockwork maintenance, in the hopes of transferring to a position a bit less lethal than front-line infantry, somewhere where my skills could really shine. I’d been taking the time to get to know some of the tin cans on a more personal level, (not an easy task, when everyone is basically a Magbot, but dumber), memorize the names of all the officery peoples in charge of the company, and generally get a feel for how these robot guys did business (mostly they just sat around and waited for someone to order them to go kill people. Urgh, some of them were so dull, I really think I might have been the first person to ever try speaking to them). Anyways, my squad and one other squad full of stupid clanking idiots I wasn’t familiar with were called down to the briefing room, as it seemed they finally had an assignment come in that’d be easy and straightforward enough to break in some of the new guys. I’d like to say the air was tense with anticipation, and that everyone was eager to finally get out there and do something instead of sit around all day and take up space, but I’d be lying. These robot guys wouldn’t know pain if you ripped their arms right off, I doubt any feeling as complicated as desire ever crossed their hopelessly empty idiot-holes. My cultist and demony brethren were looking pretty daft and empty-skulled too, come to think of it.

    Our orders were simple. Some creepy devil guy with a creepy name, Malach the Dominatrix or some such nonsense, was (and still is, I should mention) contesting Morgana’s claim over this Lusty Second Circle place I’ve been hanging out in, and has his peoples holed up in mountains and islands and such. Scouts identified a man-made (or devil-made, whatever) cave network not far from our own forces, presumably full of smelly succubi, incubi, and whatever else this Malach guy commanded. Someone from the Infernal Guard’s upper ranks was going to portal us in, throw a big ol’ anti-portaling field over the mountain, and we’d all stomp in and murder the face off of anything that moves. A simple, efficient, and swift attack, assuming our scouts accurately estimated what kinds of enemy numbers were down there (they didn’t), and that our tele-mage didn’t die before he could warp us back home (he did). I probably should’ve been a lot more worried at the time, but the way I saw it, I’d be spending the whole mission in a mountain, in a cave, with robots guarding me every step of the way. I mean, it was as close to being home again as I’d ever be; I wasn’t about to gripe about it just because there’d be some succubi getting shot at while I was there. If anything, putting some of those things in their place would just make the whole deal that much sweeter.

    "I’m sorry, Lord Magtok," our portal guy had said upon dropping us off just outside the cave entrance. "I’m afraid I’m just too much of a stupid girly wizard to hang around for the real fighting."

    …Okay, maybe he didn’t say it exactly like that, and I suppose he was probably under orders to wait for us outside the cave and be our lookout, but the moment I found out that our only escape was going to be sitting on his stupid barbed tail a few kilometers from whatever nightmarish doom awaited us inside the enemy lair, I knew things were going to get bad. First, I tried telling him to come with us, orders or no orders, but that didn’t work out, and I got smacked upside the head for questioning authority, too. Then I almost asked one of my robot squadmates to stick with him, but thought better of it, for two reasons. One, I didn’t know if those tin cans would listen to me, since they were outside our chain of command and nobody programmed any common sense into ‘em, and two, any stupid Magbot-wannabe I left behind would mean one less brass soldier watching my magnificently-sculpted ass once the lightning bolts started flying. I suppose, in retrospect, it might’ve reduced our casualties a little if I’d said something, but all I wanted to do right then was kill some stupid devil-whores and then go right back to lying in bed, in my nice, safe little bunk (which happened to be about as comfortable as lying on a slab of stone, so you can imagine how much I suddenly didn’t want to be here).

    "Fine, whatever. Nobody needs your stupid, cowardly monkey-ass getting in our way anyways," I shot back, getting some rather colorful vocabulary in response that, for Libby’s sake, in case copies of these entries are being passed along to her, I’m not going to mention here. Suffice to say, I learned a few new phrases that day, most of them involving commands to shove things in places that would probably be very uncomfortable, painful, or downright impossible if anyone ever actually obeyed any of them. In fact, now that I think about it, it’s probably a good thing that that wizardly soldier guy died, or I might’ve made a dangerous enemy of one of the Guard’s best men.

    So with one less body between mine and the enemy than I would’ve liked, we marched on into the cavern. We marched in tidy, tightly-knit little rows and columns, with the exception of myself, of course, as the harpoon still lodged in my chest would’ve made such closeness an impossibility. I tried to convince the Clockwork squad I’d be much better off in the back, where I could keep an eye out for sneak attacks from the rear, but something tells me they didn’t quite buy that load of bologna, because they took the matter to Sergeant Thorndrakes, after which I was immediately ordered to take point, and personally lead the way into the dark, shadowy darkness. Fudging hell-robot jerkholes, at least Magbots know their place. D=<

    Ultimately though, that whole ‘personally leading everyone into battle’ thing was going to do wonders for my reputation after all of this ended. Being one of only like three survivors means you can make up whatever you want, so long as it’s close enough to the truth that if Injury McNoFaceMan ever earns enough to afford that prosthetic jaw he needs, he still won’t have enough dirt to call me out on my lies and truth-stretching, and it’ll be so long since the mission happened that hardly anyone will care. Of course, I wasn’t thinking about any of that right then and there, obviously. I was far too focused on not dying, and how I was going to rise up a few ranks and make something of myself someday, and the fact that the air suddenly went extremely dry and I could smell sulfur and-

    "FIREBALL! TAKE COVER!"

    Hey, remember when I said that the Clockwork guys didn’t know their place? Well, this was to ultimately prove fatal for the vast majority of them, and far too soon for my tastes, too. I swear, I know I’m usually not good about this sort of thing, but I really did tell everyone to take cover. Stupid bastards that they were, of course, they didn’t listen to a word I said. So while I was pinned to a wall by my own chest-harpoon (I probably should’ve been more careful with that thing, so I wouldn’t bury myself in a wall, but shut up, I was distracted), I couldn’t see a damn thing, and could only get the vaguest sensation that something incredibly fiery and doomful just blew past me, whilst all around I could hear all sorts of whining and griping and dying from the idiots who didn’t listen to me and hide in a corner like a coward when they had a chance. Some of the demons in my squad made it out of that initial blast, a little bruised and wounded, but our sergeant wasn’t so lucky. Now, I’m no expert on incubus physiology, but when your torso is splattered across twenty-eight different places, I’m pretty sure that’s death no matter who you are. This was weird, fireballs weren’t supposed to hit that hard, at least as far as I knew. I mean, I’ve never seen offensive magic even half that strong, excluding maybe some Exalted or one of Needs Food Badly’s hallucinatory incantations, and even then, it was never aimed at me.

    So there we were, with all the Clockworks ruined, maybe three-quarters of our squad wounded, our commander in gory pieces, and me impaled against a wall and rendered totally useless. Not a fine start for a first mission, you could say. Of course, things were only going to get worse from there. If I’d any notion quite how much worse they were going to get, I think I would’ve just dove right into that ball of fire, and save everyone else the trouble. I was already starting to wonder if I’d made the right choice, leaving myself exposed to anyone who might be in the mood to take prisoners, when from out of the dark depths of the cavern, who of all people but Libby walked right into our bloody scene.

    (Yes, it’s a cliffhanger ending. Yes, that’s all you’re getting for now, the infirmary wizard-doctor/robot-repairs guy says I need to get some rest and stuff. So fudge you, this is my MagJournal, I’ll finish the story when I damn well feel like it. D=< )
    Last edited by Lord Magtok; 2012-06-11 at 08:52 PM.
    "What is a man? A miserable little pile of secrets! But enough talk... Have at you!"
    -Dracula
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  22. - Top - End - #112
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    *catches up with this thread again* Wow, some great stuff again. Not that I'm surprised that you guys are awesome writers. Keep up the good work. *waits eagerly for more*

    And now I actually have my own story. I got a random surge of inspiration the other day to write a bit about Laela and her twin brothers she doesn't have yet, Cern and Gwyd. The story actually takes place fifteen years in the future more or less.

    Siblings
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    Three youths sit together at a picnic table in an open, grassy park. Two of them are chatting animatedly, one a lithe girl with short hair comprised of cherry blossom flowers, Laela, and the other a handsome young man with brown hair and the beginnings of what will eventually be antlers, Cernunnos. The third of the group, Gwydion, looks a lot like his brother save for softer features, shoulder length, very pale pink flower hair, and white eyes. He's wearing robes as opposed to the others' minimal clothing more suited to the warm day. He pays them no mind as he reads a thick book. The three are clearly siblings if one takes the time to look closely.

    It takes a moment for Laela to realize that her brother isn't paying attention to what she's saying. She follows his gaze to see another young woman walking along the path. She's beautiful, with long legs, a shock of red hair, and a fox's tail poking out from the back of her jeans. Her tail swishes back and forth with each step. Laela laughs when she looks back and finds her brother straightening out his hair and running a finger over one of his budding antlers.

    Earth to Cern. Come in Cern. Do you have to preen yourself like that every time she walks by?” Laela says teasingly.

    I'm not preening. Is it a crime for a guy to try and look good?” Cern replies distractedly. As the fox tailed girl walks by he gives her a brilliant smile and a wave. She smiles back, but her attention of torn away by the sound of Laela whistling.

    Hey baby, got some fries with that shake!” The girl gives Laela and incredulous look, but then laughs and just keep walking.

    Cern glowers at his sister. “You're a pig, you know that?

    Oh come on, she knows I'm joking.

    She thinks your joking, there's a difference.

    Pfft, why do you care anyway? It's not like you're ever going to make a move on her. Don't you agree, Gwyd?” Her other brother avoids the attempt to drag him into the conversation by simply rolling his eyes in response. “Anyway, you've been doting over her for, what, a month? And she's been sending you signals for the past week. Just ask her out already.

    Cern's scowl doesn't relent. “It's not that easy. I me-

    Sure it is, just ask her. But fine, just keep ogling her like a creep. Hey I know, since you're not gonna talk to her anyway, maybe I should ask her out.

    You wouldn't. Besides, she's not even into women.

    Nothing like the present to try.” Laela nods sagely.

    Alright, fine. Then maybe I'll just go and ask Cora out.

    Shut up. You know that's not the same at all.” Laela's expression suddenly shifts to a frown.

    Sure it is, just ask her.” He says, mimicking Laela's voice. “Just stop being a hypocrite if you want to criticize me.

    If you ask me.” Gwydion chimes in. “I think you both should spare the poor women and not ask anyone out.

    No one asked you. Gwydion.” Laela snaps. “I don't take advice about women from a guy wearing a dress."

    The boy sighs and sets down his book. “You know perfectly well these were a gift from Aunt Cessie. They're the fashion of the male nobles in Hestopia.

    Are you sure she never grabbed it out of her closet?” The girl smirks.

    It's interesting hearing comments on clothing coming from someone who barely wears clothes at all.” He gestures at his sister vaguely. Laela's clothing consists of only a tank top and short shorts. “I'm sorry for not wanting to have my butt hanging out.

    Cern shakes his head. “Lay off you two.

    Hmph.” Laela crosses her arms and looks away. “Isn't Dad supposed to be picking us up soon?

    He has to drop a couple of the little kids off at...

    Soccer practice I think it was.” Gwydion supplies.

    Right. I don't know why they bother. It's not like they're actually gonna stick with it.” Laela suddenly laughs. “Oh gods, you guys weren't there were you? You should have seen what Sammy did this morning. She got into some laundry. Apparently Mom forgot to empty the dryer, because she came into the dining room with some lingerie on her head. I've never seen Mom move so fast.

    All three of them burst out laughing at that. “Oh man, where did she get that?” Cern says when he catches his breath.

    Come on, don't be so naive. It obviously came from Mom and Dad's room.

    Ugh, I don't want to think about that.

    Nor me.

    Laela laughs again. “Really, guys? With the way those two are all the time, you're really gonna pretend they don't have some kind of love life?

    Yes, that's exactly what I'm going to pretend, thank you very much.” Cern says stubbornly.

    You're so thick, Cern. How about when they practically made out all over the table last week?

    Gwydion rolls his eyes. “It was just a kiss.

    Laela shakes her head. “And don't forget she's pregnant again.

    Cern blinks. “Wait what?

    Yeah, Dad's waiting on her hand and foot like he always does when another baby's coming. I'm surprised he's been letting her walk on her own.

    And she's been eating again. Full meals.” Gwydion adds.

    You both know? When did this happen, and why don't I know?

    Like I said, you're thick. I'm surprised there's any room for brains in that head of yours.” Cern shoves her in response, but she just laughs.

    I guess I shouldn't be surprised, but damn. Here I thought they were slowing down. You'd think there'd be a point where there's just too many of us.

    Gwydion picks up his book and finds his page again. “They do have us as babysitter slave labour. I expect that helps.

    Cern just chuckles and shakes his head. “I guess.

    Before the trio can move onto another topic, the sound of a horn draws their attention to the not too distant road. A truck is idling by the curb.

    About time. Thought he'd never show up.” Laela hops off her seat and hurries over to the truck. Her brothers follow at a more leisurely pace. Once they've all piled in, the truck pulls out and they head home.



  23. - Top - End - #113
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    Quote Originally Posted by Lord Magtok View Post
    New MagJournal entry! And I have an avatar to go with it, too!

    Post-Death MagJournal Entry 4 – Day Twenty-Seven of Hell. Would’ve Updated Sooner, But I Was Busy, Fudge You

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    *snip*
    Great stuff, but I have to say that Magtok calling anyone girly is rather ironic.

    Quote Originally Posted by Gulaghar View Post
    Siblings

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    *snip*
    Looks like the apples don't fall far from the tree. And that Sakura and Adir haven't changed much in fifteen years.
    What I can't overlook is that you called football soccer. Soccer. =I
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  24. - Top - End - #114
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    Quote Originally Posted by happyturtle View Post
    You walk into the nursery and see the splattered wet nurse all over the walls. If the baby is still alive, it was done by devils. If the baby is also on the walls, goblins. If the baby is in the smoothie maker, it was Magtok.
    "I don't eat babies! Die in a fire!"

    Post-Death MagJournal Entry 5 – Day Twenty-Eight of Hell. Still Stuck in a Bed in Clockwork Repair Center/Infirmary
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    So apparently I’m going to be part of some wacky ceremony tomorrow where I get pronounced Champion of Lust, Hero of the Seventh Circle, and Super Hell-Warrior Deluxe (hold the tomatoes) or some crazy nonsense like that. Sorta like being knighted, I think, except instead of being patted on the shoulder with a sword by some old broad who probably shouldn’t be trusted around swords, there’s no old broad. Unless Morgana’s one of those age-defying immortal types who likes looking way younger than she actually is, of course. Most of those folks have the decency to wait until around thirty or forty or so before locking themselves in, so you at least have some idea that they’re not quite as young as the people around them, but every now and then there’s a few jerkface exceptions.



    If a propaganda imp steals this and reads it out loud to you and you’re not twenty seven I swear I didn’t mean that. Please don’t kill me, Lady Morgana. .-.

    Aaaanyways, so yeah. Champion of Lust. Sorta ironic, really, since I was only in it for myself and not trying to be a hero at all or anything. And also because I don’t give a damn about lust, and haven’t slept with a single freaky hell-thing since I got here, and have absolutely no plans to change that. Ever. Forever. As long as I un-live. No matter who’s asking, even if it’s Lady Doomface herself. The drow are a perfect example of why rampant sexing aren’t good for a society. So is whoever used to rule this circle before Morgana showed up and exploded everyone’s skulls, come to think of it. Curtains make people slow, lazy, and apathetic, and I’ll be damned all over again before I let myself become any one of those things out here.


    But enough of that, let’s get back to that big important mission I was telling you about. Unless someone’s tampered with my past entries (an entirely plausible possibility, unfortunately. I still need to sleep now and then), we left off with Libby’s fortuitous arrival, just as my team got TPK’d by a single measly fireball like the filthy NPCs that they are. Seeing as she’s a death goddess and all, my first impression was that she came to collect the splattered goo pasted all about the cavern walls. My second impression, after that first one turned out wrong, was that she looked really cute with this new form, with a sort of sandy brown hair beneath that dark reaper hood she’d just pulled off, and a figure that I’m almost certain was completely naked beneath the robes, as per her usual way of going about things. Please don’t ask me how I found out that’s how she normally goes about things, by the way. Please, I really don’t want to go back down that road again.

    It wasn’t until she was right up in my face and quietly trying to pull the harpoon out of the wall that I realized I’d been stupidly ogling her without a word for about an entire six seconds. Gods, and this was the girl I’ve been trying to convince to stop having a crush on me, too. Way to completely sabotage everything forever, MagBrain. You’re a real pal.

    "So err…not that I’m not grateful or anything, because I am, but what are you doing here?"

    "Rescuing you."

    A long pause followed that curt reply, in which I briefly wondered if the surface world was still holding its annual Obvious Statement of the Year awards. Libby deserved at least the bronze medal for that one.

    "…Maggy?"

    "I walked right into that one, didn’t I?"

    "You did." Her trademark cheeky little smile shone back at me, looking more radiant than ever. Gods, it’d been so long since I’d been near a woman without a pair of spikes growing out of her skull, I think I was starting to lose it. Then again, it was just the stress of nearly being turned into roast Magtok on a stick, before realizing I was instead Pinned And Totally Helpless Succubus Snacks On a Stick.

    "Okay, but seriously, doesn’t this break a few rules?"

    "Does it?"

    "Oh don’t give me that line of bull. I don’t know, I’m not the fudging death goddess in the room, but I’ve got a pretty good guess that yes, yes it does! I didn’t ask for you to come down here and possibly endanger your position just for one measly clone, y’know. Neither of us would’ve been gaining or losing anything of any real value if you’d just sat this one out!"

    Just as quickly, that adorable little smile was gone. With one last tug, the harpoon finally removed itself from the wall, and I was left flailing about like an idiot, trying to regain my balance as Libby turned her back and just started walking along deeper into the tunnel. As much as I didn’t want to go down that path, and even though I had enough more corpses around me to justify turning back and running away in terror, I knew I couldn’t. I didn’t even like Libby (or at least the part of my brain that isn’t a dirty, rotten traitor doesn’t like her), but I couldn’t just let her walk away like that, ruining her day for something as terrible as saving me from an embarrassing and helpless death at the hands of whoever happened to feel like coming down that tunnel next.

    "Libby! I’m sorry! I just…"

    I don’t know when the hell she learned to move so fudging fast, but I found myself wrapped up in a hug before I could even figure out what I was about to apologize for. It was a bit of an awkward hug, of course, since I hadn’t taken Ol’ Impaley out of my chest and it’s sorta right in the middle of the part of my torso where hugs are supposed to happen, but she seemed to manage her way around it anyways. I was starting to regret my own guilt now, as this huggy thing was just about the most confusing and uncomfortable and vaguely numbing experience I’d ever gotten from a hug.

    "It’s okay, really. I just wasn’t expecting you to worry about me."

    And just like that, guilt crashed right into my face with the force of a thousand oncoming freight trains. Gods, Libby was just lousy with accidental guilt-lobbing today. Breaking off from that hug actually felt physically exhausting, which was a bad sign of things to come, surely. What chance had I against ravenous hordes of sociopathic, carnivorous sex-devils, if I couldn’t even fight off snuggles? I was no soldier, and this was a war I wasn’t even remotely likely to survive.

    "So what now? Was pulling me out of the wall your entire rescue operation, or...?"

    "You’re here to clear out Biela’s devils, aren’t you? They’re down this way."

    "Well yeah, but the original plan called for two full squads worth of backup and magicky support and giant fighting robots to do most of the work. I don’t think-"

    "Everything will be okay, trust me."

    Whenever anyone else says a thing like that, you just know things are going to turn out horribly. I was putting some serious thought into just dropping my gun, running right out of the mountain, and surrendering myself over to the nearest enemy soldier in the hopes of slightly less painful death, or maybe try to exploit some loopholes or something by proposing to Libby, but both choices were taken right out of my hands in an instant. Libby unexpectedly turned around, wrapped her fingers around mine, and started pulling my hesitant butt right into the horrific abyss I was trying so hard to avoid. I could hear ghoulish laughter and the crackle of a fire farther into the tunnel, but with the way noise echoes about in these places, I couldn’t quite place how much farther the enemy would be. It’d be only minutes before the true battle began, and while those incubi and junk wouldn’t be expecting very many upright bodies after that vicious fireball trap they set for us, I was sure they’d be more than prepared for a catgirl in a silly black reaper dress, and a flimsy little human with a metal pole in his spine. There was hardly any time left to prepare. My knees felt like those wobbly gelatinous cube monster things Ms. Rubyteeth used to motivate cadets to not fall behind whilst running laps, and my throat felt as dry and coarse as sandpaper. I only had time for just one last trick up my sleeve, and it had to be a good one, because despite Libby’s promise, I knew things wouldn’t be quite so simple.
    Reaching into my uniform with the hand not wrapped around Libby’s, I slowly pulled out my sidearm, thumbed the safety, and took a deep breath. I raised the clockwork handgun up to around shoulder height, let go of Libby’s hand so I could hold the weapon with both of mine, took a step back, and in one fluid motion, before she could even realize what was happening, I shot her. I shot her five times, right in her pretty face.
    Last edited by Lord Magtok; 2012-06-17 at 12:31 PM.
    "What is a man? A miserable little pile of secrets! But enough talk... Have at you!"
    -Dracula
    Vamptok by Fullbladder

  25. - Top - End - #115
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    Before I comment on Magtok's story... which of my own stories do you all think I should continue? Sophie's backstory or the goblin history?
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  26. - Top - End - #116
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    Goooooooblins! =O
    "What is a man? A miserable little pile of secrets! But enough talk... Have at you!"
    -Dracula
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  27. - Top - End - #117
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    Recollections of Finbar Ranatunga

    ((Told in his perspective))

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    On the other side of this desert, there is something. Something unique. I am not sure what exactly it is, father, but it is something neither of us could have imagined. The world, this whole universe, in fact, is filled with things that neither of us could have ever thought of. And I intend to document as many of these things as I can for you, father. Wherever you are now, I wish you to know that. Everything I have done in the past three months, twenty-six days, and eight hours has been for you.

    The desert heat is beginning to get to me. Heat has never been something I could tolerate, despite the joy you used to feel while wandering Manhattan on those “nice” summer days. I’m covered in sweat. I do not like sweat. Oh no, not at all. It’s quite unpleasant. From the looks of it, the three guides I have hired are not faring much better themselves. Luckily, they have been keeping to themselves just as I have been. I do not like talking to strangers. Do not misunderstand me; they seem to be decent fellows. But you know me well, father. You know that I do not like conversation.

    Currently, I am questioning my resolve. I do not think I can finish the task I set out to complete. It is just too large a goal for a single man to complete. I’m trying to figure out how many things I can find by the end of my lifetime, and it seems that no matter how zealous I am in this task I will only see a fraction of the universe’s marvels. I feel overwhelmed. It is difficult. Yes, very difficult. Every time I think about giving up, though, my thoughts drift back to my life before I discovered my goal.
    ______________________________________________

    I first realized something was different about me on November 20th, 1938. I was eight at the time, and mother had died just a few weeks previously. You were crushed. I remember that quite well. To you, however, perhaps the one thing more upsetting than her death was my lack of an emotional response to the event. You had attempted to talk to me multiple times about it by that point, but it always seemed to you that our conversations never had any lasting impact. You seemed to be heading quickly into a major depression.

    Looking back now, I feel that perhaps if I had pretended to be emotionally compromised, you would have felt better. But surely you must have realized that I was different by this point? Yes, you must have. You must have. It is impossible to miss, after all. Actually, that is the wrong term to use; it is improbable, but not impossible, that you missed the signs. I was not like the other children in our neighborhood. As they played baseball in the streets, I was inside. I never liked being outside. Inside is where it is safest, after all. Inside is where all the comforts of life can be found.

    I never made friends easily. You knew that. That is why you, mother, and I would always spend so much time together. I remember how we would all huddle by the radio, listening to the radio adaptation of War of the Worlds. That is what I was doing on Sunday the 20th, while you and Uncle Áine talked in the kitchen of our boarding home. You did not think I was paying attention. To be fair, I was not, until you lit a cigarette with your zippo lighter. I had always liked the metallic clacking sound made as you lit the lighter. I have always found it soothing. It may be because I had always associated that sound with your presence, and that was something that always made me feel safe. Perhaps I should have mentioned that fact to you at one point or another.

    But when I heard the clacking sound, my attention immediately turned to you. You probably did not notice because I was not looking at you. I do not like making eye contact. My classmates at the time had told me that my attempts at making eye contact were disturbing. I figured that if I could avoid it, I would fit in better. In retrospect, I think that my actions in that regard made mother sad. I did not like seeing her be sad. Oh, no. That made me sad. But as I was saying, you did not notice that I was paying attention.

    You were telling Uncle Áine how you thought there was something different about me. How there was something “off in my head.” I had never actually thought that way, before. Perhaps you were right. Perhaps I was “off in the head.” It was nothing I could help, though. The fact that you said that would bother me for many, many years. I never told you that. I was not supposed to be listening in. As you used to say, “Nobody likes a rat.” Besides, I would not know how to bring it up, anyway. Why walk right into an awkward situation when it was easily avoidable?

    After that day, it seems that I had become even more reserved than I was before. I just didn’t know what to do with myself, after that. I guess you can say that, in a way, my ignorance of the situation had made it much more tolerable. After November 16th, I had adapted a way of thinking that centered around the idea that keeping thoughts important to me to myself was the best course of action. I would come to regret that a mere six years later, on June 6th, 1944.
    ______________________________________________

    Although June 6th, 1944 will be forever engraved in my cerebrum as the day that I lost you, I had already not seen you for several months before that. You were drafted into the army to serve in World War II. And you were very happy to be able to serve. At the same time, you were quite sad. Yes, very sad indeed. I was very sad, too. But I did not tell you. No, I kept things to myself. I did not want to make you sadder. During those months, I lived with Uncle Áine. We would write letters to each other, and you would tell me how training was going. You were happy that you were going to be serving in the European rather than Pacific Theatre. Your reasoning was “That way, I can be home to you sooner after the war.”

    That was not meant to be, however. Oh, no. You were meant to leave. Like mother. We got the news on June 6th, 1944. You were engaged in Operation D-Day. You died. Oh, you died. It was very sad. Uncle Áine was very sad. He did not become depressed like you when my mother died, though. No, he attempted to do the opposite. He wanted to be happy. You know Uncle Áine was always a drunk. Always, for as long as I have known him. He was a nice drunk, though. Very nice. Not like the mean drunks you always hear stories about. I am lucky, yes, very lucky. Uncle Áine was always good to me. He took on an extra job when people fired me because I “couldn’t do stuff right.” I guess I was overwhelmed too easily.

    He was a stupid drunk, too. You knew that, as well. I loved him anyway. I did not have to tell him that. He was under the impression that everyone loved him. I found it curious as to how he could have assumed that. Surely he must not have been that over-confident? Regardless of how he actually felt, there was always an air of friendliness about him. People seemed to respect and like him, and his jollity always seemed to offset my own awkward nature. Still, he lost his self-restraint, and would gamble in horse-racers often. Mother would not have been happy with him. Later on, as he started to drink, I would say “Oh, no. Oh, no. You shouldn’t do that, Uncle Áine. Drinking alcohol impairs coordination. Yes, just twenty miligrams per deciliter of ethanol can impair coordination. That is not good. Coordination is important. That is why I don't drink alcohol. Alcohol is not good." He would laugh and reply “Oh, don’t worry, Finbar. Have a drink with me!” and I would be forced to say “No.”

    It did not bother me too much, though. I just had to remember to hide the three-dollar bill collection you had from the 1850s. Very rare, very rare, you would say. Quite the treasure. After your death, I was given all of your other belongings, as well. My favorite was the zippo lighter. When I get sad or nervous, I still click it. I emptied it first. Smoking is bad, very bad. If I had known while you were alive, I would have told you. It would not have mattered, though. But you still should have been made aware of it. Knowledge is important. Yes, knowledge makes the earth go round. You and mother used to tell me so.
    ______________________________________________

    Uncle Áine died in 1953. He had become very sick with tuberculosis, and was dying. The death rate of tuberculosis in 1953 was only 11% of the death rate in 1900, but that still meant that over thirty thousand people died of the disease each year. It was sad, very sad. We had no money to pay for doctors because it was all gone. That is how I learned that gambling was bad. Yes, very bad. Better to save money than spend it on useless things. Uncle Aine would tell me stories of adventures you, mother, and he would go on before I was born. I vaguely remember you attempting to get us to travel as a family when we were young, but I never liked it. I think I might have been the reason you were forced to give up on it.

    As Uncle Áine was dying, he told me that I should try to live life to the fullest. Yes, yes, he was quite sad as he said that. Very sad indeed. But I wanted to honor his dying wish. I wanted to honor you and mother as I honored his dying wish, as well. So I did as he suggested and made my current goal; to travel the world and document unique things that neither of us have seen. Before he died, Uncle Áine bought me one of those new instant, self-developing cameras. They are very expensive, but not as expensive as the medical care. “I’m dying, anyway,” Uncle Áine had said, “So I’ll spend the money on the camera if you promise to use it.” I replied “Yes, yes, Uncle Áine, I will use it. I will follow my goal to the end.” He smiled. He was always a good uncle.
    ______________________________________________

    I paid for the guides to take past the desert to the wilderness beyond using part of your three-dollar bill collection. Please don’t be mad. Please don’t be mad. I did it so I can take pictures for us. I keep the pictures in a journal. I hope to one day have many books with the pictures of my travels, and to write about them as well. I have only been here for a few weeks, and I already have dozens of pictures. Perhaps I will give my books to cousin Owen, the one who always smells of grilled cheese. I like grilled cheese. About twenty meters from here I see a stalagmite formation in the desert sands. That is odd, very odd. I think I will take a break from my writing to go take a picture of them, now. I just want to tell you something, father; I love you, even if there is something "off in my head."
    Last edited by LOTRfan; 2012-06-17 at 10:47 PM.
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  28. - Top - End - #118
    Barbarian in the Playground
     
    Lord Magtok's Avatar

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    Dec 2006

    Default Re: [Nexus] Stories etc

    That was amazing, LOTRfan. Wish I knew who the heck Finbar was so I'd have some sort of Nexus context for it all, though.

    In other news, who's got two thumbs, is absolutely fudging crazy, already got another MagJournal done, and did so in only a single day? That's right, this guy! Make sure you read the last one near the bottom of the previous page, or you'll feel really stupid and have no idea what's going on anymore.

    Post-Death MagJournal Entry 6 – I Have a Nice Little Office Now. Also a Dead Cat. Eww.
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    That ceremony I mentioned at the beginning of the last entry went about as well as it possibly could, oddly enough. After a boring ceremony in which I recited the lines customary for this sort of thing (what they were, I have no idea, as they were all in that damnable devil-speak everyone uses when they don’t want me to know things), there was a bit of a party reception thingy, where I got to say hi to Decker, shuffle awkwardly away from Kal, and spend as much time as possibly spouting the usual line of heroic hogwash that’d made me such a big deal to whatever high-ranking folk happened to want to hear it. I don’t think I was too obvious about the fact that I was deliberately avoiding Lady Morgana and exploiting every opportunity to be on the opposite side of the room at all times, but I’m sure she figured it out eventually, since there was a dead blue cat nailed to my office door when I finally got home. I hope she’s not too upset by the fact that I’m scared to death of her and everything that has anything to do with her.

    Oh! Speaking of death, let’s jump right back to that Libby stuff! I know you’re probably dying to hear about how I cleverly figured out she was a succubus in disguise and then murdered her face off before she could drain any more experience levels out of me, or whatever it is that succubi do when not sexing people to oblivion. Well to be honest, when you’re as paranoid and clever and awesome as I am, and know all the warning signs, it’s actually pretty easy to tell a succubus is disguising themselves as someone you know. Physical contact with her made me feel weak, there seemed to be some sort of attractiveness aura thingy about her that normally wasn’t there, and she actually wasn’t a succubus at all.

    …Yeah. She umm…she wasn’t really a succubus. Or an erinyes. Or even an incubus, for that matter. Or any other kind of devil or demon thingy, as it turned out. It was Libby. I shot Libby five times in the face, thinking she was a succubus out to get me. Honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever felt quite as stupid as I did right then and there, back in that cavern. x=

    "Private Godlark, what in the blue blazes did you just do?! I thought you said she was our best chance of getting out of here! What the ****ing double-****, man?!"

    "It’s not Libby, it’s a succubus spy, duh! Watch! She'll turn red any second now. Aaaany secoooond noooow. See, red!

    ...No wait, that's blood."

    Yeeeeeeeah, I kinda really screwed that one up, didn’t I? To be perfectly fair though, I hadn’t expected a gun to hurt anything more significant than Libby’s feelings, if it turned out to actually be her. Y’know, what with her being a goddess of death and all. She admitted long ago that she was perfectly capable of dying, but implied that it had to be pre-ordained by fate, or with a suitably super-amazing magical death-sword of mass destruction. Or at least, I thought she implied it. I vaguely recalled hearing something about it being polite to close the eyelids of the deceased, so I knelt down to do that. It was the least I could do, given what a horrible mistake I’d just made. I was going to let her have a moment of silence, too, when that same swearing jerkface critic spoke up again.

    "Private Godlark, if it’s not too much trouble, would you mind assuming I’m a succubus spy too? I mean, seeing as I’ve only got one arm and the enemy’s going to tear right through me if we-"

    BLAM!

    He quite literally asked for it, so I figured it would be alright. It wasn’t quite as humiliatingly terrible as my last execution was, either. Plus, his voice was kinda grating, and the criticism of the whole Libby thing was really getting on my nerves. I mean, it’s not like I wasn’t already mentally beating myself to death over that little screw-up. It meant I was the last person on our end of the tunnel who was still conscious, and completely on my own now against a swarm of approaching devil-things, but really, I’d more or less accepted that as my fate the moment I smelled that fireball hurtling towards us.

    "Hello? Anyone down there? I’m err…kinda the only one left alive here, so if you guys are the sort who take prisoners, would you let me know now? Y’know, so we don’t have to-"

    A bolt of bright blue aetherial energy whizzed right past my ear, simultaneously answering my question and exploding the chest of one of the guys I thought might’ve had a chance, if we were to somehow get out of here and find a hospital. Bad luck for him, I guess. Seeing as we’re in Hell, though, I’ve no doubt he somehow found a way to deserve it.

    "Oooooh, aaaaugh, you got me! Don’t even bother coming down here to finish the job or confirm that I got shot! Gods, so much blood everywhere! I’m pretty much dead already, aaargh!"

    Another bolt of blue magical energy shot past. Something told me they weren’t buying it. Shutting off my left eye’s usual gleaming crimsons light, which would both ensure I’d be a harder target, and deny me any sort of depth perception, I pulled myself up against the nearest cave wall, taking care to stand parallel to the surface, and not accidentally impale my stupid ass on the wall a second goddamn time. I fired a few bolts from the clockwork pistol into the general direction of the darkness-enclosed hunters coming to personally execute me, praying to a multitude of gods that I knew didn’t like me, hoping that the teleport-blocking spell still held, and that my gun would still prove as ludicrously super-effective against them as it had against poor Libby. Luck alone had kept me alive this long, and luck alone would have to see me through these next few moments.

    Curiously enough, it actually did. I know, it sounds weird coming from me, since nothing ever goes my way, especially not in situations like this, but somehow, I actually managed to shoot those sorry bastards dead! I suppose the fact that in the darkness, I didn’t need to worry about aiming probably helped, given what an atrocious shot I usually am. Given all the outbreaks and emergencies back in my old lair, I suppose cave-fighting was something I’d gotten used to as well, so there was that. All in all though, there’s no denying that my victory came down to pure chance. I’m not exactly a small target, thanks to that stupid whale-stabbing stick in my diaphragm, but the most I got was a bit of shrapnel to my left side, when one of those magical missiles detonated against the wall I was crouched up against.

    Emboldened by the sudden lack of blue fiery garbage being hurled my way, I pressed onwards. At this point, my only hope of survival lie in somehow taking down this entire enemy camp all on my own, followed by digging through everyone’s stuff in the hopes that someone owned a portal device that even a magically illiterate doofus like myself could use to get back to what could charitably be called ‘home’ these days.

    "Gah! What the bear-loving son of a *****?! ****!"

    Unfortunately, that same confidence only lasted about twelve seconds, when I went and tripped over one of the succubi I’d just finished shooting full of holes. My harpoon threw off my balance just enough to cause me to go flailing off to one side, and when I finally got up, there was some inexplicable added weight on the pointy end of my torso-piercing, which I was later to discover was the decapitated head of one of those devils. When I got home, everyone just assumed I’d put it there on purpose, as some sort of macabre trophy from my amazing adventure, and somehow managed to not notice me jumping up and screaming like a scared little girl the moment I found myself a mirror.

    As terribly clumsy as that might’ve been, and horrendously terrifying as it would be later on, I knew I still had to keep going. We were told there was a lot more than three or four measly scouts down here, so I didn’t let my earlier victory count for too much. Vain I might be, but I don’t let my egomania completely distort reality (just most of reality, of course).

    I did have the element of surprise again, though. Unless these infernal bastards had some sort of telepathy system in place, that little posse sent ahead to check for survivors and steal our stuff and whatnot wouldn’t be expected for at least another five minutes, maybe longer. Creeping around in the dark, I just had to make sure the harpoon didn’t bump into anything. It was easy enough, given all the practice my cowardice had given me in doing exactly that whenever I needed to visit AMEN without having my skull bashed in by an unruly sentient cantaloupe. I just had to pray nobody had any sort of reason to come down here, and notice the faint little glow my eye was giving off again. As much as I wanted it off, I knew I hadn’t a chance of walking down these tunnels without it, as I’d be clanging around and crashing into everything the whole trip. Luckily, not a single soul seemed to be anywhere near this part of the cavern.

    The encampment was pretty far into the mountainside, most likely in case anyone tried to do a recon sweep of the area (tough luck with that one, guys). Or maybe it was because of the shiny luminescent crystal thingies sticking out of the walls. Save them the trouble of having to light the place, at the expense of leaving plenty of dark spots for potential infiltrators to go sneaking around. Sometimes I marvel at my good fortune. Then I remember that I shot an amorous, death goddess in the face for trying to rescue me, and how fudged up it is that I wound up in situations like this in the first place. I swear, if I ever meet a luck deity, I’m going to shoot that fudger to pieces. Right in the motherfudging nose.

    The place was pretty Spartan, really. There were tents here and there, a few fires, and some people with ridiculous-looking horns on their heads milling about obliviously. Nothing at all like the big ol’ Clockwork Fortress I’d been hanging out in only a little while ago. I tried to figure out which one might’ve been the command tent, but what little ornamentation these shelters had seemed to consist entirely of those stupid devil-language rune symbols I knew nothing about. Motherfudging boot camp bastards, not once did it ever occur to them that literacy might actually help me stay alive in their stupid jerkface warzones! D=<

    I stuck to the shadows as best as I could, eventually deciding that this big ol’ purple tent was the one most likely to house their command staff and leaderly junk, and inched my way towards it. If my luck held out (which obviously wasn’t going to happen, of course), I’d be able to sneak right up on their sergeant or whatever, put my gun to his head and hold the fudger hostage, and scream and yell just long enough for them to teleport the two of us back to the Clockwork Fortress, at which point I’d turn the guy in for interrogations, and promptly collapse on the floor with as much dignity and grace as I could muster.

    Well, the good news is that I was right about the tent holding the leader of this particular segment of Malach’s rebels. The bad news was that we were already previously acquainted. I leapt forward the moment he stepped too close to the edge of the tent, but he must’ve known I was coming, because all I got for my troubles was an inhumanly swift chrome fist right to the nose.

    "We’ve been expecting you, Harpoontok. I have to say I’m surprised, though. Isn’t trying to murder me against your silly little laws?"

    "Says the pot to the kettle. Didn’t you just throw like six of your stupid lackeys into that tunnel to try to kill me?"

    "Well yeah, but you survived, didn’t you? And weren’t you paying attention at all to what I said? They’re your little laws, Britney Spears. Not mine."

    The purple-robed menace grinned at me, presenting a hideous mouthful of fangs. I had to be honest with myself, the Britney Spears crack was actually pretty clever, but there was no way I’d give that red-skinned treasonous bastard the privilege of even the faintest of smiles cross my face.

    "Not to sound cliché, but why don’t you join me, ‘Poony? I know I tried to kill you and all, but you’ve stopped me from doing so pretty handily, and seeing as you made it this far all on your own, you’re clearly not one of those lame-ass pushover clones we feast on every so often. It’ll be fun, too. I can keep you out of the crummy suicide missions like this one, make sure your talents actually go to some use, and maybe after you sneak back to Morgana and hook us up with some Clockwork blueprints, I can pull some strings and even set you up with these kickass magical superpowers and junk."

    As if to demonstrate, this forked-tongue, heretical bastard lifted right into the air, a quartet of ragged-looking, repulsive, leathery dragonfly wings keeping him suspending him off the ground. Hellfire crackled in his left hand, and his right he held a trident burning with the same blasphemous energies. I could hardly believe my eyes. This was a MagClone once. A good, loyal, hard-working cyborg acting in our best interests, sticking to our principles and obeying the closest thing we had to commandments. Looks like he was under the impression that, like marriage, there was a 'death do us part' clause to Magtokdom.

    "So how about it, Harpoontok? I mean, we’re both dead now anyways, it’s not like anyone’s coming to save us or cull us or anything. Might as well throw off the silly old yoke and live a little."

    As repulsive as he might’ve been, I had to admit he had a sort of point. I followed the rules, and look where it got me? I’d been dead for more than a month already, fudging harpooned to death of all things, and as exotic as my death might’ve been, the rest of the MagCollective had almost certainly forgotten all about me weeks ago. Down here, there was no MagPolice or anything to monitor my actions for culling-worthy crimes, to make sure I didn’t act like a whore, use magic, splice my DNA with goblin blood, or eat babies, so it’s not like those rules had any relevance anymore. Down here, nobody cared who Magtok was. We were spread out amongst so many different afterlives, so many heavens and hells and limbos and whatever that our usual strength of numbers and hive mind unity just didn’t exist anymore, and without that, we were only a little bit better than everybody else. I was starting to wonder if maybe he had a point, if I really needed to go so far to survive in these horrid conditions, when his raspy chuckles filled the air once more.

    "Oh, and great job taking down Libby, by the way. I saw the whole thing on one of the tiny spy cameras we put down that hall. Fudging hilarious."

    That’s it, I decided right then and there, fist clenching at my side. The MagDevil dies.
    "What is a man? A miserable little pile of secrets! But enough talk... Have at you!"
    -Dracula
    Vamptok by Fullbladder

  29. - Top - End - #119
    Ogre in the Playground
     
    happyturtle's Avatar

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    Default Re: [Nexus] Stories etc

    1. As requested:


    2. Goblins

    3. I like Finbar

    4. The index should be caught up now. If your story is missing or incorrectly indexed, let me know.
    Is it okay to skip me? Probably.
    In three words, I can sum up everything I've learned about life: It goes on.
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  30. - Top - End - #120
    Ogre in the Playground
     
    C'nor's Avatar

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    Default Re: [Nexus] Stories etc

    Could I have the link in the index to my story taken down, please? I'm in the process of rewriting it.
    Plague Rat in the Playground

    Quote Originally Posted by SJ Tucker, Firebird's Child
    Wonders of the water air and earth are all the same
    you'll never know a wonder like the wonders of the flame!
    Freely fly as what you are and never walk in shame;
    You must not fear to blister if you'd live a life in flame -
    I am girl and firebird and solace is my name!

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