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Post by Gavin Graves on Apr 29, 2022 20:41:50 GMT -8
The very air around him pulsed with eldritch spores and the vibrant urge to subsume the tiny spark of his ego into the all consuming splendor of the ecstatic winds.
As the Title took a semblance of static form for a single pristine moment afforded by Fawkes' sacrifice and the will of an undead Dream God, the Grimm held it together by a thread to scratch out the arcane markings for the final seal. The light emanations from the manifestation of Arcadia quickly seized his mind warping his perceptions and blurring the edges of his tattered consciousness. His will bleeding off into an infinity of space, time, and pure mind shattering joy.
It was too late though. The Beast had sealed it into the building. It no longer mattered what became of him. A seemingly final thought stretched out as Gavin reflected on his body feeling violent shakes and unimportant and distant. He had made good on his boldly stated goal to Saturday. One of Them was forced to move to his will and the grander board would quake because of it.
As the twilight thought trailed off in self-satisfaction, the voice of the Sun's Tongue momentarily cut through the tide of surreal surrender. A searing command unleashed in his mind. It was familiar, warm, and inviting, like home. It shocked him back to the harsh sharp definition of the world.
His ego was no longer in the driver seat. The reflexes and animal instincts of the body were taking him on a journey now. It was a journey across the Killing Floor. His vision, a distorted fisheye view of the carnage as it unfolded around him and by him, caught glimpses of people to kill with particular purpose.
Rather than trying to resist his Arcadian urges, he let them flow and merely guided their direction. There were familiar faces among the sea of bodies. Faces that had earned his ire. He would bleed and kill as required, but so long as there were targets on his list, he remained focused on them. What would become of him when that list ran short, may yet haunt him.
There was no wonder what he was by the end of it though: he was an obsidian hand that reveled at the work of freeing crimson life and bringing death. He was Razorhand. What would stop him?
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Post by Henley on Apr 29, 2022 21:05:48 GMT -8
It was impossible for Henley to spit rage when the creature came for them from beyond, an idea of pure ecstacy, Desire incarnate that drew and called to him. Nate reached out with a hand, stepping toward the idea, his will faltering as the human voice was drowned in a sea of Want as tears rolled down his face and a stupid fucking smile made his face hurt, the party growing and growing and becoming one --
And then Summer's Voice came, and all was blood. Gritting his teeth, Henley reveled in mad laughter even as he scooped up Cinder and pulled her into the Ethereal, doing his job to get her to the team outside who could secure her. Anthony was second, the mass Curse weighing heavily in his favor. Tony was probably among the best combatants on the field beyond the Lost, his training with Kai Rose more than enough to put him ahead of the curve by a fair margin. Hate was all he knew now, pure animus incarnate as Summer called on him to wash away all to their deaths. They could bleed in the water.
Steadfast and determined not to lose, he saw Gavin going mad on the field, chasing his enemies. The Razorhand was third, the Spring Courtier whispering something into the howling whirlwind of violence. He moved his hand in a triangle and called down Spring's blessings, dragging his Motleymate to peaceful slumber before pulling him out through the Ether. As the blood sprayed and kids bled and the infected died and his Fae burned, Nate Henley couldn't help but grin. It was done. His Desires Were His Own, and he owned every moment of this. As his Mantle broke through the waters of drowning beneath the Fae's pressure for his entire life, Nate Henley knew peace. He stripped off his tie, letting it fall to the ground. He poured himself out of the Armani jacket, leaving it on a nearby fire hydrant... and he smiled to himself, patting the sleeping Razorhand on the shoulder.
Every drop of blood shed tonight was a drop he could live with. Every life ruined was the blood price to be paid for him to be free.
That was fine.
Wasn't life the price of Freedom?
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Post by Aster Blau on Apr 29, 2022 23:58:15 GMT -8
Wounded, but not quite out, Aster accepted her assignment without an ounce of complaint beyond the groans one could expect from someone with significant bullet wounds.
In the interim, as the rave was billed and assets tapped, Aster spent the next nights relatively restless from the pain of her injuries. In accordance with her desire for penance, Aster's wishes to avoid magical healing are respected for the most part, but minor nobility among the Court of Wrath inevitably coaxes her to accept some form of help, citing her duty in the coming nights as reason for her to be in better health. Still healing, the Viper came to the venue with more bandages and more spring in her step, the major wounds now dressed and stabilized and hidden beneath her jacket and a flannel shirt.
Taking up her station, Aster served dutifully, her rough edge flowing naturally into her role as a bouncer flowing in and out of the venue. Nonetheless, she kept to the shadows as the bikers themselves came to the site, allowing them to be let in by others lest her appearance draw their ire.
Aster was inside when the time came, beholding the happenings of a Fae being called from beyond and into a space that flooded the crowd with want. However, clear minds prevailed and the trap was set as Aster continued her work of containment. Then came the command of Summer.
Aster felt herself slipping, but fought against it, visibly straining herself to remain in control. Her role here was not to bleed the infected, but to pen them in while getting those unfortunate innocents who had been roped in out of the space. Up to that point she had served in the role admirably, but now the coils of the Viper tightened around her psyche, baying for blood.
Tears rolled down the Grimm's cheeks as she felt her exhausted mind cave, putting her humanity to bed as the Beast rapidly boiled to the surface, twisting her visage into one of single-minded fury. Soon, claws were extended as the Viper's lethal form bounded into the unfolding carnage of Wrath. Aster may have been wounded, but her mastery of bloodshed far surpassed that of many of the Lantern's new playthings. They were soft, fragile prey unused the violence which had forged the Viper and many of her compatriots.
They would bleed.
The Viper cut a bloody swath into the flesh chained to the title's will, with her hands and mouth awash with the remnants of crimson she had helped to tear from her bodies. However, as the battle continued, the insatiable lust for violence that thrummed within Aster found other targets and she began to advance on the cult gathered by Anthony Cartwright. However, seeing this, the adopted son of Ivory took aim, placing a glancing shot at Aster's arm and skinning her shoulder. When she turned to face down the Nymph's charge, she was greeted with the butt of his gun on her forehead with an audible crack, splitting the Viper's skin and causing her to stagger back before ultimately falling to the floor.
Unconscious and thoroughly spent from the exchange, the gore covered serpent was pulled from the fighting to a distant corner to await the end of the slaughter. When the deed was done, she would be removed with some level of care, afforded the respect of being cleaned up and rebandaged for her part in all that had come to pass.
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Lotus Eater
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Presence (4) Capable |Rigid Mask | Winter Mantle | Status (Licensed Security) | Autumn Goodwill (1)
Posts: 74
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Post by Lotus Eater on Apr 30, 2022 9:18:10 GMT -8
The flaming blade sizzled and cracked. Passing through the flesh of the Sunbanisher like butter, catching only momentarily on the cartilage lodged between the wrist joints.
The hand landed lifeless on the ground, crowned by the dizzying displays of occultic scribblings. The pulse of power that followed as the Title was called forth was incomprehensible. Lotus's attention faltered; her eyes pulled upward to the face of a god, birthed from the chaos in radiated beauty. Crowned with antlers, dressed in light. She felt the air leave her lungs.
There were answers here. More profound and older than the questions that were begged to be asked. The Riddle seeker's mind sang in ecstatic delight. But duty called. Air returned as the swordswoman breathed. Her foot slid in an arcing half-moon as she wrapped her free arm around Fawkes. She tugged the Sun Banisher back and towards a safe retreat with a focused hissed.
The surge of wrath that rolled on from summer only flushed the chaos into utter bloodshed. The Warden felt the tug towards the madness, the call to rage. But it fell away, unsalted by the focused wizened. Her flaming blade danced between her fingers, cutting a way through the crowd with measured and trained strikes. She wasn't here to slay; she had a role to play; get Fawkes to safety.
Where her body performed expertly, a trained machine. The chaos bled away into an orchestrated dance that defied comprehension but held the esoteric answers. The cultic blades swirled caught within the music of thrumming runes. Faces peeled into light, unfolding into roads of truth, begging to be walked.
The riddle seeker could see it there, at the moment, the storm that folded and boiled in on itself, transforming into a breathing wheel of scales.
She had stopped, caught by the majesty, lured by a glimpse of knowledge.
Then, a spray of hot blood gushed across her face like a hot wet slap. It caught her look and tasted the iron, sweat, and vile in its mix. It pulled her back from the precipice; Lotus's eyes drew to Fawkes. The terror, bewilderment, and pain had made the Sun banisher look more like a child than she had ever seen before.
The exit was near; she pulled him forward but was blocked by the enraged form of one of the dreams sick. A woman soaked in the blood of the killing floor, her eyes ablaze with summer's wrath. The reason was gone, but her murderous intent was clear.
Lotus spoke out to the Fae-cursed mortal. The question was almost drowned out in the cacophony of violence. But the woman heard, and rage was replaced with fear and bewilderment. The question was unanswerable. The Flaming blade sizzled and sang. Her body fell back, throat cut, as Lotus Eater Dragged Fawkes to safety.
Emerging from the slaying grounds into the winter containment. Lotus passed off Fawkes. Glancing back, the truth was gone; all that remained was the primal expression of death.
The price was paid.
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Post by Croupier on May 1, 2022 18:58:31 GMT -8
Croupier played his part well.
Through the gifts of his Wryd-Faced Stranger contract and own gifts of gab and showmanship, Croupier led the lambs to the slaughter at the behest of Henley and the other members of Court. It did not take much to convince them that he would be perfect for the role of Tanner - a rabbit to lead the masses on their merry chase. He did, after all, have a debt to pay to his friends after the encounter with the Huntsman; and what better way than being the lynchpin of the whole plan? The guiding force that kept the poor shits focused on the ground, and not the swords dangling over their heads.
Amassing the following was easy enough for the Leechfinger, and even he could not believe the crowd his illusions and contracts had drawn into the rave which served as their killing floor. Dancing in and out of the elated crowd, Croupier made sure their attention was focused square on him, or on the pulsating music and primal beating in their hearts.
For him, the joy the poor bastards exuded was a feast. All around him the golden glow of emotion was intoxicating, as though he had fallen right back into the blessed waterfall all over again. It was so much so that Croupier barely registered the sign that the Killing was beginning to start, and the feast must now end. Taking up what scraps he could, Croupier dropped his contract when the need was over and pushed his way out of the crowd, hoping that he wouldn't be caught in what was to come as the countdown drew to a close.
He almost didn't make it.
As the wards came down and the crowd was trapped, Croupier did his best not to watch the ensuing madness that would claim those innocents he helped round up. Guilt played no part in his conscience - he had promised to do what needed to be done, and this was all part of it. Rather it was his own need for self-preservation that kept him from turning to meet the madness, though he could feel it creep into his mind, leeching away at the joy he had hoarded and making that empty hole in his soul even more cavernous.
When the killing had stopped, a dull numbing sensation overtook Croupier and he collapsed in a state of... exhaustion? Emptiness? He couldn't tell. As he looked on at the gory display, the only thing Croupier could truly feel was a sense of satisfaction at the horror. He had helped make this possible. He had done his part for his community.
The Bet had been Paid.
Hopefully, the Gamble would prove to Pay Out.
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Post by Blaze on May 6, 2022 1:50:54 GMT -8
If Blaze ever felt like being honest with someone about this, much of the negotiations were lost on her, at least now, in the heat of the moment. Maybe it was some lingering effect of the wound she sustained, the sheer amount and mystical and political weight of all the people in the room or good old-fashioned tiredness, but she mostly wallflowered when she wasn't directly addressed. It wasn't until the plan was completed and a call to action was issued that she became more active. Moving with the others towards the Killing Floor, stalking the edges of the crowd along with Lotus Eater to make sure no one escapes or does anything dangerous. Trusting that others will come through.
And they did. The magic unleashed scrambled senses and stripped sense of self for parts, cooking brain matter in an experience that's impossible to describe or even recall accurately. It wasn't painful, but the Elemental had to hold on with all her resolve. Even then her training failed her and for a few seconds she was nothing but a bundle of instinct and rage before returning to her senses with a last ditch effort. Her clothes drenched with sweat, teeth clenched so tightly they almost didn't let the heaving breath through. Eyes burning from exhaustion and flashing colours. Ringing in ears.
The painful reminders of physicality, the realization of 'I am' that emerged from the unearthly music afforded her one more gift: the heavy knowledge that she led people to their deaths. And while the rational part of her mind told her it's necessary, the experience was still jarring. It's probably a good thing: you feel pain and anxiety, therefore you're *you*, as opposed to some sentient magical explosion.
Mission accomplished. Time to go home.
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