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towerofanimus2013-04-29 11:26 pm
greyerrant) wrote in towerofanimus2013-04-29 11:26 pm
First Bolt Shell: Legion of One
Characters: Garviel and you
Setting: Multiple floors
Format: Prose
Summary: Garviel wanders the tower doing various things including kicking butt
Warnings: Anything is possible including a heck of a lot of violence. Definitely descriptions of blood and war.
Floor Fifty-Six:
A huge armored figure is wandering the strange hospital ward, as if seeking something he has forgotten. He calls a name every now and then.
"Ferrus? Samus? Aqua? Nikolai? Arturia?"
Nothing but silence greets him. Lights flicker as he moves from room to room, a grey ghost of a battle that was fought in this very tower, and on a thousand other worlds as well. And yet... there is something plaintive in the sounds of the names he calls out in this place.
Floor Sixty-Seven (NIGHT)
The strange twining staircase has become a veritable waterfall of gore, blood and ichor slicking the steps from iron to light in all hues as the sound of battle crashes higher up. It would appear Cerberus set upon a band of orcs at night, or the band set on him, and he decided to single-handedly re-enact the battle of Ullanor. He holds one aloft, just over the edge of the stairs, his armor scarred by their cleavers and bows, then casts it down, smashing it into a pulpy, broken mass onto the stairs itself. His armored chest heaves, and he turns, growling in an almost-feral manner as he continues his ascent. Dare you approach?
Floor Twenty-Five: The grey knight stands vigil in the meadow, his massive form suggesting a grim sentinel in an otherwise beautiful place. He appears to be... shocked by it. Completely at a loss of what to do in a place of undespoiled natural beauty which has not been touched by war.
Floor Fifteen: A pale-skinned man one size too large to be human appears to be working dents out of a breastplate using the tools available in the workshop, hammering away at them in a less then adept manner. It would seem he has only enough skill to effect the most basic repairs on his own armor. Care to offer him some advice?
Setting: Multiple floors
Format: Prose
Summary: Garviel wanders the tower doing various things including kicking butt
Warnings: Anything is possible including a heck of a lot of violence. Definitely descriptions of blood and war.
Floor Fifty-Six:
A huge armored figure is wandering the strange hospital ward, as if seeking something he has forgotten. He calls a name every now and then.
"Ferrus? Samus? Aqua? Nikolai? Arturia?"
Nothing but silence greets him. Lights flicker as he moves from room to room, a grey ghost of a battle that was fought in this very tower, and on a thousand other worlds as well. And yet... there is something plaintive in the sounds of the names he calls out in this place.
Floor Sixty-Seven (NIGHT)
The strange twining staircase has become a veritable waterfall of gore, blood and ichor slicking the steps from iron to light in all hues as the sound of battle crashes higher up. It would appear Cerberus set upon a band of orcs at night, or the band set on him, and he decided to single-handedly re-enact the battle of Ullanor. He holds one aloft, just over the edge of the stairs, his armor scarred by their cleavers and bows, then casts it down, smashing it into a pulpy, broken mass onto the stairs itself. His armored chest heaves, and he turns, growling in an almost-feral manner as he continues his ascent. Dare you approach?
Floor Twenty-Five: The grey knight stands vigil in the meadow, his massive form suggesting a grim sentinel in an otherwise beautiful place. He appears to be... shocked by it. Completely at a loss of what to do in a place of undespoiled natural beauty which has not been touched by war.
Floor Fifteen: A pale-skinned man one size too large to be human appears to be working dents out of a breastplate using the tools available in the workshop, hammering away at them in a less then adept manner. It would seem he has only enough skill to effect the most basic repairs on his own armor. Care to offer him some advice?
no subject
[ He clenches a fist, albeit briefly. ]
What has changed? And who stands against the... people who run this foul prison?
no subject
Since that time, there has been more suffering and cruelty-- perhaps in reprisal for the efforts of those who seek to subvert the power of the Administrators.
[Lancelot, having put to his sword a few of the suffering, and having been just lately resurrected himself, seems burdened with the telling.]
Still, a resistance persists, I believe-- should you wish to join its ranks.
no subject
no subject
Some prefer to work at their own purposes-- or have burdens other than their own safety.
Some few here do thrive on the chaos of this Place, but even the Corrupt and outright Evil seem to wish to be gone-- though they are loath to band together with the Resistance.
[Lancelot pauses.]
It is an abomination then, to kneel to the Divine? Should such a thing exist?
no subject
[ Regarding the divine. ]
Without question. We have seen behind the stars and there are no chariots drawing them. To give credences to superstition and old magicks are to give them power, and they operate on the strength of our fears. That is why I was made without fear, so that we might bring secular enlightenment to a benighted galaxy. My brotherhood and I traveled the stars casting down god-kings as we found them, and left worlds that we brought to compliance better than when we arrived.
[ Minus a lot of dead people of course. ]
no subject
I had not thought so of you. Perhaps you will bring them more success in their efforts.
As a Spirit once a Mortal man weaned on the Magics of the Old and Fair Folk of my Land-- I cannot say that the Old Ways held sway through fear. That was brought swiftly enough by Invaders and their new Gods.
Those who conquer often hold themselves Enlightened.
no subject
We were adults saving drowning children, whether they resisted us or not. Those Old Ways are the ways of the past, and by practicing them men destroyed the future, the Golden Age that was to come. I saw a galaxy burn.
no subject
For myself, I have seen a Bright era die an ignoble death at the hands of those who thought they had the Right to Rule.
[Lancelot waves a conciliatory hand. He has no wish to antagonize the Knight, but neither does he fear the man's displeasure.]
I mean no insult to your Knighthood, and cannot judge your War, but I fear the Justification of Slaughter has ceased to interest me overmuch since my Death.