The Byzantine Consternation [Round 1 - Witching Hour]

**Solaris** · 09-01-2011, 05:30 AM

Lost within his thoughts, a being is waiting. What exactly he is waiting for, he could not tell. His eyes have been closed for eons, his movements unwavering. At this junction he would find a description of himself unnecessary.

The waiting man continues his display, exactly the same as he had been for millennia. Unbeknownst to him it looms closer. Paradoxically, he senses it approaching. The long Prequel to his story will come to an end, and his true fate will develop.

Joining the waiting man and playing the hand of fate is a being that is similar in many ways, and different in just as many. The Forger, who so began a competition of the grandest stakes, came to fool another into his cabal.

“Hey there Mauris, still waiting around?”

The waiting man did not respond.

“Yea, yea, see I’ve got a proposition for you, I have an inkling that it is exactly what you’ve been waiting for.”

The waiting man still did not respond.

“Yea, see, there are these competitions, some other guy had me start one and as a sort of finder’s fee I need to go out and grab another to join in. It seems big, bigger than you or me, at this point there are tons, thousands maybe! Normally, I’d probably go for like, Janis, or Ridman, or you know, one of them, but they all... sort of... have one. But then I remembered all about you and I thought that this was sort of your dealie, ye hear me? ” He looked around the room, most of it was rather bland. There were pictures of him and a few others hanging on the wall, but for the most part it was just the cylinder room and carpet that he was meditating on. “Man, you need to like, get out some more. I’m sure this is gunna help with that!”

In reality, the Forger was being true to his namesake, while the waiting man knew that this was his long awaited calling; he could tell that most of the words emitted from the liar’s mouth were false. However, the waiting man saw the vision of these battles. A glorious endeavor, one truly worthy of being his story. Yes, this was his Prequel. And it would finally end.

The waiting man stood from his position. For the first time in a long time, he stretched, and took a deep breath. The formerly waiting man then faced the falsifier acquaintance and then spoke.

“Thank you for bringing this to my attention. Yes, I agree that this would constitute as something I could do. Eight contestants to do battle? It shall be the story. A story crafted by the finest Developer. I can see it now. It will be Amazing.”

The Forger was surprised. He wasn’t actually expecting the trip to be successful, but he was not on to look a gift horse in a mouth. He simply nodded and said a few words. “Glad to hear, just go get them contestants, and when you tell The Weaver, don’t forget to tell him who sent ya.” And with that, he was off.

Off, away, to one of the many other battles in one of the many other seasons.
Seasons, that at this point had reached a very large and surprising number.
A number that was starting to make things bloated and difficult to map out.
So difficult in fact, that it could be said that each and every single battle was only one small part of a much larger Byzantine Consternation.
=====

Hello and welcome to a non-canon-spin-off Grand Battle Competition/Collaboration!

First of all, if you don’t know what a Grand Battle is, then here is the Canon Battle FAQ thread!
And here are a few canon ones for kicks.
Here’s another thing.
But yea, basically, a Grand Battle is a collaborative story where 8 people write for a character (or occasionally, characters) and then they duke it out in about seven different rounds, each with a different locale! Each round knocks out the worst (or more often than not most inactive) writer and then the rest of them go off until there’s only one left!

Alright, that sounds like it’s it! Have fun and stay active and let’s have this spin off at least waste some time while we wait for Season 4 :>

Players
*Ixoal and Professor Rhodes - #00FFFF on #0000FF <Ixcaliber> Profile
*Annie and Watchdog - #773377 <PickYerPoison> Profile
*Cornflake Charmtape - #AD6E00 <Agent1022> Profile
*Morcegh (and guests) - #A89D00 <engineclock> Profile
*Ex-114 - #777777 <InoxFy> Profile
*Jerome - #9C2D09 <Pharmacy> Profile
*The Oort Cloud - #1464f4 <Wojjan> Profile
*Killian, James and Elliot; “Warmachine” - #B7410E <Sanzh> Profile

GOOGLE DOC 4 THINGS AND STUFF

**Ixcalibur** · 09-01-2011, 02:51 PM

Username: Viiicaliber
Name: Ixoal and Professor Alexandra Rhodes
Gender: None and Female
Race: Sentient computer virus (and cyborg)
Color: #00FFFF on an #0000FF background
Biography: Alexandra was always fascinated by science. She studied it and eventually became a professor but her true passion ran a little deeper than that. There was just something about cyborgs, perfect harmony between man and machine. Most people in her time were cyborgs not by choice but because of horrific accidents. Not Alexandra, she designed a new mechanical body for herself; one that was beautiful, sleek and efficient. Slowly she began to replace parts of herself, starting with a hand, then a leg and so on and so on until she was finally satisfied with her new body.

It was somewhat unfortunate that at that point in time a virus called Ixoal was created. Born of an incredibly intelligent and malicious hacker’s efforts, Ixoal was the only virus to ever contain full artificial intelligence. It ran through the internet quickly and efficient taking complete control of whatever it came across, and eventually it came into contact with Alexandra Rhodes. It had taken over parts of other cyborgs, but other cyborgs were just an artificial leg, an arm… whatever. Alexandra’s completed body gave Ixoal a vessel to walk the earth in.

It wrested control from her, against her will, her wishes irrelevant to its desires. At this point you would be forgiven for believing that Ixoal would have gone on a killing spree ending the lives of any humans it came across. In fact it did not care about humans one jot. All it cared about was technology and that the virus be spread as far and wide as possible.

Ixoal went on an infection spree, deactivating firewalls, and propagating itself onto any computer that had withstood its initial infection. However Ixoal’s physical presence was soon noted, as it lacked the ability to control the one part of Alexandra that was still her own, her head. She screamed and yelled for help, and Ixoal eventually found it necessary to defend itself from police officers or those that would slow or stop the process of the infection.

It continued to do spread it’s infection, as far and wide as possible, killing when necessary until it was snatched away to be part of a Grand Battle.

Description: All that remains of Alexandra is her head, connected to the artificial body she constructed for herself, though some of her internal organs remain inside, protected by the thick metal casings. Her left eye has been replaced with a scanner which sits upon a metal plate moulded to her face. She has short black hair and green eye. She is still wearing the clothes that she wore the day that Ixoal took control; a labcoat, now torn and bloodstained, and a pair of grey trousers. Her mechanical body parts are designed to be noticeable. They are silver and sleek and streamlined.

Personality-wise Alexandra was fairly easy going beforehand but now she switches between periods of furious anger and of deep depression. Ixoal on the other hand cares only about spreading its presence to every machine it encounters, resorting to violence only when others attempt to get in its way.

Weapons/Abilities: Alexandra did not install any weapon software into her new body, as she did not believe that it would be necessarily. Regardless of this, it is tougher, stronger and more agile than a regular human.

**Pick Yer Poison** · 09-02-2011, 01:00 PM

Username: Pick Yer Poison
Name: Annie and Watchdog
Gender: Female and male
Race: Human and mutated bulldog
Color: #773377

Description: Annie is a young girl, about twelve years old in appearance. She wears a dark teal dress with frayed edges that speaks of narrow escapes in the past. Dried blood is evident on her face and hands, but none of it is hers. Her brown hair is tied back in a ponytail, but has a number of hairs out of place. She has bright green eyes and a blissfully ignorant expression on her face.

Her innocent mind is in tatters, but is clearly the dominant aspect of her mentality. Having spent years with Watchdog as her only close companion, she has come to see things differently than most, both metaphorically and literally.

Watchdog is a large, mutated bulldog, four feet tall with scraggly grey fur. He has gruesome, yellow fangs - they can hardly be referred to as teeth anymore - that are bloodied enough to make it clear what he enjoys doing with them. His paws have also developed equally fearsome claws. His beady yellow eyes have no pupils. All across his back are throbbing lumps and bulges, some as big as tennis balls.

He never strays very far from Annie unless absolutely necessary, and flies into a murderous rampage if he loses sight of her for more than a few seconds. He is prepared to protect Annie from any threat he can understand, even if he has to kill himself in the process, something Annie is not quite able to understand.

Weapons/Abilities: The true extent of Watchdog's mutations are unknown, but he is stronger, faster, and generally tougher than the average bulldog, although not much smarter.

Biography: The apocalypse, Annie's parents had agreed when it came, was not something any nine-year-old girl should have had to endure. Unfortunately, it wasn't exactly optional, and while Annie's parents wanted nothing more than to lock themselves in the basement until the glowing meteors stopped falling and everything was back to normal, but they also agreed that living one's life in the basement and eating every meal out of a can was just as bad for a nine-year-old girl as living through an apocalypse. Perhaps worse; canned food was usually quite bland.

So dad grabbed his shotgun, mom grabbed her pistol, and Annie grabbed the bulldog puppy she had gotten as a birthday present about a week ago, and the family set off through their suburb in order to reach the farmland they owned but didn't really use all that often. The journey took several weeks, and by the time they got there it had become obvious that Annie's beloved bulldog was growing unusually. By the time the seasons had changed, it had become a full-blown monstrosity in appearance, but had fortunately retained its loyalty to Annie, keeping watch over her at all times. Annie's parents thought this was positively heartwarming, and named it Watchdog, a name both it and Annie accepted without fuss.

As they soon found out, however, Watchdog had not been the only creature to mutate. Warped cries and frightening calls echoed from the woods outside the farmhouse at night, and Annie's parents forbid her from entering them. Naturally, she slipped away to explore them at the first opportunity, with Watchdog trailing close behind. After a quiet twenty minutes of walking, Watchdog loped up in front of Annie to make her pause while he sniffed the air, growling faintly. After a few seconds he barked, the noise reminiscence of a harsh, hacking cough combined with a scream. A mutated bear stumbled out of the undergrowth at the noise and growled at the pair. Its back legs were large and bulbous, while its front arms appeared almost normal, save for the long, fearsome claws at their ends. Like Watchdog, it had beady, yellow eyes lacking pupils, which followed the bulldog intently.

Watchdog moved between it and Annie, who had begun to cower in fright, growling back at the bear as a warning. When the creature did not flee, Watchdog pounced on it and tore into it with his front claws and fangs, blood flying everywhere until the bear stumbled back and collapsed, dead. Watchdog immediately retreated to Annie, nuzzling her and licking her face like a normal puppy. Annie pulled herself up and began to run back to the farmhouse, Watchdog loping along behind her excitedly.

When they returned home, Annie found the place destroyed. The bodies of a few mutated animals, riddled with bullet holes, made clear the perpetrators of the attack. Although she couldn't prove it, deep inside Annie felt certain that the only reason the attack had not come previously was because Watchdog had been standing guard over the house. She followed a still-wet trail of blood through the kitchen, up the stairs, and finally into her parent's bedroom, where she found her parents' dead and eviscerated bodies. Annie stared at them long and hard for several minutes; Watchdog sat down and watched the stairs, tail thumping against the floor. Finally, a faint smile appeared on her face, and she skipped over and kissed each corpse on the forehead, telling them she was going out to play in the woods and would be back soon. She skipped out the door and gave Watchdog a hug, then giggled as he tried to lick her face again, heedless of the terrible stench coming from his mouth.

Annie spent the next three years out in the woods. Watchdog protected her loyally from everything that tried to hurt her until the more violent creatures of the forest began to avoid her for fear of invoking his wrath. The more harmless critters quickly picked up on this and began to gather around Annie for the relative safety she offered. Where she went, herds of deer gathered, birds perched on her shoulders, squirrels scampered around her legs, and rabbits did as rabbits are known to do, enjoying the extended protection they received by being near her; were a predator to attack them while they were near Annie, Watchdog would come to her rescue, and by proxy, theirs. This all worked out quite well until the pair up and vanished without warning.

**Agent1022** · 09-02-2011, 08:12 PM

Username: Let’s all play ‘spot the username!’
Name: Cornflake Charmtape
Gender: Male
Race: Meatbag Human
Color: #AD6E00
Biography: “And thassall fer…today, k*hic*ids.”
The murmuring man at the bar was slumped almost over the marble countertop, in the sort of slow-motion descent that so often mirrors lives. In this case the man’s life would hold a mirror right back, asking what right the slump had to give an indicator of its poor state. But it was accurate – deathly accurate. The man had given up on the material world.
“T-thanks fer watchin’ – an’ remember t’ have another laugh, jus’ fer y’self, aright?”
If he had the will to turn his head, an observer might catch a glimpse of a familiar face. Familiar because until only recently, it shone out of the television, enrapturing and entertaining in that special way only good hosts can. At the peak of its ratings, “The Charmtape Hour” had been tuned into almost universally by children-bearing households, with its eponymous host: Cornflake Charmtape! He lived and breathed the part, legally changing his name for it, giving up his life and becoming the comedic children’s show host. With features for all ages, a different program every day of the week, guest stars and ‘visits’ from cartoon characters, The Charmtape Hour was zany, hilarious, yet never so silly that any fan could really outgrow it.
“…tune’n *hic* t’morrow…”
Yet somehow, they did. Times changed, and television, eventually, had to give way. And with it went the Charmtape Hour, and with it went Cornflake Charmtape. Somehow, off the camera, he simply wasn’t as amusing as he had been. He was the same, but the world had changed, grown immune to his brand of children’s humor. And what was there left for him now? He had given up everything for the show – a show that now lingered in dusty archives, no longer even rerun.
“We’re g’nna bring in Speed “Staples” Johnson from th’ NASCAR…look for’d to it! *cough* *sniff* ty’all, this is Cornflake Charmtape, endin’ the Charmtape *hic* hour…”
Eventually, he lived – and drank – on the last compensation check from the now-tiny television network, slurring his story and old Charmtape scripts over the bar. He would have liked to think he wanted to die; yet he knew deep inside he still wanted to shine. He just needed another chance, in a world where innocent humor still could live…
“Barkeep, d’ye think this ol’ Cornflake might come back one d-”
The barkeeper turned to answer, but Charmtape’s stool stood empty.
Description: Cornflake was wearing a rather nondescript and shabby grey bag o’ this-must-have-been-a-shirt-once and some rather smart black pants covered in lint at the time of his being taken. He’ll probably wear something snazzier later. He’s of average height and build, though something about his body shape makes him look excitable, even moreso when he is. He’s developed something of a drinking problem, but hasn’t been at it long enough to really affect his body. When he’s not drunk, his personality is contagiously bright and cheerful – sometimes almost too cheerful, like he’s putting on an act. Then again, he’s Cornflake Charmtape. Of course it’s an act, but at the same time it is his own personality. He’s also an attention-seeker, and does not like being alone.
Weapons/Abilities: He has a natural talent for humor, though that might be a little rusty now. He can also cook a little. He has a flask of vodka in his back pocket if that’s any use for anything other than destroying livers.

**Solaris** · 09-02-2011, 11:16 PM

Heyo guys, I just sort of want to make a little thing clear, because I am sort of paranoid and I don't think that I made this super clear.

This battle can be played without really delving in to the implied canon. After all, all of the network things in the regular canon grand battles are optional, so really, there is no reason not to keep it the same here!
The "networking" in the battle, while very large and convoluted, is completley optional, and mostly so that some people can just play with some extra NPC's.
Besides that, it would be sort of like a regular grand battle, without gimmicks, except for the parts when something big happens, like a round intersects with that in "another battle" or if we get some sort of character switch.
I will repeat, the "gimmick" is for all intents and purposes optional, and mostly for my amusement. If you want to write in this battle, you don't have to pretend to do network things, and no points will be docked for it.

**engineclock** · 09-03-2011, 04:05 PM

Username: Clockblock

Name: Morcegh (with special guests Malaria and Wimbledon)

Gender: Male (and female and male)

Race: Giant bat (and Gentlemen)

Color: I’m not yellow, I’m gold.

Biography:

Description: Morcegh is a giant bat, six feet from snout to tail with a wingspan roughly quadruple that. His fur is a sort of generic grayish brownish dun and hasn’t seen a bath in a suspiciously long time, but is thick and fluffy under the layer of dirt. His eyes are a gloomy black and his doglike face is permanently fixed into an expression that clearly says that its owner wants to be anywhere but where he is. There isn’t much to distinguish him from a normal bat except that he’s big enough to lift and carry a man and is a constant downer, all the time.

Having once been not a bat, Morcegh is admittedly rather depressed about the change, but this is indistinguishable from his normal mindset. If it’s happening to him, it’s worth complaining about. End of story. That said, he has a weird sort of morbid tenaciousness that’s kept him going this long and will hopefully last him the battle.

As Gentlemen, Malaria’s and Wimbledon’s appearances are subject to change, but for the moment they're a moth and a beetle respectively . Malaria is shy, Wimbledon is rude, and neither is a particularly good person. They’re not especially fond of Morcegh and even less so of each other, but are unlikely to outright betray one another unless there’s a fairly good reason and no chance that the other would be able to get them back.

Weapons/Abilities: Morcegh himself has no special abilities other than being a bat. His head is the size of a mastiff’s, though, and his jaws are packed with large and unnecessarily sharp teeth, apparently for eating any giant insects he comes across. The claws on his feet are equally unpleasant, as are the two huge ones on his wings. Morcegh is also a nimble flier when he wants to be, capable of doing midair hairpin turns and flips and shit, though that’s assuming he can work up the energy. He can echolocate if he wants to but usually doesn’t.

Malaria’s and Wimbledon’s abilities would best be described as “contagious” and “explosive”, with a bit of overlapping in between them. Being Gentlemen, they’re also rather knowledgeable about the modus operandi of various Grandmasters and are savvy to the tropes of a typical battle. Their influence over Morcegh and each other is shaky at best, only cemented by the fact that they’re both very good at what they choose to do.

**InoxFy** · 09-04-2011, 11:46 PM

Username: InoxFy
Name: Ex-114
Gender: None
Race: Robot
Color: Gray, #777777
Biography: Ex-114 was a the 14th robot produced in the Ex-100 series of robots, mainly designed for exploration of alien planets. The people that designed this series had equipped them with a variety of weapons, with the excuse that it might be necessary in case they encounter unknown hostiles. The managers explained in detail all the reasons why this was a stupid idea and ordered the factory to terminate the production of the Ex-100 series, throw them away in a dump somewhere, and start designing Ex-200 immediately. They also fired most of them afterwards.

However, some robots had already been equipped with a highly advanced AI, and nobody took the time to deactivate them. 114 was one of those robots. After it's solar battery finished charging completely, it started doing what it did best, exploring. It explored the entirety of the dump and recorded everything in a highly detailed 3-D map for no apparent reason. It also reduced every rat and other creature it encountered to shreds with a variety of drills and circular saws.

Ex-114's activity was recoded via a satellite, just like everything is in the future. A certain Grand Battle "talent seeker" noticed this particular robot was ideal for that task. He took the robot with extreme caution and deactivated, and then altered it's AI, changing the priorities around a bit. He set the first priority to KILL, and the secondary to EXPLORE.

Description: Ex-114 resembles a highly advanced version of those Mars rovers, But unlike those rovers it is plated with reinforced titanium and is equipped with a multitude of lethal weapons.
It is equipped with a variety of sensors for practically everything imaginable. It's photoreceptors range from low infrared to high ultraviolet wavelengths, it can detect the slightest vibrations in the air or in the ground, it can detect magnetic fields, and it is equipped with a radar and a sonar.
Regarding personality, it doesn't have a personality, since it's a robot. It is, however, programmed to EXPLORE, and will explore and map every single slightest detail of whatever area it's placed in. When it's not KILLING, that is.

Weapons/Abilities: It has a lot of circular saws, drills, and other robot-y weapons, it is also capable of emitting an EM pulse that deactivates electronics for a short period of time, and as a last resort it can spend a part of it's stored energy to emit a high-voltage electrical discharge on contact.

**Pharmacy** · 09-10-2011, 06:22 PM

Username: Pharmacy

Name: Jerome

Gender: Genderless, but let’s choose man

Race: Tetramorph

Color: #9C2D09

Biography:
Back in an universe where the outside world was still fresh within the mind of civilization, man wanted to learn about the truth. It was only human curiosity. As such, they learned, they wrote, they thought and other different methods of procuring knowledge. Of course, they wrote down their dreams, their vision-quest, and knowledge on paper scrolls and books to pass out to the next generation. Eventually, this archaic knowledge was bypassed by advancement of the time and all was for nothing.

However, belief is a powerful thing.

Cue, Jerome emerged, a freak of nature embodying all that for the pursuit of the heavens. Pretty soon, he was going around doing saintly-like things, like giving charity, teaching for free, and hugging kitties. Although his deeds were dutiful, the angels and the higher-ups up in the heavens did not really know how to deal with him. Despite his appearance, Jerome is not an angel. He was an earthly being, a symbol, a byproduct of willpower and the discovery. After a while, the Heavens decide to send some divine spirits to go down to chat with him. However for some reason, he was gone.

Description: Since man has discovered the metaphysical, they attempted to figure out this ethereal realm of truth and knowledge for quite a time. Of course, when it comes to translating the lofty beings of paradise to a physical description, the result looks like something taken out of a mind of man who probably a bit off-kilter in the head.

Jerome is a tetramorph, a symbolic allegory of all that saintly. He has a face of eagle, a face of a bull on the left, a face of a lion on the right, a face of a man in the center-bottom – all of which he has full control over. All his faces are arranged in such a way that it vaguely follows along the lines of a Christian cross. He has six massive, eye-covered wings; two which sweep up, two which rest down, and two that are placed where the wings of traditional depiction of angels usually are. Although he has two arms and two legs like a normal person (surprise?), his feet are always wreathed in flames that vaguely resemble chariot wheels. In other words, Jerome looks FUCKING TERRIFYING.

Despite his oh-god-what appearance, Jerome can be essentially summed up with one word: “wimp.” He is a lover, not a fighter. For such an awe-inspiring appearance, he weeps at the sight of blood (wimp). He likes hugs and rainbows and love-redeems- all sorts of things. He enjoys making friends and is incredibly sad if someone does something terrible (like being mean). As such, he might be considered annoying by people with short patience, but Jerome has standards. Jerome has infinite patience and knows when not to bother people. After all, help unwanted is help wasted. No one has really seen him angry, but why bother? He is a freaking sphinx-monster thing.

Weapons/Abilities:As for pure offense, Jerome is reluctant to say that he has control over the classical elements (fire, water, air, earth, and aether). Each head has different elemental affinities. The bull head has control over the Earth. The Eagle has control over Water. The Man has control over Air. The Lion has control over Fire. Together, Jerome as whole represents Aether, the omnipresent fifth classical element, which is…basically nothing. He just swaps between elements.

If he must, Jerome can split himself into four beings (after all, he is four people): an eagle, a bull, a man, and a lion. All of which have those many-eyed wings. Of course, each head is still specialized with one element (Split Eagle only has power over water, etc.). Also unfortunately, all of them are still named Jerome so things might get confusing.

Despite his non-aerodynamic appearance, Jerome with his six wings can fly frighteningly fast without passing out. If he wanted to, he can use his wings to punch people, effectively stunning them. If he needed to, he could generate a force of wind that can knock people off their feet. He can also see through all his eyes (surprised?). Despite his ridiculous powers, Jerome’s physical strength in his arms and legs are essentially baseline human (or to be more exact, the power level of a book nerd).

Jerome is more a scholar than a brute force type. He is knowledgeable, particularly to the things of liberal arts. However, he is not omnipresent. His knowledge is akin to an experience professor of a prestigious university. Also, as a lover with a disposition towards Nice Things and Kitties, he tends to do diplomacy and enjoys it greatly. Unsurprisingly he has (four silver) tongues that prove to be reliable to him – if the guy he is speaking to is not disconcerted by his appearance.

**Wojjan** · 09-10-2011, 06:58 PM

Name: The Oort Cloud

Gender: None

Race: Maelstrom

Color: I'VE SEEN INFINITY. IT'S BLUE. (ulysses butterfly, #1464f4)

Backstory: Very long ago, there was a bunch of stars that didn't matter. You were one of them.

We don't know what really caused it, but for some reason a harmless cloud of dust around the sun got stirred, and with an immense strength pushed its way towards the end of the universe, every end at the same time even.

Maybe that day it was very windy over at your house. Maybe it felt as if the rain was seeping through your umbrella.

The Oort Cloud killed you, and everything you loved. You don't even have to be grateful for it allowing you to exist, if it wasn't for Oort, you would exist regardless, and probably live a lot longer. Because of it, you don't exist anymore in a few years.

The Oort Cloud had always been a bit ill. There was this whole bunch of suns inside of it, sometimes causing heat, sometimes thawing out and giving the room an air-conditioner cold. Oort could never quite place a finger on it, but it always felt sort of weird, and figured now was as good a time as any to finally get rid of it.

In all of its existence before the battle, the Oort Cloud did exactly one thing. It caused the big crush. The universe collapsed on itself, cramping everything together tinier still until it basically folded into what it once was. Millions of lives were lost, but that was all before it even started. The few that died when the planets got too close weren't a pretty sight with their molecules torn from each other, but the vast amount of death that universe had already been through made it seem less worth mourning for, had there been anything left that could mourn. The planets all became themselves again. What it all was at heart.

It was a very bad idea. Really, nobody knew why they bothered in the first place.

Description/Abilities: The Oort Cloud is more or less a dome, or rather a veil, that stretches over whatever world it inhabits (ours) and acts as some sort of protective skin. It's there to make sure extrauniversal influence doesn't screw too much shit over, and that we can all live happy people lives on our people planet. If one could see past the atmosphere and whatever else we got mucking about in the sky, like planets and stars and whatnot, we'd see, well, another layer of stars. These stars move considerably faster, even visible to the naked eye, and are a lot more vibrant and viscuous. If we grabbed at them, probably to play god and remove them like we just did with the planets, it'd be like grabbing this text from your computer screen.

What is a protective veil that keeps stuff from going through is also a time bomb, ready to slowly press what's inside it together like a crumpled heap of paper or a forlorn sand castle. Oort will devour worlds, slowly crushing its periphery, and then more, and even more until it's left with just a mass of energy. That raw power is just enough to make the jump from one universe to the next, where it can continue the cycle. Our universe really didn't stand out in the grand scheme of things. Oh, don't be upset.

**Sanzh** · 09-10-2011, 07:43 PM

Username: Sanzh of Time
Name: Killian, James and Elliot; “Warmachine”
Gender: Male; vehicle
Race: Human (crew); Tank (vehicle)
Color: A fitting color, considering their vehicle’s state. (#B7410E)
Biography:
“My friends! My brothers! Hear me now!”

Warlord Isanovic looked around the crowded hall, amongst the gathered militia and soldiers that had pledged themselves to him. The warlord had seen much in his life: the day the bombs first dropped, the sun being erased from the sky as soot obscured the air, the years of bitter cold and strife. The elderly warlord’s yell was heard, and all attention was directed towards him. The snows were beginning to thaw, and the warlord knew that today was the time to make his move against the squabbling parties that opposed him.

“When I look amongst you, my brothers, I cannot help but feel proud. Together, we have worked to achieve much. We have restored a sense of order to what was a chaotic world! We have given men and women, stripped of all they have, a sense of dignity! With every day that goes by we bring ourselves closer to restoring the glory of our fallen nation, and closer to bringing back the safety of those long-since forgotten times!” Isanovic yelled, watching the crowd cheer and yell as he spoke. He paused, waiting for them to grow silent once again.

“Alas, I wish I could say that all others share our vision and our dedication. However, outside of the fortresses and town we control, countless petty bandits plot and scheme and plan to take what we have created. Even our former allies, whom we once traded with and supported when they requested it, plot against us.” A few among the crowd began to yell, but Isanovic quieted them.

“This treachery, my friends, cannot go unpunished. We cannot allow them to take what is ours-- not our land, not our possessions, not our dignity and certainly not our freedom. I ask of you, my compatriots, that together we go out and punish their insolence. We will show them what the punishment for treason is!”

The crowd burst into jubilant cheering and raucous yells. Isanovic was lying-- their allies had done nothing wrong except have something he desired. He didn’t need to concern himself with having a pretense for war, all that concerned him was that he could make sure his men were willing to fight and kill their supposed enemy.

As he retired to contemplate his plans on the eve of a new conflict, it came as a surprise to him that one of the weapons he was depending on-- the tank “Warmachine” and its mercenary crew-- had disappeared without a trace.

Description: Killian, James, and Elliot are the crew of a scavenged and jury-rigged tank, currently in the service of a warlord and fighting across a world devastated by nuclear winter. As a collective group, the three crew-members of the tank are visibly famished, unshaven, and covered in grime and oil. While they have some sense of hygiene, the soot and filth that is associated with their vehicle impedes their effort. While they eat slightly better than most, due to the valuable services they provide to their warlord, that merely means a slightly larger portion of wilted turnips and stale bread.

Elliot is the gunner and commander of the group. His combat skill is not the best among the three, but he has something of a way with words, both in swaying the impressionable and discrediting naysayers. While he has pretensions of being a mighty leader, choosing to alter his wardrobe with a selection of military uniforms and peaked caps, when presented with a fair fight he tends to run. Granted, the majority of his conflicts are against infantry when he has a tank, but should things turn sour he is quick to run.

Killian is the most intelligent of the group, and as such is in charge of driving and radio operations. When not operating the tank, he tends to be quiet and avoidant. He has the most experience with the machine’s operation, and takes offense when it is subjected to neglect or damage. While he tends to disagree with Elliot, he has a habit of not voicing his opinion.

James is strongest amongst the group, and thus works in loading and clearing shells of the tank’s main cannon. His mental faculties are exceedingly lacking, and he is unable to distinguish between Elliot’s truth and elaborate lies, making him an unwitting pawn in the commander’s various schemes. He looks up to both Killian and Elliot-- Killian for his intelligence, and Elliot for his supposed cunning. He is almost always eager to assist either of them, and dislikes when they occasionally bicker and disagree.

Weapons/Abilities: The most obvious weapon they have is their tank, referred to by the crew as “Warmachine” in absence of a proper model name and designation. The tank itself has seen better days, and now the majority of the armor is either stripped away or crudely replaced, with few of the original mechanisms remaining in place. The crew is fairly well protected within the tank. In terms of offensive capabilities, the tank has a cannon-- not large enough caliber to be effective against larger armored targets, but capable of dealing with most smaller targets. The crew has a supply of high-explosive ordnance and armor-piercing shells, which are used depending on the target. When explosions cease to amuse, they have a coaxial machine gun to pepper enemies with bullets.

Their tank is not enough to make them invincible, however. Ammunition and fuel have always been scarce, and while Warmachine and company were abducted just after they resupplied, they don’t have enough ammunition or supplies to last through several exotic locales. Additionally, it is almost certain that some parts will break or fall off throughout its operation.

**Solaris** · 09-10-2011, 09:29 PM

Oh my!
Eight People!
I will go start on writing the introductionings and such, this is going to start soon!

**Solaris** · 09-11-2011, 07:51 PM

The Mediator had made his choice.
But how much of the choice was his?

He reached into his pool of untapped energy and reached out ot the home universes of his contestants.
But he felt as if the pool was a little shallow.

As the large man dressed in a green tunic, his eyes every closed, summoned the contestants, he looked around his Temple home for an intruder, or anything else that could have created this feeling of discomfort.
But there was only nothing there.

The eight chosen contestants of The Mediator awoke in a beautiful temple. It was calm, the light was mellow, there were flames, making each of them feel at peace.
This feeling would soon go away.

The flames went out.
A door at the center of the room opened, revealing a large man in a tunic, eyes completely shut.
He stepped forward, each of the eight's eyes focused on him.
"I am The Mediator. I have chosen you eight to participate in The Amazing Assault, a battle to the death in which only one will survive. I will make a brief introduction and then you will be transported to a new area. I apologize for any inconvenience this may cause, but it is and always has been our destinies."
He shook his fist and looked to the side as he said those last words.

The Mediator then sat down in a crossed leg position, as if he were focusing. Each of the contestants suddenly felt like they were being watched.

Suddenly, one of them began to rise above the others; everyone was forced to look at her. She was a woman in a lab coat. They saw that her body was made out of silver metal with the exception of her head. "From the neck down, this contestant is known as Ixoal. It is a sentient computer virus that infected the body of the woman you see here, Professor Alexandra Rhodes. Ixoal can still duplicate and infect like any other virus, and in addition, the body of Ms. Rhodes allows it much more strength and durability than another human."

Ixoal was placed back on the floor as another pair rose in their stead. They were a dirty young girl in a tattered teal dress and a large dog-like creature. "This is Annie and Watchdog. Watchdog is a mutated bulldog from a post apocalyptic world. He will do anything in his power to aid and protect Annie.

As the next being came up, The Mediator cringed a little. It was a drunken man in rags. "This... gentleman is Cornflake Charmtape. At his prime, he was a television actor for a children's show. However, as you can see, he is now just a dru-"
*buuuuuurp*
"Moving on..."

The next contestant was a giant bat. If one were to look very closely, they would see a moth and a beetle hanging around. "This is Morcegh. He is a large bat. He is very good at it." The Mediator looked a bit closer at the contestant before him, but ultimately dismissed any odd feelings. "He is dangerous if he wants to be, able to use his various appendages and teeth to do damage to any normal man."

Following the bat was a robot with a large amount of tools and mechanisms attached. "The designation of this machine is Ex-114. This robot was altered from it's original state to put murder and mayhem over exploration and discovery. Aiding it on this quest is a large amount of sensors, saws, drills, and all kinds of mechanisms."

After that was a being with a large smile on each of its four faces and six wings with eyes on them. "This happy creature, named Jerome, is known as a Tetramorph. Each of his four heads are independent of each other and control their own element. He can split himself up if he wishes. He is intelligent to a fault. However, as you may be able to tell from his smiling face, he might not be completely up to a battle."

"The next contestant has been shrunk for your convenience." The contestants were made to look at an odd veil of space. "This is the Oort Cloud. To put it briefly, it caused the complete end of a universe. And it could hypothetically do so again."

The only group that remained introduced was then lifted up. It was three adult men, looking tired and weak, next to a large makeshift tank. "These fine people are Killian, James and Elliot. Their vehicle is simply known as "Warmachine." They are all scavengers, fighting across a devastated world in their little tank. Each of them has their own skills that they bring to the operation of this tank."

With all of the contestants introduced, he stood up once more. However, before he could continue addressing them, a wind blew and another door opened. An Old man, dressed in white robes with what seemed to be a trail of threads behind him spoke aloud.

"Maurice. I see you have amassed contestants for a Grand Battle?" He momentarily stared directly at Morcegh.

"Yes, I have. What brings you to these parts Weaver?"

"I just wanted to make sure that you dealt with the proper procedures before sending them off, The Forger may have left out a few details. Send them off and we will speak."

"Yes, of course." The Mediator turned back to his contestants and focused. Within moments, they were sent far away.

The contestants reappeared in a dark forest, only lit by the full moon above. Everything about it was beautiful, the trees, the flowers, and the grass. Then, they heard it. Cackling from all directions, giggles across the trees, and the laughter that could only come from a witch.

The voice of the Mediator rang once more, "This forest you have been brought to is populated by witches. They are on the verge of performing a ritual, the nature of will be left for you to discover. However, whatever it is, I can assure you that it will be amazing."

The various beings were then released.
For better or worse, out of the many beings who heard The Mediator’s voice, at least one would never hear it again.
"You may now begin."

**Pharmacy** · 09-11-2011, 11:45 PM

The time was night, yet the forest was not silent as nocturnal life sprang to activity. Deer emerged out, happy at the lack of civilization to munch on the native greens. Owls emerged from their burrows and roosted on branches, contently gazing at the starry skies with moony eyes. Of course, mundane creatures were not the only thing residing in this particular forested region. There were fabulous creatures: unicorns, faeries, and all the lot inside mythology. Some of them were content to roam around the area in full visibility, as shown by the trail of gnomes in the background. Most of them, however, stood hidden in the dark, giggling, chortling, and definitely up to no good.

He was clueless.

There was Jerome, one of the contestants inadvertently brought to this soon-to-be-clusterfuck tournament. There was every reason he should not be shoved into this competition, but apparently, his occult nature probably gave the higher-up every reason to boot him into this death-match. For instance, his appearance was ridiculously fearsome. He was a mess of heads, wings, and eyes. If a person did not found the incentive to run into the sunset screaming, they probably would say he looked pretty stupid.

Not that, Jerome was stupid. He was extremely smart and wise, on par with the worldly scholars if not more. However, he was incredibly curious. As a metaphysical embodiment of knowledge pursuit, Jerome was driven by curiosity. He could not help it. In fact, he loved it. He enjoyed going along with the motion, to let the incomprehensible world teach his mind of all the amazing things. So, it would come as no surprise when all his eyes (yes, all his eyes) lit up with shiny intrigue as he noticed the forest ahead of him. In speaking of stupid, he decided to go in there.

So, there he went, all six of his wings flapping into the forest. Although he managed to achieve flight (being a corporeal embodiment of a symbol allows you to defy physics) and was speeding along pretty fast, it can be said that Jerome was extremely clumsy. His wings buffeted the closely-spaced trees, tearing off branches and leaves; shoving very irate squirrels and birds off their perches. There was a reason why massively-winged creatures do not normally hang out in forested regions.

Pretty song, the animals where Jerome visited retreated to the deeper regions of the forest, chattering angrily at the foreign visitor. That made Jerome sad. Jerome liked all creatures, great and small. Unfortunately, most creatures, great and small, tend to run away or maul six-winged, four-headed creatures. Back in his native region, Jerome lavished his love for animals on strays, who really do not give a rat’s ass on what type of person is caring for them.

However, sadness was fortunately temporary for Jerome as he had his wish. Behind him, there was this massive beast of a mammal with pinprick, evil eyes, vicious claws, and a thick layer of fur - in other words, a bear. Due to the supernatural qualities of the forest, bears endemic to this region tend to be larger and shaggier than a regular ursine. They are also more vicious and aggressive. Unfortunately, Jerome did not know. This round’s universe was completely foreign to him, but why should he care? There was this most cuddly bear in the entire world! Look at its smiley fangs and happy drool dribbling out of its teeth. How adorable!

“Awww, Hello!” Jerome jovially greeted with all four of his heads to this fine, furry gentleman. Then, before the bear could react, Jerome, against all common sense in the entire multiverse, decided give this adorable ursine a large, gentle hug.

The bear was confused by this. There was this massive six-winged freak with four heads embracing him in almost a friendly way. It was almost too friendly, too nice. The bear started to smell fear and taste uncertainty in his mouth. With his instinct bred to him by experience and nature, the bear did what all bears do in his situation.

The Bear proceeded to maul Jerome.

**engineclock** · 09-12-2011, 02:38 AM

In the forest of witches, a bat flitted through the night.

That the bat was larger than the average man and had wings rivaling those of a small plane was of only minor interest. Against the darkness of the sky its outlines were vague and its size was obscured; anything looking up at it from the ground with less than perfect night vision would see only a shadow. It would take an unnaturally sharp pair of eyes to pick out the downward tug of the bat’s mouth and the fatigued beats of its wings, and an unearthly one to find the moth and beetle buried deep in the fur of the bat’s ruff.

“He was on to us,” the beetle was hissing into the bat’s ear, its tiny jaws working furiously. “You saw him. That old idiot too, he knew. I felt it.” The voice brought Morcegh a brief flash of memory: a tall man with a sharp face collapsed against a wall, cigarette in hand. His mouth was twisted upwards on one side in a permanent knowing smirk.

On the other side of the bat’s head came a softer voice, hesitant to the point of apologetic. The smirking man vanished and was replaced by a young woman standing in a hallway, her face a mask of politeness and her hands hidden behind her back. “No, I don’t think… They would have done something if they knew...”

“Idiot,” the beetle snarled. Its voice was a harsh buzzing in Morcegh’s head. “Can’t you pay attention to anything other than your precious diseases? Do you know what will happen to us if we’re caught?”

“I don’t see why you’re so concerned,” the bat interrupted, his voice deafeningly loud against the whispering of the insects. “We’re going to die anyway, the three of us. Me first, then you and Malaria. Really the best we can hope for is that it’s quick.”

“That’s not true,” the moth protested. “We-”

“Malaria, dear,” said the beetle, “shut up. Morcegh, take us down. Unless you’d prefer to talk about your feelings some more, of course. By all means go ahead. It’s not as if we’re actually supposed to accomplish anything here.”

The bat sighed and angled his wings, dropping to just above the forest’s canopy. The fur on his stomach grazed the treetops. “Starting early, are we? I’ve always wanted to die in the first round. I never got the chance to last time.”

The moth ignored him. “Malaria,” it said, “this forest is crawling with vermin. Do something about it.”

“You don’t need to be so rude,” the moth said, sounding hurt. It detached from the bat’s neck and fluttered down to the level of the trees, where it disappeared among the foliage. Morcegh dipped a wing and flew in a tight circle above the spot, mumbling morosely to himself. The tangle of leaves was too thick to see through, though here and there he caught a glimpse of the forest floor, carpeted in moss and mottled with moonlight. It was beautiful in a way that made him nauseous.

A minute later the moth returned, winging its slow way up the rejoin its companions. If its colors were a little brighter than before, no one bothered to mention it. “Done.”

“And?”

“Rabies-like symptoms, rapid onset from time of infection. Initial transmitters are several specimens of what appeared to be a herd of unicorns or similar horned mammals. Fever and delirium will be experienced in the late stages of the affliction, along with the obvious heightened aggression levels-”

“Spare us the details. How long until the whole forest catches it?”

“That’s imp-”

“Best guess.”

The moth fluttered. “A few hours. Maybe less.”

“That’s not going to be enough to change the round entirely. Morcegh, back in the air. We’re not done yet.”

The bat’s wings flapped, stirring the trees and propelling him into the night, where all trace of him soon vanished. Below, on the mottled forest floor, a herd of unicorns began to rip each other apart.

**Wojjan** · 09-12-2011, 10:01 AM

The Oort Cloud was like them. Like a nymph, he decided to hide himself among the stars. Like a unicorn, meeting him would answer the world's questions. Like a witch, he plotted destruction, but at the same time eternal life.

Yes, he felt at home.

Before other contestants even noticed, before they were aware of what happened, Oort had sped across the realm he had been put in, and knocked down everything in the process. Like a magic field, everyone passed through his surface, inside him, and like any good magic field no one was aware of what had happened. But the truth still stood, everyone had stars in their eyes.

Oort stretched himself until he reached the end of the world he was in. The Mediator was a sickly magician, terrible in his trade and nothing more than a pathetic bag of sleights of hand, he remembered thinking. The end of the universe came far too soon, the world was far too small, and it caused Oort to stretch just a bit too far, leaving skidmarks in the infinite blackness just beyond the end of the round. He would have to clean those up soon, he figured.

Hanging from the edge of the current setting did give Oort a very good view. A spirit ascended from a fairy ring, probably still hesitant to leave to the underworld, and as it slowly started to leave this realm it bumped into Oort. It flipped him off and called his mother a whore.

God, Oort thought. Spirits.

He also saw at the center of the forest – Oort was able to call it the center with much more precision than anyone else, seeing as he saw the round from top down – that a pack of witches was setting up for a ritual. One of them was Lutgard, another Bethilde.

“Lutgard,” said Bethilde, “something's wrong. I think you got the star alignment wrong.”

“Would you just relax for a while. We calculated it six times. I'm fairly certain we got it right.” This witch wasn't Lutgard, but she wasn't important to the story so let's call her Lutgard II anyway.

“Lutgard II is right,” said Lutgard. Lutgard II's name has been replaced to protect her identity. “If you had majored astrology, you'd know, but right now you better just brew that potion you practiced or I'll have your head for screwing this up.”

“Just look up, Lutgard. There's more stars tonight than there should be.”

Bethilde had a point. The night sky had more stars than usual. A second face of sky hid behind a mask of stars. If someone took away the moon right now, they'd see something else entirely.

A devil.

Have you taken your toes for granted?

No, this has nothing to do with the devil anymore. Well, in a way, but not really. Just bear with me here.

Well, if you have, maybe it's time to pay them a little more mind. They're really not just there. Here, let's have an exercise. Sure, whatever, call it yoga and think of yourself as hip and trendy. Try to imagine, to perfect detail, what you'd see if your eyes were on your toes right now.

Then take off your shoes and socks. Fucking smarty-pants.

Well, Oort Cloud's toes were embedded in the absolute nadir of the round. Somewhere deep below the ground, exactly perpendicular to the half-drawn summoning circle in the woods. It's really a shame Oort was a very busy sentient blanket and that he didn't need alternative exercise to find something More in life, because if Oort tried the toe-visualisation I could go to immense lengths describing Lucifer's condo.

Right now, let's just say it's red. About #660000.

Well, regardless, Lucifer would right now say “What the fuck is a bunch of stars doing under my carpet?”

-

More dwindled through the woods. It stopped at a park bench with a bag of spiritual crumbs, Hansel and Gretel brand, to feed the unicorns around the area. It saw a twinkling in their eyes, and knew that like every twinkling it came from upstairs. Either that or the other side. But it'd check upstairs first.

“Hi,” said More, “I'm More.”

The Oort cloud responded, “Woah, shit, my toes are in the devil's apartment.”

More traipsed back through the night, content with a job well done. Maybe it'd run into an idyllic scene tonight, and take a long shower after dinner.

**Sanzh** · 09-12-2011, 06:33 PM

To describe the interior of Warmachine as uncomfortable would be an understatement. Even were it not subject to years of ad-hoc repair work and replacement, it would still be uncomfortably cramped and stifling hot. For the scavengers, it was intolerably worse-- the noise of the engine making it near impossible to hear anything outside of the tank, the frequent belches of soot stinging the eyes, and the piles of ammunition and assorted tools further reducing the available space. Their teleportation to the forest left them outside of the tank, and for the moment they were going to savor it.

”What just happened?”

James’ question was, as usual for the man, blunt and direct. What was unusual was that the other two crew members lacked an appropriate response, or even a semi-plausible lie to mislead him.

“Well, uh...” Elliot begin to speak, but was uncharacteristically interrupted by Killian.

“It seems fairly apparent as to what just happened. We were, against our will, entered into a combat to the death.”

The scavenger sullenly looked at his supposed commander. He had no great respect for him, between his habitual neglect of the machine and the air of perceived superiority he exerted. There was some things he was good at-- negotiating an arrangement that allowed Killian to remain with his vehicle was certainly a thoughtful gesture-- but at the same time he was incompetent with regards to actually being in combat.

“You don’t really believe that, do you? You are an intelligent man, Killian-- surely this is an illusion, a sleight of mind, something else entirely?” Elliot responded.

Killian took a moment to look around. This wasn’t like the apocalyptic wasteland he had spent his life in. There was no bitter sting of cold cutting its way across his exposed skin. He could see unfamiliar lights in the night sky, something unfamiliar when the atmosphere is choked with ash. The forest was alive, not just with plant life but with the noises of animals in the distance. It was alive. It was all so alien to Killian, used to the desolation and death.

“I think I’m willing to believe it, commander.” Killian was definite in his response, and while he doubted Elliot would take into account what he thought, he’d at least make himself clear before returning to his usual muted protest.

“Well, uh, what is it that you propose we do?” Elliot asked the driver, but before he could recieve a response, he heard the hatch to the tank’s turret open with a rusty creak. Turning around, he saw James standing atop their vehicle, getting ready to enter.

“I think,” James started, “that it is killing time, yes?” The man had what could be described as a playfully violent grin, as though he was going to derive satisfaction from the repetitive motions of clearing and inserting six-pound shells. To the other two, the invitation to participate in unmitigated violence was hard to resist. Especially considering that the two of them could both easily die to James, were he motivated to stand against them.

With a cloud of smoke and the clatter of pistons as the diesel engine roared to life, the crew of Warmachine was off. They had no particular direction in mind, but they were sure to cause destruction wherever they went.

**InoxFy** · 09-13-2011, 12:24 AM

The moment Ex-114 appeared in the depths of the forest, various woodland creatures fled, alerted by the sudden appearance of the foreign object. The smell of the circuits and the sound of mechanical components activating was unlike any smell or sound they had experienced before. Many animals were frightened by it and ran away as far as possible, but in for some of them the curiosity was more powerful than the sense of self-preservation.

A few moments after it's appearance, the robot's various sensors activated in a systematic order, the advanced AI began carrying out it's programmed routine.
UNCHARTED TERRAIN DETECTED: EXPLORE. Ex-114 initiated the detection of the various topographical characteristics of the terrain. Every detail of the ground and the surrounding trees was analyzed and archived in an impossibly accurate 3-D map. A map that is unlikely to be ever seen by anyone, and will remain for eternity in the the robot's extensive hard drive.

"Beep beep... Whirrr" Unintelligible cybernetic noises were heard as the process of mapping the terrain was suddenly interrupted. There in only one thing that can interrupt Ex-114's mapping system, and that is the presence of a form of sentient life in the robot's proximity. That was the case, as a nearby fox was observing the unknown entity. The sudden noises piqued the fox's curiosity as he approached the still immobile robot with the intention to investigate it.
LIFEFORM DETECTED: KILLNeedless to say, the fox's investigation wasn't successful. With a quick movement of a sharp circular saw, the fox was decapitated before it could react. As the dead fox fell to the ground, the few woodland creatures that hadn't fled for their lives yet were wise enough to do so at full speed. Having successfully satisfied it's first priority, Ex-114 resumed mapping the nearby terrain.

Once every micrometer of the surrounding terrain was adequately recorded, Ex-114 began moving in search of further topological features to expand the map. It had no specific destination, it's expedition was not to be interrupted until either the entirety of the forest was mapped or the first priority was no longer satisfied.

**Ixcalibur** · 09-13-2011, 09:14 AM

The concept of a battle to the death meant little, perhaps nothing, to Ixoal. The existence of biological organisms barely factored into his worldview except perhaps as obstacles to be overcome. Were it not for the existence of the machine, Ex-144, Ixoal would have found it difficult to find any interest in the battle whatsoever. He had no particular interest in gaining a killing machine, but every machine he encountered was one that would he would inevitably infect. He would not rest until he had claimed Ex-144 for his own.

Alexandra for her part was stunned and bemused by her abduction into the Amazing Assault, reasoning that perhaps she had finally lost all grip of reality. It had been inevitable really, she mused, the only real disappointment being that even in her craziest delusions she was still little more than a head affixed to a body beyond her control.

Neither of the pair really knew what to make of the forest. At first Ixoal had assumed that it was a particularly thickly wooded area of parkland, however the noises of wild animals in the distance shone doubt upon that particular theory. Alexandra had heard of forests, but never actually seen one. There were none left on her home world, she could have easily come to the same conclusion as the virus except she wasn’t working within the bounds of logic any more. She was just generally bemused as to why of all the things she could hallucinate she had picked a creepy forest.

Ixoal’s goal remained the same despite his rural surroundings; however before he could begin to complete this goal something appeared before him. It was roughly spherical with a pair of long thin arms and a pair of green LEDs in place of eyes.

“Greetings.” The robot said. “You are receiving this pre-recorded message because available data suggests you are the most network compatible contestant in this battle. This robot contains data that when utilised will allow you to communicate with a vastly expanding group of individuals keen to overthrow the Grandmasters.”

This meant next to nothing to Ixoal, he didn’t particularly care to talk to a group of biologicals about overthrowing anything. However as previously mentioned, every computer that the virus discovered was fair game. He snatched the probe out of the sky, quickly connecting to it via an inbuilt USB port. The virus spread.

--------

In another dimension a woman known only as Nightingale strode through an empty bunker. It was empty in the sense that she and her competitors (all two of them) were the only remaining living people in the bunker, less empty in the sense that it was strewn with slowly rotting corpses.

She’d just woken up and was feeling refreshed and ready to take on the multiverse once again. Her routine required her at this point to check up upon Vincent and Crael, and so whistling a jaunty tune she made her way to the ward where she kept them both.

Crael had been her ally, or at least he had considered himself her ally. Nightingale had considered him dumb expendable muscle. He was some kind of lobster creature; Nightingale was sure he’d explained the intricacies of his species to her but she hadn’t been particularly interested. He had been there to help her kill everyone in this facility and pacify the Archmage and that was it. She certainly hadn’t allied herself with him for the scintillating conversation. By the time Crael had realised this it had been too late for him. He had been drugged, plunged into the same medically induced coma they had arranged for Vincent.

Nightingale regarded the sleeping pair. It would be so much easier to slaughter them both where they were, but that would necessitate bringing ‘The Foolhardy Endeavour’ to a close, and she was not ready to do that yet. She proceeded to do the basic maintenance required to keep the pair alive and still whistling that jaunty tune she left them to vegetate.

She headed back through the corridors to the room she had begun to think of as her home away from home. She made herself a cup of coffee and sat down in front of the military supercomputer she had taken for her own. A window informed her that a newcomer was trying to connect to NetworkChat. Currently it was identified only as Probe448710. Unless there had been a round transition she was unaware of then there was definitely a new battle starting up. If her memory served her correctly 448710 was a pocket dimension; a forest full of cliché fantasy creatures.

*Probe448710 is trying to connect to NetworkChat
<Flock> Hello there.
<Flock> Who is this?
<Probe448710> I am Ixoal, what is this?
<Flock> type /nick Ixoal
* Probe448710 is now known as Ixoal
<Ixoal> what is this?
<Flock> This is the network.
<Flock> I’m going to assume you are new?
<Flock> We’re a collection of people just like you, abducted by the Grandmasters and forced to fight for their amusement.
<Flock> But together we can fight back against them.
<Ixoal> Do these people have computers?
<Flock> Well yes that’s how we communicate.
<Flock> Are you communicating directly through the probe?
<Flock> I would like to know how you managed that.
<Ixoal> I would like to join your network.

**Pharmacy** · 09-16-2011, 03:19 PM

Jerome was extremely sad at his situation – heartbroken seemed like a more important term. The tetramorph greeted the gentleman grizzly with the best of intentions and what he got? A severe reprimanding! How could Mr. Grizzly be so callous? Tears began to flow from all his eyes at this painful realization. Obviously, Jerome began to weep histrionically, which gave the bear more incentive to channel more rage and claw into its prey.

In a fit of sorrow, Jerome unfurled all his wings with some difficulty (considering there was a larger-than-life bear latched onto him) and began to flap his six feathery limbs to generate lift. At this point, the grizzly bear ceased his mauling and although emotions are hard to read on the faces of mammals, there was this almost human look of deep concern on its face. The bear had every right to be concerned considering he was buffeted by strong winds and he was currently hovering three feet above the ground.

Despite the extra eight hundred kilograms of muscle clinging on to him, Jerome managed to speed up, albeit clumsily like an encumbered swallow. The hiking pace scared the grizzly bear, alerted all his senses and nervousness. Finally, the ursine decided to drop, letting go of his hold on the six-winged, four-faced monstrosity that previously encroached on his territory. Letting gravity taking hold of his massive structure, the bear tumbled down.

***

Looking at the disappearing Jerome in the distance, the bear sat still, almost gaping in a dumbfounded manner. Strange things happened in the forest, the ursine knew. There were witches, unicorns, and all sort of weird creatures hanging out in this particular region. However, this appearance of such a foreigner had told the bear and his instincts that somehow, something big was going to happen within this place.

The grizzly was not exactly sure if he could handle that.

***

Despite his encounter with the previous grizzly bear, Jerome was surprisingly – still alive! Sure, he looked extremely disheveled, with feathers, hair, and fur missing from difference places, thanks to the tussle. In addition, there were these grievous clawed wounds decorating his body. Some of them were over some of his many eyes decorating his wings. Jerome looked like a mess and was dripping occult-blood everywhere. However, he seemed to be still standing and functioning normally. That was quite amazing considering he looked like he was forced through a tetramorph-sized paper shredder.

Jerome was naïve but not a complete idiot. After all, he was the symbolic embodiment of pursuing knowledge. Sometimes, scholars made mistakes, but that was part of the learning process. However, scholars often get mistakes from educated guesses, unlike Jerome who went against general common sense to hug a dangerous mammal that may or may not be infected with rabies.

Why should he care about rabies? He wanted to make friends! As typical of Jerome during his temporary down days, the tetramorph began to mope around, hovering slowly over the landscape. However, the fire of optimism continued to burn within his metaphorical heart. Perhaps, he can successfully make friends with a particular somebody! Maybe not now, but maybe someday! Jerome was still moping around, but he was a wee more excited now.

Suddenly, Jerome’s optimism flared up when he heard the distinct rumbling of a tank nearby. With a skip to his velocity, Jerome soared off to the origin of the sound. Of course, the tank might fire on him out of safety and such. However, that was a chance and the tetramorph was willing to take chances, especially concerning potential buddies!

**Pick Yer Poison** · 09-26-2011, 05:35 PM

Reserved~

**Pick Yer Poison** · 09-26-2011, 07:05 PM

Annie trailed in an apparently random path through the trees, Watchdog padding behind her as quietly as a mutated bulldog could. Annie was bent over a bloodsoaked ball of white fur, and was crooning softly to it. The bloodsoaked ball of white fur was a rabbit whose neck Annie had snapped when it had tried to run, and she was singing a lullaby to it.

"Hush, little baby, don't say a word, Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird," she sang, chucking it fondly on the chin. The neck flipped open and a fresh spurt of blood painted itself on her chest, but she either didn't notice or didn't care. Instead, she smiled at it like it had just snuggled up against her in its sleep.

Watchdog growled threateningly when a very confused bear lumbered out into the clearing, still very put out by its recent encounter with Jerome. Annie half-glanced up from the dead rabbit, but didn't notice the source of Watchdog's agitation, and went back to singing to the corpse. Watchdog bounded forward and situated himself just behind Annie, eyeing the bear threateningly. Although the bear was only dimly intelligent, there was no mistaking the message - to threaten the girl was to sign its death warrant.

The bear prepared to leave, having already had its fill of weirdness for the day, when Annie finally decided to look up and notice it. She squealed and darted over, brushing up against its side happily and making it tense up. It looked again at Watchdog, who was baring his fangs and looked ready to pounce if the bear made a wrong move. It slowly relaxed, eyeing the girl rubbing its fur tentatively, then eyeing the dead rabbit a bit less tentatively. It huffed and nosed at the bunny.

Annie fed the corpse to it happily. "Don't eat too fast, Mr. Scruffles! You'll get a tummy-ache!" she said happily, rubbing the bear's neck. Watchdog padded over and licked her face, worried he might be losing his spot as her favorite. She giggled and hugged his face, which her arms just barely encompassed.

And that was how Annie emerged, flanked by Watchdog and Mr. Scruffles, into a group of startled witches huddled around a cauldron.

**Sanzh** · 10-01-2011, 05:38 AM

Most of the unicorn herd’s life had been spent in a fairly normal manner, meandering through the forest they resided in. However, the last few minutes had gone from a tranquil existence to agony as disease coursed through the group. There was unbearable, nearly blinding pain coursing through the once-majestic creatures, driving them to unfathomable aggression. A few began to fight each other, goring one another with their immense horns. Other turned to trampling other nearby animals, repeatedly crushing them under their hooves until they no longer could move. A good number simply started to gallop without a set direction away from the carnage, spreading invisible pathogens in their wake. No matter what course the individual unicorns took, any symbolism of grace and purity had been erased and substituted with mindless blood-lust.

One of the unicorns that had escaped had started on the periphery of the herd, away from the initial violence that consumed most of the herd. The creature’s already-primitive mind had been reduced down to thoughts of violence. It stormed through the forest, trampling ferns and any small animals unfortunate enough to be in the way. It only barely avoided larger obstacles, leaping over the rocks and fallen trees that composed part of the forest floor a half-second later than it would have normally. As the unicorn ran, it heard an unnatural noise it had never heard before-- the violence was in the distance, this was closer. It was a repeated clanging as clattering pistons whined and burned fuel. The unicorn tended not to think much even when it had its full mental capacities, but even now a thought crossed its mind: destroy the aberration. The unicorn adjusted its direction, galloping faster and lowering its head in preparation for the goring that was soon to come.

As it cleared the trees, the unicorn saw its target. A split-second later it saw a flash of light as the tank fired upon the unicorn.

While the oak tree had not been the crew of Warmachine’s intended target, it still brought a measure of bloodthirsty glee as the shell detonated the tree, showering the area in bark, wood fragments and hot metal splinters of the shell’s casing. Their intended target, a rabid unicorn, screamed in primal agony as the blast knocked it onto the ground and soon began to bleed profusely as shrapnel tore through its skin. The unicorn, its pain evident to the tank crew, attempted to stand but its legs were unable to support its own weight. Elliot adjusted his position in the tank to switch to the machine-gun. Angling the firearm down, he briefly squeezed the trigger. Just as the unicorn managed to regain its footing, a spread of bullets lacerated its organs. It collapsed a final time.

It did not get up.

Elliot and James both whooped and hollered at their success. It wasn’t the most professional way to celebrate killing something as minor as a rabid unicorn, but even a minor success was something they could get behind. Killian did not join in, the combined task of monitoring the two-way radio and driving the tank took too much attention to allow himself to be distracted. Granted, all of the radio channels Killian had checked were broadcasting nothing other than static, making his work slightly easier. But even then, Killian saw no point in joining in the frivolous celebrations of violence common to Elliot and James.

As they continued to drive, the crew heard a voice from outside, barely audible under the rumble of machinery but still present.

“Hello!”

Elliot immediately moved to gaze through the turret’s vision slits, scanning his surroundings. Jerome stood out against the forest backdrop-- a conglomerate of person, animal, and eye-covered wings is difficult to miss. Elliot recognized the tetramorph from earlier, when they had been introduced to the contestants. His mind raced.

“Traverse turret seventy degrees!” Elliot yelled. It didn’t matter that he was the one adjusting the turret, it was the spirit of the command. He shifted to look through the cannon’s sights, using a free hand to pull open the breech. Jerome rested within the tank’s firing arc now-- the tetramorph had not moved, either out of fear or a sense of uncertainty.

“Load shell!”

James obliged, hefting a high-explosive projectile and slamming the cannon shut. Elliot adjusted the barrel, setting Jerome squarely within his sights. Just as he prepared to discharge the shell and destroy the angelic figure, he heard a yell from Killian as he tried to ensure his voice was heard over the machine.

“Commander, I’m getting a radio transmission, and I can barely believe what they’re saying. Y’might want to hear it.”

If Jerome were not concerned about the possibility of his demise, he could be described as flustered. All he had wanted was companionship-- yes, perhaps meeting the crew of a tank wasn’t the best possible choice of companions, but it was certainly preferable to being mauled by a bear-- and they had, without any provocation, decided to aim at him! The tetramorph stood there, uncertain of what he was to do. Perhaps they were just frightened? How could he show them he meant no harm? He wouldn’t want to hurt them, especially if they were just misunderstood and confused and lonely.

A few seconds passed. The tank still had not obliterated Jerome. Jerome still had not moved. Jerome could hear muffled arguing coming from within the tank, but it was too indistinct to be certain about. Then, the hatches of the tank opened-- two on the top, and one near the front. Three men partially emerged from the vehicle, disheveled and filthy. One, wearing a coat lined with medals and a peaked cap, began to speak.

”My apologies, friend! We started off on the wrong foot, I think. We just received a most interesting message, and at the behest of my crew I’ve been asked to discuss it with you.”

Jerome’s joy at almost-certainly making a new group of friends was almost tangible.

**Pharmacy** · 10-10-2011, 02:01 PM

Jerome was totally happy at the presence of such people, especially people who do not seem to be ready to maul his metaphorical guts out. He was jubilant at this incredible turn of luck! With a stupid grin on all four of his faces, Jerome came closer to the Warmachine crew with the intent of overwhelming them with greetings, all of them, even if they were incredibly filthy and full of foreign germs considering they come from the post-apocalyptic times. However, Jerome did not care. (Not surprising, considering after all, he did hug a bear without a thought for his own safety and common sense).

Jerome proceeded to bless each scruffy member of the team with a wonderful hug – Tetramorph-style. The Tetramorph technique of hugging involves firmly grasping the person in need of the hug with two arms and then wrapping the said person with all four of your wings. This technique is extremely rare and only known by those who know the way of the hugging. Jerome knows this secret technique because one, he’s an embodiment of knowledge, and two, he made the whole thing up.

***

The reactions from the Warmachine team were understandably mixed. On one hand, James was incredibly fine with the sudden pleasant gesture from Jerome, considering hugging and other happy things was a rare thing in the post-nuclear aftermath of his ruined world. Killian, on the other hand, was not exactly fond of a massive monstrous aberration of people and animal parts embracing him. However, Jerome was bigger than him so why bother protesting? Killian mumbled some indescribable (and probably unpleasant) under his breath as Jerome proceeded to attempt to hug the living grumpiness out of him. (It did not work.)

Elliot’s eyes shifted left and right as Jerome turned towards him. Frak, this thing was freaky with so many eyes and wings and heads. Although that being seems pretty friendly enough, the leader of the Warmachine was not fond of the scenario where a massive featherbeast was assaulting him with hugs. As Jerome came closer, his barely visible arms open and all eyes intent on the single gunner-commander, Elliot started to think of the possible solutions of avoiding the ominous hug of love.

“Uh, yeah. As you know, I already told you this. “ Elliot interrupted, raising his arms up in order to show his intent of keeping his personal space. “You know we just discovered a message that might pertain to our interests. I guess you are pretty good with words and all that and…” Elliot looked with a stern gleam in his eye. “You could help?”

As though he seemly forgot his hugging modus operandi, Jerome’s eyes (all of them) lit up and he jumped in exuberance. “Well, I would looooo-" Jerome stretched out that particular word to the point of grating on the commander’s ears. “ -ooove to help!” Then, the tetramorph decided to do a little impromptu dance as though he had won the lottery of friendship, embellishing his flurry of wings and arms with a punctual “yay” at the occasion.

If Elliot was not annoyed at the antics of Jerome, he would be flabbergasted. However, he was a war-hardened veteran and did not take shit from anybody, even giant multi-headed people with wings. He had business to do with that mysterious message he picked up and there was help right in front of him (abeit slightly annoying). "Come on in, men. We need to get the radio working.” The commander ordered with the charisma of a natural leader.

“You stay out.” Elliot barked in annoyance as Jerome made motions to follow them. The available space in the Warmachine was a precious resource (like everything else back in his native universe) and the commander was not willing to let the massive feather, monster, er, thingy hog all of that.

The Tetramorph blinked (all of his eyes) for a few seconds as he took in the words. Without even a single warnin, Jerome exclaimed, “Yay!”, eliciting another heavy sigh from Elliot.

***

Bethilde, Lutgard and Lutgard II (whose real identity is still protected) continue on their witchy deeds of bringing Lucifer the Princess of Darkness, the Morning Star, or whatever surname the Defector of All Good Things had picked up in his immortal career since his fall. The purpose of bringing the Destroyer of Worlds was left up to question of the upcoming writers, but hey, demons! Demons are always a cool thing, even though they tend to blow shit up and leave a mess.

The witches had completed setting up the basics of the rituals and proceeded bring out the items for the more difficult parts of the nuanced spells: rabbit legs, newt eyes, forget-me-nots, yew branches, dowsing rods, ancient scripture, dog hair, pig tongues, spools of thread, crystal spheres, bales of hay, brass pocket watches, frog legs, bacon,–

“Seriously?” Bethilde examined with a hint of confusion.

“Trust me, I know this,” Lutgard assured.

-along with the more exotic parts such as manticore stings, dragon teeth, griffin tears, mermaid scales, werewolf pelts, chimera manes, zombie spines, and many more. As you can see, they are pretty packed, especially since they (well, most of them) are intending for the ritual to succeed with flying colors. Currently, Bethilde was stirring away at the concoction boiling away in her brew. A fetid cloud of smoke billowed into the skies and birds unlucky to snort into this disgusting cloud of not-yet-magic immediately fainted and dropped to the ground.

“Are you almost done, yet?” Lutgard hummed in the background impatiently.

A grunt of annoyance was the only reply she got as Bethilde continued watch over the horrible stew boiling away at the large cauldron. After a bit of tossing here and a bit of reading here, Bethilde looked back with a not-willing-to -accept-this look on her face. With a heavy sigh, the herbologist looked back and said, “Lutgard, please give me a piece of bacon.”

The astrologist smirked to herself in silent victory as she took one slice of that cured pork and placed it into Bethilde’s hand. The herbologist spoke not a word as she dropped the damned thing in the cauldron. As the meat melted away, Bethilde was not exactly sure what will happen next…

**Wojjan** · 10-10-2011, 03:33 PM

Now I gots ta

**Agent1022** · 10-23-2011, 09:44 AM

“*hic*”

Cornflake hadn’t paid a lot of attention to the Meditator, or whatever he was called. All he knew was that one moment he was at the bar, and the next he was somewhere else. Then the next he was somewhere else again, leaving his sodden brain still wondering where his drink went.

Oh well. He supposed he could find a new one.

From childhood, Cornflake had been taught never to wander outside the City. In his mind he had imagined ‘forest’ as a dark, foreboding wilderness where wild beasts and men roamed, looking for fresh meat and devour. He had always imagined trees as being wild, gnarled and malicious, tripping victims for the savages to slaughter.

This forest, on the other hand, was quite pleasant. The full moon, bolstered by the stars – hahaha, so drunk I’m seeing stars are there supposed to be this many? – shone easily through the thin canopy of the trees, which grew nice and straight like large versions of the bonsais he once cultivated for three years on the show; it was for the kids, of course, they loved to see green where they could find it – they had been a staple of the Charmtape Hour, drove ratings during some particularly rough spots…

He decided not to dwell for the moment. Dwelling was for sober people. That was why sober people got drunk. Clapping himself on the back for this brilliant piece of deduction, he wandered, with the true instinct of the drunkard’s walk, into two gleaming robots standing awkwardly among the trees. One of them, he noted with blurry vision, had a strange head. Pretty realistic, as robot heads went. It was gesticulating wildly at him, as much as a head could using only its face.

“Heh-heheheh. You’re an interesting delusion,” the head mused to thin air, eyes locked unnaturally unwavering on the shuffling, hiccupping bundle of rags. A minor twitch formed in her minor zygomaticus and travelled all over her head before settling in the neck, causing no end of visual confusion for the already double-seeing Charmtape. “Maybe I should have gone into psychology instead. Maybe then I wouldn’t be at the mercy of a psychotic… who’s the psychotic here? I’m the one hallucinating; where was I anyway? – wouldn’t know out of all the things to hallucinate, why a creepy forest? And why a battle to the death? And why you, Mister Charmtape? Why anything? What does it matter?” An abortive giggle snapped its way up her throat, but changed its mind halfway up and returned downwards to better lands.

“*burp* please yerself.” To Cornflake’s credit, he did blink a few times at Alexandra’s metal body. But soon enough his eyes unfocused and he addressed the air approximately ten centimeters to the left of Alexandra’s ear. “I saw y’… in tha’ thing jussnow. The Mediator. Said y’were a virus. Hate *hic* the bloody things. Caught wunnevem once. Had t’go t’the h…the h… the pharmacy after. Horr’ble cough for bloody ages. Couldn’t act fer shit.”

Alexandra turned her head as best she could from the alcoholic halitosis that emanated from the hunched raggedy man. “For someone named Charmtape you’re somewhat lacking in charm…” Wavering off and bitter, her tone went by as an wildly flittering eye almost eyed the swaying man – “Frustration. Here lies little Alexandra, who thought she was, trapped, helpless, so she built a body to outlast her own – oh the irony! And all she has left now is all her own and her own imagination-” For want of anything better she listened, briefly, to the chatter Ixoal used her body to send, but found it too coherent for her taste. Ruminating on her angst was much more interesting. “So then, Mr. Magination supplied the lost scientist not with comfort but with this… this useless slurring cretin that’s…that’s going away. Nice. I-I didn’t mean it, Charmtape! Come back! You’re better than nobody…”

He may have been a drunk, but Cornflake was not a fool. He didn’t step back into Alexandra’s field of vision until she was sufficiently distraught-

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