Passing On

[dark_and_stormy_heart]

ALSO, @Dark and Stormy Heart, please add a bit more to your sheet. Elaborate. :3c ))

Yeah, sure! Could you elaborate on what you need me to elaborate on?

[Dark or whatever you want me to call you]

Dark is fine, Stormy's fine, Dash is good too!

Edited October 12, 2015 by dark_and_stormy_heart

[AroaraAngelwolf]

What's the password for the chat?

[Esko]

Esko has an idea. So he actually has a quick history. Everybody run.

 

Name:

Markus Longzak. He was often called Slate by his peers.

Age:

Age at Death: 15

Gender:

Male

Appearance:

Like this, but somewhat more squished.. There's red marks under his eyes, lines under his nose and the corner of his mouth, like blood.

Personality:

He is a very curious and friendly child, though his age makes him immature. He likes to have friends and people to hang out with. He absolutely hates being alone, and the very thought of being stranded could scare him out of his pants.

Along with his friendliness, he is very chipper and optimistic. It's not too often that he looks at the glass half-empty, since it's easier for him to believe there's always a way for things to get better.

Of course, dying as a pubescent teenager, he has his immature and dramatical moments, being stuck in a stage of change. What he may find unfair, adults may find perfectly fair and reasonable.

He's not quiet. At the same time, he's not inconsiderate and obnoxious; at least, he doesn't mean to be. He just wants everybody to be friends.

History:

Ever since he was four or five, he always had an interest in rocks of all kinds, whether it be cobblestone or opal. He studied rocks as much as a young child could, and eventually started to collect any rocks he could get. One day, his and his friends' curious natures got ahead of them, and they wandered in a particularly rocky area.

That area was like heaven for Markus, and he started to climb a delicatley balancing pile of large rocks. Unfortunately for the child, this was going to lead to his very death.

Even with as light as he was, he managed to get the rocks toppling. He started to get run over by the large rocks, and when he got up, the largest boulder crushed the poor kid. Before anybody could help, he died under the stone.

Which One of the Eight?: one, died under weight of stone

Other:

He used to love cake.

 

Yay carp histories and personalities

Edited October 13, 2015 by Esko_the_Wolf

[Dorchadas]

Any of you with an ounce of prediction skills could guess what happened next.

Um... burned to death?

[Esko]

Um... burned to death?

...no? He's not the fire victim. He's the stone victim

[voltage]

may i have the burn victim spot if Mr. Spyro doesn't want it with the sheet i pm'd to you Thaelasan?

[Dorchadas]

...no? He's not the fire victim. He's the stone victim

It was sarcasm.

[Thaelasan]

@Voltage, that spot has already been taken.

 

@Esko, please rewrite your sheet more literally, and the age of your character doesn't matter to me. Though you will have many drawbacks for being a child in the midst of a group of adults, and you won't be as large of a help.

Though, to be honest, with the story I'm running, I don't know if a twelve year old is possible... But.... I can't say no because I'm not sure.

You need to also not make it be centered like that. Please follow the format placed before you.

 

@Everyone else, we will be beginning shortly. We can start with just the characters we have for now. Latecomers, don't worry. There's nothing major.

 

We will not be meeting each other physically for a while. The chatroom is for us to communicate and interact. For our characters by themselves, they cannot currently see or talk to anyone else.

 

HOWEVER.

 

You have awoken within a room that is familiar to you by memory. That much is certain. Whether the house of your parents, perhaps a pond you liked to sit by, something which befuddles you. If you're not sure how to enter, I'll make the first post soon.

[Esko]

By "write it more literally" do you mean on a serious manner or grammatically? If you mean grammatically, then I'm out of luck; the mobile note app doesn't have a grammar check, and I've got no computer access right now.

 

If you mean writing it in a serious manner, then I did what I could to fix it. I also bumped up his age and fixed the other stuff that mentioned his age. I though that sticking the group with a child would create something, but I may be wrong.

[Thaelasan]

@Esko: No. I would never use literally in that sense. I meant grammatically.

 

And in any case, I'll start with the first intro post.

 

-----

 

Blood, the source of life....

 

"Ah! Lord Neumont!"

The man turned, a glass of wine held loosely in his hand, as though it was soon to fall from the grasp that steadied it. His eyes were full of disinterest.

"Lord Armistead." he replied, disdainful. "And to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Ah! That will not do, my friend." the other man, a slightly portly fellow, waved his finger. "Come now, soon we shall be brothers! Can't you treat me a bit more courteously?"

"Just because my sister shall be wed to your brother does not mean we are any closer by blood, Louis." Lucien replied, taking a drink. "Not closer at all."

 

Flesh, that which binds the construct...

 

As she slumbered beneath him, Lucien considered that which had led him to this point. She was female, surely, and attractive, but did he truly wish to be with her? Was she not simply a body, a being with life within it, but still a body nonetheless? No matter how beautiful, how noble, she was still just skin and blood. He could see it all within her, as he looked her over again, confused and disoriented. All the organs, all their placements, as his mentor had taught him. This was not his goal. No, he would not be with this woman. He had more to do, more to discover.

Staying with her would not help him.

 

Life, that which gives it meaning...

 

"So you're leaving home then, Lucien?" his brother asked him, confused. Lucien had grabbed his belongings, dragging them onto the ship casually. Not much, of course, but the various medical tools he would need and a bit more to survive with. He'd been very frugal with the amount he'd taken from his family's treasury. He wished he didn't need to take any at all.

"Of course. Our knowledge of the body is incomplete. I require more research, more prodding. And I cannot get it here."

"Your fascination with that science is... slightly unnerving, brother." Marc said, worried. "Perhaps you should settle down slightly...?"

"Marc, please just return home to your beloved Miss Armistead... and let me do as I will." Lucien waved him away, watching as the memories began to fade again and he tumbled down further within the blackness which now consumed him.

 

Death, that which shows us our flaws...

 

----

 

He awoke, his entire body rebelling as he retched upon the ground near him, his stomach turning. But this feeling felt both alien and familiar. The pain.. it was not unknown.

He blinked rapidly, confused, as he adjusted himself to his situation. Around him, the linoleum floor of the aged hospital gave him no comfort, and the walls looked dark and bleak. The moans of the sick and wounded echoed around him as the smell of opiates and nerve-numbing drugs permeated the air.

"Doctor Neumont?"

Lucien looked up, concerned, as one of his colleagues - his name, at the moment, escaped Lucien's memory - looked down at him with a perplexed aura.

"Ah... What... what were we doing a moment ago?"

"The autopsy, sir? The patient came in this morning."

"Oh... right... right."

He stood to his feet, holding the side of his head. His vomit was still upon the ground, yet no one seemed perturbed by its presence. He placed both hands on the operating table, where a male body was laying upon it, cold, lifeless. The skin was pale. The face was blank. The eyes were closed.

It was almost tangible really. The feeling of death. The understanding of a body returning to the meat and bone it was made of. Nothing more to move it. No more energy. No more force.

As he gripped the scalpel within his fingers, his entire mood changed. Here, he could practice in peace, without others to scrutinize his mentality or his thoughts. Yes, this was where he felt most human. The careful, y-shaped incision, carved into the chest with trained precision. Not a lost movement, not an err in judgement. Simple, clean cutting. The two men next to him noticed his dedication and stepped backward, disappearing from his view.

Everything else was gone. Only the table before him and his own tools remained. He leaned down over the body, placing the tongs within the cut flesh. He pulled it apart slowly, revealing the ribcage beneath, the white bone covering the lungs and heart, the stomach.

He grabbed the bonesaw from nearby and with a good amount of effort - yet with the ease of a practiced hand - cut the ribs apart, then pulled them open. Beyond were the organs, once filled with life and energy, now... quiet, the heart not beating.

Yet, what was that drumming sound under his hands? That soft, constant tempo which echoed within his mind. It was slightly irritating but he could handle it. He couldn't stop now.

No, now he was within a trance. He traced his finger along the surface of the left lung, right above the heart. So pristine. So young. The death of this man was a tragedy. Yes, a tragedy. He moved his finger further until he found the stomach. This he removed with more incisions as he cut it open, showing the man's last meal.

Ah.. a simple dinner. Very sparse, however. Must have been all he could afford. The lining of the esophagus looked weak, and the stomach's muscles appeared to have contracted.

The plague. But he died before it could cause real damage, as far as Lucien could see.

That drumming noise was getting louder now. As he moved the stomach away, he noticed something moving within it. But for some reason, as the maggots began to move across the table from the open stomach, he didn't feel odd.

They all seemed drawn to something. He should have been terrified but instead he was intrigued. Finally, he noticed their concern.

He placed a hand upon the heart, still beating within the cavity of the chest, and felt its warmth.

He knew who this man was, though no name was given. As he looked up, he saw his own face, staring back at him. His hand tightened around the heart as the maggots began to infest the body - his body.

"No more than flesh... No more than flesh and bone..." Lucien repeated, as the flies began to swarm around him. The heartbeat died as Lucien pulled it from his own chest, and all went dark.

 

-----

 

He awoke again, coughing, gagging, and swinging his arms around him as the sound of the flies went silent. They were gone, and so was the body before him. He blinked rapidly, moving his hands around to find his bearings.

Something was wrong, something was wrong. That wasn't the first time he'd had that nightmare. And he felt sick, disgusted. There was no reason...

He stood to his feet, leaning against the wall of some form of construction. Around him, the blackness gave way to a white building, the same hospice, but without the broken walls and torn floors. Instead, it seemed inviting, almost welcoming.

"What.... what's happening to me?" he whispered, confused, as he pushed through the hospital weakly.

He moved through the racks of hospital beds and sample storage. And all he could hear in the back of his mind was that heartbeat, as loudly as it had been in his dream. But was it his own, or a phantom beating, somewhere far from his view? He breathed deeply, trying to calm himself, unable to make sense of anything.

"No... this hospital... it was burned... wasn't it? Destroyed... As part of the quarantine..." he asked no one in particular, falling to one of the beds, taking a seat on the side. "Burned... It's gone... Then how...."

He placed both hands on his head as a migraine began, burning and searing his mind. He gritted his teeth in pain as he shook all over, then vomited again. Sweat was beading over his body, cold, uncomfortable.

"I need... I need medication... I need..." he said, laying onto the bed. "I need rest... I need to find..."

He feared sleeping, but fighting it was becoming difficult. The hospital around him began to dull as his vision blurred. The heartbeat continued in the back of his mind as all went to black, his vision disappearing completely.

"I am but flesh... and bone."

Edited October 12, 2015 by Thaelasan

[AroaraAngelwolf]

Shouts, steel on steel. This was the soundtrack of his dream. Gun shots, ropes twanging, the snap of sails and the muted shouts of the captain. Colors and chaos all around. "Sleep mi amore" A woman's voice dripping in sarcasm as pain spread like fire from his belly and he gasped awake, her laugh an echoing ghost in his ears.

 

 

Silence. He was in his hammock, the soft whisper of the salty sea scraping against old wood. Gingerly he slipped down from his perch looking around. He was the only one here. Had the mutiny stopped? But.... he frowned. She... stabbed him though. Why was he here?

 

 

Ray cautiously moved about the ship. He checked out all of the ship except for .... her .... room. He moved closer, subconsciously reaching for a crude dagger that wasn't there, feeling exposed and raw. He opened the door quickly and froze. Instead of part of a ship, it opened to the cramped earthen floored room where he spent most of his childhood in. The old stucco was crumbling and the wooden floors rotted in places. Why was this place here? He walked over in a daze and sat in a dark corner looking out at the sea in the tiny open window cut in the stucco.

[Dorchadas]

Something... feels wrong...

Viriphraim was lying on his back, eyes shut. Nothing visible except sheer black.

I don't know where I am... how I got here... I don't know anything. So why does all this feel ingrained in me...?

After a moment, he noticed he hadn't breathed in about a minute, and cautiously took a breath.

I smell salt... and wood? A strange combination... and relaxing. Wherever this is, I feel comfortable. Like I belong.

Slowly rising from the murky depths of his mind, a fragment of memory returned.

The smell of the air, the crashing of waves, the slow rocking- I'm on a boat.

He got to his feet and opened his eyes, surveying the landscape with eyes matching the depths of the very sea he sailed in life. But now...

It's gray. The deep shimmering beauty- the only thing I remember- is lifeless. Walking over to the edge and leaning on the rail, he saw his hands, wrapped in bandages. Looking closer, he found his entire body wrapped. Sitting and holding his head in his hands, he had but one thought.

Who am I?

Edited October 13, 2015 by Dorchadas

[HomeForFlowers]

(If you're not comfortable with drowning scenes then skip the second and third paragraphs)

 

It only took a few moments for fear to settle in. Before they plunged her into the river, Kestrel had cursed her accusers, shrieking every swear she had in her arsenal. The villagers quickly became uncomfortable with her foul mouth and after noticing their discomfort, Kestrel felt a surge of triumph and began to weave together her swears, crafting new words for the sole purpose of increasing the unpleasantness of the event. She begun calling out individual names, pegging certain nasty habits of each and every individual all the while blowing the crudeness of such habits out of proportion. Emilie's tendency to scratch the plaque off her teeth in public suddenly became the most disgusting thing in the world just as Albert's relentless catcalling made him a dastardly villain. The villagers, disturbed by the grievance, found their vehement desire for the opinionated woman's demise to grow into an savage fanaticism that embodied them whole. It was one thing to send a witch into the deeps and it was another to be cursed by her as she was sent to her watery grave. In their eyes, she was obligated to stay quiet while she succumbed to the waters. To Kestrel, the swearing was not entirely honest but it made her feel better. Screaming out whatever curse that come into her head was easier than coming to terms with her inevitable fate.

 

Mere seconds after she had been plunged into the water, Kestrel began to panic. She told herself she could get out of the mess and swim to the surface; however, with her right thumb securely tied to her left big toe, a rope fastened to her waist, and the surface slowly slipping away into the distance, she knew there was nothing she could do. Her body, it seemed, become immobile. Her legs refused to obey her. She waved her arms frantically, causing her body to spin in an awkward semicircle as she desperately glanced up towards the surface. She could see blurry faces glancing down at her. No doubt the villagers were laughing as they watched her murky shape sink down into the depths of the river.

Those bloody jerks. Couldn't they have just left me be?

 

A swelling blossomed within Kestrel's chest. Though she was holding her breath, involuntary may it be, she could practically feel the water pour into her lungs. She struggled against the water, swerving her body to and fro in an attempt to loosen the rope and free herself. Alas, she made no progress and her chest began to tighten. An overwhelming sense of disbelief flooded her mind as she became hysteric. She told herself she couldn't die, not yet, not when she was so young. Her mind drifted to all the plans she had in store, jumping from one idea to the next at a rapid pace. Embarrassment settled into her mind as she thought about how pathetic she must look to the other villagers. Kestrel was the the independent in the village, the sovereign of her own mind. She yielded to no one and yet here she was, sinking down into the bottom of the river. How pitiful was that? After many minutes of fighting against the water, Kestrel finally gave in. Her body became a statue and her struggles ceased. She opened her mouth and breathed in the cool water. What was the point of fighting anymore? She had been defeated and trying to ignore that defeat would just be arrogant. Lifting her chin, Kestrel dully stared up at the faded surface where ephemeral rays of sunlight trickled down into the water before dispersing several feet down. The weight of the water became overwhelming and, with no reason left to fight, Kestrel closed her eyes and gave in to the will of the river.

 

-----

 

Desperately gasping for air, she came to. Kestrel let out a bout of coughing as her body began to ache. She found herself laying on her back, and, in an attempt to expel the water within her body, she pushed herself onto her side, coughing profusely as she did so. She vomited water onto the ground next to her and flopped herself onto her back as she breathed heavily. For the longest time, she just laid there, allowing her breathing to ease as she closed her eyes and gathered her composure. The familiar salty scent of sea water drifted into her noise and Kestrel could not help but crack a smile. She slowly dig her hands into the sand beneath her, cherishing the feel of the grains running through her fingers. When she opened her eyes, she saw the benevolent sight of white clouds billowing over one another as though in a competition to encompass the sky. Indeed Kestrel could only catch streaks of blue between the mounds of white filling the sky above. Pushing herself into her feet, Kestrel let out a sigh of satisfaction as she squeezed the sand in between her toes. Oddly enough, a small strip of rope was tied loosely between her thumb and big toe. It took little effort to untie them and toss the rope away before sprinting towards the the lapping waves. The smell of the sea taunted her as she marched up to it. The waves beckoned her towards them but, no matter how much she wished to leap into sea, a voice in the back of her mind begged her not to. So there she stood, basking in the light of day with her hands on her hips and a grin on her face. Through the pleasure of the moment, a sense of foreboding dread began to seep into Kestrel's mind. Her entire body was drenched in water but she did not recall leaping into the sea by her own record. How had she gotten wet? A glance to the left and right assured her that the end of the shoreline was not in sight. She did not remember the beach being so long. Where were the other villagers? Surely they would have come out to scold her by now. Though the eeriness of the beach was unsettling, Kestrel attempted to push those thoughts away and instead simply fold her arms and watch the sunlight dance on the surface of the water.

Edited October 13, 2015 by Doctortear

[Lady_Lunevis]

On the day the bells rang, she saw a bird.

 

Birds are symbolic of freedom, did you know that?

A smile, a voice, and a wish.

I want to fly.

(Where would you go?)

The cottage lands were silent as usual, the peaceful time before the nearby cities erupted into laughter and screams due to everything from wealthy merchants displaying their goods to thieves once again starting up their performances. Before another day of toil began, and would end exactly the same.

(Your hands are bruised, broken.)

 

"Your skin is so fair. You are beautiful, dear Lottie, did you know?"

Fingers brush a strand of golden from her face, and she catches the reflection of sunlight entwined admist her locks, and a halo crowns her brow as delicate blue eyes regard the one before her.

Mother . . .

 

The dawning sky is pink and purple, pastel shades brushing upon each other in balanced harmony. She watches the land with a careful eye, lips pressed together in perfect, upturned poise. A bird's song interrupts the early-morning calm, and the girl turns azure eyes towards the opening of her cottage.

Mother is still sleeping, it seems, she regards with an amused smile. Well, the woman deserved her peace—the life of a serf was hard, and the effects of daily labour had taken its toll on both the women. Lottie's hands were covered in tiny scrapes from days spent planting and harvesting crops, and her shoulders ached from the toll usually strained on them from having a naturally small frame.

 

She had once asked what love was, hadn't she?

“Why do you want to know about love?”

(Is it because you are all alone?)

The idea of love fascinates her. That one could love another so entirely, that two people could be so entwined in their feelings that the suffering of the rest of the world did not matter.

“Am I . . . far away from love?”

Perhaps 'love' is a construct only given to some. Perhaps love is a weakness that brings down the strongest of men.

“Forget love, Lottie. There exists nothing but you and I, and all the love in the world will hurt you until you are nothing.”

Mother is always right.

It doesn't stop her from remembering better days.

(He never did come, did he?)

 

And when the world itself seemed to end, she was alone.

She saw the fire, yet she did not recognise it. She saw a tiny flame light up upon the side of the cottage, seconds before she was surrounded. It spread like a maelstrom, volatile, unforgiving, all-consuming.

And she was gone.

Her mother screamed first, but Lottie did not feel any pain. Not when the flames caught the hem of her dress, not when she saw more than felt the flames swallow her leg whole.

What will happen now?

(The human body is so fragile.)

Her mother . . . she wouldn't stop screaming.

What do I do in the case of a burn?

She doesn't remember. Actually, it's becoming . . . harder and harder to think.

Red dances before her eyes, and she wonders . . .

What is all the beauty in the world, if nothing but vanity?

She would trade all she had to understand beyond her mother's knowledge.

 

She has . . . never had a friend.

They have all left.

She familiarizes herself with turned backs, with the scorn of the children in the nearby village. She has no shame—for when one does not have money, one turns to . . . unconventional means.

“You are . . . so beautiful.”

And like that bird, she will fly away.

But there was someone, was there not?

(Alas, you can no longer remember any names.)

 

She remembers terrible, terrible pain.

If there was a God . . . why would he chose to set this upon me?

Her body is being eaten alive. She is a glass tower, violently crushed to pieces by a ruthless machine. Her skin has been flayed off her body, consumed by the greedy, open mouth of gluttony. Her eyes are melting, her teeth shake in gums that are disappearing—

It hurts.

It hurts.

Someone . . . anyone . . .

Save me.

(Kill me.)

 

. . .

 

She wakes alone, a cry being her first signs of living. Immediately, Lottie rolls to the side, curling up in the fetal position as she hugs her knees to her chest, desperately gasping as unwarranted tears roll down her face in perfect droplets.

A dream . . . ?

(How terrifying.)

However . . . something is off. Terribly off.

She raises a hand to wipe her cheek, and . . .

She screams.

 

What are you, pretty bird? When your feathers have been plucked, when your wings have been clipped, when your feet have been forcefully ripped from your body and your eggs crushed by the pleasures of man?

 

(You're so . . . ugly.

No one would look at you now.)

Edited October 13, 2015 by Lady_Lunevis

[Thaelasan]

Luuuuucien...

The voice echoed throughout his thoughts as his dreams took him. It sounded familiar, yet - at the same time - so unrecognizable and ... frightening. It clutched at his mind and attempted to ruin him. For some reason, he desperately wished he could escape it.

"LAISSE-MOI TRANQUILLE!" he yelled loudly, pushing himself away from.. something. As he drifted within the blackness of his dream, he found himself soaring across multiple memories that seemed either familiar or strange. He finally came to rest, landing within a memory he knew he had never seen before.

"A... burning house?" he muttered, confused. He stood to his feet, grass clinging to the surface of his cloak like thousands of hands. The crackle of the flames felt oddly inviting. Though the building would obviously be dangerous to trespass within, it seemed to welcome him with open arms. He moved closer, the heat subsiding, the fire parting. A field of worked plants and flowers. All of it, so utterly familiar.

A woman lay upon the ground as he entered. For some reason, he felt nothing for her. A burned body, only able to be seen as a certain gender because of the fleeting, burned bits of clothing which clung to her mutilated form, as well as the bone structure - which Lucien knew all too well.

"Nous ne sommes que chair et en os." he muttered under his breath, moving past the body as he headed further within the house, ignoring the fires which he seemed to be able to pass through without problem. Finally, he came upon a bedroom where the door had been burned black and had fallen from its hinges.

Within, at first, a young girl lay upon a bed, reading a book. When he entered, she looked up at him, slightly interested, and a name came to his mind.

"...Lottie?" he muttered, concerned, as he stepped further within the room.

Then the flames exploded, knocking him out of the room. He struggled to stand but felt a great weight oppressing him.

"Lottie, what..." he whispered, reaching out a hand as the flames began to surround the bed. She still sat there, as though she didn't notice.

This is what happens to her, Lucien.

The voice returned, laying heavily upon his mind. He fought against it, pulling himself across the ground, dragging his legs and hands across the surface.

A poor.. poor, young bird. Who could never know freedom.

He grabbed the doorframe to pull himself within the room. The flames were crawling upon the bed now. She still didn't notice. He wanted to call out to her but his voice couldn't find purchase within his throat. It came out as a humiliating squeak.

What's that noise you're making, Lucien? Are you some form of mouse?

He crawled through the flames, though these flames began to burn his clothes. He felt searing pain but for some reason was able to continue on. He had to save her. Had to save this young girl. She didn't know. She couldn't see...

How... intriguing. But it's already far too late. Look at her more closely, Lucien. Look at the bird within her cage.

He gazed upward, confused, as the flames finally reached her body. Her agonizing screams as the flames took her, her flesh searing and melting, her clothes igniting as fuel. Yet she did nothing to stop the flames, simply sang into nothingness. A song of pain.

How beauteous.

"L....lo...lottie..." Lucien breathed, grabbing one of the bedposts. "...How..."

Because you weren't there to save them.

 

----

 

He awoke, the smell of smoke disappearing from the air. He sat up within the hospital bed again, brushing himself off in a panic. But his clothes were fine. But something was wrong with his hands.

Small, pus-filled blisters covered the back of his hands. He cringed, understanding the meaning almost immediately.

"I have... the plague?" he gaped, looking at the rest of his body. Sure enough, other symptoms were appearing on his flesh. Fear gripped him. It was far too escalated for him to live.

"How can I still.. move?"

He looked around the room, sighing. His fear began to subside as caution and wisdom took its place. Whatever had brought him here, whatever that vision had been, he was determined to find out. He lifted himself from the bedside and began to look around.

A clean hospice awaited him, with the smell of mixed sanitizing chemicals and opiates strong in the room. There were no orderlies and no patients, save one. Himself. The only person in the room.

He scratched the back of his head with confusion.

"Ah. Head Doctor Neumont."

He nearly jumped as he heard his name. He turned around quickly, nervous.

Before him stood a young, beautiful looking nurse, holding a clipboard in one hand and adjusting her glasses with the other. Her clothes were as clean as possible. Her brown hair was tied behind her head in a ponytail.

"Uh... oui...?" Lucien replied, staring her in the face for a long while. "And... you are?..."

"Come this way, please, sir."

"....Mademoiselle, excuse moi, but I would like to know your name..." he asked again, a bit more determined for an answer."

"This way."

"Very well then, Miss This Way." he said sardonically as she led him through a hall of rooms, past a few more rooms of beds, until she reached a single, white door.

"Your office for now, sir." she curtsied. "You should find what you're looking for inside."

"What I'm... looking for...?" he held his hands by his side, cocking his head. "Qoui?"

But she was already walking off, and then made a turn down another hallway before he could get a reply. He followed her away from the door to see where else she would go.

She was gone. Perplexed, he looked around the room where she had been, even under the beds, and found nothing save a tiny piece of cloth, which looked like it had come from a nurse gown.

Slightly nervous, he turned back to the office door, which opened without assistance. Now, at the end of the hall, there was a black doorway.

"How... inviting..." he commented sarcastically, getting closer to the door.

The darkness within cleared almost instantly. A light beamed from a window into the room. A large desk with a plaque reading "L.J. Neumont" told him this desk was either his, or there would be a very confused Louis-Jacques Neumont coming in here shortly.

Sighing, he closed the door behind him, looking around the room with a keen eye. Nothing was really out of the ordinary, save one device.

A small, leatherbound book lay upon the desk, with a pair of pencils next to it. He approached the book, confused.

The title sought his gaze. The Prison of the Flesh. He scratched his head, vexed.

"Eh?"

As he opened the book, he found no pages, not even the author's name. Just torn paper where pages would have been. As he searched the book for an answer, a small note, written in red, found his eye.

"COMPLETE THE STORY."

"....." Lucien stood for a long while, now more cautious than ever. Someone was obviously playing games with him. And he didn't like the idea very much.

"Louis? Louis Armistead? Is this your doing? Or Marc?" he asked loudly in the room, frowning. "No... no it can't be you. You're all the way back in..."

He placed the book within a bag on his side, where he kept his medical supplies, and sighed.

Something was terribly, terribly wrong.

 

------

 

The Eight players are appearing, one by one, within this world. Each confused... each so... so lost.

A shape which held no true form, no true identity, moved across a black space without hesitation, a space in which was held 8 different rooms. It looked through each of them with pleasure, its eyes scrutinizing every detail.

Soon.. very soon, I will allow them to see each other... so the game may begin.

It came to rest upon a chair which really did not exist, in any reality.

But until then, this is just as entertaining.

[AroaraAngelwolf]

Ray looked around the desolate room moving away from this lowly hovel back to the ship. He spent more time here. Wait was that?... it cant be. He moved to the captain's quarters and sat looking at a battered old music box. He knew it was important to him.

brought a pang of sadness and regret. sorrow to his heart. again a burning sensation on his gut and laughter faintly. something moved in his inside breast pocket of his vest and as he somberly moved to the sing humming its rhythm he reached to touch the smooth fragment that had somehow got in to his cloths.

[Esko]

It seemed like a great idea at first.

Why didn't he think things through? Of course climbing on carefully balanced boulders was a bad idea. Yet the boulder pile was so majectic, and it was pretty tall...he wanted a view of the rocks below. Who knows, he may have hurt his friends!

He laid under the giant boulder, smashed, bleeding out and hanging on to the life that drained out of his body. He let out a small noise, though it was nothing but a waste of breath. It just felt so empty, all the lack of noise. Though that quickly changed when he heard noises. His friends, all alive and moving. He tried moving his arms to push the boulder away, but he felt no movement. All he felt was pain.

My stupidity...I am ending my life and risked the lives of my friends.

Slowly, the shouting grew louder and louder, until he heard his friends right next to the boulder. He heard the noises they made when they pushed the rock, and saw them when they pushed it aside. All their faces. The gasps were just painful. Charles. Leonard. Beautiful Lillian. Their images slowly faded as his eyes faded.

"Woah, that's an ugly sight"

"Markus! Oh no..."

He let out a small groan as he died. You guys are great friends. Remember that. Lilly, I lo-

Before he could finish his declaration, his last breath escaped his lungs and his eyes glazed over, never to spark with life again. As far as his friends knew, anyway.

 

~~~

 

Markus groaned awake, his eyes crustied with something. He sat up- without any pain, strangely -and looked around the area he woke up in. Was this heaven? It was a strange heaven, to say the least.

He looked around in the room, and recognized it when he looked down. It was the room where he kept all his rocks! He rolled in the rocks happily, giggling. This was the perfect afterlife! An afterlife full of rocks! He didn't observe some of them in a while, so he dug down to the bottom...

But before he made it, he felt shaking in his pocket. He looked in to find a weird rock like thing...

 

 

((Sorry if it's somewhat rushed towards the end))

[Thaelasan]

Lucien... Lucien... Lucien...

It was dark in the office now. Lucien was sitting down at his chair, his head lowered. He felt dizzy and disoriented, as though he'd taken morphine or some form of opiate. He clutched his forehead in an effort to stabilize his thoughts but to no avail.

Let's begin the session, shall we, Lucien? Of course, there will be quite a few of them, I assure you. You signed up for this, remember? Voluntarily?

"...To prove my worth as a sane doctor... yes..." Lucien said shaking his head to clear his thoughts. "Uh... where should I begin?"

Well, let's start with names. My name is Dr. Oh.

"Dr... Oh? What kind of strange..." Lucien began, his mouth feeling dry. "Excuse my rudeness. I'm feeling a bit under the weather."

There's a batch of medication in your desk drawer. It should suffice to clear your thoughts.

"Medication? Did I purchase it?" Lucien asked.

Most likely. How else would it have gotten in your desk? After all.... Things don't just suddenly appear, do they?

"No... That would be madness." Lucien replied with a small, weak chuckle. He reached for the drawer handle, but pulled back in confusion, slowly.

"It's locked. Where is the key...?"

Ah. You mean this?

Suddenly, a small key, carved of something white and ivory, slid across the table to him. Unable to decipher its origins, Lucien took it gingerly and put it in the lock. It clicked, opening without a sound.

Within, a single jar of opium stood out. Nothing else. He reached in, taking it cautiously.

"This would be... quite strong." Lucien frowned, concerned. "No, it would muddle my thoughts. I don't think...."

Are you certain, doctor? You've used it before.

"Have I? And... how would you know such a thing?"

Simple. It's part of the research we've done on you as a potential candidate. After all, our hospice is very prodigious.

"Understandable." Lucien replied, putting it back in the desk, not noticing it disappear into the gloom before the drawer slid shut. "Uh... so... my name is.."

You've already told me, Lucien.

"Have I? My apologies." Lucien responded.

You've told me... many times now.

"I see. Then what's the next question?" Lucien asked, leaning back in the chair, as he tried desperately to calm his nerves. But something was off. Why was it so dark on the other side of the room?

How do you cure death?

"....Er.... quoi?" Lucien asked, leaning back forward. "Did you just... ask how I would cure death?"

Indeed.

"I'm afraid I don't follow. I believe that we both know that once a body has been-"

You were just in the Garden, weren't you? With the rest of them?

Lucien's thoughts suddenly were brought back to him. A group of people. Lottie. All standing there. The bar... then nothing.

They are now your patients, Lucien.

"I don't follow..."

Cure them.

With that, the presence left him feeling weak. The light now cast upon the other side of the room, the chair empty of anyone. The door hadn't even been opened. He leaned back in the chair, confused, wracking his brain to try and understand what had happened.

But no excuse fit. No possible explanation.

Near his hand, the key made of bleached bone sat where he had left it.

Edited October 20, 2015 by Thaelasan

[TehUltimateMage]

((Short-ish intro just to get me into the game.))

 

Once you're on the edge and looking down

there's a dizzying sense of height

your stomach lurches

you lurch

tingles in your fingers

you make the step

but there is no step

you fall

wind rushes

by your

ear

 

 

Elise woke. Her heart pounded in her chest. Her whole body quivered and a cold sweat covered her skin. She steadied her breathing, urging herself to calm down. Little frazzled her. The only other time she felt this afraid was…

 

She couldn't recall.

 

The ceiling was a familiar sight. The bed she laid on, also. But it was a vague familiarity, unconnected to any memories, like the vague sense of childhood nostalgia where everything was blurred by light save for the sensations and emotions. The harder she tried to grasp a past thought with a crushing fist, the easier it slipped away through her fingers. It was a nicely furnished room. Everything was of ornamentally carved wood, including the bedposts from which hung dyed silk; the room itself was covered in rich textiles from mahogany to crimson. Her bedroom. His bedroom.

 

Elise threw off the blankets, shoving them to the side, and placed one foot daintily on the floor, then the other. Everything was to proceed as usual, she convinced herself, except it was obvious from the looking glass that something was terribly, horribly wrong. It appeared that she had slept in her formal clothes again (perhaps too much to drink at the party?), but the dress was ripped and stained a deeper red.

 

"Medics!" she screeched, but no servants came to her aid. The wound was not painful, as if it were superficial, but from the mirror it looked as if it pierced through very deeply. Elise gave it an experimental prod with her finger, applying steadily more pressure, and the wound reacted as if it were not there. Curious. Perhaps she was still dreaming? However, moments of the dream began to come back as the images suddenly came back in full force; she stumbled, caught herself on the edge of the vanity, and tried to steady herself. A sudden bout of vertigo, as if the floor of the room rushed up to meet her. A storming night. A man. Tall, slender. Frustration rose in Elise's chest, a tantrum getting stuck in her throat. A scream trying to escape through her teeth.

 

Kill him.

 

One image led to another, but they seldom formed comprehensible scenarios, only evoking snapshots and feelings, feelings that coursed through her body and made her want to throw open the window and retch. Perhaps she regretted that a little, and not because in the end, it cost her her own life. Perhaps she was resigned to spending the rest of Eternity in this room, as a punishment from God for all the sins she performed.

 

"But as for the cowardly, the faithless, the detestable--"

 

She twisted her body around, muscles tense and poised to strike like a viper--

 

"--for murderers, the sexually immoral, sorcerers, idolaters, and all liars--”

 

--Lips pulled back in a grimace, eyes narrowed at the familiar figure clad in white robes and silver mail. He stood straight, with perfect posture, hands resting on a sword he held by the pommel. His face bore a short russet beard, as he had for as long as Elise could remember. "What are you doing here?" she hissed. Her words were ignored.

 

"-- their portion will be in the lake that burns with fire and sulfur, which is the second death." Silence. "Revelation 21:8."

 

Elise lunged for his throat, but her nails went through air. He was suddenly behind her. "Have you no morals, woman? It is in my faith to forgive, but the life you live is irredeemably vile. What have I wed?" His expression softened. "Alas, it is not yet too late to redeem yourself. But, you will not go unpunished."

 

She suddenly found herself back in front of the mirror, with a few other items set upon the vanity. A piece of parchment with an indecipherable scrawl. A downy feather.

 

A fragment of an orb.

 

 

[Dorchadas]

Viriphraim stared into the colorless water, numb. He had-

"-must never-"

-no idea who he was. His memories stranded, just-

"-such a disgrace-"

-below the water's surface. If he could just breach the surface-

"-I don't want to-"

-maybe he would remember something. He reached-

"-a stain on this family-"

-closer and closer-

"-shame to us all-"

-just the tiniest of gaps left-

"-He must leave."

 

Viriphraim felt as his feet slid, grasping in vain for a handheld before he was plunged into the gray waves. For a moment it was peaceful, silent monotone and warm water surrounding him- and then it turned black. Instantly, he doubled over in pain. Every heartbeat sent shards of pain through his veins and daggers into his heart, every beat hurting worse than the last.

 

All at once, his pain cleared away and his surroundings shifted. He was in a fairly large oak-paneled room with fancy decorations and a fairly big fireplace on one wall. He could see a little boy facing into the corner and slowly walked up, tapping him lightly on the shoulder. Whirling around, the boy put a finger to his lips. "SHHH!!!" The boy's face was a mask of fear- under the bandages. In a blink the boy was in the middle of the room, staring up at an older male, who was speaking in clipped tones to the boy.

"You are never to take off your bandages, you hear me?

"Never ever."

The real Viriphraim nodded as his surroundings faded to black again. "Never."

[Lady_Lunevis]

"But I don’t want to go among mad people," Alice remarked.

"Oh, you can’t help that," said the Cat: "we’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad."

"How do you know I’m mad?" said Alice.

"You must be," said the Cat, "or you wouldn’t have come here.”

 

~~~~

 

"My name is Lottie," the girl said.

(Are you?)

 

There is a beautiful baby girl with curls the colour of golden suns, framing an angelic face. A man, who tenderly strokes the side of the babe's cheek.

"Farewell, my darling."

He speaks in tongues not native to her ear, and she does not understand. Her hands grab for the side of his jacket, yet she cannot reach--

He leaves as suddenly as he came.

(All the people you love . . . they will fade.)

 

She sees the world through jaded images. Shattered fragments of thought cross her mind, and she attempts to stand up. Her legs feel like limp sticks, trembling underneath the weight of her body. The skies above seem to fly from side to side, and she falls on the ground.

Her fingers tremble, clutching weakly at the floor--and then, Lottie blinks in surprise.

Something's not right.

Where was her house?

(It was never a home to you.)

The sides of her gown splay about, her fingers dressed in satin gloves. She is every bit the perfect little girl--and yet . . .

(Alice slipped from the heavens, did she not?)

She is on a chessboard. The parallel squares of black-and-white line the sides of a seemingly-endless room, and tall rose gardens erupt from the pits beneath. Roses of a blood-red variety bloomed on these darkened hedges, clinging off branches spiked by painful thorns.

"What . . ." she said aloud, yet her voice was blindingly loud in the ringing silence. She clasped a hand up to her mouth, horrified, and blinked wide blue eyes.

 

And in an instant, her mysterious haven turned into a living nightmare. Sparks flew amongst the rose bushes, and in an instant the gardens lit with fire. Forked tongues lapped at the flowers, swallowing them in a greedy embrace, and Lottie cried out in horror as the flames advanced.

She picked up the sides of her gown. Her limbs cracked with every movement, and it hurt to run, yet she did not think twice before retreating through the halls, desperately running from a predator unlike any other.

She reached the end of the cheeseboard, where an endless abyss awaited. How . . . how was this possible?

She screamed as the fire came closer, eyes widened in horror.

(No one will hear you.)

Backing up, she crouched down and held her head between her hands. "No, no, no," she murmured, tears spilling down her face as the roar of the flames came closer. "Go away, go away, please, please--"

 

It's a sad tale, isn't it?

That a child should be born from adultery.

Is it the child's fault? For coming into existence?

(Dear Lottie, it is always your fault.)

 

She screams, just as she feels her foot slip over the edge of the board.

The fallen rook. A simple pawn.

 

It's a hate crime, isn't it?

Set the cottage on fire.

Have my husband's sins be erased.

There is no doctor for miles around, anyway.

 

She wakes in a strange room. Surprisingly, her limbs do not ache. Blinking baby-blue eyes, Lottie looks around with faint horror, the memories of only seconds earlier still fresh.

A . . . hospital?

"Hello?" she calls, voice weak.

 

 

[Thaelasan]

He remembered the feeling of the skin upon his own. The heat of her body. The scent of jasmine and lilacs in her hair - all meant to entice him. And yet, he knew it was all a facade.

"You don't truly love me, do you?" he whispered, almost below earshot. But before she answered, he knew it was a lie.

"Of course I do, dearest. Only you." she said quietly. She could not have known that he had seen her leaving that other man's house, her clothes barely on. She could not have known it was only because he'd been returning from assisting that young girl and her mother.

The girl.. her name... it was familiar to him.

Lottie....

She was honest. And true. A young girl, barely of fourteen or fifteen years now, but true to her own emotions and desires. And she truly wished for love. Lucien respected her, envied her, for she would certainly get it. A prince would find her. For she was beautiful, and she was wise, and she deserved it, no matter... her dark upbringing.

He stood up, fetching his undergarments from nearby.

"....We are finished here." he muttered, as she stared at him in confusion.

"But then again, we never truly began."

 

----

 

He moved his head from where he'd been laying at the desk when a knock came at the door - a quiet, gentle rapping which echoed throughout the room.

"Dr. Neumont?" A familiar female voice came through the door.

"Ah... oui?" Lucien replied, standing to his feet. "You called for me?"

He walked towards the door in the still room, grasping the handle hesitantly. But it seemed trustworthy. He'd been in this office for hours now. Nothing had bothered him, save that strange being who had spoken to him. Dr. O? He couldn't remember what he looked like now.

He opened the door. The nurse, her face covered in a surgical mask, nodded to him.

"You have a new patient." she said, holding out a clipboard. "A young girl. She appears to be in her early to late teens. Suffering from pain over roughly 60% of her body."

"....A young girl?" Lucien asked, opening the door all the way. "Blonde hair?"

"I believe so, Dr. Neumont." the nurse replied, flipping a few papers. "Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Height 4'8". Weight..."

Lucien stopped her, stepping past her into the hall..

And the hall stretched before him.

He couldn't see the end of it. Beds went forward into the abyss. It seemed to have no end. He took a few steps forward, confused, but he sensed that at the end of it...

He moved forward quickly, first at a brisk pace, then at a run. He had seen her in the garden. Certainly, he could see her here.

You couldn't save her once before, so why would it be different now?

He pressed himself onward, ignoring the pleas of his legs to give in. His stomach began to feel weak. He felt dizzy. Something was wrong but he couldn't stop now.

You're giving all of this effort to protect something you can't save.

He fell to the ground, tripping over something which he couldn't see. He rolled forward, flipping over and landing hard on his back, hitting his head on the metal stand of a bed - hard. He rubbed the side of his head, in obvious pain, as he pulled himself back up to his full height, struggling to make sense of all of this.

Aww... a little clumsy are we? After all, you're only human.

He pulled himself forward, finally coming to the end of the hallway. He didn't know how long he had been running for. But now, the nurse simply walked up next to him, nodding.

But I'll ask you again, as a human...

How can you cure death?

"L...Lottie....?" Lucien said, falling to his knees. The nurse simply wrote down her name on the clipboard, sighing, as she walked away and vanished into the light beyond the girl.