#terroreigns

[ofmanytxngues]

@lady-quen // @terroreigns

Anarchy vc: "OOOOO TINY BABY!" *cackles*

"YOU'RE THE TINY BABY YOU PUNT SIZED GLITTERY CUM STAIN!" She yells loudly, "WHERE'S THE FREAKING JANITOR!"

[flameleadsarc]

It took mere seconds for him to put the pieces together. In previous conversations, White Cloud told him about his former master, the Earl. He did not fully describe the hell he experienced, but the Flame didn’t require such details to know hell came back. No one else called him Little Cloud, after all, did they? Makenshi, White Cloud, Kumo---those were the names he heard from these people. Little Cloud came from them.

A glove slipped on without a thought. Would he need two? Maybe, but he wasn’t about to start an unnecessary fight yet. White Cloud was still here, after all, and the last time he used his flame alchemy for offensive purposes... well, he didn’t want to repeat that any time soon. Regardless, as his coat billowed behind him, he moved to stand next to White Cloud, putting himself between him and what he could only assume was Chaos.

The Lieutenant could scold him for his recklessness later.

“Stay behind me, White Cloud.” Soft and gentle, his voice lacked the usual commanding presence. His friend didn’t need that. “I'll handle this.” This being, though... “Nice to finally meet you. We’ll be on our way.”

[the-unsung-lament]

Tale of Gaming Hunger: Night 4

@terroreigns

"You're doing more poorly this time around. Idling, even, despite the fight you had with the pirate that other day."

Once again, only Nils an hear Ga'bi's voice inside his head. Er, body. "This is my first time truly engaging as I really am among offworlders of the Broken World. Give me a break."

"The Lament is watching you."

"I am aware, and I am tired of you reminding me with every second of my life. How about you actually let me do as I please?"

No answer from Ga'bi. Though.... something else is looming over Nils without his knowing.

...And without exactly identifying it, Nils grumbles. "How long has that been behind me?" he groans as the shapes of the creeping darkness becomes more visible.

"I tried to warn you."

"You made no such attempt!"

It's up to Anarchy to help Nils out!

[sweet-chimera]

"Thinking about the inevitable and set in stone is what I do."

"Aye, come on into me shack, we can sing and-- didn't ye run from me sister on t'e first day?"

// x

[automaton-otto]

"Shut up shut up shut up! I had to deal with Olive singing that! I am not doing this again!"

"Look I get the idea but I just don't think it counts. If the holiday isn't a plot point then it's not a holiday movie. That'd be like calling...E.T. a Halloween movie."

*Some things are better left unsaid.*

[cursedfortune]

[terroreigns]

Dreamwalking and planeshifting - rare and coveted talents indeed, especially to those who worked with souls in all their forms. Souls that could be taken and molded to one's will, used as energy to operate machinery, or become something far more mundane:

Sustenance. All negativity born from man, from sapient life, whatever form it might take - a bona fide feast to nourish the only being who ultimately mattered: Chaos. Who else, but God?

The disturbance was felt. A witch encroaching into the fabric of the cosmos, attempting to relocate her corporeal form. One lazy eye of blue opened, feeling her signature brush against the Inner World. Tickle the membranes of Chaos, make it aware of her presence. Thus, she had attracted the attention of something truly evil.

And so, the spell was promptly hijacked. Far easier a task to perform than displacing an entire world into their domain, after all. Like a giant ambush predator snapping up a stray crumb within the interlude between fuller, more fattening meals.

"Hi."

She would find herself in Wonderland, or, more accurately - within the grand circus of the Troupe, where Anarchy themself lounged upon an opulent throne of crimson and gold. Their form.. less than imposing in height, compact enough to comfortably fit into the seat sideways, with their legs draped over an armrest and gleefully kicking away.

"I have been very excited to meet you, ah," The creature seemed to fish for a word, one gloved finger prodding at the bottom of pale lips. A second figure emerged from the shadows, sheet-white mask with only slits for eyes and mouth. A hushed voice whispered something in the Troupemaster's ear, and morgue-cold orbs widened in faux realization.

"...Mortem, was it?"

@terroreigns

Ah, shit.

This wasn't where she was meant to be. The sudden abundance of negativity hit her like a freight train. And she should know what that was like. If there was one silver lining in this, the hijacking of her spell meant she was able to cut off the energy she would have burned through last second. Conserving herself as she was pulled through space and time by an unseen hand to land somewhere entirely different than what had been intended.

Her body, despite her spell of regeneration, was still mortal. The witch gave a small sway as she reoriented herself within the universe, within this place. A void gaze wound its way around the room counter-clockwise before focusing upon the harbinger of such intense energy. Weaving paths of chaos, of negativity - emotions, intentions, inevitabilities... strings that made up the web, a web that covered this entire space and beyond it. The web of Wonderland.

Her hand lifted as she pressed two fingers to her temple and shut her eyes a moment, listening as they spoke. One embodiment of Chaos. No. Not that wasn't right. Her eyes opened as she looked between the white mask and the absolute creature upon the throne. Anarchy. Oscha. The Hunter has spoken of them enough for her to recognize what she was looking at. She breathed in, the sudden weight of the one-sided negativity was able to flow more easily through her. Chaos was energy, it was a thing she embraced and generated. Even if she wanted to turn it off, she couldn't. And truth be told, she didn't. It was within her nature and purpose to be the thing that pushed over a candle within a home, it was her that needed to orchestrate wars when mortals grew stagnated.

This negativity was immense but it wasn't an ugly thing, even if the creature that was known as Chaos itself could arguably be so.

She took in their appearances and while most may find them not much to be threatened by, the witch took them plenty seriously. A thin smile curved upon her lips; a mixture of genuine friendliness and a knowing beast that would not be taken by surprise a second time.

The utterance of her name had her look between the two of them, her gaze lingering on Oscha a second too longer before flickering back to Anarchy. Names held power and them speaking hers without it being given put her in a curious position. A dangerous position. They had that power and knowledge, but in return they were empowering her name all the same. It broke even, in many regards. She liked that.

Mortem's hand pinched at the skirt of her dress, holding it out as she dipped in a gentle curtsy. "Indeed." The witch mused before she straightened herself once more.

"Anarchy. Oscha." She returned, acknowledging these shards individually before adding, "Chaos." Mortem hummed, her eyes squinting as her smile grew slightly - as if greeting an old friend despite them being no such thing. "The excitement is mutual, lovelies. I suppose it's overdue, hm?"

Though it's quite the curious time. Why now? What was it? Just convenience?

Idly the witch's hands rested behind her back, relaxed more than she ought to be in their presence. Such a complimenting duo. Colors, design-wise. Chaos seemed to have an interesting through line with its avatars, from what she recalled her Hunter saying about the Earl Tyrant and these two. She knew to not underestimate Anarchy's deadly but fashionable scarf. Scarf? It would have to be the word she settled on. And Oscha was... something of a shapeshifter, yes? He looked like he possessed a body good for wriggling. At least they weren't unpleasant to gaze upon for long periods of time, that was probably a kindness.

"Tell me, do we meet as friends or foes? The lines are always so pleasantly blurry." The witch mused.

[cryptidsncurios]

starter for @terroreigns

After a measure of time, the pain had become exquisite.

Though, of course, it had initially---upon unfortunate and unexpected discovery---come with a price.

Upon passing the threshold of the grand series of spires before which he had awoken from his unexpected slumber, subsequently entering and being promptly and barred from exit with an inescapable finality, the mysterious presence presented in its echoing voice his choices that proved rather plain and simple: painful death, or equally painful torture.

Obviously, death was considered the final adventure that Kimbley had any desire to attend---thus, with a curious tonality, he had accepted the second choice, as, upon studious observation and consideration, it appeared that he was offered no alternative---even with his alchemical power at his disposal.

Fate accepted without any particular anticipation, and lacking any expectations that he could concoct, Kimbley found himself suddenly and violently bound and hanged taut from his limbs at an indiscernible height---the darkness becoming his sole companion.

And so his agony began.

At first, he considered the odd, almost experimental poking and prodding of their otherworldly tools to be dull, but it occurred to him that they were merely testing his initial limits. Below his position, he could hear murmuring---multiple voices, he could ascertain, communicating in a myriad of tones. Loud and cackling, at least one of them, taunting how silly his position of weakness---others, far more observant and complacent. Commentary of his possible durability---at times, oddly, how handsome he was, hanging there, so prone and vulnerable to "the power of 'Anarchy.'"

Yet this vocalization would cease after some time---and the severity of his punishment would increase. Those same tools, which he could visually view as some sort of strange whips, created lacerations---gouges upon his frame, wounds that he could easily assume would leave lasting marks. His limbs receiving punishments that he had never before experienced.

And yet, even in his utterly mortal state---there formed within him an odd thrill to this suffering.

Kimbley had always been one to seek out new experiences---an adventurer of the vulnerable flesh of mortality, of that which could stimulate the dullness of his naturally underwhelming senses. He had always been lacking in typical pleasures, always on the hunt for a fulfillment to his unusual cravings---

That did not mean such penetrating feeling did not cause its share of instinctive squirming---along with a degree of verbal responses. Reactive moans, guttural groans of his abrupt shock, the shaking sighs as the pain upon his flesh spiked and, subsequently, subsided.

Yet it seemed, ultimately, such perseverance---the lack of screams of agony---did not quite satisfy his captors.

That was when they stole away his eyes.

Of course, there was no denying that this sort of anguish soared above all that he had ever experienced. Nothing within the juvenile detention of his youth, where he had been endlessly abused---and nothing within his time in prison, where his unspeakable usage would have broken a much more vulnerable being---could have prepared him for the utter torture that wracked his very physicality. The initial tear within his retinae jarred his corporeal perception, disorienting his very reality. Once he had reached the height of nearly-arousing thanatos---oh, how unique, so novel---he could feel the corporal blood wetting his cheeks---droplets pattering rhythmically against his collarbones and sliding with ticklish trails down his chest.

Still, he---somehow, without proper explanation applying to the typical human---did not scream.

His throat merely clenched, gurgling violently in involuntary protest, and for several minutes---what felt to be an eternity---he was oddly, erotically suspended, falling into an almost dissociative process---and falling within an inexplicably ecstatic sphere of internal suffering, that dragged him into a state of euphoric unreality---

And, perhaps, this is what became the deciding factor of his captor’s cessation.

At last, after a time he could never measure, he felt himself descending from his faux crucifixion, until he was curled, fetal, upon what he could only distantly assume was the floor. The pain had not yet subsided, and a sensational turmoil was still overcoming his quavering flesh---but it seemed his captors had, perhaps, come to terms with his, maybe, successfully-satisfying suffering---and realized that breaking him was impossible.

Admirable---and, Kimbley distantly could consider, worth reward.

However, that was for his captors to decide.

[distortedkilling]

Get wet, freak.

@terroreigns

Ana, he's coming for you. You'll float drown, too.