III. PILCROW
Posts marked with *** are must-reads.
October 5, 2015 - Post #1,041 ***
The Winged: 30/30
(+1 from Nimbleguy and jondanger)
The Relative: 14/50
(+4 from ninjatwist, +3 from Pricey, +2 from Bomber, +1 from Tazz, Nimbleguy and jondanger)
Scribe's Wands && Rorschach Drop || Blot of Ink = The Spillers (4/5)
One-Sided Die && Wands || Arcade Cabinet = Integer Overflow (2/?) And now you forgot to tell me this thing's level.
+2 to jondanger.
The Scribe looks at the ruined corpse of Octothorpe. The giant squid monster dissolved into ink shortly after death, its body decomposing into corrupted liquid. The Scribe runs across what's left of Octothorpe, finding an array of black arches - Octothorpe's ribs. In the middle of his ribs rests a pulsating white sigil of undefinable power: #. The Scribe grins and takes it.
"One down."
The Scribe begins to craft another insignia, this one different than the previous tapestry that summoned Octothorpe. The most immediate difference is that the Scribe isn't even using a pen to mark this one onto the ground - he's using a quill. An ashen quill whose colors mirror those found on a stormy day. An ashen quill that - somehow - writes without ink. The quill that the Scribe is using was plucked from a bird without age, without sight, and without time. A predator of the most anachronistic kind. A vulture of time.
The quill represents something disturbing and forsaken - absence. The color of the quill, although tangible, gives the feather an eerie quality, as if it's more of a hole in space rather than an object. It writes without any ink at all - is it even writing? Upon closer examination, no. The quill appears to be actually etching patterns of nothingness into the earth, carving patterns of destruction all the way down to bedrock, creating carvings of nothingness across the Battlefield.
The next difference between this insignia and Octothorpe's is that, quite obviously, they're shaped differently. But there's more to it than that - this insignia isn't telling a story at all. Its purpose is much more immediate and functional. Put quite simply, the Scribe is creating a gateway. A gateway carved from flowing destruction as the Scribe creates helical patterns against the angular backdrop of Minecraftia.
After several minutes, the Scribe's latest insignia is finished. It was carved in a very specific way, being made of spirographical and helical patterns twisted around a base in the middle of the insignia - a ruined tree trunk, blackened by a wayward strike of lightning at an indeterminate point in the past. The Scribe takes out something from his coat: a spherical glass container. Inside of it is a very peculiar object - a rift.
"All of my past experiments and summons have had the very real risk of posing serious harm to me. I've managed to avoid injury through all of them, with the exception of the unintended side effect of summoning the Captain over here. This summon, however, will most likely result in some or all of my flesh being melted from my bones - permanently." The Scribe holds this spherical container carefully. Inside is a floating globule of liquid, liquid that displays the galaxies of the universe in all their majesty. "This is a rift between dimensions. I acquired it from my last foray into the dimension I'm about to head into. That's also where I got this quill. And it is where I will get my latest... assistant."
The Scribe grips the container carefully. "The only way I can get to this place is by shattering this rift in the middle of what I've just carved. The liquid of this rift will seep into the cracks in this earth and create a flaming gateway that will rip my being across space and time and transmute it into the other side of existence... into the Mistake." He readies his aim. "I can only hope that nothing else follows me through this rift. It should destabilize several minutes after its creation... or it will expand into an all-encompassing inferno that will sterilize this planet and pave the way for armageddon. One or the other."
"Yes, I'm aware of the risks. But in the pursuit of a finished battle, in the pursuit of knowledge... risks must be taken." The Scribe flings the interdimensional rift onto the tree trunk. The glass shatters and the liquid universe spills all over the ground, creating a massive fireball that pulverizes the earth and vaporizes the clouds. The tree trunk is lit in flames, and the crevices the Scribe carved into the earth dance with fuchsia flames. The place where the rift impacted has materialized into a giant portal in the shape of an odd symbol that the Scribe knows very well. It's the second in the chain, after all. The symbol echoes with images of far-off universes and places where no one has stepped foot in. So, without a second thought, the Scribe steps foot through the portal.
Not a second later, the Scribe realizes that he's falling. Yet he can't see where he's falling from or falling to, and he can't hear any wind whistling in his ears. He can't even feel his limbs, or what he's wearing on them. The only way he knows that he's falling is that he's keenly aware that there's something getting closer to him, and it's something very expansive and very flat - the ground. But with no way to move, the Scribe has no way to prepare.
The Scribe hasn't realized it yet, but he's trapped in the hell of his own body. True to his word, he hasn't come out completely unscathed after his entry through the portal. His coat, scarf, and boots are all caught on fire, and his descent isn't doing much to slow the sparks and embers that are making their way across him. Burns mar his body, and the flesh on his face appears to be, for lack of a better word... melted. His senses appear to be completely scrambled, as he's lost all of them. The only gifts he has left are thought and intuition - but if he hits the ground at this rate, he won't even have those.
After several more seconds of constant falling, the Scribe gets a quite literal sinking feeling in his chest - a sense that this is it. The point of no return. If he doesn't do something fast, he'll be a cubic pancake. But then, something happens. The Scribe passes through a barrier of some kind, a field. Instantly, the falling stops, and the Scribe starts to float. It's as if he's suspended in some sort of liquid. The fire dies down, and the Scribe's senses are at least somewhat restored - although the damage to his body has been done. And with that, the Scribe is able to see where he is clearly.
He's made it to the Mistake - a forgotten realm, a pocket in between the great expanse of worlds Minecraftia is made up of. This place is where discarded ideas and thoughts go to rot in a vertical drop of nothingness - of absence. The normal rules of reality don't necessarily apply here - they too are absent. Gravity, for the most part, is a foreign concept, as is air - hence why the Scribe is floating and the flames around him aren't burning. The abyss around him is made of wayward locales and people - and the field he just passed through marked the start of the Mistake itself. Before then, it would seem that he was traveling through the Void.
The Scribe floats his way down to a sizable platform - one that is a spitting image of the place he just left. It's carved from blackened stone, and inscribed in it is a series of hexagonal patterns - ones that are angular and geometric unlike the circular shapes the Scribe had carved. Yet the two of them somehow carry the same form, the same pattern, and the same location. And in the middle of the patterns lies a giant tree made of black wood with rotting black leaves. The Scribe walks forward, tracing the patterns made in nothingness.
"This is... new. I had figured the unorthodox methods from which I entered here would have resulted in something like this, but... what is this tree? The closest thing I can think of is... Yggdrasil itself. But this obviously isn't it. So what is it?" No sooner had the words left the Scribe's mouth than he heard a voice from above. This is unorthodox. Something like what entered here. The Scribe whips his head around, listening for something. That voice sounded like a hastily stitched-together repeat of what he had said earlier, copying his speech patterns but being decidedly alien at the same time.
"Who's there? What are you? And why are you copying me?" Again, the voice sounded in an instant. The closest thing I can think of is something new. Why? I had figured you are obviously unorthodox. The Scribe, unable to pinpoint exactly where the voice is coming from, thinks for a second. "I need to expand your vocabulary so that we can get a conversation going... Hm. Do you know who I am? And tell me about your... voice." I am your need to expand. I am the closest thing to a conversation. I am copying you to tell you about me. The Scribe walks closer to the massive tree. "Interesting. Can you tell me what your name is? And what this tree is?" I need to tell you your name. And this tree... This tree is interesting. "You need to tell me my name? I think you don't quite understand what will go on here." The Scribe keeps walking. Don't go there. The Scribe abruptly stops. "Why shouldn't I?" Obviously, you don't quite understand this tree and you don't understand me. "I don't know anything about you because you haven't told me anything about you! Stop speaking in riddles and stop mimicking me! Your voice is seriously starting to creep me out." You are starting to think of anything you can to know who I am. But I think you don't need to. "Of course I need to know who you are! I intend to bring someone here to the real world, after all!" There is a pause.
To the real world... Who?
"Alright, you live here. Maybe you know who I'm looking for. I'm trying to find a bird who rules over darkness and absence. Do you know anyone like that?" A bird who rules over darkness? This is who you are looking for? I can tell you about the bird. The Scribe grins. "Now that's the answer I'm trying to get. If you know anything about him, then feel free to tell me." The Scribe's expression pales as a massive set of ashen wings unfurls, spreading from the black tree itself. I am the bird.
Quick as a blur, the shape flashsteps out of the trees, the wings disappearing. The Scribe leaps backwards as the bird slams into the ground below, somehow making no noise but carrying an unrealistic amount of weight behind its force. From what the Scribe can tell, this bird is unlike anything he's ever seen. Its body is ashen, made of various hues of black and grey. Its wings are covered of the same feathers that the Scribe possesses, and its form essentially resembles like a giant tear in space. It's not completely dark like Octothorpe, but it is much more expressionless and devoid, representing absence in its purest form. "Well then. I believe that we should get rid of the pleasantries and the games. What are you?"
Pilcrow. My full title being Pilcrow the Devoid. I am the master of darkness and absence. The Scribe dusts off his pants. "Yes, well, I got that much. Why did you feel the need to copy everything I said and limit your speech?" Pilcrow makes a chirping sound that sounds like a razor blade scraping a chalkboard. You seem like one who has traveled a great deal - and I know much about you already. You should know that beings with an infinitude of knowledge tend to conceal what they say behind riddles and ciphers - if you haven't done so already, you've got the wrong idea. I'm not the first being you've met to do this, and I won't be the last. "Hmm. That's a good answer. Now, what about that tree over there?" Oh, just one of my many nests. There are millions of those trees around here, you know. Each one of them holds its own sad and tragic story. "A story?" Yes. A story of a life cut short. Come, Scribe. Walk with me.
Pilcrow flies silently against the static skies of the Mistake, and the Scribe walks alongside him. "What exactly constitutes a life in this circumstance, er, Pilcrow?" That tree is Yggdrasil, but it's not. It's a failed Yggdrasil. A dead world tree from a dead world - a deleted world. Perhaps its player struck it from the record after they died in a fit of anger, or perhaps it was corrupted. I know not the rhyme or reason to it, but what matters is that all fallen worlds, all mistakes... they all end up here eventually. It's a limbo of sorts, a twilight zone. And no, it's not Limbo or the Twilight Zone. I take it you know the difference between those realms and this realm? "That's not even a question." I thought so. Now keep walking. We're almost there. "What do you mean? We've barely moved!" Look closer.
The Scribe turns his back and sees that he's on a completely different platform, one with another tree, but one with stone columns and a ruined village. The platform with the hexagonal patterns is hundreds and hundreds of feet above him, with a variety of others floating in between. He puts his head in his hands. "How did we just... What... This place... it's giving me a headache." You learn to get used to it. Now, explain to me more about why you're here. "Er, well. There's a war going on in a server perpendicular from us. Two godmodders are fighting, I guess to settle an old-time score. But I have a feeling there's much more at stake than just a simple duel. This could be potentially the most terrible war fought since the Psi-Godmodding War." Hm. That is dangerous.
"I've come here... in my quest... to see if I could get you to join me on the field. We could fight side by side, and you could help me take out the opposition. You could help me take out UserZero." UserZero... Alright. I'll do it. She has been responsible for many a dead tree down here. She is nothing but trouble. Yet, what about the other side? The one we are helping? "That would be a godmodder named Richard. I sense a great future in him - one I feel I should be a part of. One I feel we should all guide so that he can eliminate the threat of UserZero." Interesting. You've enticed me. But I wonder how you will react to this. Come.
The Scribe and Pilcrow walk to a rather large dead Yggdrasil, one whose main entrance has been blown apart, revealing a jagged hole. I think you should see what lies inside the heart of a corpse.
The two of them walk inside, the interior somehow much larger than the exterior would suggest. A ruined maze makes up the brunt of what's inside of the tree, and the carvings on its roof seem to suggest a tale of utter destruction and annihilation. There's a doorway across from the Scribe and Pilcrow, one that they walk through in synch. And there, floating in the middle of a hexagonal chamber, is a dead First Block. A cube whose surface is pitch-black, offline, never to be turned on. This is the wreckage of a First Block. It's what's known as a Blind Spot. "A Blind Spot... I've never even thought of this existing." Perhaps you should have. These things don't have nearly as much potential as their living counterparts, but that isn't to say they're completely useless. "Then what do they do?"
A dull throb emanates from the Blind Spot, the chamber lighting up somewhat. Fix mistakes. Echoes fill the chamber. Echoes of a time in the past when this tree, even for the briefest of instants, had generated and was living and thriving, creatures making their homes in its roots and branches and leaves, all of nature coexisting in harmony, fixated around this one geometric spot. Echoes of a world touched by human hand, and promptly forgotten. Echoes fill the chamber, reminding it of Yggdrasil. The illusion lasts for a second, and when it stops, it is jarring. "...I could swear I was actually inside Yggdrasil for a moment." Yes. I know. Sometimes I use these to get a fleeting glimpse of life above the surface. Oftentimes I use them to fuel my own power. But rarely, I theorize. And I wonder if, perhaps, one of these could be used to fix me, and to be bring me back up.
The Scribe looks at the Blind Spot, its power growing stronger with each tick of the universal clock, its noises getting more elaborate, its surface getting less black and more corporeal. "...How did you get down here?" I'm a failed Enderdragon. The Scribe stops in his tracks and looks at Pilcrow in shock. "You're a what?" You heard me. I was generated as one of the first Enderdragons to be put in a human version of the game. But I was a mistake. An error. And my form was taken away, and I became absence. I became a bird, not a dragon. I became a space, not a shape. I was something before. And now I am nothing.
The Scribe chuckles. "This is perfect, then! I think I can use this to bring us both back up to the server. I don't exactly think I can give you a corporeal form again... But using this, I can supercharge you so you can actually exist up there. Besides, your powers of darkness and absence would serve me very well, trust me." Alright. If you believe you can accomplish this feat, then I will let you be my guide up to the Overworld. Take it away, Scribe. The Scribe looks at the glowing Blind Spot with determination. "With pleasure."
On the Overworld, the portal used by the Scribe to get to the Mistake - that of a pilcrow - is still burning, its flames raging across the Battlefield and creating an inferno several hundred blocks tall. But then, the flames deteroriate out of existence. They don't fade away and die, they abruptly stop. Their forms glitch out, turn monochrome, and still burn - yet they're transparent, as if someone slid their opacity down a few notches. Two shapes step out from the portal - the Scribe, and the darkened form of Pilcrow.
"Here you are. The real world." Ah... It's just as beautiful as I remembered. Now I will get the chance to use my powers against a true villain and her own comrades. The Scribe snaps his fingers, and the portal slips away, as does the fire. He takes out Meownir, grinning alongside Pilcrow.
"Attack!" Attack!
Pilcrow:
Pilcrow is a vulture from the Mistake, a pocket dimension where all failed creations from Minecraft go. It makes his home in the dead Yggdrasils that represent every deleted world, and it's the master of absence and nothingness. Yet it itself is a mistake, a failed Enderdragon. Pilcrow is able to manifest here because of the power of a Blind Spot, a dead First Block. The Blind Spot is able to give Pilcrow special powers, but if his link with it is destroyed... then things get tricky.
ATTACKS:
Calligraphy II: Will use nothingness to etch random symbols into the ground from the purest language of Ink. Roll a D10.
(1) Etches the symbol for Sight. A giant unknown eye leers at an enemy and an ally, dealing light damage to the enemy and high damage to the ally.
(2) Etches the symbol for Hail. Acidic pellets of hail rain from the skies that burn through an enemy and an ally, dealing moderate damage to both.
(3) Etches the symbol for Blood. Pools of black blood form at the feet of three random entities, Poisoning them for two turns and dealing light damage to all of them.
(4) Etches the symbol for Error. Allows for a reroll and deals high damage to a completely random enemy.
(5) Etches the symbol for Spirit. A ghost appears from the depths below, haunting an enemy for moderate damage with a 50% chance of inflicting Fear for two turns.
(6) Etches the symbol for Lost. Completely disorients an enemy, dealing moderate damage and Confusing them for two turns.
(7) Etches the symbol for Sun. The sun positions itself right next to an enemy, dealing moderately high damage and Burning them for three turns.
(8) Etches the symbol for Moon. The moon positions itself right next to an enemy, dealing moderately high damage and healing an ally for half of the damage the enemy took.
(9) Etches the symbol for Metal. Locks an enemy in a cage, preventing them from attacking but preventing anyone from attacking them for that EOTB.
(10) Etches the symbol for Nothing. Completely erases an enemy's being, dealing very high damage.
The Tectrix: Pilcrow swoops down with its wings, obliterating an entire chunk from the world and creating a chunk error that pulls an enemy inside, dealing moderately high damage and trapping them for a turn so that their attacks have a chance to miss and all enemy attacks against them have a chance to miss. There is a 33% chance for the chunk error to persist for another turn and pull another random entity in as well.
The Calibur: Pulls an enemy towards a massive vortex of Pilcrow's own design, dealing moderate damage and inflicting them with the Oblivion status effect for two turns. Can attack multiple enemies at once.
Waiting: Pilcrow manipulates time so that an enemy ages dramatically, making them weak and old. Pilcrow uses the energy taken from what the enemy could have done and heals itself for a moderately high amount of health, promptly damaging the enemy for that same amount of health.
Line Break: Pilcrow grabs an enemy and tears their code in half, adding in useless filler code that heavily corrupts them, dealing moderate damage and inflicting them with the Corruption status effect for two turns. Has a 50% chance to spread to another entity. Only usable with the Blind Spot active.
Shadow's Edge: Duplicates a move used by an ally or an enemy and using it against an enemy with the same effect. Only usable with the Blind Spot active.
SPECIAL ATTACKS:
Never the End: Channels its inner Enderdragon powers, creating a massive whirlpool of amethyst fire that targets three enemies at once, dealing moderately high damage to all of them and Burning them for two turns. Takes 3 turns to charge up. Only usable with the Blind Spot active.
Aeon: Pilcrow teleports itself and an enemy into a pocket dimension and makes it so neither of them can leave. Pilcrow slows down its own internal processes so it can survive for millenia without moving, and then permanently follows its enemy until they die of old age, no matter how long it takes. Pilcrow then feasts on their energy, dealing high damage. Takes 4 turns to charge up.
The Cataract: Unleashes the power of the Blind Spot, creating a titanic beam of raw oblivion that deals very high damage to an enemy, Blinding them for three turns (rendering them unable to attack) and dealing recoil damage to Pilcrow. Takes 5 turns to charge up. Only usable with the Blind Spot active.
Correction: Destroys the Blind Spot. Takes 5 turns to charge up.
PASSIVES:
The Blind Spot: The Blind Spot has power over oblivion, as well as the power to correct mistakes - by purging them. In this form, the Blind Spot lets Pilcrow exist in the Overworld, and it also gives him access to several powerful attacks. If Pilcrow uses Correction, the Blind Spot will be removed, and Pilcrow will enter Break Mode. In this form, Pilcrow will become incredibly glitched, becoming invincible but losing so much stability that it will disappear 3 turns after Correction's activation.
In Break Mode, Pilcrow gains several new attacks to make up for the ones it loses.
Control: Pilcrow shuts down the higher functions of an enemy's brain, rendering them susceptible to Pilcrow's own mental powers. Pilcrow controls the enemy to attack itself and its own kin for moderately high damage.
Alternate: Pilcrow uses the special attack of another entity on the field against an enemy, duplicating its effects.
Delete: Pilcrow instantly kills an enemy if it has 25,000 HP or below.
While the Blind Spot is active, Pilcrow has a passive regeneration and a 50% chance to let two allies minicrit.
Pilcrow uses The Calibur on Wrath of Klingon Autocorrect, and Cerberus uses Eviction on Transcendant Dora!
I start no new charges.
October 6, 2015 - Post #1,087
The Relative: 19/50
(+2 from Bomber, +1 from K4yne and tc2142)
Scribe's Wands && Rorschach Drop || Blot of Ink = The Spillers (5/5) COMPLETE
One-Sided Die && Wands || Arcade Cabinet = Integer Overflow (3/?)
The Scribe pets the Lesser Dog without a second thought. "I must see what madness unfolds from this exercise in reverse animal cruelty."
He then turns to the Wrath of Klingon Autocorrect. "So, fine literature is the way to deal with you, hm? I think you'll find my Journal quite a scintillating read in this case! Hah!" The Scribe throws the Journal at the Wrath of Klingon Autocorrect. It bounces off of the Autocorrect and lies on the ground for a while. But after several seconds, there is a massive explosion and the Autocorrect reels backwards, multicolored light emanating from its head as it spaztically vibrates around.
"For once, it was the actual book that was the instrument of my attack, not what it contained. All of the hours I've spent crafting it have certainly paid off in this case."
October 7, 2015 - Post #1,119
The Relative: 24/50
(+2 from ninjatwist and jondanger)
One-Sided Die && Wands || Arcade Cabinet = Integer Overflow (4/?)
Lightsaber || Fan = Multi-Bladed Lightsaber (1/?)
A lightsaber with a circular formation of blades that spins like a really really fast fan. Very sharp.
Scribe's Wands && Arcade Cabinet = The Space Invaders (1/?)
Wands that can summon video game-related things.
+2 to Ninjatwist.
Pilcrow uses Line Break and Cerberus uses Disruption, passively using Condition!
The Scribe looks at the corpse of the Lesser Dog in sadness. "He had so much to live for... How could you do this to an innocent puppy..." The Scribe holds a funeral for the Lesser Dog, inviting everyone to attend. Somehow, everyone pulls their act together, dressing in all black and preparing speeches to deliver on the Lesser Dog's behalf. Every player shows up, as do every entity and every godmodder. There is no fighting as people talk about the greatness of the Lesser Dog, with the Scribe opening the ceremony.
"He was truly a great example of what a Lesser Dog should be. He wanted to uncover the secrets of how to grow his neck to the fullest of its potential, he was always equipped with the best in battle techniques, and he had a loving family. Truly, this Lesser Dog was a great companion to all that met him." There isn't a dry eye in the funeral parlor as the Lesser Dog's corpse is loaded into a coffin and buried into the ground. Other people make more speeches, but no one can dwell much on them. They are consumed with a feeling of, above all, loss.
The war rages on, but it isn't the same. Everyone's movements are sluggish. Uncoordinated. They already feel defeat, as if there's no reason to fight now that the war's greatest flame has been extinguished. Nothing can be the same without Lesser Dog... But then, there is a massive rumbling. The skies flicker with ghastly cyan energy, and moans emanate from the earth, sounds coming from beyond the veil of death. A ragged hand claws its way out of the ground, the corpse of the Lesser Dog leaping out of its grave.
Its eyes are luminescent, its tail is wagging haphazardly, its flesh is rotting and stale, and its armor is dented. Dried blood covers the Lesser Dog, and as it walks towards everyone on the field, they are met with intensely conflicting emotions. On the one hand, they're extremely glad that the only thing that matters in this world, the Lesser Dog, has returned. But on the other hand, he's now a cold and unfeeling zombie.
The Lesser Dog walks across the field with haggard momentum, going every which way. Everyone backs aside, not wanting to become infected by whatever canine madness is currently in Lesser Dog. And everyone wants to just ignore the obvious question - how is he even a zombie at all? Without warning, the Lesser Dog leaps towards Transcendent Dora, giving her no time to react! The Lesser Dog sinks its teeth into Transcendent Dora, bypassing all of her defenses with blinding speed! Transcendent Dora hits the Lesser Dog away, but she stumbles and falls to the ground, instantly succumbing to the Lesser Dog's form of attack!
It targets Transcendent Dora's very SOUL, affecting her most inner powers and mutating them so that she too knows the beauty and majesty of the Lesser Dogs! There is no known cure for the Lesser Dog's power, for the disease was just invented a few seconds ago! The first symptoms are sudden whitening of the skin and acquiring a glazed expression of happiness. The next symptom is the biggest: your neck starts to stretch to wild heights, abandoning all known laws of growth in living beings and elongating away like a skyscraper. This is exactly what happens to Transcendent Dora, her neck twisting around like a pretzel and her flesh covering the Battlefield as she feels no pain whatsoever.
But this gleeful abandonment and bliss comes at a price - Transcendent Dora's neck is so long that blood can't pass through it fast enough to circulate to her brain, making her brain slow down and rendering her unable to act like a normal human being! Her body doesn't seem to care though, her neck still growing and growing even as her mental faculties deteriorate. Ultimately, Transcendent Dora resembles a Snorlax, unwilling to move and becoming a gigantic pile of flesh with no beginning and no end. Transcendent Dora's neck only stops moving when her brain ceases to function and his heart stops beating.
Then there's a funeral for Transcendent Dora which no one attends.
October 8, 2015 - Post #1,160
The Relative: 33/50
(+2 from The_Topazian, Pricey, Cobalt and tc2142)
Lightsaber || Fan = Multi-Bladed Lightsaber (2/?)
Scribe's Wands && Arcade Cabinet = The Space Invaders (2/?)
+2 to jondanger.
The Scribe turns to Jaraxxus, wondering how to get rid of a demon. He decides to try several classical methods of exorcism, so he runs to the nearest convenience store and buys several hundred small crosses and hangs them up anywhere he can find - all around the Barrier, on every tree, on every hill, on every player, and on every entity. He steps back and admires his work, but the holy statues didn't actually do anything except tick everyone off - why did the Scribe have to invade their personal space like that and staple crosses to them!
The real attack comes in when the Scribe pulls out a bible. The entire world (or at least, the parts of it with crosses affixed to them) goes still, watching the Scribe's movements with the book. When he pulls out a lighter and burns the bible, the crosses all begin to drip blood, the miniature statues on them opening their eyes to reveal red lightning. The expressions of all the entities darken, their heads rolling as they float up in the air, reciting backwards ominous Latin phrases as sunbeams rain down from the sky.
The ground uproots itself, all the trees, stone, and terrain the Scribe attached crosses to literally tearing themselves from the earth to join the entities as they arise. There is a massive rumbling as all the entities arrange themselves - and all the earth - into an easily recognizable shape. That of a gigantic cross. The minds of the earth, every entity, and every player have been absorbed into the Second Coming Conglomerate. And they are angry.
The Scribe tosses the burning Bible into the hands of Jaraxxus. The Second Coming turns around into Jaraxxus, the empty and nonexistent eyes of the cross tearing into the demon's blackened and despicable soul. By all the power invested in the Second Coming, representing the entire powers of Heaven and Earth, the Second Coming breaks every bone in Jaraxxus' body, boils his blood, cooks his eyeballs, and guts him from the inside out. They use his blood to create a portal to Hell and lock him in a casket filled with spikes, where he will rot in torment for all eternity.
All that because he burned a book.
Earlier, the Scribe stalks off into the night, going to the looming ribcage of Octothorpe, which still stands. The Scribe pulls out a device that looks like a sundial, sets it on the ground, and slams it with its fist. A field projects itself from the sundial and over the ribcage, the Scribe twisting the dial and shrinking the field down - as well as everything inside of it, namely, the ribcage. Eventually, the ribcage is small enough to hold. The Scribe puts away the sundial and takes out a complicated box, sealing the ribcage inside.
The Scribe then runs over to a darkened corner of the field. Not a second later, the Autocrat appears, giving the Scribe a jar, a tube, a crate, and a card. All four items go into the hammerspace-oriented folds of the Scribe's coat. "Much obliged", he says. Without missing a beat, the Scribe fulfills his end of the bargain, retrieving the complicated box - and a key - from his coat. Just turn the key in the lock three or so times and repeat the passphrase." The Scribe whispers it to the Autocrat. "Got it? Good. Pleasure doing business with you." The Autocrat nods and walks off with a grin, as does the Scribe.
The Scribe makes a low chuckle. "Red Sun energies, some of this esoteric Indigo Flame, a crate of spare body parts, and this nifty access card... Oh, yes. I think that will do quite nicely." With a swish of his cloak, the Scribe disappears back onto the main Battlefield.
October 14, 2015 - Post #1,323 ***
The Relative: 50/50
(+6 from jondanger, +3 from Pricey, +2 from Kayne, the Godmodder, and Erelye, +1 from Tazz)
Lightsaber || Fan = Multi-Bladed Lightsaber (3/3) COMPLETE
Scribe's Wands && Arcade Cabinet = The Space Invaders (3/4)
I +2 Erelye as thanks for him being the inspiration for this attack.
Cerberus uses Eruption and passively uses Condition! Pilcrow uses Never the End! Or not, because of course the second I rejoin this game the entities I put a lot of work into go down the drain before I can command them.
I don't summon The Relative just yet.
The Scribe hastily flips through his Journal. "Time to find the good stuff. ...A-ha! Perfect!" The Scribe flips to a two-page section depicting Archaic Sorcery. There are a lot of diagrams, mathematical equations, ancient runes and symbols, and images of apparent tears in space and wands. The section reads as follows: One of the oldest forms of magic in the universe, Archaic Sorcery was developed in tune to the Elemental Planes of Existence, of which there are eleven thousand. It can only be wielded by a sorcerer who has been trained in the Element for many years and has complete mastery of it. They can then completely align themselves with said Element and become truly one with it, using their magical powers to further their Element's path. Written in bold next to it is the following: DO NOT ATTEMPT IF YOU ARE UNALIGNED. In small text next to that is: Possible side-effects for unaligned archaic sorcery may include boils, malformed organs, a withering touch, an instant lobotomy, severe heart attack, spiritual enlightenment, diabetes, sleep paralysis, paralysis, brain paralysis, seizures, mind control, a revoked magician's license, an exile from the magic community, haphazard teleportation, loss of limbs, sublimation, freezing of blood, cancer, and/or death.
Shutting his book, the Scribe takes out a copper coin inscribed with the image of a waffle. "A coin for every element... Yes, this collection is certainly extensive. It took a lot of illegal trading to get these. Thankfully, an unaligned Archaic Sorcerer can summon an aligned Sorcerer by flipping the corresponding Elemental Coin, getting it to stand on its edge, and saying the chosen Element. The language you speak the Element augments how many Sorcerers appear, I believe, so this should work."
The Scribe flips the coin with a hesitant expression, watching it tumble through the air and land... tails. He sighs. "Here we go." The Scribe flips the coin again. Heads. Again. Heads. Again. Tails. Again. Heads. Again. Tails. Again. Tails. Again. Heads. This repeats for several hundred flips until he gives up, throwing the coin far away into the air and losing sight of it. The coin hits a passing bird, bouncing off of it. It tumbles through several trees, knocking an apple off of an oak branch. The apple tumbles down a hill, entering a giant cave. It bounces across the stones and ores in the cave, breaking open. The scent of the apples attract some zombies who mistake it for flesh since they can't smell. A hundred zombie swarm to the area at once, the pressure they put on the ground cracking the cave and open and creating a massive sinkhole that disrupts an entire biome. The coin, still in flight, is disrupted by the shockwave this event creates, causing the coin to lose all its spin and letting it sink like a stone down to the ground, the wind carrying it right next to the Scribe. The stone skips and spins along the ground until it lands at the Scribe's feet - on its edge. He blinks twice, speechless.
"Well then. Time to say the magic word, literally speaking." The Scribe clears his throat and says a word that no one recognizes.
The Elemental Coin of Waffles sparks with copper lightning, energy bursting forth from it, creating a column of fire that towers across the sky. The power of the Scribe's language - whatever it is - seems to have had a massive effect. An entourage of nine people clad in brown cloaks jump out of the fire, running around in a circle near the Scribe. He looks at the Journal. "The wardrobe, the jumping through fire... It all checks out. You're definitely Archaic Sorcerers." The fire dies down, and one of the Sorcerers speaks. "
The Scribe points to Charles Barkley. "You see that mythological figure? He hates waffles. Kill him." The nine Sorcerers' eyes all twitch in unison, copper lightning sparking from their hands. "
Charles Barkley struggles against his bonds, and the other six Sorcerers move in. One of them converts Barkley's eyes into waffles, blinding him. Maple syrup/blood drips down from his eye sockets as he tries in vain to scream - but if he opens his mouth, his jaw will snap in two thanks to a buffet of waffles. Another sorcerer twirls his wand in a circular formation, lightning reaching out and zapping Barkley's head, cutting a circular hole through it. The Sorcerer looks at Barkley's exposed brain, zapping a bolt of lightning through it. The lightning doesn't do any real damage, but it changes Barkley's thought processes, giving him one thing and one thing only: a pathological lust for waffles. And what's the nearest source of waffles? Barkley's eyes. He frantically tries to reach his eyes and savor the delicious taste of circular grid-shaped breakfast, but he can't. Because what's trapping his limbs? Solid butter.
All this leads to the most uncomfortable experience in Barkley's life, as he constantly tries to eat his eyes without any viable means of doing so. Two other Sorcerers transmute Barkley's arms and legs into waffles - disconnected chunks of breakfast food. The now-amputated Barkley watches in mute horror as the bonds holding him back are now freed - the butter's now holding waffle to the ground. Barkley flops like a fish, guiding himself by rolling on the ground to his delicious prizes. He opens his mouth to try and eat what was once his arm, forgetting all about the wand pointed down his gullet. In an instant, Barkley gets more than he ever bargained for. "
First, a whole waffle appears in his mouth. He chews it up excitedly. Then, another appears. He begins to eat that as well. Three more appear, and Barkley is in heaven. Then seven more appear, and his mouth begins to swell up. Barkley begins to recognize he might have a problem. After several minutes, Barkley digests all of the waffles contentedly, barely registering the Sorcerers around him. He opens his mouth once more to eat his limbs, and once every tick, a new waffle appears in his mouth. Soon, his mouth is bursting with waffles - they spill out of his mouth, spill onto the ground, and they fill his cheeks, causing him to swell up like a balloon. He chokes on them, unable to breathe, spitting out waffles across the field like a projectile cannon. The nine Sorcerers sit back and watch the chaos, continually spawning more and more waffles while eating waffles themselves. Although Barkley cannot see, since his eyes are waffles, he now has waffle-sense - he is able to recognize where waffles are. Barkley begins to slide his way towards the Sorcerers with his last breaths, trying to eat what they are eating.
Then, the final two sorcerers make their moves. They zap Barkley full of lightning, carrying his entire body upwards and holding him in a bubble while waffles still spawn in his mouth. Lastly, his mouth swells to the size of an entire room, Barkley twitching and spasming as he tries to breathe air that he can't find. Finally, he goes still - right as his head bursts open with the force of holding hundreds of waffles at once. The barrage of bloody waffles spills everywhere, bouncing against the bubble they're contained in. With their power, the two sorcerers transmute all of Barkley's flesh, waffles, and waffle-flesh into a singular waffle - one of absolute perfection. And they all eat it. Bite by bite. Piece by piece.
The Waffle-Sorcerers walk back to the Scribe, satisfied with their work. The Scribe watched in awe at their deeds, extremely impressed. "I... I've gotta say, I've never seen anything like that before." A few of the Sorcerers chuckle. "
"
Charles Barkley reforms a half an hour later with no recollection of the previous events, having sustained immense physical damage. The only thing that Barkley remembers is something dim - a massive fear of waffles. (If someone else blocked the attack, replace all mentions of 'Charles Barkley' with their name.)
October 14, 2015 - Post #1,330 ***
The Relative: 50/50
Scribe's Wands && Arcade Cabinet = The Space Invaders (4/4) COMPLETE
The Space Invaders && PC = The Personal Space Invaders (1/≥4)
Scribe's Wands || UFO Model = The Xenomorphs (1/?)
I +2 jondanger.
The Scribe looks at the steaming corpse of Pilcrow. Its body has been vaporized, leaving only a chalk-white skeleton that is nearly invisible. The Scribe watches it sadly, until it vibrates. A voice edges its way into the Scribe's head. So cold... It... hurts... The Scribe clutches his skull, looking around for something. "Wh... what does? Are you feeling pain after death?" Yes... It's freezing... Being dragged... depths... of ice and snow... The Scribe sighs. "I can't ease the pain for you, if that's what you were going to ask." Not asking... anything... Just talking... concentrating... anticipating... The Scribe stops as his hand reaches towards a glowing object. "Anticipating what?"
Can't believe... waves of chaos... killed so quickly... no time... didn't see anything... about the surface... "That's what life is like here. You burn bright and you burn fast. And then it's over." Not enough time... Shouldn't have died... Used... Died... You used me... The Scribe tenses up immediately. "Say that again." You're... using... my power... like you used... his... The Scribe chuckles darkly, grabbing a pulsating white sigil of undefinable power: ¶. He takes it and puts it away. "Yes. I am. And for a damn good reason. Don't worry about it much. You're just another piece of the puzzle." Used... Cold... I can't... Can't... The skeleton of Pilcrow shudders, and then it shatters into pieces, releasing black sparks across the field. The Scribe stands up and walks away.
"Two down."
The Scribe closes his eyes and attempts to maintain a steady rate of breathing. "I... I'm not ready for this. I don't think I'll ever be ready for this. I mean, the idea was funny, and it was mostly conceived as a joke, but now..." He sighs. "I'm waiting for someone to tell me that the joke is over, but I sincerely doubt this is simply for humor's sake at this point." The Scribe pulls out a wristwatch and turns a dial on it, the ground below him disappearing and leading into some sort of unknown cave. He walks down a set of stairs and then seals the entrance shut.
"The idea was simple. Create a telecommunications device and binge-watch the entertainment of adjacent universes until I found something that clicked. I've been hiding here for weeks - hopefully that should explain my inactivity. I've become rather interested in cartoons, you see. Like any work of Fiction, they tell a story behind the scenes, presented to their audiences as speculative imagination. None of them know what they're seeing has happened, is happening, and/or will happen. And they don't care. But I am not one of them. So I searched for the perfect entity I could use in this fight. And I found it."
The Scribe flicks a lever, and light fixtures turn on across the rudimentary lab he's set up. In the middle is a giant apparatus with wires of many shape and size connecting to it. Right now, it's displaying static. Set up at the far end of the room is a summoning circle, and lining the walls are glass cylinders. "This being... He's genius. He's amazing. He's powerful. And he certainly fits the bill for what I've been wanting to summon. Now, the one thing I need to do is make a Crossover. I need to pull him from his dimension, and into ours. And to do that, I'd need a paradox. That's where you'll come in."
The Scribe turns around, revealing the identity of who he was talking to with his monologue: a man in a futuristic official-looking outfit, armed to the teeth with equipment and weapons. Hughes, a commander of the Paradox Avoidance Enforcement Squadron. His eyes narrow at the Scribe. "Look, Scribe. You and I are friends, we both know that. But I am not letting you create a paradox, and I am certainly not helping you create one! You promised me that if you needed me, you wouldn't break the law with whatever stunt you were planning! Stick to your promises!" The Scribe sighs. "I was hoping our chat wouldn't have to come to this." He steps towards the glass cylinders, calibrating machinery around them. Each of them swing open. Hughes steps forward. "With all due respect, Scribe, I cannot authorize this! If you don't stop immediately--" The Scribe raises his palm, lifting off a glove to reveal a cyan hourglass insignia on it. The Scribe speaks one word. "Timewheel."
Hughes stops in his tracks, his eyes flickering with cyan. His entire body goes rigid. "
"
The Scribe puts on three pairs of gloves and takes out each of the crystals, setting each one in its own glass cylinder. The Scribe locks them all in place, fastening them and calibrating the machines even further. He then takes out a keypad connected to all of the cylinders, pressing buttons on them in sequence. With each button the Scribe presses, one of the crystals surges to life, filling the glass cylinder it's in with white energy - energy that travels through wires and into the summoning circle, lighting up a portion of it with power. Each crystal causes more and more noise to fill the chamber. The Scribe yells across the din. "I couldn't have done it without you, Hughes! Thank you for this!" "
Eventually, eleven of the twelve crystals are lit. The Scribe turns to Hughes. "Now, when I speak the following words, you are going to return to normal. You will slip out of your trance, and you will become a nobody no longer. You will achieve your own backwards enlightenment. I will no longer be your master, yet I will still be a master of knowledge. You will see what is going on and remark at how my experiments are perfect and wonderful, and how we are the greatest of friends, working together to bring about the end of a dark war." The Scribe pauses, and holds his hand out once more. "Sandfall." Hughes' eyes widen into deep holes that seem to echo through time and space. They lose their cyan glow. Hughes topples over, scratching his head. "Ugh... Scribe, what's going on? What are you doing?!" The Scribe looks at the massive arrays of lightning and energy flying across the hall. At its far end, the summoning circle spins, eleven of its twelve squares rotating around. Each square has a differing symbol, and only one of them isn't lit - only one of them is marked out against the rest, continually traveling around the wheel. The Scribe laughs. "Making history, my friend! Making..." Then he presses the twelfth button. "History."
The twelve crystals all shine in unison, white light flooding the chamber. The top of the chamber (which is underground, mind you) is blown off, creating a gaping hole in the Battlefield. The blocks that are blown apart are suspended in the air as twelve columns of light blast off into the skies like beacons. The lights then converge in the sky, quivering and arching towards each other, creating a shining point in the sky where all of the paradoxical energy is centered. Without warning, everything changes.
The crystals flicker and splinter, shattering into black pieces. The light they were making is overtaken by liquid darkness, darkness that shows pictures of galaxies, universes, and dimensions beyond ours. The light they make streams into the sky, flickering in every color imaginable and causing the heavens themselves to crack open. Down in the lab, the glass cylinders have shattered, blackness flooding the chamber. The summoning wheel spins out of control, electricity and geometry shaking from its foundations as a massive beam of paradox surges from it, shining brighter and bigger than the other twelve beams.
The Scribe and Hughes look up at it, the latter yelling at the former. "Scribe! Is that a PARADOX?! What's one doing here? Why is it being made because of what you did??" The Scribe sighs. "Hughes, I... hm. How to phrase this... Trust me, this wasn't intentional... It was more of an accident." Hughes sounds relieved. "Oh, thank Time-Baby. So, should I call in the ol' squad and have them sort this out?" "NO!" The Scribe cuts Hughes off. "I... want to see how this plays out. If things get out of hand... then do what you must." Hughes leers at the Scribe. "Alright... I'll do what you want. But only because I'm confident you know what you're doing." The Scribe laughs maniacally at the carnage in the sky. "Oh, I do."
The image of the summoning circle is broadcasted by the beams in unison, of wedges spinning around amongst a geometric center. An ominous wind howls, and the heavens rotate around the massive paradox presenting itself to the universe. Lightning flashes across the sky as the point of the beams' meeting suddenly explodes with enough force to knock everything in the server over. From its power, the skies shatter completely, a massive 'X' forming in the sky above the hole in the ground.
The Scribe, Hughes, the lab equipment, and the entire ground, all begin to float upwards. Hughes looks at the Scribe. "...What's going on? Why are we floating?" The Scribe looks up. "This should be a minor effect related to the paradox. It should stabilize itself in a minute. Well, to rephrase that, if it doesn't stabilize itself in a minute, the entire planet will be floating in different directions, marking the destruction of the universe." Hughes' eyes nearly pop out of his head. "WHAT?? Do you have any idea how much of a MESS that would make? It would take trillions of units to clean that up!" The Scribe scoffs. "Sure, forget about the millions of innocent lives that will be dragged down with it."
The light coming from the crystals has stopped, as has the darkness and images they were protecting. All that remains is the massive rift in the sky - a rift with unimaginable properties. It looks like a massive tear in space, and on the other side of it, only chaos can be seen. Monochrome extradimensional chaos, painfully black-and-white but kaleidoscopic in nature. The rift's purpose is clear when everything else is taken into account. "Yes... Excellent. The rift is ready. The Crossover can begin. And then, the Relative will appear. And all will fall into place." Hughes looks at the Scribe, bewildered. "The Relative? Who is that, exactly? You never quite explained who he was, and why a paradox is forming."
Chuckling, the Scribe takes out a telescope and looks through it. "Well, it's pretty simple. As I told you, I searched through modern-day entertainment programs, finding some sort of character that could be of good use in this war. I found one, and to bridge the gap between universes without having to drudge through the Void and hope I don't spend a billion years looking for some vague approximation of the universe in question (not to mention the return trip), I attempted to... er. Summon him with... You know what, not important. The point being a paradox was created, which has led to the formation of this Crossover - a rip in space that will bring the Relative here. As for his identity, you'll find that soon enough - when he crosses over into the physical world."
Everything stops floating, the Scribe and Hughes crashing to the ground, and the lab equipment similarly falling in place. The TV stops brodcasting static and emits a message. Hughes scrambles to look at it, reading it word by word. "It says... What. 'What's cookin', good-lookin'?' What does that even MEAN?!" Hughes looks up at the sky, along with the Scribe, who remains silent, peering through his telescope. He catches a glimpse of movement. Something is coming down from the rift.
The Crossover has begun.
As light pours down from the rift, a figure is floating down to earth. Lightning and thunder accompanies his descent, as does a haunting chorus that materialized from out of nowhere. Accompanying them is an array of trumpet-players, whose horns are announcing the arrival of this figure so that all can know his hypothetical splendor. Soon, an entire band marches in, accompanying the brass instruments and the vocals. Hughes looks around sporadically. "How are these things appearing in front of behind us? There are so many things going on here that are wrong, I just can't..."
Hughes turns to look at the cyan hourglass on the Scribe's hand. "Timewheel. You are going to ignore everything going on here, and you are going to leave this universe and not come back until seven days have passed. If anyone sends reports of paradoxes stemming from this area, ignore them unless I contact you. Sandfall." Hughes blinks once, and understands. "What am I even doing here, anyway... Well, it was nice talking to you, Scribe! I'll see you around!" Hughes leaves, closing reality's door and leaving the Scribe to face the madness happening all around him.
The figure touches down on the ground, his appearance shrouded by flowing black robes. The band stops playing in reverence, and as the Scribe examines the figure's gait for a few seconds, he realizes something. The figure is walking towards him. Preparing himself for the encounter with The Relative, the Scribe takes another deep breath, and walks forward until the two of them stand five meters apart.
The Scribe looks at The Relative. His black cloaks are covered with foreign symbols, each belonging to a different universe... Whoever this man is, he's certainly well-traveled. The Scribe extends a hand. "Welcome to Minecraftia. I called you here to take care of something." The Relative doesn't move for several seconds, but he completes the handshake in time. He speaks in a deep voice - inhumanly deep, as if he was manipulating his voice. "What seems to be the problem here? If there's something wrong, I can fix it." The Scribe looks around. "For starters, you can get rid of all these paradoxes." The Relative doesn't move for a while. "I help the problems of people. If there's something troubling them, I can fix it. And I always will."
"Interesting. Well, these paradoxes are a pretty big problem. If they're not taken care of, soon there won't be any people to help. I mean, the biggest one - the Crossroads - has been mainly taken care of because you're here. But there are still a few of them lying around..." The Relative nods. "Take me to them." The Scribe rolls his eyes. "Alright. But first, you've got to ditch this costume. It's time that you show these people who you really are." The Relative backs away. "Hey, let me get the job done first. It'll only take a second." The Scribe walks a step to the right. So does the Relative. "Here are the--" The Relative snaps his fingers, and the Crossroads disappears, as does the hole in the ground, and the band. The skies are returned to normal, and no sign of the chaos can be seen anyway. The Scribe surveys the Relative's work. "Huh. You're good."
The Relative speaks. "Now, ladies and gentlemen, get ready for the once-in-a-lifetime grand opening season premiere of the greatest guy in the multiverse! He's everyone's friend, he's a man of peace and kindness, helping those in need and taking care of their problems. He's related to everyone in existence at the same time! And his name is..." The cloaks on the Relative disappear, dissolving into confetti. JOHN CENA
Uncle Grandpa:
Yes. I went there. This is Uncle Grandpa, star of the hit(?) cartoon "Uncle Grandpa". Uncle Grandpa is the uncle and grandfather of everyone in existence, and he goes around solving problems. The major thing about Uncle Grandpa is that, being firmly rooted in cartoons, he runs entirely off of cartoon logic. He can do whatever he wants with no repercussions, pulling giant bazookas and laser cannons from his hammerspace-powered Belly Bag, creating clones of himself and pulling body parts off of himself at will, and even creating plot holes to hide in.
Because of this ability to do random crap in any way he wants, Uncle Grandpa is decidedly different from most other entities. He has no set attacks or passives, and what he does is entirely dictated by me. If there's a turn where I don't post, then that means he doesn't act. Uncle Grandpa has little HP, but very high defense, making him a lot like a godmodder in that sense. He is not a meatshield. Attacks do not only deal 1 damage to him. They can do more, but they won't do a lot. And that's just the attacks that can hit. Uncle Grandpa's as good as defending himself as he is at attacking!
Uncle Grandpa can also call on his friends if he wants. But I'll reveal more about them if he decides to. And yes, since he just noped all the paradoxes, there are no paradoxes left, and therefore there's nothing that can be used against this guy to start with.
To start things off, Uncle Grandpa decides to make a post on the forums. He pops into existence onto the Minecraft Forums website, wondering exactly how to post and what's considered proper etiquette. Uncle Grandpa takes out a massive log the size of a skyscraper and drives it into the code of the Minecraft Forums, making a post of wood appear on it. The wood post disrupts the BB Code that formats the forums, causing two random enemies to blink out of existence and take damage!
I start a new charge. This is the last one I'll be doing for a while.
The Future: 1/50
October 20, 2015 - Post #1,430
The Future: 4/50
(+2 from jondanger)
The Space Invaders && PC = The Personal Space Invaders (2/≥4)
Scribe's Wands || UFO Model = The Xenomorphs (2/?)
I +2 Erelye.
Maybe I can actually get charge times for my alchemies?
The Scribe looks at the Car Keys with a curious demeanor. "Eh, why not." He presses them.
Regardless of what happens, Uncle Grandpa hears the beep of the car keys and immediately thinks back to his own vehicle. Uncle Grandpa whistles the clearest whistle ever recorded to inhuman history, and a sonic boom sounds, a large RV screaming out of the sky and onto the ground. This is Uncle Grandpa's headquarters, the UG RV: and it bends reality as much as he does. Uncle Grandpa opens the front doors of the RV, darts in, and then shuts them, not coming out for several minutes.
When Uncle Grandpa returns, he's carrying something so jaw-dropping that the Scribe's jaw literally drops. As in, it falls off of his head because of the burns and melting he sustained from summoning Pilcrow. As the Scribe panics and yells in pain, Uncle Grandpa uses the sound waves of the Scribe's screams to power the thing he got from his van: a giant particle accelerator much larger than the van that only activates when it detects fear. It only activates when it detects fear to capitalize on the belief that particle accelerators can cause apocalyptic black holes to form that will destroy the Earth. But hey, that's only superstition. That would never happen.
Needless to say, Uncle Grandpa evacuates every ally in the area as the particle accelerator reaches critical speed, causing a supermassive black hole to appear that swallows two unlucky Pro-Zero entities. Once it swallows them up, the black hole destabilizes itself, disappearing.
The Scribe takes out an ornate pistol seemingly made out of wood, loading it up with what appears to be pure energy. He pockets it in his coat, staring at the sky. The sun's starting its arch towards the horizon, and the skies are just beginning to change color, reflecting with orange and magenta. The Scribe walks all the way to a forest that didn't exist six days ago, made of trees leaning from the ground that block out the sky. Eventually, he comes across a circular clearing perfect for a battlefield.
He sits down. "And now, I wait. In five days' time, I must fight this Autocrat. I'll have to be ready." The Scribe draws a symbol in the dirt with a stick. It resembles a leaking pen.
October 21, 2015 - Post #1,504
The Future: 9/50
(+2 from jondanger and MegaMinEr69)
The Space Invaders && PC = The Personal Space Invaders (3/4)
Scribe's Wands || UFO Model = The Xenomorphs (3/5)
I +2 Erelye.
Just call me "The Scribe" in the player HP lineup.
The Scribe feels a cold and unearthly wind blow through him during his solitude in the forest... He shivers, and continues drawing in the dirt. He adds onto the drawing he made of the leaking pen, making geometric symbols, making triangles, alchemical notations, writings of mysteries, drawings of anomalies. The Scribe chuckles, the drawings he made into the ground fading away into loose pebbles of dirt thanks to a strong gust of wind.
The chills the Scribe felt intensify massively, and he instinctively rolls for cover. A massive thunderclap sounds, and a huge burst of light shines through the forest. The sound of something pulverizing the earth screams in front of the Scribe and carries away into the distance, leveling trees and carving destruction into the ground. The Scribe looks in the path of the object, which is still streaming with light like a coming. It has left two trails etched into the ground, fire burning wherever they cross.
The Scribe flips open his Journal to a page titled "Time Travel", and then he shuts it, gazing at the horizon.
Minutes later, Uncle Grandpa has positioned himself at the battlefield, having made a gigantic finish line loaded with confetti and fireworks for when something crosses it. No one on the battlefield sees any cars or any race that's going on, but Uncle Grandpa remains insistent that something's about to happen. Finally, everyone hears a thunderclap coming from the forest, and their ears perk up. Uncle Grandpa waves the finishing flag excitedly as a gleaming DeLorean bounds out of the forest, right towards the finish line at supersonic speeds, ready to embrace the future. Uncle Grandpa takes the hand of an enemy entity and smiles, ready for a photo shoot on the finish line to commemorate this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Said enemy promptly gets hit by the car, which time-travels back into the past, leaving the enemy trapped outside of time.
October 24, 2015 - Post #1,553
The Future: 12/50
(+2 from Richard)
The Space Invaders && PC = The Personal Space Invaders (4/4) COMPLETE
Scribe's Wands || UFO Model = The Xenomorphs (4/5)
I +2 Generic.
I request that, since I'm preparing for the duel, Uncle Grandpa gets my minicrit bonus.
The Scribe stands in the middle of the ruined forest, the fires left by whatever menace raged across the landscape still burning. He sighs. "Well, so much for having a nice and secluded spot to train in." The Scribe is about to walk away when he is struck with intense pain, pain so bad that he's unable to move. "What... What is this??" The Scribe sees that his jacket is getting soaked in liquid - black liquid. It's a liquid so corrosive that the fabric of his hammerspace-oriented coat is burning away. The Scribe quickly reaches into his pocket and pulls out the culprit - Nimbleguy's Pen.
It's leaking.
"Oh, this can't be good. A pen with such corrosive ink as that is growing unstable... Eventually, it could collapse under the strain of holding such a powerful substance, exploding and sending its contents flying in all directions... That would prove to be fatal. Very fatal indeed. Something must be done about this." The Scribe takes out a cylinder forged from transparent crystal and closes his eyes. The leaking pen lifts up into the air, moving towards the open cylinder. Its drops of ink spill onto the ground, staining it black and withering the earth with death's touch.
It's a very delicate procedure, and it's one that must be handled lightly. The Scribe strains to make sure that the pen enters the cylinder safely, and after several agonizing seconds, the pen and the cylinder lock in place. There is a great flash of light and the cylinder drops out of the Scribe's hands, the ink in the pen reacting with the crystal, causing it to spin out of control. The Scribe panics, raises his hand, and casts a spell. "Prohibere hac amentia impulsi!" The cylinder stops spinning, a protective golden seal shimmering over it.
Immensely relieved, the Scribe walks over to the cylinder and stores it away in his inventory. "Until I can find a way to reverse this corruption, you're going in here for now. Using this pen in battle would be immensely dangerous in battle." The Scribe stops for a second, chuckling. "Unless... Hm. That would be interesting to watch."
Uncle Grandpa, in celebration of yesterday being Mole Day, summons a mole of moles to the battlefield. The result is an absolutely gargantuan sphere of moles, all tightly packed together with no escape, in a size larger than the battlefield by far. How many moles is a mole of moles? Well, a mole is 6.023 x 1023 molecules. So that's 602,300,000,000,000,000,000,000 moles. Uncle Grandpa tells all the moles that there is an extremely tasty buffet of mole food on the battlefield, and all they have to do is come down to eat it. The mole planet promptly slams into the battlefield, creating an explosion of insanity that damages two enemies and leaves all of the moles dead. Their carcasses litter the field. It's disgusting. Seriously.
October 24, 2015 - Post #1,581
The Future: 19/50
(+4 from Erelye, +2 from jondanger)
Scribe's Wands || UFO Model = The Xenomorphs (5/5) COMPLETE
I +2 Generic.
The Scribe walks into Bomber Stadium, surveying the crowd. "It's amazing how many people want to see me dead. Or at least, injured." He readies himself for the duel, making last-minute checks. Breathing in and out, the Scribe faces his opponent - Cinavi. "I hope you're ready. If you're not, then I'd just like to tell you that you're going to have a bad time here. That probably sounds cliche, but it's true." The Scribe thinks back at how he got into this mess... If he hadn't summoned Uncle Grandpa, he wouldn't be in this duel. But he did, and now he is. His head was on the chopping block because someone didn't agree with his methods.
The Scribe remains stoic as Bomber signals the countdown. At five, he raises his pistol. And at fire, he fires. The Scribe pulls the trigger of his pistol, something shooting out from the pistol at high speeds. The force of the thing that ejects from the pistol blows the Scribe backwards, knocking him to the ground and causing any shots that Cinavi would have made that fire directly at him to miss. In addition, the thing the pistol fired is releasing a massive amount of golden energy - a protective spherical shield that's seemingly blocking physical and magical attacks. The crowd and Cinavi are able to get one quick look at the projectile before it impacts - it's a pink crystalline cylinder with a leaking pen inside.
Regardless of whether or not Cinavi dodges the shot, the cylinder has to impact something. And it does. The golden shields and the crystaline cylinder itself shatter upon coming into contact with Cinavi or the wall, leaving only the leaking pen, which falls onto the ground, uncapping itself. The result is a cesspool of ink spilling out into the ground, permanently staining the floor with the energies of the abyss. The ground warps in on itself, dragging Cinavi down into a gaping pit of nothingness that pulls him in, unrelenting in its force.
The corruption eats away at anything Cinavi has, tainting his very being, his very essence, and his very soul. Cinavi becomes a mockery of what he once was, a shallow figment. And the ink is growing all the time, turning into a whirlpool of black carnage. The Scribe stands up and watches. "I don't particularly know why my use of paradoxes offended you, but I take it that we're not going to be pals after this, are we. So I figure, why not end this now? I kill you here and we can move on. I know killing in this duel is frowned upon, but I think it could leave a mark."
Tilting his head, the Scribe thinks. "Actually... No. I think killing isn't the answer here. I'll leave you to rot with this malignant form for a while longer, until, like the rules permit, you are sufficiently wounded and I demand you yield to me. That's fair, correct?" Ink keeps adding itself to the onslaught, making Cinavi more and more of a prisoner. Soon, his entire body begins to crack and wither away at the stress, the churning ink pulverizing his form and even corrupting his coding. Cinavi is quite literally becoming undone. After several minutes, the Scribe nods his head.
"I believe that's enough, don't you? Now you've learned what happens when you cross me, hm? I will now demand that you yield to me, and give me my proper place as the winner of this duel. If you do so, then maybe I can turn a blind eye to your apparent hatred of me. Maybe we can have a mutual understanding of each other. And if you don't, well then..." The Scribe's hand flashes with the image of an hourglass. "You won't have a hatred of me anymore. I can tell you that much."
October 29, 2015 - Post #1,647
The Future: 26/50
(+2 from crystalcat and jondanger, +1 from Irecreeper and Pricey)
I +2 Generic.
The Scribe yields.
Uncle Grandpa acquires a large amount of pumpkins from a nearby pumpkin patch that definitely isn't haunted by a malevolent ghost. He then spends a large amount of time intricately carving his face into each and every pumpkin. Please note that the pumpkins aren't possessed by any spirits, evil or otherwise. Uncle Grandpa then loads all of the pumpkins into the UGRV, which begins to glow with an unearthly light that certainly isn't a result of paranormal activity. The UGRV then begins to fly around of its own accord, sailing through the sky as maniacal laughter fills the air that surely isn't coming from the mouth of a demon.
The plot twist here is that the pumpkin patch was haunted, but not by a ghost. It was haunted by a group of annoying teenagers who stalked the place regularly. And the pumpkins were possessed, but not by spirits. They were possessed - or owned - by an old man who took great pride in his farming, specifically his pumpkins. He was so enraged that he stalked Uncle Grandpa and tracked him to the UGRV. It also happens that the old man is a magician, which is why the unearthly light enveloped the UGRV and began to fly around. Lastly, the old man began to laugh, seeing as he was about to take Uncle Grandpa's prized possession just as Uncle Grandpa had taken his.
As the old man takes over the UGRV, the annoying teenagers appear and harass the old man. It turns out that they weren't attracted to the spot of his pumpkin patch - it was the pumpkins themselves they were after, and today was supposed to be the day they'd start their plan to capture all of the pumpkins once and for all. Seeing that it's been ruined, the teenagers all melt into goo and reveal their true form as a single conglomerate entity that's so horrifying that the old man drops dead with shock. The UGRV falls from the air as a result and lands directly on the conglomerate, squashing it flat and spreading its liquid form all over the Battlefield. This liquid absolutely covers a random enemy, who feels the flesh fall from their bones as they lie in a heap, thoroughly spooped.
October 30, 2015 - Post #1,660
The Future: 33/50
(+4 from Erelye, +2 from crystalcat)
I +2 Generic.
The Scribe decides to blow Mozart II's mind.
"Mozart" rhymes with "heart".
The heart is an organ that pumps blood in the body.
Blood is colored red because of the red blood cells inside of it.
Red blood cells are shaped like doughnuts.
Doughnuts can be found in Dunkin' Donuts.
Dunkin' Donuts' slogan is "America runs on Dunkin'."
"America" refers to the United States of America.
The United States of America officially declared independence from Britain in 1776.
1 + 7 + 7 + 6 = 21.
9 + 10 also = 21, depending on who you ask.
9 is the cube of 3.
A cube has 6 sides.
6 is the smallest positive integer which isn't a square or prime.
A square is made of 4 lines.
4 is the smallest composite number.
Composite armor is a type of armor found in tanks.
The purpose of composite armor is to defeat high explosive anti-tank missiles.
"High explosive anti-tank" can be shortened to the acronym "H.E.A.T."
Heat is caused by energy transferring between something and its surroundings.
Energy can neither be created nor destroyed.
"Energy can neither be created nor destroyed" is the 1st law of thermodynamics.
6 + 4 + 1 = 11.
21 + 11 = 33.
33 / 11 = 3.
A triangle has 3 sides.
Triangles are commonly found when referencing the Illuminati.
But there's more.
"II" is the Roman numeral for 2.
The Roman Empire officially dissolved in 1453.
1 + 4 + 5 + 3 = 13.
2 + 13 = 15.
15 is the fifth Bell number.
"Bell" rhymes with "Hell."
According to Dante's Inferno, Hell is made of 9 circles.
The area of a circle is πr2.
"π" sounds identical to "pie."
In the game Undertale, you are offered a pie made of butterscotch and cinnamon.
When run through the A1Z26 cipher, "butterscotch" becomes "2-21-20-20-5-18-19-3-15-20-3-8".
2 + 21 + 20 + 20 + 5 + 18 + 19 + 3 + 15 + 20 + 3 + 8 = 154.
"CLIV" is the Roman numeral for 154.
154 * 15 = 2,310.
2 + 3 + 1 + 0 = 7.
2,310 / 7 = 330.
In 330, the Roman Empire's capital moved from Rome to Constantinople.
The original name for Constantinople was Byzantium.
"Byzantium" rhymes with "Strontium".
Strontium is the 38th element.
3 + 8 = 11.
330 / 11 = 30.
"Thirty" rhymes with "dirty."
Something is dirty when there is dirt on it.
A common type of dirt is soil.
Soil helps plants grow.
The growth of plant organs is called "organogenesis".
"Organogenesis" rhymes with "Regenesis."
Regenesis is the first song on The Binding of Issac: Afterbirth OST.
The Binding of Isaac: Afterbirth OST was released on October 30th, 2015.
October is the 10th month of the year.
30 / 10 = 3.
A triangle has 3 sides.
Triangles are commonly found when referencing the Illuminati.
Therefore, Mozart II is the Illuminati confirmed. Because Mozart II's position has been compromised, the Illuminati teleports in and activates a hidden killswitch inside of Mozart II that blows him to pieces.
October 31, 2015 - Post #1,688 ***
The Future: 42/50
(+2 from Bomber, Erelye, Pricey, and MZ)
I +2 Generic.
The Scribe notices the auspicious date that has been reached on his numerous watches. "The date has risen. The Witching Hour is here. Long has this holiday been celebrated across Minecraftia as a time to reminiscence on dark secrets and darker truths. A time to look back on the occult ways that have had an impact on our civilization's history. And a time to seal those evils away so they will never plague our cities again." The Scribe sets up a ring of jack o' lanterns, whose pale light flickers across the setting skies. "Let us never forget the stories that are shared on this day, whispering in the ears of the damned like unearthly wind... Let us never forget the tragic tales of those who have lost their lives, their hearts, their possessions, their souls... And let us think back to a town. A town called Kyoto."
It was years ago, you see. Many years ago, indeed. Back during the Beta Age of our world, when the two dominant races were Humans and Testificates. Both races were created separately from each other, each with different cultures, practices, and buildings... Yet the two were in an uneasy alliance. There were ripples of segregation and dark perceptions each had about the other, but there was nothing major. That was, until one fateful day, when a simple town became front-page news across the world.
Kyoto was a port town that settled near the ocean. Its ships were some of the finest on the continent, and its wares were collected all over the world. Kyoto had a reputation for being a major town that others would go on during quests. You know, to stock up on supplies, and if necessary, hitch a ride to somewhere else across the world. And it was almost always Humans that would go on said quest. The town's residents, who were all Testificates, were divided on Humans, you see. Some of them had a fondness for them and gave them knowledge to help on their quest.
Others found faults in their race. They called Humans nuisances and annoyances, always screaming for materials and the most treasured and sacred loot they could find to help them on their supposedly noble quest. Once Kyoto gained that reputation, you could expect that there were plenty of those who faked being on quests to rob the town's loot and take off with everything they could carry. So the town began to invest in... security measures.
The town grew and grew until it became a minor city. It developed a proper army which built fortifications to fend off the monsters at night and the shifty Humans at day. Angered by the city's attempts to blockade them, the Humans fought back. They did not want to see such a treasury of wealth became locked away before their very eyes. So, in secret, they planned to destroy the blockades of Kyoto. And they succeeded. How, you ask? They recruited monsters to help them. A terrible deed, that is. A Minecraftian of any race associating with a monster...
Kyoto was forced to spend their time rebuilding, for it was not only the walls that were destroyed. Some houses - and even some lives - were lost in the carnage. Yet the officials of Kyoto could find no trace of any Human involvement in the activity, so they blamed it on a rogue monster attack. More Humans came in by the day, and Kyoto grew even more suspicious. They remembered why they had built the walls in the first place, and rebuilt them bigger and bigger. And then came the airstrikes. Kyoto was bombed by a joint effort between Humans and monsters - for as much as the Humans wanted the wealth of Kyoto, so did the monsters for their own nefarious purposes and intents.
This time, it was plainly obvious who the culprits of the deed were, for some had branched off from the intended path and assassinated Testificates in cold blood. Kyoto issued a permaban on Humans, and built their walls and their city to heights only dreamed of. But their wealth was slipping away like grains of sand. The Humans, in their efforts, were forcing Kyoto to spend the riches they had wanted to claim in the first place. The last band of Humans to wander there on an official quest arrived shortly before the completion of the walls. They left as soon as they could. The true rivalry between Humans and Testificates had begun. But, just when no one thought it could, it got worse.
The citizens of Kyoto began to question their faith in their military and their buildings. They wondered how many attacks they could withstand, and when the Humans would resort to something truly drastic. As such, while Kyoto tried to keep the Humans out, a select few began to turn to other methods to solve the conflict. Worse methods. Evil methods. They tried to construct magical barriers and protection forged from tenebrous powers that Kyoto tried to keep under wraps. It seemingly worked, but each magical power brought a curse onto the city.
These curses began to stockpile onto each other with alarming frequency, and soon, the city of Kyoto was in no shape to defend anything. People were sick, crops were dying, buildings were withering away, and ores were turning into stone. All the while, the clouds over Kyoto grew darker and darker, and the seas surrounding it grew turbulent. Rumors were starting to surface of shipwrecks happening just off Kyoto's coast. What was once a city of fortune had turned into the largest ghost town on this Face of the planet.
Human visits had become a rarity. The last band of Humans to ever travel to Kyoto were looking to cash in on its fortune and attempt something incredibly risky by stealing the town's most prized artifact - a banner depicting the Red Dragon's head. The Red Dragon had developed a following in the months of Kyoto's fortification and the practicing of occult powers, and it had even secured a place in Kyoto's church. Stealing it would signify that the Humans weren't afraid to take anything.
The Humans passed through Kyoto's front gates, which had destabilized thanks to a recent line of curses - they were getting so bad that they effectively nulled the spells that were casted in the first place. They had forged quest papers which were, to their credit, nearly identical to a real copy. They were let through to Kyoto, and they stopped at the town's finest restaurant before heading to an inn and sneaking out overnight for their heist. The restaurant was as far as they got.
The Testificates inside of the restaurant, of which there were plenty, didn't take kindly to the Human visitors, but they didn't mention any of their concerns publicly. They just grumbled to themselves and carried on with their meals. All of them were content to harbor such stigmatized beings - all except one Testificate. He was, from legend, renowned as a town crazy. His hands were full of blood, his skin was pale, and his eyes had, dare I say it, a glow to them. He unnerved the Humans, to say the very least. And then he started spouting prophecies.
From what little survivors remained after the incident, I can surmise this. The Testificate began to talk about an "unparalleled conflict that will arise in the future," how it would "extinguish lives like faint candles" and how "the earth will tremble, and our races will shatter for all eternity." He talked about how "this will be the origin point of the largest debacle in history," and closed with "He has ordained this. I am the nobody, and he is the master." The Testificate then proceeded to physically assault the humans with a disproportionate amount of force. And when I say disproportionate, I mean he literally threw them through the restaurant's walls in a single punch.
The Testificate stalked out of the room with uneven steps, as if he was being controlled. Several eyewitnesses say he even began to float. The Humans used whatever weaponry they had, but the Testificate shrugged them off and broke them all, one by one. He then raised his arms, turning the clouds a maroon color. Blood proceeded to rain from the skies, and the grass withered away and died. The buildings of Kyoto began to melt like wax, and the seas soared through the heavens like they had a mind of their own, turning blood-red. The ocean blocked out the sun and sealed Kyoto under a dome of concentrated power. The Testificate linked the Humans' hands together and nailed them to the ground with obsidian spikes.
He called the entire city to his side, and Kyoto trembled before him. They didn't know if he was a hero or an enemy, but they knew he was something wrong. The Testifcate took a treasured scythe from Kyoto's vaults and carved the eyes from the Humans' heads, asking them if they could see what he saw. They were all too busy screaming in pain, so he cut out their tongues. The Testificate asked them if they could taste what he tasted. None of them could speak at all, so he produced silver tongues from thin air and stuffed them into the mouths of the Humans. The silver tongues boiled and bubbled, growing to an exponential size and peeling the skin from the Human's bodies, sealing them in frothing statues of silver liquid.
The liquid hardened into a cool obsidian, and the Testificate sliced the mounds of obsidian in half in a clean strike, golden liquid flowing from what was left. The gold veins traveled along the ground and across the entire city of Kyoto, poisoning it in its entirety. Wherever the flames traveled, golden fire followed. The Testificate cackled as the treasures and secrets of Kyoto went up in flames in a matter of minutes. The city's population tried to run away, but the dome of the Red Sea sealed them off, and if even an ember of golden fire touched them, their entire body was turned into ashes. The Testificate's mouth pooled with blood as he laughed harder and harder, his city crumbling around him. And when the Testificate could speak no longer, his eyes faded and he fell to the ground, burning in flames in the middle of the firestorm. And without his will, the Red Sea collapsed, falling downwards and pulverizing the city in a single strike.
The clouds parted and the seas dried up. The only thing left of Kyoto was a desolate wasteland, the stenches of death and brimstone, a few scattered ruins, a handful of lives, and, somehow... the church. The church of Kyoto was the only building that was completely left standing after the event. What's more, it shined brighter than ever, with no dirt or grime of any kind on it. It was as if the Red Sea hadn't destroyed it. It had... cleaned it.
The governments of both Humans and Testificates were notified of the event immediately. Both sent their officials to the town, rushing to survey the carnage and determine what could be done with the lives that were left. The Testificates that survived were rushed to critical care, healing potions being fed through their bodies. They were never truly restored - all the survivors died within one month of the event. And within that one month, a full-scale investigation was conducted on Kyoto's fate.
No one was able to come up with a definite answer, what with the only people who saw the entire incident in a comatose state. It was only late into the investigation that doctors realized that the Testificates' brains were still active - and more than that, they were abnormally active. Investigation into the science of dreams revealed that their brains were replaying the traumatic event over and over, with them stuck in a loop and dying each and every time. From those memories, the timeline of events from above was gathered. We're talking about an event so dangerous and so occult, that the only indication it ever existed was from the minds of its traumatized and comatose victims. That's how serious this was.
Kyoto was deemed a condemned site, and it was sectioned off from the rest of the world. A massive sense of evil still lingered from within, and no one wanted to set up something there for a long time. The church still remained, untouched and spotless, gleaming like an unfortunate reminder. And thus, Kyoto was destroyed. The Fool's Massacre, as the event was called, resulted in the destruction of a large port city, the loss of hundreds of lives, the ruination of an entire landscape, and worldwide outrage.
But that wasn't even the worst byproduct of the event.
Not long after the conclusion of the investigation, both governments gave lengthy speeches about the Massacre. It was during these speeches that relations quickly went south. As it turned out, the Testificates had finally worked up the courage to voice their opinions about the Humans on a cubal scale. They had reports of Humans terrorizing and beating Testificates all over the world, although Kyoto was by large the most severe case. The Testificates would not tolerate the annoying and self-centered behavior of the Humans who raided their villages any longer. And seeing as how the actions of a band of humans led to the complete destruction of one of the greatest trading centers in the world, the Testificates were very - and justifiably - angered.
Meanwhile, the Humans had made their own speech. They countered by saying that, in a world of unbridled creativity, it should be up to those who have the power to control the world to share their wealth with those around them. The Testificates were an older race with more magical knowledge, and they should have welcomed Humans and not shunned them. Furthermore, evidence suggested that the destruction of Kyoto was an inside job - the actions of occult Testificates had cursed the place, and it was a Testificate who ultimately pulverized the entire city and murdered the Humans in cold blood.
Both races, each with their own opinions and arguments, realized that only one conclusion could be brought from this: war. And so it was that all those years ago, the Great War began. What had started as a simple feud between a city and those who sought to steal from it ultimately, over the course of several years, developed into the largest fight the world had ever known in which countless villages were burned, cities crumbled, and mountains upon mountains of lives were lost. When the smoke cleared, the Human government - known as the Officials - announced that Humans would cut off all ties from Testificates and they would retreat to a new land, untouched and unseen. And so it was that all those years ago, the Human race disappeared from Minecraftia.
The rebuilding process for the Testificates is still in progress to this day. Even though they technically won the war, their civilization was totaled by the end. Cities had to be reborn from scratch, and some of the knowledge that was lost from destroyed artifacts and burned books could never be regained. It was only in the latter stages of the Great War that people began to truly remember Kyoto - there was always a hope that it could be rebuilt, and that it could be restored into the city it once was.
An elite team was sent to Kyoto to rebuild it. Things would start off small at first, with a small village being developed. But as the process would go on, more and more buildings would be constructed until Kyoto would be a flourishing city, even bigger than it was in its finest hours. A basic village was all that was constructed. Nothing ever accelerated from beyond that point, and for good reason. It was then that people found out what was under the church.
The construction team could never stay focused for too long while rebuilding. Even though the grass was starting to grow again and the tide had moved back from the ocean, an indescribable feeling of evil lingered across the site of the Massacre. Whatever the team built felt dark and out of place, like it didn't belong. The team's construction was hurried and rushed - whatever they felt made them confident that they didn't want to stay. It took a week to finish creating the villlage to the proper specifications to ensure a thriving society. When the project had begun, a team of twenty workers entered the area.
After a week, three were left.
Throughout construction, the project was plagued by accidents. People stepped on the wrong patch of rock and they fell into a hole, every bone in their body broken. People investigated a cave under better judgement and never made it out alive. People stabbed themselves with their own pickaxes. People crawled to cliffs, slit their throat, and fell off into the ground below. People tore out their eyes, their ears, and their hands, dying of blood loss. And everyone swore they could hear voices peppering their thoughts, voices that told of horrors and dances unlike anything they had ever seen. The three that were left all dropped dead on the doorsteps of their proper homes once they arrived.
The Testificate government sent another team there to investigate what had gone on, this one a team of soldiers and researchers. The plan was that they wouldn't be as swayed by whatever was out there. Within a day, the soldiers all killed each other with their own weapons, mysteriously avoiding the researchers entirely. It was quite obvious that Kyoto was cursed, but by what, they couldn't tell. Using their equipment and sensors, they determined that there was an invisible dome still trapping the city - one that could be walked in and out of, but one that was still there. It was hanging over the city, seemingly giving it its malignant properties - and it couldn't be destroyed.
The greatest amount of evil seemed to be concentrated in one spot, the church. Against their better judgement, the researchers all walked to the church, which was as pristine as ever. It was more than cleansed. It was as if it was continually being washed and protected by something. When it started to rain during the investigation, the researchers were horrified to see the water evaporate upon contact. One of the researchers experimentally threw a dirt block at the church. The dirt disintegrated into ashes the instant it hit the church's shimmering surface.
The researchers began to hear voices themselves, but they weren't maddening whispers. They were chants. Hymns. Hymns being sung by a choir of insanity. They all walked away from the church, and the chorus ceased. The researchers knew that if they set up camp in Kyoto, they would all likely murder each other in their sleep, no matter how resistant to its evil they seemed to be. So they moved across the field and set up a plan to find the secrets of the church, only then noticing that the raincloud showering Kyoto was perfectly circular. Their sleep was plagued by nightmares.
The next day, the researchers woke exhausted, but ready. More importantly, all of them had survived. They walked back to the church, resolving to get the investigation over with. Putting on the most powerful Fire Protected Diamond Armor they had, one researcher walked into the church. The instant they touched its door, their body melted into pudding. Their screams were cut short, pealing across the village. Their armor fell down, slowly popping and sizzling until it melted into a cyan liquid that lit the ground on fire.
With the knowledge that the church's priority was to target people before blocks, they realized that they couldn't wear anything that would protect them. They needed to be protected. The researchers called for a squad of priests to be sent down to the area. Once they arrived, the researches urged the priests not to step foot in Kyoto. They had marked the boundaries of a dome with poles of wood. One of the priests, not listening to the researcher's pleas, walked through. He screamed to the skies, babbling about the injustices and evils of the world for a solid minute before he impaled himself.
Now the researchers knew that holy people were specifically targeted by Kyoto's curse. They needed the antithesis. They needed to become corrupt themselves. Knowing that they were in too deep and that they would most likely die painful deaths after the whole ordeal of an investigation was over, the researchers realized that they had nothing left to lose - except their souls. The researchers prepared an altar in Kyoto and sacrificed the priests on it one by one, stealing their robes. With each death, the researchers slipped closer and closer into the reaches of madness and eternal damnation. Once every priest was exterminated, the skies turned completely black, and an unearthly wind howled. Their expressions darkened. They were ready.
One by one, the researchers stepped into the church of Kyoto. They found its seats completely undisturbed, even though no one had sat in them for years. They found its altar untouched, shimmering with something they couldn't explain. The large banner of the Red Dragon was hung at the far end of the church, stretching down from the ceiling. The researchers knew that something good had become corrupted - just like them.
Upon investigating, they discovered a hole leading underground. Not knowing where it would take them, the researchers headed down it and found out what we can only assume is the truth. A sizable chamber was carved out from the stone in the ground, corrupted by pale red rock. A 3x3 section of gold blocks had been arranged in a square on the ground, and right next to it was, alarmingly, the skeleton of a Testificate. He was holding two pale blocks, a piece of flint, and a piece of iron. There were four torches arranged on the gold blocks, but they were unlit. And most disturbingly of all, there were messages written all along the wall in dried blood. They crisscrossed the ceiling, walls, and floor, and the pool of its stopped at the Testificate's skeleton. All of the messages were written frantically and hastily, and they went like this.
"WHY WON'T THE WHISPERING STOP" "HELP US HELP THEM" "ALL I SEE ARE THE VISIONS" "NO NO NO NO" "THE WHISPERING GROWS LOUDER BY THE DAY" "WAILING OF TONGUES" "THERE WILL COME A DAY" "MIMES ON ALL SIDES" "WHEN THE SUN WILL GO OUT" "GNASHING OF TEETH" "HELP" "VISIONS OF CHAOS" "AND THE MOON WILL FALL" "THEIR HIDEOUS FACES OH NOTCH" "SOULLESS EYES" "VISIONS OF DEATH" "THE SKIES WILL CRACK OPEN" "MY EARS ARE BLEEDING FROM THE WHISPERS" "TIME WILL STOP LIKE A SCRATCHED RECORD" "MY EYES BURN FROM THEIR DANCES" "WARPED STRETCHED MOUTHS" "HELP HELP HELP HELP HELP HELP" "SPACE WILL BE RENT" "GOD IS EXILED" "VISIONS OF HELL" "COSMIC DANCES WILL PLAY OUT" "I CANT WITHSTAND THE PAIN" "LIKE THE SUN AND THE MOON'S QUARRELS" "TONGUES LOLLING OUT" "VISIONS OF INSANITY" "NOTCH IS EXILED" "THE SEVENTH MARKS THE CLOSE" "THE ECLIPSE WILL HAVE OCCURRED" "NO NOSES THEY'RE LIKE SLITS" "THEY HAVE ODD MOUTHS" "NONE WILL STAND AGAINST THE SKY" "AVENGE THE FEW" "BEWARE" "I WAS A FOOL" "HELP ME" "WINGS LIKE BIOMES" "THEY HAVE FUNNY MOUTHS" "CLAWS LIKE MOUNTAINS" "VISIONS OF CRACKS IN THE DISC OF MOJANG" "THE DISC OF MINECRAFTIA ITSELF" "ALL WILLFALL" "THEN HEAVEN AND EARTH AND ALL THAT IS IN THEM WILL SHOUT" "EYES LIKE PLANETS" "FOR DESTROYERS WILL COME" "A UNIVERSE OF CREATION, A MAN THAT WROTE" "OF A SEEKER OF DESTRUCTION, ONE WHO SMOTE" "THE ENTIRE WORLD FELL, AND HE DECLARED" "ALL MOUTHS WENT SILENT, ALL EYES STARED" "FOR HE HAD SPOKE OF A COMING DAY" "ONE WHERE EVERYONE WOULD SAY" "WHY DIDN'T WE ALL TAKE ACTION THEN" "BEFORE HE HAD FEW, NOW HE HAD TEN" "THOUSAND THOUSAND MILLION MEN" "STRETCHING ACROSS THREE ROUND DENS" "AND AS HE SPOKE OF THAT DAY" "THE MOON TURNED RED AS IF TO SAY" "EVERYTHING YOU HEARD WILL COME TO PASS" "BEFORE YOU TURN TO THE FUTURE LOOK AT THE PAST" "NOTHING IS NEW IT'S ALL HAPPENED BEFORE" "YET NONE OF YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT'S IN STORE" "YOU THINK IT'S THE END AND WHAT YOU THINK IS WRONG" "BEWARE, YOU TWELVE, AND YOUR CHOSEN THRONG" "ALL OF YOU BEWARE THE DRAGON'S SONG"
The researchers, horrified, took picture after picture of what they found under there, knowing that no one would believe them if they only had their word. And after several minutes had passed, the earth began to shake. Sensing danger, the researchers ran from the church - and Kyoto - as quickly as they could. The church lost its luster and its light, collapsing on itself. Whatever was protecting it suddenly had no reason to. The entire village followed suit, the ground giving way and tumbling into the abyss, creating a massive crater.
When the Testificate government received word of what the researchers had found, they kept the knowledge hidden in secret. Knowing that the catalyst of the Great War was that someone had tried to summon Him was unthinkable. And what was worse was that the entirety of the Great War had been accomplished under His machinations, even with the construction of the Ender Matrix... It was too hard to believe. A prison meant to seal away one thing... And it had failed. The Testificates felt deeply uncomfortable trusting the public with this information, and so it was kept away, hidden.
Upon discovering the deeds the researchers had done to gain entry into the church, they were publicly executed. The only reason given was that they had committed crimes against creation. The mystery of their execution was debated for years, and it still is. How do I know all this, you ask? Well... Every great government has an outsider. A spy. Someone who knows things that perhaps they shouldn't.
The Scribe finishes his tale, the wind howling around him. Mozart II is so horrified that his heart stops and he takes severe damage. What's more, because he's incapacitated, the next two attacks against him will minicrit.
November 7, 2015 - Post #1,785 ***
SYMBOLHIGHT: KANERA
HATCH NAME: CINAVI
ID: #41Ω-5082
POSITION: LAWYERVISCERATOR, (TEMP.) HIGH-GENERAL
CRIMINAL STATUS: N
To: KANERA, CINAVI
Regarding: PUBLIC INFORMATION REQUEST
Due to your apparently ceaseless attempts to be able to show the public private information on DIPLOMATIC CONFERENCE #1437-89, we have deemed it necessary to make some form of compromise.
You are henceforth permitted to share the logs of the conference. However, the persons with which you are able to do so have been RESTRICTED. The enclosed DIPLOMATIC LOG 1437-89B has been specifically tailored to share with the other beings within the jurisdiction of PROJECT 03082115 LEGISLATION only. Any attempts to share it with persons not involved will be met with swift punishment.
Your patience has not been appreciated.
Regards,
THE RESEARCH COMMITTEE
DIPLOMATIC LOG 1437-89B:
Nihil Parva, G.S.S. Mental Phthisis, approx. 20:13, 16 Narbeleth
I pace around the metallic floor of Docking Bay 1431-C of the Grayholdian starship Mental Phthisis, nervously pulling at my right glove, part of the whole "ceremonial neophyte lawyerviscerator" garb. First impressions are quite the thing to maintain, are they not. An emaciated figure stands abnormally still several meters before me, staring at the gigantic doorway that will soon dock with Hangar Bay 876-B of Grayhold Citadel itself. I have only ever been here once, though I have certainly seen the maps.
The form turns to face me, dressed immaculately in what appears to be the standard garb of a Lord-Archmage in Erelyean times, despite… not actually being the Lord-Archmage in any way, shape, or form. Ciryatur, some title. Absolutely psychotic, obsessed with the secrets of ∆-timelines. My partner in this particular project. For whatever reason. The ship abruptly stops. I lurch forward slightly. Fleetdock. The light above the hangar door blinks red several times. A hiss radiates through the room, and the door slides down, revealing an expansive room of stone bricks practically emanating protective magics. Strangely enough, the room is pitch black, save for the occasional flicker of vis from the cracks between the bricks.
I glance at Ciryatur for a moment, and he takes several measured strides forward, entering the Citadel first. I take a step forward, before I am accosted violently. By which I mean I am getting pestered.
Pesterlog. [Click to open.]
--
--
I sigh, and enter the hangar bay fully, shutting Trollian off. Peering inside, it appears as if the place is filled with docking starships, given that fleetdock was ordered.
A quick inspection of both my and Ciryatur's equipment reveals that we are indeed prepared. The sharp-eyed being folds his arms behind his back, and waits. I return to my state of somewhat nervous pacing. Hopefully, they actually come. I did send the invitations.
The space near Cinavi and Ciryatur begins to waver, before Crystal, clad in his normal clothes, steps out of thin air in his trademark universe-hop and looks around. His eyes settle on Ciryatur and I. "
I watch Crystal appear, and nod at him as he mentions me.
Ciryatur walks over to Crystal, and I notice a completely normal block of obisidan tumble out of the G.S.S. Mental Phthisis. Meanwhile, the Golem pops into existence besides Crystal.
I immediately let out a small snort of laughter.
Meanwhile, Ciryatur stiffly utters a response to Crystal.
In typical dimensional-traveling fashion, a small distortion in reality occurs nearby in the hangar bay. Very briefly, a rift into the Immaterium opens. A spyglass into a realm of chaos. Out of that rift steps Bomber, dressed in his standard formal attire. He takes a moment to check a pocket watch, making sure he is roughly on time. It's hard to tell, considering it is so warped within the Immaterium. He wouldn't be surprised if he wound up two weeks before the meeting was scheduled!
Though, it would appear that fortune was on his side, as there were people awaiting him and what he would assume to be the other guests. Closing the rift behind him before anything nasty could escape (wouldn't make a good impression to have a group of mischevious Nurglings pour out and stink up the place), he makes his way over to Ciryatur and I. He speaks to me first.
"
Immediately upon Bomber's arrival, I nod in recognition.
Bomber then greets Ciryatur. "
Lastly, he turns to Crystal. "
I awkwardly stand in the small crowd of people, whilst my partner takes the lead.
Crystal takes, shakes, and releases Bomber’s hand. "
The Golem notes Crystal's copy of Cipher's Call lighting up. But...
GOLEM: I mean it's supposed to be alternatively purple crystal or a tattoo burned into your flesh. Don't really see how color happens.
GOLEM: Oh, right. ...I don't really care either way. Do as you will.
GOLEM: Wait, what am I saying. I suck at pleasantries. Let's just get into it.
I glance over to Crystal and Bomber's handshake, eyes flicking down to look at the triangular mark burned into the palm of my right hand. It flickers slightly with a sinister blue light, and my eyes dart upward.
CIRYATUR: In that case, I suppose we will just go this way.
Ciryatur gestures to a small padlocked Arcane Door across the room from the main gate into Grayhold Citadel proper.
CIRYATUR: It should also be of note that Command has requested an audience with a number of the most intelligent and powerful inhabitants of the evidently nameless server in Minecraftia, for reasons unknown.
I take the forefront once more, stepping in front of the grim being, quietly adding a statement to the end.
Ciryatur grabs a small iron key from a pocket, and strides over to the Arcane Door. He sticks the key into the lock, and twists it several times, before pushing it in further once, and pulling it out entirely. Then, he pushes the door open, stepping to the side.
(A series of Thaumium Golems outfitted with Animation Core: Guard and full voidmetal plating carefully pick up the obsidian block, and take it into a room labelled "Inspection Chamber".)
Crystal enters the door. Bomber follows behind Crystal, entering the Arcane Door.
The Golem sort of... slides through the door? It's almost as if somebody was coding the universe, and forgot to stop people from spamming the directional keys to move funnily.
I enter through the doorway, Ciryatur taking a discreet look behind his field of vision before stepping inside, and quietly closing the door. I disregard the Golem's method of entry.
Ciryatur takes a step forward, likely to get in front of everyone, but I beat him to it, moving in front of Crystal, Bomber, and the Golem. I wave for everyone to follow, and we travel down the abnormally straight corridor, passing by a number of doors of various shapes, sizes, and compositions. Reaching the end of the hall, I take the left fork, climbing up a set of stairs immediately off the fork.
We reach what appears to be a heavily-populated floor. People of all shapes and sizes are bustling about the monolithic chamber, most of which are clad in official military uniforms of varying styles, others in mere cloaks, ostensibly to make themselves obscure. The people all appear to be either elves, likely descended from the 200 granted to the former Lord-Archmage Kalare Erelye by the fallen Lord Engineer Amperzand during the Second Godmodding War. Curiously enough, the other half of the people seem to be trolls. Interesting. The remainder of the shapes are various types of work golems, most of which are bowed down by heavy loads. The noise in the room is practically deafening.
I lead a curved path through a number of people and into another staircase. Ciryatur takes the back, to assure that nobody gets lost. Suddenly, around halfway up the stairs, I press my hand against the wall. Amethyst runes flare to light in a cuboid pattern upon the wall, before sinking into the stairs, forming an opening.
We walk through the tunnel, coming out in a dusty room lit by several bits of nitor floating in the air. I tear a cobweb out of my face with a hand, and press onwards, deigning not to look to either side of my face.
This is because there are approximately six bloodstained dissection tables on either end, each with a skeleton, slain by a number of possible means, of course. These things have likely been there for hundreds of years. The skeletons themselves are rather disfigured, possessing missing bones in specific places. Several have large bone growths on various parts of their body, likely mutations caused by esoteric sorcery. I begin to walk somewhat faster, pushing a door open with some difficulty.
We all step through, coming out in what appears to be a slightly better-kept library room, shelves towering at least thirty meters into the sky themselves. The books contained appear to range from volumes of arcane lore, to handwritten encounters with elder demons, to scraps of the long-lost Liber Ivonis. I climb up a ladder with abrupt swiftness, and push several books on a particular shelf to the side, punching a button hidden in the back of the construct before leaping to the ground deftly. Warded stone bricks are pulled back by pistons, and we all file through to the side of a massive rectangular greeting hall, meters away from what appears to be the actual, official entrance. Two massive gateway doors of some indeterminate substance lie at the other end of the room. I stride all the way to the other end.
I look around at the others, and promptly knock on the door weakly.
There is no response, save what appears to be two distinct voices off in the distance.
"
"
We wait for several minutes, just standing there. The two voices grow in intensity over time, as if they had been whispering initially. Soon enough, the somewhat quiet voices are reverberating around the likely massive vaulted chamber.
???: THE RING MAP IS REQUIRED FOR THIS PARTICULAR TASK. YOU KNOW THIS.
???: IT WAS LAUGHABLY EASY TO ACCESS.
???: IT WAS NECESSARY TO THE COURSE OF THE PROJECT, EMISSARY.
???: ENOUGH. YOU HAVE OVERREACTED.
???: VERY WELL. THOUGH, I MUST REMIND YOU.
???: YOU CANNOT ESCAPE.
???: IT WOULD BE BEST IF YOU LEFT NOW. MY GUESTS HAVE ARRIVED, AND HAVE LIKELY HEARD A SIZABLE PORTION OF OUR CONVERSATION. THESE HALLS ARE SUSCEPTIBLE TO EAVESDROPPING.
The sound of something sliding into the floor reverberates around the room, audible even to those outside. A voice echoes across the throne room, addressing us.
???: WELCOME. YOU MAY ENTER.
The massive doors swing on their hinges, dark gray smoke emanating off of their faces, flipside. The room is long, empty, and cavernous, easily over a hundred meters tall, and lit by approximately two things. The first, what appears to be a holographic projector of some sort sliding into the ground, the top emanating the occasional spark of maroon energy, some sort of... 7-Ball plugged into the side. The thing slides into the floor, and is covered by metallic plates moments before we enter.The other thing in the room emanating light comes from the furthest end of the room, on the opposite wall, as well as bits of the side walls. Small slits have been sliced into the brick, and the undulating energies of Nihil Parva flicker dimly through them. In the absolute center of the back wall, there is a perfect circle made of glass inset some distance above the ground. Pure vis radiates madly behind the window into the dimension itself. The circle itself is bordered by another shape, one that might seem familiar to most of the beings present in the room. It appears to be a glowing rich blue wheel divided into approximately twenty-eight segments, each filled with a certain symbol. Further within this, however, another ring more closely borders the window, this one instead divided into twenty segments, all adorned with a symbol of some sort. Two wheels interlocking off to the side are divided into ten and fifteen sections, respectively. The former is filled with symbols, the latter with circles of some sort. Odd.
I stand off to the side, watching the event unfold as everyone else walks across the room, toward the window. The circuitous and repetitive hiss and pump of what sounds like enough life support to make the Golden Throne seem like a glorified office-chair sounds across the room. An onyx and metallic throne comes into view, its top mere centimeters away from the bottom of the main wheel. A singular figure sits atop it, obscured by a strange lack of light. All you can see of them is what appears to be a metallic right leg, and their eyes; one robotic and red, the other a piercing violet which cuts through the darkness.
???: PLEASE, SIT. WE HAVE MUCH TO DISCUSS, GENTLEMEN.
???: WERE YOUR JOURNEYS HERE SATISFACTORY?
The group stops nearly halfway across the room at a long table with exactly four ornate chairs. Ciryatur does not yet sit, and I stare at everyone from the side of the room. The eyes of the form upon the throne shift to look at the main doors unblinkingly, almost expectantly.
"
Bomber nods as he takes a seat at the chair to the left of Crystal. "
The figure upon the throne nods at Crystal and Bomber, before turning to the Golem.
???: EXCELLENT. MISTER GOLEM, YOU SHALL BE PRESENTED WITH YOUR OBSIDIAN BLOCK ON YOUR WAY OUT.
"Oh, yes. The journey here was exquisite. Not that any of you accompanied me, of course." Everyone whips their heads in shock as a figure appears, sitting in a chair that wasn't there five seconds ago. The Scribe looks up at the group of people near the table, dusting off some stray fires on his jacket. "I apologize for the lateness, but I needed to take care of something. The Scribe takes out a crystalline case with a leaking pen inside. "I trust you understand."
The Scribe takes out a piece of flint and steel, lighting it and creating some flame. He snaps his fingers, and the flame jumps in the air, resting on his finger. The flame starts to change colors, and the Scribe creates dazzling patterns with it by tracing his hand through the air. Eventually, he creates a helical pattern made of twelve equilateral sections. "Who am I kidding? Getting here was a nightmare. I was forced to trace my own path here, heading across pocket dimension after pocket dimension until I found some form of teleportation that could jump me all the way here with minimal injuries. Anyway..."
Waving his hand, the Scribe causes the wheel to spin erratically, symbols of many shapes and kinds forming in its sections, a different one flashing by every second. "If this wheel is distracting to you, then say the word. I'm a sucker for symbolism, so I like to keep this around to catalogue all the symbols you find. You know. Runes. Tetrominoes. Languages. Ciphers. Symbols. That sort of thing. But otherwise, thank you for... inviting me to this thing. Please, continue."
The second the Scribe finishes talking, the master of the Citadel lets out a quiet, ungodly laugh, a mixture between metal scraping metal, something a certain demonic puppet sprite might do, and another hint of something one person at the table might recognize, encoded in its wavelengths. I, on the other hand, am too busy fuming in a corner at the Scribe's arrival. Ciryatur nods, and finally sits down, having finally received all of the guests.
???: YOU HAVE BEEN FORGIVEN.
???: I WAS UNDER THE IMPRESSION THAT TRAVEL HERE WAS REMARKABLY SIMPLE, GIVEN THE FACT THAT FORCING ONESELF THROUGH AN ENERGIZED NODE WITH THE PRECISE CALIBRATIONS NEEDED REQUIRES LITTLE PLANNING.
???: REGARDLESS, ALL ARE PRESENT.
The set of four wheels on the wall behind the throne appears to glow a little brighter, but perhaps it is merely the imaginations of all in the room acting up.
The probable-Lord-Archmage raises his left hand slightly, revealing the palm. The darkness in the room would ordinarily make this impossible to see, if not for the fact that there was a perfectly triangular shape emitting moderate amounts of blue light upon it.
???: COGITATIO SUPRA OMNES; COGITATIO SUPRA OCULUM, GENTLEMEN.
Every Cipher's Call in the room lights up, including mine.
???: SERENDIPITOUS EVENTS HAVE EVIDENTLY BROUGHT SO MANY OF YOU HERE. WE HAVE MUCH TO DISCUSS.
The Lord-Archmage lowers his hand, Cipher's Call still glowing upon it.
???: PLEASE, DO TELL ME. WHAT IS IT THAT YOU DESIRE FROM THIS?
???: WHY DO YOU THINK YOU ARE HERE.
Bomber is quite surprised by the appearance of The Scribe. This meeting got just that much more interesting. He leans forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the table with his fingers locked together.
"
His eyes glowed at the word infernal.
"
Bomber produces a bottle of red wine from somewhere and then pours himself a glass. After taking a sip, he leaves it on the table and silently offers to pour any of the others a glass. He then continues.
"
???: THE FORMATION OF A COALITION IS ESSENTIALLY THE PRIMARY OBJECTIVE IN THIS MEETING, YES.
???: EXPLAIN PRECISELY WHAT TYPE OF OCCULT "THING" YOU WORK IN, IF YOU WILL. WE CANNOT ESTABLISH SOME SORT OF TRADE IF I CANNOT DETERMINE WHAT YOU DESIRE MOST, AND WHAT WOULD BE MOST BENEFICIAL TO US BOTH. HAH.
Crystal sits up. "
He spreads his hands apart, and flickers of items brought in and out of hammerspace flash through them.
"
A small piece of paper covered in crabbed scribbles flickers between his hands for the briefest of seconds.
"
???: AH, YES. THE PREMISE OF TRANSCENDENCY HAS PROVEN QUITE... FASCINATING, TO SAY THE LEAST.
???: YOU WISH FOR A RESEARCH AGREEMENT? THAT CAN BE DISCUSSED. THERE IS ALWAYS MORE TO LEARN, AND MY RESOURCES ARE VECORDIOUSLY PRODIGIOUS.
Next, the Golem.
GOLEM: I was created sometime in the aftermath of the Psi-Godmodder War, after some idiot decided it would be a good idea to loot the castle. It might have been a good idea to any of us, if you hadn't had a ceiling come alive and try to crush you before. ...I wasn't that ceiling. I was a block of obsidian that got dislodged in the attack. Some wizard or another came by and brought me to life. Might have even been...
GOLEM: ...I'm getting off track. I'm just here to sit in on the conversation, possibly engage in pointless anachronism. Honestly I'd say Crystal had the right idea, if I didn't know that I (BIFURCATE I[I,I]) was going to get depowered. Plus it's just a good idea to avoid unnecessary time travel. ...Anyways, yeah. Coalition. Possibly a certain group formed in past's future, but that was mostly a joke? Anyways, I'm just here to see what happens.
???: HAH. I FIND IT PRUDENT NEVER TO STATE MY NAME, OF COURSE.
???: AS FOR THE LAST ITEM OF YOUR DISCUSSION, YES. THAT WAS THE INTENTION, AND YES, IT WAS IN THE PAST'S FUTURE, FROM YOUR PERSPECTIVE.
The Scribe waits carefully before responding. "What do I desire from this? Well... I think what I'm looking to get from this is knowledge, power, and friends. Three things you can't get very far in life without. If you don't know what's going on, the world will turn against you in your naiveté. If you're not powerful on some form, you won't command attention. If you don't make the right friends in the right places, then you won't have people to call upon in times of need. I see all three of these things here. So, to be truthful... I'm very interested in seeing how this meetup plays out.
"As for what I think we are here for... I believe the others cleared it up very well. I think a proper alliance is in order. And after all, the best alliances are the ones forged in secret. The ones that only those who take part in it know." The Scribe grins, flips to a page with empty space in his journal, and begins writing down symbols and words he sees in the chamber.
???: YOU SPEAK THE TRUTH. ALLIES, POWER, AND KNOWLEDGE ARE, QUITE FRANKLY, THE MAIN CURRENCY OF THIS METAPHORICAL ECONOMY OF WAR.
???: AN ALLIANCE IS INDEED IN ORDER, AS WAS AFOREMENTIONED. SEVERAL OF YOU WILL NEED TO BE PRESENTED WITH SOMETHING FOR THAT, OF COURSE. BUT, FIRST...
The Lord-Archmage once again raises his left hand. The triangle glows indigo once more, and random sections on the four wheels begins flashing, pulsating, and spinning. The wheels circling the windows begin to spin, each of the equilateral sections flashing a different color. The outer circle bordering the window in particular flashes the most, several symbols becoming quite prominent. Namely, an aquamarine spirograph, a violet hand of some sort, a maroon symbol of some sort that flashes off to the side (appearing to not yet be present upon the thing), an amethyst pair of goggles with cracked lenses, and a red pair of glasses flashing green.
Mere moments later, this circle morphs into something else, cut into twelve sections with very specific symbols. The entire circle shifts, and, next thing everyone knows, everything is back to how it was mere seconds ago, before the wheels started acting up. Waves of acheronian energy seem to instantaneously extinguish the light of the wheels.
???: HAH. SHALL WE BEGIN NEGOTIATIONS AND RAPPROCHEMENT?
Without waiting for much of a response, the doors to the front open, and a pair of animate clay golems marching in unison come forth. They stop at the side of the table. The first pulls out an obsidian block out of the crate in its hands (which its compatriot does not possess), which it tosses to the Golem, before exiting the chamber. Some sort of maroon-colored sphere drops out of the crate near halfway back to the door, which the golem in question ignores. The Lord-Archmage grins slightly. While you can not see it, you can certainly feel it. The other golem's eyes glint with a resplendent blue light. The being levitates into the air, achromic runes appearing upon its body without cease. Thick violet imbrues the air, and the golem drops to the floor, before making swift egress. In its place are exactly three floating incalescent indigo triangles composed of some sort of implacable crystal. Hah. I look back to Cipher's Call upon my right hand for the briefest of moments.
???: NOW COMES THE TRUE THESICLE. DO THOSE WHO DO NOT POSSESS THE ITEM AT HAND KNOW HOW TO UTILIZE IT?
???: WE SHALL SEE.
The Golem takes the crystal, spinning it contemplatively.
He casually burns it into his left hand, then turns his attention to the block of obsidian currently at his feet.
The purple eye of the sorcerer atop the Onyx Throne burns more brightly the second the Golem mentions the former Lord-Archmage.
???: FOR ALL YOU KNOW, THAT IS NOT THE ORIGINAL COPY OF THAT BLOCK, AND WE HAVE REPLACED IT FOR THE PRECISE REASONS YOU JUST MENTIONED.
Bomber begins to address the Lord-Archmage's earlier questions.
"
Bomber stands up and waves his hand through the air. A blue flame lights itself, and within the flame is a symbol. "
The next symbol appears from a cloud of black flies. Bomber seems a little disgusted when he summons this one. "
Bomber moves on. This time a raging fire appears, unlike the arcane fire from before. "
Clearing his throat, Bomber moves onto the last one. This symbol comes with a sickeningly sweet fragrance. "
The symbols disappear, leaving behind a brief remnant of themselves before fading for good. "
Bomber grabs the crystal, briefly examining it.
"
He raises the crystal up to his right eye, which, with his confusing biology, is similar to a goggle lens; or perhaps a view-port of sorts. Bomber burns Cipher's Call into his right eye. It certainly causes him a bit of pain, but it isn't anything he can't bear.
"
The second Bomber begins talking, a perfectly straight square composed of gray energies cut into four equilateral sides pops into existence somewhere between the window and the table. As Bomber informs everyone of the Chaos Gods, their symbols appear in the separate sections of the square. When he finishes, it disappears with the others. The outer wheel bordering the window is suddenly changed as a glowing maroon symbol forces itself into the fray the moment Bomber adorns Cipher's Call. The Schemer's Mark joins its twenty-eight brethren.
???: IT WAS AS SUFFICIENT AS YOU INTENDED IT TO BE, I ASSURE YOU.
???: ALLOW ME.
A crack resounds through the vaulted chamber, and a set of files appears before both the Golem, and Bomber. They are labeled "Project Imperator".
Crystal walks over and picks up the maroon sphere, and examines it, revealing it to be a Magic 7-Ball. "
He returns to his seat. Seeing as he already has a Cipher's Call, he simply ignites his copy into indigo flame for a second, before extinguishing it.
The second Crystal rises, and takes the maroon sphere, the sense of the grin you all got from the Lord-Archmage intensifies drastically. The moment he begins speaking the quote, the wheels spin into action, the Lord-Archmage's purple eye beginning to emit amethyst vapors, of a sort. The image of the goggles with the cracked lenses on the outer circle bordering the window lights up with amethyst light, as does the Heretic's Mark on the first of the two interlocking wheels.
The Scribe looks at the symbols in apparent awe. "Spirograph... Schemer's Mark... Cracked Goggles... Red Glasses." The Scribe stops, lost in thought. "I've seen these before, but uncommonly. It's those twelve you showed afterwards that really strike a chord with me. I believe they represent those who fought in the war before our own... But anyway, none of you came here to listen to me monologue about the importance of history... Although it would be a good idea."
The Scribe reaches over and examines Cipher's Call's two-dimensional frame. "What kind of an object is this...? A completely flat pyramid that projects images on its surface? This is peculiar, to say the least. But you have it here for a reason, so I suppose I'll be taking one." The Scribe grabs a copy of Cipher's Call and turns its surface over, puzzled. "Now what do I do with OH GOD" The Scribe grimaces as smoke curls from his skin, his coat in tatters as the image of an indigo triangle burns itself into the skin on his upper left arm. "...That hurt. Hopefully it was worth the pain."
The moment the Scribe mentions "the war before our own", a cobalt psi briefly pops into existence in the midst of the chamber, before disappearing. Once the Scribe burns the indigo tattoo onto his flesh, all seven Cipher's Calls in the room flash with indigo light for a moment, before fading once more.
???: THERE ARE APPROXIMATELY TWELVE TONS OF BOOKS AWAITING YOU ON THE WAY OUT, MISTER SCRIBE. I TRUST YOU WILL BE ABLE TO TRANSPORT THEM.
"...Twelve tons? Well, that's certainly a hefty pile of books, but it's nothing I can't handle. You don't want to know what goes on inside of this coat." The Scribe chuckles to himself.
???: NOW, WE MUST INITIATE SOME SORT OF TRADE OF USEFUL ITEMS, OR PERHAPS INFORMATION, AMONGST OURSELVES TO PROVE THAT WE DO INDEED HAVE SOMETHING TO OFFER, AND BE ON OUR WAYS. ASK QUESTIONS AMONGST OURSELVES IF WE HAVE THEM, AND SUCH.
Bomber looks through the files labeled "Project Imperator". After a few moments of flipping through the files, a grin spreads across his face. Everything within the document looked very promising. Yes, this was precisely what they needed.
"
As for trading, Bomber has one thing in mind right now. He then produces a blue tome from somewhere. It never holds one appearance for long, constantly changing in texture, material, and color. The center of the cover has a familiar symbol that identified it as The Book of Tzeentch.
"
???: SUCH A TRADE IS REMARKABLY SIMPLE.
Suddenly, a ring of runes forms in the air before Bomber. It spins about, letting off the occasional spark of gray energy. In moments, the ring appears to be practically pulsating with pure knowledge. There is a flash, and a fully-filled out Thaumonomicon drops onto the table, centimeters away from Bomber. Moments later, a golem enters the room, and hands Bomber a book entitled Parma i Istarion, and a book on Grayholdian history. The smoldering amethyst eye and the precise robotic one turn to face me.
???: I KNOW YOU HAVE MULTIPLE COPIES OF THE I HÚNA PARMA. IN FACT, I KNOW YOU HAVE MULTIPLE ON YOURSELF AT THIS VERY MOMENT.
???: GIVE THE MAN ONE.
I reluctantly walk out of the corner, and hand Bomber a copy of the Accursed Book.
???: HAH. HE IS NOT NEARLY AS GREAT AS YOU PROFESS HIM TO BE. FAR LESS, IN FACT.
As I walk away, Bomber gets the sense that that wasn't nearly all of the research in the facility, by any meaning of the word.
Bomber makes his way over to The Scribe.
"
"The permeability of dimensional walls... You're in luck. I happen to be fairly savvy on the subject, just as you predicted. Come here, and let's have a talk." The Scribe opens his Journal to a display of several diagrams that appear to depict spheres of various sizes.
"To understand all this, we have to think of universes and dimensions not as immense and incomprehensible planes of spacetime, but as bubbles floating in the abyss of the Void. To the vastness of the Void, a universe is just a sphere wandering around empty space. If a bubble gets closer to another bubble, an occurrence which rarely happens, travel between the two bubbles would theoretically be much easier the closer the bubbles got. In a virtually perfect reality, when two bubbles got close enough that they could touch, the two universes would be practically free to coexist amongst each other. Unfortunately, we don't live in a perfect reality. We're stuck with this."
The Scribe points to a diagram of a circle encased in a jagged and wavy substance. "Universes aren't exactly like bubbles in the sense that they're not perfect spheres. The barriers that universes project to keep track of their boundaries have different sizes, lengths, and heights depending on exactly where you are outside of them. Make no mistake, universes are massive, and the geography of universal barriers is quite a difficult subject to fully swallow. But I'll try to do my best." The Scribe points to another diagram with a jagged plane and a flat plane, with an arrow pointing to either one. Hastily scribbled writing is situated around the diagram.
"Let's see what I've written here... My research, however negligible it may be, has come to the conclusion that universal barriers are a construct of trickery. One portion of a barrier may be as treacherous as a mountain range, and another may be flat as a board. The smaller and shallower a portion of the barrier is, the easier it will be to pass through directly. The larger it is, however, the harder it will be. Shortcuts are inevitable, seeing as how there's got to be some degree of empty space. ...Right?" The Scribe taps his fingers on the table. "So, as you can see, one section of a barrier can be easier to pass through than another. Which brings me to this point."
The Scribe flips to the exact center of the Journal. It is an incomplete diagram of a massive machine made of various geometric shapes with a large amount of writing, imagery, and symbolism spread throughout. "I've been making scattered plans for some sort of device that can exploit the nature of universal barriers. It would pinpoint a weak point in a universal barrier, a spot easily passed through, and effectively punch a hole through it to allow instant access. If you're looking to diminish a universal barrier yourself and allow two bubbles to touch, like in a perfect reality, one forged from chaos and destruction... Then you might want to take my advice."
The Scribe shuts the Journal. "Just know that my plans are completely conceptual. I've never found the machinery or the willpower to get the project off the ground. Although, now that I've found myself in the company of all of you, that could change..."
Ciryatur looks over to the Scribe. He pulls out an ancient sheet of paper, at least half a millennium old.
Ciryatur shows the Scribe the front side of the page.
Peruse ancient text. [Click to open.]
I was wrong. Very wrong. My calculations about the Red Dragon's size and power were completely off. Since I have none of the Ancient Texts of Mojang to base my research off of, I'm going blind here. The Red Dragon, if I'm correct, has either infinite size or size close to that of the Nether. Its power is similarly large, vastly beating the Enderdragon, the First Block, and possibly even the Disc of Mojang itself.
Thankfully, from what I have heard, the Red Dragon is contained within a formidable prison. My research has led me to suggest that it is contained under the Nether's lowest layer, forever trapped and never to be released. If even the tiniest crack was created in the Nether's foundation, surely the beast would be let loose and all of reality would be torn apart. Thankfully, it looks like there is another limiting factor in the Red Dragon's power besides its prison. Since it has infinite/near-infinite/exceedingly large mass, it is split up into many different Aspects that each are different in their own ways.
My research indicates that it is possible, but rare, for some Aspects to slip through the bedrock barrier of the Nether and enter the Overworld, which would explain the existence of Tears and Geists. Said Aspects would lose the insane power the Red Dragon surely grants them and slowly fade, although they would have more than enough power to last for a very long time.
The last thing my research has shown me is that there is only one thing in existence strong enough to completely crack the Red Dragon's prison, if we assume that the prison is at the very least more durable than the mass of the Red Dragon, which is at the very least that of the Nether. Yes, if we can assume all of this, then that would leave only one artifact capable of destroying it, and one which has not been built in a very long time: the Dreiton.
An immensely powerful drill built during Herobrine's War, the Dreiton can purportedly break through any substance in existence by channeling all its drilling energy into a massive superlaser. If one could find this and construct it, then the Red Dragon (or anything at all, for that matter), would be freed.
~
After undergoing prolonged contact with my world's First Block and reverse-engineering it, I have discovered something truly startling. After a First Block has issued its world-changing event and has been used, it uses all of its power to make sure that the event it created stays exactly the way it was and is not broken, leaving the actual Block as a shell for other energy or power to inhabit.
With this knowledge in mind, it is my belief that after a First Block has been used, it could be taken over by a being of great power and used for its own machinations. It could also be used to contain something in this way, and releasing something when a certain destination is reached. And, (I'm not quite sure about this) it could possibly have the potential to erase the effects of its world-changing event, rendering it completely null.
~
Research in Nether Portals has shown me that, if one modifies the energy a Nether Portal creates upon activation and refracts it so its spectra changes to a dark grey, the portal will lead to an incredibly strange plane of existence completely separate from the Nether, and, by the looks of it, all of Minecraftia. The only inhabitant I saw was enough to give me nightmares. It had a black hat on, black-and-white clothing, and a horribly grotesque face, with two soulless circular eyes and a flat blank mouth. When I looked at it, its mouth opened far too wide and a pink appendage writhed out. I have not gone back since and do not wish to.
Ciryatur waits for the Scribe to finish reading the page, and then flips it over silently. The back is essentially coated in amethyst ink in the form of thin and spidery handwriting.
Peruse ancient transcript. [Click to open.]
I shall preface this twisted and occult transcript with some transient warning that will undoubtedly fail to convince you to not devour this content mentally. Some things were not meant to be studied in any manner whatsoever. I doubt that shall convince you, given that it has failed to dissuade me from various activities every enquier, but it was prudent to at least attempt an injunction.
"WHY WON'T THE WHISPERING STOP" "HELP US HELP THEM" "ALL I SEE ARE THE VISIONS" "NO NO NO NO" "THE WHISPERING GROWS LOUDER BY THE DAY" "WAILING OF TONGUES" "THERE WILL COME A DAY" "MIMES ON ALL SIDES" "WHEN THE SUN WILL GO OUT" "GNASHING OF TEETH" "HELP" "VISIONS OF CHAOS" "AND THE MOON WILL FALL" "THEIR HIDEOUS FACES OH NOTCH" "SOULLESS EYES" "VISIONS OF DEATH" "THE SKIES WILL CRACK OPEN" "MY EARS ARE BLEEDING FROM THE WHISPERS" "TIME WILL STOP LIKE A SCRATCHED RECORD" "MY EYES BURN FROM THEIR DANCES" "WARPED STRETCHED MOUTHS" "HELP HELP HELP HELP HELP HELP" "SPACE WILL BE RENT" "GOD IS EXILED" "VISIONS OF HELL" "COSMIC DANCES WILL PLAY OUT" "I CANT WITHSTAND THE PAIN" "LIKE THE SUN AND THE MOON'S QUARRELS" "TONGUES LOLLING OUT" "VISIONS OF INSANITY" "NOTCH IS EXILED" "THE SEVENTH MARKS THE CLOSE" "THE ECLIPSE WILL HAVE OCCURRED" "NO NOSES THEY'RE LIKE SLITS" "THEY HAVE ODD MOUTHS" "NONE WILL STAND AGAINST THE SKY" "AVENGE THE FEW" "BEWARE" "I WAS A FOOL" "HELP ME" "WINGS LIKE BIOMES" "THEY HAVE FUNNY MOUTHS" "CLAWS LIKE MOUNTAINS" "VISIONS OF CRACKS IN THE DISC OF MOJANG" "THE DISC OF MINECRAFTIA ITSELF" "ALL WILLFALL" "THEN HEAVEN AND EARTH AND ALL THAT IS IN THEM WILL SHOUT" "EYES LIKE PLANETS" "FOR DESTROYERS WILL COME" "A UNIVERSE OF CREATION, A MAN THAT WROTE" "OF A SEEKER OF DESTRUCTION, ONE WHO SMOTE" "THE ENTIRE WORLD FELL, AND HE DECLARED" "ALL MOUTHS WENT SILENT, ALL EYES STARED" "FOR HE HAD SPOKE OF A COMING DAY" "ONE WHERE EVERYONE WOULD SAY" "WHY DIDN'T WE ALL TAKE ACTION THEN" "BEFORE HE HAD FEW, NOW HE HAD TEN" "THOUSAND THOUSAND MILLION MEN" "STRETCHING ACROSS THREE ROUND DENS" "AND AS HE SPOKE OF THAT DAY" "THE MOON TURNED RED AS IF TO SAY" "EVERYTHING YOU HEARD WILL COME TO PASS" "BEFORE YOU TURN TO THE FUTURE LOOK AT THE PAST" "NOTHING IS NEW IT'S ALL HAPPENED BEFORE" "YET NONE OF YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT'S IN STORE" "YOU THINK IT'S THE END AND WHAT YOU THINK IS WRONG" "BEWARE, YOU TWELVE, AND YOUR CHOSEN THRONG" "ALL OF YOU BEWARE THE DRAGON'S SONG"
Given the status of the location where this particular series of mutterings was discovered, along with its current state, I can safely determine that the Red Dragon is more sinister than I had originally believed, which is rather odd, given that I had known it would attempt to destroy reality upon release, i yestallon.
Kalare Erelye
"Haha, oh yes! I remember those pages. They're a fairly recent addition to this Journal, just let me find them... Here." The Scribe turns to the far end of the Journal, where you can quite clearly see the page in question, exactly how it is on Ciryatur's.
"Yes, the Red Dragon is quite the powerful being, make no mistake about it. But the Dreiton was decommissioned years ago, right after the war's end. Every government in the universe agreed it was too powerful a weapon to use under any circumstance. As for the other two sections of text, I..." The Scribe shifts his gaze. "I have no comment."
When the Scribe reads the other side of Ciryatur's paper, his blood runs cold. "These mutterings... What are you talking about? Those aren't mutterings! And I know full well where those were discovered! You don't remember Kyoto?" The Scribe flips through the Journal, turning to a page labelled with "Kyoto" that depicts a desolate landscape.
"It was a simple village, untouched by the modern reaches of time. Nothing of any consequence at all had happened there, until one day, several years ago. A simple fight between a band of Humans that traveled there on a quest ultimately became the start of the Great War itself. The War between Humans and Testificates... the one that marked the end of the Beta Age and marked the beginning of the Official Age. Official representing the Officials, the elected government of Humans that separated Humans and Testificates once and for all, obviously.
"Kyoto was destroyed by the carnage, and it was only several years into the war that it was rebuilt. But something terrible was discovered under the town's church, something that was rumored to have started the original fight between the Humans and Testificates in the first place. Someone had attempted to summon Him down there, knowing that He was locked in the Ender Matrix anyway. No one has any way of knowing if that fool succeeded, but we know that someone died down there - and before they did, they wrote those messages - the ones on that paper - in blood. Countless photographs were taken of the ghost town and the horrors below it, and the fate of the photographers... Well, a story for another time. Perhaps in a few days, when the mood is grim enough that I could tell a proper ghost story."
The Scribe looks at Ciryatur's paper with a general sense of unease. "How you found those lines of text peculiar when they're a generally accepted artifact of history is odd to me. Unless the prophecy they speak of... will actually come true?" The Scribe's expression darkens, and he then turns away. "No. The Eclipse... whatever it is... is foolish by nature. The end of the world is a near-impossibility. Not with creation on our side. And any of you timehoppers, those who have seen the future... Don't correct me if I'm wrong. Knowing about the future can have a terrible cost. One will try to prevent it - and then, only madness awaits."
Throughout the duration of the Scribe's explanation, a number of Unseen Scribes compressed into cubes affixed to the ceiling transcribe the entire lecture, and file it away, just in case. It cannot hurt to have another opinion on such a topic, especially given the importance of dimensional reactions in a realm such as Nihil Parva. Ciryatur points to the page in his hands once more.
"That would match up with the accounts of the photographers. They were a research team sent to investigate the troubles of Kyoto. It was cursed after the spat between the Humans and Testificate that led to the Great War, you see. The town was destroyed, and the church was the only building left standing. When the team took pictures of what was under it, the entire village collapsed into a sinkhole. Any indication that a settlement had existed there at all had vanished.
"Yet, you say his permanent disappearance happened months after he recorded these words, and the researchers were executed only a week after they returned with their evidence. And the foreign terms he uses... enquier? I yestallon? That doesn't sound like anything a Testificate would say. It sounds like another language... Quenya, perhaps?" The Scribe ponders this. "Whoever wrote this letter... This 'Erelye'... Wasn't one of those photographers. Not to mention that foreign date. 2015? That's in the future! That's in the future, and that piece of paper is half a millennium old..."
The Scribe puts his head in his hands. "You know what? No. I'm not going to question this. I've had to deal with too many time shenanigans, and one of them was an encounter I've tried my hardest to forget. I don't care when that knowledge was obtained, I just know that it was, and it couldn't have been from Kyoto. Kyoto buried itself years ago, and whoever wrote that sounds like they had no knowledge of its existence. And that leads to a grim alternative - they found those words somewhere else. Someone had the gall to rewrite those words with perfect accuracy, most likely knowing their connotations..."
Crystal takes out a small notebook, his hands glow for a second, and there are two of the book. He slides one across the table to the Lord-Archmage.
"
He takes out another, rather larger, book and duplicates it in the same way, before sliding it over as well.
"
The Lord-Archmage's eyes shine with a curious glint the moment Crystal begins talking about the merging of the dissimilar.
???: I MUST INFORM YOU THAT I AM OF THE OPINION THAT THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS A CERTAIN MAGIC "SYSTEM". I BELIEVE SUCH A CONCEPT IS RIDICULOUS. ALL ARCANE ARTS ARE ONE. THEY ARE MERELY UTILIZED IN A MULTITUDE OF WAYS BY A NUMBER OF LIVING ORGANISMS, SUCH AS OURSELVES, TO ELICIT DIFFERED RESULTS.
???: REGARDLESS, YOUR CREATIVITY IN THE BLENDING OF IDEAS IS ADMIRABLE.
The two books that slide over fade away with a crackle of dark gray energy, immediately being stored away wherever it is such things go in the Citadel. The Lord-Archmage wordlessly snaps his fingers. A stack of tomes appears directly before Crystal.
???: THOSE ARE THE VAST MAJORITY OF MY PREDECESSOR'S BLUEPRINTS AND PLANS FOR A NUMBER OF ARCANE DEVICES AND TECHNOLOGIES. YOUR PREDILECTION TOWARD SUCH THINGS SHOULD SUIT THE IDEAS WITHIN. OR SO I WOULD HOPE. SAY THE WORD, AND I CAN PRESENT YOU WITH SOMETHING ELSE.
The Golem digs through their inventory for a while, then pulls out a book and a tablet.
The Golem then picks up the dossier, then flips through it disinterestedly and discards it over their shoulder.
The cobalt psi appears once more, seeming to shift through the air eerily, and the cracked goggles and heretics' mark upon the wheels glow amethyst. The tablet and book glow dark gray, and warp off into some storage chamber or other some distance away. I shout a response to the final question from across the room.
The Golem turns to the Scribe.
"Roses? Not able to be created?" The Scribe laughs immensely. "Now I know you're screwing with me. Roses are a universal constant. Removing roses would be as fundamental as removing gravity. And gravity can't fall, ergo, roses can't either. Simple as that."
The Scribe pauses and lowers his head. "Now, it's time to show you what I have to offer." The Scribe's goggles glow, and a series of five weapons appear on the table. "Here are five legendary artifacts I have acquired on my travels. May they be of use to you." The Scribe describes each artifact in turn.
"To the Golem, I give the Infinity Gauntlet. Legend tells of a golden gauntlet that has the power to unlock the abilities of every Elemental Plane at once and make itself known to only one being, the Chosen One. Personally, I think that's a massive lie, so I found a replica instead. It can be controlled telekinetically, and it amplifies the user's physical, magical, and mental abilities. It also gives you limited control over every Elemental Plane."
The Golem puts on the "Infinity Gauntlet", and takes out a d8 out, tossing it absentmindedly.
"To Bomber, I give Tzeentch's Medallion. Legend tells of an array of mystical artifacts left by the Chaos Gods in the hopes that unwary heroes would use their power and have their souls be consumed in malignant fire. Only the truly worthy can contain their abilities properly. I trust that you are one of those few. Activate it and your ambition will be increased tenfold, giving you a temporary state of enlightenment. You can attach it to other weapons or objects to have Tzeentch's powers consume and amplify them if you so desire."
Bomber takes note on what The Scribe had said. It definitely sounded like it would be tough, but Bomber feels he can pull it off eventually. "
It was a little puzzling at first how The Scribe had obtained an artifact of Tzeentch, but Bomber decides to dismiss that thought. The Scribe probably has his ways to find objects like these. Nonetheless, this will be an incredible tool to have in his arsenal. Bomber also thanks The Scribe for this.
"To Crystal, I give the Fearamid. Legend tells of a plane of existence so nightmarish none dare walk its tenebrous path. Personally, I've never been there myself, so I'd have no way of knowing. But occasionally, some of its artifacts can be recovered throughout universes. It's peculiar. It's like they were just deposited there through some unknown method, waiting to be picked up. This pyramid can act as a repository of pure arcane power which can be called upon in a time of need, bringing forth waves of chaos and madness to damage and stupify enemies. Also produces flashing lights and rave music."
Crystal takes the Fearamid and turns it around in his hands, before it flickers and disappears, hammerspaced. "
"To Ciryatur, I give Daggergate and the Disruptor. Legend tells of a sword cursed by the misfortune of another long ago, whose deeds were sealed inside of cold steel so those who held his blade would know his corrupt antics. And legend tells of another sword used to smite those who were chained in place by the shackles of sin, a sword used to control evil.
"These swords work in tandem. Whoever holds Daggergate will be cursed with one hundred years of bad luck. Being made of mirror shards, it causes the actions of the being that wears it to invariably fail and/or backfire should it be used in combat. The Disruptor targets whoever wears Daggergate. Being forged from a purple homing crystal, it will instantly lock onto Daggergate's signal and attempt to break the sword, thereby disrupting the essence of whoever wears it and damaging them."
The Scribe bows. "I hope these can be of use."
Ciryatur carefully takes Daggergate and the Disruptor, bowing in response to the Scribe.
A weapon materializes upon the table, directly before the Scribe. It appears to be a long suitcase, securely sealed with a number of latches. On the side, there appears to be another maroon orb of the same type as the one Crystal recently obtained. Hah.
Knowing that he's most likely dealing with things he shouldn't, the Scribe stops thinking about it and accepts Ciryatur's gift. "Why thank you. I'll keep this one for the archives." The Scribe puts the Riftgrazer in his coat. After it is clear the trade amongst the project operatives has ceased, The Lord-Archmage speaks.
???: ARE THERE ANY FINAL REMARKS OR COMMENTS ANY OF YOU HARBOR AS OF THE PRESENT? IF SO, IT WOULD BE WISE TO SPEAK YOU MIND NOW. OTHERWISE, WE SHALL CLOSE THIS EVENT UP.
???: IT HAS BEEN A PLEASURE THUS FAR, I ASSURE YOU.
Bomber feels he has done all he wanted at the meeting, unless some other opportunity arises. "
Crystal nods. "
The Scribe turns to the crowd. "I believe I had a little speech planned for the occasion, where was it..." The Scribe checks his coat, finding a piece of paper. He clears his throat. "If we fail, then the whole world and all that we have known and cared for will sink into the abyss of a new dark age made more sinister, and perhaps more protracted, by the lights of perverted science. Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties, and so bear ourselves, that if Minecraftia last for a thousand years, we will still say, this was their finest hour."
The Scribe puts the piece of paper away and bows. "Thank you for your time."
The Lord-Archmage surveys everyone once more.
???: HAH.
???: NOBODY HAS QUESTIONS. EXCELLENT.
???: THESE TWO WILL SEE YOU OUT. I EAGERLY AWAIT THE BOONS OF OUR ALLIANCE.
???: I WOULD ATTEMPT SOME FORM OF SPEECH, BUT IT APPEARS THAT HAS ALREADY BEEN COVERED, LIKELY FAR MORE SUCCESSFULLY THAN MY ATTEMPT WOULD HAVE BEEN.
???: I CAN SAY NO MORE, SAVE ONE PHRASE. COGITATIO SUPRA OMNES; COGITATIO SUPRA OCULUM, AND SUCH. REMEMBER THEIR MESSAGE.
???: FAREWELL. I WOULD REASONABLY WAGER WE SHALL ALL SEE EACH OTHER SOON.
???: A REMINDER THAT THERE ARE TWELVE TONS OF ANCIENT LORE AWAITING YOU, SCRIBE.
???: IF, FOR WHATEVER REASON, ANY OF YOU DO NOT HAVE A METHOD OF SIMPLISTIC ESCAPE FROM THIS ENERGY PLANE, ASK, AND WE CAN FIGURE SOMETHING OUT.
Crystal walks back with Ciryatur and I, before fading away in his usual universe-jump. Bomber follows Ciryatur and I out of the room. He opens a small Warp rift, gives a quick wave farewell, and hops in. The rift closes behind him, leaving behind a residual trail that soon fades. The Golem casually walks back onto the G.S.S. Mental Phthisis, before realizing that they have alternative means of transportation, and teleports back to the Battlefield.
"Oh, I'm sure I can manage. But thank you for the offer." The Scribe taps the twelve tons of books with his finger and they disappear, making a swirling sound as they presumably enter his inventory. He then positions himself near a shadow, salutes, and falls backwards. In the next moment, the Scribe is nowhere to be found.
November 7, 2015 - Post #1,798 ***
The Future: 50/50
(+2 from generic, Nimbleguy, and Erelye, +1 from Irecreeper and Pricey)
(+4 from crystalcat and Bomber, +2 from jondanger, +2 from Tazz) I send all of these charges towards Erelye, completing his Discord charge!
I +2 Irecreeper.
The Scribe pets Lesser Dog NEO. "Here we go again..."
The Scribe decides to use the power of creepypastas to combat Herobrine. He goes to the Restaurant at the End of the Internet and orders a dozen of their specialty creepypastas. The Scribe eats most of them to judge their tastes, but he doesn't really like any of them. The 'slenderpasta' had weird black tentacles inside of it, the 'jeffpasta' tasted like bleach, the 'mousepasta' literally tasted like suffering, the 'squidwardpasta' tasted too much like sushi, the 'smilepasta' had an aftertaste that made the Scribe's mouth curl into a twisted smile, the 'drownedpasta' made the Scribe turn into a statue, and the 'goatmanpasta' tasted way too metallic. Not to mention all of the 'pokepastas'. The Scribe doubted they were even edible.
Ready to give up, the Scribe prepares to just pay the bill when he sees a particular pasta that catches his eye. An original one. And it isn't even overtly horrifying either. It's unsettling. Eerie. Mysterious. It preys on the unknown and the unexplained, the things that are just out of sight and scattered every which way so the pieces of its puzzle can never quite be put together. It's called 'gasterpasta'.
The Scribe takes a bite and heaves over in pain, letting out a digitized scream that causes everyone in the Restaurant to shatter into thousands of pieces, their very essences becoming undone, blowing away in the winds of reality. The Scribe's form becomes monochromatic and corrupted, a mere skeleton of its former self. He teleports back to the Battlefield in a frenzy, hovering over Herobrine with an aura of nonexistence and a soul of a statue.
The Scribe begins to speak, but his speech is unlike anything a living thing could make. It is horribly distorted, made of meaningless sounds and jumbled shouts that climb over each other in a desperate attempt to make some sort of sense out of pure chaos. Herobrine backs away slowly. Even a being such as him can't begin to understand the horror of the Scribe's movements. "BEWARE OF THE MAN WHO SPEAKS IN HANDS, THE MAN BEYOND THE VEIL. BEWARE OF THE MAN YOU CAN'T UNDERSTAND, THE MAN THAT ISN'T REAL. BEWARE OF THE MAN WHO CLAWS AT YOUR THOUGHTS, THE MAN WHO IS AT WAR. BEWARE OF THE MAN THAT IS WRAPPED IN BLACK, THE MAN WHO'S TRAPPED BY HIS CORE."
Herobrine's thoughts implode.
Uncle Grandpa introduces Mt. Ebott to Mt. Everest. Seeing how tall Mt. Everest is, Mt. Ebott feels extremely inadequate and loses its fighting spirit, calming down and turning back into a normal mountain. If that doesn't do the trick, the Scribe shows Mt. Ebott Olympus Mons, a mountain on Mars that is nearly three times the size of Mt. Everest.
The Scribe grins. "Excellent. My latest charge is complete, and I have something quite amazing planned for it. But I'm going to need some help. It will be a rather challenging expedition, of course. Who to pick as my companion...?" The Scribe flips through the Journal, heading to a very recent page titled "Allies and Enemies." It appears to have detailed players of the participants of the war, as well as several diagrams of their items, entities, and the battlefield. The text in the entry reads...
This is quite the war I've gotten myself into. With an estimate of forty participants, several warring factions, and an endless multitude of entities bickering among each other, there's quite a lot to keep track of. The important thing to think about is who exactly would constitute the name of this section. Who are my allies and who are my enemies?
Cinavi is definitely interesting. She holds quite a bit of power, and isn't afraid to get results. She reminds me of me in more ways than one. I'd definitely think she has the power to be an ally... Apparently I've upset her. She challenged me to a duel quite recently based on the summoning of The Relative, and perhaps a multitude of other events that she may or may not know about. She didn't kill me, but she seems to be rather annoyed by me. Status: DEBATABLE.
(I should keep in mind her companions; the ones I met in Grayhold. They certainly have the potential to be great friends... Status: ALLIES.)
Bomber and Crystal are interesting as well. They're both experts in their fields, and they know quite a bit about the workings of magic, chaos, and other such arcane subjects. I'll have to keep a very close eye on them. They were both at Grayhold as well. They've even taken to asking me for knowledge and advice. Status: ALLIES.
I don't know much about the Golem. He was at Grayhold, but he looks to be a bit of a... wildcard. He seemed rather friendly, though. I'll keep him in mind. Status: ALLIES?
Mercury is someone to watch out for. He seems dangerous, and somewhat volatile at that. My experiences with him, albeit negligible, have painted him in a chaotic light. Status: ENEMIES?
What is there to say about UserZero? She must be stopped. Status: ENEMIES.
The Scribe thinks it over. "Cinavi and I aren't on the best of relations... Perhaps this trip could change her mind. That settles it, then." The Scribe closes up his Journal and walks behind a shadow, appearing near Cinavi. "Er. Hello there." Cinavi pauses before responding. "
The two of them walk across the sounds of chaos and war on the Battlefield, the Scribe heading to the ruins of the underground bunker that served as the spot of Uncle Grandpa's summoning. The shattered glass cylinders and the ruined formation of the circular wheel still remain, creating some sort of howling noise. The TV in the area is displaying bursts of static that are occasionally interrupted by cartoons. "I remember this place. My first step in the art of extradimensional travel. Going to Grayhold got me thinking about attempting such a task again. So I've decided to start anew." The Scribe presses a button, and a massive hole in the floor appears, leading down to mechanical depths.
"I thought about the possibility of using the technology from other dimensions and adapting them to this universe to use in battle as entities. And to that end, I built a superior portal. It's quite a long fall." The Scribe jumps down, lights flickering on as he travels. Cinavi shrugs and jumps as well. The two of them land in a large chamber with what looks like a massive mechanical Nether Portal built into it. A sizable amount of wires, computers, and machinery fills the chamber, creating beeping and hissing noises that dissonantly coexist.
Cinavi looks around the chamber and grins. "
"I was investigating adjacent dimensions from ours, specifically the ones I targeted as candidates for my previous summon. I discovered one that was in quite a state of flux." The Scribe adjusts a knob on a computer. Its monitor turns on, complex algorithms generating a map of reality and pointing to what appears to be a parallel earth. The phrase "DIMENSION 46'\" can be seen near it. "I examined it further and found an apocalyptic scenario, along with a large amount of alien technology that was lying dormant at an apparent hotspot of paranormal phenomena. From there, I found the drones." "
The room continues to light up as sparks fly around the portal. "Now, I needed a quick and efficient way to get to this dimension. So I've been building this in the past week or so. It's pretty much complete at this point, bar some room for error. It's a simple portal that will let us hop across reality. Think of it like a shortcut; nothing too major." Cinavi investigates the portal's frame. She can't tell exactly what it's made out of, but its glimmering purple glow reminds her of enchanted objects. "
The Scribe makes his final adjustments and pulls a massive lever labelled "PULL IN CASE OF EMERGENCY." A massive siren blares across the room as surges of blue electricity fill the portal's frame. Both the Scribe and Cinavi duck for cover behind machinery as a massive plume of blue light barrels across the room in a deafening roar, punching a hole through the walls. When the smoke clears, the ceiling on the other half of the room has caved in, sealing the two of them from the exit. "...I may have lied about it being complete. But there's no need to worry now. The portal's... operational."
The portal's surface is glimmering with a brilliant golden color, its shimmering patterns not at all unlike a Nether Portal. "Interesting, huh? I utilized the techniques on adjusting Nether Portal's destinations with Covenite that you somehow found in my Journal. This thing has been precisely calibrated to act as a permanent gateway to this dimension. Its strength will fade over time, and I doubt it will be strong enough to take us and the drones through it again after this, but it will be there. Now..." The Scribe points to the portal.
"After you."
On the other side of the portal, a glimmering golden rectangle materializes as the Scribe and Cinavi enter Dimension 46'\. The two of them wordlessly survey the carnage going on around them. "Well, I knew this place was apocalyptic. But this..." The skies are bathed in flaming colors, with gigantic storm clouds blocking out the sun. The mountains and forests around them are covered in lava and fire, and even the hill they're on is pockmarked by embers. From their vantage point, they can see a cliff with a peculiar formation carved through it, a radiating pink crystalline ball, and the town below. The Scribe looks to his left and sees a large sign that reads, "WELCOME TO JUDYLWB IDOOV." The Scribe chuckles.
"So this is Gravity Falls, huh? I didn't watch much of it, but it seemed interesting enough..." Cinavi looks around. "
Cinavi laughs, taking in the scenery. The Scribe walks across the hill, sounds of carnage and chaos echoing around him. "These things belong in Limbo, certainly not here. Who's responsible for all of this? And how did they... Wait. Wait a second." The Scribe looks up in the sky, horrified as he sees a giant kaleidoscopic "X" carved across the heavens. Light pours from it, and every ten seconds or so, another creature descends from it. Hovering below the fissure is a gigantic black pyramid pulsating with an aura of color. "A Crossover? There's a CROSSOVER here?? But that's..."
The Scribe flips through his Journal, taking in his entries on paradoxes, Crossovers, and travel between dimensions. "To make one of that size would require an amount of paradoxical energy so large that an extremely massive event would have to occur to cause all of it all! Not to mention the sheer amount of liquid darkness you'd need to successfully pull it off! But I have theorized about this..." The Scribe reads from his Journal. "Should a Crossover of a proportionate size occur that spills out of a particularly volatile dimension, said dimension's power will leak into the stable dimension the Crossover is in, polluting it with darkness and most likely bringing about said dimension's end times in an event that I have called The Fall." Looking around, the Scribe sighs. "That must be what's happening here... But what could be on the other side of that portal? What dimension would be weird enough to cause all of... this?"
Sighing, Cinavi motions to the hill around them. "
Cinavi whistles. "
The spacecraft's hull shudders as dull teal energy encircles it. Cinavi closes her eyes, then opens them. Instead of having actual expression, they're replaced by a pulsating void of teal psionic power. Exercising her will, Cinavi controls the spacecraft, ripping and tearing at its metal frame and opening its superbly locked hatch. Smoke rises from the craft as Cinavi lowers herself to the ground. "Now it's my turn to be impressed." The Scribe and Cinavi move to the craft's opened hatch, a cylindrical tunnel which descends into the spaceship's depths. The Scribe floats above it. "I think I'll go first this time." He drops into the tunnel, and Cinavi follows suit. The two make their way beneath Gravity Falls, ignoring the perpetual armageddon raging around them.
Eventually, the narrow tunnel Cinavi and the Scribe travel down into spills out into a massive chamber full of artificial arches and broken technology. Even with the red light spilling from the skies above, the metal and astronomical patterns etched into the craft's surface gleam with fluid and unearthly light, even with no other discernible light source that could be making it. Nature has taken its steps to polluting the ship's beauty, however. The place is overgrown with roots, moss, and grass thanks to the ship being buried inside of the ground for many, many millennia.
Looking around, the Scribe draws what he sees in his Journal. "The only question I have now is how something like this ended up here. From what I can tell, this dimension is already a hub of weirdness, but a massive spaceship like this doesn't just materialize into the ground." His voice echoes across the room's vast ceilings. Cinavi traces her hand along one of the ship's arches, examining her reflection. "
The Scribe and Cinavi walk to the edge of the chamber. It abruptly stops and spirals downwards, columns of metal trailing into the darkness below. "If the drones can be found anywhere, they'll be found down here. Hopefully we won't have to walk very far." "
The two of them walk across the spacecraft's depths, which seem respectably more alien than the chamber they just walked through. The lower levels of the ship appear to be less touched by nature's reach, and look more pristine. They still show definite signs of wear and tear, but they aren't completely overgrown. The Scribe cringes as he passes by a smashed glass circle and the skeleton of an alien in a chair. He stops walking and looks at the skeleton, drawing a copy of it on a page titled "The Extraterrestrial". "Looks like the crew of the ship died with it, huh? ...Let's keep walking."
Eventually, Cinavi and the Scribe reach what appears to be a storage chamber with a large amount of drawers and loose plates. One of the Scribe's watches begins to beep erratically. "This is the place. The drones are right around us. How exactly should I go about bringing them into the open?" Cinavi turns to the Scribe. "
"DO YOU THINK THIS WILL WORK?" The Scribe screams over the din. Cinavi, somehow able to hear him, screams in a similar way. "
Cinavi and the Scribe tense up, examining the drones. They're perfectly spherical with red triangular insignias on their surfaces and various machinery scattered throughout. Their surface appears to be metallic liquid, with a grey metal plate on the top keeping their shapes together. Cinavi and the Scribe stay perfectly still, barely breathing. "...What do we do now?" Cinavi pauses before answering, seemingly readying her Sylladex. "
"They're scanning us. But what are they expecting to find?" "
The Scribe cracks his knuckles. "I think that went quite well. What about you?" "That was surprisingly easy." The Scribe turns to leave. "Alright, now we should just WHAT" Cinavi turns to look as well, and both of their eyes widen. Blocking their path is a swarm of at least a dozen floating eyeballs with bat wings attached to them. The eyes are staring into their souls. There is no escape.
Turning to look at Cinavi, the Scribe adopts a confused expression. "What are these things?" Cinavi stares at the eyes, completely deadpan. "
"
On the other side of the barrier, the flying eyeballs are unable to see anything of the two figures that they just caught in the depths of Gravity Falls' own spaceship. Instead, they are presented with exact mirror images of themselves. The flying eyeballs proceed to take their time making sure they look nice for the big party the Pyramidion's going to throw at -3:00 to celebrate his takeover of Gravity Falls. Then they start complimenting each other like oh my gosh, did you do something with your hair? it looks amazing. wow, those eyelashes are looking really great, eyeball #61845712! you're just looking fabulousssss wow. After they've spent a solid ten minutes beautifying themselves, the eyeballs fly through the spaceship the way they came.
Cinavi and the Scribe breathe another sigh of relief. "That was close. Wait... What's that in your hand?" Cinavi slips a glass vial into her Sylladex. "
The Scribe and Cinavi fly back through the spaceship with little fanfare, passing through the same endless catacombs gleaming with alien technologies. Eventually, they hit daylight, and they float back to the hill where they started their adventure on. The Scribe looks back towards Gravity Falls, seeing it even more corrupted than ever. The skies have been washed in a multitude of colors, and the Crossover still gleams like a burning reminder of the chaos around them. "You know, I've got to say. What with the apparent 'weirdmageddon' raging around here and all, I just want to say that I sincerely hope we never have to come back here again." Pause. "Let's take a selfie to commemorate the fact that we walked into the apocalypse and lived." "
Taking out what looks like a cubic smartphone, both the Scribe and Cinavi pose like a team because the sky is falling. They share a few laughs as they contemplate the absurdity of the situation and then calm down. "We should probably burn this phone now." Fire flickers in Cinavi's hand. "
The Scribe turns back to the town. "You should go. I'll... catch up with you." Cinavi laughs, not moving. "
Scowling, the Scribe advances towards Cinavi. "Listen, Cinavi. I don't know exactly what I did to get you so annoyed at me, alright? So what if I used a few paradoxes to summon the Relative? They all worked out in the end!" Cinavi floats above the Scribe, staring down at him with a cold gaze. "
Cinavi floats back down to the Scribe, faint energy trailing from her eyes. "
The Scribe's expression contorts into that of rage, but after a second or two, it calms back down. Then he starts to softly chuckle. "You know, it's funny. I brought you here for one reason. I wanted to see if we could change into close friends. But I don't think that's going to work at this point." The Scribe turns away from Cinavi. "You claim that we've settled our disputes, yet I don't think this can be solved through a mere duel or aimless chit-chat. I think I need a permanent solution. And lucky for me, I've learned more than a bit from you." The Scribe starts to take out a metal tube glowing with indigo energy, but Cinavi quickly raises her hand. "
"
Dipper Pines walks back towards his former home, lamenting his final summer.
At the center of what was once Gravity Falls, the nightmares of the apocalypse have gathered in a gigantic black pyramid known as the Fearamid. Its interior is lit up in dazzling colors that reflect across its black ground, with interdimensional rave music blasting in the background as everyone dances existence away. A green hunchbacked creature with 8-balls for eyes walks up to the Fearamid's black throne, delivering a message. "Uh, boss? I was told to tell you about something the Eye-Bats found at the edge of town."
A voice echoes from the throne, causing gold waves to travel across the Fearamid's colored lines. GO AHEAD, 8-BALL. TELL ME YOUR WORST. 8-Ball's eyes roll through his head, and he coughs before speaking again. "Well, they were investigating the Alcorian ship beneath the town and they found... these guys." A laugh that sounds like a broken Shepard Tone echoes across the chamber. WOW! THAT'S PRETTY SPECIFIC, HUH? PULL UP A HOLOGRAM SO I CAN HAVE A LOOK. 8-Ball nods and taps a nearby obelisk. It projects holographic images of the Scribe and Cinavi in front of the throne.
"They weren't captured, so I guess they were able to go unnoticed?" The figure at the Fearamid's throne goes still. NO WAY. THEY DIDN'T... HA! I DIDN'T THINK THIS APOCALYPSE COULD GET ANY BETTER! 8-BALL, SEND THE EYE-BATS OVER HERE! I NEED TO HAVE A CHAT WITH THEM. 8-Ball flinches. "Uh, the last time you said you wanted to have a chat with someone, uh...that was when you ate Flowey." HE WAS DELICIOUS AND YOU KNOW IT! BESIDES, HE'S IN A BETTER PLACE NOW. HE'S BACK TO WHEREVER DIMENSION HE CAME FROM. NOW GET ME THOSE EYE-BATS!
The booming voice from the throne sends 8-Ball skyward, and he runs off. After a few seconds, a swarm of beautiful Eye-Bats fills the chamber. The figure on the throne floats to meet up with them. WELL, YOU'RE LOOKING NICE TODAY! I KNOW YOU CAN'T EXACTLY TALK TO ME, SO JUST HEAR ME OUT. YOU GUYS DID GREAT TODAY, EVEN IF YOU DIDN'T CAPTURE THOSE TWO PEOPLE IN THE ALCORIAN VESSEL. I MEAN, THEY'RE OUT OF MY REACH FOR RIGHT NOW ANYWAY! YOU WANT TO KNOW SOMETHING COOL ABOUT THOSE TWO GUYS? YOU DO, RIGHT? The Eye-Bats look at each other with confused expressions. I'LL TAKE THAT AS A YES. WELL, THE INTERESTING THING ABOUT THEM WAS THAT THEY'RE... MINECRAFTIAN.
The rave music abruptly stops. Everyone in the party turns to look at the figure on the throne, murmuring to themselves about if it can be true, were Minecraftians really spotted here, no way, that can't be happening, Minecraftia's so far away from here. Easing the crowd down, the figure on the throne floats beyond the crowd of Eye-Bats. GUYS, GUYS, QUIET! I WAS GOING TO KEEP THIS SIMPLE, BUT THERE'S NO POINT IN HIDING THIS SECRET. YOU SEE THESE TWO? The figure shows everyone the holograms of Cinavi and the Scribe. THEY WERE JUST FOUND IN THE SPACESHIP OUTSIDE OF TOWN. THEIR CUBIC STRUCTURE SHOWS THAT THEY'RE DEFINITELY FROM MINECRAFTIA. WHY ARE THEY HERE? I DON'T KNOW! PROBABLY TO GET WHATEVER TECH THEY COULD FIND FROM THAT OLD SHIP! AND WHEREVER THEY ARE NOW, THEY'RE NOT HERE. THE EYE-BATS DIDN'T MANAGE TO CAPTURE THEM, BUT THAT'S JUST FINE! BECAUSE NOW WE KNOW SOMETHING IMPORTANT...
Bill Cipher adjusts his hat. AFTER OUR WEIRDMAGEDDON OVER HERE IS DONE WITH, I KNOW WHERE WE'RE GOING NEXT. The crowd gives a loud cheer, and the music and lights turn back on. Satisfied with his work, Bill goes back to reclining on his throne.
The Scribe and Cinavi materialize back in the underground laboratory. The portal behind them fizzles weakly as they exit, its light nowhere near as strong as before, but still visible. True to the Scribe's word, it will no doubt act as an anchor of sorts between Minecraftia and Dimension 46'\. Wordlessly, the two of them head out of the lab and through the ruins of the Relative's entrance onto the server, flying to the Battlefield. Then, they move their hands in a single strike, deploying the two alien drones from their inventories.
The drones fall from the sky and roll along the ground. When they come to a stop, they float back up, their systems turning back on after having recalibrated themselves during the time spent in the Scribe and Cinavi's inventories. They've been reprogrammed to fight against UserZero, but that's the only exception that's been made. Now, the fight has received some highly advanced firepower.
The future is now.
Delta Sequence: III Anomaly: IIII Incarceration IIIII
Welcome to the future! Taken from the wreckage of a billion-year-old ship, these spherical drones are used as security. Their attack patterns are pretty peculiar though, making them stand out from most other entities. In addition, they run on magnetic charge, which builds up passively with each turn. They can then expend this magnetic charge on high-power special attacks! Two will be summoned at once, each with the stats shown above. One was summoned from my charge, and the other was summoned from Erelye's. Let's take a look at what they can do on the field.
PASSIVES:
Security: The drones are unable to attack anything that has not yet already taken damage, due to the fact that they detect threats based on adrenaline levels, heartbeat, and other signs of the fight-or-flight response. If any entity attacked by the drones possesses the Fear or Petrification debuff whilst it is being assaulted, the attack deals five times the damage.
High-Threat Target: The drones will deal more damage when a targeted entity has lower health. If an entity has 75% HP, the drones deal 15% more damage to it. If they have 50% HP, they deal 30% more damage. If the entity has 35% HP (or less), the drones deal 40% more damage.
Duality: The drones are designed to work together to defeat threats. When one of the drones is destroyed, the other deals 50% less damage.
Magnetic Charge: The drones require charge to function and operate their cameras outside of their natural home. Each drone builds up 20% magnetic charge per turn.
SPECIAL ATTACKS:
Detection: The drones deal approximately 1,000 damage to as many undamaged entities on the specified side as possible, making them targetable. Requires 35% magnetic charge. Takes 2 turns to charge.
Supermagnet: The drones reveal their magnetic superlasers, and fire them at an entity. Deals major damage, and inflicts the Burned debuff on them for two turns. Requires 60% charge. Takes 3 turns to charge.
Delta Sequence: The drones act in unison, firing a large amount of extraterrestrial adhesive at a target. The being targeted is afflicted with the Sealed debuff for three turns. The Sealed debuff targets the ability to attack (the entity in question has decreased damage output for the duration of the effect) and speed (the entity attacks last in the EoTB for ONE TURN). Requires 65% magnetic charge. Takes 3 turns to charge.
Anomaly: The drones pick a legal target. Roll a D7. Requires 70% magnetic charge. Takes 4 turns to charge.
(1) Deals 6,000 damage, BUT the target is able to attack twice in the next EoTB.
(2) Deals 8,000 damage, BUT the target is granted a Strength buff for three turns.
(3) Deals 9,000 damage, BUT the target is granted a minor Strength buff for two turns.
(4) Deals 12,000 damage.
(5) Deals 15,000 damage, and inflicts the target with the Fear debuff for two turns.
(6) Deals 20,000 damage, and inflicts the target with one level of Petrification.
(7) Deals 25,000 damage, and inflicts the target with two levels of Petrification.
Incarceration: One of the drones absorbs the targeted entity, trapping it in its security bubble. The entity is rendered unable to act for two turns. Drone has a 5% chance to fly off somewhere in space instead of staying still, instantly killing the entity trapped. One drone cannot act the turn after Incarceration is used. Requires 120% magnetic charge, meaning that the drones do not receive any the turn after. Takes 5 turns to charge.
(Note: Erelye's going to be doing most of the actual entity functions himself.)
November 9, 2015 - Post #1,850
(+2 from jondanger, +1 from MZ IN RESERVE) Since I'm not charging right now, I'll deploy these reserve charges once I start making one.
+2 to Irecreeper.
My Alien Drone attacks Jaraxxus!
Uncle Grandpa introduces Jaraxxus to Aunt Grandma, an alternate version of Uncle Grandpa who is exactly the same except that she is the aunt and grandmother of everyone in the world. What Uncle Grandpa doesn't realize is that because Aunt Grandma is an exact opposite version of Uncle Grandpa, Aunt Grandma makes things worse for people instead of making them better. Aunt Grandma goes on a rampage, messing with the natural order of Minecraft. Fortunately, Aunt Grandma doesn't realize that Jaraxxus is Uncle Grandpa's enemy, and sees Jaraxxus as an ally of UG's that she can terrorize. Aunt Grandma proceeds to subject Jaraxxus to all kinds of physical and metaphysical horrors, including but not limited to...
Suffering a critical BBCode error and failing to format properly, running out of Java memory and corrupting itself, being decapitated and having its head stuffed into a canon which sinks a previously-unsinkable ship titled the "S.S. BLUNGIE", being deemed noncanon and having its essence thrown into the Pit of Terrible Fanfictions, going to the Trollslum and having to withstand the rants and flamewars of a million internet trolls for a billion years, acupuncture, stepping on the most jagged LEGO piece of all time, having its entire body ripped off by a paper cut and bleeding out, and listening to something so loud that it gains permanent tinnitus. Jaraxxus could handle everything else with injury, but this tinnitus is the last straw. Unable to comprehend a life of having to listen to a monotone beeping noise at all times, Jaraxxus cuts off his own ears - and then his own head. This wound is more lasting than the time he was turned into a living headcanon.
Seeing that her work is done, Aunt Grandma leaves. Uncle Grandpa remarks on how everything went better than expected.
The Scribe turns to his Journal and edits it.
Cinavi is definitely interesting. She holds quite a bit of power, and isn't afraid to get results. She reminds me of me in more ways than one. I'd definitely think she has the power to be an ally... Apparently I've upset her. She challenged me to a duel quite recently based on the summoning of The Relative, and perhaps a multitude of other events that she may or may not know about. She didn't kill me, but she seems to be rather annoyed by me. Status: DEBATABLE.
The Scribe sighs and flips through his Journal. "What next... I'm thinking a return to form for this one." The Scribe stops on a page labelled "Abandoned Mineshafts." Hidden deep within the catacombs and caves of the world, these are ancient mineshafts linked together by crumbling tracks and abandoned outposts. Scattered minecarts and chests concealed in the darkness can be found everywhere. The mystery of who built these things and why is unknown, but evidence suggests that they are some of the oldest remaining structures in the world - perhaps dating back to the Pre-Notch Era. Why were they abandoned? Most likely due to the monsters that congregate along them, the most potent of which are a nasty breed of blue spiders known only as 'cave spiders'. The Scribe shuts the book.
The Mechari Engineer noticed nothing wrong at first. It was nighttime on the battlefield, so he didn't properly register the sudden shift of darkness. But after a few seconds, when he walked forward and ran into a stone wall, he realized very quickly that something was wrong - he had been teleported underground. The Engineer quickly tries to run some calculations on his co-ordinates, but something is wrong. They're being scrambled, like the Nether affects all directional sources. The Engineer then tries to create a light source, but it is immediately snuffed out by a harsh wind.
Hearing skittering noises at the edge of his hearing, the Mechari Engineer readies his weapons and fires them at where he thinks the sounds are coming from. Or at least, he tries to fire his weapons. They're malfunctioning. The noises subside, but the Engineer shivers as they linger in his mind. With nothing else to do, the Engineer walks along the railway that he's found himself trapped into. Minutes pass, with the Engineer's train of thought becoming incredibly sluggish. Barely able to stand upright and oppressive darkness clouding his vision, the Engineer's legs threaten to give way as he falls. But suddenly, a moment of clarity strikes him. What if he mined out of the mineshaft? Using his digging tools, the Engineer begins to dig through the stone ceiling, piercing through loose rock, ores, gravel, and dirt. Finally, he can hear the sounds of nature, and the smell of the forest!
With one last strike, the Engineer breaks through the top layer of dirt. He flies up to the surface, but his elated smile turns into an expression of unbridled confusion. He's tunneled directly into another mineshaft. No, even worse - he's tunneled into the exact same spot he was in before. He's somehow looped around in a completely circular formation by going straight up. Clutching his head, the Engineer tries to think logically, making sense of all this. But it's too late. His vision tunnels, and he hears even more skittering. A flash of light shines across the hall, light that's blood-red. It startles the Engineer, making him jump. But when he focuses his gaze on it, it vanishes.
The Engineer, whose common sense has faded with his sanity, decides to walk towards where he saw the light, completely ignoring the sea of red eyes that watch his every move from behind him. The Engineer sees that the path branches into innumerable directions at the point where he saw the light, so he decides to take a random path. That path soon splits into a large amount of paths as well, so he takes another random one. Yet, that one splits up too. Even though the Mechari Engineer doesn't know how far down he is, he knows for sure he should have hit bedrock, or at least void fog, by now. But there's nothing. Nothing but the cave walls, the echoing and eerie sounds of water he can't see, the occasional glint of ores or a trick of his mind, and darkness.
Eventually, the Mechari Engineer makes his way into a ravine, and an extremely large one at that. He can barely see the other side, but he can make out the abnormal amount of glittering ores and treasures lodged inside of its walls. The ravine stretches upwards for an impossibly long distance, the tops of which are covered by... clouds? No, that can't be right. Looking downwards, the Engineer sees that the ravine's light sources fade extremely quickly: he can't even see halfway down the ravine. The streams of water and lava coming from the ceiling are muted and dark, barely resembling what they should be at all. And most alarmingly, the nature of the mineshaft is echoed impossibly and infinitely in front of him: patterns and designs of railways and minecarts repeat themselves on all sides and all walls of the ravine.
With no way of knowing what to do and the knowledge that he may in fact be lost forever, the Engineer dangles off the edge of the ravine, accepting his fate. What he wasn't expecting was a push. He feels a massive sting in his back, enough to make him lose balance and fall into the ravine. When the Engineer looks up, he sees the same pair of red eyes repeat itself over and over in the ravine above him, forming a wall of death. The wind whistling in his ears, the Engineer falls for an extremely long time, until he realizes something - he's falling in a loop. He's about to hit the clouds he thought he saw at the top of the ravine. But he quickly realizes that they aren't clouds: they're cobwebs. They're a gargantuan nest of cobwebs.
The Engineer falls directly into the middle of the cobwebs, which act as a good and a bad thing: good in that they've cushioned his fall, and bad in that they've completely and utterly trapped him. The Mechari Engineer looks around haphazardly, trying to find a way out. He sees a large amount of black cages on all sides of him which suddenly light up in flames, spinning images of spiders dancing inside of them. With every passing second, one of the cage opens and a blue spider forms from flame, leaping out of it and scurrying on the walls. The Mechari Engineer realizes what's happening. He's being surrounded by cave spiders. What's more, the sea of red eyes from below have all traveled up the ravine's walls to meet him on the cobwebs.
In only a minute, the Mechari Engineer is surrounded by a swarm of a thousand Cave Spiders, with more being produced in record time, surging from the monster spawners. The Engineer gives a half-hearted struggle as the rest of his mind slips away, the trials he's been through in the past year catching up to him. He's spent far too long in this cursed cave. It's time to give up. The last noise the Engineer hears is the relentless sound of hissing as the Spiders fly onto his face and his body, covering him completely. He feels an agonizing sensation of pins and needles as countless teeth bite into him, allowing gallons of poison to surge through his blood stream, corrupting him entirely.
One hour after the disappearance of the Mechari Engineer from the Battlefield, a mummy of cobwebs falls out of the sky.
November 11, 2015 - Post #1,896
(+2 from jondanger and Irecreeper, +1 from MZ and Pricey IN RESERVE)
I +2 generic.
Both of these attacks are targeting Jaraxxus. If he is dead by the time one or both of these go through, they'll target a random PZ enemy who is alive at the time of the attack.
Uncle Grandpa decides to, once again, attack Jaraxxus! He travels to a wide array of intergalactic bars and outposts and puts up "WANTED" posters for Jaraxxus, offering a reward of 1,000,000,000 units to anyone who's strong enough to kill Jaraxxus and bring his head to Uncle Grandpa on a divinium platter! Word spreads very quickly, and soon, an elite team of assassins and bounty hunters mobilizes around the skies of the battlefield to take out Jaraxxus.
Seeing that his job will soon be finished for him, Uncle Grandpa relaxes in the UGRV. The first fleet of bounty hunters and assassins drops in, which each of them stealthily taking their positions and firing at Jaraxxus. Instantly, seven or so bolts of pure energy tear through Jaraxxus' skin, leaving behind smoke and embers. Then, the assassins come out of the woodwork and shoot ridiculously heavy machine guns at him, as well as firing wave after wave of razor-sharp blades! However, all of the assassins quickly realize they're after the same target, and eye each other uneasily... Then, even more assassins drop in, which each of them taking their own shot at Jaraxxus! As more and more assassins and bounty hunters assemble around the Battlefield, the place starts to get very, very crowded, and everyone realizes that only one of them will be the one to kill Jaraxxus and take home the prize of cash money! All of the assassins turn to look at each other... and then the real bloodbath begins.
Immediately, swords, knife, backstabbing implements, shurikens, assault rifles, grenades, bombs, railguns, lasers, and all other sorts of weaponry are fired every which way, with each assassin determined to kill the crowd around them and be the one to end Jaraxxus's life! Piles of corpses begin to accumulate, and with everyone paying attention to each other instead of Jaraxxus, Jaraxxus sees this as his opportunity to escape. He begins to walk away from the onslaught when he sees Uncle Grandpa chilling in his UGRV, remembering who set up the bounty to begin with! Jaraxxus calls everyone over to the UGRV, saying that it was Uncle Grandpa who called everyone here and that it was his intent to have everyone kill each other!
Angered that Uncle Grandpa would allegedly and single-handedly destroy the entire assassin's creed and brotherhood, the remaining bounty hunters (and Jaraxxus) rush towards the UGRV with a new target! Before they can make it to the RV, however, there is a massive flash of behind them! Nine elite figures whose clothes are absolutely covered in hilariously oversized weaponry step out - it's the Assassins Elite, the most powerful bounty hunters in all of Fiction! They instantly obliterate all of the assassins who went against their own kind, annihilate the corpses left behind, and cleave through Jaraxxus! They're about to finish off Uncle Grandpa for starting the whole mess, but when they turn towards him, he's already gone... Puzzled as to where he could be, the Assassins Elite just decide to leave, having taken care of everyone else.
A few seconds later, Uncle Grandpa and the UGRV emerge from the plot hole they hid themselves in.
The Scribe flips to a page titled "Cursed Mirrors." Hidden throughout Minecraftia is an unearthly glass that can be found in the deepest caves and at the bottom of the ocean. Such glass has been extracted and forged into large mirrors that shine with terrifying power. If one looks into these mirrors, their soul will become flipped in a way that a 'negative' version of them is summoned. Taken from the hypothetical "Minus World", these beings are the exact antitheses of their 'positive' counterparts. They will not attack if you don't attack them, but they can never be your friends - only neutral beings that act as your shadows at best, and your best nightmare at worst.
The Scribe disguses himself as a fashion designer and goes over to Jaraxxus, telling Jaraxxus that he's looking for new models that can wear some of his unique and brilliantly designed clothes. Jaraxxus, bored of wearing the same clothes over and over and thinking that this could be a good opportunity to kill a lot of people on the runway, accepts. The Scribe leads Jaraxxus to his fashion studio and tells Jaraxxus that his first order of business is to pose in front of a mirror so they can see which clothes fit him the best. The Scribe opens a set of doors and shows Jaraxxus a set of three mirrors that glow with a tinted light. Jaraxxus thinks they look peculiar, but can't seem to find anything explicitly off about them.
Grinning, the Scribe tells Jaraxxus to look carefully in the mirrors so that he can gauge his own appearance and see what would look best on him. Jaraxxus obeys his orders, but also begins to form a plan to stab the fashion designer when his back is turned. That's when Jaraxxus notices something off - his reflections on the mirror are blinking when he's not. Disconcerted, Jaraxxus tears his eyes away from the mirrors. The Scribe, agitated, forces Jaraxxus to look back, and when Jaraxxus refuses to comply, the Scribe gains a cyan aura and Jaraxxus's head suddenly and forcefully snaps to look at the mirrors.
Jaraxxus is unable to blink or breathe while under the Scribe's control, which makes it all the more terrifying when he sees his reflections doing just that. One of them laughs, and another cracks his neck. All three of them begin to slowly walk towards Jaraxxus, their arms reaching outwards. In the span of just a few seconds, they're directly at the mirror, and just like that, they vanish. The Scribe releases Jaraxxus from his control, letting him topple to the ground. Looking around, Jaraxxus sees that his reflections are no longer in the mirror - they're gone. But when he turns around, that's when his heart really stops. Three shadowy versions of Jaraxxus have lined up around him with piercing blue eyes and faded black skin.
Utterly confused, Jaraxxus is at a loss for words and for actions. Yet his three nega-clones mirror his actions, just standing in place. After several seconds, Jaraxxus decides that the only thing to do is to get rid of his dopplegangers by force. Fire in his hands, Jaraxxus lobs infernos at his duplicates - but, sharing his agility, they all dodge out of the way. Then they start to cry. Mystical blue tears stream down their face, and when I say cry, I mean they're really crying - their sobs and shouts reach a frightening intensity that sounds like the yells of a feral animal. Jaraxxus doesn't know how to respond to this either, and he's equally dumbfounded when the three Nega-Jaraxxuses raise their arms, controlling the mystical water they've cried into a piercing ice-blade that stabs Jaraxxus through the heart. The sword then loses form and turns a deep purple color, rising up and taking the ground of the earth with it to form a Nega-Infernal.
The Scribe grins, knowing exactly what's happening - Jaraxxus has control over fire and Infernals, so naturally, his duplicates have the power to control water. Normally, this battle would take quite some time, seeing that when you battle against yourself, you know all of your own strengths and weaknesses. But Jaraxxus is outnumbered 3 to 1, so the verdict of this fight should be clear soon enough. Raging, Jaraxxus summons his own Infernal, and the two Infernals get to work, duking it out. The Infernal lobs blasts of fire at the Nega-Infernal, but the Nega-Infernal's entire body turns into a miniature tidal wave, surging over the Infernal and putting out its flames, killing it instantly. While the Nega-Jaraxxuses are watching the display, Jaraxxus actually gets the drop on them, slicing through one of their bodies. But it doesn't take long for him to realize that his action was a mistake.
The Nega-Jaraxxuses bleed water.
In an instant, the three Nega-Jaraxxuses bend the spilling lifeforce flowing from the wound Jarraxus inflicted on them to their will. A massive hammer of frozen water is formed which swings at Jaraxxus, who is just barely able to dodge the blow. But then it swings down again. And again. And again. Jaraxxus starts to falter, and in the second that he does, the hammer turns into a frozen railgun that fires a dual shot of water and electricity. Jaraxxus is instantly struck by both, sizzling in the air. His body crumples to the ground, and the three Nega-Jaraxxuses fly around him, their bodies dissolving into frozen spikes that swing down and impale Jaraxxus in his head, upper body, and lower body. Over the course of three agonizing minutes, they melt away.
Satisfied, the Scribe dumps Jaraxxus back onto the battlefield.
November 22, 2015 - Post #2,143 ***
(+8 from jondanger and MZ, +5 from Pricey, +3 from Irecreeper, +2 from Tazz GETTING USED RIGHT NOW) That's a +26!
The Keeper
The Symphony
I +2 generic. My Alien Drone copies the action of Erelye's.
Uncle Grandpa decides to make an attack composed entirely of words from posts in DTG2! He's going to take one phrase from each post in DTG2, starting with the OP, and string them together in an attack! He goes into the Wayback Machine and begins...
"I will be" "the godmodder". "I hack the server so that" "I build" "the void". "This gunna be" "an enormous railgun" "with rainbows"! "Good luck out there, buddy." "The godmodder INSTA-KILLS" "a low-orbital ion cannon". "I help" "the missiles stop" "with a medium-sized weapon", "trying to make it spin and then break". "Anyway I eat" "existence" "because this is the godmodder's server we're talking about here." "In some way" "THE ATTACK FAILS" "in some way". "Oh ok." "Do you find that funny?" "I troll" "by tormenting you and killing you". "Join" "Pikachu" "for hacking" "someone" "and his server". "I'm guessing you know" "this will hopefully" "summon" "the godmodder's head" "with" "an un-godmoddable attack". "I take" "some weapons". "Obsidian"? "Excalibur"? "Pageclaim Beam"??? "Not needed now." "A laser blast" "has 10 times the godmodder's power", "amirite?" "Smash the" "player to" "many blocks away"! "Repeat my last move." "I do have a plan in mind for" "this so-called 'god-admin'". "I" "uses an unhackable command" "to mention" "masterchief, colé, gordan freeman, herobrine, notch, doomguy, luke sky walker,hansolo,chewbaca and darth vader"!
Everything that just happened in text happens in real life. Uncle Grandpa temporarily becomes the Godmodder in his most powerful form in DTG2, hacking into UserZero's server with the power that he's been given by Alpha and the Red Dragon. He then turns the entire server into the Void, and its in wake, summons an enormous railgun that fires rainbows! Uncle Grandpa uses the railgun to blow up a low-orbital ion cannon, whose projectile missiles fall down onto everyone in the Void! Using a medium-sized weapon, Uncle Grandpa stops the missiles by breaking them, causing to explode all over the attack's target - the Psy-Godmodder!
Uncle Grandpa then eats all of existence, because this is UserZero's server and anything can happen. The Psy-Godmodder is erased from existence - along with everything else - but because Uncle Grandpa grows bored, he undoes the previous attack, barfing up reality into a fine goo and causing all of the Psy-Godmodder's molecules to become scrambled up. Uncle Grandpa asks the Psy-Godmodder if he found that funny, and proceeds to troll the Psy-Godmodder by viciously tormenting him and killing him. The Psy-Godmodder lands in Hell near a wayward Pikachu, who got there for hacking someone and his server. Despicable, huh?
Uncle Grandpa then reveals the true purpose of the attack - to summon a massive replica of the Godmodder's head, that will attack the Psy-Godmodder with an un-godmoddable attack! First, he'll need some weapons. He won't need Obsidian, Excalibur, or a lame old Pageclaim Beam. No, what he needs is a laser blast that has ten times the Godmodder's power! Uncle Grandpa uses said laser blast against the Psy-Godmodder, incinerating him and sending him many blocks away! Then he does it again! Uncle Grandpa then does the next part of his plan - he uses an unhackable command to summon Master Chief, Cole, Gordan Freeman, Herobrine, Notch, Doomguy, Luke Skywalker, Han Solo, Chewbacca, and Darth Vader!
Normally all of these guys would be noped onto the enemy's side - but because Uncle Grandpa is temporarily the Godmodder, anything can go! Specifically, these entities are all alternate timeline versions of said characters so they don't interfere with the alpha timelines, and they're superpowered by the Red Dragon! I know that doesn't necessarily go well with Notch's character, so let's just say they're all from bad timelines. These scarlet clones all gang up on the Psy-Godmodder, severely beating him and then restraining him with chains forged from pure chaos - that way, if this attack didn't do the trick, then he'll be restrained for a while so further attacks will have a greater chance to hit!
Satisfied, Uncle Grandpa stops being the Godmodder. The entities disappear, but the chains don't.
The Scribe reappears. "I return after a long absence. Now let's see, where was I..." He flips through the Journal, finding something - two pages titled "Desert Temples." The pages are decorated with photographs and diagrams of the interior and exteriors of Desert Temples, among other things. Various stains cover the pages. Oftentimes found half-buried in scorching sand, Desert Temples are seemingly another sign of a civilization gone awry. Perhaps they were built by those who constructed the underground mineshafts? Testificates have certainly produced some of these temples to mimic the designs of the ancient ones, whatever the case. Their uses vary, with some being used as standard storage units, others as places of religious worship, others as hidden locations to hide treasures, and others still as places to store the deceased. The design and carvings inside are intricate and exquisite, and each one hides hidden treasures below the surface, but watch out - traps of explosions ranging from rudimentary in design to fiendishly complex can be found below. Watch your step.
The next page has images of various things below the temple's surface, such as items, chests, and what appear to be coffins. There are diagrams of ancient inscriptions, spells, and what appear to be bodies floating out of the temples. The deepest secrets of the Desert Temples are known only to those who know where to look. Only a few of the biggest and most powerful Temples contain Crux Ansata - crystalline shards of great power. When enough are collected and the proper incantations are recited, the Shards will activate and give the user the ability to manipulate the desert sands, sandstone, and the contents of the Desert Temples. There's powerful magic at work here... Perhaps the ultimate purpose of the Desert Temples were to serve as conduits to reshape the entire world? But what would be so important about deserts to warrant this?
The Scribe shuts his book longingly. "I never thought I'd have to gather these again..."
The Scribe looks at a computer-shaped apparatus on his wrist. He inputs a long string of numbers into it, somewhat resembling the seed of a Minecraft world. He punches the apparatus and disappears in a wisp of light. Far away, in a completely other world, the Scribe blinks into existence. He winces. "I should really stop making machines that require vigorous and painful actions to use properly. Ugh. Anyway, assuming the margin for error was nonexistent, I should be right on top of it."
Looking around, the Scribe surveys the landscape - it's a large and majestic desert. The sun scorches from above, and a dry wind blows through the air, atop the sand dunes and the swaying cacti. The Scribe plucks a dead bush from the ground, and it crumbles to dust. "Yep. This is some desert alright. The shards should be here after I gathered them the last time..." The Scribe takes out a large staff and thrusts it outward. A powerful gust of wind shoots through the air, careening towards a nearby sand mountain and blowing it apart. Sand particles spray every which way, and the Scribe covers himself with a cape, blocking the stuff from hitting him. He dusts himself off and walks foward.
Coming to a stop in front of his destination, the Scribe marvels at a buried desert temple, and a large one at that. It's an exquisite pyramid, with the entrance and two columns on either side of it towering above the Scribe. Walking in, the Scribe examines the large interior of the temple - adorned with blue flames and covered with rectangular stone chambers, it appears to be very dusty and in a state of disrepair. The containers are all inscribed with names and dates.
There is a pressure plate in the middle of the room, and when the Scribe steps on it, the middle of the room spins downwards like a corkscrew, revealing twelve hidden containers that pop out of the hole left in the ground. The Scribe hops down and takes all of the containers one by one. Each contains a red crystalline shard of varying size and shape. They all hum together with varying intensity as the Scribe pockets every last one. "The Twelve Shards of Crux Ansata. Collect them all and you'll gain the power of the theorized Sandfallers - the gods of the desert. Pagan deities created by the Desert Villagers. Although most shun their existence, they aren't entirely based in falsehood..."
The Scribe takes one last look at the ceiling of the Desert Temple. Its carvings seem to depict various events - the twisted creation story of whatever civilization built the structure. The Scribe can see a boiling abyss and a white light with many symbols - perhaps an entire language - scattered throughout it. Next to that are beings of pure darkness, and a war that lasted an eon. There's a pit with a massive lock, a scratched cube, and a flourishing world. A world that was soon engulfed by chaos as beasts rose up from the caves, faulty creations of the gods. There were three sets of gods - the people of darkness, the Sandfallers, and the Nightmares.
The people of darkness were thought to be an analogue to the Endermen, and the Sandfallers were praised as those who watched over the desert and other such harsh climates. The Nightmares were relatively recent compared to the other two - their very existence and origin in the Desert mythology is shrouded in mystery. The only things known are that they suddenly appeared from the rifts and cracks the people of the world discovered and created, and their reign was absolute - it took concentrated effort to drive them away. Historians and scientists have no way of knowing if this event is true or where it fits with the widely accepted creation myths, but with the beings of power lurking below Minecraftia's surface, a possible event such as the Nightmares' reign wouldn't have been out of the question.
All of these mysteries without answers swirl through the Scribe's head as he teleports back to UserZero's server, sealing the entrance to the Desert Temple behind him.
Back on the server, the Scribe marches up to the Chief, who looks at him quizzically. Since the Scribe has been idle for quite some time, the Chief doesn't exactly know what to expect. The Scribe quickly pulls out the twelve containers from his coat, casting them onto the ground without a care in the world. The flimsy containers shatter as each of the Shards fall to the ground, creating a pulsing beat that seeps through every crack and seam in the world, causing the entire planet to tilt and fall off balance.
Grinning, the Scribe clenches his fist as the Shards waver upwards, snapping together to form a single crystalline ankh - the Crux Ansata. A golden chain forms around the symbol as it falls onto the Scribe's neck like a necklace. The Scribe spreads his hands out as the earth rumbles. All around the Battlefield, massive shapes rise through the sky, forming towers and castles and massive lettering that falls to the earth, pools on the ground, and rises back to the sky. The Chief looks up in awe as the Scribe composes the following sentence in sand: WELCOME TO MY WORLD.
The Scribe cackles as he thrusts his arms outward, every single sand block and every single piece of desert in the server rushing towards the Chief at once, forming a massive tendril of pure fluid geometry. The Chief, unable to dodge a projectile hundreds of blocks wide, is impaled by the impact. The Scribe rides up to him on a pillar of sand, chuckling. "Isn't this little thing the greatest? I can shape the sands of time to my will. Twleve crystals, composing a singular artifact of undeniable majesty... No doubt this is where the forgotten legends of yore originated. Those who gathered these crystals could have been seen as gods! ...And treated as such."
The Scribe waves his arm and the sand disperses, the Chief falling to the ground. The sands rise into the air like waves of solid matter, and the Scribe snaps his fingers as more shapes hurtle across the sky - Desert Temples. They whistle across the field, slamming into solid ground like stones. They create chaos as they land, each impact site inching closer and closer to the Chief, who tries to move but finds he can't. He's bound to the ground by indestructible sand. Blue fire flickers in the Scribe's eyes as the sand around the Chief hardens into pale blue glass by a sudden explosion of heat.
Every Desert Temple that lands onto the ground remains perfectly intact, not suffering a scratch or a dent - but quickly, everyone realizes that something is happening to each and every one. Blue light flickers from the Temples, unearthly light that strikes the Battlefield as intensely wrong. Wait, that's not blue light... It's much too dark for that. It almost looks... indigo.
"I tried using this earlier, but... well, you don't need to know that story. And for those of you that do, keep it to yourself. I'm sensing a very apparent lack of privacy around here, and it irritates me. Regardless, I think I've finally found the perfect test subjects for this Indigo Flame - people who can't fight back. People who aren't really people at all... Because they're cadavers." The Scribe nods his head as bursts of flame spiral from the Temples, stone coffins shooting from them and assembling in rank-and-file formation in the air.
Cackling maniacally, puffs of indigo fire resembling those waving around candles - or perhaps, torches - light themselves around every stone coffin. Hundreds of them fill the air, representing an imposing army from beyond the grave. "Every one of the Testificates in here was killed in some way at some point in time. They died, and they were buried here in the sand to be closer to the core of the world. It's time they had use again. It's time they lived again!" The Scribe's body surges with indigo as his will extends into the defunct minds of the dead bodies, surging a spark into them. Bits of code that were inactive for years turn on, running programs, performing checks, and making the Testificates... live.
The tops of the coffins burst off as, uncertainly, the bodies contained within float through the air, twitching and spasming. The dead Testificates have pale green skin, and their eyes are empty holes, containing only the tiniest specks of white. Each of their mouths are contorted into smiles, and these smiles don't show affection - only teeth. Their robes are tattered, each displaying some kind of insignia. Some of the Testificates are holding weapons - weapons they were buried with. Indigo fire courses through their bodies, the things keeping them alive.
"Alright, that worked! Now I can control sand and an unstoppable undead army! So, Testificates! What do you have to say for yourselves?" The deceased Testificates try to speak, but they can't. Only ragged wheezing and hoarse sounds come from their mouths, dry and stained with disuse. "Hm. Don't speak, then. Fight instead. Try attacking this Chief so--" Without another word, the wall of Testificates advances towards the Chief. The Scribe's will is so absolute that they obey him without a second thought. Such is the power of the Indigo Flame.
Looking down, the Scribe sees that the red power of the Crux Ansata is glowing with a purple tint. Whatever the Indigo Flames are doing, it looks like the Crux is reacting to it... or even amplifying it. "Is this your true power? Like this flame manipulates the minds of living beings... Do you manipulate the 'minds' of blocks? Ha... Hahaha... HAHAHAHA! YES!" The Scribe raises his arms in triumph! "THIS IS PERFECT! Everything's going exactly as planned! Now I'm one step closer... And they'll do all the work for me."
The Testificates advance towards the Chief, surrounding him. Still held together by chains of glass, he can't move. Any projectile attacks he throws at the Testificates pass right through their rotting frames. Corporeal damage won't affect them - the thing keeping them alive is the Scribe's pure determination and will. The Scribe takes a large step into the ground, more tendrils of sand piercing through the Chief. The Testificates all lay their hands on the tendrils, corrupting the sand with black power. The liquid darkness surges across the Chief's body in a malignant spiderweb formation, causing him to howl in pain.
The Testificates put their cursed touch on the Chief themselves, extending their indigo power and their blighted magics onto him. He becomes corrupted, the integrity and structure of his code clashing with the overwhelming urge to submit to the indigo, to follow in its ways. His skin grows darker and darker as his body begins to literally decompose and lose its shape around him, melting into nothingness - he's losing the determination to live.
After several minutes of this agonizing torture, the Scribe puts his hand up and the Testificates stop. "That will be all." The Testificates fly back to their coffins, the lids of which rattle and fly back on. The coffins all sink into the ground, lying there, away from their original resting places. The Desert Temples stay lodged in the earth, unmoving. And the coiling sand of the planet still wraps around the Chief like a sandstorm. "Now that they've weakened you, it's time for the killing blow. Well, this probably won't actually kill you. But it will serve as a fitting end to this latest experiment."
The Scribe takes all of the sand on the planet and wraps it into an ultra-fine spear, shrinking all of the sand down into its densest form, so dense that millions of blocks are occupying the space of one, so dense that it's glowing with creative energy. The Scribe barely manages to hold it as he hoists it upwards and shoves it through the Chief's melting frame, the sand surging and spiraling across his body as everything the Chief is transmutes into it. Soon, the Chief is nothing more than a sandstone statue. Chuckling, the Scribe takes off the Crux Ansata. Its glow subsides, and the Chief crumbles in the wind.
Later...
The Scribe stores the Crux Ansata away in a vault, locking it with an unseen combination. He adds some details to his book, writing about the experiment he just observed and adding information to various pages in kind. Whatever he's planning, this was some sort of step towards an end result. He then checks on the progress of his charges - one denoted by a symbol of currency, and another with three small dots arranged in a triangular formation. They're going fairly well. When the time arises, he'll devote serious time into them.
Lastly, the Scribe takes a look at a box. This box is a peculiar one, mind you. It's peculiar in that it's completely invisible and intangible, barely even qualifying as an actual object in the code of the universe - the Scribe had to pull some strings for it to be classified as such. Inside of the "box" are nine "slots", seven of them empty and two of them occupied by symbols of radiant power - power so great that the Scribe can't even understand it. He grins.
"I've put too much work into this to stop now. It's time for the Third to rise again. Who knows? This might be the answer to more than just one of my problems..."
The Scribe shuts the box.
November 27, 2015 - Post #2,226 ***
The Keeper
(+3 from Tazz, +1 from MZ)
The Symphony
(+3 from Tazz, +2 from MZ)
I +2 generic. My Alien Drone copies the action of Erelye's.
Uncle Grandpa fires up another round of spliced-together DTG2 words in the form of an attack!
"Screw it, I just" "fire stuff at" "Chuck Norris". "1" "damage is dealt" "and everyone dies!" "I electrify" "1 more player". "That does a vague" "upgrade" "to obsidian level". "That is", "I accidently" "let" "it" "only be destroyed by one thing". "Ok, this" "next" "summon" "will see the charges" "upgrade" "2" "1 beast with equivalent power to the GM"! "Behold, the" "'c-4' 'hax' 'thing' 'roll'"!! "I summon" "my charge"! "The force" "just exploded" "an interstellar firetruck." "I'm starting to think" "IT'S" "like" "the devilmodder"... "The base" "got melt-ified" "again". "/" "Godmodder" "alt". "actualy", "when" "I summon 100,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 ^100,000 flaming idiots", " "I foresaw" "7" "bursts through the" "Game Master" "from Infinity" "with water"! "I hope it is" "killing them"... "Yep," "intakilled"! "I vote" "to attack the godmodder" "and begin hacking" "another wave" "on our" "Godmodder"! "Progress on" "hack": "100,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000^100,000" / "1000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000"!! "I fire" "all" "stuff" "out of existence. And" "it will" "appear", "defend", "flip the bird", "upgrade", "and then shoot the godmodder in the head with a M82A1 just to make sure"! ..."why is" "the Godmodder", "which is" "in Soviet Russia", "increased to ????"?
Once again, everything that just happens in the text now happens in real life. Uncle Grandpa, the effects of the previous attack carrying over to this one, once again becomes the Godmodder at the peak of his power in DTG2! Using his power, he fires every single piece of ammunition in the universe at Chuck Norris, somehow breaking past his eternal struggle with the ACN Turret and dealing 1 damage to him! Because of the massive power needed to actually damage Chuck Norris, the resulting explosion creates a MASSIVE FIELD WIPE, killing EVERYTHING!
When the smoke clears, only Uncle Grandpa, the most powerful godmodder on the field, is left standing. The Battlefield is now a desolate crater blasted down to bedrock, and the skies have been tinged red with blood. Uncle Grandpa celebrates his newfound power and ownership of the server for quite some time until he grows bored. He spawns a random player back on the field and electrifies him with powerful magic, turning him into solid obsidian and giving him massive defenses - he can only be destroyed by one thing in the universe, and if he is, the resulting explosion will annihilate the server in its entirety!
Uncle Grandpa decides to take his experiment a bit further, creating a powerful charge that will turn the hapless player into an absolutely gargantuan beast with equivalent power to Uncle Grandpa himself! He quickly realizes that such a thing will be useless without people to test it against, so he snaps his fingers and restores the Battlefield to its former glory when everyone was alive. However, Uncle Grandpa harnesses the power of the fallen copies of the Battlefield's warriors to fuel his own charge, successfully turning the players into a monstrosity: the C4-Hax-Thing-Roll! It's a horrifying glitchy mess made of explosives, hacks, rolling objects, and various things that I shouldn't name.
The force of the summon sends radiant power throughout reality itself, creating quakes in the fabric of space and time! Across multiple universes, things go haywire... The moons of Alternia change their orbit. An influx of weirdness spreads across Gravity Falls. Color flickers on in Limbo for the briefest of seconds. The Secret of the Void raises an eyebrow. And an interstellar firetruck, on its way to help stop an inferno raging across an entire dimension, explodes. The resulting fire moves across all of reality since nothing is there to stop it, the fire flickering in the skies of Minecraftia and spreading onto the server, lighting everything on fire. The C4-Hax-Thing-Roll laughs a violent laugh, and Uncle Grandpa begins to worry that he could have just summoned a truly evil copy of himself - a devilmodder!
Uncle Grandpa tries to rollback his changes, but since the C4-Hax-Thing-Roll has his powers, he can't merely be banned or rollbacked! The C4-Hax-Thing-Roll spews corrupted fire across the entire Battlefield, melting everything, terrain, entities, villages, and the bases of both sides of the war! Suddenly knowing what must be done, Uncle Grandpa types a command in console: /Godmodder alt. It spawns an alternate version of Godmodder477! With their combined godmodding skill, the Godmodders summon 100,000,000,000, 000,000,000,000,000^100,000 flaming idiots that suicide rush a new target - The_Nonexistent_Tazz!
They combine into seven tendrils of unholy water ripped straight from the Infinite Red Sea, bursting right through Tazz's First Guardian body and suspending him in the air! The powers of two simultaneous godmodders are at least able to temporarily hold Tazz, as the Godmodders vote to attack the fake godmodder (the C4-Hax-Thing-Roll) with a powerful wave hacked from the Red Sea - if anything can destroy this monstrosity, perhaps oblivion incarnate will do the trick! Combining the charges, the hack is completed nigh-instantaneously, rising to absurd levels of power that dwarf the known universe!
The Godmodders then hold every object in existence at once - every piece of matter on every planet in every system in every galaxy in every universe in every dimension in Fiction, including everything in the Void, every pocket dimension, and every alternate and doomed timeline. They accomplish this with their powers, the powers of the Red Dragon, and the powers of The_Nonexistent_Tazz, whose First Guardian energies they share through the spears the flaming idiots stuck through him - they're siphoning the Red Sun energies from him into the Godmodders! Now that they hold Fiction in the palm of their hands, the Godmodders throw this power at the C4-Hax-Thing-Roll, knocking everything in existence and the Thing out of existence in entirety!
From their vantage point in nothingness, the Godmodders can clearly see the compacted ball of existence sail into the abyss as it turns into a singularity, exploding into infinite being with a resounding whoosh as everything in Fiction suddenly snaps back into shape with a power so momentous that it sends cracks across EVERYTHING! Reality has been fractured, and the biggest fracture is right across the thing at the epicenter of the new big bang, the the C4-Hax-Thing-Roll. Reality rebounds on the Thing, appearing all around it, defending it, and then turning its back on it and flipping the bird! The Thing is so horrified that it melts away, and reality then upgrades itself and shoots the Thing in the head with an M82A1 to - finally - finish it off!
The Godmodders breathe a sigh of relief knowing that their work is done, the alt Godmodder disappearing and only Uncle Grandpa remaining. But then, there is a massive rumble. The ground lifts upwards, and a gargantuan shape forms from it... Only to be sent back down. Phew. Looks like it was a false alarm.
Советская Россия, 19XX
Это было пять минут, так как кубический человек появился на заставе тундры. Мы не знаем, что делать с ним. Он, кажется, быть изготовлены из некоторой комбинации взрывчатых веществ, злокачественные технологии, различные штаны и сферические объекты вращательными.
Он упал с неба и разрушили близлежащий лес, уплощение деревья для миль вокруг. Он... Он, кажется, движется... О, Боже, уже он превратился в гигантский голове? Нет... Нет, нет, нет... Он повсюду, он распространяется по всему--
After a minute, the ground lifts upwards again, and the rumbling returns! Uncle Grandpa watches, horrified, as a gigantic and corrupted version of the Godmodder's head rises from the ground, liquid sloughing off of its face and spreading its corrupted tendrils everywhere! His expression turns to joy - this was what he wanted from the attack - to summon a giant Godmodder's head that would use an ungodmoddable attack! But this isn't even the Godmodder anymore - it's a being more powerful than him, so much more powerful that his body is only temporary, and he can't exist for more than a few minutes - he is known only as ????.
???? turns its gaze on UserZero, opening its mouth to reveal endless catacombs of horror and despair. A massive multicolored orb spins in its mouth, shining brilliantly with all the light in existence - it seems that, when the Thing met its violent end at the hands of reality snapping back together, some of reality's inherent creative power leaked through it and was captured by the Thing's godmodding power and caused it to reform as this abomination - as such, ???? holds the entire creative potential of all of Fiction at its fingertips.
With that, ???? fires an absolute beam of hyperdeath at UserZero that screams towards her faster than the speed of light. This has several implications - one being that because it's traveling at such high speeds, it's slamming into atoms faster than they have time to move away, resulting in massive nuclear explosions that form on all sides of the already massive ray, and second, that because it's moving so fast, it's stretching the boundary between space and time, meaning that this thing is hitting UserZero at all possible points in its timeline and in hers. Therefore, no matter what she does or where she goes, she is getting hit by this beam, because even if she has a reaction speed faster than light or if she can stop time, she's still getting hit because it hits her instantaneously and at all possible points in time.
The resulting explosion can be seen from a universe away. Unfortunately, ???? uses up all of its energy as a result and dies. Uncle Grandpa stops being the Godmodder, and everything in the Battlefield returns to normal - except UserZero.
I redo my attack on a living PZ entity.
December 4, 2015 - Post #2,335 ***
The Keeper
(+4 from Tazz)
The Symphony
(+4 from Tazz, +3 from MZ)
I +2 generic.
The Scribe walks over to G.F. Hemomania. He thinks about how to attack the giant warship, and then recalls something in his Journal that can be used to take out high-power things with relative ease. He flips to a page called "Sin". An ancient and occult force, concentrated in every object in existence. My experiments have shown that all creatures and objects have sin inside of them, and, as life is intrinsically flawed, every living being will express sin in some way - just some will do so more than others. The more you sin, the less revered you are in the eyes of the gods, and the more you sin, the more capable of hate you are. Predisposing yourself to evil, as a result, will cause you to do even more evil down the road. Truly a vicious cycle, and one that no one is safe from. No one is without sin, but some people are a cesspool of it... And for good reason. Getting enough sin will align you with the God Below. Some people call him Stan for whatever reason. Making deals with the God Below at the cost of your essence can result in acquiring great power... BEINGS OF SIN: ISAAC (I HAVE HIM ON SPEED DIAL!) GODMODDERS (FRUSTRATING BEINGS OF SMOKE AND MIRRORS) CURSED DUPLICATES (WATCH YOUR REFLECTION) MARCELINE'S DAD (IT CAME FROM THE NIGHTOSPHERE!) PONIES (KILL ME PLEASE)
The Scribe dials a number on a device at his wrist - 444-0109. After several seconds, the Scribe speaks into the device. "Hello? Is this the God Below? Yeah, I'd like to speak to your pupil. Isaac's his name, right? Uh, yes, I know he has a demonic name. ...What? You're telling me he identifies as a demon? Listen, that's stupid--no, no, I'm not doubting you! I would never! Yes I know you can smite me with the unholiest of blood laser blasts but PLEASE DON'T! ...Fine. I'll call him by his demonic name. Can I speak to... Maw of the Mega Empty Vessel, the Awesomest of Demons who is Super Cool? ...Yes. Thanks. Did he just put me on hold? Ugh... That's what he gets for letting a toddler name himself--ohnohe'shere. Uh, yeah! Hello there, Maw of the Mega Empty Vessel, the Awesomest of Demons who is Super Cool! I know you're busy training with the God Below, but I need your help right now. You know, you could show me that cool trick with the brimstone again if you want? I can tell you've been perfecting that thing! What do you say? Ask the ol' guy to let you take a break. ...Alright, thanks man, you're the best." There's a click, and the Scribe sighs. "Dealing with hell is serious business."
The ground starts to rumble, and the Scribe backs away as what looks like a rickety trapdoor materializes from out of nowhere. It is flung open and a jet-black streak flies out of it, hovering in the air. The Scribe looks in awe at the demonic form of Isaac. Once a lost kid hiding in his basement from his mother, he has been recognized by Satan as the next Antichrist, and he is now training to fully realize his role. Isaac has multiple sets of horns, large leathery wings, pure black skin, sharp teeth, piercing eyes, and several demonic symbols etched into his forehead. Isaac sees the Scribe, grinning, as he puffs up his cheeks and spits out a long stream of blood that's as hot as a laser. It sails across the sky before splitting into eight more lasers that careen in different directions across the horizon. Each stream blows up a small hill.
Clapping, the Scribe approaches Isaac. "Well done, well done! You've been training very well. I guess you don't need my help anymore? The God Below's treating you pretty well down there, I'd expect." The Scribe chuckles darkly. "I've known him for far too long. There's a reason he never lets me directly visit you, you know. I've been banned from Sheol for quite some time. What? You want to know why? Well, it's a rather long story, and one that involves my book, my glasses, an invisible box, a glowing hourglass, and my own inner demons. I'd be glad to tell you it... but at another time. Right now, focus on destroying that warship for me."
Not needing any further direction, Isaac nods and zips into the sky, flying towards G.F. Hemomania. Isaac holds his hand in the air and points it at the airship, a large red crosshair positioning itself on the ship's mast. There is a large beeping noise as a shape blocks out the sun - a huge missile screaming towards the ground. It impacts the ship, exploding in a massive fireball that quickly turns blood-red, spewing out at least twenty different blood beams at once that bounce across terrain before rebounding through the ship. A very large hole is punched through it as a result, flames and smoke spewing from the G.F. Hemomania, which is now losing altitude.
Isaac flies under it and pulls out another weapon from hammerspace - a knife. He closes his eyes and throws it at the G.F. Hemomania with a mighty throw. Darkness envelops Isaac as a barrage of smaller knives gleam from out of nowhere, sailing towards the ship and creating a massive column of knives that tear through the ship's surface like butter, carving across its structure and creating hundreds of miniature explosions that do even more damage. Isaac catches the main knife and flies close to the ship's hull, scratching the knife across its surface. Its impossibly sharp edge causes the ship to break apart, sections of it splitting, shattering, and exploding wherever Isaac moves.
An image of a skull flashes across his head as Isaac pulls out two scythes from his eyes, throwing them at the G.F. Hemomania. They spin in the air and carve through the ship's engines, creating a massive blue explosion as they implode. He keeps firing a steady onslaught of scythes which maneuver through the air at deadly speeds. To accompany it, Isaac takes out a razor blade and slices it across his chest. His blood turns black and swirls into a large black ring that is thrown at the ship, melting whatever it touches. After the carnage, a large ring-shaped hole is left in the ship's hull. Lastly, Isaac cuts off his own head with the razor blade, dying on the spot. His body parts fall to the ground below, their shadows being cast across the field thanks to the setting sun. Suddenly, the shadows quiver and take shape, reassembling into a shifting form of Isaac made from pure darkness - it has piercing red eyes and a small fez on top. Isaac has turned into Dark Judas!
Dark Judas flies up and whips out a replica of the God Below's head - in his Mega form! The item begins charging up, drawing the life of the world inwards as a pulsating red vortex begins to form in front of Dark Judas' body... After several seconds, an all-encompassing boom sounds as a gargantuan blood beam is fired across the field that is bigger than the G.F. Hemomania itself. The warship cannot avoid the attack, and its entire being is incinerated. The beam persists for a long time, and when it finally finishes firing, its energy spent, the warship sinks to the ground like a stone, colliding with it like a husk.
Dark Judas warps at the feet of the Scribe, his true body parts reforming as Isaac regains his form. "Bravo, Is... uh, Maw of the Mega Empty Vessel, the Awesomest of Demons who is Super Cool. That was truly quite a show. You've certainly still got your strength." Isaac nods happily and flies towards the trapdoor, descending through it. The trapdoor promptly disappears. After several seconds, the Scribe looks at the sunken ship. "So this is the power of sin... Terrible deeds can accomplish great things. My research is irrefutable. Yet... I wonder." The Scribe turns his gaze to the ground. "Evil is never the only option. I know this. So should I honestly act like I don't?" The Scribe grimaces and walks away.
December 5, 2015 - Post #2,347 ***
The Keeper
The Symphony
I +2 Bomber. The Alien Drone attacks G.F. Hemomania.
The Scribe runs over to the fallen form of Uncle Grandpa. "There you are... Locating your corpse took longer than I thought it would." Uncle Grandpa coughs, his form badly scarred and burnt. "Hey, I ain't dead just yet. Come on, pal. Help me up." The Scribe takes Uncle Grandpa's hand and helps him up. Uncle Grandpa's body spins around 360 degrees as he pats all of the dust off of him, talking to the Scribe. "Alright, now I'm going to need you to say <hr style="2px solid grey;">. Can you do that?" The Scribe ponders this for a second. "Uh. Okay."
Uncle Grandpa is now good as new, his body shining and gleaming like a washed car. "Now that a long time's passed, I'm fully healed! Thanks a bunch! Abusing the rules of conventional storytelling and formatting in this place is fun, huh?" "...What just happened?" The Scribe looks around, confused. "No time's passed at all. You just suddenly got better." Uncle Grandpa wraps his third arm around the Scribe. "And that's the beauty of it! Time only passed for me! In this timeframe, I took a hop over to the RV and got out my first aid kit! Trust me, there's a lot of stuff in there you don't want to touch. But now I'm squeaky-clean!"
Excited, the Scribe points to the field. "You mean... You're invincible? Amazing! Get back on the battlefield and start fighting again! Do you know how powerful you are? You damaged UserZero, for Notch's sake! There's nothing you can't do!" Uncle Grandpa adjusts his suspenders. "Listen, pal. It's not that easy. I can't go back on the field after I die. Then the Great Tazz in the Sky will notice me and ban me for breaking the rules." The Scribe blinks. "...The Great Tazz in the Sky?" Uncle Grandpa nods. "You heard me, kid. And while we're on the subject of things not being easy..." Uncle Grandpa kneels down and points at the Scribe's chest. "I sense... emotional issues. I feel like there's a lot of turmoil inside of you. Things that have been bottled up for years."
The Scribe jumps away. "Don't look into my soul! Only I can do that!" Uncle Grandpa chuckles. "Hey, I don't need to look into your soul to tell you that. Just look at the way you act! Treating everyone around here like tools, saying that friendship is only a key to a locked chest of power... Come on! You don't have to talk to others like that! I'm sure that everybody here could be nice to you if you just let them!" The Scribe whips out the Rorschach. "Nice? Nice?? Being nice never did me anything! Getting to my current position, on the verge of my biggest discovery yet, took a lot of shady practices! I couldn't have known what I know now by walking the straight and narrow path! And I'm not about to change for some soldiers in a bloated war!"
Uncle Grandpa narrows his eyes. "Well maybe you should, pal. You said it yourself. This war's going to end up affecting a lot of people. Maybe even the fate of the entire universe. When all's said and done, and your fates go in the history books, do you want to be remembered as a hero or a villain? As someone who helped the fighters, or who acted like a jerk? I know you've done a lot, and I know some things you're not proud of. But everyone has the power to change, kid." The Scribe glares at Uncle Grandpa. "...Are you talking about Cinavi." Uncle Grandpa shrugs his shoulders. "Not just her. But if you're looking to make yourself a better person, I'd say she's a great place to start. Talk to her."
Uncle Grandpa blinks out of existence and comes back with a top hat and cane. "Now if you excuse me, I think I should be off! Giant Realistic Flying Tiger, get over here!" A loud roar sounds as a giant realistic flying tiger descends onto the field. The Scribe, snapping out of his stupor, calls to Uncle Grandpa. "Hey, wait, wait! Don't you think you could... uh. Give me more advice?" Uncle Grandpa laughs. "There's hope for you yet! If you ever need me, look in your bathroom mirror, see with eyes unclouded by hate, and say... GOOD MORNING!"
Uncle Grandpa and the Giant Realistic Flying Tiger fly into the sky until they can't be seen.
January 11, 2016 - Post #2,762 ***
The Keeper
(+9 from Tazz, +3 from MZ, +1 from TFT and Modpack)
The Symphony
(+9 from Tazz, +3 from MZ, +1 from Pricey, Richard, Modpack, and TFT)
The Seed
(+8 from Tazz, +3 from MZ, +1 from Modpack and Richard)
The Throne
(+8 from Tazz)
I +3 MZ. Yes... I'm finally back. Hopefully I stick with the game for good this time. I start two new charges. The below action is Focused.
While the Scribe goes off to summon The Keeper, Uncle Grandpa reappears on the field with renewed interest. It looks like, from time to time, he'll be making nice one-off attacks to keep things Wacky and Zany™. With that in mind, Uncle Grandpa cracks his knuckles and begins. He teleports everyone on the field into a massive lecture hall and dons the attire of a professor, pointing and motioning to a large whiteboard with an extensive series of notes scribbled on it.
"Welcome back, class. Today's lesson is on jumping to conclusions. Please turn your Green™ textbooks to page NaN. Make sure it's the Green™ one, not Blue™, Yellow™, or Red™, and definitely not Black™." Everyone is confused. What class is this? What textbooks are they supposed to have? Aren't they fighting on a battlefield? Suddenly everyone shrugs off those stupid thoughts, as they're all obviously classmates at Uncle Grandpa's School for the Cerebrally Declined. They've all been friends for a very long time and are hoping to graduate with high honors. Uncle Grandpa grins smugly.
Everyone looks at the backpacks they've had all their lives and rummages around in them. There are a lot of textbooks... But Professor Grandpa said to only grab the green one. Or was it the Green™ one? Is there a difference? The majority of the class successfully grabs the right textbooks, grinning in a frantic attempt to please Professor Grandpa. Something in the back of their minds tells them they don't want to get the Professor mad. A small few of the class pulls out the wrong color textbook, flipping through its pages and trying to make sense of its contents. They might as well be in a different language, because they don't understand any of it. They can't figure out the words. Words not working for mouth not working for mind not working for help. Help. Help I don't know what to read I help. H. e. l. p. .......phelepehlepehpehhleh.
Professor Grandpa chuckles as several people blink out of the classroom instantaneously. He speaks into a microphone that grew from his coat. "Would the Department of Release pick up, uh... twelve new subjects? Prepare them for integration." The rest of the class sweats and turns to page NaN, which is at the frontback of the textbook. The textbooks the Recalled picked up are sitting on their desks, unmoving. The class fights back the urge to read through them with glee. They want to join the Recalled. They must be free, free from the constant monotony of days gone by, spent in a classroom with this--Professor Grandpa's eyes narrow. "There's a time and a place for everyone, class. Don't worry about the Recalled. Now, follow along." Professor Grandpa's hand extends to the corner of the whiteboard, tapping it.
"Conclusions. What do we know about them?" Several hands raise up. Professor Grandpa leers and those hands break instantly, their bones melting into putty as the beings to whom they belong howl in pain, crying and sobbing as they abruptly die. They flop in their chairs like ragdolls before blinking out of existence. "That wasn't an invitation to raise your hand. Don't you remember when I say questions they're meant to be rhetorical?" No one answers. "Good. So, conclusions. We know that they bring a sense of finality. They're a journey's end, the last step, the final piece of the puzzle. You all seek your own conclusions, right? Don't answer. I know you do." Professor Grandpa paces.
"So, what makes a conclusion? There's always some long and drawn-out process to get there. You start somewhere, seek out an end, then try to get there. Sometimes the journey's straightforward. Point A to Point B to Point C and so on. But sometimes, there aren't any points. And where the path to the end should be, there are holes. Gaps. That's when you jump to conclusions!" Some of the class mutters amongst themselves, wondering what Professor Grandpa's talking about. Professor Grandpa flashsteps towards them and, growing many extra arms, slaps those who talked in the face. Hard. They convulse, the color draining from their bodies as they turn into ashes. "Pay attention, class. That was a nice demonstration. Your classmates jumped to conclusions. They didn't know what I was doing, so they assumed I was doing any number of things. They wanted to see which path I was heading on without knowing where I was going. That's what jumping to conclusions is."
Professor Grandpa points to the center of the board, which seems to depict a door. "When you jump to conclusions... You make inferences. You tie things together that have no meaning. Yet, in your own mind, you think they do. Your own philosophies and misguided beliefs tie those things together. You assume. And when you assume hard enough, you believe. And when you believe hard enough, you become so bent on making your beliefs reality that you stop at nothing to make them true. That's the basis for religion, conquest, war, propaganda, government, and society as a whole! Now, it's time for an example as to how devastating jumping to conclusions can be. Listen carefully, class. And take notes. If at any point you have a question, I'll know. And I'll act accordingly."
Professor Grandpa clears his throat and begins to recite a speech.
Destroy the Godmodder's acronym is "DTG".
D is the 4th letter of the alphabet.
T is the 20th letter of the alphabet.
G is the 7th letter of the alphabet.
4 + 20 + 7 = 31. This will be relevant in a bit.
Every single entity thinks of the same question: what's Destroy the Godmodder? The question fills their heads, consuming them. They have no idea what those three words together mean, and although they know the definition of each word, they are clueless as to what they mean in such a context. Professor Grandpa understands this and shuts off the lights in the room, making a loud popping noise.
When the emergency light panels turn on, flooding dim red light across the room, every single entity - including the two Godmodders and the Gatekeeper - has been rendered into a molten sludge, pooling together into a frothing broth of liquid entity. Their decaying and digitized screams bounce off of the room's walls. The only students left are the players, who obviously know what DTG is. Professor Grandpa grins and continues.
12 + 9 + 9 = 30.
7 + 1 + 9 = 17.
31 + 30 + 17 = 77. What's so special about 77? Let's find out.
Several of the players wonder about 77's relevance. They only realize their error when it's too late, as their bodies pop and sizzle into nothingness, joining the cesspool that is congregating on the lecture hall's floor. The remaining players panic, but Uncle Grandpa's gaze commands them to stay strong.
On page 77 of DTG2, the first turn of the Witching Hour minigame was posted.
The Witching Hour minigame was centered around Team Fortress 2.
Team Fortress 2's acronym is "TF2".
T is the 20th letter of the alphabet.
F is the 6th letter of the alphabet.
T + F = Z, the 26th letter of the alphabet.
A few players wonder what the Witching Hour is and what Team Fortress 2 is. They fall.
Z can also be pronounced as "zed".
"Zed" sounds like Zedd, the name of an electronic music composer.
One of Zedd's songs was used as the background music for the End of Act 2 event of DTG2.
This event was known as the Scratch.
A smaller few players wonder what Zedd's music sounds like. They fall.
The Scratch is an event where a massive amount of temporal energy is released that resets certain aspects of a universe.
There are 21 words in that sentence.
2 + 1 = 3.
The Scratch comes from a webcomic called Homestuck.
Homestuck is hosted on a website known as MS Paint Adventures.
The 3rd webcomic on the website is Problem Sleuth.
With this, we now have a link from the number 77 to DTG2, TF2, Zedd, and MSPA. Now let's have a further look at Problem Sleuth.
An even smaller few entertain the tiny notion of what exactly an MSPA would be. They fall.
On the 77th page of Problem Sleuth, the titular hero finds an item called the Safe Key.
When someone touches a plate during a game of baseball without getting hit by the baseball, they are "safe".
Baseball is a major league sport. Because of this, it is broadcasted on television.
A channel that broadcasts baseball - and other sports - is ESPN.
E is the 5th letter of the alphabet.
S is the 19th letter of the alphabet.
P is the 16th letter of the alphabet.
N is the 14th letter of the alphabet.
5 + 19 + 16 + 14 = 54.
5 + 4 = 9.
9 + 3 = 12.
An even even smaller few wonder where that "3" came from before realizing it was from the 2 + 1 that brought MSPA into the lecture. They brace themselves for a death that doesn't come. Uncle Grandpa nods, seemingly knowing that they found the answer successfully.
12 is an important number in DTG2 and MSPA.
There are 12 main combatants of the Psi-Godmodding War (discounting the Psi-Godmodder and other supplementary characters), and two sets of Trolls that play sessions of The Game: 12 Alpha Trolls and 12 Beta Trolls.
This makes three sets of 12. 12 + 12 + 12 = 36.
77 + 36 = 115. 115 will be relevant in a bit.
No one dares to question the lecture.
Now we have tied DTG2, TF2, Zedd, MSPA, and ESPN together, all with the number 77 and some variations thereof. But all of this stuff seems pretty random. We need a unifying element. Something present in all of these items... Let's look for it.
The class, or what's left of it, hesitantly nods in understanding.
The 115th page of DTG2 contains an encoded binary message:
0010100010000100100111000100110101001100011111000001111001010101010101010101000100101010
0010110000100100010101001000101001010001000001111111000000001010101010100100010100101010
10101010101.
The message does not translate to anything, but it contains 77 1s.
The 115th page of Problem Sleuth is the 333rd overall page of MSPA.
3 + 3 + 3 = 9.
On Optimum TV, ESPNU is channel 144.
1 + 4 + 4 = 9.
Z is the 26th letter of the alphabet.
E is the 5th letter of the alphabet.
D is the 4th letter of the alphabet.
D is the 4th letter of the alphabet.
26 + 5 + 4 + 4 = 39. This contains the third 9 in our sequence.
The first digit is a 3, indicating that there are three 9s in our sequence, which there are.
The first 9 was in MSPA, the second was in ESPN, and the third was in Zedd.
But what about DTG2? The answer is obvious.
9 + 9 + 9 = 27.
The first digit is a 2, indicating the existence of two 7s. Guess what number we found in DTG2?
Understanding graces the rest of the class. The impact of the lecture hits them.
That's right. 77.
We have now found the missing link. Using the power of the number 9, which is a perfect square, we have found the true link between DTG2 and 77. Using the sacred form of mathematics and, to a related extent, the sacred form of geometry, we have intrinsically linked DTG2, TF2, MSPA, Zedd, and ESPN once and for all.
But the rabbit hole goes much deeper than that. All of these items only represent a fraction of the big picture.
DTG2 represents storytelling as a whole.
TF2 represents video games.
MSPA represents art and the internet.
Zedd represents music and videos.
ESPN represents sports and the technology we use to entertain.
Technology. Entertainment. Art. Music. These things make a pretty good T.E.A.M.
Even greater understanding shocks the class. They fight back the questions they know they can't think, lest their understanding turn to death. Uncle Grandpa chuckles.
But what team, exactly, are we talking about here? Who would have the power to control all of these aspects of our culture? They practically define modern society and civilization. What if I told you this group was in control from the very beginning. They have been here since the start of humanity, for thousands of years.
Consider Jesus Christ, the Messiah of the Christian faith.
C is the 3rd letter of the alphabet.
H is the 8th letter of the alphabet.
R is the 18th letter of the alphabet.
I is the 9th letter of the alphabet.
S is the 19th letter of the alphabet.
T is the 20st letter of the alphabet.
3 + 8 + 18 + 9 + 19 + 20 = 77.
A truly massive sense of understanding crashes down on the class. The world's secrets have been answered.
Yes, this group has been behind religion. Remember what I said? Beliefs, when pushed to become reality, can control the world... All of society is behind these elite team of individuals? But who? What kind of god would hold this power? One final piece of evidence is needed...
On page 77 of Destroy the Godmodder 0rigins, Fseftr posted a large cutscene.
At its conclusion, a dream demon named Bill Cipher watched over Fseftr, Blue's character, wanting something from her.
Bill Cipher resembles the Eye of Providence.
The Eye of Providence is found on the back of $1 bills.
Dollar bills are used as a form of currency in the USA.
U is the 21st letter of the alphabet.
S is the 19th letter of the alphabet.
A is the 1st letter of the alphabet.
21 + 19 + 1 = 41.
4 - 1 = 3.
Bill Cipher has 3 sides.
So does the Eye of Providence.
So do triangles.
All of this symbolism connects to only one group...
THE ILLUMINATI. CONFIRMED.
The players that are left melt from shock.
Uncle Grandpa laughs as he examines the sea of stench and rot that makes up the floor of the lecture hall. He pulls out a vacuum and sucks up the liquid forms of every player and entity on the battlefield, then teleports back to the main timeline. It turns out that entire lecture took place in an alternate timeline/alternate dimension, and now, Uncle Grandpa holds the power of every single combatant on the field. The concentrated power of the Narrative and Conflict combined into one devastating vacuum.
Uncle Grandpa puts the vacuum on reverse and fires it at a PZ entity, spraying them with pure concentrated destruction. The powers of everyone on the field, every player, entity, and godmodder, bore a hole right through their body. In addition, the end result of the lecture, its understanding, importance, knowledge, and illumination, are also found in the liquid blast. This means that the PZ entity's mind is now being fried with the power of the Illuminati.
Satisfied, Uncle Grandpa leaves.
January 21, 2016 - Post #3,010 ***
The Keeper
The Symphony
50/50 (+2 from MZ, +1 from TFT)
The Seed
(+7 from Modpack, +6 from Cobalt, +3 Bomber, crystalcat, and generic, +1 from TFT, MZ, ninjatwist, and Richard)
The Throne
(+1 from MZ)
The Hourglass
(+2 from MZ, +1 from the Godmodder and Modpack)
I +3 MZ. I start a new charge. Sorry for delaying the completed ones, but typing up the summoning procedures/thinking of entities takes time!
While the fight rages on aboveground, in the depths of the battlefield, there is someone waiting. Someone who has been hiding, concealed from the rest of the world, waiting for the perfect time to resurface. Waiting is something he's been doing a lot lately. He's had to keep himself hidden in this war, and for good reason. It's bringing out another side of him.
Hidden in his lab, the Scribe tosses and turns. This battle, the most intense he's seen since the Great War, should have been exactly what he had planned it to be. A place for him to go wild, let loose, and do whatever he wanted. But now... He's plagued by this feeling. What is it? He feels a need to shrug off his decades of teachings. To become... A good person?
The Scribe tugs at his hair and moves to some computer monitors. He's tracking the progress of another dimension. One ruled by the Catholic Church's propaganda. The God Below's pupil has gone... missing. The Scribe has been monitoring his whereabouts for quite some time, but he hasn't come close to finding a solution. The only logical choice of action is to head there himself and find out exactly what's what... Even if he's banned from entering the God Below's abode.
Flipping through his Journal, the Scribe once again comes to rest at the page of Sin. He chuckles. How ironic, isn't it? The thing he feels an urge to stay away from... Now he must embrace it for his next destination. The Scribe pulls out a dusty leather book from a cupboard and several other ingredients. He breaks a black stick over the book, letting its powder settle on it. He pulls out a paintbrush dipped in black ink and covers it with the symbol of an upside-down pentagram. He closes his eyes, places his hand on the book, and murmurs a chant. Its cover settles to a dull grey tone.
The Scribe grins. "The Book of Belial. What an interesting tome. It contains plenty of information on The God Below's forms and incarnations. It should make for some nice supplementary research if need be, and my round-trip ticket to reality's fifty-third incarnation of Hell." The Scribe flips through its pages, words and diagrams writing themselves in red ink. The Scribe takes a piece of old parchment and draws a set of symbols on them.
First off is a leminscate with a vertical line coming upwards from its midpoint and two horizontal lines extending from the vertical line. Next is a crescent moon with a star nestled in its negative space. After that is an upside-down cross. Then, another vertical crescent shape with three black tears coming down from it. Lastly, another upside-down pentagram. The Scribe uses an eyedropper to pour red ink on each of the symbols, which somehow forms auras around each of them.
Finally, the Scribe recites an incantation. His hands grip the table he's working on as the same red aura congeals around him, his skin turning a pale white and his eyes rolling in the back of his head. In the voice of the legion, the Scribe begins to ominously chant. "Deo. Puertis diabolum. Puerum acer ad suz victoria. Lugere te ad inferos. Fundamentum. Nativitate. Morituros." In a flash of smoke, a trapdoor materializes behind the Scribe. It is cold to the touch, and darkness seems to emanate from it. The Scribe pulls open the hatch and flings himself down into the unknown depths below...
After what seems like an eternity, and one plagued with cartoonish memories of a disastrous childhood that clearly belonged to someone else, the Scribe falls from the ceiling and lands on the ground with a thud. After spending two or so seconds in a lack of pain because the Scribe has powerful Feather Falling enchantments, he gets up from the ground and takes a look around. From the air that smells of defecation and rot to the black ground made of pulverized bones to the skulls and tortured souls trapped in the walls, the Scribe knows for sure that he's made it. He's in Sheol.
But in the process, the Scribe is breaking an unholy agreement made by him and the God Below - ever since the incident a few years ago, the Scribe has been unable to enter Sheol. If he does, his body will slowly and agonizingly burn to a crisp and his soul will be locked away in the walls of the place for eternity. The Scribe can already feel the process beginning - his coat and armor feels much hotter than usual. Not wasting any time, the Scribe runs across Sheol's catacombs, making a beeline for the palace of the God Below.
Corridor by corridor, chamber by chamber, the Scribe feels himself getting closer. He runs past walls of red ghosts, sentries that shoot lasers and brimstone, deadly sins, fallen angels, and flickering blue fire that contrasts with the dark and bleak outlook of this... hell. Sheol isn't exactly the conventional depiction of Hell, even if it's ruled over by what should be its conventional leader. But it's hell all the same. You don't want to be trapped down here... Yet the alternative isn't much better. The Cathedral's a madhouse.
Finally, the fabric of his clothes beginning to burn off and patches of the Scribe's body starting to run red, the Scribe makes it to the boss door that symbolizes the entrance to the God Below's palace and the center of Sheol itself. He contemplates knocking on the door - what if it's cursed? Taking out what looks like a golden joystick, the Scribe scans the door for any magic. Of course, there's loads of it, but the Scribe has no time to Mission Impossible his way into Hell's inner sanctum. So he asks.
"Hey! Is there anyone on the other side of this, uh, door? I need to talk to whoever's in charge!" The Scribe's blood runs cold as he hears a voice behind him. "I am the one in charge here, Scribe." The Scribe turns around. Perched behind him is a perfectly-chiseled statue of some kind of stone. It depicts The God Below in all his glory, but the Scribe isn't fooled. He knows all too well that this is the God Below. It's Satan himself. The voice continues undisturbed, rushing through the chamber like a tidal wave. "I thought I told you to leave here, Scribe. I thought I told you to never come back here. Didn't I?" The Scribe's head is hung low. "...Yes." "Then why have you broken our agreement. Do you have some kind of death wish? Do you love me so much that you want to be trapped down here? We can arrange another agreement to accomplish that much. After all, you had no problem making and breaking one before, so I doubt you will have learned your lesson this time, knowing you."
The Scribe stares the God Below down. "What is this, huh? You have no problem talking to me over the phone, and we can chat it up anywhere in reality! Just one step down here and all of a sudden I'm Hell's Most Wanted?" The statue, without moving, looms over the Scribe. "You know the terms of our agreement. We stay a comfortable distance from each other, yet we stay in contact. Just enough to help you in whatever daily corruption you have planned. You are not allowed here for a very good reason, and even if the audience doesn't know it, you do." The Scribe looks around unsteadily. "...The audience?" The statue shakes. "Get a grip, Scribe. Have more medium awareness. And you told the follower of Tzeentch that you knew about Fourth Walls..."
His body starting to smoke, the Scribe panics. "Okay, look. I apologized for the whole thing, remember? Threw away the hourglass and everything. Dismantled it. I swore to you I wouldn't repeat the incident ever again!" The statue darkens. "Then why do you still have five grains of blue sand and three interlocking golden gears extracted from the device? You cannot lie to me, Scribe. Maybe it can work on the warriors you fight with your back turned to, but not on I." Sweat trickles down the Scribe's face, then evaporates. Fire forms at his feet. "Alright, alright, listen to me! I came here to help you! If you're so powerful, i-if you know everything... Why can't you find Isaac? Don't you need help?"
The fire wavers. A chuckle fills the room. "The help you produced at your station in Dimension C was fine enough. I fail to see why you needed to make the suicidal trip here. Unless... You wish to find my pupil on the plane of the dead? Do you want to kill yourself, and in doing so, find his ghostly essence? That is, assuming he is dead." The Scribe's reply is instantaneous. "Yes! I mean, no! I mean... that's not what what I was planning to do but if you somehow decide to not lift the curse and I die then yeah that would be a good backup plan??" The statue sighs. "Then what was your original plan. Make it quick. You have about forty seconds before you combust." The Scribe yelps.
"Uh, so. I have reason to believe you can't find Isaac... uh I mean Maw of Brimstone Evilness. Or whatever. I mean, back to the subject, uh. I think you can't find Isaac because he's not even in Sheol! That's certainly as far as you've looked, right? You've told him leaving is punishable by all kinds of torture. But I think Isaac left because he was enticed by something else. He wanted to try something new. He got... greedy." If understanding could grace the statue's eyes, it would. "...I should have known. The Hall of Greed. It was to be a new training regimen for him, to see how well he handled massive waves of opponents. Perhaps he went looking too early." The Scribe falls to the floor as fire and smoke engulfs his body. The Statue flashes with darkness, and the fire fades. "For the love of God, get up. Consider this a temporary withdrawal of the agreement. As of now..."
The doors to Satan's Castle open. "...We are confronting greed."
While the Scribe walks, the statue floats. "Now make a left. Walk vertically up the stairs, then enter the forty-second door on the right. The one a centimeter taller than the others, remember." The Scribe sighs. "Now I really know why this place is hell. You designed it so people get lost! Not to mention its bad architecture and design." The statue chuckles. "You have no idea how many people you can upset with the wrong aesthetics and style. An ingenious idea, really. Here we are."
The two make it to the door a centimeter taller than the others, a fact you couldn't have known without me explicitly telling you. I mean jeez, it's barely even noticeable! Good thing you have a narrator transcribing every minute detail exactly as it happens and oh they just walked in the door, okay. The Scribe and the Statue walk through the door, which disappears behind them. They're now in an exact replica of Isaac's basement, but modified with a switch in the middle of the floor and several doors on the walls. They've done it. They're in Greed Mode.
"This was designed to be a risk/reward-type challenge. You step on the button and waves of enemies spawn, one after the other. You can either step on the switch, hurting yourself but ceasing the flow of enemies, or you can fight it out and potentially beat everything in one shot. Each complete wave spawns money which you use to buy upgrades, consumables, and such. The logistics for this one were hard to get right, but it would have been all worth it on completion. I think Isaac would have really enjoyed it..." The Scribe looks around. "For what it's worth, I think it's interesting. But Isaac could be anywhere here. Knowing your gauntlets, this thing's got multiple floors. So where exactly is he?"
The statue floats around, shining red. "Not on this floor. It looks like he lies at the very bottom floor, but the only way to get there is to fight through all of these floors ourselves." The Scribe snaps his fingers. "Of course! We'll be the test subjects! We can iron out all the kinks and such. This'll be fun. Challenging, even?" The statue floats in place. "Or I could just use blood laser beams to annihilate everything in sight." "Yeah, or that."
Several awesome-looking but mostly underwhelming minutes later, Greed Mode nears completion. With a large sum of money in their pockets and several interesting items in the hands of the Scribe (which he stores for later use), the Scribe and the God Below have made it to the very last floor of Greed Mode. As they walk through the final boss door, they come face-to-face with a horrifying sight. What was once a large chamber filled with doors and treasures has been reduced to rubble. The ceiling has caved in, creating a massive rockfall that has apparently crushed Isaac, burying him alive. But... not quite.
Isaac's corpse isn't on the ground. It's floating above it, suspended by a noose. His body is rotten and grey, with flies hovering around it. The statue solemnly hovers next to Isaac. "...My child. It is a shame you had to go this way. At least you have the sense of closure you deserve. May your soul live on in the afterlife." The Scribe's heart sinks. "Does... does this mean I have to go to the plane of the dead to get him back?" The statue looks away. "No. Isaac has done all I have asked of him. He has beaten every challenge, perfected every technique, and from the looks of it, beaten the boss that was supposed to be in here. I am... proud of him. To disturb his slumber would be a sin." But just as the statue speaks those words, a hoarse whisper fills the room.
"gv... m... vce..." The Scribe stops in his tracks. "What." After a few seconds, the whisper trails across the room again, but louder. "giv... me... vice..." The statue stays silent until the whispers speak, one last time. "give me a voice..." The statue slides to Isaac's dead body. "Isaac is talking to us. He needs our help. He needs a proper host. He needs a voice." The Scribe looks around the room, puzzled. "You got all that from one whisper?" "I am perfectly in tune with the dead. They have mastered the art of saying little and meaning much. Now help me clear away this rubble. The boss should have crystallized into an unbreakable metal on death."
After several minutes of work, the rubble has been destroyed, and the chamber of Greed Mode's climax has been excavated. Blood, precious jewels, coins and stone fill the floor, as well as broken doors that fizzle with energy. A shattered donation machine lies off to the side, but the centerpiece of the room is quite clearly the golden statue. It seems to depict a giant crystallized version of Isaac's corpse with its hands tugging at its mouth, a noose around its neck, coins for eyes, and perfectly sculpted... cheeks. The God Below's statue whistles. "The incarnation of this challenge... Ultra Greed." He turns to the Scribe. "We must deposit Isaac into its mouth. His soul will transfer into this superior form, giving it new life." "Didn't you just say we shouldn't disturb his slumber?" "This is his dying wish, Scribe. Do as Isaac says or our agreement will be reinstated." "Oh, so you're forcing me to do this now. I see how it is." After his armor flashes with heat, the Scribe quickly grabs Isaac's corpse.
The Scribe serves the corpse like a volleyball, flinging it into the mouth of the Ultra Greed statue. It sails in, filling the room with an unearthly light and causing the statue to spasm and twitch back to life. An explosion plays out entirely in reverse as Ultra Greed is reborn. Ultra Greed blinks, feeling its arms and legs. He speaks in an off-kilter voice. "I FEEL... DIFFERENT." The Scribe laughs. "Welcome back to the land of the living, Isaac!" Ultra Greed smiles. "SCRIBE! MASTER! YOU'RE BOTH... HERE. OH NO. I'M SO SORRY FOR COMING HERE... I... I... I HAD NO IDEA..." The statue silences Isaac. "Do not worry. You did surprisingly well. And now? Well, now you have a superior body."
Looking at Ultra Greed, the Scribe realizes that this is perfect. He turns to the God Below. "Hey, uh. Do you mind if I borrow Isaac for a bit?"
A relatively idyllic afternoon in the Battlefield is interrupted as a section of the ground is transmuted into solid gold, with a massive shape hurtling out of the underground and breaking free, landing onto the surface. The Scribe is on top of a hulking grey figure who, with every step, makes the riches of the earth tremble. Legions of heads and corpses with money in their eyes trail behind this figure, and the Scribe laughs the entire march to the field. "Yes! Go forth, Isaac! You're the Keeper of your own soul now! Ride, Keepers! Ride, Hangers! March onward, ULTRA GREED!"
And below, in Sheol, Satan smiles.
Meet Ultra Greed, a humongous corpse piloted by the soul of a toddler. Although Isaac doesn't have his brimstone powers or flight anymore, he now has the arsenal of Ultra Greed, who packs quite a punch indeed. High HP and steadily increasing defense means that this guy's a virtual tank. Add in his offensive and supportive power on the battlefield, and Ultra Greed's turned into a difficult and unfair boss into a valuable ally. Let's see how he works.
ATTACKS:
Keeper Stomp: Ultra Greed stomps on the ground four times, creating a fissure that summons forth four mummified heads: Keepers. They harass enemies, dealing moderate damage and sticking around as entities with moderate health. Generates 4-7 Pennies.
Charge of Greed: Ultra Greed runs at high speed into an enemy, knocking them across the field. This deals moderate damage and weakens them so the next three attacks against them will minicrit. They also have a 33% chance of missing their next attack. Generates 6-9 Pennies.
Cash Shower: Ultra Greed vomits a large amount of golden coins from his mouth. The attack has a 50% chance to either fire in a straight line, targeting one enemy for moderately high damage, or a 50% chance to fire in a wide burst, dealing moderate damage to three enemies. Generates 7 Pennies if it hits one enemy or 12 Pennies if it hits three.
Cash Vortex: Ultra Greed spins around the room, firing coins every which way. Two to four enemies are caught in the attack, taking moderate damage. Each enemy has a 33% chance to, in addition, be distracted by Ultra Greed's finely-crafted buttcheeks so they miss their next attack. Generates 10-16 Pennies.
Cash Tank: Ultra Greed assumes a defensive stance, turning blue and becoming invulnerable at the cost of not being able to attack for a turn. Can be used so that Ultra Greed can heal up if necessary, or let the mooks he summons to the dirty work. Generates 3-5 Pennies.
SPECIAL ATTACKS:
Wheel of Fortune: Ultra Greed's eyes spin in their sockets. After several seconds, they will stop spinning and each of his eyes will display one of three symbols: a heart, a bomb, or a key. There is a 25% chance for Ultra Greed to roll two hearts, a 25% chance for Ultra Greed to roll two keys, a 25% chance for Ultra Greed to roll two bombs, and a 25% chance for Ultra Greed to roll mismatching symbols. Each outcome has a different effect. Costs 25 Pennies to use.
If Ultra Greed rolls two hearts, he will spawn a large amount of Health Coins. The coins will heal Ultra Greed for a large amount of HP and give him Regeneration for three turns. Generates 0 Pennies.
If Ultra Greed rolls two bombs, he will spawn a large amount of Bomb Coins. The coins will promptly detonate, dealing very high damage to two to five enemies. There is a 20% chance Ultra Greed will be caught in the blast, in which case he will take moderate recoil damage. Generates 9-12 Pennies.
If Ultra Greed rolls two keys, he will spawn a large amount of Key Coins. The coins will unlock three sets of doors that summon a huge rush of Greed Gapers. They have low HP but spawn in high numbers. They all immediately dogpile an enemy, dealing high damage. They will stick around as entities, dealing further damage to enemies if not killed. Generates 9-12 Pennies.
If Ultra Greed rolls mismatching symbols, he will spawn Blank Coins that have no special effects but have 1 HP each. If left alone for too long, they will spin into enemies and deal moderate damage. These coins can be destroyed, but they will disappear after a short time. If this effect is rolled, Ultra Greed will attack again with a standard attack. Generates 0 Pennies.
Super Bum: Ultra Greed reaches into the depths of poverty and homelessness, summoning three Bums from the street. Their names were Bum Friend, Dark Bum, and Key Bum, but now, with their powers combined, they become Super Bum! Super Bum promptly teams up with Ultra Greed and unleashes devastating attacks on an enemy with their superhero powers, dealing very high damage. Costs 45 Pennies to use. Generates 12-15 Pennies.
The Hangman: Ultra Greed draws an enemy close to him with coin chains and then summons a thick rope, wrapping it around their neck. Ultra Greed leaves them to wait as they struggle in their bonds futilely. His work done, Ultra Greed walks away. Minutes pass. Hours. Days. Months. Years...? When Ultra Greed comes back to check, the enemy has taken extremely high damage through asphyxiation. Costs 75 Pennies to use. Generates 25-30 Pennies.
PASSIVES:
The Bank: Ultra Greed's main gimmick is his system of Pennies. With each successful attack Ultra Greed, Keepers, or Greed Gapers make, Ultra Greed gains back a certain amount of Pennies. The amount of Pennies gained is random, but each attack establishes the possible amount Ultra Greed can gain within a certain range of numbers. These Pennies can be used as currency for Ultra Greed to buy upgraded versions of his normal attacks or to buy his special attacks. Ultra Greed can hold a maximum of 150 Pennies.
Greed Armor: Ultra Greed's skin is extremely tough, and it hardens over time. When Ultra Greed's health drops below 75%, he takes 75% damage from every attack. When Ultra Greed's health drops below 50%, he takes 50% damage from every attack. When Ultra Greed's health drops below 25%, he takes 25% damage from every attack. In addition, Ultra Greed only takes x1 damage from minicrits (not x1.5) and he only takes x1.5 damage from crits (not x2).
Turns Red: Upon reaching 25% health, Ultra Greed will gain a red aura that makes him become enraged. He will move much faster; this gives him the ability to attack twice a turn so he can use an attack twice or use two different attacks.
Donation: Upon death, Ultra Greed will explode into a massive statue and spawn a Greed Donation Machine.
UPGRADES:
If Ultra Greed gains enough Pennies, he can choose to buy upgrades to his existing attacks. Once he buys an upgrade, it will be unlocked permanently and replace the existing attack. Upgrading is a free action, though Ultra Greed can only upgrade one attack per turn.
Hanger Bay: Ultra Greed stomps on the ground, summoning Keepers from below and also dropping in Hangers from above, rapelling down their oversized nooses. Four Keepers and Six Hangers are summoned that deal moderately high damage to an enemy and stick around after death as entities with moderately high health. The upgraded version of Keeper Stomp. Costs 14 Pennies to unlock.
Wrath of Greed: Ultra Greed becomes enveloped in golden fire, flashstepping on top of an enemy and knocking them off a cliff into a sea of sharp diamonds and other assorted jewels. The enemy is impaled on top of riches they can't even use, taking moderately high damage and making the next two attacks against them crit. They have a 100% chance of missing their next attack. The upgraded version of Charge of Greed. Costs 18 Pennies to unlock.
Bling Cleansing: Ultra Greed waits for a turn, charging up a massive projectile attack until his cheeks swell up and turn red. He then spits out a giant glob of molten money that tears a hole through an enemy, dealing high damage. The molten debris fans out and splatters against three other enemies, who take moderate damage. All four targets are Burned for two turns. The upgraded version of Cash Shower. Costs 24 Pennies to unlock.
Bling Volcano: Ultra Greed spins at immense speeds, running around so fast that he becomes a blur. Ultra Greed tunnels below the server, his powerful and magnetic buttcheeks ripping the ores and precious metals from the crust of the earth until he drills down into bedrock. Ultra Greed hibernates for a few seconds and then, the molten rock and ores, melted down into refined gems, surge at high speeds out of the hole in the ground. Three to six enemies are caught in the attack, taking moderately high damage. All targets are Burned for four turns. All targets have a 66% chance to be distracted by Ultra Greed's buttcheeks so they are unable to attack for a turn. The upgraded version of Cash Vortex. Costs 32 Pennies to unlock.
Investment: Ultra Greed creates a set of unbreakable golden armor made from the finest treasures in Sheol that are enchanted to allow Ultra Greed perfect mobility while wearing them. Ultra Greed becomes invulnerable for a turn and can attack a second time; the armor is superheated so any enemies Ultra Greed hits are Burned for two turns. If the attack used already inflicts Burning, the Burn's time is increased by one turn. This attack cannot be used twice in a row. The upgraded version of Cash Tank. Costs 45 Pennies to unlock.
Double Down: Adds several effects to Wheel of Fortune. If Ultra Greed rolls two hearts, he gains Regeneration for six turns. If Ultra Greed rolls two bombs, three to seven enemies can be targeted and there is only a 10% chance that Ultra Greed will take recoil damage. If Ultra Greed rolls two keys, more Gapers are summoned and Ultra Greed passively becomes invulnerable for a turn. If Ultra Greed rolls two mismatching symbols, the Blank Coins will deal moderately high damage to all enemy entities if they are allowed to disappear. Costs 50 Pennies to unlock. Generates 10-15 Pennies if bombs or keys are rolled.
Bumbo: Adds another effect to Super Bum. Bumbo will also spawn when Super Bum spawns. Bumbo will take the 12-15 Pennies Super Bum generates and double the amount of Pennies earned. He will then eat the Pennies and grow into a massive hulking incarnation of himself that deals extremely high damage to an enemy entity and will stick around in an invulnerable form for two turns, dealing moderately high damage to other enemies. Costs 90 Pennies to unlock. Generates 16-20 Pennies.
Transcendence: Ultra Greed gains a kamikaze attack that activates one turn after death. Costs 150 Pennies to unlock.
To start things off, Ultra Greed uses Charge of Greed an a random enemy! Tazz, feel free to rebalance Ultra Greed as you see fit.
January 21, 2016 - Post #3,015
The Symphony
The Seed
(+3 from crystal and generic, +1 from MZ and sigmatw)
The Throne
The Hourglass
I +3 MZ. I do not start any new charges. I'll summon Flowey next turn, then I'll summon The Symphony.
The Scribe, at a loss for an actual action, takes a pie bazooka Uncle Grandpa gave him and fires it. Instead of throwing pie, it fires the entirety of pi. The fact that pi is infinite causes massive distortion in the server as it tries to process all the numbers of pie at once. The resulting mess doesn't create a paradox, but instead creates a timeline fracture where two possible scenarios happen: one where the server crashes and one where it doesn't.
In the timeline where the server crashes, the computer that it's running on explodes, as do all computers currently on the server. Many of the players of the war die, and an investigation is started by the government on how the computers exploded. Several shady branches link the computers to a certain Minecraft server and ban the production of Minecraft, thus averting DTG from ever happening at all. The Godmodder never rises to power and instead creates his own game which is wildly popular, propelling him to stardom and making him one of the most influential men of the decade.
In the timeline where the server doesn't crash, the numbers of pi fill up the entirety of space and time, extending all over the server's planet and spilling out into space. The numbers reach into the server's solar system and eventually stretch into other singleplayer and multiplayer worlds. Many report seeing random numbers on their screen, resulting in many computers being sent to tech companies so that they can try and fix the problem. The problem is exacerbated because, due to the lag of an infinite amount of pie numbers, the computer's frame rates are basically zero. Minecraft as a whole shuts down for the world outside of the Descendants and godmodders, leaving nothing to fill its empty void. Eventually, though, the pi gets so huge that it extends outside of the universe and spills into others, eventually targeting actual Earth. Earth is terrorized by the invasion of the Irrational Invaders, and the human race is destroyed.
Because both of these timelines are really terrible, they collapse back into a singular reality where the pie bazooka explodes, the Narrative averting either of those scenarios from happening. But they did happen in alternate timelines, and in the timeline where the server didn't crash, the Godmodder ended up teleporting back to the main timeline to beat the crap out of the Scribe for attempting such a thing. The Scribe dodges the blow and the Godmodder hits a PZ entity instead with the force of a bajillion pokes and the infinite forces of pi (which he reverse-engineered from the Irrational Invaders). Said PZ entity explodes into code.
January 23, 2016 - Post #3,038 ***
The Symphony
The Seed
The Throne
(+1 from Bomber)
The Hourglass
(+2 from Bomber, +1 from TFT and Pricey)
I +3 MZ. Ultra Greed uses Cash Vortex.
I repeat my earlier action.
Afterwards, the Scribe retreats back into his underground lab. He heads through one of its more unused and dusty hallways until he reaches a room glowing with pale yellow light. He grins with satisfaction. "Finally. The incubation's complete." The Scribe dashes into the room, seeing a massive mechanical apparatus hooked up to a small wooden desk at the center of the room. Holstered to is by steel clamps is a glass jar that contains a single golden seed. The Scribe moves to a machine at the corner of the room and extracts some tongs from it.
"Yes... Yes! This golden seed... It will hypothetically have the power to grow into a completely new Yggdrasil! Given a thousand years, I suppose. I'll have to wheel it off-server, which shouldn't take too long... I just need to remember the exact seed I chose for it. Where did I... Hm. Where did I put that master sheet of all my world seeds?" The Scribe takes the golden seed and holds it with the tongs, dashing out of the room and looking for the sheet. After a few minutes, he finds it. "Curse me for making this lab so big... Alright, let's check it out." The Scribe reads the seed and memorizes it. "Ha. Of course. Now to head back and GAH!"
There is something blocking the Scribe's way out of the room. Something that isn't producing light, but is hard to look at. Something painted in hues of white, yellow, and black. It startles him so much that the tongs fly out of his hand and the seed tumbles through the air. Before the Scribe can react, the seed falls to the ground and cracks open, golden liquid seeping out of it. He stares at the ground in shock. Weeks of work... Lost. "No. No! NO!!"
The Scribe pulls out a ridiculously oversized and futuristic rifle, aiming it at the thing in the doorway. "WHAT ARE YOU? YOU JUST SET MY PLANS BACK BY THREE WEEKS YOU... stupid... flower?"
The Scribe pauses, lowering his weapon. "Uh. Hello there, Flowey. That's an original... name." Flowey winks. The Scribe thinks to himself. Flowers... What does he know about flowers? He remembers buttercups being used as an ingredient to several fatal poison weapons, and flowers being mentioned in several ancient prophecies... But that doesn't necessarily explain the presence of this pixellated white thing in front of him. Sensing nothing else to do, the Scribe humors Flowey and responds.
"No, I don't think I can. I don't actually know where you came from, but you are underground, I'll give you that." Flowey laughs and winks again.
The Scribe doesn't catch his drift. "Uh. No, I don't. Is it because you're a flower? Can you not move from the ground? It looked like you grew just fine--"
Flowey's face contorts into an expression of horror for a brief instant before spasming - glitching - back into place. The Scribe takes several steps back, staring at Flowey with interest and a slight tinge of fear. Now that he looks at Flowey, his form appears to be, ever so slightly... vibrating. As if he's a projection, an image on a computer display. Whatever this flower is... It's not meshing very well with the code of Minecraft.
"Me? What... What did I do to you? Before a minute ago I had no idea you existed at all, Flowey."
The Scribe picks up the rifle again. "WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT THE GATE? And how do you, a tiny little FLOWER, know so much about me?? Huh? Answer me! ANSWER ME, YOU F--" Flowey cuts the Scribe off again, just as he's about to fire.
That does it. The Scribe pulls the trigger and fires, a lance of electricity surging from the rifle and sparking across the room, creating a miniature fireball that decimates the ground where Flowey just stood. The Scribe stares at it for a few seconds, unblinking, until he hears a cackle on the other side of the room. Whipping his head around, the Scribe sees... somehow... Flowey. And he's none worse for the wear. "YOU! How did you... How the hell did you..." Flowey just laughs some more.
The Scribe screams. He fires his rifle over and over again, each time nailing Flowey's position but watching helplessly as he ducks into the ground, popping up somewhere else. He tears through the room, destroying priceless machinery and setting fire to his research plans. The golden seed's liquid drips on the floor, and when Flowey pops up near it, the Scribe lights it on fire, creating a massive green fireball that incinerates the entire room, blowing the Scribe through the ground and onto the Battlefield. Flowey resurfaces.
The Scribe stands up on one side of the smoking crater, with Flowey on the opposite end of it. He walks over to the flower without his rifle, kneeling. "...You're an evil little plant, aren't you? You remind me of me. A lot. Going through life with an empty heart, doing anything to get what you want... Hell, I don't even know what you want. I don't even know why you're here. But you seem so nonchalant about everything, and the way you show no emotion... I could learn a thing or two from you."
So it begins. Flowey isn't an entity. Rather, this charge has marked the start of a new story arc. You all should be prepared for the worst.
January 30, 2016 - Post #3,159 ***
The Symphony
The Throne
(+4 from Tazz, +3 from generic, +2 from crystal and Pricey, +1 from MZ, TFT, and Bomber)
The Hourglass
(+6 from generic, +4 from crystal, Tazz, and Pricey, +2 from Bomber, +1 from MZ and TFT)
I +3 MZ. Ultra Greed uses Cash Shower.
Rummaging through lost manuscripts and diagrams, the Scribe is finding everything he can about one particular subject. Something that the Flower has commanded him to research. Flowey has been good to him. He is a valuable partner. He knows things, and he isn't afraid to share them. He's not exactly a friend, but the Scribe doesn't care. He doesn't need friends. He just needs to summon Them. What he's looking for isn't related to Them... To Octothorpe or Pilcrow or any of the others... But the Scribe has a feeling that somehow, tangentially, it might hold a clue.
The Scribe is trying to find out anything he can about the being Flowey spoke of. Tazz. Whoever he may be, he does a good job at keeping hidden. There's not much the Scribe can find out about him, even though his presence is supposedly undeniable. Like clockwork, Flowey tunnels into the room, beaming at the Scribe with his fake smile.
The Scribe looks to his left, seeing Flowey's bright and pixellated body. "...Yes, actually. But I can hardly believe it." Flowey gasps, nodding with encouragement. "Well, he's apparently powered by an object called the Red Sun. I've heard of it before, and I've known that it has the power to make normal beings become gods... But if what we've found already is true, then this is unbelievable. It would practically explain everything."
The Scribe notices Flowey isn't talking. "Uh, Flowey. Are you okay?"
Blinking in shock, the Scribe peers at Flowey. "...Who?"
The Scribe slowly nods in fake remembrance. "...Of course. I'll pretend I know exactly what you're talking about. Now anyway--" The Scribe tries to keep talking, but Flowey cuts him off more, hissing.
The Scribe chuckles. "I'm not going to ask how you knew that already, but yeah. Everyone can see everything here. You should either be careful and speak really quietly while talking in riddles and making sure no one knows what you're talking about, just go the spy route and listen in on everyone, or do what you're doing and blatantly announce your plans to everyone while avoiding any sense of subtlety."
The Scribe dismissively waves his hand. "Yes, we get it, you're evil. Now let's compile all our knowledge about Tazz so the WHOLE WORLD can hear it. That's what you want, right? To make sure everyone knows our plans so they can stop them? Because you do realize that's what's going to happen, RIGHT?" Flowey stops for a few seconds and then cackles.
When Flowey finishes his monologue, the Scribe looks up at him. He knows what's going on now. Whatever this force is... Whatever DETERMINATION can do... It gives someone the power to interfere with the fabric of reality. With the Source Code. With the Narrative. Flowey had this power... And now, some being the Scribe doesn't even know has it. And he's busy pulling the strings in this entire battle. This person... Tazz. He knows what's going to happen with perfect clarity. What are these fighters to him? Pawns in some game? Players, not people? Chess pieces, not characters?
The Scribe realizes that Flowey wants to have the most DETERMINATION again. ...No. He needs to have it. Or else, his life will be meaningless. And the Scribe knows full well that, when it comes down to beings like him and Flowey... When it comes down to people who have nothing to lose... They will do anything to get what they want. So the Scribe commits himself to Flowey's cause by asking him something.
"...How. How can I exploit... this thing."
