Razors Edge of Reality. Beramode vs Jim Corrigan

Power invites convergence.

It was one of those most fundamental laws of the Multiverse. It was why Earth had become such a mess that the Aspects had seen fit to shatter it into a million identical pieces and fling it across the Astral Sea. It was why Vestusio had transformed into an endless nightmare prison beyond the confines of agreeable space-time. And it was why the Multiverse hadn’t collapsed underneath the sheer combined weight of every megalomaniacal ambition combined.

Ascending to godhood was all well and fine; carve out a plane in your own image and gain the power to manipulate the stars themselves. It was even perfectly understandable that you’d want to show it off you had better be ready for the consequences. The ‘Verse had a way of dealing with threats, of making sure that freaks with too much power smashed heads together and if a standout managed to climb on top of the hill well, Earth had been taught that lesson the hard way.

And it was why Beramode had stepped down from the Throne of the Domination and ended his claim to the title of the One True King. It’s not like they needed him there anyways they just thought they did, a real leader didn’t disappear for months on end to traipse through the stars. They were better off without him and that’s how he had planned it, Ash may have been a bitch but she was a dedicated one, even if she did take the whole regicide bit a bit too far. It had been quite the effort ensuing that betrayal didn’t demand reciprocity in her case as it so often did for others. He still watched over theme in the form of the ever present God of Secrets whose cult spread throughout the underbelly of the entire world; there were those who knew what he had become and those who wanted him back in control. But imagine what would have happened if an ascendant had sat on the throne of an empire the size of the Domination, madness that’s what, because every power in known reality would have converged on them and a reborn Beramode just hadn’t been ready.

But he might be now.

For that very reason Beramode was on this humble little world, affiliated to no empire but drawing in races from all corners of the Galaxy, including a healthy indigenous hive of Vespid. Not the prettiest looking bastards with their spindly limbs and exaggerated features but these mosquitos were a fascinatingly adaptable people with one feature in particular that interested the madman; their hivemind

Being divine meant having a lot of freedom to engage in wanderlust at least in Papa Pendragon’s case. He sauntered through the streets wearing a high collared black coat, beneath that a red formal shirt, a pair of slacks, and neatly polished boots. A pair of circle-lensed Windsor glasses with tinted lenses lay on the bridge of his nose and the skull head of a cane was clutched in his right hand. There was a slightly disheveled appearance to him despite how neat his dress may have wanted to seem, like his clothes ruffled themselves out of place the instant he wore them. Of his face it was smooth and pale with purple eyes and a head full of tousled white hair.

Beramode didn’t seem much of a monster at all as he walked through the streets. Observing the local life forms with a cordial grace. There were odd quirks in the way he moved, a swagger in his step that seemed to flow from side to side or the occasional gesticulation of a free hand as his mind mulled over information, but they were just that; quirks and no more. Just then a sudden twinge struck him causing the man to snap upright and a very serious look to fly across his face. Then he was gone…

When Beramode reappeared by the food vendor something had changed about him. What had once been merely a pale man was the shade of a ghost, his mouth suddenly too large and the teeth within too sharp, his frayed hair seemed to shift around at the ends with a life of its own and the palpable darkness around him seemed to giggle from over his shoulder. In reality nothing at all had changed but such was the glamor that came with power unleashed.

Despite this the Madman of Luminera pulled a seat out, two away from the man in the fine green suit, enough to give him space but still make it obvious that he was under observation. He waved off the alien vendor, who in his fright was all too happy to let this customer go, and patiently waited. Beramode had been a tyrant but he wasn’t a boar and he always tried to maintain an air of plausible deniability when it came to his cruelty. He waited for Jim Corrigan to acknowledge his presence, one elbow propped on the counter and a smile on his face. His indigo eyes were staring at something beyond the sharp dressed middle aged hard-ass seated to his side and when he spoke it was in an educated voice, with perfect enunciation and an eternal edge of sarcasm:

“You know, I used to idolize you."

“Only if you’re paying.”

Surprisingly frugal this monster; maybe he was saving his money so that he could move out from underneath the beds of local children. When the liquor arrived he caught it in the palm of a gloved hand and without word-or-worry slung his head back and tossed the whole thing down his throat. Inebriation had long since ceased to be an issue for Beramode as it no doubt was for Jim Corrigan the closer to merging with that other being he came, a damn shame too, because the best part about drinking was getting sloshed.

Liquor itself was awful. That stinging sensation as it rolled down his throat and the fire that filled his nostrils. Even the warmth that came from drowning his pseudo-stomach was dulled. Anything positive or negative about the poison was gone, broken down into a pittance of energy. It was almost sad…

So much power just to miss simple pleasures like making oneself a blithering idiot,

“And I’m just a scientist who got a little too curious,” he replied with a sardonic grin and the unspoken implication that he had switching conversation partners, “Don’t sell yourself short. Let me tell you the secret of this reality of ours, it is shaped by simple men with simple goals, the more complicated your aim is the quicker you burn out and the more likely you are to realize what an empty husk your life has made you.”

It was a personal theory of course and one that didn’t matter all that much all things considered. Beramode set the glass back on the counter and slid it out of sight, giving the bartender a convenient excuse to leave their presence, when Jim got to his feet he followed, a slight click of his finely tailored shoes against the wet ground letting the other know he was right behind him.

“Fancy that the rain has stopped.”

Nevertheless he maneuvered around puddles with his hands milling about at his sides, adjusting his cuffs and anything to keep themselves occupied. When the two stood in the middle of the street it was all but empty, even the most mundane citizen on the world could feel the gravity of destiny twisting around this moment just like a wild animal could sense an impending natural disaster. There was no bad blood here, no great duel for revenge, just raw unbridled destruction simmering beneath the surface waiting to be unleashed.

“It’s the curse of our kind. With great power comes the unshakeable desire to wield it. Everything else is just a convenient excuse. But hell, you already know that or you wouldn’t be here, after all we both know this doesn’t need to happen; we want it too.”

With a wave of his hands a sword appeared in Beramode’s gloved right, a massive six foot sword with a sleek black double-edged blade, carved from obsidian and perfectly symmetrical. The blade was simple save of course for the fact that it was devouring all light that happened upon it, casting its form in an ever shifting shadow that trailed after its every move. The guard was a broad gross and the handle a simple thing that could be grasped by two hands, wrapped in leather and capped by a simple silver ball. As it appeared the air filled with a crack of chains and stiff cold breeze.

“I’ve always been fond of swords myself; I find myself saddened that the modern era has slowly shifted away from them. The ‘Verse’s problems would be simple if all the men in business suits would just slice each other in two to solve all their problems.” What a wretched king he had been. But he had been a wonderful conqueror and now he was an even better god, just the right amounts of cruelty and aloofness in his demeanor to offset his fatherly love. “We have all the time in the world Mister Corrigan so let’s start this dance slow.”

[I'd just like to say I am sorry for taking so long to reply. Things have been rough over here and my motivation to play has been low.]

In a typical battle Beramode scaled down to match the level of his opponent. This process involved suppressing his ethereal output, unwinding the nest of super dense muscles that surrounded his reinforced skeleton, and a number of other minuscule but bothersome tweaks. Even then there was only so much that he could to hold himself back but it was a labor that he accepted freely in order to provide himself with some measure of challenge in a Multiverse that had on the whole grown far too small to contain both his power and his ego. There would be none of that in the coming conflict…

Beramode had far too much respect for the Specter to do that and for the Madman of Luminera to respect another was nigh unheard of.

The torrent of water coming his way was of no concern. The mere two thousand degrees of heat that made magma so dangerous and the torrent of pressure that came with it not nearly enough to stir his person. Not enough to warm his tea in the morning really. Despite this fact it would never even touch his flesh, the air around him giving off a faint glimmer as the invisible armor that surrounded his person at all times absorbed both the impact and the heat, leeching off of both and adding them to his reserves for later. Beramode’s attention remained squarely upon Corrigan as he reared his right hand over his left shoulder and brought that emerald blade swiping diagonally downwards to cleave him in two and the Dread Emperor took the first step forward to defend.

It should be said that while Beramode was fond of swords he was not overly trained with them. He was advanced, having picked up skill here and there throughout his years, but was by no means a master. Yet his physical capabilities alone allowed him a natural grace with any weapon and so that when Jim’s swing came in he would present the broad black slab that was the flat of his blade before the emerald weapon. The dome filled with a resounding clang but the black slab refused to move an inch, luckily Beramode was not so static lest things get boring! Just as Jim had advanced so too did Beramode, clutching the hilt of his blade with both hands for what was to come and blocking the strike with ease. As he drew close he would look to step out of line, passing Jim on his right while the mortal detective still had his arm pinned across his body. Using both the weight of his sword and the natural power contained in his artificial body he would push the emerald sword down until his own blade was lying flat atop it with the keen edge flying towards Jim’s throat like the executioner’s guillotine.

And slice it off he would if Jim didn’t dodge.

Beramode would only to a stop three or so feet out behind Jim, whirling around to face the detective’s back while returning his black sword to a defensive position, arms high and point low. As one might expect Beramode’s black blade was a magical thing, in fact it had been crafted so that it contained an entire sub-plane of magic; he was in fact wielding a small universe in his hands. Most of the time the incredible weight of the artifact was kept under lock and key but even now it was pushing the quadruple digits and a single swipe was enough to make the air cry with pain. As a magical weapon it would slice through Corrigan’s flesh and then into his very essence if he wasn’t careful. The Madman’s gaze remained curious all the while, not merely confined to his eyes his senses had swept across the entire dome and beyond, calculating everything in an instant. Even the newly appeared buckler was on his mind though it was a body away there was no telling what powers it had in store for him.

Throughout this brief exchange there was another pool beneath their feet though not one that typically received much attention. Darkness was after all merely the absence of light, at least when in the hands of anyone other than the Shadowthrone, but as their blades would cross and the roaring tidal wave would begin to fall the darkness would swell around them. The first tendrils passed through the water to become a cloud of thick ink before a sudden explosion spread the darkness throughout the bubble. These shadows were very much a physical thing, sticky much like the oil or ink that they resembled, and even spread out around them they would press in like a too-heavy mist. This of course did not affect Beramode as he had shown time and again in the past that he could move quicker when his preferred element was spread throughout the area. As for Corrigan; being slowed was the least of his worries, the other less common effect of Beramode’s shadows were their negative charge, in other words they would seek to actively inflict entropy on the world around them by stealing their energy away. The tidal wave assault would be reduced to lingering salt, minerals, and other sediment in the air and Corrigan himself would be the sole recipient of rapid aging and degeneration.

All this in time with one another. While Corrigan would be busy keeping his head on his shoulders the darkness would explode out and the trap would be sprung. In that magical darkness Beramode retained his stance, not believing for a second that his ploy would work, “Death comes for us in many ways and we can never predict it. I tried to plan mine and learned my lesson the hard way. Ascension was… rough.”