Post by Hero on Aug 31, 2018 0:22:04 GMT
Consequence Post One:
◙ The sour ale burned but was refreshing. It was a metaphor to his life. In the darkness of the closed tavern a lone man drank by himself letting the alcohol bleed him of the pressure in his veins thick as nickel. He was lost. How long had he been this way? For once time felt meaningless. There was a few seconds of pause inbetween his lips hugging the glass, and every time such did his mind fall into submission of oppressive thought. For so long he had no idea what it felt like to be human, to bleed, to suffer of loss; it was all so foreign but he savored it like an intoxicated masochist. On the lacquered black wooden bar top to his right was a gun as black as the countertop, and of the shadows crawling along the edges of the the underground tavern. It made not a sound, but he could feel it. Screaming...crying...roaring in passionate agony. Even after all this time he wasn’t used to its constant, torturing yells, but he understood it. For a long time that had been him there in the very same position, barely able to keep sane, suffering from the pandemic of the one who had made him their owner.
The man known by the epithet “Consequence” lifted the glass mug and filled himself with beer once more. Several gulps later the glass was empty, and he was once again lost in his thoughts. Setting it down infront of him he pushed his right hand forward lazily sliding the glass towards the bartender who rest in the shadows obscuring his identity altogether, but happily obliged confiscating the mug with gloved digits and returning it with ale and a little something extra. Saving himself from his own thoughts and the distraction of the black gun’s psionic shrieks, he lost himself in his own melancholy intoxication. ◙
Consequence Post Two:
◙ Opening expositions at bars or taverns wasn’t the most original idea, but here it actually had meaning. There was something prolific about sitting here, in the dark, alone, the antithesis to the bustling charisma of the settings usual vigor. For many years Nicholas could hear the healthy banter of mercenaries and vagrants alike all coping with life and the oppression of existential problems beyond themselves by losing themselves in alcohol and laughter. It was bittersweet when they drank down to their last nickel flip or ate all the food they had to spare and was left with a void within that nothing could quite fill. Everything about their struggle was desperate, but as beings given the illusion that they could control their lives, it was equally beautiful. On the receiving end, as nothing more than a weapon born through the vision of a famous weaponsmith long since departed, Nicholas never had free will of his own. All he ever had was suffering. The slave to his owners will. Forced to worship the pain of stretching his materialistic conduits the mind of the sentient weapon had begun to break at some point. It wasn’t so bad at first. Still, when the demon-eyed gunslinger who would become his final immortal owner grasped the immaculately designed weapon...everything changed.
So how was he here? Made of flesh, sitting in the darkness of a still tavern that echoed his thoughts like a visionary chamber replaying the past about him. Well it was a place such as this that had his first experience with people, when that gunslinger was very young and still naive. It was a place such as this that he experienced love for another man for the first time, and Nicholas became able to understand his owner to be. Or so he thought. Pink matter was a strange thing. Nothing could prepare him for the disdain that would later fill his heart as he drank endlessly next to the very weapon that was responsible for his agony.
“Most raging alcoholics rant about their lives when they get in your mood…” a cacophony of disjointed voices echoed from the black where the bartender stood, yet it was more accurate to say that they echoed from the very underground tavern itself. “Will you not do the same?”
“...”
Nicholas was silent. Defiant even. There was no real solution to his fragmented psyche, or route that could bring the conclusion of his epic to a true ending. Instead he drank to forget about it all as he remember seeing so many times before. Still...it didn’t help. It just detached him further and brought the tons of weight that could snap a man in to rushing down on him without relent.
“You already know it all. Do you take me for a fool?” Nicholas murmured with a voice of calm rationale. It was young, but it was incredibly professional for someone who had been drinking for so long.
“It couldn’t hurt to say it out loud…”
“...”
It seemed he knew of this underground tavern’s legend, although it was less of a tavern and more of a locale for a frightening society of the world’s surrounding murim, where only those often detested but never seen or heard of parlayed. There were wise men in this world who lacked morality, and it was here that they gathered to create some modicum of civility when possible. On this day it was largely silent, and there was no one but himself there...atleast at that moment. Still, this place and the great history of what had occurred there was known very well, and that is why he had come.
He felt sadness within him. Though with this sadness came the realization that he still had an obligation to fulfill. Staring at his half-empty mug for a moment his thin lips curled into a sadistic smile.
“I am Consequence…”
And from there he told the darkness of the tavern his story. ◙
Consequence Post 3:
The darkness trembled when a set of heavy footsteps descended down a set of dilapidated wooden steps closing in on the underground tavern’s entrance. Nicholas went silent, but the establishment did not. The shadows retreated into their corners and dissolved from contorted abominations into their normal physical existence when the tall doors swung open and two patrons entered. The first was tall and lanky with brown hair and bright blue eyes but his skin flaky and scarred. He wore an eyepatch over his left eye, and his hair was groomed in a slicked knot at the back of his brazen forehead. At a glance he seemed smooth, experienced, but charismatic and loud all at once— and this was supported by his brown fur-coat draped along his shoulders, yet to any with the degree of awareness that Nicholas was bred with the existence of a multitude of armaments existed out of view on his person. While the brown of his attire was drab, the slacks, the shoes, the one thing that offset him was the golden watch on his left wrist: frighteningly similar to the golden watch on Nicholas’ own left wrist. Infact, one could say they were the same, but things were only just getting interesting in that regard. The towering man approached the barkeep, while the other, far less memorable, stayed closer to the entrance itself, ambling over to the pool table where a faint light buzzed to life above it just as he picked up a stick.
“Well well well...didn’t think you’d show back up here so soon, she was sure that you were out of the game…” the raspy voice barked at Nicholas, taking a seat on a stool next to him. “Give me whatever is stronger than what this punk has.”
Nicholas didn’t raise his eyes from his liquor or even bother to make eye contact. While the shadows stirred at behest of the man’s request, all Nicholas could do was breath in and out deeply. Absolving himself of his psychological hardships was the only option.
“Conrad…is it done?” he muttered quietly to him for no reason other than habit. Soft spoken as ever, which perhaps contradicted his actions.
“Aye’...I compensated the engineers like you asked…” the burly man reached out, the sleeves of his hazel suit and darker undershirt beneath rolled back for the gruesome scars to show themselves, and his left hand picked up a smaller glass of something clear and potent. “I tested it myself...I’d say it was well worth the wait.”
Conrad was as haphazard as they came, and while he always accomplished his objectives it usually came at a cost. There was...some parasitic relationship he had with his own psyche that dwarfed many of the others in comparison. Nicholas lifted the mug to his thin lips while Conrad did the same, albeit his lips were thicker and deadpan. Somehow Nicholas dropped his mug first.
“So it really is complete this time? This is our last shot...if we mess this up…” he grimaced, gritting his teeth thereafter. We might as well die is what he almost said, but it wasn’t so simple.
“You thought I was going to leave that place without finding out for sure? You haven’t tapped the networks yet I guess...the destruction of Eingrad was my handiwork, and everyone in it…”
Eingrad was one of the many capitals of The Nibiru Alliance’s planets of which dozens of nations across several worlds and solar systems were unified under a parliament to delegate news, security, and the ideals of all races and people. It had been around for generations but still functioned as if relatively new, which was natural for a political climate of such an obtuse magnitude. Eingrad in-particular was the capital of Marsey, a world of engineers and technology worshippers who built churches to the Machine God Osmad the sheer feat of their incredible advancements. Multi-platformed corporations and anything dedicated to pushing the design of technology for all races and all beings was staple there, and so it was the perfect place to seek out engineers capable of inventing what it was that Nicholas desired from the beginning. In-fact, what they had gotten their hands on was made by ex-officials of the government working in the vast network of the underground that all in all had one connection to the undergrounds of the other worlds and all else underneath The Nibiru Alliance and even other existing realms within this section of the metaverse’s endless sea.
This tavern. Though it was afterhours now, and while everyone up top was there past when they were usually allowed, this place was for very particular individuals. Criminals of the highest order, lords of the underworld.
“Don’t forget what we’re setting out to do…” Nicholas reminded Conrad.
“...I’ll never forget... “ Conrad replied with malice in his voice. “It’s the only reason I can stand to live…”
“Don’t give in to nihilism before it’s too late...that wouldn’t be doing them justice.”
“I should be telling you that...down here wasting away in a place like this.”
Had Nicholas known Conrad was nearby, he would have never allowed himself to crack emotionally under the thought of the solid black gun sitting on the bar top between the two, shackled by its own regrettable virtue.
“I promise not to lose myself...or die...until I have finished what I started.” Nicholas stammered for a moment but his professional eloquence snapped back into his tone at the very end.
“Heh...we really are the same after all.” Conrad smiled.
◙ The sour ale burned but was refreshing. It was a metaphor to his life. In the darkness of the closed tavern a lone man drank by himself letting the alcohol bleed him of the pressure in his veins thick as nickel. He was lost. How long had he been this way? For once time felt meaningless. There was a few seconds of pause inbetween his lips hugging the glass, and every time such did his mind fall into submission of oppressive thought. For so long he had no idea what it felt like to be human, to bleed, to suffer of loss; it was all so foreign but he savored it like an intoxicated masochist. On the lacquered black wooden bar top to his right was a gun as black as the countertop, and of the shadows crawling along the edges of the the underground tavern. It made not a sound, but he could feel it. Screaming...crying...roaring in passionate agony. Even after all this time he wasn’t used to its constant, torturing yells, but he understood it. For a long time that had been him there in the very same position, barely able to keep sane, suffering from the pandemic of the one who had made him their owner.
The man known by the epithet “Consequence” lifted the glass mug and filled himself with beer once more. Several gulps later the glass was empty, and he was once again lost in his thoughts. Setting it down infront of him he pushed his right hand forward lazily sliding the glass towards the bartender who rest in the shadows obscuring his identity altogether, but happily obliged confiscating the mug with gloved digits and returning it with ale and a little something extra. Saving himself from his own thoughts and the distraction of the black gun’s psionic shrieks, he lost himself in his own melancholy intoxication. ◙
Consequence Post Two:
◙ Opening expositions at bars or taverns wasn’t the most original idea, but here it actually had meaning. There was something prolific about sitting here, in the dark, alone, the antithesis to the bustling charisma of the settings usual vigor. For many years Nicholas could hear the healthy banter of mercenaries and vagrants alike all coping with life and the oppression of existential problems beyond themselves by losing themselves in alcohol and laughter. It was bittersweet when they drank down to their last nickel flip or ate all the food they had to spare and was left with a void within that nothing could quite fill. Everything about their struggle was desperate, but as beings given the illusion that they could control their lives, it was equally beautiful. On the receiving end, as nothing more than a weapon born through the vision of a famous weaponsmith long since departed, Nicholas never had free will of his own. All he ever had was suffering. The slave to his owners will. Forced to worship the pain of stretching his materialistic conduits the mind of the sentient weapon had begun to break at some point. It wasn’t so bad at first. Still, when the demon-eyed gunslinger who would become his final immortal owner grasped the immaculately designed weapon...everything changed.
So how was he here? Made of flesh, sitting in the darkness of a still tavern that echoed his thoughts like a visionary chamber replaying the past about him. Well it was a place such as this that had his first experience with people, when that gunslinger was very young and still naive. It was a place such as this that he experienced love for another man for the first time, and Nicholas became able to understand his owner to be. Or so he thought. Pink matter was a strange thing. Nothing could prepare him for the disdain that would later fill his heart as he drank endlessly next to the very weapon that was responsible for his agony.
“Most raging alcoholics rant about their lives when they get in your mood…” a cacophony of disjointed voices echoed from the black where the bartender stood, yet it was more accurate to say that they echoed from the very underground tavern itself. “Will you not do the same?”
“...”
Nicholas was silent. Defiant even. There was no real solution to his fragmented psyche, or route that could bring the conclusion of his epic to a true ending. Instead he drank to forget about it all as he remember seeing so many times before. Still...it didn’t help. It just detached him further and brought the tons of weight that could snap a man in to rushing down on him without relent.
“You already know it all. Do you take me for a fool?” Nicholas murmured with a voice of calm rationale. It was young, but it was incredibly professional for someone who had been drinking for so long.
“It couldn’t hurt to say it out loud…”
“...”
It seemed he knew of this underground tavern’s legend, although it was less of a tavern and more of a locale for a frightening society of the world’s surrounding murim, where only those often detested but never seen or heard of parlayed. There were wise men in this world who lacked morality, and it was here that they gathered to create some modicum of civility when possible. On this day it was largely silent, and there was no one but himself there...atleast at that moment. Still, this place and the great history of what had occurred there was known very well, and that is why he had come.
He felt sadness within him. Though with this sadness came the realization that he still had an obligation to fulfill. Staring at his half-empty mug for a moment his thin lips curled into a sadistic smile.
“I am Consequence…”
And from there he told the darkness of the tavern his story. ◙
Consequence Post 3:
The darkness trembled when a set of heavy footsteps descended down a set of dilapidated wooden steps closing in on the underground tavern’s entrance. Nicholas went silent, but the establishment did not. The shadows retreated into their corners and dissolved from contorted abominations into their normal physical existence when the tall doors swung open and two patrons entered. The first was tall and lanky with brown hair and bright blue eyes but his skin flaky and scarred. He wore an eyepatch over his left eye, and his hair was groomed in a slicked knot at the back of his brazen forehead. At a glance he seemed smooth, experienced, but charismatic and loud all at once— and this was supported by his brown fur-coat draped along his shoulders, yet to any with the degree of awareness that Nicholas was bred with the existence of a multitude of armaments existed out of view on his person. While the brown of his attire was drab, the slacks, the shoes, the one thing that offset him was the golden watch on his left wrist: frighteningly similar to the golden watch on Nicholas’ own left wrist. Infact, one could say they were the same, but things were only just getting interesting in that regard. The towering man approached the barkeep, while the other, far less memorable, stayed closer to the entrance itself, ambling over to the pool table where a faint light buzzed to life above it just as he picked up a stick.
“Well well well...didn’t think you’d show back up here so soon, she was sure that you were out of the game…” the raspy voice barked at Nicholas, taking a seat on a stool next to him. “Give me whatever is stronger than what this punk has.”
Nicholas didn’t raise his eyes from his liquor or even bother to make eye contact. While the shadows stirred at behest of the man’s request, all Nicholas could do was breath in and out deeply. Absolving himself of his psychological hardships was the only option.
“Conrad…is it done?” he muttered quietly to him for no reason other than habit. Soft spoken as ever, which perhaps contradicted his actions.
“Aye’...I compensated the engineers like you asked…” the burly man reached out, the sleeves of his hazel suit and darker undershirt beneath rolled back for the gruesome scars to show themselves, and his left hand picked up a smaller glass of something clear and potent. “I tested it myself...I’d say it was well worth the wait.”
Conrad was as haphazard as they came, and while he always accomplished his objectives it usually came at a cost. There was...some parasitic relationship he had with his own psyche that dwarfed many of the others in comparison. Nicholas lifted the mug to his thin lips while Conrad did the same, albeit his lips were thicker and deadpan. Somehow Nicholas dropped his mug first.
“So it really is complete this time? This is our last shot...if we mess this up…” he grimaced, gritting his teeth thereafter. We might as well die is what he almost said, but it wasn’t so simple.
“You thought I was going to leave that place without finding out for sure? You haven’t tapped the networks yet I guess...the destruction of Eingrad was my handiwork, and everyone in it…”
Eingrad was one of the many capitals of The Nibiru Alliance’s planets of which dozens of nations across several worlds and solar systems were unified under a parliament to delegate news, security, and the ideals of all races and people. It had been around for generations but still functioned as if relatively new, which was natural for a political climate of such an obtuse magnitude. Eingrad in-particular was the capital of Marsey, a world of engineers and technology worshippers who built churches to the Machine God Osmad the sheer feat of their incredible advancements. Multi-platformed corporations and anything dedicated to pushing the design of technology for all races and all beings was staple there, and so it was the perfect place to seek out engineers capable of inventing what it was that Nicholas desired from the beginning. In-fact, what they had gotten their hands on was made by ex-officials of the government working in the vast network of the underground that all in all had one connection to the undergrounds of the other worlds and all else underneath The Nibiru Alliance and even other existing realms within this section of the metaverse’s endless sea.
This tavern. Though it was afterhours now, and while everyone up top was there past when they were usually allowed, this place was for very particular individuals. Criminals of the highest order, lords of the underworld.
“Don’t forget what we’re setting out to do…” Nicholas reminded Conrad.
“...I’ll never forget... “ Conrad replied with malice in his voice. “It’s the only reason I can stand to live…”
“Don’t give in to nihilism before it’s too late...that wouldn’t be doing them justice.”
“I should be telling you that...down here wasting away in a place like this.”
Had Nicholas known Conrad was nearby, he would have never allowed himself to crack emotionally under the thought of the solid black gun sitting on the bar top between the two, shackled by its own regrettable virtue.
“I promise not to lose myself...or die...until I have finished what I started.” Nicholas stammered for a moment but his professional eloquence snapped back into his tone at the very end.
“Heh...we really are the same after all.” Conrad smiled.