Nuisance Nook (Xinder's useless stuff)

[Vipervertical]

So I think DA gave me a virus, so that's pissed me off. Unfortunately, that leaves me with nowhere to vent my rants about things nobody cares about. Shortly I will transfer all my DA crap over to here for better organization, but for now I'm just going to drop one thing here: A futurepost for a parody section thread. Isn't it sad that this thread has me more interested than my actual threads? Anyway, here it is even though nobody reads this crap anyway:

---

---

It was gone…it was all gone… The rivers he used to swim in, the forests he used to play in… All gone. The entire planet was gone and was never coming back. Everything he cared about, everything he loved was no more. Even Arquua…

Oh Arquua… His legs buckled and he collapsed to his knees. Yellow tears streamed down his face. His beautiful Arquua was nothing but a memory. He’d never again see her sharp teeth through that loving smile. Never again see the lovely way that she ran through the forest, knowing exactly how to navigate the winding trees. She was perfect…and now she too was gone forever.

It was this stupid game’s fault! Had they not played this stupid game, nothing would have happened. Alternia would be in one piece and he would be with his beloved matesprit. He screamed, grabbing his horns and pulling them in rage. All he succeeded in doing was dragging himself to the floor, splattering yellow tears across his face and into his hair.

He lied in the puddle of tears for a while, losing track of time in his sorrow. Eventually he began to drift off to sleep, his body unable to handle the racking of his sobs any longer.

---

He awoke refreshed from the sopor. He slowly climbed out of his recuperacoon, pleased that everything that had happened was all just a bad dream. He looked around at the purple-themed room. Wait a minute, when did he get those books? And that poster? And how did he get here anyway? Didn’t he fall asleep on the ground? And these clothes? Some sort of…purple pajamas or something? Something was off here.

In an attempt to solve the questions he flew out the window, the thought not even occurring to him that flight was impossible. As he flitted about the spires of the violet planet the realization became blindingly obvious. This was Derse. He had never heard of Derse before, but something inside of him was certain that that was the name of this place and that it was important. He gently landed atop the tower that housed his recuperacoon, surveying the area.

His was the only tower which meant….absolutely nothing. He sighed, looking around the planet, confused about what he was here for. For some reason, as he stood here at the farthest point from that bright speck on the other end of the system, he heard a voice…A quiet voice that seemed to beckon him farther. He glanced upwards at the empty reaches that lay beyond. It was tempting, oh so tempting to obey the voice and drift away into the darkness.

No! He couldn’t go out like this. There was still work to be done. He couldn’t let Arquua’s death be in vain. And more importantly, he couldn’t let her death go unpunished. Someone would pay…

---

Without warning, he awoke on the floor, lying in a puddle of his own tears. His grubtop was open a few feet away, with a few imps tentatively approaching it with curiosity. He knew what he had to do.

He was up in a flash, his knife in hand quickly slicing away at the imps, felling them easily. Halfheartedly, he collected the grist and glanced at the grubtop.

RB: Hey.
RB: Dude.
RB: Where 4re you?
RB: Wh4t's wron6?
RB: 4nswers, broski?
RB: 4nswers! Come on!

He scowled at the text, unsure of how long ago it’d been written and how long he’d been unconscious. He wiped his hair back out of his eyes, and for the first time ever it stayed back, the tears acting as a gel to stick it sleeked back against his head. They also gave it a strange yellow-streaked appearance.

IS: I’m koming for youu.

(Stay tuned for more useless rants about things you don't care about as well as random short stories and posts I'll likely never get to use. LIKE THIS ONE!)

[Sporky]

ASSUMING DIRECT CONTROL

This is another sneak peek. :3 Wytmonde's death at the hands of his friend.

---

What..?

He pressed his hands to the wounds in his chest in a feeble attempt to stop the grey-green blood from pouring out. His breaths came in short, weezing gasps, for his lungs had been punctured. Slowly, with shaking head and failing thinkpan, he looked down. His armor had been puncutred..that was blood. His blood. It was his life force that was now spilling out over the large stone bed he'd been sleeping on.

Then, he looked up, at the face of his killer..Perzac? His mouth gasped open and his eyes bulged, making him look very much like a dumb finbeast flapping and flailing in an attempt to find water. Perzac..? Why...

"Why, Perz4c...? Why..."

Darkness.

[Vipervertical]

Okay, I usually won't have so many posts in a day, but whatever. Here's an IC chat that comes AFTER Sporky's little preview... And I'm too lazy to add color. I'll do that later maybe. If I get bored enough.

--recoillessBifurcation [RB] began trolling intrepidStalker [IS]--

RB: Wh4t w4s it you s4id to me? 'I'm comin6'?
RB: Ri6ht b4ck 4t you.
IS: Wytmonde? How're...? Youu're alive?
RB: Yes.
RB: By the w4y, protip: DYIN6 HURTS.
IS: Buut...how? I was there! I saw youu die!
RB: Weird 64me cr4p.
RB: I c4n fly now, by the w4y.
IS: I don't...I don't know what to say.
IS: I mean...I didn't mean to kill youu.
IS: I didn't want to...
RB: In 4 w4y, it w4s 6ood th4t you did.
IS: This doesn't mean I forgive youu.
RB: I know.
IS: I guuess...we're juust more even now...
RB: In one re64rd, yes. We're even.
RB: I in4dvert4ntly killed your m4tesprit, 4nd you killed me.
IS: Buut I kan't get over it. I still hate youu.
RB: I know.
RB: But it's ok4y, bro.
RB: I underst4nd.
RB: Kind4 why they invented kismesis.
IS: ...Is that what we are now?
RB: Wouldn't you 46ree?
IS: I...I guuess so. I juust never thouught abouut it.
RB: You h4te me for killin6 your m4tesprit, I h4te you for..oh, I dunno...pucturin6 my lun6s. 4nd m4kin6 me die very p4infully.
IS: I don't even kare abouut blakkroms, thouugh. I figuured one quuadrant was enouugh...
RB: Does it m4tter 4nymore?
IS: (You know if he had a moirail he probably wouldn't have freaked out so murderously >_> Just sayin')
RB: ( ^ xDD )
IS: I...I guuess not.
RB: You need to die, too.
RB: 4nd, hey, he4r me out.
IS: O.O
RB: No, c4lm down.
RB: The echel4dder.
RB: Not the end.
IS: I'm almost to the top thouugh....
RB: I W4S 4t the top.
RB: Th4t's why I'm 4live 464in...better.
RB: Re4ch the top. Find the bed. Let me kill you.
RB: Th4t..sounds incredibly d4rk for 4 troll of seven 4nd 4 h4lf.
IS: (Alright, if this convo becomes canon, we can still have Colferas be the one to kill him :3 We just have to have it so that Perzac doesn't clarify what happens before Colferas just guns him down.)
RB: (Okay. xD Fine with me. )
IS: I...
IS: Alright.
RB: This 6oes beyond us, Perz4c.
RB: This is how the 64me works, 4pp4rently.
IS: It souunds uunbelivable, buut the fakt that youu're alive proves it...
RB: I've seen it. I've seen it 4ll.
RB: The future. 4ltern4te timelines. DOOMED timelines.
IS: I don't even uunderstand what that means.
IS: And I still hate youu buut...I guuess I truust youu.
RB: Some people think time is line4r. Tod4y, tomorrow, this sweep, next sweep.
RB: But it's not.
RB: It's fluid. Time is like 4 river, 4nd there 4re uncount4ble tribut4ries th4t br4nch off from the m4in river.
IS: (I thought Karl had gone to bed. There's a post from him >_<)
IS: That...still makes no sense. Buut I guuess that's why youu're the Heir of Time and I'm the krappy Thief of Space.
IS: What do frogs even have to do with Space?
RB: I'm just the 6uy with the bo4t, is 4ll. The bi66est, most powerful bo4t on the river.
RB: Perz4c. I'm wieldin6 4 19 b4rrel m4chine6un th4t, over the course of its cre4tion, h4s been m4de from 4 toy howitzer, 4 book, your 8-b4rrel shot6un, 4nd 4 6ren4de.
RB: You're questionin6 how the 64me works?
IS: ...
IS: Youu have a point.
IS: I have to go.
IS: There are lots of enemies here.
RB: Re4ch the top. Be the corpse.
IS: I'll talk to youu again onke I reakh the top.
IS: Buulgepan.
RB: 4ssh4t.

--intrepidStalker [IS] blocked recoillessBifurcation [RB]--

[Vipervertical]

So here marks the first transfer of stuff from DA. I guess I'll do this in segments based on characters involved for now, and move the stuff not associated with a character later. These little profiles were invented by me and are pretty haphazard, listing things randomly as I thought they were interesting. You'll have to deal with that. Any names/accounts have been replaced by either their SWU name or their relationship to me. So here goes Page One: Survivor

---

Name: Peter
(Note: No last name because L4D Survivors don't get those. 'Cept Bill, but he doesn't count.)

Aliases/nicknames/titles: Pete, Survivor, Annapolis Survivor, Uninfected, Tango Mike, Non-Carrier, Infected, Chubby Wolf, Whiskey Delta, Hunter, Walking Dead
(Note: L4D lore names Survivor groups based on where they got together. He met his ally in Annapolis.)

Age: 27
(Note: As of the rp at least. Which puts his DOB at 1982. I'm not adding DOB because most of my characters use a different dating system.)

Family: Angela - fiancè (deceased)

Hometown: Annapolis, Maryland, United States of America

Personality: Pragmatic, stubborn, and one hell of a driver.
(Note: I'm only giving cursory glances over their personalities. Much more fun that way. Also it makes you have to read their rps >_>)

Weapons: Remmington 870 Marine Magnum Shotgun w/nonstandard vent-rib, Five-seveN, machete, steak knife, 20 or so molotov cocktails, M14 w/scope attachment (bent barrel), quick wits.
(Note: M14 is unusable since the barrel got bent when he rammed a Tank in an eighteen wheeler. The kitchen knife is kept in a ziploc bag and still is covered in the blood of his first kill: His fiancè. More of a memento than a weapon.)

Occupation: Former IT manager at independent law firm. Now unemployed.

Setting: Late October/Early November 2009. Alternate Earth in wake of zombie apocalyplse. American Southeast.

History: Peter worked as an IT manager for an indepedent law firm in Annapolis, Maryland. He became engaged to his girlfriend during May of 2009. Less than a month before their planned wedding, his fiancè became infected with what was being called "green flu." The rabies-based virus caused her to revert to her primal instincts and she attacked Peter. Forced to defend himself, Peter stabbed her to death with a kitchen knife. Since then he has been on the move, never staying in one place for too long, though he remains within the city limits.
(Note: His story gets interesting after that. But that's for the rp )

Appearance: Tallish (5'11" I thinks), below average weight with some muscle build (168 lb), clean shaven, black hair just over ears, near eternal depression on his face. Green eyes.

Religion: Formerly Roman Catholic. Currently agnostic until he reaches a safe zone in which he will rethink his religion.

Species/Race: Human, Caucasian American. Infected, Hunter.

Combat Styles: Stealthy (uses machete and/or Five-seveN to eliminate Infected quietly to clear out an area without alerting more.), Run 'N Gun (Usually with shotgun, though sometimes dual wields Five-seveN and machete to deal maximum damage while moving from one location to another.)

Handedness: Left handed, though he was taught to shoot right handed. He wields all guns right handed, and does everything else left handed.

Ailments: Clinical Depression

Alignment: Chaotic Neutral

Color Affinity: Orange and Green

Versus Previous Pages: N/A. This is page 1, dummkopf. There are no previous pages.

Origin RP: Survivors (An original Left 4 Dead RolePlay with [mah moirail] and a random cameo by someone else sometimes.)

Alternate Universe versions: None.
(SWU NOTE: Perzac is loosely based on Peter. You can probably tell.)

Miscellaneous Notes: This was my attempt at creating a normal character thrust into extraordinary circumstances. He's dealing with a lot of messed up nuts right now, but somehow he managed to survive. I feel confident that I achieved what I set out to do in creating him.

---

Green Flu

21 days after first infection

The sights lined up on the woman's head. If she could be called a woman anymore. Her eyes were yellow and mouth and chin dripping with blood. Whether it was her own or someone else's wasn't important. He tried not to imagine who she might've been had the infection not hit. A single mother struggling to take care of her children? A business woman with her eyes on the CEO position? It didn't matter anymore. But try as he might he couldn't keep himself from remembering Angela.

---
5 days after first infection

It was just over two weeks ago when it happened. She had come home feeling sick. He'd heard the scare about the new epidemic. "Green Flu" they called it. It didn't really matter. After all, this was just like the bird flu and swine flu scares, and they made out okay. He just forced her to stay home for a few days. Maybe help her get over the little bug and go back to work. When he came home on the third day there was something definitely wrong with her. She couldn't stop shaking and her eyes had begun to turn yellow. Just as he decided to call the hospital she leapt on him. Tried to bite him. He managed to shove her off, but she wouldn't respond to him. He ran to the kitchen, Angela following him in quickly. He drew the largest steak knife they had from the knife rack. She leapt and he cried as he stabbed his fiancée in the heart. He numbed to the tears racing down his face as he stabbed her over and over again.

---
21 days after first infection

Now here he was, the day before his wedding and he was all alone, shooting these...these things with a gun he took from a dead man's grip. Bottling up all his sorrows, doubts, and memories; he pulled the trigger. The woman's head seemed to transform into a cloud of blood. He didn't watch the body fall, instead pulling back the bolt on the rifle to eject the spent cartridge as he lined up another shot. He had lost count about a week ago. The last time he was sure of his count was around sixty-something.

He trained the rifle's scope and the cycle started over. As he fired this time, he felt Angela's face bubbling up in his memory. Her last words still rang in his mind: "Peter, I'm not going to look good in my wedding dress, am I?" She had tried to laugh, but only managed to cough up more blood.

---
8 days after first infection

It took him over an hour to leave her side. He didn't know what to do, so he just left her where she lied. A thought bubbled up unbidden as he took his final look at his betrothed: The blood would take a while to clean off the floor. With her blood caked onto his hands and the knife that took her life firmly in his grip, he left their home for the last time. He took no notice of the blood that had already stained his clothes, and neither did anybody else on the street....there was nobody else on the street. Anybody who was still here had barricaded themselves in their homes. Most had gone to the evacuation centers.

After what seemed like hours -in retrospect probably not even thirty minutes- of mindless wandering around the city he called home, he reached what was labeled a "safe room." Clearly this was not the case, as more of those things that had been like his fiancée were in there, feasting on a man's body. Quietly, he fingered the knife in his belt, but then he saw it: A shotgun lying on a table. As silently as possible, he crept up behind the monsters and reached for the weapon.

One screeched; it had spotted him.

He moved quickly then, taking the shotgun from the table, positioning his hand on the grip and the other on the shaft as he'd been taught in the one weapon's training he'd attended. By the time he'd positioned his hands, the rest of them had noticed him and were quickly advancing the three feet that separated them. He only barely took aim as he fired off a shot, pulled the pump, fired a second shot, pulled the pump, and fired a third shot into the creature whose hand had made it within inches of his face.

---
21 days after first infection

He'd learned quickly since then. Now here he was lining up his third shot with a hunting rifle he'd procured from the local rifle range. He'd come across precious few survivors since the outbreak. Most of them went their separate ways, having differing ideas on how to survive. Some had tried to stick with him. Those that did were dead now.

---
12 days after first infection

Kevin had lasted the longest. They'd joined up in the Annapolis Civic Center. The two of them agreed that staying in the city was the best plan, and had decided to hole up together in the police station. The plan was flawless. One would sleep while the other watched the door and shot anything that got too close through the mail flap. The only time they'd be up at the same time was when they ate the little rations they had: Usually just a granola bar each. They shared stories of how their lives were before the infection hit.

Kevin had been a student at St. John's College. He'd have long rants over meals about how he'd wasted his life studying and how now that the world had gone to nuts he'd never need to bother with the calculus exam he'd been studying for.

Peter, on the other hand, had been the IT manager at a local investment office. His job hadn't been all that fulfilling, but his home life was what he really missed. He told Kevin about his engagement and how he'd been looking forward to a long life with Angela. Kevin teased him about it sometimes, but could tell when Peter was really hurting.

On their sixth day of holing up in the police station they ran out of food. They split the last granola bar and agreed to make a run to the local Publix for more food. They noticed weird ones. Some of the "zombies" had begun to mutate into strange new shapes. One of them had an extremely long tongue that it used to grab Kevin and try to drag him away. A few quick shots were what saved him from becoming dinner to the coughing thing. Once they untangled Kevin from the tongue, they made it to the grocery store.

Kevin wouldn't stop complaining about a pain in his shoulder, asking Peter to check it over before the left the store. He had ample reason to complain....he'd been bitten. He wouldn't let it go, kept saying he could feel himself changing. He handed Peter his handgun and asked him to let him die when he was still a man.

It was in aisle three -next to the cereals- where Peter blew his only friend's brains all over the floor.

---
18 days after first infection

He didn't go back to the police station after that. Instead, he went to the only other place he knew: His office. He set up traps on the stairwells. Simple devices: Pots and pans dangling from strings, the occasional fire axe on a string. He'd know when they were coming. But it was the roof where he set up camp. Every night he'd set up on the edge of the roof with the hunting rifle and clear out the street. Every day he'd sleep next to the door to the stairwell with a shotgun nestled in his arms, knowing that should any of the things come up for him he'd hear them.

---
22 days after first infection

The sound of the rifle shot rang out through the street as he finished off what was sure to be the last one of them for the night. He could see the sky brightening up as the sun grew closer to the horizon. He propped the rifle up against the short little barrier to keep less balanced people from tumbling off the roof and reached for the shotgun. With any luck he wouldn't need it, but should he need it, he would have it close at hand. He sat down on the ground, leaning against the little protrusion that housed the stairwell back into the main building. It was there that he slept as he had for four days before, with his shotgun nestled in his arms and his faith in the traps he'd set up in the stairwells below. This time however, he drifted off with another thought in his head.

Today....today is my wedding day.

---

No Happy Endings

"We did it!"

Peter's heart raced, his body shook as he panted heavily. The sound of his breathing almost overshadowed her words. He smiled and raised his head, locking eyes with the small Russian girl. "Yeah. We made it. We're alive." His finger still trembled over the trigger of the shotgun that hung from his right hand.

She grabbed him by the shoulders and hoisted him into a deep kiss. His breathing stopped. His eyes widened. His mind was suddenly awash in the memories of the past few days, and then the three weeks before.

They'd only met a few days ago, but since then they'd scarcely been more than a few feet apart. Sticking together was one of the few things that kept them alive when most of the world was dead. Katrya and him had hooked up in Annapolis, four states away, and had been travelling together to New Orleans, supposedly the last safe place in the eastern United States, possibly the world. There was no doubt he'd felt some sort of attraction to her, but it was possible that was simply the result of spending over seventy-two hours in close proximity to one another. And more than that, the kiss felt like a smudge on the memory of Angela, a nagging feeling told him he was cheating on his beloved fiancé.

Shrugging off the thought, he pulled away from her, breaking the kiss. He tried to smile, to keep her from knowing that she'd hurt him. She didn't mean to, heck, she probably didn't even mean to kiss him. The most likely explanation was that it was the rush of relief from making it to the car dealership intact. "Hey. Let's not celebrate just yet. We've still got three states to cover, and let's hope Georgia will be more forgiving than the Carolinas."

She smiled. But was that a twitch of sorrow? Did she know? He pushed the thoughts away. He was imagining it, and they had more pressing concerns.

---

It felt like he'd been on the run like this his whole life, fighting to survive. It was hard to imagine that just one month ago he'd been happily engaged to the love of his life and he didn't have to spend every waking moment checking over his shoulder. And sleep wasn't much better, as it only brought back the nightmares. The memories of what he'd done to his poor fiancé.

It all started just under a month ago. Word spread of a virus that was going around up in the Northeast, mostly the urban areas of New York and Pennsylvania. The media was calling it "the Green Flu." Rumors were going around that it turned people into ravenous monsters, that it was some sort of biological agent spread by the Chinese or the Russians. Peter blissfully ignored the rumors. Just a few years ago the media was hyping up Avian Flu and then Swine Flu, and both of those seemed to be no real problem.

It wasn't even a week before he learned how wrong he was. Angela had come home sick with some kind of illness. She only lasted a few days resting in bed before she turned. She didn't even recognize him. He was forced to stab her to death with one of the steak knives. He still kept the bloody knife in a Ziploc bag at the bottom of one of his tote bags filled with supplies. He began to heed the CEDA (Civil Emergency and Defense Agency) warnings then. This was no flu.

He began to hole up in an old office building downtown, gathering weapons and supplies to defend himself from the onslaught of mindless infected. They were zombies, not people, plain and simple. Though he told himself this every day, it still felt hollow. Every night he dreamed of Angela and thought of new ways that he might have saved her. He never did.

---

2 Hours South of Savannah

"Peter? You alright?"

"Huh?" He looked up from the passenger side of the pick-up truck they'd "commandeered" from the abandoned dealership. His mind jolted from the reminiscing.

"You've been rubbing your eye for the past twenty minutes. Something the matter?" She seemed genuinely concerned, her eyes wavering over him and only occasionally glancing back at the road.

He frowned, pulling his hand away from his face. He hadn't even been aware of what he'd been doing. "Sorry, just a little itchy. I'm not infected, promise." He gave her what he thought was a reassuring smile before his stomach growled loudly. "But I could do with some food. This rig have a cigarette lighter? I'm itching for some beans."

He wrestled the can of beans from one of the bags at his feet and begin cooking them with the truck's old cigarette lighter. Popping open the can with a "borrowed" Swiss Army Knife, he began to ravenously intake the contents. "Whoa there. Leave some for me, chubby wolf." He rolled his eyes at her juvenile nickname, but obediently passed over the remains of the meal. They swapped seats so that he could take over steering while she ate. "Peter? Aren't we going a little fast?" He glanced at the speedometer and was surprised to see that he was making an alarming seventy miles an hour.

"Sorry about that." He eased off the gas, allowing the truck to take a more even fifty. "I guess I'm just in a hurry to get out of here."

"Yeah...me too."

---

6 Hours Southwest of Savannah

A gentle shake brought Peter back from the nightmarish dream world and back into the nightmarish reality. "Your turn to drive, chubby wolf."

He groaned. "Has it really been three hours?"

She nodded happily. "We're just a few short minutes away from Florida. And after that-!"

"It's a straight shot to New Orleans and the evacuation. Yes, I know." He yawned, stretching. "Alright, but you're taking over once we get to Alabama." He'd memorized the map long ago, formulating the best path to reach their destination. It was his idea to stick to the coast and avoid urban areas. He'd never been this far south in his life, and he was not appreciating the humidity.

"Aye, aye Cap-ee-ton!" She eagerly squirmed over his lap and curled up against the door. "You sure you're okay? You look a little pale." He smiled at her and she shrugged before quickly drifting off into what they'd been calling "sleep." He started up the engine and glanced over at his sleeping companion. Surely her rest had to be more fulfilling than his. He sighed, once more pushing wishes and dreams and what-ifs and what-was thoughts from his mind. And again he noticed just how itchy his eyes were and made a note to pick up some eye drops the next time they stopped.

---

10 Hours Southwest of Savannah

"Peter! Peter! Wake up! Don't you leave me, idiot!"

His eyes opened slowly, but the world seemed to be spinning. There was a strange smell in the air, like somebody had overcooked dinner. He opened his mouth to speak, but only a groan escaped his lips. "Idiot! What were you thinking!?" After what felt like centuries the world began to calm down and take shape. Katrya's face was directly above him and...upside-down?

"You're...bleeding." He tried to raise his arm, but it was heavy as if coated in lead.

"You crashed our only ride! We'll never make it now!" Her face was bright red, and tears were staining her cheek but what drew his eyes was the blood leaking from a cut on her forehead. "And you almost died on me! Never do that. D-don't ever leave me like that."

He gave a weak smile, realizing she had hoisted him from the crashed vehicle and his head was resting on her lap. "I'm sorry." After a few seconds of this awkward position he added "Did you save the food?"

She tried to fight it, he could see, but she broke out into laughter, and he got caught up in the laughter as well. "Idiot." She hit him none-too-lightly on the cheek. "Now come on, we've got only a few hours left of daylight to salvage what we can and find somewhere to hunker down for the night."

As she dumped his head on the dirt, he took a moment to reflect on how she'd changed since he met her, and how she might have been before the world had ended around them. She told him that her family was from Russia and she'd only been in Annapolis as some sort of grad-school student learning mechanics. She'd been headstrong when they met, but she had left all the planning to him, preferring to let him make the tough decisions. Now here she was, taking charge and leaving him to follow her lead.

He sighed and, ignoring the pain in his leg, hoisted himself to his feet. For the first time, he surveyed the damage done to their third vehicle since they'd left Annapolis. Their first van had run out of gas just North of the Virginia-North Carolina border, they'd picked up a trucker cab after that, which he'd also totaled when he used it to ram the largest Infected they'd ever come across, which he'd been informally calling a "Tank." This pick-up looked almost as bad as the trucker cab, if not worse. The front end had wrapped itself around a tree trunk, and a branch had pierced the windshield, protruding right through the middle of the cab. He thanked his guardian angel that it hadn't been a few inches to the right. Smoke was rising from the hood, but there wasn't any visible fire. Katrya was busy rummaging around the cab of the truck for supplies, her rear protruding high into the air while her top half was vanished into the interior of the pick-up. He struggled to remember what had happened. He remembered seeing a sign to Pensacola, and he remembered turning right instead of left to avoid it. But after that, he couldn't seem to remember anything up until waking up here.

He chuckled quietly to himself. "Could be worse." He called out to his mechanically inclined associate. "Could be raining."

She poked her head out to glare at him. "Don't you dare jinx us." She stopped then, staring at him with a worried expression. He frowned, opening his mouth to ask what was wrong when she spoke again, walking slowly towards him. "Peter. Stop it. You're bleeding." His frown deepened.

"Stop what? I don't-" She grabbed his wrist and pulled it from his face. His hand was covered in blood. "What-?" Her face turned pale and it looked as though she might vomit. "What's going on? I don't get it."

"P-peter...you've ripped out your eye." He froze. His eye? That was impossible. Surely he would have noticed. Tentatively, he placed his hand over his right eye. No change, he waved it just in front of the spot and didn't see a thing. Kat meanwhile was a few feet away, vomiting into the ditch.

He felt something coming up, some sort of bile snaking up his throat. "Oh god. What happened? How could I-? I don't understand." He swallowed, forcing the stomach bile back down. The one thing he couldn't afford to do was panic. With more confidence than he felt, he tried to calm her. "L-let's just get some bandages. I'm sure some of them must have survived the crash." She didn't look up, just kept staring at the ground where she'd lost her last meal. "We'll just...continue like we were before. I'm sure it's no big deal. Stress is just getting to me. That'll show me for keeping everything all bottled up, right?" He tried to laugh, but only managed a weak crackle.

She wiped her mouth and stood back up, avoiding looking at him. "R-right. Bandages. T-this changes nothing. ...Right?"

"Right." He spoke with such confidence that he almost believed it himself. Almost.

---

15 Hours Southwest of Savannah

"This is your fault." Kat shot him a dirty look with her cloudy eye. He remembered what had happened to her. When they were raiding an abandoned CEDA evacuation camp, she'd been attacked by one of the more mutated infected. It spat some sort of acid, giving the side of her face a grotesque visage and damaging her eye beyond use. In an odd moment of thought, he decided that maybe they had become closer together now that they shared mutual loss of an eye.

"My fault? How on Earth is this my fault?" He gave an exaggerated pouting face, the bandages still feeling awkward wrapped around his head like a makeshift eye patch. The fact that they were now wet was not helping the matter any.

"Need I count the reasons? First you wreck our truck, then you go and make some crack about rain and now it's raining!" She held her head up, giving an oddly regal look to her sweaty and bruised appearance.

He smiled. "Maybe so, but at least we've got each other, eh?" He wrapped an arm around her shoulders in a cheesy hug. The twitch of a suppressed smile on her face was enough to keep him going. "Save me some sugar! This won't take long! I won't promise to stay the night! I won't sing you no song!"

She shoved him away, unable to stop herself from giggling. "You so butchered that song so bad. Don't quit your day job."

He proudly placed his hands on his hips. "Day job? Baby, I'm a travelling minstrel! Folks need my music to keep 'em going. I'm a morale booster!"

She punched his arm. "You're an idiot is what you are." Once she'd gotten the giggling out of her system, she calmed down. "So, you think that the military's still in New Orleans? I'm starting to think that we might be too late. Maybe they pulled out already."

He sighed, unwilling to let her know he'd had the same worry for a while now. "Maybe they have, and maybe they haven't. But honestly, I can't think of another possible place to go. Can you?" She shook her head. "If they aren't in New Orleans we'll just go to the next evacuation center, alright? It's not like the military would just abandon us. They simply don't know we're here." She gave a weak smile. He could tell she didn't really believe it, but he didn't either.

Without warning she began jumping around, highly excited. "Look! Look! 'You are now entering Alabama.' We made it! We don't need no stinking car!"

He smiled, soaking in her infectious enthusiasm. "A car would be nice, though."

---

19 Hours Southwest of Savannah

"I told you we should have just gone around it! But 'Nooooo, we have to have a car!'"

Peter ignored her berating and concentrated on working his way to the building at the other end of the parking lot. He fired a shot right into the chest of an approaching infected, watching the buckshot shred its torso gruesomely before pumping the shell out of the shotgun and turning it on the next attacker. "We can argue, or we can survive! I vote for the latter!"

She merely grunted in response, focused on the task at hand. Before too long, they managed to reach the entrance. "Wait here." Turning around, he pulled a half-empty bottle of rum from his bag. Rather than sift around for the lighter, he tossed his shotgun at Kat and pulled his handgun from its holster on his chest. He fired once at the rag protruding from the mouth of the bottle and it lit up. "Boy I'm glad I never listened to my mom about playing with fire." He threw the bottle at a parked sedan and turned around, rushing back inside before it struck and lit the car on fire. The duo hid just inside and listened to the explosion of the car engine and the widespread fire which acted as a barrier between them and the approaching horde.

"Well, we're alive. What's your next plan, Captain I-Have-A-Death-Wish?" He sighed, collapsing against the wall. She frowned. "You okay? I'm only teasing. I didn't really mean it."

He gave a weak smile, which turned into a grimace as his head erupted into blistering pain. He cradled his head in his hands as he leaned against the wall. "I-I know. I just...I've got a little headache. It hurts to think. Can we just...rest here for the night?"

She smiled. "Yeah. I'll clear out the building. Looks like a couch in the lobby. Why don't you get some rest?"

"Th-thanks." He drifted off to sleep with the sound of scattered gunfire and dull thumps.

---

22 Hours Southwest of Savannah

"What are you doing!?"

A firm grip ripped his hand from his face. "Kat? Katrya is that you? Why is it so dark in here?"

"Oh my god. Peter, you didn't. Why would you do that?" He could hear horror and disgust in her voice, but when he reached out he couldn't find her. "Your eye...you did it again."

He could barely understand her, but he could hear her clearly. "My eye? What do you mean? I'm really hungry right about now. Maybe we should get something to eat."

"Peter. Your eye. You've scraped the other one out." He felt her wrap her arms around him, blindly he embraced her back.

"I don't...I can't think right. I'm really hungry. We should really eat something." His head was foggy, he understood what she was saying, but it didn't really seem all that important. He was hungry, and that was important.

Her embrace tightened around him and he heard her sobbing softly. "I think...you're infected, Peter. I'm sorry." He laughed, assuming she was joking. "I'm serious. I don't know when it happened but...I think you're becoming one of them."

"Relax, Kat. I'm just a little hungry. We'll deal with the eye situation after we eat. It's not a big deal. There's no way I'm infected." He patted her back and tried to calm her down, but she only stood up, pushing him back onto the couch. "So let's get something to eat. What've we got left?"

The sound of a handgun being cocked rang in his ears.

"I'm sorry, Peter."

---

24 hours Southwest of Savannah

Peter licked his claws, the blood of his last victim still caked in them. He felt sated, but something in him said he wasn't done yet. He howled, a loud screech rang out. Listening to the returning sound waves, he determined his nearby environment. He leapt off the top of the building, landing perfectly fine on the pavement three stories below. A loud sound rang out to his left. Gunshots?

For a moment he remembered travelling with someone. A girl. He remembered being very close to her. What had happened to her?

Another gunshot rang out and his memories were swept away, replaced by the need to hunt. To kill. To feed.

---

And this last bit is unrelated, but Sporky (♠) would get mad at me if I didn't post it. Here's another futurepost for Perzac:

ACTIVATING MURDER MODE

The wind whipped about the air at the high altitude. His loose-fitting shirt flapped in the breeze. His fingers tightened around the knife, his own yellow blood caking the blade, as well as dried along his hands, wrists, and even his face; remnants of self-mutilation. His fangs were bared as he watched his opposite. His revenge was finally upon him.

He looked up as he turned to face the other. "Oh, I d-" He didn't even finish the sentence before the knife was in his chest. He stumbled backwards and looked up at the offender with confusion and hurt in his eyes. "Why, Perz4c...? Why..." Perzac only growled through his teeth and swung the knife again, slitting Wytmonde's throat. Warm blood splashed against his face and the body fell lifelessly back atop the stone dais.

Perzac wasn’t done yet. He screamed and leapt atop the dais, slashing and stabbing at the body over and over again, the blood splattered all over his face and front. He appeared to have bathed in the grey-green blood when he was done. He screamed as he did it, shouting obscenities and laying the blame for every bad thing that had happened these past few days on the troll whose body he now mutilated. He didn’t stop until his arm was too tired to move.

Blood dripped from his face as he admired his handiwork. Looking over the mutilated form he suddenly felt sick to his stomach. The blade fell from his grip, clattering loudly in the silence. He stepped back, tumbling off the dais and landing hard on his back. He didn’t rise at first, his stomach burned as the implications of what he had done hit him. This was his ally, one of the few fellow trolls that still lived. And he had killed him. He could feel the blood against his skin, still warm and wet from the body.

A groan escaped his lips. He rolled over, crawling to the side of the spire and vomiting off the side, spewing a yellowish-green mess down the paths below. He couldn’t even cry. Something deep inside, possibly his inner troll, was…satisfied. It was pleasing that he had brought this monster to justice. But…was it truly justice? His thinkpan hurt from all of this justification and confusion. He lied on his side, only a few feet away from the gruesome mess he’d created. He didn’t sleep, didn’t even close his eyes other than the occasional blink.

He wasn’t sure how long he laid there, every second felt like an hour to him, and it felt as if he’d been there forever. At long last his earpiece chirped. For a moment he wondered if it might be Wytmonde. It wasn’t. It would never be Wytmonde again. He couldn’t bring himself to see what it was his surviving ally wanted. He wasn’t sure he could bring himself to do anything now…

But the chirping of the earpiece was eventually enough to get him to get up. He purposefully avoided looking at the raised dais, painted grey-green by its eternal sleeper. He tapped the earpiece three times, logging out of Trollian instead of answering the message. Just before he began down the path he remembered his knife. He only glanced over for a second, but it was enough.

He looked away, wiping some of the grey-green blood off of his face. There were no tears. Not this time. But the knife…it would remain. It was his addition to the gory monument, and an admission of guilt.

With shaky steps, the blood-soaked troll once more started down the spiraling ramps to the planet below. He’d done something bad here. This was something he could not be forgiven for. Justice or no, he’d caused them to lose. This game…was already over.

[Vipervertical]

Here comes page 2 of the stuff I'm transferring over from DA: Reaper. The story here is...some of my worst work. I'm gonna be honest. It was odd, like it bursted with need to get out of my head, but it wasn't museish. It was just...dull when it got out. Reading it makes me think it was Past Me's writing from a few years back, but it was just written a couple months ago. Whatever, here ya go.

---

Name: Ryou Misaki
(Note: Yes, he IS asian.)

Aliases/nicknames/titles: Terror of Death, Detroit Reaper, Reaper of South Detroit, Grim
(Note: If you figured out his inspiration already, good for you...nerd.)

Age: 1274
(Note: He's immortal, so I almost just put down N/A but...he has to have been born at some time. Whatever.)

Family: None

Hometown: Northern Japan

Personality: Polite, cocky, and tenacious.

Weapons: Twin daggers which can be magically transformed into a single scythe, ability to reap the souls of the living and recently deceased, and his overpowering ego.
(Note: Mere penetration of the skin by any of his blades can reap a soul. If the correct paperwork has been filled out first...)

Occupation: Grim Reaper.
(Note: He reaps the souls of the recently deceased. Also anybody who SHOULD be dead. His job is to maintain the balance of life and death in the world...or at least in South Detroit. The closest organization that I know of is the Reapers from Black Butler, but I had this idea before I watched that.)

Setting: Present day. South Detroit including five blocks of downtown and 6 and a half suburbs.

History: Ryou started off in Northern Japan. When he was a little over a century old he began to alter his scythe into a form that better matched his personality, as is typical of a Reaper. Over time it slowly split into the two seperate daggers it appears as today. At one point in the early 1800s, Ryou was reassigned to North America, specifically Southern Michigan. This juristiction gradually shrunk until present day, where he only works the Southern part of Detroit and its suburbs. Several times he has been passed over for "promotion," and he is one of the oldest Reapers that still work the physical realm. He has trained few new Reapers, among them Samantha, the current Reaper of West Detroit.
(Note: He's got very little backstory. He pretty much does his job. It's the people he meets and his interactions which makes him interesting. Also he's got a pretty unusual job. Added! But his backstory really isn't all that interesting...)

Appearance: Kinda short (5'4"), average weight (147 lb), short blonde hair down to his neck at the back, halfway over his ears, and just past his eyes in the front should he drape it in front of his face, which is rare. Green eyes. He also wears rimless glasses, not because he needs them, but because he thinks they look sexy. Technically, so long as he isn't on the mortal plane, he can adjust his appearance however he desires. This look is simply the one he likes best.
(Note: Yes. He's an asian with blonde hair and green eyes. Shut up.)

Religion: N/A

Species/Race: Immortal Human. Half asian, half caucasian.

Combat Styles: Nimble Blades (He uses his daggers to take down his opponents with an emphasis more on speed than strength. He also relies on his inherent agility to flit around his opponents, causing much confusion. Also backstabs.), Brutal Scythe (He uses his scythe to deliver devestating strikes capable of slicing through solid concrete walls. The scythe also acts as a handhold or footing if on uneven ground or vertical surfaces.), Kiss of Death (Though it is usually used more by the females, all Reapers have a final way to reap souls if they are lacking weapons. A single kiss on the lips may do the trick. Of course, this is only if the paperwork has been filed and the person is slated to be reaped. Ryou personally prefers to do business at the end of a blade.)

Handedness: Right handed, though he is rather proficient with his left as well.

Ailments: None.

Alignment: Lawful Neutral

Color Affinity: Green and Black

Versus Previous Pages: Ryou would wipe the floor with Peter. Peter may be equipped to take on zombies, but Reapers are significantly beyond his skill set. Peter just doesn't have the supernatural skill to take on someone of Ryou's calibre.
(Note: This is just for my own amusement to imagine if they'd get in a fight. I doubt they ever would, especially since Ryou works in Detroit and Peter starts in Annapolis and heads South. Just something silly.

Origin RP: N/A, first time used was a crack rp and the first main one is a small one-on-one with [my moirail] called Supernaturally.

Alternate Universe versions: None OCwise.

Miscellaneous Notes: Yes, it's obvious who I based Ryou on. But he is an exception to my previous declaration of dropping all canon characters. Why? Because by that point I had altered him so thouroughly from his roots that all that remained the same was his name, weapons, and ONE of his titles. I think I'm well within my rights to keep him :3

---

Reaper In Detroit

"There's nowhere to run. You've cornered yourself now. Hand over what you took and I promise I'll make your death quick and relatively painless."

A strong gust of wind and blonde hair whipped about the boy's face. His green eyes seemed to shine with confidence and conviction. His lips curled up in a terrible smirk and across his shoulders rested a wicked scythe, around which his arms curled lazily. The gray windbreaker he wore flapped in the wind, giving periodic glimpses of the green T-shirt beneath it. His baggy pants flapped as well, but managed to maintain their position around his legs much better than his windbreaker was doing around his torso. His sneakers were tied up and looked to be only slightly worn, as if he'd purchased them in the past month.

It was the scythe that really stood out, though. It was black, almost obsidian and could most be likened to a post from a wrought iron fence. At its base was a sharpened point, where the four points created by the box shaped end met. Its shaft was mostly straight, with only a slight curve in the center before arching back to its original line. As it neared the top it seemed to be made of multiple pieces fusing together, yet never once looking shabby. A small square connected the differing segments, with a small orange gemstone in its center. Above the connection point was a mirror image of the base. From one side of the point were three thin pointed spokes, any one of which could prove deadly. But from the opposite side was the sinister blade, which looked almost black from a distance, yet upon closer inspection was actually a very dark green. It was as long as his arm and as tall as his shin, with a slight downward curve from the start all the way to the sharpened tip.

He rolled his head to the right, allowing his hand to reach his rimless glasses, which he pushed up by the bridge using only his middle finger. With his glasses adjusted, he resumed his previous position, the smirk never leaving his face.

His opposite only snarled, green skin bulging with muscles and mouth full of razor-sharp teeth. The creature was backed up against the edge of the rooftop, clearly attempting to escape the boy that was less than half its size. With nowhere to run, it lunged at the boy, claws piercing flesh and emerging from his back. A killing blow in one move.

The boy's smirk dropped and he hunched over, coughing up no small amount of blood as the creature withdrew the offending limb. The wound went straight through his torso, yet no blood seemed to emerge after the original attack. Even that blood seemed to be flowing back into the wound somehow. The lesser-brained creature did not seem to notice, too busy howling in triumph.

As his fatal wound miraculously healed in seconds, the boy simply stood back up straight, wiped the blood from his lips, and slid his glasses back up his face with the same finger and in the same manner as he did before. In only half a minute, the wound was completely healed, leaving only a large tear in his clothes and partially exposing his bare abdomen.

"Alright then. Let's play."

Before the creature could even fully realize what had occurred, a roll of the boy's shoulders caused the scythe to twirl into his hands in a battle ready stance. The creature moved to perform the same attack, but instead found the blade of a scythe replacing its fingers. The boy had positioned his weapon's curved blade to intercept the strike, then rolled around his opponent when it showed results. The creature was still reeling from an attempt to understand its new number of digits when the scythe once more bit his flesh, this time tearing through the shoulder and removing an entire arm.

"Your first mistake was stealing from me: Ryou Misaki, Reaper of the South Detroit jurisdiction. Your second mistake was battling me in a deserted area. You clearly know nothing about Reapers, you brain-dead demon. Had you chosen an area inhabited by mortals you might have stood a chance. As it stands, I'm invincible."

The monologue was more for his own benefit than the demon's, which likely didn't even understand English. It helped to get that speech making practiced though, a skill he would need should he ever be promoted. Not that that had ever happened.

His captive audience finally snapped out of its shock and swapped over to pure rage. It roared at the top of its lungs before clawing at Ryou's face. The boy only leaned back, as if in a game of limbo, and the arm passed harmlessly above him. He responded by carving a deep wound across its green torso with a skillful flick of the wrist. Before the enraged being could cause further mischief, Ryou jabbed it in the chest with the base of the scythe, the blackened point sliding effortlessly into its flesh. It stumbled backwards in confusion.

"I was actually kind of expecting some fun or something." He sighed, a cloud of condensed breath leaving his lips in the cold morning air. "You really are a worthless hunk of flesh. I've always held out hope for some interesting demon to come along, but you don't seem to be it."

The demon growled weakly, confused and unable to strike back. Ryou only rolled his eyes before decapitating it in a single swing. A dull flash of light accompanied the death, proof that he had recovered the stolen soul. He merely jabbed the rooftop below with the scythe's base and it vanished in a similar flash.

"Dammit. Now I have to get some new clothes." With a scowl, the Reaper headed towards the stairs to rejoin the society of beings who had passed by generations before, and would pass generations more while he lived on. Among them, yet not of them.

---

And here’s some more crap for Spork. I hope the jerk appreciates it. He’s not even waxing black enough to be my kismesis at this point.

-- recoillessBifurcation [RB] began pestering agrarianPredator [AP] at 18:05 --
RB: 4rquu4.
AP: wytmOnde?~
RB: Yes.
AP: i dOn’t think this is a gOOd time~
RB: You've prob4bly noticed the meteors f4llin6.
AP: i can't get in cOntact with perzac~
AP: whO hasn't?~
RB: I h4ve...heh. I don't h4ve much time, in 4 cert4in w4y.
RB: 4nyw4y.
RB: He isn't import4nt. Listen to me.
AP: alright...~
RB: I'm 6oin6 to be rescuin6 you. I need to condense 4bout three sweeps of re4lity-w4rpin6 shen4ni64ns into 4 few words.
RB: Perz4c thinks you 4re de4d.
AP: three sweeps?~
RB: He kills me. Sort of.
RB: Me, Perz4c, 4nd Colfer4s 4re 4ll pl4yin6 4 64me me4nt to both c4use 4nd protect from the f4llin6 meteors.
RB: Perz4c thinks you die by bein6 struck by 4 meteor.
RB: He becomes consumed by r46e, 4nd st4bs me to de4th r4ther p4infully.
RB: However.
AP: that dOesn't sOund like him~
RB: There 4re 'dre4m self' thin6s th4t 4re b4sic4lly extr4 lives.
RB: 4lso.
RB: If you die upon 4 specific stone bed for you, you become...well..
RB: The three of us 4re f4iries.
AP: really this dOesn't seem the right time tO be jOking~
RB: I'm de4d fuckin6 serious i6ht now, 4rquu4.
AP: where is perzac anyway?~
AP: is he with yOu?~
RB: He, Colfer4s, 4nd my new m4tesprit 4re celebr4tin6 us be4tin6 the 64me.
RB: We've cre4ted 4 new universe.
RB: I couldn't le4ve without brin6in6 you with us.
RB: 6et the m4triorb.
RB: If nothin6 else, 6et the m4triorb.
AP: yOu're a terrible persOn fOr jOking at this time.~
AP: but i'll get it~
RB: I'll see you soon.
-- recoillessBifurcation [RB] ceased pestering agrarianPredator [AP] at 18:12 --

[Vipervertical]

Okay, updating kinda fast here, yeah. But this is just a collection of rants I’ve made in the past on DA. Which I’ll likely add to with fresh rants as they come up. Nobody needs to read this crap because it doesn’t matter. But feel free to read it and complain about what I say afterwards. I might respond intelligently, but I’ll most likely either ignore you or just say something stupid which ends up synonymous with “Who the frak cares?” I also combed it for cuss words that I added because they didn’t matter in the original version. I think I got them all and replaced them with something…less offensive. Let me know if I missed one and I’ll take care of it.

---

Yay! I'm updating! But don't celebrate yet. Prepare for a useless rant that I need to get out of my system. Superman has to be the most perfect example of what I hate in a character. Everything about him bothers me.

I'll start with the obvious. Superman is extremely overpowered. He seems to have the ability to create superpowers out of thin air when the need or mood strikes him. Ask any veteran rper and they'll tell you about someone who used a Superman character. In fact, the rp communities (and I believe the fanfiction ones as well) have a name for a character like this: Gary Stu/Mary Sue. Everything he/she does is absolutely perfect and he/she has no flaws. They are unbeatable in a fight and seem to have the skills to get out of any situation. Not only is this unfair, but it elevates the character to a level that is completely unrealistic. Sure, I have quite a few characters with unique abilities and one or two that claim to be "undefeated." But this is dependent on their definitions of "defeat" and simple luck. For instance, Pride defines defeat as death. At one point Jeremy bested her in combat (through subterfuge and the use of a ship-mounted cannon, but it still counts) and she used all of her power to shield herself from the blast. She survived the fight with a few cuts and bruises and passed out from overextending her power. Because Jeremy spared her and even brought her aboard his ship to fix her up she counts the battle as a "draw" and believes that the battle has been postponed to a later date. From another angle there's Claire. She is actually undefeated in combat. But this is because she has never come across anyone who matches her. This doesn't mean they don't exist, it only means she's come across nobody more powerful than your average bodybuilder. It's luck in her case. She also doesn't like fighting. The most powerful of all my characters is probably Malik the faerie dragon, but I don't use him much. Still, he could probably be classified as a Gary Stu. If I develop his character, he'll likely gain some major flaws.

Now onto his origins, which I will admit I am no expert in so if I get anything wrong feel free to correct me. Apparently Superman has no superpowers, he's just an average Kryptonian that has come to Earth where we're all really weak in comparision. From what I know, this whole origin has some serious plot holes. For one, Superman has been through situations equal to or greater than the destruction of a planet and survived (I think "immunity to death" is one of his powers), so how does his entire species die from one planetary explosion? For that matter, if his species was so advanced as to know how to create TWO (using Supergirl in here as well) spaceships which were programmed to go to Earth (implying they knew of other planets and civilizations) why were they all still sticking around on Krypton? And why bother with the spaceships? Superman has shown off numerous times that he is perfectly fine in the vacuum of space. Then there's Kryptonite. From what I've heard (and I stress again, this is not necessarily accurate) Krypton is made of Kryptonite just as Earth is made of nickel and/or iron. Kryptonite is Superman's weakness. How does a species evolve on a planet that is made of the one thing in the universe that screws them over? Nothing about it makes sense.

Then there's his personality. Superman's persona has been altered as many times as his writer changed, and perhaps more. The only constants appear to be that no matter how he acts (be it a complete [jerk] to everyone else or a really nice guy that likes to stop and chat with the homeless on the street), that's the paragon of good and righteousness, he never kills, and he's always got the moral high ground. This is mostly my issue, the inconsistancy, but there's another problem in there. He never kills. This is supposed to be proof of how he's such a good person. And he's not the only superhero with this fault, I'll grant him that, but I'm not ranting about Batman or Flash or whoever here. This is about Superman (as off topic as I seem to get). Killing is bad, yes. Of course it is. It's a universally agreed upon philosophy that killing is bad. But there are times when it is necessary. When somebody has killed hundreds/thousands of people and shows no remorse and is even very clear that they will continue to kill, killing them is the right thing to do. Locking them up solves nothing because they just break out and keep killing (*ahem*Joker*cough*). Some of the big villians even taunt the hero, goading the good guy into killing them (I'm looking at you, Palpatine). Apparently the point here is that if the hero kills them, they start to fall to the other side and will eventually go evil. This is completely preposterous. Some people deserve to die and are beyond redemption. Moral codes being strict as they are, these superheros are bad people for letting these guys live. And why has the Joker not being sent to the electric chair yet? It'd be a mercy killing with his madness.

On another note that doesn't fall completely on Superman, there's property damage. Superheros are NOT good for real estate value. They seem to delight in destroying buildings, cars, homes, parks, roads, highways, and just about anything else that costs a shitload of taxpayer money to build. Sure, I value human life above property value as well, but there's not always a person/people in need of rescuing. Sometimes it's just the big hero and the villain, and honestly they have no respect for the costs of rebuilding after the [sith] they pull. I'm surprised they aren't regarded as public menaces for how much they destroy. Every once in a while some story hits on this concept, but usually the hero wins out with "I'm saving people!" which they aren't always doing. And it is dropped. Just like that.

Next you're probably expecting me to complain about his secret identity being a pair of glasses. [Frak] that. I've complained about that enough to anybody anytime Superman has ever been brought up.

Honestly, this rant reads more like me simply writing down [sith] as it comes to my brain. Which it kind of was. Sort of feels like a blog. Whatever. I feel better now. Questions? Comments? Criticisms? You know what to do.

---

Yay, another rant! If I'm not careful, this might turn into a blog. Better start spamming memes and analyzing (heh, I said "anal") my characters! Before we get started, I will list the consoles I own from these two companies to show my bias (we all have bias, those who say they don't are lying): Playstation 1 (might have given it away), Playstation 2, Playstation Portable (had a little trouble with it and was forced to pay Sony $80 to fix it. Bastards.(See? Bias!)), Xbox (fell down and busted, which is actually one of the reasons I bothered to advance to the next Generation with...), Xbox 360. As you can see, I don't own a PS3 and Sony's customer service made an enemy. I'm definitely leaning in the Microsoft camp, huh? Wrong.

Let's get right into the consoles: Playstation 3 fanboys like to point out all their fancy gear that the 360 doesn't have. To be honest, I don't care about Blu-Ray. At all. DVD was a major step-up from VHS. And Blu-Ray? A baby step, maybe. I can't even see the difference unless I'm watching the two side-by-side. In fact, the only thing I'll give PS3 over the 360 is free online. And I heard Sony's taking that away. Also, I've never liked online competitive multiplayer (I'm only now getting interested in it with PC gaming, which is completely beside the point). I'm sure the 360 has a counter arguement somewhere like HDDVD but I can't think of one.

So as for the consoles themselves? Stacked pretty evenly. In the end, my choice was.... the Wii. The Wii was the only stand-out. Both of these two looked like minor upgrades from their previous versions, but the Wii was something new altogether and was actually interesting. So after round one, both of them fail.

Now we face the actually important issue: The games. Fanboys on either side tout exclusives like they're made of gold and encrusted with diamonds. Which might just be true, seeing how neither side has very many at all. The vast majority of video games are multiplatform across both of them, which left me in a pickle with only a Wii to show. Noticing this, I just had to get one of them, but which one? At the time (and still today, if I'm honest), the 360 held far more exclusives. But honestly, more does not equate to better. I believe the PS3 held titles like....okay, I don't remember. This was 3 years ago, cut me some slack.

But anyways, the 360 had Halo. Halo was what made me get the 360 over the PS3. Before you begin knocking Halo, it has always been a good franchise. The games have very good gameplay, the plot is interesting (not the best, but still good), the online multiplayer is actually worthwhile (and this is an achievement, as I said already: I don't care for online competitive multiplayer. To be fair though, I had never played it online till Halo 3, and this was AFTER I got a 360.), and most importantly...it's fun. Halo games are NOT the best games ever made and they most certainly do not live up to their lofty hype, but I believe it's exactly what a console FPS should be (I say console here because I prefer Left 4 Dead, but it doesn't reach its full potential unless you're on a PC (or a Mac, I'm not that much of a hater)(also, I'd not been PC gaming at the time, so this too is moot)).

Did I make the right decision? Maybe. Let's look back on the games I've played on the 360: Halo 3, Mass Effect, Devil May Cry 4, Mass Effect 2, Halo: Reach, Final Fantasy XIII, Prince of Persia: The Forgotten Sands, Guitar Hero: Aerosmith, Rock Band, Army of Two: The 40th Day, Star Wars: The Force Unleashed: Ultimate Sith Edition, Soul Caliber 3, and Halo 3: ODST. Were all of these games good? No. Prince of Persia in particular I remember being disappointing. Are they exclusives? Some of them, yeah.

Now let's look at what I missed out on by not getting a PS3: .....I think there was a Metal Gear Solid game...and Little Big Planet. Neither of these games I care about. What if Halo was out of the picture? I probably would have gotten a 360 anyway. If not for Mass Effect, just because it was cheaper. The only PS3 exclusive I actually care about hasn't been released, and I'm still holding out some hope that even if it isn't cross-platform, it might be ported sometime in the future (It's Final Fantasy Versus XIII, if you're wondering).

Final Verdict: I got a 360. It's really a matter of personal preference. If you don't care about exclusives on either, but don't want to miss out on the epic multiplatforms I recommend a 360. It's cheaper. If you're actually interested in getting a Blu-Ray player, go ahead and get a PS3. Like I said, I just don't think it's all that important.

Just to throw down my Nintendo fanboy cred once more: The Wii is far superior. Free online play (provided you know the other person and they give you their 16 digit personal code(Sure, it's complicated, but it's FREE. And it has BRAWL), fun games, and unique gameplay.

FINAL Final Verdict: Fanboys are idiots. Sony and Microsoft are making the same product with a different name.

And as a final note: I haven't touched my 360 since...November. BLUH BLUH HUGE RROD! I use my Wii almost every day, granted it's only to watch stuff on Netfix, but at least it doesn't make me pay for that (beyond my Netflix subscription, I mean). But the real stand-out is the PC. I've only gotten into PC gaming around June of last year, so not even a year. Steam is a lifesaver. The mouse and keyboard grant a level of control and precision that console players like myself could only dream of. When I first got Halo: Reach, I hadn't played a Halo game in almost six months. The first thing I did was up my sensitivity almost to the max, just so it would feel remotely similar to my mouse. If you want scientific proof, there was some study Microsoft did a few years back. They were attempting to integrate PC gamers and 360 gamers to play against each other. It turned out that even the expert console players were getting bested by mediocre PC players. I can't remember where to find it, but some intelligent googling should bring it up. I'm just too lazy.

Look at all them parenthetical annotations! The sad part is that most of them were added WHILE I was writing it, not after. I apologize for interrupting your (un)scheduled useless memes and analytical views on things you care nothing for and will return to them posthaste.

---

Hey, look at that post time. 10:25 (EST, at least). Heh heh heh…

[Sporky]

Alright, I feel like rewriting Wytmonde's death just because.

---

Wytmonde ran a hand over the stone bed that would apparently allow him to ascend to 'God Tier', another level in the game above his echeladder. He had never heard of a 'bed' before this, but the white text guy had explained that species that do not sleep in recuperacoons lay on them, so whatever. It felt so..so cold, so hard. And yet, so inviting. He could almost swear he heard the bed beckoning him to sleep on it.

He heard footsteps on the lofty staircase that led to the dais on which this bed resided. He turned, and smiled. It was Perzac, that was all. Yes, Perzac's last message, that he hadn't been able to respond to, had been weird and had seemed oddly hostile, but it was good to see Perzac again. Gog knew this game had been talking the four of them all over.

"Oh, I d-" his sentence was cut short by a blood-caked knife being rammed into his chest. His suit slowly began to darken, the fabric being tinted the tiniest hint of gray-green as his blood soaked through. Shocked, he looked from his wound to Perzac. His moirail's eyes shone like the rays of LOBAC's sun, and his mouth might as well have been a ball of flame, even that wouldn't have been more terrifying than the raging snarl etched across it. He opened his mouth to try and say something, and only got a knife across the throat for his troubles. He stumbled back, and fell onto the bed.

He felt every last slash and stab that Perzac laid upon him, heard every last scream of blame and obscenity that was directed at him, but he didn't move. He was just so utterly shocked at what was going on that he couldn't move. He dared not move, for fear that Perzac would commit some unfathomable new offense on him.

He heard the darkness call him, felt death take him into her sweet embrace. He accepted, and as oblivion laid its gentle kiss upon him, his only thoughts were why, Perzac..why?

---

Prospit. Derse. Two sides of the same coin. Two worlds inextricably tied to each other, and tied to the game. They both held towers for the players, but Wytmonde was different in that he had a tower on each. Both Prospit AND Derse held a tower that contained a respiteblock colored primarily a sludgy grey-green, Wytmonde's blood color.

For the briefest of moments, both selves awakened and beheld the beauty and splendor of their worlds. Then, they both turned in the direction that they knew the other to reside in. Their eyes flashed, and they beheld each other. There was confusion for a moment, then their eyes flashed again, and they beheld only the symbol of Time.

And so, the two halves were propelled towards each other, towards LOBAC, the middle ground. There, they would join, form Wytmonde's new, more powerful body. Death was not the end for Wytmonde, no. The gentle kiss of oblivion would not be the only lips he felt. Wytmonde would know life again.


As a god.

[Sporky]

This is just...I had to post it.

---

Tell me, mister Wytmonde.
RB: Yes?
To what lengths are you willing to go to be with your beau?
RB: ...4re you 6oin6 to tell me to risk muckin6 up even the 4lph4 session for her?
I believe you already have done that.
RB: ...Even more.
Now, why would I do that? My goal and yours coincide.
RB: I would do 4 6re4t m4ny thin6s for Silene.
Would you kill?
RB: Kill who?
A simple yes or no will suffice.
RB: My 4nswer depends on the victim.
Her.
RB: Wh4t.
I believe I spoke clearly enough.
RB: How would killin6 her let me be with her?
How, indeed.
RB: W4it.
RB: 6od tier?

--ERROR: Message could not be delivered--

---

==> Be the other Wytmonde


You are now the other Wytmonde Herleifer. You reached God Tier when your moirail stabbed you in the lungs for casuinhg the death of his matesprit. You are the Heir of Time, and you 'have the biggest, most powerful boat on the river'. In simpler terms, you're a god of time.

You are also the only player left from your session, in a way. Perzac and Colferas, your fellow players, both perished in the final fight against the Black King. They both sacrificed themselves, one of the only ways to die at God Tier, so that you could escape to this timeline. You have recently learned that this is the alpha, or main, timeline, and you are but a tributary. Your timeline was doomed from the start, and you are now an observer in the main one. It's all very mysterious and jank.

You have been watching your alpha self with great interest, tho0ugh you have yet to, and don't plan to, make yourself known to him. Very small, minute things seperate his sesssion from yours, such as his using a theremin instead of his suit for time travel, and his alchemization spree..which crafted a gun far more powerful than the one you had claimed as your primary after your ascension. That everything you ever llived for was utterly pointless causes you to boggle vacantly about why you still keep going.

You are currently on a mission from Silene, your matesprite, to...kill her dream self. The prospit-clad foxspritethingy is still asleep in your arms as you cart her off to LOSAS's quest bed. She looks so peaceful..so tranquil..gog, you flush for her with every fiber of your being. Which is exactly why doing this is tearing you apart..but you know you must.

---

Gently, Wytmonde lay the sleeping dreamform Silene down on her quest bed. She never moved a muscle, and she looked all the more beautiful for it. She was like a statue..a beautiful work of art given a warm, solid form. Gently, he stroked her hair and face, choosing to simply lay next to her for what felt like a small eternity, cuddling up against the dreamself of his matesprite as silent, heatbroken tears cascaded down his face..why did he have to do this? Was it not enough knowing that he was doomed to wander this timeline, alone for the many eternities that he went back and forth? Was it not enough knowing that everything he'd ever done was completely, utterly pointless? He hated having to do this.

He showered her face with gentle kisses, smiling sadly as he enjoyed these few precious moments..he would have so very few of them now. Around him, he could feel other versions of himself watching, and he knew that he would be them countless times..pointlessly reliving this even again and again and again...gog, this was tearing him apart...

But eventually, he knew he could prolong the inevitable no further. He drew a knife...Perzac's knife, the same that had killed him so long ago. Icterine and feldgrau blood still clung to the blade, one that had not seen any use since committing the foul deed it had performed on Wytmonde. Perzac had kept this one, the 'original', and had used a copy for further alchemizations..Wytmonde had asked him for it just before Colferas and Perzac had given their lives protecting Wytmonde. It was...fitting that the same blade that had been used to make one player ascend be used to make another ascend, and force Silene into the alpha timeline..but it still hurt him to look upon the sym of his and Perzac's reforged moirallegiance.

With shaking hands, trembling lips, and tear-straked face, Wytmonde plunged the god-maker into the breast of Silene's dream form, and fled.

---

Hours in the future, but not too many...
A message arrives on god!Wytmonde's computer.
The message reads:
IV: thank y0u, wytt1e...
-- illusionaryVulpine's [IV'S] laptop falls to the ground, as Silene disappears with a flash of blue light. --

-- illusionaryVulpine [IV] ceased pestering recoillessBifurcation [RB]--

[Sporky]

Yes yes, this is ferret's blog, but I can't help it. DD: I got the Armel muse in me, I gotta post this jank! Be prepared, very dark ang gory stuff lies below. :3

---

Oh, how much fun this was... And how stupid this simpering rustblood had been.

Armel was staring at the mentally broken husk of a pitiful redblood that had tried to pose as a blueblood. She'd actually pulled it off, too, though Armel had always suspected shenanigans on her part. And his suspicions were right, for she'd been stupid and nicked her finger carelessly in his hive one night. No, she hadn't been in the same room as him at the time, but Armel had a very keen nose for blood. If there was anything Armel could count as a special ability, it was that he could sniff out lowbloods simply from their scent.

And she had suffered for it. While his darling Nerina may have flayed the deceitful little wretch right away and consumed her innards, Armel was a little more patient than his matesprit. Nerina loves culling en masse, and while he found it absolutely adorable, he was more of a quality over quantity troll.

He checked his watch, merely out of a habit he'd developed while waiting for Nerina's arrivals, since she tended to get distracted by the odd sickle-headed shark, or some random lusus swimming by, and...well, Nerina was very much adorabloodthirsty...heh. The thought of his wenig teufel brought a smile to his face. Oh, how she'd enjoy eating this peasant when he was finished. He saw them enjoying a candlelight dinner of redblood steak in the above-water levels of his hive, then cuddling together in his recuperacoon underwater and watching a movie together before they drifted off to sleep together..how very romantic~ But there was fun to be had before then.

He gently stroked the redblood face and kissed her forehead. "Have you ever taken a life, lowblood, hmm?" he cooed, giggling ever so softly. "I mean REALLY taken one. Not this rifle or machinegun nonsense. Gotten up close, personal, watched every last bit of life drain out of them slowly, hmm? I have...many times. And it's delicious." The raw, unfiltered fear in her eyes sent pleasant tingles down Armel's spine, as the royal produced his scalpel from his strife deck, and stroked her face with the flat side.

"You know, many of my fellows have the wrong idea. Even my darling, as adorable as she is. They've all got the idea that it's about killing the most..no. It SHOULD be about who can enjoy killing the most. I am a quality over quantity man, myself~" With his scalpel, he cut away the redblood's shirt, and her pants soon joined..oh no, he had no pail-minded thoughts in store for her. Bare flesh was just SO much more fun to work with.

"You know, the interesting thing about the troll circulatory system is its remarkable resilience..we can lose SO much blood and keep going..like so." Daintily, he plunged his blade into her thigh. Dark red blood, the lowest blood imaginable outside of that of any mutant hue bubbled forth. Unable to resist himself, Armel dropped to his knees and started lapping at the wound. He engorged himself as such for some time, reveling in both the taste and the tortured screams of his victim. This was, aside from his darling Nerina, what Armel lived for. Music and ambrosia, yessssssss.

With mouth dripping a peasant's red, Armel looked up at her, a wide, toothy grin on his face. "Absolutely delicious.." Suddenly, mania overtook him, and he leapt to his feet, and grabbed her by the horns, shaving his face against hers. "You will feed me, roter dreck!! Your blood, your flesh, your organs..all will feed me, do you understand?!" He saw her expression change, her mind withdraw from her current situation..hmph. That was no fun. Oh well, it couldn't hold out forever.

He hummed as he went to work on her, feet first, small nicks and cuts producing cornell red droplets, which were quickly lapped up by his pointed tongue. Oh, such a joy he was having...he only wished Nerina was here. Truth be told, a lust was creeping through him. He pushed it aside for now, but once he was finished, he would NEED to see Nerina, engage in a bucketing session..heh. How he loved her.

The redblood's mental 'shield' broke, and she slammed back into the here and now, to be greeted by innumerable tiny pricks of pain. That he was still only only her feet made it all the worst. She'd known that royals tended to be sick and depraved, but oh gog, he was a monster..she suddenly had to get free, no matter what! She thrashed and screamed, struggling against the STRONG bonds that held her in place.

Stupid.

That set Armel off more, and he was just barely able to repress the blackrom lust that bubbled up in him again..no. No, he would not give in to such base feelings. He was civlized, gog damn it!

And so, he ceased his slow progress up her legs, settling for opening another large wound down the length of her thigh. Blood gushed forth like a river , and he suckled from it like a wriggler suckled from their lusus. She could no longer scream, she had worn out her deliucate throat..she could only whimper pitifully. Which, of course, put him off just as much as her thrashing had enticed him.

Again, he stroked her face, gently cradling her head in his hands, even going so far as to lay a gentle kiss on her. "Poor little peasant...you'd like me to end this now, wouldn't you? Just end all your pain?" The redblood, through bloodshot and tear-filled eyes, looked up at her tormentor, and nodded. Oh gog yes, she wanted this to end..

Armel smirked, a wide, open grin. He nodded, and with one quick stroke, nicked her jugular. A spray of cornell ichor was his reward for the action, and he revelled in it, opening his mouth and simply letting it spray into his mouth..yes, trolls were remarkably resilient when losing blood, but even so, she would bleed out rather quickly. And he was there for every second.

But when he left her to go clean himself and alert Nerina, he was disappointed. That wasn't as long as he'd hoped it to be.

[Vipervertical]

HEY! YOU! GERROF MAH BLOG! Kids these days. Triplepostin’ in other people’s blogs. No respect for their elders. No respect, I say! Grahharumph!

Anywho, here's my list of stuff that I worked on over my week away

07's redone bio [IN PROGRESS]
07/Tosh First Meeting [IN PROGRESS]
Perzac's Denizen Battle [IN PROGRESS]
Perzac After Timeskip [IN PROGRESS]
Random Story About Sam Captaining Her Airship [COMPLETE]
Perzac Post For Current Thread [PLANNING]
Past Story About Will Leaving Home [IN PROGRESS]
Cheesy Romance Pirate Porno [PLANNING]
Tosh Post For Tea Party [PLANNING]
Diatribe On Why Owls Belong On SWURP [POSTPONED]
Script For Adrian Flashback Arc [IN PROGRESS]
Longass RP With My Moirail Over Pesterchum That We Will Never Finish [<>]
Essay On Determining Why I Love This Song [?]

And that's pretty much it.

[Vipervertical]

Meh. Here's a story. Gonna make some revisions, but first draft, whatever. It's fer teh airship crew.

---

The airship rocked again as another round slammed against the hull. Sam bit her lip and held tightly to an overhanging pipe to avoid being knocked to the floor. “I thought you said you were good at flying. This looks to be pretty bad flying if you ask me.”

Aunna didn’t even look up, too focused on the controls in an attempt to avoid the next assault. “I am good at flying! I never said I was good at dodging!” Sam scowled at her pilot but didn’t have any real rebuttal ready. “I’ve got a plan, but I’ll need Will to dump almost all of the power into the left side.”

Sam raised an eyebrow, but didn’t bother questioning her. Despite the way she teased her, Aunna was a competent pilot, and asking her to explain the plan would only waste valuable time while the enemy readied another attack. “This better not wreck my ship.” With that last teasing remark, she stumbled back into the bowels of the ship towards the engine room, leaning against the walls as the ship leaned back and forth in an effort to shake the determined pursuers. “I knew I should’ve gotten one of ‘em big guns.” She muttered under her breath, regretting the deal that had gone wrong.

“Will!” She shouted as she approached the engine room, trying to catch the attention of the crew’s resident engineer. No response but the loud clattering around that she’d come to expect from this kid when he was at work. She stepped inside the cramped space and shouted for him again. A loud CLANG resounded shortly before the boy pulled his blonde head out from under the engine’s interiors, his typical work goggles obscuring his eyes.

“Yes Cap’n?” He rubbed his head absentmindedly where she assumed he’d just smacked it. His arms were bare, exposing the hydraulic-powered prosthetic he’d crafted to replace his left arm. She’s long since stopped being bothered by the sight of a prosthetic on one so young. “I’ve got the central power core in flux, I’m almost finished stabilizing it. The weight ratio is off after the last hit so I’ve had to work on repurposing-“

“Will!” He stopped immediately, apologizing quickly and quietly. She had to keep reminding him that she never understood his endless technobabble. “Aun’s got a trick up her sleeve. She wants you to put your power in the left engines.” She didn’t bother to explain anything else, trusting him to get his work done, as usual.

He stood still for a moment, his eyebrows creasing above the goggles. “But if we- Oh! I get it!” And suddenly he was back on the floor with his head shoved inside of the large mass of gears and wires. She shrugged and headed back into the hallway.

“Try not to hit your head again or I’ll send you to see the doc!” She called over her shoulder as she went back up to the command deck (or what she called the command deck, anyway). She swore she could almost hear his grumbling about the ship’s medic all the way down the hall. “Grease Monkey says you’re clear.”

With a wicked grin, the woman began making all sorts of esoteric control changes. Sam frowned as she watched, again pleased that she didn’t have to deal with this. While she was proud of her own flying skills, they were nothing compared to the girl that sat behind the controls now. “You may want to hold onto something, Cap.”

Before Sam could respond, the ship was suddenly locked in a stomach churning right turn. The ship’s sudden centripetal force took her by surprise, sending her careening into the left wall as the ship went one direction and her body went another. She slowly tried to climb back up to her feet and regain her dignity while the centripetal acceleration kept her firmly pressed against the wall. A quick look out the forward viewport only made her nauseous, and she wisely decided against trying to determine their tangential velocity.

She swallowed back the bile that threatened to come out and managed to make it back upright, though still leaning against the wall. “H-how long are y-…How long are you go…going to k-keep this up?”

Amazingly, the crazy helmsman was still sporting a huge grin and didn’t seem to be in any discomfort at all by the ridiculous pressure that held her captain at its mercy. “I figure we’ll run the full circumference. Maybe two or three goes if we wanna trip ‘em up bad. If we wanna really mess with ‘em, I reckon we should mix it up a little. This uniform circular motion ain’t gonna confuse anyone.” With a side-glance at the currently uncomfortable captain she quickly added “’Less of course ya want we stop sooner, ma’am?”

Sam swallowed down the queasiness that continued to threaten her and simply nodded once briskly, attempting to look a bit better than she felt. “Whatever works b-best.” She immediately regretted saying that, as the ship instantly became a nightmare of sharp turns and sudden jukes. The opposing forces wore on her head, causing her to slip into an uneasy unconsciousness. Her last line of consciousness barely held out.

If we live through this, I’m buying a gun. Big one too. Also a second chair for here. With safety straps. And a less crazy pilot…

---

EDIT: So yeah, I probably am not going to fix this up like I thought I would. The theory behind this story was that I needed to write a story using several physics terms. Namely: Uniform Circular Motion, Centripetal Force, Centripetal Acceleration, Tangenital Velocity, and Circumference. I immediately went through my list of stuff I planned to write anyways at some point in the future and decided the past story of Sam would be appropriate (I planned to write past stories for each of my 3 characters that I am bringing to the Currents table to give them more backstory (That's William "Will" Edmunson the engineer/mechanic, Cap'n Samantha "Sam" Fredricks the captain, and Adrian Jan Gottfried the medic if you're curious.) since my moirail is being saddled with the brunt of it being the artist (The other main characters are Aunna Taobowski, pilot and Sansit Morello, cook. Both of them belong to my moirail.). So this is what I wrote.

Unfortunately, I just got feedback from my teacher saying I need to EXPLAIN the concepts in the story, not just use them correctly. So this story won't work like that. Sam's no expert on the whole physics thing. Instead, I'll try and work them into my next Toshpost for the Toshiko/Rahja thread. It might get wordy and awkward in places, but it MIGHT just work. Bear with me. And remember you're helping me with homework if it makes you feel better.

[Sporky]

You heard me, ferret. This is your PUN1SHM3NT

You havce brought this upon yourself. :3

A letter of love/manipul8ion from a seagrift to another seagrift in the future. 8LUH 8LUH HUGE 8ITCH

---

Turncoat Ironclad.

Does that name not 8ring up a terrifying mental image? A truly despica8le troll, who would sell out those he loved at a moment's notice, and who possesses a steely, impenetra8le disposition, with only contempt for the world, and a gaze as hard as the metal that covers the mighty 8attleship he sails into 8attle.

Perhaps that is how your peers view you, and why you are without anything other than a kismesis, who you dou8t truly har8ors true h8red for you. I do not know, I cannot see the minds of others. Only your own.

8ut even without 8eing a8le to peer into their minds through this 8reach in time that allows me to see you, and contact you through this letter, I know they do not know you like I do. I see a man haunted 8y that which made him give up a promising career in the navy for the life of a seagrift. And though I would have done the same to you without hesit8ion, it does not mean I cannot shed a tear in pity and emp8hy.

Your expression at this letter is truly adora8le, and gives away a hint of your true self. You splutter, your mouth hangs agape, and you desper8ly try and do something I cannot possi8ly predict. 8ut worry not, dear 8enedict. I mean no malice with this letter. No, quite the opposite. Your story has touched my flushed quadrant for someunfathoma8le reason, and your conquests at sea, even in your confused and trou8led st8 reassure me that the no8le tradition of the Petticoat Seagrift lives on long after me.

My writing has given away my identity, I know. Yes, I am Marquise Spinneret Mindfang, and yes, I am long dead as you read this. I cannot explain what my vision, even though it has 8een singed 8y that despica8le dragon, shows me. 8ut again, do not dispair, for I have a feeling that the venture I undertake in contacting you is not a pointless one.

8ut I ram8le. I have taken far too much of your time with this letter. I shall contact you again. Several times, unless this 8reach in the fa8ric of time should collapse. 8ut it shall not, for I have all the luck. All of it. And as such, I am quite confident.

Until the next letter, I leave you to your utter shock, dis8elief, and truly adora8le confusion. You warm my heartstrings, 8enedict. You truly do.

♏

[Vipervertical]

I fixed your note for you. I think it looks much better now.

[Sporky]

PONYYYYYY! Do:<

[Vipervertical]

Here's a brief walkthrough to SBURB games as written by TCO of the MSPAfora

1. Install client
2. Get server
3. Prototype kernelsprite
4. Figure out entry item
5. Enter medium
6. SUDDENLY TIME nuts
7. SO MUCH TIME nuts
8. YOU ARE UP TO YOUR NECK IN TIME nuts
9. Also frogs
10. THERE'S TIME nuts INVOLVED IN THE FROGS TOO BY THE WAY
11. God tier and/or TIME nuts
12. Fraymotifs and/or TIME nuts
13. Fight your denizen go go go!
14. Fight the Black King and/or Queen too do it do it do it!
15. Congratulations you just made a new universe, somehow!

Insert angst as needed.

---

This isn't even a real post. I'll just edit whatever I post next into this one to make up for that. Bleh.

EDIT: Whoops, forgot to correct for STRONG language. I think I'll leave it be because the site censor made it lulzy.

UPDATE: Alright, here we go with something actually original. At least I sorta feel okay about posting it here. But that's how I usually feel about anything I post. This will be posted because I am moving back to my main computer tomorrow and I'm afraid I'll lose logs. Also, I plan to vocalize this conversation to give an idea about the speech patterns. I may end up doing a few things like that with all my characters if I feel successful with this one.

Even though this is way too early to be talking about this stuff, any of these speech things I do will be posted on my youtube account and linked on here. I heard Audacity is a good program if it's just audio. And Sporky said he doesn't want to see my face (I don't want to scare away my kismesis, so I'll just appease him here). So unless anybody has any better suggestions, that's what I'll use.

---

-- recoillessBifurcation [RB] began trolling intrepidStalker [IS] at 21:35 --
RB: Hey..Perz4c.
IS: I thouught youu were buusy.
IS: Or is this from some later timeframe.
RB: Th4t w4s the other me.
IS: Yeah, so youu're from the fuutuure, got it.
RB: Nope.
RB: Well...yes 4nd no.
IS: What's with the bright green text, anyways?
RB: It's complic4ted.
RB: I'm 4 tot4lly different Wytmonde.
IS: Things juust got more konfuusing, didn't they. Whatever.
IS: So what do youu need?
RB: You're 6onn4 fi6ht the Bl4ck Kin6 soon.
IS: Are we tuurning into one of youur "alternate timelines?"
RB: No.
IS: Bekauuse I'd like to know if I'm doomed.,
RB: You're the 4lph4.
RB: I...I'm not.
IS: Oh. ....Kool.
RB: In my timeline, Colfer4s 4ctu4lly 6ot in with us. Ri6ht to the end.
IS: Well I guuess youu know what happened in this one.
RB: Nice 6uy once we cr4cked his shell.
IS: Splat.
RB: Ye4h..
RB: 6o6 d4mn it..
RB: Everyone I know dies..
RB: BUT WH4TEVER.
RB: NOT MY POINT HERE.
RB: I just w4nn4 s4y th4t I'm proud of you.
IS: Youu're...prouud of me?
RB: Yes.
IS: Why? Was I a wimp in youur timeline?
RB: No.
RB: You were the best moir4il ever.
RB: It w4s YOUR ide4 th4t I flee here. You 4nd Colfer4s...Died.
RB: Both of you, s4crificed yourselves so I could flee.
IS: .....Oh. That's kind of depressing.
IS: Buut heroik. I guuess I'm a heroik type of person?
RB: My life is depressin6.
IS: Or...I was?
RB: You 4re.
RB: You've 6ot it in you.
RB: Even if you don't know it, you've 6ot it in you.
IS: Alright, buut I don't plan to die in this timeline.
IS: I'm gonna kill this Blakk King.
RB: You don't, 4s f4r 4s I c4n see.
RB: Die, I me4n.
IS: Skore one for the Thief.
RB: But I'm very proud of you, bro.
RB: You're still 4wesome.
IS: Thanks. Youu're pretty awesome too.
IS: Well...the youu I know is...
IS: And I'm guuessing youu're the same person...
RB: Heh, you w4nn4 know somethin6?
IS: ?
RB: There's 4t le4st one 4ltern4te timeline where we're m4tesprits.
IS: Oh gog.
IS: Is...that the one where youu're from?
IS: Bekauuse...I really don't like youu like that.
IS: Sorry man.
RB: No.
RB: D4mn it, d4mn these word thin6s.
IS: Well...more power to uus I guuess.
RB: I'm tryin6 to be 4ll serious 4nd touchin6 here.
IS: Buut the me right here, does not like any of the youus in a fluushed way.
RB: Perz4c.
RB: I'm 6oin6 to die, I think.
RB: I don't know.
RB: I c4n't see.
IS: Well, youu're doomed. Sorry buuddy, buut that's how it works.
IS: Youu told me that youurself.
IS: Well....the youu I know.
RB: I fi6ured th4t out 4 lon6 time 46o..
IS: Buut hey...youu've got some time left probably.
IS: And youu've got the timethingy...
RB: I know my f4te..sort of.
IS: I suuggest...youu go bakk in time. Find youur happiest memory and relive it uuntil fate katkhes uup with youu.
RB: I will.
RB: ...Perz4c?
IS: Yes?
RB: 6ive him hell.
RB: For me.
RB: For...
RB: For 4rquu4.
IS: Hey, I won't let youu down.
RB: I know.
RB: But I h4d to s4y it.
IS: I've got all youu doomed timelines to fight for.
IS: And youu're all worth fighting for.
IS: I've gotta make this one kouunt.
RB: ...Oh 6o6, I'm tre4tin6 this like the end of the convers4tion.
RB: Look..me. I me4n, the 4lph4 me.
RB: Hold him b4ck.
IS: ?
RB: 4fter the Bl4ck Kin6.
RB: When I fin4lly meet you 6uys f4ce to f4ce.
RB: I'm 6oin6 to do somethin6.
RB: You H4VE to hold him..me..b4ck.
IS: Youur youu or my youu?
RB: Your me.
RB: But more th4n your me..
RB: Silene.
RB: You MUST hold her b4ck, 4t 4ll costs.
IS: I...don't know what youu're talking abouut.
IS: Buut I'll do it.
IS: I guuess.
RB: You'll know.
RB: Surprised you h4ven't met her.
RB: The sprite?
IS: Oh, I know her.
RB: You 4lw4ys found it creepy th4t I flush for 4 sprite.
IS: Buut I don't know what youu mean by holding bakk.
RB: You'll know.
IS: Me and her kauught the disease.
RB: Stop s4yin6 th4t.
RB: It isn't 4 dise4se.
RB: It's....prob4bly the best thin6 ever.
IS: ....Maybe youu're right.
RB: I would never w4nt you to not be my moir4il, but it IS nice to not h4ve to worry 4bout the qu4dr4nts when t4lkin6 to someone.
IS: Hey man.
IS: Youu may not be the Wytmonde I've talked to all my life.
IS: Buut youu're still him.
IS: And that makes youu my moirail.
RB: ....In th4t c4se.
RB: WH4T WERE YOU THINKIN6, BRE4KIN6 YOUR HORN?!
IS: That was an akkident.
IS: It...didn't happen in youur timeline?
RB: ...Heh.
RB: <>
RB: No, no, no.
RB: It did.
RB: I liked to bu6 you 4bout it.
IS: Gog, I'm gonna ruuin this stuupid hoodie with yellow tears.
RB: I don't need to worry...
RB: Slud6y 6reen doesn't show up on bl4ck.
IS: It's not sluudgy.
IS: Youu know I hate it when youu kall it that.
RB: Bluh.
IS: At least youu don't have muutant bright blood like me.
RB: I'm 4 mut4nt too, you nitwit.
RB: Look how 6reyish my text is.
RB: ...Oh.
RB: W4it...
IS: At least we won't have to worry abouut the hemospektruum anymore.
RB: No, you won't.
RB: Hey...
RB: Bro.
RB: When we DO meet, I'm 6onn4 look sc4ry 4s 4ll shit.
RB: 4nd I'm 6onn4 be RE4LLY pissed off.
RB: But don't fi6ht me.
RB: Just do wh4t I s4y.
RB: Ok4y?
IS: Hey, if this has already happened to youu, then youu already know the answer to this.
RB: No, it h4sn't h4ppened yet.
RB: But I c4n see.
RB: Up to 4 point.
RB: Then it 6ets h4zy.
IS: Well I promise then.
IS: I'll hold ouut on any of the stabbings and killings.
IS: And I'll hold my youu bakk.
RB: Th4nk you.
RB: 4nd 464in, I'm proud of you.
RB: It's been 4n honor to c4ll you my kismesis.
RB: 6ive him hell, Perz4c...
RB: 6ive him hell.
-- recoillessBifurcation [RB] gave up trolling intrepidStalker [IS] --

---

URRGH, CODING. I'll deal with that later. When I've nothing better to do. ANYWHO, it's introspection time:

Now this is about my current feelings towards Member of the Month voting. Any other month, I wouldn't have really cared about this. Sure, it's nice to be voted for, but only if you've actually earned it. If I had gotten votes for MOTM any other month, I'd probably be more upset than pleased. This month, I feel like I've earned my votes. This month, I REALLY want to win. That's unnatural behavior for me, so let's look into why.

October 2010. This is the month my life went from happy-go-lucky to hell-on-earth. I won't go into whys or hows here, but just trust me on this. You don't want to know what happened to me back then, I don't want to go over it. Ever since this...event, my life has been just....awful. I've been depressed, irritable, and generally not so happy. Lucky for me, I have my moirail (to those of you who still don't know what a moirail is, I'll give a quick summation: [A moirail is someone who completes you. Not in a romantic or sexual way, but in a mental and emotional way. They can calm you when you're angry, cheer you up when you're sad, and basically always seem to be there for you. It's more than just friendship, but not exactly love. It's possibly to be in love with your moirail, but...let's not go into that. Simple answer: My moirail stabilizes my mood.]) to help me work things out. I also learned to lie to myself. Some days, that was is the only way to get through the day. You may have heard me say before that I am a very good liar. What I am talking about is that I am able to lie to myself successfully and pretend things aren't nearly as bad as they are.

I'd been bereft of social interaction for a while (again, not going to explain) when I poked my head into SWU back in early March. Somehow, Sporky roped me into a thread with him. This is why I am still here and did not poof like I normally do. Thank him. I slowly began to fill the void with this community. Thank you.

Now I may appear to be well-adjusted and very much in control of my life. This is my facade. This is my mask. Don't feel bad, I use it against my own self, and like I said, it's what keeps me going. You are seeing the part of me that I want you to see. The part of me that I wish was all of me. It isn't. I have fits of depression when my lies just aren't good enough. I will occasionally hide in my room and cry my eyes out for hours. You don't see this. You never will. This is not who I want to be and it is not who I will allow you to see me being.

Okay, now all of that is really just backstory. If you want to READ ABOUT THE MOTM SITUATION start from here. I took a self-esteem nosedive recently. The thought occurred to me. A realization, if you will. Though it is not any of your faults, in a way you are all to blame. I will not cast any insults or shame, because I am not much better. Nobody reads anything I write unless it directly concerns them.

Don't believe me? Look at the Thread of the Month section. Nobody votes there. Nobody reads any threads but their own. I'm trying to be better than that, but it's hard. All of my writing is important to me. I pour my soul into everything I write. (I mean actual writing, not blabbing in the cbox writing.) This is how I express myself and how I let loose what makes up who I am. (Sorry if my typing seems a bit grandoise, I simply find it easier to write about this stuff when I approach things in this manner.)

And yet, nobody cares. Nobody reads this stuff. See that 10 page story a few posts up? No Happy Endings? Nobody read that except my moirail. Don't any of you lie and tell me otherwise. That was a lot of hard work and was very important to me. I made some mistakes, but I feel it was my best work. Does anybody care? No.

So how does this relate to Member of the Month votes? This is my state of mind. I am annoyingly volatile and in need of reassurance. Getting voted for MOTM alone is enough to make me feel....needed. I feel wanted, helpful, important. And because of my less than satisfactory state of mind...I want to win.

I don't need to win, no. But I want to. It fills me with a passion inside. Somehow, I think if I were to win Member of the Month, it would validate me. And while I usually don't care about this stuff...I'm not exactly in my usual state of mind.

---

Bluh bluh. In lieu of a feelings jam with my wonderful moirail, I poured my heart out to you guys, SWU. Be gentle. This is my soft underbelly. This is my trust. (And Spork, that extends to you. Kismesis or not, this crap is my crap. And if you upset me, I will ask a mod to delete all your posts in my blog. Sorry, but I'm too vulnerable to put up with teasing over this.)

[Vipervertical]

Finally slowing down my posting here. Anywho, I'll get more literature up here soon, right now I'm going to use this blog to express public dissatisfaction. After all, isn't that what blogs are for?

First off, Sporky. I like you. You're cool. You are usually a cool person to talk to. But this Homestuck thing is really getting on my nerves. Yes, it's a good comic. It's fantastically written. I laud the author and enjoy the way he treats his characters. But it's not the best thing ever. Can we please talk about something else from time to time? It seems every time I look you're more and more obsessed with it. And quite honestly, it's driving me away from both you and the comic. I'm actually embarrassed to be associated with you sometimes, and I'm never embarrassed about anything. Just calm down a little. No moodswings, either. They get on my nerves more than anything else, actually. It's difficult for me not to just say "YES. YOU ARE ANNOYING AND WORTHLESS. JUST SHUT UP." whenever you do that. Again, calm yourself.

Next up is on the same vein of obsession, Rugs. That sigbanner....honestly? Fandoms are fandoms, and it's cute when you put a humorous gif, witty banner, or just cool looking image...but the title animation of Game of Thrones on a gif? That's just obsession. You're acting like a tool and that's not cool.

Sparra, stop being so gorram antagonistic all the time. When you're instigating fights, that just makes you enemies. Think before you type.

Arheim, PANTS.

That just about covers everything. Straighten up, fellas. You're better than this. Now prove it.

[Vipervertical]

Got randomly trolled a few times today, so I'll just put down my favorite of the conversations.

-- sovereignSlayer [SS] began pestering randomFerret [RF] at 02:30 --
[02:30] SS: woof.
[02:30] RF: Dook!
[02:30] SS: woof.
[02:31] RF: Dook!
[02:31] SS: So.
[02:32] RF: Yes?
[02:32] SS: So what would you do, if you woke up and your room was filled with dead bodies?
[02:34] RF: What color blood are the bodies?
[02:34] RF: Is there any blood?
[02:34] SS: Of course. There's a mixture.
[02:34] SS: Let's say I could paint fine art with it all.
[02:34] RF: Then I'd be freaked out. Because I've only ever seen red blood before.
[02:35] SS: It's beautiful.
[02:35] RF: If you painted with it, I guess I'd be pleased
[02:36] RF: So long as none of the brains or blood got in my hair.
[02:36] SS: I'll try and keep it clean.
[02:36] RF: I appreciate that.
-- sovereignSlayer [SS] ceased pestering randomFerret [RF] at 02:37 --

Literature to resume on a When I Feel Like It schedule.

[Vipervertical]

Hmmm, next post might actually be a story. I'm not sure yet. But some muse is growing again. This one should be good for getting some crap off my chest, in any case.

WHY AM I SO ANALYTICAL?

---

First bit goes to Spork for explanations of God-Tier powers that have been rattling around in my skull recently.

Okay, the first bit is just about titles and such. They don't mean the same thing for everyone. Best example for this is the Heroes of Light. Both of them have an aspect of Light, and yet they have very different powers. The easiest way of looking at it is viewing Light as meaning Fortune, since both of their powers revolve around this, albeit with different definitions. The Thief uses the definition of fortune as it pertains to luck. She steals the "luck" or fortune as her god-tier power. On the other hand, the Seer uses the definition of fortune as pertains to destiny. She can see into the magic cue ball (probably the only actual use of her Seer of Light abilities she's shown) and tell the future. It can be assumed that her god-tier power would allow her to see into the future. Not proven, but a safe assumption. I'm not exactly certain what causes a player to get whatever aspect, but there's probably some good reasons somewhere.

Now let's look at the class part. They earn their classes based on personality, but even these don't mean the same thing for different players. The Seer of Light, again, has the ability to see destiny or the near future in most cases. The Seer of Mind, on the other hand has the ability to see the consequences of decisions. She can see what each decision leads to. The Seer of Mind had always been good at manipulating people and understanding the way other people would behave, so this fit her. The Seer of Light was also interested in psychology, but she gained her power from a fascination with the occult. I had another example involving the Heirs but I stupidly deleted it and don't feel like retyping it. So deal with it.

Now because those with the same aspect or class exhibit vastly different strengths and weaknesses, it can be assumed that god-tier powers are actually individualized on the personality. For instance, The Thief of Light's god-tier power is to steal the luck from anybody or anything she wants (Stealing = Thief and Luck = Light). The Heir of Breath is tenacious, rising again and again after multiple mortal wounds (Heir = and Breath = Life). The Maid of Time happily helps people come to terms with their deaths (This one has the least to do with her title).

---

Next I'll do what Sporky has been waiting for and decide on some of this stuff for our little adventure or whatever.

Thief of Space - The Thief earns his class from stealing life. He was an explorer who lived off the land, killing animals and eating them to survive. He also ended up killing the Heir of Time at one point. Another reason comes from "stealing" a knife from an alternate timeline where it rightfully belongs. No idea how he did that yet, but it was likely unintentional/not even his doing.

The Thief's aspect of Space comes from his exploratory nature. He was constantly getting going to new places and expanding the "space" that he knew. He also has an unnaturally good sense of direction.

The Thief's abilities began before he had ascended. He gained a knife that could create rips in space, or wormholes. When he did ascend to god-tier, he gained powers without any need for outside devices. He could then "teleport." This ability actually allowed him to "steal space" which means that whatever was in the location he appeared would be transported to wherever he was previously located. Be it air, water, flesh, rock, anything. Of course, this has its own dangers and requires him to be careful about where he plans to go.

Heir of Time - The Heir's class stem from his obsession with his ancestors. More than that, he is connected to his ancestors in a strange and sometimes frightening way.

The Heir's aspect comes from the same obsession with the past that gives him his class. That's really all there is to say on the subject.

God Tier powers for the Heir are just as time-based as one might expect. He can travel forwards or backwards in his own timeline, and can even access alternate doomed timelines.

Sylph of Life - I'm not actually very knowledgeable about this one, but I'll do my best. The class of Sylph comes from the airy nature as a sprite. She is only corporeal when she wishes it and can fly. I might be making a stretch, but the link this sentence contains was my source of information.

The Sylph's aspect is based on her tragic past, which is ironically filled with much loss of life. I've really got nothing else here, so...yeah...

The Sylph's powers are likely based around healing, as it pertains to her desire to mend physical and emotional damage. But this could be completely off, and is just my own conjecture.

Seer of Blood - I'm not even sure why I'm doing this one, but whatever. The class comes from knowledge. The Seer is very observant and quick to draw conclusions from relevant data.

The Seer's aspect comes from his obsession with the hemospectrum and his unusual diet.

The Seer's powers start with the rather useless ability to smell the blood and determine its color when nearby other trolls. The God-Tier upgrade would most likely come from his anatomical knowledge, and grant him the ability to determine the cardiovascular (or otherwise applicable bodily system) structure of anything on first sight, which should prove vastly useful in conjunction with his surgically precise attacks.

[REDACTED] - [ALL INFORMATION CLASSIFIED]

---

Yeah, rants/stories will be coming up next. The analytical part of my brain is satisfied. Sporky should be satisfied. I should be done with this stuff for a while. Hopefully.

I'm going to bed after I get this review thing done.

[Vipervertical]

I cannot sleep;
I am alive.
I cannot think;
My heart beats.
For the first time in months,
Life is in my eyes.
A spring is in my step.
A fire burns in my chest.
The slumbering beast stirs from its slumber.

I have a muse.

[Vipervertical]

I have to pose a question before I go on to writing posts. Why is every character that wears a red longcoat a complete badass? Proof follows:







And even



Do red longcoats just somehow cause badassitude? Or are badasses just drawn to red longcoats? What is the relationship?

Feel free to add any red longcoat wearing badasses that I missed.

EDIT: Forgot one!



DOUBLE EDIT: Thank Jennos for reminding me of this one