The Music Makes the Man (Character Creation Challenge)

For 'verse proposals, random ideas, musings, and brainwaves.

Moderators: Invictus, speaker-to-trolls

User avatar
Vagrant Orpheus
Posts: 486
Joined: Tue May 20, 2008 5:59 pm
Location: Looking for Tim. WHERE'S TIM, GODDAMN YOU?!

Re: The Music Makes the Man (Character Creation Challenge)

Post by Vagrant Orpheus »

Kind of defeats the purpose of the challenge, ey Dak? :P

Never a matter though.
Image
User avatar
Vagrant Orpheus
Posts: 486
Joined: Tue May 20, 2008 5:59 pm
Location: Looking for Tim. WHERE'S TIM, GODDAMN YOU?!

Re: The Music Makes the Man (Character Creation Challenge)

Post by Vagrant Orpheus »

Yeah, so, when I randomly picked a date I didn't realise it was in the middle of the week. Deadline is the 18th, guys. Sorry.
Image
User avatar
Dakarne
Posts: 578
Joined: Tue May 20, 2008 5:00 pm
Location: England. :(
Contact:

Re: The Music Makes the Man (Character Creation Challenge)

Post by Dakarne »

For this, I've decided to recreate an old Crimson Chronicle character within the concept of the new, improved world. Her new ethnicity and background are inspired by the songs Barra, Barra and Jezebel respectively, while most of the tone in her later life can be chalked up to the aesthetics of Reise, Reise and Hallowed Be Thy Name. I'm afraid that only a few slight influences from Ameno made it in. I honestly can't say what influenced me where; I more or less just threw the songs into a character-shaped mould to see what would come out.

Rhona McGregor

Birth Name: Rohana Nitya-Sundara
Gender: Female
Residence: Glasgow, Scotland.
Nationality: Indian-British.
Date of Birth: 3rd of December, 1892
Religion: Atheist/Agnostic (formerly Hindu)
Allegiance: Personal

Backstory
Rohana Nitya-Sundara was born out of wedlock to the nineteen-year-old daughter of an Indian restaurant owner during a particularly nasty Scottish winter, after a one-night stand in which her mother was seduced. Specific details of her mother are almost never divulged, except for the name of Amati. Her father was mostly unknown except for two details; that he gave out the name McGregor from which Rohana derived her new surname, and that he wasn't human. Early in life, she showed certain distinguishing features inherited from his bloodline; her skin was always pale, she was able to smell the presence of spilled blood, and she was always fearful and resentful of sunlight. It soon became very apparent that her father had passed on elements of vampirism to her, making her a dhampyr. Indeed, after the encounter, her mother Amati awoke with some fading signs of a vampire-bite to her breast. The family was originally unwilling to part with Rhona over this and put her up for adoption, however, and acquiesced to feeding her blood from the meat that they served in the restaurant, and saw fit to shield her from sunlight. Eventually however, she was cast out at the age of fifteen due to fears that she was going to turn and become the evil and unrestrained monster that they expected she'd become. It was at this time that she abandoned her final ties to her religion.

Relying on her natural attractiveness, she took to the streets and became a prostitute, taking up the surname of McGregor from what she knew of her father's identity and altering her first name to the similar-sounding Rhona. Though successful as she was whilst she took money easily from easily-swayed men, she had no real taste for the job; the attentions of men weren't what interested her as much as the money that lined their pockets. In addition to that, it didn't take her more than a month to begin using her clients to feed upon and satiate her natural bloodlust. She didn't kill many of them; only those who she knew to be rapists and murderers. But she was most certainly not willing to settle for the life of a street-walker, and she began to organise herself into a more favourable position of society. She began stealing from the homes of those she slept with, manoeuvring herself to have enough money that she didn't have to worry about life. A few months after she became twenty-four, she had become one of the primary owners of a private brothel in east Glasgow, being able to select from a far more influential and wealthy set of clientèle for herself. It was a few months onwards when she finally discovered her taste for women after a younger woman came to her during the Great War; she had finally found a more hedonistic outlet for herself in other women. Though not too ignorant nor disliking towards men, she felt that women were far more interesting and far more liberating to sleep with, revelling in what she saw as a controversial and rebellious move as much as a way of gaining pleasure. She didn't drink from women as often as men, however.

Although she was always discreet and intelligent in her actions both as a dhampyr and as a prostitute, she eventually attracted some attention. The Thorne Clan, already knowing of her, began to take an active interest upon her thirtieth birthday. In the year in which a German filmmaker released the immortal (but emphatically inaccurate) Nosferatu, she was approached by an envoy of the Thorne Clan and the larger Les Anges de Sang; a French living vampire who called herself Genevieve. Infamously, though the encounter between them was meant to be merely an offer of placement, it took on a more romantic approach as Rhona became suddenly enamoured with the vampire woman before her. Having never truly encountered another living vampire, she was taken aback by the beauty, grace, ferocity and power of a full-blooded vampire. Not only did she join the Thorne Clan, but she entered the first long-term relationship she'd have in her lifetime. Her joining with the Thorne Clan allowed her to retire from selling her body, allowing her more easy and luxurious access to blood and various forms of shelter. However, as with all things, there were duties she had to do in return; it wasn't enough for her to be a member of the Thorne Clan, but she also had to work for them. Though she was originally offered envoy duties akin to her lover Genevieve, she displayed more interest in expanding her field into something a little more adrenally stimulating. She was accepted after she requested to be trained as an infiltrator-assassin, and studied various forms of both combat and diplomacy. She spent several years training herself to become a weapon, for the first time truly feeling the benefit of her myriad of dhampyr powers.

Given her training, a series of very successful jobs, and a little personal hype, she soon managed to establish herself as a powerful and influential individual by the time she was forty years old. She also trained to become a Cleaner; able to go after the vampires, frequent werewolves and occasional reapers who went rogue and became highly dangerous to society as a whole, and not nearly subtle enough to keep the supernatural world hidden from the general public. And she was happy with it, enjoying her love with Genevieve. Her life remained this way until the second World War, where both she and Genevieve were employed together to help deal with the darker elements of Nazi Germany's project list. In the last year of the war, they had to deal with something supernatural that was neither vampire or werewolf, but instead a far deadlier foe. They were both forced into a fight with an Austrian sorcerer who'd been employed to create talismans to aid the failing Nazi war effort. It was, for Rhona, the first real encounter with a magic-using foe, or a magic-user in general. Choosing Genevieve as the deadlier foe due to her full vampirism, the sorcerer expended as much power as he dared in order to kill her. Genevieve was reduced to ashes within seconds, beyond the point where she'd even come back as an undead vampire. This sent Rhona into an unstoppable rage, and she leapt at the sorcerer, catching him by surprise and tearing his staff-arm off with her bare hands before finally punching him in the neck hard enough to internally decapitate him.

What she did in around a decade after that fight is still unknown in exact terms, as she vanished into obscurity shortly after declaring her departure from the Thorne Clan. Though it became apparent after eleven years to the more fearful members of the clan that she most certainly was not dead by the hand of one of the clan's assassins, having been spotted working as a freelance mercenary of sorts in London under her original name. Adam Thorne himself approached her with the offer to return, but she threw the offer back in his face, blaming him and his vampire clan for the death of Genevieve and saying that the most they would get out of her were her services as a freelance assassin if they were willing to pay a rather hefty fee. And only if she were in a particularly generous mood at the time, at that. He agreed to leave her alone, though displayed some remorse at the loss of what he called one of their finest agents. He did keep an eye on her, however, as he had been doing for some time. For the next few decades, she had a score of lovers; usually human or vampire women, but she did sleep with the occasional changeling or sorceress that caught her eye, never really committing to any real relationship in case she ever fell in love again. Losing someone else would likely have broken her.

In the early 1970s, Rohana began to resort to her old way of stealing for money, sometimes being more brazen than stealing from individuals, instead occasionally stealing from bank vaults and performing a series of high-profile jobs wherein she stole expensive works of art. With her vampire powers, she was highly effective at stealing and leaving not so much as a trace, and took great pleasure in the challenge of it. Though she only took enough so that she could live comfortably for a century or so, and she finally retired to living in a wealthy Manor in the Highlands, living a life of decadence without having to work for much other than to satiate her far more predatory instincts. Within ten years she had decided to fake her own death and passed on most of her assets to a local charity out of a lack of anything better to do. She took the rest to live off of, and again adopting the name of Rhona McGregor, she decided to return to work as a freelance mercenary or 'trouble-shooter' as she called it, taking a little bit of time to acquaint herself with modern technology and techniques. She started travelling and fell back in love with her old lifestyle as a free, wandering agent who went where she wanted to go, did what she wanted to do, shagged who she wanted to shag and drank who she wanted to drink. She continues this into the present day.

After all, anything less would be boring, and that would be unforgivable.

Appearance and Dress
Rhona is distinctively beautiful, with pale brown skin owing both to her Indian descent and lack of sunlight exposure. She has just-longer-than-shoulder-length black hair that is often kept straight and neat, and her eyes are dark, giving out the impression of a mysterious past and age that far exceeds her physical presence. She is shorter and slimmer than many would expect, given her impressive levels of strength, standing at five and a half feet at most. Her canine teeth are notably less fang-like than one might expect from a dhampyr, but they extend whenever she chooses to feed. Her eyes also sometimes become silvery-blue while she is in combat or feeding, and her skin even more occasionally becomes stark white.

She often dresses in a particularly Gothic style in social environments, enjoying the idea of playing out the old vampire lesbian stereotype, and she does indeed cite the vampire Carmilla as one of her favourite characters in literature, though notes that she was unrealistically frail for a vampire, and of course for the real-world figure who died under similar circumstances. Her clothing consists typically of black, red or purple Victorian-styled dresses, though she doesn't wear corsets often as she still tends to have to breathe. She also tends to wear make-up to heighten the Gothic image of vampirisim. She is also seen always wearing a diamond necklace that was given to her by the late Genevieve on her fortieth birthday.

Personality
Anyone who would meet Rhona would immediately notice her, and really wouldn't have a choice. She is very often outgoing, cheerful and sensual around most individuals, and she acts most especially seductive towards women who she would consider to be attractive. She isn't noted, however, for having much of a temper, and it takes a lot to truly anger her. When something does make her angry, she reacts either very calmly, or very violently, depending on how angry she is. She often likes making jokes and commenting wryly on everything around her. However, she is rarely actually friendly with people, having had over a century to have become jaded enough to see the world as an unpleasant one. She has a particularly misanthropic streak because of this. She also has a tendency to speak in a slightly Scottish accent, though can adopt almost any accent she needs to at will.

Rhona is far from virtuous, and suffers from numerous vices, such as her manipulative ways and willingness to betray people for her own causes. She is also very stubborn, and very used to getting her own way. However, she has bound herself to an odd code of honour in which once she trusts someone or has made a deal with someone, she will not betray that until she herself is betrayed. She also suffers from a love of literature, particularly about vampires, and revels in the life that being a dhampyr allows her to have. Her favourite book is often stated as In a Glass Darkly, the anthology by Joseph Sheridan le Fanu in which the novella Carmilla appears.

She is very attentive, as well, and has a good enough memory that she is able to recognise and remember almost everyone who was at a dinner party, or the lyrics of a song that she hasn't heard in decades. She comes off as eccentric, and sometimes accidentally slips into archaisms while speaking, but given her pretty face, it merely paints her as someone unique and interesting. Though raised into a society of law and circumstance, she doesn't have much use for either of them, and will often ignore the legal system when it suits her to, though knows just enough about it to play it like a violin and bend the rules for her own purpose. She has very few other reasons for listening to the rules of a society that already wrote her off when she was fifteen. She is also known for an interest in classical music, both listening and performing, and can indeed play a violin or the piano quite well. Though her singing voice is said to leave much to be desired.

Powers and Abilities
Like many of vampire blood, most of Rhona's abilities are physical in nature. She has metaphysically-enhanced strength, speed, and agility, being naturally talented enough to do complex acrobatics and gymnastics while wearing a tight dress and stiletto heels. She also has the ability to walk on any solid surface and fly under her own power, able to metaphysically manipulate her own personal gravity. She can also see in the dark without much difficulty, and can also dilate her own perception of time, giving her more chance to react to a certain type of situation. One of her primary abilities is her rapid healing, and she is able to heal from wounds that would take months to heal within as little as minutes, usually. Especially in the repairing of damaged flesh, which progresses far faster than the mending of damaged bone. She does display a distinctive lack of the shape-changing abilities of full-blooded vampires, however, and also possesses some vampire weaknesses along with her primary strengths.

Symbols of faith held by those who truly believe in them are able to ward her away if the will of the person is strong enough, and she is allergic to silver. She is also weakened by sunlight, and can be stunned though not killed by a stake through the heart. She is capable of crossing someone's personal threshold without an invitation, but is often rendered weaker by doing so and requires an invitation in order to enter at full strength. This only applies to personal buildings; she can enter both restricted and public locations such as hotels and military bases without restriction as they are either public or impersonal in nature.

Outside of her powers and weaknesses, she is a capable assassin, and has training in various weapons, vehicles, infiltration methods and demolition methods. Though these methods are only formally and officially up to date as of WWII, and she has mostly been relying on personal training since then. She has also had a lot of formal training in classical melee weapons in addition to guns and explosives.
Image
'For the moment, mortal, they find the thought of killing me more desirable than that of killing you.'
'And what are their chances?'
'The answer to that is evident in how long they've been hesitating, wouldn't you think, mortal?'

-Anomander Rake and Ganoes Paran in Gardens of the Moon by Steven Erikson
User avatar
Nevermind
Posts: 21
Joined: Wed Aug 27, 2008 1:44 am
Location: The Computer Chair

Re: The Music Makes the Man (Character Creation Challenge)

Post by Nevermind »

So, I was writing my character sheet when I realized character sheets were soulless bastards. I was having a really hard time putting it into neat little categories of history and personality and stuff, too. Thus, a vignette has been written. I was originally intending one character, which split into two - a hero and a villain. Now, it seems, it's become three. Whoops. Hopefully, the influence is visible. If not...well, fuck it. Thus, I present John Doe, Maria, and The Man based on Invictus' songs (once again, I'm sorry, dude).



“Power draws power,” John said emphatically, fidgeting with his empty mug. Maria raised her eyebrows at him.

“I don’t see any crime lords lining up to take him out, John.” She leaned back and crossed her legs. He could see goose bumps on the knee visible over the tiny table. How she wore a skirt in her cold apartment in the dead of winter, he could never understand.

“No one’s rich enough.” She waited. Realizing she didn’t understand what he meant, he added, “Money is power. Power draws power. There ain’t no one rich enough.”

She mouthed a silent “oh”. He could practically see his words hitting her forehead and glancing off, dispersing into the silence of the room.

“I don’t get it, John,” she said, rolling her shoulders the way she rolled her R’s. Even out of work, she still managed to make her movements draw eyes to her chest, even though her loose shirt barely gave any evidence to her breasts. “He gives you work. He knows what you’re doing – ”

“Yeah, thanks for that,” he cut in, cocking his head pointedly.

“And he still makes sure you can make a fucking living,” she continued as if he hadn’t interrupted. “You’ve got some fucking nerve, John.” She said his name every time, like she wasn’t sure if he was paying attention to her. A lot of people did that. He’d been told he had a face that rarely expressed emotions, so he always looked as if he were spacing off. “You make your money from him.”

“He’s holding money back from the people who need it most. He doesn’t need to get any richer; he’s just a jacka- uh, jerk and doesn’t want to give us a fair share.” He rotated the mug slowly. It looked new and as yet unscathed. The light glinted off of it, hiding his reflection.

“Us?” she asked. “John, you’ve been here a while. I know that. But you’ll never be ‘us’ with us.”

The coffee machine beeped once. Maria picked up their mugs from the table and sauntered to the counter two steps away. He watched her hips just like she meant him to, but without much enthusiasm. Her kitchen was a kitchen that had never seen any genuine cooking. He wasn’t even sure if she had a toaster or a microwave. Its lack of tools and instruments made it feel sad and empty. John averted his eyes to look at Maria again.

She was right, of course. He was there, but he wasn't accepted. They could sense he was fundamentally different, even though he felt like and insisted he was like one of a legion just like him, a series of nobodies. Perhaps this was why he could see what they couldn’t. Could an outsider see things more clearly? They turned a blind eye, perhaps willingly, to what was being stolen from them. Don’t kid yourself, man, he thought. You’re a thief sometimes. But then, there was thieving, and there was thieving. It was one thing to make a living and another thing entirely to take money from those working hard to maintain an economy. No matter which direction he went, rich or poor, it was the same thing and it robbed from the same people. He never wanted to be a part of it, but how could it be stopped when the victims were willing? The only benefit the rich had, far as he could see, was that they were open about it. This was a big lie, albeit one that worked.

“It’s a monopoly,” he told her halfheartedly, but they both knew she wasn’t really listening. “The Man has a monopoly on us.” Sighing, he watched as she opened empty cupboards and searched for something.

“Why do you call him that?” she asked, her voice tight.

“What else am I supposed to call him? Shit, man, that’s what he is.” His answer was met with silence. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to use that word. Just got a little riled up, is all. Sorry.”

“I must’ve used up the sugar last night,” she commented.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. He was strange.” She gave a one-shouldered shrug. “He used to work in a sugar-packaging factory, near as I could tell. It really got him – ”

“That’s okay. Don’t need to know.” She flashed him a grin, natural and full, but dispassionate. Her work smile. “How’s your job otherwise?”

She worked a rude gesture into her movements so deftly that he almost missed it. His laugh was barely audible.

“That bad? Was it a preacher?” He grinned to himself.

“Are you ever going to let that go, John?”

“No.”

She sighed audibly, her shoulders rising then falling. She shook her head, though he knew she was laughing silently, too. She poured the coffee into both mugs and gave him the chipped one.

“It’s going to have to be black today. I’m out of milk. Unless you want to chew your coffee. You got a job tonight?”

“Nah. Bounce is getting hit by cops. We got tipped off last night. Don’t wanna be there for that. Can I crash with you tonight?”

“What kind of dumbass question is that?” Her sipping was loud. John burnt his tongue on the coffee and made a face. “It's not that bad,” she said indignantly.

He stared at his reflection in the coffee. Even in the dark liquid, he looked pale.

“Then I guess I got a job. Maybe Metro needs an extra bouncer tonight.”

Maria leaned her elbows on the table and tapped the table with her nails. Her dark eyes searched for a way to meet his. Finally, she settled on the bridge of his nose.

“Bouncer? I thought you didn’t like threatening people.”

He shrugged. “Begging’s worse. Don’t wanna do that.”

“If you don’t want to work – well, I charge friends more than regular customers.” John shook his head, surprising her. She must have been expecting a yes. “Thought you were into that stuff.”

“I’m planning to die alone,” he told her, only half-lying. He rose. “I’d better go. Almost working hours for both of us.”

“Yeah. I’d better get dressed.”

“Undressed,” he corrected. He smiled at her, a little sadly. She smiled back, this time uncertain.

John shrugged his worn, once-beige jacket on and raised his cap politely in her direction. Maria winked. He got as far as the small doorway into the kitchen when he heard the scrape of her chair.

“Hey, wait a minute, Nobody.” Her voice was low and tense. Her teasing address did nothing to hide it. Her heels clicked dully against the linoleum. A drawer squeaked in protestation to being opened. “Here.”

Turning, he saw her holding out a gun. He shook his head and pressed her arm down.

“You need it more than me. God, where did you get that?” He was nearly raising his voice. Her eyes were examining his face. He realized he was scowling and relaxed his face.

“John,” she said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Take it. You’re doing some stupid things. Fool card incarnate. The Fool is supposed to survive. He just rolls into bad luck a lot.”

The gun shook in her hands. “I forgot you used to be a fortune teller. I’m trying to help you.”

The gun swung about as she threw her hands out in exasperation. John flinched, and pressed her arms back down again.

“Damn it, John! You sure you’re doing this for us? Because you get excited when you talk about it.” She pressed the gun to his chest. “God doesn’t do anything for people who can’t donate to church. No matter what the preacher said.”

He shook his head, but took it and stuck it inside the inner pocket of his jacket. Maria smiled weakly. Then her face fell again.

“He knows, John,” she whispered. He froze. “He knows you’re not John Doe. You’re not Nobody. He said you’re Somebody.”

“Do you know?” he demanded slowly. Her earrings jangled when she shook her head emphatically. “So The Man knows.” He felt himself grin darkly. “Now John Doe just means I’m unidentified, not just random.”

“Shit, John, this isn’t a ga-” She broke off and inhaled slowly. Pink made its way up her neck and cheeks. Her eyes gleamed slightly, threatening to overflow. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to tell him…”

“Work is work.” He shrugged. “Be careful.”

“Don’t get killed, John Doe.”

He raised his cap courteously once more. Maria sat back down slowly. He sensed her eyes on him and wondered if she was genuinely worried.
"Say 'Nevermore'," said Shadow.
"Fuck you," said the raven.
- American Gods by Neil gaiman
User avatar
Reservoir
Posts: 52
Joined: Wed Jun 25, 2008 7:31 pm
Location: North Carolina
Contact:

Re: The Music Makes the Man (Character Creation Challenge)

Post by Reservoir »

I must apologize - school and work are making me extremely lazy. Therefore, I will do my best to have it finished sometime this week. Promises!
"You may never fire a single shot in your entire term as a Common Star Militia servicemember. Some would naively consider that a milestone, representing all that the CSM and CSN are made to be. But, it doesn't mean you will ever forget the things you will hear, see, or do during that time. Cloak and daggers has become child's play, Privates and PFCs: welcome to the Thick...may God watch over you all."
-CSM Chief Master Sergeant Andrew Ford, to CSM PFC John Karmach and the other recruits of the Common Star Militia, Outer Colonies Branch, Section 13, 319 Division, Class of 4133
User avatar
Invictus
Posts: 1306
Joined: Mon May 19, 2008 11:44 pm

Re: The Music Makes the Man (Character Creation Challenge)

Post by Invictus »

My entry really has no business being this late. But I managed to finish it, just as well.

Here are the songs Orpheus picked:
Song Selection:
1. Metal Gear Solid Theme: Teaser OST - Harry Gregson Williams (Later on in the list of 5 I got the 8-Bit Snake Eater song, but figured 2 MGS songs didn't work in such a list.)
2. Chase the Sun - Planet Funk (Quite possibly one of my favourite songs ever. And I didn't pick this song up from darts :P)
3. Stairway to Heaven - The Doors Cover Style (Since I have 100 covers of SWtH the chances were pretty good that this song would show up somehow.)
4. Werewolves of London - Adam Sandler
5. I'm So Post-Modern - The Bedroom Philosopher
And my brain somehow fished a concept out of this. A character which admittedly did grow as I wrote about him, probably to unrecognizability. But well, better than nothing:


Gotengo Rasputin


“Lord?”

A small circle of metal on the floor irised open. The elevator pad slowly and silently rose; bringing a figure onto the deserted bridge.

“Lord Rasputin?”

His breath steamed in the cold, sterile air. Light spilling from the elevator tunnel had brought him a glimpse of empty seats and vacant stations, but the platform beneath his boots had slid flush against the deck, and the cavernous bridge retreated back into darkness. His words were similarly lost.

“Captain?”

He raised his gaze to the far end of the chamber, which was dominated by a vast rectangle of seething, churning un-light. It shone, yet it did not illuminate, and the pseudo-patterns that played across his vision made no reflection on the cold metal surfaces of the room. Raising a hand to his temple, he tried to focus on the sight. It was the only view out of the ship that remains open all this time, for good reason.

Something solid resolved out of the lurid panorama – a tall figure, standing right up against the window to gaze into the limbo between realities. A dark, still shadow amidst the dancing chaos.

“It has been a long time since anybody has called me captain.” It said.

He moved down the rows of consoles, almost stumbling as the gravity engines far below suddenly hiccupped. The window into the void loomed larger than ever, draining away his sense of solidity. “Captain.”

The other figure finally sighed, a puff of mist animating what could have been a statue. “What do you want of me, General?”

Approaching as close as he dared to the unholy light, he kneeled awkwardly, armored greatcoat scraping the floor. “The cantlings and the warp-nomads, sir. They are growing restless. They miss their…ministrations.”

“Already…” The Captain raised his capped head. “How long have I been up here? It is too easy to lose track of time, as we all know.”

“Almost five cycles by the reckoning of the main reactor, sir. Time continues to be marked regularly in the lower holds. But so far from the heart of the ship here, I cannot say.”

“Then I suppose it matters not.” With a click of the neck Gotengo Rasputin wrenched his gaze from the sightless sights beyond the window. He turned, and for an instant the weird fire of nothing seemed to flicker in his eyes. His adjutant fought back a shudder.

He gestured. A red glow descended from above, replacing the darkness with a thin glaze of blood. “Would that we had other than the emergency lighting. Come, General. Stay with me here for a while. Speak to me of the state of the ship.”

“But Lord…Captain, you have been gone for far too long already.” His adjutant nevertheless straightened himself hastily. “Whole generations have died without once seeing your face. They are forgetting what they are here for, sir. You must walk among them and give them hope.”

The command bridge was truly vast, befitting a vessel of its size. It was an empty nerve center for a decapitated hulk, a hundred sophisticated consoles silent as severed synapses. Without hurry, the Captain drew back from the terrible window and weaved his way up the tiered chamber, brushing his fingertips against a dustless machine here, passing his hand through an empty space there, where a crewman would have been. A lifetime of ingrained habit overcoming his reluctance, the adjutant fell in behind him.

They came to a particular station, replete with telescreens and large buttons behind transparent covers. A key on a chain was still plugged into it. The Captain lifted the chain, and let it slide from his fingers. “Tell me, do you remember Officer Andromeda?”

Suddenly afraid, the adjutant said, “She was most enthusiastic in the line of duty, sir. Truly unflagging during trying times. And she operated the Special Armaments, yes, the Bow Special Armaments with distinction. The Spiral Annihilator Cannon and the Rocket Figurehead. But sir, she is…”

“Gone, along with the bow.” The Captain concluded, staring at the station. “Her place ripped out, lost in the war for meaning.” He turned, not meeting his adjutant’s worried gaze. “But I remember, General. Someone has to remember this place, all these souls flaring in the void. No one else can keep the vigil here, so I must.” With that, he began to slowly make his way back to the window.

Moving quickly, the adjutant positioned himself between two stations, barring his way. “Captain.” He pleaded. “Your willpower has no equal among any of us, that is true. None of us would be equal to the task you have appointed yourself to. But your crew needs you belowdecks precisely because you remember – and they do not, sir.”

Rasputin paused. “How long have we been here?”

“Sir?”

“The fleet. All of us in this…place.”

The Adjutant thought hard about the endless drift of patterns in the limbo, the shutdowns and restarts of the reactor cores, the sight of frosted rows of juve tanks in the hold. “Far too long, sir.”

As though running through an inner ritual, the Captain continued, “What news of the other ships of the fleet?”

“We lost willstream contact with the other fleet elements a long time ago, sir. We do not know.”

“And what of the enemy? What do the sensors say?”

“Our sensors are much degraded here, sir. They do not say much at all."

The Captain’s attention drifted, moving somewhere his adjutant could not follow. “No sensors…” He murmured.

“There is nothing for them to see, sir, nothing from our universe or any other. The ship is too damaged for them to calibrate against.”

“Blind…We still won, didn’t we?” And there, something urgent was in the Captain’s tone.

Y…Sir. There has been no sign of them since the last battle.” His adjutant managed, tears in his eyes. “If they were still here, we would not be. We won, sir.”

The Captain’s shoulders rose, a weight temporarily lifting. “Yes. We are blind but we know. I must know this. They thought our ships could not follow them here, but we proved them wrong. Just as they sought to deny our people everything, trapping us inside a cage of shadow and despair. We scattered them back into the void. It could not have been otherwise.”

His eyes suddenly focused. “But our triumph echoes only on this little island, where I have become prophet and sovereign. Our true duties slip away, and the records of those who fought here,” He gestured at the vacant stations. “Become legend.” He blurred, and his adjutant was behind him. “Leave me, if you will not stay. I must remember.”

The adjutant turned quickly, raised a gloved hand, then lowered it. “I will stay with you, Captain.”

They went back under the bridge window, where dimensions boiled away in sinuous ribbons of chaos.

“Look.” Gotengo Rasputin instructed, pointing downwards.

“I cannot, sir.”

“Look.”

The bridge of the Ultra-Dimensional Dreadnought was built upon a monumental command tower, raised far above the closest deck. His gaze fell upon endless terraces of battered gun decks, their sweeping, converging sides ending in a gorge where the vanishing point of the bow should have been. Countless turrets rested haphazardly, locked in death to face enemies long gone. Holes and gashes rent the hull in enough places that without his recollections, its original shape was barely discernable. That was when the other images floated forth; not the phantasmagoria of limbo, he realized, but something purer from within. The sights he had long denied summoned battles he had long forgotten, gouge-gorges tracing the path of MegaNegabeams that battered the hull into asymmetry, the flashes of black light and the mirror-toned detonations of Echidna Missiles that reverberated in his mind, the orders and screams ringing through the intercom systems, replaying the final incandescent battle.

Eventually he tore his gaze back to the present, shivering. “Two visions war inside me, Captain. One for which there are no words and no reckoning. And the other which is but one reckoning, repeating itself endlessly in a valley of our making. Neither are ways we should measure ourselves by.”

“But it is a valley carved by blood.” The Captain responded, his voice gruff. “The vision, an afterimage cast by the light of burning souls. This is the price of our victory, and its prize. No, in the face of oblivion, we shall not forget those who once walked with us.”

“But Captain, the war is over.” His adjutant said softly. “We no longer need to fight.” He stepped away from the silent figure, heading back towards the back of the bridge. A column of light appeared there, accompanied by the hiss of opening seals. When the Captain remained still, he added, “The situation belowdecks shall be growing desperate. I will return, Lord.”

He turned one last time towards the man he had followed all his life, locked in a silent struggle against oblivion. “Or have we simply swapped one battlefield for another?”
"This explanation posits that external observation leads to the collapse of the quantum wave function. This is another expression of reactionary idealism, and it's indeed the most brazen expression."
-
REBUILD OF COMIX STAGE 1 - Rey Quirino Versus the Dark Heart of the Philippines
"...a literary atrocity against the senses..." - Ford

REBUILD OF COMIX STAGE 2 - Advent Rey Returns: REVERGELTUNG
Coming NEVER
User avatar
Ford Prefect
Posts: 957
Joined: Tue May 20, 2008 11:12 am

Re: The Music Makes the Man (Character Creation Challenge)

Post by Ford Prefect »

That was atmospheric in ways I find difficult to describe. Just, wow.
FEEL THESE GUNS ARCHWIND THESE ARE THE GUNS OF THE FLESHY MESSIAH THE TOOLS OF CREATION AND DESTRUCTION THAT WILL ENACT THE LAW OF MAN ACROSS THE UNIVERSE
Post Reply