Down the street from the man, a stranger, about university age, is walking down the street towards him, clutching his left forearm and wincing. Through gritted teeth he mutters to himself 'You said you would make me stronger...how could he still hurt me?.' He continues to walk on for a while in silence until he says 'Yeah, well I don't care if I beat him, it's not strong enough. Heal the wound and get me stronger.' Almost as soon as the words have left his mouth, he seems to get his wish, as he draws his hand away to reveal a long knife wound closing up as golden fiddle strings spring from his skin to stitch the wound shut, and then healing over with raw, red, but healthy flesh. The man flexes his reinvigorated arm a few times to test it, but to his horror soon realises that the process isn't finished, as the red flesh continues to sprout forth from the scar in great clumped veins down his arm. The man's words catch in his throat as this occurs, and he can only manage shout for it to stop when a grotesque, bloodshot and yellowed eyeball begins to grow out the back of his palm, the eyelids peeling open with a hiss of sulphurous steam. At his cry, the hellish flesh retreats away back into his body, and his arm is left healed with no further consequences, but he is still fairly shaken, and mutters 'I...think I'm good now. Thanks.'
'You're not real. You're a hallucination. I am hallucinating' the guy with the suitcase can be heard to mutter. He doesn't seem sure of himself
'Yeah, you didn't see nothing. I'm a dream, a figment of your imagination. Ignore me, you'll come round in a few minutes.' The man chuckles and turns to walk off.
'That's not what hallucinations say? Are you a demon, come for me? I did what I had to. I did what anyone would do. I'm just the survivor. The fittest. Right? And now I'm seeing demons'
Down the street from the man, a stranger, about university age, is walking down the street towards him, clutching his left forearm and wincing. Through gritted teeth he mutters to himself 'You said you would make me stronger...how could he still hurt me?.' He continues to walk on for a while in silence until he says 'Yeah, well I don't care if I beat him, it's not strong enough. Heal the wound and get me stronger.' Almost as soon as the words have left his mouth, he seems to get his wish, as he draws his hand away to reveal a long knife wound closing up as golden fiddle strings spring from his skin to stitch the wound shut, and then healing over with raw, red, but healthy flesh. The man flexes his reinvigorated arm a few times to test it, but to his horror soon realises that the process isn't finished, as the red flesh continues to sprout forth from the scar in great clumped veins down his arm. The man's words catch in his throat as this occurs, and he can only manage shout for it to stop when a grotesque, bloodshot and yellowed eyeball begins to grow out the back of his palm, the eyelids peeling open with a hiss of sulphurous steam. At his cry, the hellish flesh retreats away back into his body, and his arm is left healed with no further consequences, but he is still fairly shaken, and mutters 'I...think I'm good now. Thanks.'
'You're not real. You're a hallucination. I am hallucinating' the guy with the suitcase can be heard to mutter. He doesn't seem sure of himself
'Yeah, you didn't see nothing. I'm a dream, a figment of your imagination. Ignore me, you'll come round in a few minutes.' The man chuckles and turns to walk off.
'That's not what hallucinations say? Are you a demon, come for me? I did what I had to. I did what anyone would do. I'm just the survivor. The fittest. Right? And now I'm seeing demons'
The man turns around with a bewildered expression and says 'You say that like you know how a hallucination is meant to act. Well let me tell you that I ain't just a dream, but a nightmare, and I ain't just a demon, I'm the Devil.' He gives a wide smile as he walks back towards him and continues on, 'It's a shame really, cos when your time comes, I don't even get to know what you got up to in life. I'm sure you've done some awfully twisted things, but my job ain't to judge, it's to punish.' He shrugs at this statement and finishes with, 'Your time isn't yet though, but if you've got any damned souls or demons latched onto you, I'm sure there would be no problem if I arranged for you to jump the queue.' He then just stands and stares at the man, who isn't aware that the voice in his head is currently cackling at him, taunting him for pushing his luck. He wishes he could respond, but he's got to keep this up for a moment more. This man is clearly mad anyway, and seems to be a good trial run to command fear with.
Down the street from the man, a stranger, about university age, is walking down the street towards him, clutching his left forearm and wincing. Through gritted teeth he mutters to himself 'You said you would make me stronger...how could he still hurt me?.' He continues to walk on for a while in silence until he says 'Yeah, well I don't care if I beat him, it's not strong enough. Heal the wound and get me stronger.' Almost as soon as the words have left his mouth, he seems to get his wish, as he draws his hand away to reveal a long knife wound closing up as golden fiddle strings spring from his skin to stitch the wound shut, and then healing over with raw, red, but healthy flesh. The man flexes his reinvigorated arm a few times to test it, but to his horror soon realises that the process isn't finished, as the red flesh continues to sprout forth from the scar in great clumped veins down his arm. The man's words catch in his throat as this occurs, and he can only manage shout for it to stop when a grotesque, bloodshot and yellowed eyeball begins to grow out the back of his palm, the eyelids peeling open with a hiss of sulphurous steam. At his cry, the hellish flesh retreats away back into his body, and his arm is left healed with no further consequences, but he is still fairly shaken, and mutters 'I...think I'm good now. Thanks.'
'You're not real. You're a hallucination. I am hallucinating' the guy with the suitcase can be heard to mutter. He doesn't seem sure of himself
'Yeah, you didn't see nothing. I'm a dream, a figment of your imagination. Ignore me, you'll come round in a few minutes.' The man chuckles and turns to walk off.
'That's not what hallucinations say? Are you a demon, come for me? I did what I had to. I did what anyone would do. I'm just the survivor. The fittest. Right? And now I'm seeing demons'
The man turns around with a bewildered expression and says 'You say that like you know how a hallucination is meant to act. Well let me tell you that I ain't just a dream, but a nightmare, and I ain't just a demon, I'm the Devil.' He gives a wide smile as he walks back towards him and continues on, 'It's a shame really, cos when your time comes, I don't even get to know what you got up to in life. I'm sure you've done some awfully twisted things, but my job ain't to judge, it's to punish.' He shrugs at this statement and finishes with, 'Your time isn't yet though, but if you've got any damned souls or demons latched onto you, I'm sure there would be no problem if I arranged for you to jump the queue.' He then just stands and stares at the man, who isn't aware that the voice in his head is currently cackling at him, taunting him for pushing his luck. He wishes he could respond, but he's got to keep this up for a moment more. This man is clearly mad anyway, and seems to be a good trial run to command fear with.
'I'm not scared of you. I've killed before. I've seen things most... won't admit to. You aren't real, unless you've come to deal with what I did. Which wasn't even anything wrong! Look, if you're here to persuade me, to twist me, to mess with me, to tell me how no god is gonna forgive me and I might as well just give in, you're preaching to the converted. I've already got a demon, and his name is- no. I'm not going to. If you're with him, you already know'
Down the street from the man, a stranger, about university age, is walking down the street towards him, clutching his left forearm and wincing. Through gritted teeth he mutters to himself 'You said you would make me stronger...how could he still hurt me?.' He continues to walk on for a while in silence until he says 'Yeah, well I don't care if I beat him, it's not strong enough. Heal the wound and get me stronger.' Almost as soon as the words have left his mouth, he seems to get his wish, as he draws his hand away to reveal a long knife wound closing up as golden fiddle strings spring from his skin to stitch the wound shut, and then healing over with raw, red, but healthy flesh. The man flexes his reinvigorated arm a few times to test it, but to his horror soon realises that the process isn't finished, as the red flesh continues to sprout forth from the scar in great clumped veins down his arm. The man's words catch in his throat as this occurs, and he can only manage shout for it to stop when a grotesque, bloodshot and yellowed eyeball begins to grow out the back of his palm, the eyelids peeling open with a hiss of sulphurous steam. At his cry, the hellish flesh retreats away back into his body, and his arm is left healed with no further consequences, but he is still fairly shaken, and mutters 'I...think I'm good now. Thanks.'
'You're not real. You're a hallucination. I am hallucinating' the guy with the suitcase can be heard to mutter. He doesn't seem sure of himself
'Yeah, you didn't see nothing. I'm a dream, a figment of your imagination. Ignore me, you'll come round in a few minutes.' The man chuckles and turns to walk off.
'That's not what hallucinations say? Are you a demon, come for me? I did what I had to. I did what anyone would do. I'm just the survivor. The fittest. Right? And now I'm seeing demons'
The man turns around with a bewildered expression and says 'You say that like you know how a hallucination is meant to act. Well let me tell you that I ain't just a dream, but a nightmare, and I ain't just a demon, I'm the Devil.' He gives a wide smile as he walks back towards him and continues on, 'It's a shame really, cos when your time comes, I don't even get to know what you got up to in life. I'm sure you've done some awfully twisted things, but my job ain't to judge, it's to punish.' He shrugs at this statement and finishes with, 'Your time isn't yet though, but if you've got any damned souls or demons latched onto you, I'm sure there would be no problem if I arranged for you to jump the queue.' He then just stands and stares at the man, who isn't aware that the voice in his head is currently cackling at him, taunting him for pushing his luck. He wishes he could respond, but he's got to keep this up for a moment more. This man is clearly mad anyway, and seems to be a good trial run to command fear with.
'I'm not scared of you. I've killed before. I've seen things most... won't admit to. You aren't real, unless you've come to deal with what I did. Which wasn't even anything wrong! Look, if you're here to persuade me, to twist me, to mess with me, to tell me how no god is gonna forgive me and I might as well just give in, you're preaching to the converted. I've already got a demon, and his name is- no. I'm not going to. If you're with him, you already know'
The man is more intrigued now. He should be prying further into the details of the man's demon, since that's what his half of the deal between him and Lucifer requires, but this act is just too much fun to drop quite yet. 'Oh, it's fine if you don't fear me now, or even don't believe in me. Most shouldn't meet me yet, and I actually can't do much harm. In fact I can only do quite the opposite. As a fallen angel my core ability is to heal, then everything else at my disposal comes from my silver-tongue and ingenuity. When it's your time, the first thing you'll fear is Hell itself, since that's where the danger is. But after millennia of me bringing you back again, and again, and again, my presence will become what instils fear. Now, how about you bow do-' He suddenly stops mid sentence and starts to convulse and choke, his eyes switching from brown to a piercing gold, and a different, slicker voice starts to seep out of the man's mouth, the words drawling and flowing like honey in the midday heat. 'Your demon shouldn't be here...he knows full well it's time he goes back home.' His voice then seems to address the man's inner demon directly, the voice of the Devil whispering 'How about you let go of this man, give up your silly escape from Hell, and get back to work? I've had to come up here to herd you back in myself, and quiet frankly I don't want to make this harder then it should be. Come on, let go.'
Down the street from the man, a stranger, about university age, is walking down the street towards him, clutching his left forearm and wincing. Through gritted teeth he mutters to himself 'You said you would make me stronger...how could he still hurt me?.' He continues to walk on for a while in silence until he says 'Yeah, well I don't care if I beat him, it's not strong enough. Heal the wound and get me stronger.' Almost as soon as the words have left his mouth, he seems to get his wish, as he draws his hand away to reveal a long knife wound closing up as golden fiddle strings spring from his skin to stitch the wound shut, and then healing over with raw, red, but healthy flesh. The man flexes his reinvigorated arm a few times to test it, but to his horror soon realises that the process isn't finished, as the red flesh continues to sprout forth from the scar in great clumped veins down his arm. The man's words catch in his throat as this occurs, and he can only manage shout for it to stop when a grotesque, bloodshot and yellowed eyeball begins to grow out the back of his palm, the eyelids peeling open with a hiss of sulphurous steam. At his cry, the hellish flesh retreats away back into his body, and his arm is left healed with no further consequences, but he is still fairly shaken, and mutters 'I...think I'm good now. Thanks.'
'You're not real. You're a hallucination. I am hallucinating' the guy with the suitcase can be heard to mutter. He doesn't seem sure of himself
'Yeah, you didn't see nothing. I'm a dream, a figment of your imagination. Ignore me, you'll come round in a few minutes.' The man chuckles and turns to walk off.
'That's not what hallucinations say? Are you a demon, come for me? I did what I had to. I did what anyone would do. I'm just the survivor. The fittest. Right? And now I'm seeing demons'
The man turns around with a bewildered expression and says 'You say that like you know how a hallucination is meant to act. Well let me tell you that I ain't just a dream, but a nightmare, and I ain't just a demon, I'm the Devil.' He gives a wide smile as he walks back towards him and continues on, 'It's a shame really, cos when your time comes, I don't even get to know what you got up to in life. I'm sure you've done some awfully twisted things, but my job ain't to judge, it's to punish.' He shrugs at this statement and finishes with, 'Your time isn't yet though, but if you've got any damned souls or demons latched onto you, I'm sure there would be no problem if I arranged for you to jump the queue.' He then just stands and stares at the man, who isn't aware that the voice in his head is currently cackling at him, taunting him for pushing his luck. He wishes he could respond, but he's got to keep this up for a moment more. This man is clearly mad anyway, and seems to be a good trial run to command fear with.
'I'm not scared of you. I've killed before. I've seen things most... won't admit to. You aren't real, unless you've come to deal with what I did. Which wasn't even anything wrong! Look, if you're here to persuade me, to twist me, to mess with me, to tell me how no god is gonna forgive me and I might as well just give in, you're preaching to the converted. I've already got a demon, and his name is- no. I'm not going to. If you're with him, you already know'
The man is more intrigued now. He should be prying further into the details of the man's demon, since that's what his half of the deal between him and Lucifer requires, but this act is just too much fun to drop quite yet. 'Oh, it's fine if you don't fear me now, or even don't believe in me. Most shouldn't meet me yet, and I actually can't do much harm. In fact I can only do quite the opposite. As a fallen angel my core ability is to heal, then everything else at my disposal comes from my silver-tongue and ingenuity. When it's your time, the first thing you'll fear is Hell itself, since that's where the danger is. But after millennia of me bringing you back again, and again, and again, my presence will become what instils fear. Now, how about you bow do-' He suddenly stops mid sentence and starts to convulse and choke, his eyes switching from brown to a piercing gold, and a different, slicker voice starts to seep out of the man's mouth, the words drawling and flowing like honey in the midday heat. 'Your demon shouldn't be here...he knows full well it's time he goes back home.' His voice then seems to address the man's inner demon directly, the voice of the Devil whispering 'How about you let go of this man, give up your silly escape from Hell, and get back to work? I've had to come up here to herd you back in myself, and quiet frankly I don't want to make this harder then it should be. Come on, let go.'
The guy's voice becomes more confident, a smirk appearing on his face. 'Let go? I don't think so. This mouthpiece is mine, fair and square. I won him. And he won me. I wouldn't call this an escape from my job, in fact, I'd argue that this is my... jurisdiction. I'm not here for a good time, this ain't some kind of joyride, no, I'm here to play the game until it's game over. And hopefully win a fair few followers along the way. We are on the same side, do you not think? To hurt, to maim, to enlighten, to make the folks at home question why they think how they do. And this one? Look in his bag if you want, you'll see my mark all over it. Not that I'm against cooperation with you, of course. We need allies in the fight against those who would have us destroyed'
The sound of a soft explosion fills the air, and suddenly, there's a hole in someone's stomach. They drop to the ground as the people around them watch in shock and horror, feeling pained themselves yet they don't know why. Some people try to help the person, calling the hospital and the police while others run as to not get shot themselves, but it's too late for the target, the light leaving their eyes as they were shot in a vital area, bleeding out on the cold pavement.
Lying down on a warehouse roof some distance away sits a man, humming to himself as he loads another shell into his sniper rifle, smiling as he looks through the scope and sees the person dying, petting his sniper like it were some kind of person, speaking loving and happy words as he watches the light leave the person's eyes, growing happier before sitting up, job completed and blood spilled. He begins climbing down from the warehouse roof, moving quickly and quietly. He's dressed in a simple suit of black and white, you'd like he's going to a business meeting had it not just killed someone so casually and moved on with his day, tall and skinny, likely of British or Scottish origin by the looks of him, with wide circular glasses, the most polished and clean thing on him being the sniper he just used, looking based on a WW2 model, though improved and empowered by some other being, his symbiotic bond. He puts the sniper into a briefcase, walking towards the assassination like a regular civilian on his way to work, and no one would be the wiser.
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Local Jokester, Viber, Doctor, and Therapist, I do my best to make your day better, and if I fail I'll try again tomorrow.
'Nothing is beautiful because it lasts.'
'War does not decide who was right, but only who is left.'
'You're not real. No. This can't be. A suit, a pair of wide glasses. You're not here for me' the guy with the suitcase mutters
The man looks over to them, his eyes carry a soft smile behind his regular glasses, "I'm not here for anyone, whoever you are." He chuckles.
'You'd better not be. Not that I've anything to hide. You secret service? That was a good shot'
His friendly demeanor instantly fades, "What shot? You didn't see anything, understood?" He takes his briefcase with a finger.
'Of course not. Trust me, I'm not one to go blabbing. Not with the blood on my hands, which I definitely didn't tell you about. You did what you got to do, anyone who's gonna judge you for that is a sicko'
'You're not real. No. This can't be. A suit, a pair of wide glasses. You're not here for me' the guy with the suitcase mutters
The man looks over to them, his eyes carry a soft smile behind his regular glasses, "I'm not here for anyone, whoever you are." He chuckles.
'You'd better not be. Not that I've anything to hide. You secret service? That was a good shot'
His friendly demeanor instantly fades, "What shot? You didn't see anything, understood?" He takes his briefcase with a finger.
'Of course not. Trust me, I'm not one to go blabbing. Not with the blood on my hands, which I definitely didn't tell you about. You did what you got to do, anyone who's gonna judge you for that is a sicko'
He smiles back at them, holding out a hand, his British accent soft but clear "A pleasure to meet you then, you don't have any blood on your hands, and neither do I. Now lets stop saying that in public."
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Local Jokester, Viber, Doctor, and Therapist, I do my best to make your day better, and if I fail I'll try again tomorrow.
'Nothing is beautiful because it lasts.'
'War does not decide who was right, but only who is left.'
'You're not real. No. This can't be. A suit, a pair of wide glasses. You're not here for me' the guy with the suitcase mutters
The man looks over to them, his eyes carry a soft smile behind his regular glasses, "I'm not here for anyone, whoever you are." He chuckles.
'You'd better not be. Not that I've anything to hide. You secret service? That was a good shot'
His friendly demeanor instantly fades, "What shot? You didn't see anything, understood?" He takes his briefcase with a finger.
'Of course not. Trust me, I'm not one to go blabbing. Not with the blood on my hands, which I definitely didn't tell you about. You did what you got to do, anyone who's gonna judge you for that is a sicko'
He smiles back at them, holding out a hand, his British accent soft but clear "A pleasure to meet you then, you don't have any blood on your hands, and neither do I. Now lets stop saying that in public."
'Oh, I doubt we have more blood on our hands than the rest of them, anyways. Who might you be? Or rather, what can I call you?'
'You're not real. No. This can't be. A suit, a pair of wide glasses. You're not here for me' the guy with the suitcase mutters
The man looks over to them, his eyes carry a soft smile behind his regular glasses, "I'm not here for anyone, whoever you are." He chuckles.
'You'd better not be. Not that I've anything to hide. You secret service? That was a good shot'
His friendly demeanor instantly fades, "What shot? You didn't see anything, understood?" He takes his briefcase with a finger.
'Of course not. Trust me, I'm not one to go blabbing. Not with the blood on my hands, which I definitely didn't tell you about. You did what you got to do, anyone who's gonna judge you for that is a sicko'
He smiles back at them, holding out a hand, his British accent soft but clear "A pleasure to meet you then, you don't have any blood on your hands, and neither do I. Now lets stop saying that in public."
'Oh, I doubt we have more blood on our hands than the rest of them, anyways. Who might you be? Or rather, what can I call you?'
"Johnny Cash, no, not the famous musician." He shakes their hand, his gloved hands holding a firm enough grip, "Why are you so paranoid?"
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Local Jokester, Viber, Doctor, and Therapist, I do my best to make your day better, and if I fail I'll try again tomorrow.
'Nothing is beautiful because it lasts.'
'War does not decide who was right, but only who is left.'
'Because I did some things that the other folks don't like. Nothing they wouldn't do. But stuff they'd be squeamish about, things they couldn't imagine themselves doing, if you get my drift. Can we talk somewhere else, maybe a bar or something? Don't wanna be out on the street dealing with this kinda stuff. And I really ought to start unpacking my suitcase, see what's in it'
'Because I did some things that the other folks don't like. Nothing they wouldn't do. But stuff they'd be squeamish about, things they couldn't imagine themselves doing, if you get my drift. Can we talk somewhere else, maybe a bar or something? Don't wanna be out on the street dealing with this kinda stuff. And I really ought to start unpacking my suitcase, see what's in it'
"... I would get me out of here, though my plan was to seem like an innocent civilian. Lead the way and I'll follow. You didn't introduce yourself." He seems to hear something in his head, muttering softly enough not to be heard, speaking to himself, or someone nearby. They can sense Johnny is certainly strong, more than he seems.
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Local Jokester, Viber, Doctor, and Therapist, I do my best to make your day better, and if I fail I'll try again tomorrow.
'Nothing is beautiful because it lasts.'
'War does not decide who was right, but only who is left.'
There is the distinctive hiss of hydraulics as the subway doors open, a crowd of people spilling forth onto the platform, funneled through the gates leading back aboveground before they spread out and go their separate ways. One person steps off the subway a few seconds after most of the other passengers do. A tired-looking woman with short, wavy brown hair with a dyed streak of purple and greyish-blue eyes looking around the platform from behind a pair of wire-frame rectangular glasses. Judging by the lab coat she wears over her clothes- green pants and a brown-and-orange flannel vest over a cream-colored shirt- it would be a reasonable guess that she works in some laboratory or medical profession. As she walks through the terminal gates and up the stairs back to above ground, she can faintly be heard muttering, seemingly talking to herself.
"Okay, here's what we're going to do. We're going to go back home, relax, maybe have a cup of tea, and go to bed. It's done. We did it. It's over."
As she walks up the stairs, a few specks of something can be seen coming off of her coat and her hair, drifting through the air for a second before they touch down in various spots in the concrete- most wouldn't know what they are, but anyone who knows at least the basics of mycology can correctly identify them. They're spores.
This is Lanni, and she is the host of a sapient (and possibly malevolent) mold colony. And she knows this.
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Former Spider Queen of the Spider Guild, and friendly neighborhood scheming creature.
"Made by spiders, for spiders, of spiders."
My pronouns are she/her.
Web Weaver of Everlasting Narrative! (title bestowed by Drummer)
'Because I did some things that the other folks don't like. Nothing they wouldn't do. But stuff they'd be squeamish about, things they couldn't imagine themselves doing, if you get my drift. Can we talk somewhere else, maybe a bar or something? Don't wanna be out on the street dealing with this kinda stuff. And I really ought to start unpacking my suitcase, see what's in it'
"... I would get me out of here, though my plan was to seem like an innocent civilian. Lead the way and I'll follow. You didn't introduce yourself." He seems to hear something in his head, muttering softly enough not to be heard, speaking to himself, or someone nearby. They can sense Johnny is certainly strong, more than he seems.
'Truth be told, I don't even know who I am anymore. The old me is dead, I know that much. I was given all I need going forward in this suitcase'. Suitcase Guy follows
There is the distinctive hiss of hydraulics as the subway doors open, a crowd of people spilling forth onto the platform, funneled through the gates leading back aboveground before they spread out and go their separate ways. One person steps off the subway a few seconds after most of the other passengers do. A tired-looking woman with short, wavy brown hair with a dyed streak of purple and greyish-blue eyes looking around the platform from behind a pair of wire-frame rectangular glasses. Judging by the lab coat she wears over her clothes- green pants and a brown-and-orange flannel vest over a cream-colored shirt- it would be a reasonable guess that she works in some laboratory or medical profession. As she walks through the terminal gates and up the stairs back to above ground, she can faintly be heard muttering, seemingly talking to herself.
"Okay, here's what we're going to do. We're going to go back home, relax, maybe have a cup of tea, and go to bed. It's done. We did it. It's over."
As she walks up the stairs, a few specks of something can be seen coming off of her coat and her hair, drifting through the air for a second before they touch down in various spots in the concrete- most wouldn't know what they are, but anyone who knows at least the basics of mycology can correctly identify them. They're spores.
This is Lanni, and she is the host of a sapient (and possibly malevolent) mold colony. And she knows this.
Once they get back above ground, they find that in front of the subway, a corpse is being taken away by an ambulance, and among the crowd of horrified people is the killer. Hard to identify, considering he's making it look like he's a normal civilian that's terrified like everyone else, but with the power coming off of him, he's clearly sensed out by them. He holds a briefcase, where the source of his bond lies within.
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Local Jokester, Viber, Doctor, and Therapist, I do my best to make your day better, and if I fail I'll try again tomorrow.
'Nothing is beautiful because it lasts.'
'War does not decide who was right, but only who is left.'
There is the distinctive hiss of hydraulics as the subway doors open, a crowd of people spilling forth onto the platform, funneled through the gates leading back aboveground before they spread out and go their separate ways. One person steps off the subway a few seconds after most of the other passengers do. A tired-looking woman with short, wavy brown hair with a dyed streak of purple and greyish-blue eyes looking around the platform from behind a pair of wire-frame rectangular glasses. Judging by the lab coat she wears over her clothes- green pants and a brown-and-orange flannel vest over a cream-colored shirt- it would be a reasonable guess that she works in some laboratory or medical profession. As she walks through the terminal gates and up the stairs back to above ground, she can faintly be heard muttering, seemingly talking to herself.
"Okay, here's what we're going to do. We're going to go back home, relax, maybe have a cup of tea, and go to bed. It's done. We did it. It's over."
As she walks up the stairs, a few specks of something can be seen coming off of her coat and her hair, drifting through the air for a second before they touch down in various spots in the concrete- most wouldn't know what they are, but anyone who knows at least the basics of mycology can correctly identify them. They're spores.
This is Lanni, and she is the host of a sapient (and possibly malevolent) mold colony. And she knows this.
A guy in the subway seems to be watching the spores
'That's not what hallucinations say? Are you a demon, come for me? I did what I had to. I did what anyone would do. I'm just the survivor. The fittest. Right? And now I'm seeing demons'
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The man turns around with a bewildered expression and says 'You say that like you know how a hallucination is meant to act. Well let me tell you that I ain't just a dream, but a nightmare, and I ain't just a demon, I'm the Devil.' He gives a wide smile as he walks back towards him and continues on, 'It's a shame really, cos when your time comes, I don't even get to know what you got up to in life. I'm sure you've done some awfully twisted things, but my job ain't to judge, it's to punish.' He shrugs at this statement and finishes with, 'Your time isn't yet though, but if you've got any damned souls or demons latched onto you, I'm sure there would be no problem if I arranged for you to jump the queue.' He then just stands and stares at the man, who isn't aware that the voice in his head is currently cackling at him, taunting him for pushing his luck. He wishes he could respond, but he's got to keep this up for a moment more. This man is clearly mad anyway, and seems to be a good trial run to command fear with.
Xaul Lackluster: Half-Orc Fathomless Warlock: Warlock Dragon Heist
Borvnir Chelvnich: Black Dragonborn Barbarian: Dragons of Stormwreck Isle
Pushover Gerilwitz: Tiefling Wizard: Acquisitions Incorporated
Callow Sunken-Eyes: Goliath Arctic Druid: We Are Modron
DMing The 100 Dungeons of the Blood Archivist and The Hunt for the Balowang!
Killer Queen has already extended this signature, though not by much!
'I'm not scared of you. I've killed before. I've seen things most... won't admit to. You aren't real, unless you've come to deal with what I did. Which wasn't even anything wrong! Look, if you're here to persuade me, to twist me, to mess with me, to tell me how no god is gonna forgive me and I might as well just give in, you're preaching to the converted. I've already got a demon, and his name is- no. I'm not going to. If you're with him, you already know'
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The man is more intrigued now. He should be prying further into the details of the man's demon, since that's what his half of the deal between him and Lucifer requires, but this act is just too much fun to drop quite yet. 'Oh, it's fine if you don't fear me now, or even don't believe in me. Most shouldn't meet me yet, and I actually can't do much harm. In fact I can only do quite the opposite. As a fallen angel my core ability is to heal, then everything else at my disposal comes from my silver-tongue and ingenuity. When it's your time, the first thing you'll fear is Hell itself, since that's where the danger is. But after millennia of me bringing you back again, and again, and again, my presence will become what instils fear. Now, how about you bow do-' He suddenly stops mid sentence and starts to convulse and choke, his eyes switching from brown to a piercing gold, and a different, slicker voice starts to seep out of the man's mouth, the words drawling and flowing like honey in the midday heat. 'Your demon shouldn't be here...he knows full well it's time he goes back home.' His voice then seems to address the man's inner demon directly, the voice of the Devil whispering 'How about you let go of this man, give up your silly escape from Hell, and get back to work? I've had to come up here to herd you back in myself, and quiet frankly I don't want to make this harder then it should be. Come on, let go.'
Xaul Lackluster: Half-Orc Fathomless Warlock: Warlock Dragon Heist
Borvnir Chelvnich: Black Dragonborn Barbarian: Dragons of Stormwreck Isle
Pushover Gerilwitz: Tiefling Wizard: Acquisitions Incorporated
Callow Sunken-Eyes: Goliath Arctic Druid: We Are Modron
DMing The 100 Dungeons of the Blood Archivist and The Hunt for the Balowang!
Killer Queen has already extended this signature, though not by much!
The guy's voice becomes more confident, a smirk appearing on his face. 'Let go? I don't think so. This mouthpiece is mine, fair and square. I won him. And he won me. I wouldn't call this an escape from my job, in fact, I'd argue that this is my... jurisdiction. I'm not here for a good time, this ain't some kind of joyride, no, I'm here to play the game until it's game over. And hopefully win a fair few followers along the way. We are on the same side, do you not think? To hurt, to maim, to enlighten, to make the folks at home question why they think how they do. And this one? Look in his bag if you want, you'll see my mark all over it. Not that I'm against cooperation with you, of course. We need allies in the fight against those who would have us destroyed'
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The sound of a soft explosion fills the air, and suddenly, there's a hole in someone's stomach. They drop to the ground as the people around them watch in shock and horror, feeling pained themselves yet they don't know why. Some people try to help the person, calling the hospital and the police while others run as to not get shot themselves, but it's too late for the target, the light leaving their eyes as they were shot in a vital area, bleeding out on the cold pavement.
Lying down on a warehouse roof some distance away sits a man, humming to himself as he loads another shell into his sniper rifle, smiling as he looks through the scope and sees the person dying, petting his sniper like it were some kind of person, speaking loving and happy words as he watches the light leave the person's eyes, growing happier before sitting up, job completed and blood spilled. He begins climbing down from the warehouse roof, moving quickly and quietly. He's dressed in a simple suit of black and white, you'd like he's going to a business meeting had it not just killed someone so casually and moved on with his day, tall and skinny, likely of British or Scottish origin by the looks of him, with wide circular glasses, the most polished and clean thing on him being the sniper he just used, looking based on a WW2 model, though improved and empowered by some other being, his symbiotic bond. He puts the sniper into a briefcase, walking towards the assassination like a regular civilian on his way to work, and no one would be the wiser.
Local Jokester, Viber, Doctor, and Therapist, I do my best to make your day better, and if I fail I'll try again tomorrow.
'Nothing is beautiful because it lasts.'
'War does not decide who was right, but only who is left.'
https://docs.google.com/document/d/12WUcdu6YBH2USIcmf48FCnLwDh_mGHZJZYZWwLLRzhA/edit?tab=t.0 (For when I'm gone.)
'You're not real. No. This can't be. A suit, a pair of wide glasses. You're not here for me' the guy with the suitcase mutters
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The man looks over to them, his eyes carry a soft smile behind his regular glasses, "I'm not here for anyone, whoever you are." He chuckles.
Local Jokester, Viber, Doctor, and Therapist, I do my best to make your day better, and if I fail I'll try again tomorrow.
'Nothing is beautiful because it lasts.'
'War does not decide who was right, but only who is left.'
https://docs.google.com/document/d/12WUcdu6YBH2USIcmf48FCnLwDh_mGHZJZYZWwLLRzhA/edit?tab=t.0 (For when I'm gone.)
'You'd better not be. Not that I've anything to hide. You secret service? That was a good shot'
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His friendly demeanor instantly fades, "What shot? You didn't see anything, understood?" He takes his briefcase with a finger.
Local Jokester, Viber, Doctor, and Therapist, I do my best to make your day better, and if I fail I'll try again tomorrow.
'Nothing is beautiful because it lasts.'
'War does not decide who was right, but only who is left.'
https://docs.google.com/document/d/12WUcdu6YBH2USIcmf48FCnLwDh_mGHZJZYZWwLLRzhA/edit?tab=t.0 (For when I'm gone.)
'Of course not. Trust me, I'm not one to go blabbing. Not with the blood on my hands, which I definitely didn't tell you about. You did what you got to do, anyone who's gonna judge you for that is a sicko'
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He smiles back at them, holding out a hand, his British accent soft but clear "A pleasure to meet you then, you don't have any blood on your hands, and neither do I. Now lets stop saying that in public."
Local Jokester, Viber, Doctor, and Therapist, I do my best to make your day better, and if I fail I'll try again tomorrow.
'Nothing is beautiful because it lasts.'
'War does not decide who was right, but only who is left.'
https://docs.google.com/document/d/12WUcdu6YBH2USIcmf48FCnLwDh_mGHZJZYZWwLLRzhA/edit?tab=t.0 (For when I'm gone.)
'Oh, I doubt we have more blood on our hands than the rest of them, anyways. Who might you be? Or rather, what can I call you?'
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"Johnny Cash, no, not the famous musician." He shakes their hand, his gloved hands holding a firm enough grip, "Why are you so paranoid?"
Local Jokester, Viber, Doctor, and Therapist, I do my best to make your day better, and if I fail I'll try again tomorrow.
'Nothing is beautiful because it lasts.'
'War does not decide who was right, but only who is left.'
https://docs.google.com/document/d/12WUcdu6YBH2USIcmf48FCnLwDh_mGHZJZYZWwLLRzhA/edit?tab=t.0 (For when I'm gone.)
'Because I did some things that the other folks don't like. Nothing they wouldn't do. But stuff they'd be squeamish about, things they couldn't imagine themselves doing, if you get my drift. Can we talk somewhere else, maybe a bar or something? Don't wanna be out on the street dealing with this kinda stuff. And I really ought to start unpacking my suitcase, see what's in it'
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"... I would get me out of here, though my plan was to seem like an innocent civilian. Lead the way and I'll follow. You didn't introduce yourself." He seems to hear something in his head, muttering softly enough not to be heard, speaking to himself, or someone nearby. They can sense Johnny is certainly strong, more than he seems.
Local Jokester, Viber, Doctor, and Therapist, I do my best to make your day better, and if I fail I'll try again tomorrow.
'Nothing is beautiful because it lasts.'
'War does not decide who was right, but only who is left.'
https://docs.google.com/document/d/12WUcdu6YBH2USIcmf48FCnLwDh_mGHZJZYZWwLLRzhA/edit?tab=t.0 (For when I'm gone.)
*Alrighty, my character is ready!*
There is the distinctive hiss of hydraulics as the subway doors open, a crowd of people spilling forth onto the platform, funneled through the gates leading back aboveground before they spread out and go their separate ways. One person steps off the subway a few seconds after most of the other passengers do. A tired-looking woman with short, wavy brown hair with a dyed streak of purple and greyish-blue eyes looking around the platform from behind a pair of wire-frame rectangular glasses. Judging by the lab coat she wears over her clothes- green pants and a brown-and-orange flannel vest over a cream-colored shirt- it would be a reasonable guess that she works in some laboratory or medical profession. As she walks through the terminal gates and up the stairs back to above ground, she can faintly be heard muttering, seemingly talking to herself.
"Okay, here's what we're going to do. We're going to go back home, relax, maybe have a cup of tea, and go to bed. It's done. We did it. It's over."
As she walks up the stairs, a few specks of something can be seen coming off of her coat and her hair, drifting through the air for a second before they touch down in various spots in the concrete- most wouldn't know what they are, but anyone who knows at least the basics of mycology can correctly identify them. They're spores.
This is Lanni, and she is the host of a sapient (and possibly malevolent) mold colony. And she knows this.
Former Spider Queen of the Spider Guild, and friendly neighborhood scheming creature.
"Made by spiders, for spiders, of spiders."
My pronouns are she/her.
Web Weaver of Everlasting Narrative! (title bestowed by Drummer)
'Truth be told, I don't even know who I am anymore. The old me is dead, I know that much. I was given all I need going forward in this suitcase'. Suitcase Guy follows
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Once they get back above ground, they find that in front of the subway, a corpse is being taken away by an ambulance, and among the crowd of horrified people is the killer. Hard to identify, considering he's making it look like he's a normal civilian that's terrified like everyone else, but with the power coming off of him, he's clearly sensed out by them. He holds a briefcase, where the source of his bond lies within.
Local Jokester, Viber, Doctor, and Therapist, I do my best to make your day better, and if I fail I'll try again tomorrow.
'Nothing is beautiful because it lasts.'
'War does not decide who was right, but only who is left.'
https://docs.google.com/document/d/12WUcdu6YBH2USIcmf48FCnLwDh_mGHZJZYZWwLLRzhA/edit?tab=t.0 (For when I'm gone.)
A guy in the subway seems to be watching the spores
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