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Comments
Cascades of quicksilver light streak across the firmament as the celestial voice of Ourania intones, "Oh Jarrod..."
-
One of the symptoms of an approaching nervous breakdown is the belief that one's work is terribly important
Getting dragon is not all it was cracked up to be. For those of you that truly love to bash, and think it one of the finest aspects of Achaea, be warned, you sort of walk to a fork in the road at that point.
Basically, getting dragon is like being a little kid, and saving up for that dream bicycle you wanted more than anything. But the economy is shit. And the real nightmare sets in. You spend so long on gaining your goal, running a treadmill towards something, only to find out the twisted truth. It took you till age 60 to get the bike. The thing is over 55 years old, your almost in a retirement home, your friends, well, they don't really care about your bike as they arent kids anymore, and well, you don't care about the bike either at that point.
The bike becomes the object of loathing in your life, and you wish you never focused on it. It's pretty much like that, only a lot different, and pretty much actually not like anything I described, so buyer beware. Point being: Used to love bashing. I've sat at 99.38 for over 3 rl years since.
---Red Tag Special, a twisted bike oddity---
Sir Arador's form swirled from a massive cloud of electric current and red smoke, the goal had been reached. His first transformation into dragon was everything the legends had indicated it to be. The form was powerful, with a harmony felt through the entire frame of musculature and balance of weight. In the dragon's form, he felt an inner strength far beyond anything he was ever told about experiencing it, it's these exceeding qualities that instilled waves of confidence that would never melt, to the turmoil of people he called the enemy. This will do just fine, Sir Arador thought. I will use this as a tool of destruction on the lands of Sapience. With the smoke dispersed from the air, a small relief was felt knowing his first transformation back to his more familiar self was attained without a horric accident, a very odd feeling that people get when transforming that is only shaken after years of experience.
With the cloud of red smoke and gasseous air currents lost to the rushing winds, Sir Arador stood atop the Mountain as he had many times before, as a Maldaathi Knight, clad in armour so dark, it matches the grade and texture of the surrounding volcanic badlands. The badlands that men from all over feared. The badlands Arador barely paid notice to, as this was as comfortable as home. Even though he was in trueform, and he knew the feeling of transforming again will feel very odd, he knew that he was a changed person for the better. The strength and power of what he could harness was matched only by the indestructable shield of confidence it permanently gave to him that day. He knew from here on out, it was a good day for the faction.
Before heading back in to the gatehouse, post combat inspection came as muscle memory, the Maldaathi mind guiding Sir Arador's arms as he combed his inventory and counted with eerily memorized intent, delivered with equally unsettling mundaneness, to say the least, for a non Knight, it was without saying this is someone who was forged in fire by rough warriors. Venom, vial, herb, plant. Fingers moving in speed by the dozen would make a thief's hand blush, were such a thing possible. It was as if an invisible mist of mentor ghost, guided his actions as he had no thought in his mind, the true transcendence of a warrior so tuned to his craft, that he doesn't even know just how precise and deliberate he is, his easist and unimportant movements seem like nobility compared to a brigand's attempt at even flexing might. Filth and brawler does not have this. They think they do, and do as they always do. They run like a barbarian at the Maldaathi who looks not at them, and the scream of rage hits a high note, morphing from rage to pain in a chorus of decadent finality. So fast that he can't even tell its happening, the brigand is weightlessly lifted through the air on a sword he didn't even see coming. The concept of power that hit him was beyond anything that a thug could comprehend, a Maldaathi was not going to stop and explain to him that rushing in, well, was a bad idea out of the gate. He figured he might mention it in a chuckle later, but who cares. A real story is bringing home a sack of heads, one head? They don't even look you in the eye at the Guildhall unless you get their attention. But he liked that. The challenge of duty he faced and was subjected to made him elite, silent, and a prescription of all the elements that were used to put him to where he is now.
Did he think of this brigand he killed, just last week, because he was troubled by the experience, and that it was stuck with him? Yes, he was. He feared that he could be a little faster by using a forward slash first, and it would shave two tenths of a second rather than swing for power as he did during the attack. If one were to witness this unfold, what he thought was a traumatic event was nothing but a Maldaathi Knight being critical and reliving not pain and horror, but playing a feed in his mind of how to do better next time. His mentor of long ago in mind, always a form of mist never far. It is the mist that does not exist, the only thing in the world that can send a shiver down his back. The unseen eye of the Infernal from long ago, not seen by anyone, but only felt by him. Calculations thrust through his mind comparing models of death that only he could see. The scariest part is the speed of light processing this occurs at, with a look so confident and deliberate, one would immediately ascertain this man, by and large, probably did not tolerate even a small amount of shit. No, not by any means.
Noting an unusual appearance of a reddish color was at the base of his cold and ebony metallic boot. This small detail struck the cornea with feverish pitch and accuracy. Ripping it off, it appeared to be a tag. Largely unconcerned, he had to strain even his eagle visioned eyes to see the small print. The only expression that ever happened during the month of Glacian, happened just now. He lifted an eyebrow. To a Maldaathi, this was a strong expression of confusion at what is seen as an alien matter not of memorable note, something he had not see before. It said, ARADOR, MODEL: RED, 20130515. No expression. It made no sense. It didn't hold a sword. Honestly, what did he really care. Rather than dismiss it, he were challenged by it. Is it a sneak thief tracking you? This savagery will be raped with steel and speed so unrelenting, the time to calculate a dying emotion will not be an option should Sir Arador find the person responsible for affecting his day in what some would consider simple trash off the ground. He peered at the tag. The thing was odd. He glimpsed closer, and made out something that seemed very unfamiliar. DRAGON, RED, ARADOR MODEL. 20130515. Pause.
The wind ceases to move, as does time and earth. We are now on pause. The player was curious, why did the admins put a sticker on this, and why does it say red? I messaged Meletus last week, I said Black Dragon. Instantly, thoughts turned to the bicycle and the dragon. With a grin, he seriously hoped his friend was not losing his mind, and would hopefully get help if that were the case. Who knew, but this was hardly activity that was new, thus it was business as usual. If a mistake was really made, well, it'll get fixed no problem. The notion that the bicycle story could apply to something like this was more bait of the cave troll variety intended for unwary travelers of yet another realm that most alien to all, could not of logic or code, were there such a thing in the lexicon to break the brain over. Some of this crossfeed info seems confusing. It is confusing. It is easy to understand. This means, the eye of the beholder makes this distinction.
Unpausing but with the realm still timed, Sir Arador regained mobility as his frame instantly charged with life. He now conducted himself in a way that the world of Sapience could not see or hear. It would only see him frozen and unmoved, as was the dimension iteself. Paused as anything else would be on the barren mountainside. Pulling his arm up towards his head, a small dazzle of blue light appears, as Arador commits to motion as he did in Sapience, -this time with an intent that was of neutral consequence, of no emotion, but of an alternate dimension that the world of his "Knight self" would not even make sense of. Looking close at his arm, he sees the all too familar and sometimes hectic box of trash many other aliens of the dimesion also use. More confusing descriptions here that chase away the eye of the beholder that does not understand this "language." With casual swiftness, Arador checks his messages. Buzzing quickly and with annoyance, his thought alone carried the small dazzle of medium hugh and low light blue scan across his arm. Message Meletus: Hey, I said Black Dragon, you guys gave me a Red one. Please make sure to change this as soon as you can, I want to use it more.. A blue flicker, and this message was transmitted by forces alien and invisible, it was simply a thing that "was." To wrap a mind around the hows and whys of this strange paused reality are not worth stopping and talking about, because it is a paradox of the mind that would cripple logic to think about. Besides, Arador knew the drill. He's done this so long, he didn't even think of the description buzzing past him without notice. Honestly, he just did as he always did. Thought about progress. "Well, I messaged him. Guess I should pitch a tent or perhaps leave for a few months."
Buzzing powerfully with lungs that caused an air which was non existent to Sir Arador, but felt quite well by Arador, the avatar variant, signaled the distinct trumpet that was all too familiar. "They really need to change that stupid trumpet." thought Arador as he rolled his eyes.
A powerful voice says, "What."
Arador goes to speak without even looking at the ghostly white aura. A medium sized, rounded ball of a man with a face that made one...wonder the relationship of divinity versus intelligence. Obviously divine, but oddly...simple. With personality matching a dead rodent, it was devoid of many things, and made most people uncomortable to deal with it other than business. It did not care for insult or issue, it was of no consequence or of measurable reality to this being. In the end, business was the routine, and the fact the divine white aura of a ghostly man was seemingly "uncared for" did not matter. These perceptions being alien and pointless, it ceases to be noted. Its only noticed at first glance, but the true blame for this lies in something so beautiful, a mortal here will never see something so great in all his life. The most powerful of all reality here, A God. The difference to most was mountain and hill. This was the law of the land, and the way its creator fashioned it. The features of the middle management did not require time to do what it can do. In its own way, its perfect for its job, it needs not special care. It did not give a shit how it looked or ran, contrarily, it could not give such shit or even measure it. These attempts to describe it are folly, and these descriptions bleed away for good, as did earlier ones. "Hey, your here." said Arador. Yeah, I got Red, I'll take Black please."
"No." said the lightly bearded and simply featured aura. Ironically thinking of his friend and smiling softly, he could not help but notice the air change to a mildly reddish tone as the aura firmly stated itself, with an almost haughty disregard for the request.
"Look, just check the message, I got the qual, that means I pick the color. I said black. Hop to, sir."
"No." said the aura. (cont)
Arador gritted his teeth a bit in this paused realm. Thoughts of his friend heckled him, pings of familiar conduct were fealt with the tone of where this was headed. Arador greatly wished to speak in common sense tone to resolve an issue of something easy.
Before he could reply, the aura blurted out a hard to describe series of legal code that were alien to the description translator invisibly creating reality to note this entire event as it was borne.
It didn't matter what he was going to say, the code that was spoke to Arador was legal jargon spoken in form stolen right from a scroll that dictated law and rule here. At this point, he realized he was not going to have a discussion with a good outcome.
With obvious displeasure, Arador said, "Look, I did my part and its time to do yours." The word, "say" slowly pulsing and evaporting by the translator, clearly showing the relationship of the "say" acting as a cannon to launch his coded response back at the figure of more complex digital arrangement.
The now angry ghost, dropped the sales pitch and it got oddly human really quick. "Look, you guys keep barking at me like this, your ass is grass. I'm here to help you, and we get to be the whipping boy. I don't get paid enough to do this, I follow and enforce the rules as they are dictated, helping in the process."
Arador said, "If you were helping me, I'd be black."
a firm tone, "There is no need for that."
"Dragon."
"Oh, yeah."
The figure said with displeasure, "Look, I don't know the rule on changing it, its somewhere at the office and honestly, I really don't care about fixing this right now. You guys were cute and cuddly at first, but with that stencil #300+ tattood on you marking the next guy barking at me for color change, I have a hard time caring anymore. I have too much going on right now to have to hash through an exeption to the rule I might not even find."
"Thats stuff you can take up with the 'Its not fair' shrinks in the Garden, I want my damned color!"
With the word "say" poofing out back at Arador with an arrogant tease, it was only the cannonball for the flying coded mud sling...
"And I wanted to be a god. Write in your infernal diary how I was mean to you, because of all the things I'm good at cooking, cooking up giving a shit about you right now is proving too taxing for my cookware."
"But.." began Arador.
With a poof and a trailing cackle, it was gone. It was over. This was a now deflated Arador. No, not ultra confident Sir Arador of the hazard realm, but the Arador of the realm of the bad day. What day? The day that not a single shat was given.
The hugh of the skyline changed any light to dimly blue visibility, an alien presence. A cloud swirled miles ahead but blocked the color, rain began to fall and soak the lands to a degree it felt like the mountain would slide away. With a odd look in his face, Arador looked up at the cloud which grew to massive proportions into a giant mouth, far far above, like some sort of invasion. It flicked into a grin of black only Arador could see.
Not, with a boom, but with its own arrogant touch, its alien code would make its own rules as to how it sound. Expect the cloud to be one of boom? Good, you get a soft one.
"I told you." echoed down with eerie metallic aura. The first time a "say" launch was unaccompanied.
Arador was instantly horrified. "Ugh....you. But that means....."
"Yup. Sorry it had to be you man. Look at it in a good way though. I'd only use one of my many good friends to work as the code centerpiece."
"But that means, I never got Dragon. And the message never happened. And, if you are up there, then..."
"Yup. Sorry man. You got put on today's menu for a purpose that could only be defined by a god so far away, that coming out here to give us a pep talk on 'why' was not on the travel agenda for this unnamed divine." Thus, Arador was stuck to make his own mind as to the purpose.
A thought occured to Arador. The bicycle. If the cloud crafted this place, and was the legend of the bike speaker of another dimension, that means that I dreamed up his reality. With a shock, he learned that his friend, while a good man, had entirely too much time on his hands that he had to create a paradox to prove his point.
Rain still gushing violently from the clouds, Arador had to yell fairly hard back up at it's still slight grin. "This means I was put here! It means that Ive figured out I can make the choice of my color, and that I didnt screw up a message to the admins!"
"Yup. Probably. The problem is, you exist here under the oddest of rules. I cannot make you a dragon, because beneath your armour, lies no code. This realm, while handy, does not have the true hazard realm essence. I don't know what level you are, if that makes sense. I could guess, I could change with my own law your form now. But I will not. Because in the end..."
Arador repeated with the cloud, "This...is..my..home."
The cloud added with a sound of a brighter note which was pitched wrong, no doubt on purpose, "The last thing you should care about right now is dragon, because the reality that just set in should be a sobering solemn tune to you. You now have to decide what is to be done."
Yelling up at clouds, "Why do you do this? Go to bed, no more!"
"Hey now, no need to yell. The whole place is an ear. Decide your faith, because I cannot sustain this place much longer." came flying down from the rainy winds.
"Why, because you are no god?" he spoke to the up.
"Nah, nothing like that. I'm just done now. Gotta put you on display. Its just boring to keep you as a personal muppet. Arador was frozen with terror as his arms wiggled skywards with an oddly similarity to a green amphibious muppet variant.
"Blaargh, stop!!" cried Arador. "Is this how you treat friends, science experiments and.... muppet morbididy?"
"You are the one that did it."
"You made me do it!" Arador quipped.
"Maybe. Maybe I just write a post it note that says you did and make sure to lock it from comments, voila, Arador did it."
Done with it all, and pissed to be particpant to something so worthlessly insane, he didn't want to think if he really existed or not, the paradox of it all wobbling realities. "I want to end this now, I want to go. I am content with the laws placed on me here, but it is sad here, and hollow, little exists, that I now know."
The cloud, obviously wanting to take its time with regard to the statement, had it eyes, would reveal unseen amusement at the pointlessness of the investment of digital law.
"I'm going to X you out." it said.
"No! That will crush everything here. Is that what happened to everything else around here? The Refugees, did you kill them for fun?"
"Thats all hard to say easily. Yes and no. Did they exist? Yes, they were at the begining of the story. It took Silas about 3 seconds to realize the evil haze in the air, before he rudely suicided out of the story, being very sure to not speak his line, as the opening to the story dictated, 'You are the best God ever!', was sadly never heard by the cloud in time.
The cloud was quite sure the Arador's predecessor had no illusions about his fate in this realm, horrible controls that would make for such an amuzing public debacle. The cloud would have to be careful he did not start a wave of short stories about little man X getting smashed by a large boot. Besides, that is a boring and short story, lacking merit for publishment. Besides, signing autographs on a book that short would be small.
By this point, the pointless end was at hand, and the voice was everywhere, as was its thought, all of which heard by Arador.
"You just snipped the start of the log then." Arador decided in conclusion, oddly doubly concluding that none of this matters.
Barking up at the sky, "Look, it is freezing and rainy, and miserable here! I'm going to quit now. You are a sick man, You need help!"
The air shuddered as reality around the avatar began to quake, as the cloud boomed down, "If Pinnochio talked to Geppetto like that, I'd expect nothing but a slap of angry hand on disrespectful wooden ass!"
"Help!!! Let me out of here!" was yelled as darkness closed in around Arador.
"Alright, we'll end this. Sorry about the rain, that was just to make you cold."
"You are a sick individual, go to sleep!" barked the barely existing avatar, fading in and out."
"Don't worry, you were always in good hands. You'll be back in the hazard realm soon. The fate of the original was a horrible thing which I could not allow to be here, want to know what that is?"
Cold and with a finished nerve, the annoyed Arador yelled up, "I'm sure its some sick shit. Let's wrap it up, I believe you. Go back to the hazard realm and do your job!"
"By default the creations here get rather nasty by this point. But you'll never know how I kind I was to breathe life here. The orignal cast had the horrific discovery that the Refugees, instead of being given gold handouts as they requested, we were going to teach them to make drugs, and sell them, so they can rebuild their kingdom."
"Shrinkwrap your smut on your next bestseller! I just wanted to change my dragon color, you tricked me! If there was ever a reason mortals are locked from the events newsboard, you are the posterboy of why! say -poof- I don't want to know any more. ..-Im finished.." Arador felt an all too familiar flash, the law of the land codex set, "QQ" set into his mind, his experience guiding himself out. A garbled digital yell shot from the lungs as it vaporized the only living thing. The last thought the construct ever had was if this happened or not. Only the now invisible cloud and realms beyond could make the destinction of it. In the end, none of this matters. The pointless trick is nothing new. Care, not care, it didn't matter. or...it did matter. This with all intake of perceived realities of alien and lawful construct far beyond recognition of true mortality, -was all in the eye of the beholder.
The mountain and horizon ceased to be, no realm was there. And all was white. The digital recorder poofs from view.
And your author posts the latest shit gem to smear the message board, Enjoy and have fun making your own way.
That really was a giant pile of bullshit though.
Honourable, knight eternal,
Darkly evil, cruel infernal.
Necromanctic to the core,Dance with death forever more.
Just some specific notes for you e-writers out there that specialize in bulletin essay, internet help file, or troll bait files.
Now if you look up you'll clearly see that the alphabet soup splatter gets cuts in half, separting the two bodies. This is what we in the industry refer to as a "courtesy flush", which in technical terminology means, splits shit in half. This is the only one you'll see from me, as the very nature of the professional job calls for minimal output with attempt at maximum snare success.
Remember, stay on topic engage the reader, and set for troll bait files, you need quality help content set with careful snares to pull up the noob and unwary alike, where we hit a flood button, and it imports troll groups from different message boards, not as a sick troll joke, but rather a group study featuring some of the top minds of the profession. The ensnared are stared at while we wear monocles and discuss tactic, organization and theory. Again, not to hurt the victim but to study it, although we do use laser pointers, and that can be too fun, aiming to increase the science of our job so that we continue to provide a positive influence over internet history. The group of course, which you should already assume, collectively have the morale fibre of a prison gang dance in the shower.
I'm just kidding. I think it just has too many letters or something
내가 제일 잘 나가!!!111!!1
Honestly, I wouldnt try reading that whole thing, I certainly didnt put any order to it, often times just using a jumbler to rehash the same words and re-serve them as "fresh content", and get a good chuckle out my uncanny ability to continue to feed peole shit even though they know what the menu's ingredients are largely made up of. My intention was if it was big enough on a monitor, that you could start anywhere, read a couple sentences or even paragraphs if you wanted, and come to the same conclusion even if you turn it into a crossword puzzle, or read it backwards.
Anger, resentment, a newfound dislike for freedom of speech, and most profoundly, threads asking the moderators to simply put the childproof locks back on the forum door. A simple color test will do, or a square, peg, and hole will cease the entry of anything big enough that would infect the message board with continual trails of feces, we now learn is really not welcome here anymore.
People don't believe it yet, but the first electronic to human infection pink eye will happen where? You got it, ground zero. We are gonna be on the map, free publicity means more human meat for the Minia program.
-
One of the symptoms of an approaching nervous breakdown is the belief that one's work is terribly important