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Perp

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About Perp

Year 13
  • Rank
    Descending into Protodermis
  • Birthday 02/09/1996

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    he/him/his
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    buying bread from a man in brussels
  • Interests
    men 6'4" and full of muscles

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    Perp #5171

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  1. IC: Gorro - Onu-Koro, The Unfortunate Fikou Some minute comfort was afforded to the Cy-Toa as the warmth of the steaming mug coursed through his fingers, having leant forward to accept the beverage from his host. The herbal aromas filled his lungs as he drew in a breath, savouring the quaint, familiar comfort that brought some solace to his troubled life, however often he could afford it. The words “Thank you” formed upon his lips as that same breath made ready to be expelled, bringing the words with it - though that gratitude would never make it past the knot that seemed to twist itself in his larynx. It was only then, with a faint horror, that Gorro bore witness to the expression on the face of the Matoran opposite him - one of petrification, or abject terror, or some other sensation that gripped and overwhelmed one’s faculties. The intensity of Montague’s gaze bored not into Gorro, but some point behind him, where there should have been merely bare stone. Trembling once more, young, affrighted Gorro twisted his head ‘round so that his own eyes could trace the vector of Montague’s. Peering over his shoulder, and with mounting fear of what had so paralytically gripped his host, the young Cy-Toa laid his eyes upon- t̢҉͜h̵̨̡͠ę̀ ́͘s̡͞h҉͟o͡҉̸͟r҉̸e̴͝ Bare stone. The blank, scatteringly pockmarked wall of one of a few dozen identical rooms of the quaint Unfortunate Fikou, utterly inoffensive and serving only as a canvas for whatever mental daemons one could paint upon its surface. Gorro shuddered one final time as his coiled muscles relaxed, the tension in his body easing. What temporary madness had befallen his host? Though, it was not unlike some instances of his own pseudological fancies that caused him undue alarm every so often, he mused. At once, feeling returned to his fingers as his mind was released from its stupor, and the burning of heated ceramic nearly caused him to drop the mug entirely. Quickly, he set the mug down on the table between the two of them, massaging his scalded hands and wincing at the pain coursing through now-singed nerves. Montague’s expression had relaxed and the Matoran composed themself, much to Gorro’s relief (of mood and not of pain, sadly). Hands continued to rub one another in a vain effort to mitigate sensation, so Gorro listened closely as Montague spoke in order to direct his focus elsewhere. "Now, if you wouldn't mind, I would rather like to record your firsthand experience of the, ah, the dreams. Your name, perhaps, would be the place to start." The request of relaying the content of those accursed dreams gave Gorro pause - he figured as much, that this Montague would ask him about them upon reading the posted flyer, but nevertheless he would just as much prefer not to relive the escapades of those chaotic, dizzying nightmares. “My name is Gorro…” came his response after a moment, and yet another lapse of speech followed it as he collected his resolve and his memory. “I believe the first of these dreams began perhaps a month ago, though I scarcely gave them any thought at that time. I chalked them up to being merely as a result of stress, and certainly I am no exception to experiencing the odd nightmare, as any person on Mata Nui would likewise be. Of course, the aspect of these dreams is the chilling commonality between them and the incessant repetition night after night… I do not remain sleeping for an appropriate amount of time due to their terrible and disturbing nature, and as a result am prone to fits of narcolepsy, even during the day, where they continue to assault my senses.” He drew a deep, shuddering breath as he recalled the specific content of said dreams, which Montague seemed most keen on recording. The pain mostly subsided, Gorro retrieved the steaming mug and sipped at the tea, feeling the warmth and satiation spreading through his navel and gut. However, the same aftertaste he had the displeasure of experiencing a day earlier in Le-Koro persisted - that of salt remaining on his tongue… “I admit I am not eager to share what morbid narratives in which these nightmares arrange themselves, though I suspect you understand why,” he continued, replacing the mug so as to not further damage his hands. “Often I find myself falling, or sinking… it is unclear. A deep, dark void of nothing surrounds me as I fall, and there is never any sense of direction, just a feeling of- of being crushed, squeezed from all directions… Sometimes I will see figures - abhorrent and beautiful at once, i-i-impossible to describe… Utterly surreal, as I am tossed about like a ragdoll between that damnable void and gaping, monstrous caverns of oppressive darkness, lit only by undulating waves of light that silhouette massive, cyclopean structures… I have vague impressions of what it is but… I cannot say for certain. A city? A tomb?” A twinge of pain shot through his racing mind as the pace of his breathing quickened, as did his heart-beat. His thoughts wandered to the most common thread binding together every disparate nightmare. He gazed deeply into Montague’s eyes, in a strikingly familiar way, pleading understanding from the Matoran before him. “In every dream, just before I wake… I… I a-a-awaken upon a shore. And I stare into the shallow water and see some twisted, unrecognizable visage. But d̷͟eę̴̡p̀ down, that face… I know it is mine...”
  2. IC: Baszlin - Ga-Koro The Skakdi blinked once at the relatively-diminutive figure in front of him. “I don’t drink... any more.” Any more. The words were tacked on to the end of his statement at the last second, as far-off sensations of inebriation and vague impressions of revelry trickled into his mind from some far-off memory. He could say with certainty that there had been a time once... he just couldn’t make out when. Or, for that matter, where.
  3. IC: Torana - Ta-Koro, outside the Magma Lounge And she laughed. Laughed. Madwoman! Torana braced herself as the Ta-Toa closed the distance and took her swings. The first jab was caught against her raised arms, after which the Vo-Toa executed her response. See, Saeva had some pretty toned legs - Torana had noted as much. But hers were longer. Torana’s torso leaned out of the way of the remaining pair of jabs as she brought her leg up in a round kick, directed at Saeva’s ribs.
  4. IC: Gorro - Onu-Koro, The Unfortunate Fikou “Just one, thank you.”
  5. IC: Jokaro - Po-Koro, Technology Emporium The tinkering abruptly stopped. For a brief moment, the Po-Matoran sat there, his hands still and his eyes much the same, caught off-guard by the words of his co-worker behind him. Slowly, his hands rested upon the surface of the workbench, depositing the tools there. He swiveled around again to look Farzan in the eye. “Farzan, I sincerely hope you didn’t just make a bunch of sales and then propose giving away my work for free.” He shot a sideways glance to the open doorway against the wall - leading back to the storefront. His voice lowered once again to a particularly harsh whisper. “I didn’t get a faceful of Patero shrapnel this morning just to let the second prototype walk out the door, with the distinct possibility of it never coming back, without so much as a widget to show for it!” A frustrated sigh wracked his body before he eased his tone, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the launcher behind him. “Listen, once this is done, I’m gonna test this thing. If the Le-Toa or whoever wants to comprehensively test it, check for leaks, problems with the seal - and they would be ideal for that sort of thing, I’ll give you that - that’d be fine by me. But they do it here. If they find it satisfactory, good. I’ll make adjustments and build them another one. But this isn’t leaving the building, and at the very least unpaid for.”
  6. IC: Onu-Koro, The Unfortunate Fikou Puzzling, puzzling. The behaviour of this Matoran quite perplexed young Gorro - certainly, they were hospitable enough, though the Cy-Toa could not help but shiver at the momentary indignity that befell Montague upon his mention of an end to their ailments. What depraved delirium aside from that arising from the abhorrent nightmares afflicting both in present company could account for such a desire to continue falling deeper into madness? Thusly Gorro accepted both Montague’s explanation of dream-driven mania - as well as the offer of tea. “With honey, if you please.”
  7. IC: Safina - Onu-Wahi Dark Walk Oh, she had so veritably underestimated their cunning; it was no less than an instant after she strained to hear what the commotion in the side passage was that her ears instead picked up the guttural noises and sobering movements of some thing cloaked in the darkness beyond the protective cordon of her lightstone torch. Her body and arms were in motion before her brain even had another moment to fully process - the adrenaline had already begun its grand tour of her veins. The moment the beast lept from the shadows was one of pure instinct. The Exo-Armor encasing her could not stop her from tensing her muscles to move in much the same manner had she not been using it - at once pivoting her suit and body defensively, giving only one step of ground to her attacker. The left foot of her suit retreated backward, bringing with it the rest of that side, including the arm. In sync, the bladed right arm shot forward from its tucked position, aimed squarely at where the beast’s center of mass would be a fraction of a second later - she didn’t have the time to pick a target.
  8. IC: Jokaro - Po-Koro, Technology Emporium Work on the prototype of the V2 resumed as soon as Dehkaz turned to leave. His focus, once again, was unbroken when a Farzan-shaped blur entered his peripheral vision. “Sing, Farzan, really? These things have a tendency to explode if they’re not built right.” Briefly glancing over at the schematics left on the opposite side of his workbench, he quickly set down his tools and folded the papers up, stuffing them in his nearby pack before Farzan could take notice. Plenty of time to dive into them later - right now he needed to keep the Fa-Matoran focused. His voice drew down to scarcely more than a whisper as he actually swiveled in his seat to face Farzan. “Now, I have no qualms about selling one of these things without testing it - you know, buyer beware and all that, no refunds, yada yada - but if it’s Toa we’re talking about, I’d rather keep the air in my lungs if something goes wrong, get me?” His voice returned to its normal pitch as he swiveled back and continued to tinker with the V2. He was genuinely surprised at how quickly progress had been made on it - it’d be ready for testing as soon as he secured the breech cover and gave the whole thing a once-over. “So what’s this idea?” ___ __ _ IC: Ember - Fore Fowadi Fighting Top “Oi! I hopes ye lunk’eads cun sing bett’r than ye can runna line!”
  9. IC: Gorro - Onu-Koro, The Unfortunate Fikou It was a truly frightful consternation which beheld Gorro, for he could not decide which unnerved him more - that this Matoran somehow knew, with assumedly some form of arcane prescience, that others dreamt in much the same manner as themself; or that Gorro did not share this same ability. To say his host’s mannerisms were peculiar would be an understatement. They were bordering on mania, and the Cy-Toa sitting upon their sofa presumed he would shortly follow as his head swam with ominous questions and terrible assumptions. “Yes...” he answered after a lengthy pause, “here I am…” One of these dreaded questions roiled within him (or perhaps it was just his stomach making another odd noise) and finally breached the surface, shattering the murk which so plagued his mind, though he could not stop his hands from shaking with both trepidation and outright terror, folding them into his chest. “D- do you know if there’s a… a cure? Some way to- to make them stop?”
  10. IC: Jokaro - Po-Koro, Technology Emporium The Po-Matoran rubbed his temples at the indication that this heavily-armed Toa before him was, indeed, a commander - so, naturally, the onus was on Jokaro to come through. He wasn’t so great with managing expectations. “Well, there’s no way we can build it in-” he glanced back at the schematics to double-check the noted proportions. “Yeah, no way we can build it in here. Or assemble it, rather. We’ll have to set up a testing site deeper into the Motara and either build an adjacent field workshop, else manufacture the components in the Koro and haul them out there for assembly.” Hands rubbing temples turned to hands scratching chin as he stared into space, his brain at work. “Hmm, Ostia might make for a better base of operations for a project like this. If we were to set up the testing site near there, we could have routes open via the Mahi or the sea if we need material shipped from either Po-Koro or elsewhere on the island. Plus, I’ve got a few people I can talk to in Ostia who might be able to help; I used to live there - no shortage of craftsmen in the north.” Thoughts swirled in his head for a few moments more, until he yanked himself back to reality and stood up and turned to properly face Dehkaz. “Look, uh… We’ll give it a shot. I can’t promise how long it’ll take or how expensive it’ll be, but If you’re coming to us and not going to Onu-Koro with this, there’s no way I can say no.” A curt chuckle escaped his lips before he continued, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at the nearly-assembled launcher behind him. “Right now, though, I’ve got-” "Oi, Jokaro, how's that prototype coming along?" “...other work to finish first,” he sighed. “Nearly done!” was the bellowed response.
  11. IC: Jokaro - Po-Koro, Technology Emporium “Jokaro,” he answered tersely, his hands scooping up the schematics, breaking the Toa’s gaze so that he could stare at the illustrated contraption again, his face perhaps a bit too close to the paper. “Listen, uh… yes, it certainly is interesting, and yes, it arouses me - arouses my interests, that is. I already said it was interesting… nevermind. But, you see…” The papers were deposited upon the workbench once again, and pair of eyes met pair of eyes again. Jokaro waved his hand over the smattering of technical inscriptions, sketches and calculations for added effect. “We can’t build this. Karz, I don’t think even those Onu-Koronan b#####ds can build this. We’re working with scraps and leftovers here. Practically speaking.”
  12. IC: Baszlin - Ga-Koro He carefully considered the words the Matoran spoke, finding them both amusing and disheartening simultaneously. Somewhere deep within him, those words had struck a chord; how often does one have to watch their back to ensure one’s friend is not shoving a knife into it? “Trust doesn’t come easy to me any longer,” he mused, reminiscing about a half-remembered time in his life where he was whole and unscarred, “so I find your philosophy sound. Trust nobody. Except me, of course.” He extended his left arm, inspecting the crude craftsmanship of the prosthetic, and marvelling at how it remained functional despite its poor quality. “Things tend not to go my way very often - I understand your plight, and will guard you if you remain true to your word.” It’s not like this Matoran was capable of getting a firm backstab in anyway. Or was he? If the Skakdi was asleep… Hmm, make sure not to do that, then. Sleep.
  13. IC: Safina - Ko-Wahi Dark Walk Within the protective powered armor, Safina gritted her teeth. She was not one to lose her nerve easily, and soon found herself controlling her breathing… but both staring into the unwavering darkness for hours on end, as well as the uncertainty of what was happening further into the side passage, unnerved her in a way she was unaccustomed to feeling. In the end, she knew it was because of what unnatural forces were at work in this blasted cavern, but even still a small voice berated her lack of composure, however miniscule that lapse may have been. It wasn’t the small, ethereal voice she was accustomed to, either. “Artathi...” she whispered to no-one, and no-one whispered back. She shifted in her restraints, the ache of constant stillness beginning to settle into her bones as she continued her watch. Momentarily, she glanced at the suit’s power indicator - she’d lost more power than she’d have liked down here, and hoped that she wouldn’t have to abandon the suit and return to the surface on foot - if, in that state, she made it out at all. Refocusing, her mind went to the hideout, from which she could only hear muffled sounds, and wondered just what the helI was happening in there.
  14. IC: Gorro - Onu-Koro, The Unfortunate Fikou As the door was yanked open by the tenant within, Gorro opened his mouth to speak, questions ready to spout out, though jumbled by his brain. Whether it was this mental blockage that stayed his tongue, or the animated welcome immediately given by this Matoran - Montague, he assumed - it scarcely mattered. He had been offered tea, and his empty flask felt all the heaver for it as it sat within his cloak, seeming to now burn against his breast as his awareness was brought to it and back to his empty stomach. Hesitating for a moment as the Matoran beckoned him inside the meagre accommodations of the inn (more tasteful and homely than he assumed, Gorro privately admitted to himself), and the Cy-Toa wordlessly obliged. “...Yes, please,” he managed at last, still stunned by both the revelation he had experienced moments earlier, and the cheerful disposition of his new host. A small, embroidered sofa sat against the wall, its cream and crimson patterns reminiscent of the ripples on the surface of Lake Kanae at sunset, when the water was at its calmest. It seemed the most reasonable place to sit, being situated on one side of a low table weaved of wrought-iron bars and capped with a surface of glass. A similarly-embroidered armchair sat across said table, directly facing the sofa, which the Cy-Toa promptly sunk himself into as his host closed the door behind him and attended to the kettle. “I’ve… come here to talk about-”
  15. IC: Gorro - Onu-Koro The distance stretching between the Villages of Air and Earth was not a trivial one - hundreds of kio across the whole of the island with naught but a scarce lightstone to mark one’s descent into an abyss; one not deeply vertical, but dreadfully long, horizontal. Yet still, to soar from the highest treetops and conclude his journey in the blackest of caverns, he had to have been carried deeper and deeper down. Those tunnels might as well have been vertical, as now here he stood, the cart’s plummeting momentum carrying him fathoms down into the bowels of the Earth, Village of. The grand, vaulted ceiling of shadowed rock overhead was interspersed with lightstones, forming a shimmering, eternal night sky - a façade immediately broken by the staleness of the air and the musky, industrial stench and groaning sounds of terrible machinery further within. There was no spirit star for him here, either. Carefully, he strode the well-trodden paths, his mind absent of current destination, pondering just how long he had slept and how long the journey had taken. To cover a distance like that would have taken at least a full day, assuming, of course, that the cart-driver had not stopped along the way for one reason or another. Had he slept the entire journey? And what sleep he had! Another of those accursed dreams, ripping the stability out from under his feet and casting him into the void and preying on his unsullied mind. The Cy-Toa shook his head as it began to throb again, seeming to warn him of pursuing this line of thought to its end - a warning which was quickly obeyed, the pain dispersing moments later. Casting him out of his stupor was another bodily sensation - his stomach growling and churning as if it had not been filled for days. It might have been a real possibility, and not a superlative to say so, in any case. Alas he had scarcely a widget to his name, and he was loathe to visit the market of which he had been told tales of appallingly exorbitant prices. Perhaps an inn, as well as providing the shelter which he was also in need of, would have a more reasonably-priced meal service. His eyes wandered from sign to sign in the dimly lit streets and alleys (a curious thing, for a place so subterranean) as he sought the nearest inn, which was quickly indicated to be an older, almost rustic structure named The Sorrowful Fikou. The faint odor of cooking meat penetrated through the reek of chemicals and grease that pervaded this section of town. His stomach growled again, eager for him to sate his h̯̳̺̪̗̫̠̕u̗n̶̘̹͎͍̗̰̥͈͎g̀͏̱̖̱é̹̯͎̳̳r̶̳͕͈͔͠. Conversing with the owner of the establishment only took but a minute or two, in which he flaunted reasonable prices, despite meagre (or perhaps of even lesser quality) accommodations. Gorro, having not lived a life of luxury for as long as he could remember, was unbothered by this information, to which he agreed that the prices were, indeed, reasonable - though he would not be requesting room and board just this moment, and would return later. Pointedly, he also inquired of the innkeep where he might find postings for those seeking labor. The innkeep - a shabby, unimpressive Matoran clad in an odd hat - returned his inquiry with a morose expression the kind of which Gorro was quite used to, but nonetheless steered him in the direction of the nearest bulletin board, naught but a couple of streets over. Thanking the gentleman, as was Gorro’s custom as a polite, albeit oafish fellow, he turned and set off to find the mentioned bulletin board, staunchly following the directions given to him. As he turned the street corner, the acrid smell returned to him, nearly overwhelming his senses in this strange and terrible place to which he had never visited and was oppressively alien to him. Despite the assailing of his mind, and interrupting his newfound yearning for the fresh air and cacophony of bird chorus and insect song of the jungle, the bulletin board was soon sighted in a square encased by stone structures and huts of varying stories. Some towered above him and seemed to nearly topple onto his comparatively miniscule figure as he gazed up beyond the crest of the building to the dizzying illusion of the cavern ceiling. His attention quickly returned to the quest before him; he regained his composure and strode over to the center of the cobblestone square, oddly devoid of other people in this particular area, though he did catch glimpses of beings framed by the windows of the structures around him, their silhouettes back-lit by lighting fixtures within. As the residents scanned him with their eyes, Gorro’s focus was on the board in front of him, which he scanned with his own. There were requests for engineers and machinists, chemists and other intellectuals - all occupations he could sadly not perform. One poster, however, caught his attention, its opening line reading “Friends and countrymen, lend me your eyes!” He continued reading, and as he did, his lent eyes grew ever wider with shock and disbelief. The poster spoke of invasive, disturbing dreams - the same sort of which were plaguing him, and had been doing so for many a night in the past handful of months, steadily increasing in both terror inflicted upon his unconscious mind and intensity in which they startled him awake. But furthermore, the individual who had penned this treatise - an individual with the name of Montague, detailed an expedition that would seemingly delve into the reason behind this nocturnal madness that, as Gorro was shocked to discover, he was not alone in experiencing. The revelation wrestled with his sensibilities, as he began to ponder just what this Montague was implying - that there was a definite cause to these dreams; and perhaps, Gorro conjectured, that finding this apparently evasive cause could cure him of this mental ailment which so thoroughly ravaged his psyche with every slumber. Widgets never entered into his conscious thought in the moments that followed, as his determination festered deep within his now-uneasy stomach, and grew until it could not be ignored. At the very least, he must speak with this Montague and ply them with questions until his mind could be, for a moment, put at ease. He gazed again at the poster’s text, reading it over a second time to ensure he had not been delusional or lapsed into a hunger-driven mania. Confirming that he hadn’t, he determined that he would, indeed, set his mind to uncovering the truth of the matter first and foremost. Committing the ironic details of Montague’s current residence to memory, the Cy-Toa strode back down the streets from whence he came, his ragged cloak fluttering around him with the vigor in which his gait carried him back to The Unfortunate Fikou. The innkeep, looking up from a small piece of literature he had buried himself in, made to speak to Gorro, but was stunned when the Toa strode past him wordlessly and continued to the numbered rooms further within the building. The innkeep called after him, but the Cy-Toa made no effort to listen. At once, he found the placarded number affixed to the door which he sought, and stridently rapped upon the garishly-painted wood.
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