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Perp

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Year 14

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About Perp

  • Birthday 02/09/1996

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    buying bread from a man in brussels
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    men 6'4" and full of muscles

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Descending into Protodermis

Descending into Protodermis (127/293)

  1. IC: Gorro - Onu-Wahi Shore Gray permeated all facets of the world inside of Gorro’s youthful psyche, perhaps influenced by the same gradient of gray that dominated the world outside the mind, or perhaps it was the other way around. Whichever was correct, featureless, invisibly roiling gray stretched out for countless fathoms in thick walls of force and impressioned will. The exterior landscape consisted of a dome of thick fog, impenetrable and dense the further one peered into it, oppressing feature and beauty in equal measure in a visual entropy punctuated only by the black, foul ghosts of formless shapes at the edge of this wall, only resolving themselves into the realm of the mundane as one dared to close the distance. Each instance had resulted in a swarthy outcropping of dark gray rock jutting up from the pale sands below his feet, though Gorro could not account for those fluttering shadows which seemed to retreat from the edge of the fog even as the trio grew closer. Within his skull, the landscape was similar. Homogeneity of feeling permeated every firing synapse. At once he felt terrified, elated, frustrated, depressed… in days previous these emotions roiled and swirled in cyclonic fashion, sweeping him along within the gale, extracting a toll from him as he transitioned from one to another in rapid succession. Now, as one swirls together two elements to form a blend of another, utterly without feature, the same had occurred with the swirling tempest of those emotions. Contrast between these opposing emotions resulted in the elimination of both, nullifying their effects in cosmic annihilation. To feel all was to feel nothing. Gray, in all regards. Base instinct governed his movements, presently. To be told where they were going and when was all that would register within his conscious and stay there for a time, unaffected and etched into the slab of gray without sublimating into nothingness for a long while. It was a simple command that appealed to the animal nature of his unconscious – when he needed to travel, he was a hypnotised individual, completely mechanical in motion, face blank as if the muscles did not function. Before long, the ragged boat of old, gray wood – the one that would deliver them to their destinies – lay before him, its bow gently plowed into the phantasmal white sand, colourless black waves lapping at its stern. He stepped aboard. OOC: @Goose @Nato G
  2. IC: Shavrakk - The Rift Out of all the words the Lesterin could have provided at that moment, the ones chosen were troubling. No, more than troubling – they were bad news. His mind was returning to its normal state of being, the mental fog dissipating with every second that ticked by and the adrenaline high beginning to wear off. Limbs suddenly felt heavier than they were a moment ago, and a wave of exhaustion passed through him before it, too, was gone. With a clearer head, he could finally think at a pace which was suitable to parse the logic behind this encounter. Result? He was in danger. Not exactly a stunning revelation given that he had already been in danger since stepping inside the Rift, but now the prospect of that danger following along once he trekked out of the canyon now lingered over him. Let’s break it down. This Lesterin spoke true. Yes, he had visited a caravan last week, and spoken with a couple members. No, he had not spoken with those caravaneers since. Whoever he was, this person had good intel on his whereabouts and movements over the course of several days. Meaning, Shavrakk had been followed by this individual. Now, you may think that these circumstances alone constitute the danger imposed, especially seeing as this Lesterin was armed and had his weapon unholstered… but this is only present danger, which the Skakdi was perfectly capable of dealing with. No, the real danger was that, over those past few days, Shavrakk had not seen this Lesterin stalking him, even after keeping lookout for anybody doing just that. Not a few hours ago had he been scanning the horizon from the lip of the Rift, finding no trace of any being shadowing him. It was immensely concerning – had he lost a step? Had he fuсked up? How had his skills failed him? This was not a chance encounter, he was sure. The odds would be astronomical – assuming the Rift itself did not alter probability somehow, which was an even greater danger that Shavrakk dared not fathom – and to be approached in such a manner did not constitute a purely benign confrontation. Whatever the Lesterin’s intentions were, his presence and knowledge implied an indirect threat. What if he had an accomplice, lining up a shot from a ridgeline elsewhere, even now? It would certainly explain his disarmed posture. Invisibly, Shavrakk’s grip on his revolver tightened, his finger resting more firmly against the trigger, though his aim did not waver. His limbs, loosened by the flight of the adrenaline from his system now tensed once again at the mental image of a set of crosshairs aligned with his temple. Despite this newfound fear, he gave no indication of any change in his disposition in response to the Lesterin’s remarks, save for the scowl now plastered upon his face. “On the money, so far,” he said casually, slowly raising himself from his knee. The revolver’s point of aim still did not shift – slightly down and off from the left side of the Lesterin’s torso. Almost casually, he began to pace in a slow clockwise orbit around whoever-he-was. “You’re very well informed. What do you want?” OOC: @oncertainty
  3. IC: Shavrakk - The Rift Footsteps. Distorted and warped, but unmistakable nonetheless. The signals traveling from his ears to his brain were numbed, blurred into a dull tympanic thunder by whatever dark machinations permeated the Rift… but Shavrakk recognized the rhythm. Even through the befogged stupor, there were the telltale signs that set apart a gait from simple meter. Recognition was immediately replaced by fear. That lag, the extra time it took for the signal to reach his mind? It meant he was dead. Just another pile of bones and carnage left to rot in this godforsaken place, like the piles of viscera cookie-crumb-trailing towards another avenue of death. His last thoughts were, “I can’t fuсking believe this shіt.” In another life, he would’ve been a poet. When death did not immediately come, instinct took control. Perhaps whatever was microseconds away from killing him was also delayed by similar forces, allowing his hand, already resting upon the ivory grip of his revolver, ample time to free the weapon from its holster. So far so good. He was not yet mangled, crushed, eviscerated nor poisoned (especially unlikely). As far as he could tell, none of his limbs had been severed, nor had his head, which would’ve been most unfortunate. At last, the revolver cleared leather as he began his turn. Both velocity and the gusting of wind as his body rotated contributed to blowing his hood clear and exposing his head to the elements. It would also make for a cleaner slice - so it was, on some level, a welcome development. His killer was just coming into view now, but his eyes still had not adjusted, and the figure was still blurred at the edges of his perception. The sensation of falling overwhelmed him before he could begin to analyze the grey-ish blob. Was he shot? Had he been knocked over? Oh, no, he was just dropping to one knee to better stabilize his aim. See, there was his other hand coming up to meet the one gripping the gun just now! His movement was still involuntary - he hoped it’d return soon. This was agonizing. The being was coming into focus, and his other senses started to pick up the slack. It was something thin and ragged, beat to hеll and back, odd-smelling. Could’ve been his old mattress. Ah, yes. Of course, it’s a Lesterin. That explains a few things. Things were becoming clearer now - literally. Facial features: mouth moving, a smirk behind the motion. Clothing that had, at some point, been valuable. The gun. The gun. Fortunately, it was not pointed in his direction at the moment. Shavrakk could feel the firm grip of instinctual movement loosen a tiny bit, and it took a concerted effort for his finger not to clamp down on the trigger of his own weapon. Had he been a bit clearer-headed, he would’ve heard the footsteps - those telltale sounds which he certainly would have identified as Lesterin in origin - much sooner, circumventing this whole adrenaline-fueled, Rift-addled song and dance. The Lesterin’s mouth movements had since ceased. Only now were the spoken words being parsed by the Skakdi’s brain. Like the analyses which had riddled his mind in the few moments past, it was a question of recognition. His arms slackened, his aim loosening and angling closer to the ground. The Lesterin had chosen to talk rather than to shoot, after all. Foolish, but welcome. Shavrakk was about to be foolish as well. The influence of both hormone and invasive psychosis had lessened enough to form words of his own. “Maybe.” His throat felt hoarse, the words sticky and dense. “I know a lot of people.” OOC: @oncertainty
  4. IC: Baszlin - Iron Mahi ‘If anything happens…?’ What did he mean by this? Were more strange fellows about to come crashing through the cabin windows, adding to the crystalline no-man’s-land on the floor that neither foot nor food trolley dared to traverse? Or, perhaps he was planning on having another medical emergency. Baszlin never thought to plan his; they’d be much more convenient that way, if he could just, say, schedule a broken arm for another day, or the terribly debilitating effects of Ga-Koro syndrome in six months’ time, when it’d be more financially lucrative. What? Musings locked firmly within his skull, the Skakdi said nothing and simply offered a nod to the Matoran before retrieving his still-packaged personal effects from his seat, catching up with Surdo and whom he assumed to be a professional psychopath, at the other end of the passenger cabin. He stole a glance at the other, motionless occupants of the car as he passed them. Suspiciously, none of them had moved a muscle since Surdo’s brief affliction had begun. As Karmine paused to open the door to the next compartment, Baszlin leaned closer to one such fellow in his immediate vicinity: a Toa of reddish coloration who, to his eye, looked somewhat odd. Stranger still, the Toa didn’t even do so much as turn their head to look in either direction - either towards or away from the Skakdi’s face, which was now uncomfortably close. Is this Toa… made of wood? Baszlin withdrew, now sweeping his gaze over every single one of the cabin’s occupants. My god, are they all made of wood?! Probably not, but the thought evaporated a moment later before he could make a proper determination, and instead was replaced by a sudden craving for pine nuts. Perhaps the psycho had snacks. He could ask.
  5. IC: Ember - The Fowadi The Ta-Matoran eyed the waterline dubiously - with possibly two of the largest Toa in existence aboard, the skiff probably had the displacement of a craft triple its size. When it didn’t immediately split in half and sink, her fears were allayed somewhat, and she put them from her mind as she retrieved the oars from where they’d been stowed, holding one apiece out to each Toa. “Off we are, lads. Get us underway whiles I make ready the sails, aye?” Soon, the Fowadi was a way behind them to the south, and they started their short trip to the cliff-face village due north, ashen clouds enveloping the whole settlement in sheets of rain, and growing wilder by the minute. Regardless, she had confidence they’d make it to port just fine. IC: Ember - Naho Bay, close to Forsi, an hour later They were all going to drown. In the thick of the tempest now, the little skiff groaned in a way that Ember had never heard such a diminutive vessel groan before, being thrown around by savage winds and perilous waves. Ember Velliae had been here - in this situation - years ago, on one of her worst days. “Nor’east header!” she called over the roar of the gale propelling them. “Ready about, Toa Rynekk, starboard tack! Starboard!” Droplets of semi-solid sleet peppered the Ta-Matoran’s face, squinting as much as possible to keep herself from being blinded as she yanked the rudder to course-correct northwest. Even still, the skiff continued turning closer into the wind; there was only so much she could do with the rudder, but swapping positions with one of the Toa would spell dire consequences for the lot of them. The skiff heaved upward as it crested a roiling, befoamed wave, spraying the ice-cold waters of the bay over the three figures. “Keep opposite ‘im, Toa Brukin! If yer gripin’ our wee tender ye’ll be first t’ founder!”
  6. IC: Baszlin - Iron Mahi No lights, no musical stings, no roaring applause to take in. There would be no curtain call. This, he was used to. There never was any. It took Baszlin a few moments to free himself from the paralysis that gripped his body once his performance came to a close; enough time to process the affliction that had… afflicted… his charge, Surdo, was seemingly no more. If the Skakdi was aware of the context-change for which a “medical emergency” was declared, it did not show on his features, save for the mottled, skin-wrinkling confusion that twisted his mouth into a grimace as he rose again to his full height. Karmine, behind him, was ignored. Before long, the questions surfaced, pulling his already-tangled brain this way and that. Was he really faking that heart attack? Why isn’t anybody moving or screaming? What’s the wi-fi password? Truly unanswerable mysteries that plague us, even today. Instead, he glanced down at Surdo, and uttered a simple pair of words: “You okay?”
  7. IC: Baszlin - Iron Mahi If the sudden cascading peal of shattering glass failed to faze the Skakdi, as harsh and violent the sound may have been, it would come as no surprise that the resulting razor shards vaulting through the air to pelt his spine and shoulders with pinprick cuts suffered the same fate. In fact, Baszlin remained stock-still after delivering his lamentations to the assembled passengers, still staring into their eyes long after they had turned their attention elsewhere - to the cause of this sudden intrusion. Plainly visible to him, some recoiled at the threats verbally leveled at them - invisible daggers of terror thrown wildly and minuscule particles of spittle (also impacting Baszlin’s turned back) sharing a common origin. He - and therefore the plight of his patron beneath him - was no longer central to the attention of their small audience. This would not do. The air was still for a few beats. Some passengers shrieked, others stayed silent. Hands began to move, but Raaka Baszlin did not see where their motion ended. Still knelt down at Surdo’s side, it took only a fraction of a second to refocus the grief and rage displayed earlier upon a new, sole subject. In that same time, his torso and neck twisted so that he could look upon his new quarry, an outstretched arm and accusing finger added to his arsenal and pointed squarely at the– “Interloper!” he cried, the indignity in his voice palpable. “A crisis weighs upon us! ‘Tis a weight hardly borne by those whose spines doth already buckle ‘neath burden of evil doings! No further can one bend! No further! See you not the cataclysm on the cusp - that of poor Surdo, whose life leaks from a heart cleft by sinners of the same thread as thou! Thou, who beholdest the ailment of fair folk and seek chaos even so! Thine eyes betray thine cruelty! I spit upon your ilk! Vile mongrel! Cur!” A thick globule of mucus landed itself at Karmine’s feet a moment later.
  8. IC: Suzume - Sado Streets Beneath her robe, invisible to the others around her, she was clutching her shinobue. What was plainly visible, outside her robe, was her face - specifically the expression plastered on it, which was still a far cry from ‘reassured’. The one heading up the patrol - Toroshu Morie - shifted her attention from Suzume ever so slightly, though clear enough to the alert youth that she noticed. In response, the physical demeanor of the Menti under her command shifted a likewise subtle degree. Their changed posture, positioning and movement sparked a battle in her mind - the battle cry of one side bleating ‘Danger, retreat!’ and the other ‘Safety, surrender!’ She ignored both in equal measure, and gripped her instrument tighter. “What about my mom?” OOC: @Mel
  9. OOC: I’m not really a stickler when it comes to BZPTime but this conversation is probably happening a while before the shenanigans in the Koro tbh IC: Ember - The Fowadi Standing a little straighter and with her arms clasped neatly behind her back, the Ta-Matoran projected the obstinance of her age - old salt, barnacles and crust anchoring her to the deck. Or perhaps she just looked silly with her chest a fraction more puffed, compared to the enormity of the two considerable Toa before her. “Well could,” she started briskly, rocking on the balls of her feet ever so slightly. “But bein’ frank, Toa Rynekk, I knows the dockmaster ‘round these parts and it’d be bad fortune t’ lock horns with ‘er while she’s likely o’er-canvassed, savvy?” A mild jerk of her chin over her shoulder in the rough direction of the glittering mass of Dasakan vessels swamping Ga-Koro’s port. “‘Tis a gale I’d not weather. ‘Specially with as much cargo as we’ll be haulin’.” After a beat, the rigidity of her posture loosened, arms swinging forward to indicate the opposite direction - across the deck, past the gunwale, Forsi’s weather-beaten structures snaked up the cliff wall like petrified ivy, dark clouds hanging above the treetops at its apex, the shadowy streaks of rain already starting to obscure it all. “‘Sides!” barked Ember at long last, already beginning her precise mariner’s stride across the deck to a skiff dangling from its davit. Halfway there, she spun around and began walking backwards toward the smaller vessel, her eyes still on the two Toa and her arms splayed up and out. “Forsi’s naught but a few leagues away! An’ what better time to teach ye about fair-sailin’ in a tempest!” The barest hints of that ever-elusive grin would be visible for only a moment before she spun ’round again and climbed aboard the skiff. OOC: @Void Emissary @Krayzikk
  10. IC: Ember - The Fowadi She could feel the deck shuddering beneath her feet as the larger figure trundled up behind Rynekk - the same one she had met hours earlier before retiring to her cabin for the night, having stumbled upon the hulking figure grabbing some shuteye in the ship’s hold during a self-guided tour. They’d exchanged a few words, but nothing more than pleasantries. It was clear there was a lot more to the ship - in terms of both construction and crew - that she’d need to familiarize herself with. “Ah, Toa Brukin, nice t’ see ye up and about. Seemed ye were a hull apart from keelhaulin’ last I saw.” OOC: @Krayzikk @Void Emissary
  11. IC: Baszlin - Iron Mahi Scrutiny and curiosity struck the Skakdi in equal measure, causing his brow to furrow and his eyes to squint. Certainly something was going on here, but what? All eyes were on the two of them now, the car’s passengers, some with mouths agape, watching the two of them. You might think him uncomfortable to have so many eyes pointed in his direction, but curiously a strange comfort washed over the Skakdi instead - a feeling probably not shared by the Matoran writhing on the ground at his feet. Baszlin knelt. The plowed troughs dominating his forehead became distorted by the upward motion of an eyebrow; as did the lines at the corners of his mouth in a confused grimace, and the rest of the lines making up the scars on his face followed suit. That old, familiar rumble at the back of his throat emerged halfway when he spotted Surdo’s own eyes, not directed at him, but elsewhere within the cabin. Baszlin followed the gaze to its likely end - the Vortixx who he had confronted mere hours earlier; sharp dark lines of an onyx fa- Something snapped. Snapped? Maybe not the right word? Broke? No. Shifted? Maybe. Whatever it was, something changed, roiled and ballooned to the front of his conscious mind. It was almost audible - a muted peal of thunder that rang out from a distance… but this was not the storm visible out the car windows right now. It was something only he could see. The lines of his face smoothed again as his expression twisted into a visage of grief and rage, head shooting up to stare back into the eyes all upon them. “Are none among you able of spirit, of compassion!? Before me lay a man dying! Can there be no greater injustice than to let men perish through the inaction of the meek and weak-hearted!? Villains, all! Villains!”
  12. IC: Baszlin - Iron Mahi The Skakdi watched his charge with mild confusion as he rose from his seat and began toppling over, in the way a puppet does when its strings are cut. Questions wracked his brain, though any answers failed to appear. Practiced? Practiced what? I don’t remember practicing anything. Now everyone in the train car was staring at them, or rather staring at Surdo, writhing on the floor and clutching at his chest, as if some sort of ailment had crippled him. Bazslin tutted at the dithering, almost embarrassing quality of the performance, almost invisibly shaking his head in bemusement and befuddlement as the Matoran called out his name, clutching at the air as if he were in some low-budget Saturday-evening soap. “What are you doing? Stop that.”
  13. IC: Ember - The Fowadi CRAKKK! CRAKKK! Ember’s heart seemed to fall a good foot down through the bottom of her gut as she flinched in reaction to the piercing thunder of a firearm unloading rounds across the deck. If she were in worse shape, she’d have been doubled over as a tightness in her chest squeezed tighter from shock. That isn’t to say that her chest was not at all feeling that anxious pain - the annoyance of an unannounced discharge of arms was enough to at least spark a flame there, but it was the sight of who exactly was responsible for those shots and the raucous laughter thereafter that worsened the sensation. A deep scowl twisted her features into one of the more ugly visages one could find aboard the Fowadi. Ember’s fists balled, jaw clenched, lungs filled, and finally mouth opened to shout her impolite displeasure at the one-not-deserving-his-title, but the first syllable was cut short as the gargantuan shadow of a larger-than-life Toa - actually deserving of that title, mind you - veiled her from the midday sun. "You all set then, Ember? Noticed you head belowdecks before -- you get a grocery list from ol' Muuk?" She spun around to face Rynekk, struggling to untangle the lines which crossed her face. A look of slight annoyance was all she managed as she began to reply, eventually morphing into a more neutral expression upon the end of her sentence. “Ah, Toa Rynekk, there ye are! Aye, got meself the docket right ‘ere.” She patted the satchel on her hip. “Scannin’ for ye just now, was I. Got any other business or shan’t we head outboard, lad?” OOC: @Void Emissary @Krayzikk
  14. IC: Gorro - Onu-Koro, The Unfortunate Fikou A turbulent silence befell the three gathered beings for a mere moment, permeating their conscious minds as each comprehended their present circumstances in ways unique to each individual. Having no access to the light behind the eyes of Savis and Montague, Gorro solemnly enclosed himself within the prison of his own mind, walls of bone and protodermis enclosing the flesh and containing his very being. The sole portal to the world outside those curved walls, the eyes upon which the crags of stone floor were presently imaged, saw now with a new purpose. A glaze of equal parts determination, fear and longing cascaded over them, diffused through them, and infected- nay, galvanized the mind to which they interpreted existence. And so, that determination formed a new foundation upon which the young Toa began to build. “So,” he began at last, his voice croaking from a throat dry with anticipation, “when do we depart?” OOC: @Goose @Nato G
  15. IC: Baszlin - Iron Mahi “Start what?”
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