In a monolithic entrance chamber...Sigmund quickly checks out what's up with that pelvic focus the dead man has, examining it with his magical expertise. It seems like it ought to be a simple enough thing, really, but sadly Sigmund doesn't happen to live in a world where so-called magical professionals actually know how the heck magic actually works. So instead what he sees before him is a somewhat brute-forced crystalline formation implanted in a man's pelvis that seems to apply an enormous multitude of different velocity
and acceleration vectors to a given object at seemingly random angles, with it being possible to suggest a predominating direction for them, which requires a specific series of gestures and thoughts (with minor variability depending on task required) from a strangely non-specific soul, but a specific body type, which is drawn from a description from what Sigmund assumes to be some form of running report of all the focus' activities up to this point since its creation, a thing that's not really supposed to happen for most objects, and yet somebody seems to have accidentally (because Sigmund refuses to believe such a convoluted design could have been possible to do on purpose, honestly) turned on.
It's going to be pretty hard to modify without upsetting something sensitive, clearly, because the knots on this thing are pretty lopsided. The work of some idiot, he can tell, as he's seen some idiots in his lifetime. Could be useful if he could dig it out of this guy's pelvis, though only if he managed to remove it being keyed to this dude's body type.
In the ruined Black Tower of Eckledun...Scott decides to humor this request for the time being.
"Then here is the awkward and possibly very impolite question, where are you and what form are you currently in?"~Oh, I'm in my room. It'll take a moment to get my body out of the closet, but I'll see if I can't get to the roof on my own. I'll holler at you if the need arises. See you at the top, hopefully,~ Francine replies, and Scott for a moment feels a sensation of ponderous movement before the communication abruptly cuts out. Supposing there to be no harm in it (perhaps naively so), Scott floats out of the tower and makes his way to the top past what seem to be battlements placed around the edge. The roof itself is fairly bare. No, wait, it's actually completely bare. Doesn't seem to have anything here, not even a staircase down or anything. Hm.
~Hm. I can't seem to get out of my room,~ Francine notes all of a sudden.
~I... think something's blocking my door. Mind checking it out? It's three floors down from the roof, central room. Can't miss it.~In a roadside ditch...Kevin's problems, assuredly many and grand in scope to say the least, are clearly not all that hard to solve, he thinks. He really only needs one thing! Invincibility, that's it. Invincibility ought to cut it just fine. So maybe if he just went and wished
very hard for it, well...
[Kevin's will roll: 6-2]
... well, he does feel a bit less vincible, to be honest! Still ravenous, no doubt, but also significantly less vincible. Of course, unless it's the hunger misleading him into feeling less vincible so that he'd go and fight something and maybe get some damn food in him already. He really wouldn't mind some damn food himself right now, to tell the truth.
In a town as far away from known climes as possible...Darren figures he needs to get in touch with some clergy. Maybe they'll know what the deal is. So he glides out into the streets and discreetly into the local shrine, which is a humble wooden building decorated with five-pointed star of the Five Gods, the only gods you can petition for aid and not be blown to bits in short order by a golden messenger from the Offices of Order. Looking inside, he notices an amiable-looking priest smoking a pipe as he leans on an altar. Great!
Now to find a cloak. Darren flits about for a second before moving into the friendly neighborhood non-junk store, where there appear to be no magical cloaks to be found. But Darren frets not - surely they would not be so barbaric out here as to have no magical things at all. He approaches the storekeeper, a chubby fellow fast approaching middle age, and asks for a fine magical cloak he could drape over his disturbingly ectoplasmic shape.
The storekeeper has a short look of revelation, and seems about to say something, but then stops, blinking and furrowing his brow. He smiles with one side of his face and starts tapping on the counter expectantly. Darren smiles back politely. The storekeeper starts to bleed out of his nose. Darren is about to point this out, but the storekeeper then starts to bleed out of his eyeballs as well, and promptly collapses on the counter face-down in a growing puddle of his own blood, twitching a few times before he goes deathly still. Huh.
Within the confines of a void eel...Mark strides right down the hallway and checks out the soul container at the end of it, which appears to be some kind of dark, shadowy fella sitting in a chair clearly too nice for him, busily laboring over several boards filled with pretty lights of some kind. He's got a soul in him, that's for sure. Better get it out!
[Mark vs. Shadow Fellow: 3 vs. 4-
1]
Putting his hands on the fellow's head from behind, Mark tries to peel open the creature's skull, but it doesn't quite work for some reason. Maybe he requires some tools for this.
"Eh?" the fellow goes, swiveling his head 180 degrees to look at Mark.
"Whuh? How'd you get in here? Get out, will ya? Got people to catch! Ain't got time to bother with stowaways!"In a darkened section of a void eel's digestive tract...Morton, bothered by the lack of visibility in here, dials up his light a bit, illuminating everything around him in a blinding shade of near-infrared light, which lets him easily discover that he seems to have found himself in some form of room - there's a fluffy, soft barrier on one wall that he landed on, a forbidding steel door on the opposite side that he presumes just shut behind him, and some form of steel-looking paneling all around the rest of the place, which is regrettably cramped and smells of fresh oil.
Whatever this place is, it doesn't seem very civilized. Clean, yes, but hardly civilized. To treat furniture this way is deplorable, to say nothing of the same treatment likely being leveled at good mage Wilma in equal measure. Simply shameful.
Finally, there's a metallic-looking knob pretty high up on the ceiling, and also some form of glass orb set into one of the upper corners of the room. Most perplexing.
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Topic: Life Begins At Death - Epilogue: We Live And Live Again (Read 564566 times)