I found that, for whatever reason, I cannot forgive @Projeck and @Twi for the incident yesterday. In my opinion, the matter was horribly overblown and the overreaction was improper, immature to a degree and quite ungrateful. I was close to lashing out at the time but my inability to do so in good conscience thankfully restrained me. Whilst the extraneous factors that affected it are understandable, they are not what I consider to be any suitable excuse, after all, pent up frustration is not a very effective mitigating factor in law I do not think. Therefore, to avoid jeopardizing what little of a relation I have left to them, and to cut my ties with this time-consuming and, I begrudgingly admit, no longer entertaining RP, I hereby resign.
Lore Stuff:
-Fate: seeing as there are no contractors anymore due to their redundancy with the existence of three Tendencies (Annie, Wheatley and now Cyrielle), it shouldn't really be much of an issue to not use it anymore. Aside from being the mechanism that stops time-travel (as in, stereotypical time travel, relativity still works, that is, one can travel forwards but never backwards via time dilation).
-Wall Street: aside from Sen's philosopher's stone and the existence of some omnibinding contracts both of which have lore and mechanics already established, there shouldn't be any other use for it. Cecil's magic works for anything that involves a exchange, for when he eventually gets introduced. Also, the Grim Reaper is a Senior Auditor. @Elf knows the specifications. They shouldn't turn up unless someone commits a massive case of evasion in which case that person is pretty much screwed. No, it does not care about people wanting immortality, as long as their finances are in reasonable order.
-The Rainbow Serpent: control deferred to @Elf.
Description here.
Character Stuff:
-Alice Azifernia: I suppose she continues reading murder mysteries and hugging Meme in the background somewhere.
-Cyrielle Taylor: she'll remain apathetic and distant to most people, though still keeping close to Luna, Richard, Kyle and Conny. She progressively decides to consider herself as a sibling to Annie and Wheatley rather than creator or parent and continues being involved with them offscreen, needless to say, she would be significantly more cheerful and less stoic around them. Possibly more troll-y as well. In regards to Abraxas, if they do not end up in a relationship, she will remainv very close and still flirt with him quite often but also continue discussing philosophical matters. If they do end up in a relationship, she will be more teasing and energetic around him though still keeping to intellectual matters, she does not bother him when he would rather be left to his studies though, after all, Cyrielle has a life of her own and plenty of other matters to attend to during those times. Eventually, she'll be capable of manipulating Fate as effectively as her siblings and will generate a new body for herself.
Other Stuff:
If Abraxas actually does go on the date sometime, here it is:
Cyrielle finishes generating the date location. This is to say, she abuses the fuck out of her meta-awareness to steal things from @Empiricist’s Bloodlines setting (along with a few snippets of his Dissociation setting with some new stuff to bind it all together).
It is a world that has already ended. One where the heavens themselves have frozen into place, paying no heed to the normally insurmountable attrition of time. If the coloration of the sky were any indication, then it is within the final moments of dusk. From a certain point of view at least, seeing as those moments seem to have become dilated. Perhaps the celestial bodies had been locked into place, an entire cosmos turned into a grand mausoleum of motionless stars in some grandiose gesture of incomprehensible justification. Or was it that everything else, like the computational capabilities predicted of an omega-point universe where experience accumulates at speeds in which the final instant before annihilation stretches unto a subjective eternity?
There is not a single trace of the sun, yet the sky was still a few degrees more colourful than that of night. Constellations, both real and approximated dominated the furthest reaches of the lofty horizon in an omnidirectional tapestry of scintillating visions. Stars, like pinholes in the very fabric of this delusion’s reality shone intensely, juxtaposed against the wispy, powdery hues of distant nebula and galaxies. At the zenith of the sky rested a full moon, glowing with what amounted to a summer solstice. A fitting adornment, after all, the concept of lunacy was derived from the belief that the pale satellite could induce insanity and this illusionary evening very much was quite similar in nature, albeit, a far more controlled, moderated, madness.
Drifting gently was the city upon which the dead girl and the world-weary philosopher stood presently. At such high altitudes, strong winds would have buffeted them were it not for the Windbreaker enchantments of the surrounding prismatic perimeter of levitating structures. Thus, whatever gales were present were attenuated into a gentle breeze that carried with it an amalgam of Cyrielle’s memories of spring’s subtle floral scents. A flock of pigeon-like creatures comprised of consolidated magic lazily glide across the city in a vague holding pattern, their sharp angular forms meaninglessly contrasting the elegantly curving underside of the floating settlement. Accompanying them were ravens of literally undefined colour, softly cawing quietly to themselves. Of interest was how their coloration incremented in establishment into black the more non-black, non-raven objects were observed.
The dual groups danced between the branches of a monolithic cherry blossom tree from which a constant, torrent of scented petals flowed down. Each scentless shred was burning with temperatureless ethereal flames that matched their light, almost luminous white, pink color. The petals stopped at certain predetermined altitudes and the constant output of them, while seemingly random, had an observable, mathematical logic behind their distribution, they seemed to ensure that the petal density of each area was close enough to every other area to provide consistent lighting in the vicinity of the tree.
Reflecting the glows of this spectacle were streams of cool water that poured from spherical vessels above, each one flowing down in a large, graceful helix, somehow held aloft by their supernaturally immense surface tensions as they descended into their respective channels. Rather than flowing off the edge of each modular plate that the location was comprised of, they instead spontaneously crystallized, rectified and shattered, forming a temperate snow that was promptly propelled out in elaborate fractal patterns with little to no regards for physics before dissipating into nothingness.
Suspended from nonexistent strings, circular wind chimes hung within mostly translucent fields, their steel cylinders ringing in what, presumably would have been simple resonations were it not for how their phantasmal cocoons modified their sounds into those of a piano. The compositions were played were gentle pseudo-capriccios with melodic emphasis and scales that freely shifted between major, minor and chromatic. The mood of the compositions varied greatly, ranging from those wrenched from the Stygian depths of nihilism’s abyss to the those lured from an idealist’s haven. If their description were to be surmised within the length of a single word, that word would be “indescribable” for the emotional effects and quality were derived not from the pieces performed but rather, the ideals of their creator which seeded even the notes played in pianissimo possible. Personally, Cyrielle was more inclined towards Olivier than Flamand but nevertheless, some music was in order for this occasion.
Wide, pellucid walkways of glass-like crystal extended near the perimeters of each free-floating isle, flanked by elegant safety rails of pure platinum. Each offering a stunning view to the seemingly boundless library that lay beneath of which was a representation of Cyrielle’s mind. Their compositions slightly amplified the footsteps of the procedurally generated people (a ghost town isn’t the most romantic of locations after all). Each sky bridge extended out of the footpaths, which appear to consist of normal, high-quality cement, until close inspection reveals that heat-expansion was apparently never considered in their design. They were relatively smooth, continuous tracks of aesthetically homogenous rock. Though hidden from sight, a series of grates lie underneath the fluid. As the deceptively solid pavement expands from heat the grates below slowly open up, allowing streams of liquid rock to flow into place while keeping the high-tension surface in position.
From below, rain fell upwards, yet it failed to reach the ground, the individual droplets fell at their usual rate before approaching an invisible asymptote, quickly decelerating to such miniscule velocities that eventually, their motion became perfectly indistinguishable from the lack thereof. Upon this threshold, they slowly vanished, a phantasmagoria of fleeting instances that formed a ghostly sea to accompany the solitary island.
Exotic flora and more traditional species of plants where tastefully arranged in a falsely random configuration alongside the paths, cyclically alternating between dormancy and bloom, the more magical ones spontaneously blooming in pulses of radiance. Either way, the resultant products drifted in the breeze as if in a zero gravity environment, each one fading in mere minutes. Above, swarms of softly curving construct shards arranged themselves into capriciously shifting platforms and aerial passages offering a fast means of transportation.
The architecture varied quite a bit here. From minimalist structures that found elegance to simplicity to literally gravity defying buildings that acted as testaments to humanity's artistic drive, the city had it all. Sometimes juxtaposed against each other. The only real similarity between all of them is their relatively low height and broadness, few buildings exceeded five stories, though a few apartment complexes and hotels did lie around in various places…
Cyrielle was dressed in a minimalistic knee-length sundress, rather fitting for the temperatures which rested upon the dichotomy of warmth and coolness. The entirely opaque material was similar in properties to that of one of the more refined, consolidated distortion garments that were within her wardrobe, indeed, she actually did own such a piece of attire, this exact one actually. After all, it was easier to base the associated sensations and reactions off of a pre-existing article than to fabricate an entirely new one. She was wearing her usual quantity of makeup, which is to say, she was not wearing any. It was not because she had no need for it, after all short of a Mary Sue or individual with some means of controlling their appearance, at least some cosmetic products would not go amiss but rather because as with the usual circumstances, she simply could not be bothered nor care enough to actually invest some use of any.
She leans on a nearby railing and gazes out wistfully to the blurred horizon, speaking in a quiet but clear tone, she remarks to herself:
"If I am alive no longer, then let this illusion be my funeral…"
A fleeting second passes. Then another, and another, like a water wheel slowly turned by the tear drops of a lone person, Cyrielle slowly turned to face Abraxas. She quietly clears her throat, she didn't need to, after all, this was a mental fabrication, but she did so in order to defer her words for a while longer. Slowly, she began to address him, shakily at first yet soon progressing into a more fluid, emotional form of speech.
"I know that, given an eternity, any romance would likely falter… and I know that, I cannot hope to remain of interest to you intellectually or emotionally... but please, allow me this one respite from what my mind tells me. I’m sick. I’m sick and tired of living my life according to the vicissitudes of the future and what I project of it… never living for the fleeting instants like I used to, but rather the absurdities of eternity that lie before me… give me but a moment’s exile from myself and the hyperopia that I see the world through. A second's freedom from my thoughts. A turn's reflection before the smothered mate. Either let me know that all this… this soliloquy, this phantasm of a world, these emotions were not for naught, or crush what vestige of optimism I still bear within me, euthanize my dreams and extinguish what little of hope’s light that remains entrapped in my eyes so that I may accept the numbing yet sweet anaesthetic of cynicism."
As if on cue, something precipitated. A signal. It raced into the upper echelons of the false planet, over the greatest reaches of the atmosphere and into the inception of orbit. Intertwining with its infused energies, a metallic aura manifested around the now stationary mass, rapidly solidifying, the formerly liquid perturbation became increasingly crystallized into a vaguely streamlined shape. A charge capriciously arced from the ripples formed around the temporary satellite, converging into a single point within the unit. From behind, a majestic pillar of light blindly lanced it, electrical discharges spreading in an intricate spider’s web of plasma. It was a circumpolar misericorde, held aloft by a fine thread of starlight. The cruel key of freedom to Plato’s cave.
Upon the blade’ edifice, brilliant flashes of light danced, tracing a shifting threnody of near incomprehensible content. This realm was crafted part by part from the maiden’s memories, each entity akin to a programming object, assigned recollections of variable vagueness to which defined all empirical properties possessed. Thus, the venomous anomalies that arced around the weapon were an antithesis to its environment, a torrent of feelings, not even sensory perception, from which doubt and indecision alike radiated in a suitably malignant concoction.
She remains motionless, her breaths shallow and her pulse racing before, with an abrupt sigh, relaxing rapidly and remarking in her usual manner: "…I think I overdid the melodrama and hyperbole there. Now I suppose I’m left to worry what to do if you reject me and I fail to have any sort of breakdown or loss of optimism. Hmm... I doubt they would be too much awkward silence either for that point."
Cyrielle shrugs and with that the now entirely impertinent dagger vanishes in a cloud of anticlimax. She had considered preparing a speech to avoid such an issue, but then it would have seemed somewhat insincere or at least too laden with artifice. Either way, the mood was likely spoiled by her little outburst, thankfully, she cared little for such seeing as she estimated her capability to maintain it were slim to begin with. How irritating… there she was again, analysing the matter and receiving only a hollow comfort from looking once more to what lay ahead.
”Ahem, allow me to try that again, these bracelets were more sensitive than I thought (or perhaps setting this up increased that sensitivity). I do apologize for those stray thoughts, though I suppose they are unavoidable in romantic matters.
…
Would you like to go for a walk? Yes, I am aware that this has reached farcical proportions and I probably should be thoroughly embarrassed by it. Nevertheless, there is little else available to salvage this date, so please do excuse the disastrous proceedings thus far.”
It's up to @Elf to determine how the rest of it goes.
I recommend that @Elf delinks my character list and gets someone else to copy and run it, as I will not be anymore.
I would say it's been a pleasure, but I am afraid that my perception of this has become too jaded by memories of OOC arguments to say that. Perhaps @Xanalos is watching this thread from somewhere and laughing... perhaps next time around I'll be as well.
Author
Topic: Rise of the Magic Girls v2 IC Thread: Antimagic and gods and souls oh my (Read 3201311 times)