The Meaning of Life, the Universe, and Everything.
Location:
Both here
Join Date:
1/5/2012
Posts:
245
Location:
and there at once.
Minecraft:
same as this one
Xbox:
Don't have one
PSN:
Don't want one
Member Details
I... shall... rettttuuuuurrrnnnnnnnnnn...
Commands:
-
Action:
I might want to try the whole playing as an entity thing... Maybe I'll use my two charges for that instead.
I complain very loudly about how I have absolutely no idea what these new mercenary enemies look like even though they're supposed to be right in front of us. They're probably a reference to something, but I can't be bothered to google it. How am I supposed to come up with an interesting and relevant attack when I don't know what they look like and I have no context and blah blah blah blah terrible descriptions blah blah blah blah text based gaming blah blah blah blah blah blah.
Hopefully that damages something.
Relevance Line:
Back in the "present", Mikoto breathed a sigh of relief. He could use the pills to a certain effect, but actually hated doing it and was sure that Gail would have a panic attack or something from it.
"Okay... good. I think it's sweet of you to be thinking of us like this. I'm sure the Veteran will appreciate your effort. I already do."
Gail smiled even though the praise was pretty cut and paste.
"... Mikoto? ... Could you... come exploring with me?"
She knew that Mikoto didn't want her wandering around by herself, and so couldn't refuse the offer.
"You don't need to ask that. Of course I'll come with you."
A Tactical Genius: 28/50 ================================================== (+2 from generic)
+2 to Crystal
The influx of mercenaries could prove to be a large problem, as it gave the PZ side a lot of manpower. Bomber decided to start to pick them off, and would attack the Mordesh Medic (if they were still alive, otherwise the Aurin Esper was his target). What better way to do this than use The Warp, of course? Using these energies could be unpredictable, but Bomber was an expert.
So, calling upon a psychic discipline known as Biomancy, he scrolls through a mental catalog of different powers he could manifest for this particular situation. Biomancy involves the manipulation of biological energy and processes, meaning the wielder can change their physical form, or that of their enemies. "Lets see, Blood Boil, Enfeeble, Smite, Bio-Bolt... ooh, Iron Arm! This one should do just nicely."
Arcs of green energy danced through the air, gathering into Bomber's right arm. His already gray skin-analogue began to turn metallic, as biological matter is transmuted into pure iron. Bomber's arm also grows in size, becoming much larger than the other. In this state, Bomber could both defend himself from harm and beat anything into a bloody pulp.
Bomber then charged his target (either the Mordesh or, if the Mordesh is dead, the Aurin), backhanding them with his powerful iron arm. They would be sent sprawling from the impact, but Bomber wasn't done. Before they could even begin to get up, Bomber grabs them by the leg and lifts them high in the air. Then, he brutally slammed them back down into the ground. He continued his assault, punching them several times with his heavy hammer-like arm, reducing them to mush. His Iron Arm began to wear off, which is when Bomber teleported himself away to safety. It was then that he sensed something...
Bomber felt someone's mind being manipulated at the moment, and realized it was that of the person known as Serpent. This was something he could take advantage of. "Hm, I already used a lot of warp energy, so perhaps I can use something else..." An idea struck him. Opening the black void that is his interdimensional storage that resided within Hellco., Bomber pulled out a small, blue-gray crystal. It seemed rather unassuming, but it had a lot of untapped potential. The crystal was a material called Vitrum. What it did was act as a sort of battery for raw energy. The material excelled at it, being able to store and release massive quantities of energy with only a small amount of material. It was recently discovered by Hellco. and is being used in much of its technology and research.
Bomber was able to directly access that power, tapping into the energy of the crystal. The Vitrum crystal began to crackle with energy that miraculously ripped a temporary hole in time launched itself into the past. It really seemed to guide itself to the point of interest here, being Serpent's mindscape. The presence of a lot of raw energy within a mindscape can be manipulated by a person with enough skill. With that done, Bomber deposited the crystal, ready to use it again in the future.
The sun was setting, and that meant it was almost time. He felt a buzz in his pocket as his phone received a message. Pulling it out, Bomber took a look. "Preparations are done? Excellent." Bomber put his phone away, and suddenly vanished in a puff of smoke and brimstone.
Far from the battlefield, in a rather secluded area, was where the duel would be taking place. Upon arrival, the crew who had been constructing the place for him stood at attention. Their job was to build the stands for the crowd as well as concessions and an area where bets will be collected and tallied. And, well, who else to hire for the job than a crack team of Orks? Indeed, the stands were a little ramshackle, but that was their style. And, believe it or not, they were just as sturdy as the conventional ones.
Lining the stands were banners of differing color; some were teal for Cinavi while others were taupe for The Scribe. The stands were being given their final touches by numerous Grots (think like goblins). There was a large circular space that the stands surrounded. There was one thing missing here, which Bomber would contribute. Standing in the center of the area, twelve swords materialized out of the air close around his body. They flash different colors, perhaps having some sort of a symbolic meaning. He spreads his arms, and so do the swords. They then plant themselves into the ground at the edges of the circle. These would later form a magical barrier once the two combatants were ready. Yes, preparations were truly done. Bomber sent off a Grot to litter the main battlefield with fliers of the event, hoping to attract more than just the Orks and a select few others. Carrying a stack of crudely drawn representations of The Scribe and Cinavi shooting at each other (large angry eyebrows drawn on each), the Grot ran off. All Bomber had to do now was wait.
The stands were filled entirely with Orks and Grots, wearing different garbs and face paints to display who they are rooting for. Within the crowd was anyone else who decided to attend. The crowd was loud and boisterous, of course. Bomber had a few of his lackeys to make sure things didn't get too rough, but he told them to only intercept when things got too bad. The two combatants would be arriving at any minute. Bomber sat in his own personal booth in the center of the ramshackle bleachers, adorned in Hellco. color and style.
And there they were, Cinavi entering from one end and The Scribe from the other. The crowd let out a roar, ready for the duel to begin. Bomber stood up and commanded silence. He then picked up a microphone, and spoke with enthusiasm.
"Laadiiies aaaaand gentlemen! Welcome to Bomber Stadium™, brought to you by Hellco.! Tonight I am proud to host the major event of... this turn! Yes, what you have all been waiting for is finally about to begin! The duel of the ages; the fight to see who is right; the battle of the minds! Cinavi, VERSUUUUS, The Scriiibe!"
The crowd let out another deafening cheer as the two combatants stepped forward.
"By the way, there is a little gift shop that can be accessed through the exit at Column 78 that sells all sorts of things. Hellco. brand T-Shirts, snow globes, and plushies related to the event can be purchased there. No further bets can be made past this point; what has been put on the line cannot be withdrawn! There is also a field medic nearby who will tend to the wounds of the combatants and any crowd members. Oh, and there WILL be injuries."
A spotlight shone down on a hunched over Ork at the edge of the field. Next to him stood a Grot carrying a tray full of wicked medical tools. Some could have sworn they saw the Ork grinning madly. There was some unease in the crowd. No Ork ever liked a visit to a Painboy, and for good reason.
"First, I will state the offenses that had lead up to the declaration of this duel, in the words of the one who declared it himself, Cinavi: 'Basically just deprivation of will because I believe that smart people should be able to talk their way out of anything, or talk people into anything, and the general methods the Scribe used for summoning Uncle Grandpa, which I say thanks to the very tattoos on the bodies of five of us here.'
With that out of the way, I must now move on to reiterate the rules of this event:
I. Provide a perfectly circular area that sufficiently prevents disruption for the duel to occur within.
II. Have a medical professional (healer, doctor, et cetera) who is not one of the principals on the scene at all times. Giving them plausible deniability is not required, but suggested, as to not ruin their medical careers.
III. Principals are only permitted to utilize dueling pistols themselves in the duel. However, anything the pistol itself manages with , is perfectly legal in any duel. Anything caused by external occurrence is perfectly legal, as it is more than likely that it was not caused by one of the principals.
IV. The two principals must meet back-to-back in the center of the circle upon the time appointed for the duel to occur. This must either be at dawn or dusk.
V. Both principals have an impartial mutual second, who states the rules of the duel, along with the offense(s), and designates the beginning of the duel (which coincides with the statement of the word "fire"), along with its end.
VI. A duel does not have to necessarily end in death. In fact, this is frowned upon. It is best for one party to wound the other, and demand the other yield.
VII. After the principals meet as described in rule four, the second will state the offense(s) which required resolution; the principals will take exactly ten equal steps away from each other, draw their weapons, and turn exactly one hundred eighty degrees, to face each other.
VIII. After the completion of rule seven, the second will count to ten. The principals' pistols should be raised when the second reaches five. Anything sooner or later is banned. Principals should fire when the second says fire, not one.
IX. Betting on duels is permitted, as long as the principals are not directly involved in such affairs.
Breaking these rules will force a consequence. Well, the consequence for breaking these rules are unfortunately grim, I must say. If the rules are broken, well, you will have to face my own brand of soul-rending torture. Truly, it would pain me if it had to come to that. But do not doubt my willingness to do it if need be.
And with that said, pretty much anything else goes! Now, may our two combatants walk to the center of the arena, standing back-to-back."
Once they had done so, Bomber continued.
"Now, to prevent premature escape and disruption from the outside, I have set up a magical barrier. Which will be going up.... now!"
A maroon barrier of energy formed between the swords, strange runes floating between them.
"Seriously, don't attempt to break that thing. Rules can have greater power than you think, folks, especially those of honorable combat! Gentlemen, take ten paces opposite from one another! At the count of five, draw your pistol and face each other. After another count of five you may fire your weapon."
Ten paces were taken, the two opponents aching with anticipation.
"One, two, three, four, five."
The Scribe and Cinavi turned to face each other, weapons drawn.
"And now, six, seven, eight, nine...."
There was a brief pause. Tension hung in the air for what felt like ages.
Sorodin> The Mordesh Medic? Eh, whatever the dice says. And it TOTALLY didn't only have 3s or anything. Totally.
Sorodin sits down and closes his eyes, focusing his energy. After a bit, a dark storm cloud comes rolling in, settling above the Mordesh Medic and following it wherever it goes. It starts out with a light drizzle, just enough to distract the Mordesh Medic, but does no real damage. Then it turns to a light rain, annoying the Mordesh a bit more. Soon, it starts with a moderate rain, now enough to make the Mordesh slip and fall, doing a bit of damage. Then it goes into a heavy downpour, creating large puddles and such. Now, it's acid rain. That must hurt. After a while, it stops being acid rain, and just rains a whole ton harder, flooding the whole area around the Mordesh, somehow not getting out to other places. Lightning strikes start coming down, electrocuting the water and therefore the Mordesh Medic inside. And last of all, the water freezes over, and the Mordesh is frozen in it, feeling more than a light case of frostbite. The storm cloud drifts off, and Sorodin opens his eyes and stands up.
Sorodin> So..... what did I miss? ==Alchemies==
Super Unfair Paper Mario Maker Sketchpad && Mario 64 = Super Unfair Paper Mario Maker Sketchpad 64 (level 5: 5/6) Auto-Surgeon 9000 && Mini-Alchemieter = Auto-Merger 1/??? Eh, whatever. It was going to be able to imbue item's properties into entities, but whatever.
Voidmetal Bottle && Pocket Dimension = World in a Bottle 1/??? ==Charges== The Nonexistent 11/50 Essence of Rain 8/50
+2 Pit
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Please check out my PvP map based around explosions and fire, FireFight!
Sometimes, I wonder why they call mapmakers mapmakers and not cartographers.
Walker realizes that he's leveled up now, and decides to try out the new ability that he has available to him. Unsure quite what to do, he pauses.
"...NOW, HOW DID IT GO... UH... HMM... I THINK I SAY THE WORD AND THEN THINGS HAPPEN... UH..."
Beat.
"FORTIFICATION."
The sound of an ability being used rings out over the battlefield. Due to how the ability Fortification works, the stack is applied to a PZ entity... This time around, it's been used on Mozart II.
Due to using an ability this turn that wasn't itself an attack, Walker does not get to attack in this post.
Noose --0 Dark Magic Tome = Tome Of Self-Sacrifice 2/11
I grab a banana. I proceed with throwing it at the Uncreativity Monster. It impacts, then explodes into a bunch of poisonous spider wasps. The wasps start stinging it.
Ugh, no update tonight guys, sorry. I realize that generally trying to update at or beyond 8 PM is a pain and unlikely to get finished, and honestly I like doing the whole update in a single post.
The Meaning of Life, the Universe, and Everything.
Join Date:
6/16/2013
Posts:
232
Member Details
(Reposting this for duel purposes. Sorry for the inconvenience.)
I suddenly realize that I am standing in the middle of a field of decomposing mole carcasses and glass shards. Simply wonderful.
I place a machine down on the ground, and connect a number of vacuum tubes to each of the faces. I walk over to a number of mole corpses, and vacuum up the gases emitted from their decomposing bodies. I travel from mole to mole, vacuuming up steadily more and more of the gases. Soon enough, I require an extended storage system. I remedy this by attaching a number of pressurized tanks to the initial device.
I gather more and more of the gases exuded from the corpses up, filling the tanks in due time. Yet, I still continue, adding on several more tanks of greater capacity, along with symbols of increased capacity. I drain up every single mol of gas from the corpses, and fully seal the tanks. I immediately place a ladder on the side of the massive tank, and climb up to the top, building a secure platform atop the thing.
I construct what appears to be a cyclopean cannon atop the platform, overseeing the server silently. I climb back down the ladder, and put on a pair of leather gloves, along with a gauntlet on my right hand. The thing is emblazoned with two things, both glowing a fiery orange: an upward-pointing triangle, and a Sagittarius symbol. Fire, and ceration. I pull out a Resonant Portable Tank, which I hold in my left hand, walking around.
I come across the first of the corpses devoid of gas (of which there are many). I stoop down, and touch the body, already stuck through with glass shards, with the gauntlet. Immediately, it begins to dissolve, beginning to undergo liquefaction, and decomposing into some strange bone/organ/flesh/glass liquid compound. I fill the Resonant Portable Tank with the fluid, leaving nothing behind, before walking on to the next corpse, and doing the same.
I file across the field, dissolving corpse after corpse, and clearing the field. Don't thank me for my public service, no matter how putrid and disgusting this all is. I really don't deserve it. Anyhow, soon enough, the field of battle is as pristine as it ever could have been, hundreds of trillions of liquid dead moles in multiple Resonant Portable Tanks.
I pipe all of the Resonant Portable Tanks' contents into a few Bedrockium Drums upon the sides of the cannon, before pressing a button on the thing's front. Without an ounce of hesitation, I attach a tube from the top of the gas tank to the cannon's bottom. Immediately, the thing's lights turn on, glowing a fine red in anticipation. While I'm waiting for everything to fill up, I construct several more of these Dead Mole Mortars around the original one, connecting all of the piping up. Soon enough, there are thirty-nine Dead Mole Mortars centered around the power source and original mortar. I build a control panel on the side of the main mortar, and prepare everything. Skies are clear enough. Enemies are numerous enough. I press a few buttons on the control panel's touchscreen.
Loading MolebombOS Version 0.391...
Loading...
Loading...
WELCOME, "terminalAutocrat"! YOU HAVE JUST ACCESSED THE COMMAND TERMINAL TO DEAD MOLE MORTAR BATTERY NO. 894162. THIS BATTERY WAS DESIGNED FOR YOUR EXPRESS USE AND CONTROL.
PLEASE ENTER A COMMAND.
>list commands
HELP, DIRECT, FIRE, RELOAD, CONFIGURE, SCAN.
>direct
ERROR: INVALID SYNTAX. PLEASE USE DIRECT(DISTANCE RELATIVE TO MORTAR BATTERY) DIRECTION.
>direct30m north
The battery of mortars immediately directs itself to point upwards, at an angle directly facing the PZ forces.
The mortars' barrels all light up with a brilliant red, and globs of absolutely fetid purulent flaming grume is fired into the sky by the mortar batteries, propelled by the gases exuded from the decomposing cadavers. The air is filled with a fuliginous and putrescent odor that causes many players to vomit. I do not. This is absolutely revolting. The mortar battery fires hundreds of globs of the disgusting ammunition into the sky. I watch, and wait, observing those who vomit quiescently.
Moments later, the globs begin to land upon the PZ forces. They burst immediately upon impact, spraying putrid flaming liquid over the enemy. The odors and bacteria contained within or nearby the stuff on their end must be unbearable. The mortars continue to fire, dislodging hundreds of thousands of decomposing liquid moles from their bedrockium prisons. This continues for several minutes. I watch, a grimace upon my face. The PZ entities appear to be screaming, on fire, or vomiting, and overall panicking with the situation at hand.
The mortars continue to fire, eventually reaching a point where supplies are low.
FUEL RESERVES LOW.
>configure
WOULD YOU LIKE TO COMBINE AMMUNITION AND PROPELLANT?
>y
There is a foul hissing noise, and the fuel is depleted, and mixed with the ammunition. Suddenly, explosions begin to rain down from the heavens as methane-infused globs of flaming corpse-liquid rain upon the PZs. Fire is everywhere, the PZs are burning alive (or undead), and nobody really knows what to do. One of the mortars abruptly turns off course, and fires several shots into the distance, which glow red and disappear. I quickly redirect this error when I hear the sound of smoke from another direction. Odd.
The scent of rotting flesh swiftly turns to that of charred meat as hell rains down upon the PZs. Over time, I deplete the newly-reduced fuel resources, and the ammunition.
I hurriedly leap off of the mortar, and flash-step away. The entire battery explodes. This explosion drops a sheet of fire and burning shrapnel upon the PZs. Hah.
Ashwood Rod && Agonized Soul = Agonizing Rod (4/9)
Depowered Cipher's Call && Indigo Flames = Slightly Less Depowered Cipher's Call (4/9)
(+2 to Twin)
Discord: 32/50 ////////////////////////////////////////////////////.
Infinity Mechanism 25/30 (+4 from Crystal) //////////////////////////////.
I stare down the Scribe, drawing my ornate dueling pistol, and loading it with what appears to be some small black and white object, before waiting for Bomber's announcement. I ignore the crazed Ork spectators. As far as I know, they've definitely bet on one of us. This is generally what happens at such events.
Ten. I watch my opponent.
Nine.
Eight. He likely observes me as well.
Seven.
Six.
Five. We raise our loaded weapons.
Four.
Three. I look the Scribe in the eyes (aim no higher).
Two (summon all the courage you require).
One. I point my pistol slightly upward.
I pull the trigger. Immediately, the object I loaded into the pistol goes flying out, streaking through the air, pointed slightly upward. It barely misses the Scribe's head, by mere centimeters.
Exactly as planned.
The instant the thing is directly above the Scribe's head, it explodes into pulsating red and blue energy, waves ebbing through reality at a precisely-calculated angle. The force of this blast, which appeared to be slightly off-center, becomes evident when the Scribe is thrown back several meters. I blink.
When I open my eyes, he is back in his original location. I raise my eyebrows, and watch as some sort of absurd timelock drags him back and forth, rendering him unable to act. Over time, the fabric of reality around the Scribe grows weary of the spatial manipulations. Glitched fragments of light begin to emanated from both the Scribe, and the area surrounding him. I take this time to load my dueling pistol with another shape, which appears to be a mere bullet. Or is it?
Waves of static roll around the Scribe's form, and I watch, observantly noting that he is unable to fire at me, given his current incapacitation. I check the time on my computer screen. Well, that's quite close to that time.
I look up into the sky, and watch as the embers of the dying sun fading beneath the horizon further energizes the already-effective sort of… Infinity Mechanism. We shall call it that. The Scribe's body itself grows steadily glitchier, fragments of code and flesh just wafting off of it, and being absorbed by the static. I train my pistol on the space where the Scribe was standing initially, waiting. I check the time once more, and put on some sort of gas mask of a vibrant red and orange hue with my other hand. I wait several more moments.
The Scribe's body has been mostly consumed and absorbed into the cloud of static at this point. The circuitous motion of his warping back and forth, and slowly being torn to shreds by the static is accompanied by me continuously checking the time, as if something were arriving. This is further supported by the fact I adorned a gas mask mere minutes ago. Finally, the last fragments of the Scribe are absorbed into the cloud of static, which continues to warp back and forth for several seconds, before it just ceases, appearing in the initial position of the Scribe. The cloud of static forms a shape vaguely similar to that of the Scribe, and the being is slowly reformed.
The process is slow and painful, of course. It begins with the chest, particles of static appearing in the air before me, right above where the Scribe was standing mere minutes ago. Blood (or any blood-analogue the Scribe might have) begins pouring profusely from the fragment of chest that has just formed. The wound is slowly sealed as progressively more of the Scribe reforms, a blood-red puddle growing beneath him. His legs and arms form next, forged from the collected data of the static. Blood still drips from any orifice it can. Next, the neck forms, blood splattering upon the ground beneath the Scribe. Lastly, the head and hands of the Scribe form. Of course, the first thing the Scribe can feel is the lack of around two liters of blood in his body. The resultant nausea will hopefully throw his aim off a bit. The blood instantaneously teleports itself back into the Scribe's body. Wonderful.
Of course, this does not mean that the hell is over. No, it has just begun. Suddenly, eight spinning red gears similar in construct to the Time symbol float above the Scribe's head. I note them, and keep my pistol trained on my foe. Suddenly, eight burning globs of some absolutely putrid flaming liquid drop from the gears, and burst on the around around and upon the Scribe. I watch the occurrence through the lens of my gas mask, and watch as literal explosions rip apart the ground around the Scribe. So, that's where those last few Dead Mole Mortar shots went. Interesting.
The disgustingly fuliginous odor of the liquid causes several Orks in the crowd to vomit upon the ground. I quiescently watch the event unfold, training my eyes on the Scribe all the while. That is, of course, because he is literally on fire at this point. Thanks for the mole corpses, Twin. Hah.
The liquid moles fester around the Scribe, still burning. Yet, the liquid seems to be seeping into the ground all the while. The entry of the ammunition and the propellant into the mortar must have had some effect on it, I presume. In fact, sections of the fluid itself seem Tainted. The pure earth that forms the clearing in the forest is stained with the arcane corruption of organic matter whilst the Scribe burns alive. The festering liquid seems to provide for a fertilizer, of sorts. Taint spreads fervently around the Scribe, various arcane afflictions entering his body whilst he burns. The corruptive influence of the Taint seems to make the air grow thick on the other side of the clearing, making it somewhat difficult to breathe.
The flaming liquid itself begins to shudder, quivering toward the Scribe's position. I watch on in interest as the liquid nears the burning calligrapher. Suddenly, the liquid mole corpses splash into the air, and swarm the Scribe. Hundreds of individual droplets of the infernal blazing flesh/organ/gas/glass fusion altered by the influence of Taint levitate into the air, forming two distinct masses of fluid. These masses slowly grow into veritable lakes of revolting semi-liquid. Moments afterward, the stuff begins to circle the Scribe.
It immediately all dives inward at once. Hundreds of gallons of flaming liquid mole rage against the already-burning Scribe, crushing him with the pressure. The stench is absolutely horrendous. Even more Orks vomit. I watch all the while, keeping my pistol trained on the Scribe. The poisonous qualities of the liquid burn the Scribe's epidermis, along with the retch-inducing stench of the stuff itself.
I'm mildly apprehensive about writing this part, but here you go. The liquid promptly dives down the Scribe's throat, the viscous, partially-solid stuff slowly sliding down. The fire, of course, should serve to destroy it before it goes all the way down. Of course, the fire will likely also get rid of the mucus lining of the Scribe's stomach, causing the acids to tear through it. Either one works. The liquid itself freezes in its movement when a singular noise echoes through space toward it. That of a gunshot. I stand, pointing my now-smoking pistol in the air. The liquified dead mole seems to be affected by this cosmic occurrence in a negative way, immediately sliding out of the Scribe's body in the entirety, leaving none of the foul stuff behind. I watch as the liquid seeps through the ground, likely depositing itself in a cave underground, directly inaccessible from the surface. I take the time to remove my gas mask, and reload my pistol, whilst the Scribe retches from that horrific experience. I don't blame him.
Of course, that gunshot in the air served more than one purpose.
Suddenly, there is a bang, and a small patch of ground mere centimeters behind the Scribe's current position goes up into dust. I look past the Scribe for a moment.
You did one thing.
I warned you on the fourteenth, remember?
Quote from TheLordErelye »
CT: And, a little advice.
CT: Don't turn your back on the pickle.
Suddenly, a sniper shot strikes the Scribe in the back of the knee. As he goes down, another shot hits him in the back of his left arm. I receive a pester.
-- cucumbersTriggerman [CT] began trolling terminalAutocrat [TA] at 19:20 --
CT: It's been ten days. The job is done now. I want my payment.
TA: later
TA: im really busy right now in a duel
TA: ten minutes
-- terminalAutocrat [TA] ceased trolling cucumbersTriggerman [CT] at 19:20 --
I immediately get back to the duel, after having watched my second assassination go through, after all of this time. Well, it is not really an assassination. The Scribe is still alive, of course. I walk over to him, and point my pistol directly at his face, before planting a foot upon the arm holding his pistol.
TA: YIELD. I'D RAther not have to shoot. Nobody has to die.
If the Scribe yields, I grab his hand, and pull him up, handing him over to the medical official assigned for the duel, as was mandatory.
Of course, if he does not, I pull the trigger. While a bullet does emerge from the barrel, it appears to have been supplanted by a mass of dark gray energy, which immediately explodes upon contact with his face, not killing him, but injuring him somewhat. I absolutely refuse to do the deed myself.
Regardless, after everything is over, I put my pistol away, and walk into the crowd. If the Scribe yielded, I emerge with a somewhat satisfied state of mind. If not, I am entirely silent as I pass through the crowd, leaving the area entirely.
Okay, this is from the future, after Twin posted. I'd like to stick a little afterward in for Twin to read tomorrow. So, if you aren't him, there's no real reason for you to continue. But why write an afterword, you ask?
Because I feel terrible about myself right now.
First off, Twin, I just need to thank you for participating in all of this, despite having been obviously bogged down with work the entire time. I'd also like to apologize for pressuring you with so many ridiculous things at once. If you're reading this, and you don't know what I'm talking about, LEAVE. I'm serious. This is a one-on-one conversation here, from the idiot to the endurer.
Now, back to the point. This was, quite frankly, a rather idiotic method to do something on my part. We should have just talked the offense out like normal human beings, instead of me deciding to leap into a duel. In theory, this would have been a nice thing to do. However, it seems as if a series of unfortunate (or unluckily-timed) real-life events, along with our lacking of any general coordination beyond what you saw on the memo, caused the most undesirable result by far. I cannot state how ridiculously terrible I feel about this right now. You can just drop out of everything on my end, if you want. I can't and won't be angry. Now, as Bomber suggested, we can just work it out; our friendship won't be torn apart by this.
But that's not why I feel so bad.
I'm not afraid that our friendship will be torn apart by this. I'm angry at myself for making you feel terrible. Don't think I didn't read what you said before you left. I know you. See, no matter how many joking death threats I deliver you guys, you're still my friends. I tend to enjoy when those friends are happy, especially you. By extent, I tend to dislike it when those friends are unhappy. As such, the worst offense is when I am the perpetrator. That's generally how friendships work. But perhaps I wouldn't know. So, I'm sorry. I don't even know how to phrase it beyond "Hey, Twin. Sorry for being terrible in every conceivable way, and for this mess of an event, among other things."
As such, we at the memo agreed to do a few things for you in reparation for this disaster of an event. Every single one of the Mentis Oculus members will be +2ing you for as long as you want. We'll get you minicrit for as long as possible, if you wish. In fact, I'll give my prize from Tazz to you, if I did indeed get it. You deserve it far more than I do, for enduring all of this horrendous blazing trash from me, and for being such an amazing person in general, in contrast to my general attitude. Once again, you cannot fathom how sorry I am for all of this. This is beyond excuse, and I hope that you can come to forgive me. While I cannot see why Bomber should take any of the blame for this catastrophe whatsoever (as I convinced him to do this for me), he stated "I feel pretty bad as a bystander, and having a small hand in the arrangement of this... disaster." If you deem it wise to forgive us for this mess, you're a far greater person than I (which has just been proven by the very nature of this duel), though it isn't as if this was ever a topic of discussion.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
VUM, ME QBIXX PIYE IV AVPERWAQQAUV, UD QURPQ;
CU! RENEX AV PBE WUUVXACBP OVFER PBE GUORPQ.
~~~
Kar nfnuvvh qoyekc-wmyk nhrvrgwkcs; kie whiznuw; klh zsiek nmor pxgpfhh kce psl wkuh ik cfyu xptzgvrfk.
45/50 Life (+2 from TheDrivingLlama)
8/20 splat tim
+2 to TheDrivingLlama.
1 Demon Blood Shard 1 Raspberry Pi 1 of any book 1 Empty Taglocks 1 Richard Taglock 1 Popcorn Bane of Lapis Ender Matrix Journal #-1 Black Hole in a Jar Tome of Knowledge Unwritten 18 Bedrock^2 Ingots Ultracondensed Wall
The Future: 19/50 ===================================================== (+4 from Erelye, +2 from jondanger)
Scribe's Wands || UFO Model = The Xenomorphs (5/5) COMPLETE
I +2 Generic.
The Scribe walks into Bomber Stadium, surveying the crowd. "It's amazing how many people want to see me dead. Or at least, injured." He readies himself for the duel, making last-minute checks. Breathing in and out, the Scribe faces his opponent - Cinavi. "I hope you're ready. If you're not, then I'd just like to tell you that you're going to have a bad time here. That probably sounds cliche, but it's true." The Scribe thinks back at how he got into this mess... If he hadn't summoned Uncle Grandpa, he wouldn't be in this duel. But he did, and now he is. His head was on the chopping block because someone didn't agree with his methods.
The Scribe remains stoic as Bomber signals the countdown. At five, he raises his pistol. And at fire, he fires. The Scribe pulls the trigger of his pistol, something shooting out from the pistol at high speeds. The force of the thing that ejects from the pistol blows the Scribe backwards, knocking him to the ground and causing any shots that Cinavi would have made that fire directly at him to miss. In addition, the thing the pistol fired is releasing a massive amount of golden energy - a protective spherical shield that's seemingly blocking physical and magical attacks. The crowd and Cinavi are able to get one quick look at the projectile before it impacts - it's a pink crystalline cylinder with a leaking pen inside.
Regardless of whether or not Cinavi dodges the shot, the cylinder has to impact something. And it does. The golden shields and the crystaline cylinder itself shatter upon coming into contact with Cinavi or the wall, leaving only the leaking pen, which falls onto the ground, uncapping itself. The result is a cesspool of ink spilling out into the ground, permanently staining the floor with the energies of the abyss. The ground warps in on itself, dragging Cinavi down into a gaping pit of nothingness that pulls him in, unrelenting in its force.
The corruption eats away at anything Cinavi has, tainting his very being, his very essence, and his very soul. Cinavi becomes a mockery of what he once was, a shallow figment. And the ink is growing all the time, turning into a whirlpool of black carnage. The Scribe stands up and watches. "I don't particularly know why my use of paradoxes offended you, but I take it that we're not going to be pals after this, are we. So I figure, why not end this now? I kill you here and we can move on. I know killing in this duel is frowned upon, but I think it could leave a mark."
Tilting his head, the Scribe thinks. "Actually... No. I think killing isn't the answer here. I'll leave you to rot with this malignant form for a while longer, until, like the rules permit, you are sufficiently wounded and I demand you yield to me. That's fair, correct?" Ink keeps adding itself to the onslaught, making Cinavi more and more of a prisoner. Soon, his entire body begins to crack and wither away at the stress, the churning ink pulverizing his form and even corrupting his coding. Cinavi is quite literally becoming undone. After several minutes, the Scribe nods his head.
"I believe that's enough, don't you? Now you've learned what happens when you cross me, hm? I will now demand that you yield to me, and give me my proper place as the winner of this duel. If you do so, then maybe I can turn a blind eye to your apparent hatred of me. Maybe we can have a mutual understanding of each other. And if you don't, well then..." The Scribe's hand flashes with the image of an hourglass. "You won't have a hatred of me anymore. I can tell you that much."
Alchemy: Diamond Autobow && Generic Flint and Steel
If the Soul of the Core is still alive somehow, I hug it. The Soul of the Core is so shocked to receive a kind gesture, it is momentarily stunned. Tearing up, it is flooded with happiness... until I pull back and laugh at it. Did you REALLY think anyone would ever love you, Soul of the Core?
Since I forgot to say that: all modules installed on the factory are retrieved.
Since shooting the medic is always the first thing to do:
Hezetor uses the power of the orb of pure energy to control lightning directly on the face of Mordesh medic, this in addition to being a bolt of pure power energy is also a wonderful example of how the ability to control the energy in an environment is a great ability: see immediately after the lightning strikes the victim the energy and force of lightning are not dispersed but re-used immediately to form another lightning striking the creature again, the process repeats until the victim is reduced to a heap of ash.
+2 to Pit [AZ]
Charges
Concordant Killer 12/25
Rugname 28/50 +2 from MegaMiner
.44 Magnum && container for modules = Modular Magnum 2/?
I don't know how people had such big posts at the start of the flipping game.
Also, story time.
/nullity
A few days later Redstone woke up in an infirmary in a city. “Hello, Commander Dertoxus, you have been knocked out by a stun bomb for a few days.” Redstone shook his head, “Days?” he thought, “there’s no way.” He decided to keep this thought to himself to avoid potentially insulting whoever said that. “Hey, buddy, we’re here.” whispered a voice. “Me, too.” said another voice. “So am I!” shouted a cheerful voice. Redstone opened his eyes, and saw his comrades, also his friends: Destiny, Emerald, Lapis, and Coal. With a small smile, Coal waved. “K.I.N.G was attacking the ship.” Lapis said sternly. “You mean the Killer Intelligent Neglecting Genius?” Redstone responded. Lapis gave a small smirk, but then it faded. “There’s no time for joking, we’ve gotta find Stone.” Lapis continued. Nodding with a bit of reluctance, Redstone got off his bed in the infirmary and dashed into the city.
Lesser Dog NEO, a Neutral entity, is complete! It has a mediocre HP and attack power to start, but every time a player pets it, it extends its neck, healing it slightly and increasing attack and max HP. In addition, this model is a robot to distinguish it from the original Lesser Dog, and therefore takes less damage from physical attacks but more from electrical-based ones.
AA fires off a stream of confetti at generic for some reason, doing pitiful damage. What.
Wow. My calculations say the CSI Cyber division has a 80 in 81 chance of finding SOMETHING useful with my help (thats total, btw) and they found nothing. What failures. At least they left a suitcase full of something. I look in the suitcase with a drone, and if there are no memetic hazards (or other hazards like a bomb) in it, I give it to Crusher48. He knows what to do with it, I hope.
OK, I have something important schoolwork to do tonight. Really sorry, but no update tonight, it seems. Trying to get that done while updating is not going to be fun.
DTG2 had a post cap, and it was a rather phyrric solution. It wreaked havoc for people in different time zones and rewarded only active posters while not letting the little guys do much more. We'll see how this one turns out, though...
Ekimu The Mask Maker: 4/50
Fairy in a bottle: 3/10
Skarmory uses Aerial Ace on the Hatred of Formatting!
I shoot the Hatred of Formatting with my Thunderstruck.
+2 to Pit from AZ
DTG0 Inventory: Radiant Sights, Spellweaver, Thunderstruck, Kanohi Hau Nuva
Mask work: Coming Soon!
BIONICLE Antics
Commands:
-
Action:
I might want to try the whole playing as an entity thing... Maybe I'll use my two charges for that instead.
I complain very loudly about how I have absolutely no idea what these new mercenary enemies look like even though they're supposed to be right in front of us. They're probably a reference to something, but I can't be bothered to google it. How am I supposed to come up with an interesting and relevant attack when I don't know what they look like and I have no context and blah blah blah blah terrible descriptions blah blah blah blah text based gaming blah blah blah blah blah blah.
Hopefully that damages something.
Relevance Line:
Back in the "present", Mikoto breathed a sigh of relief. He could use the pills to a certain effect, but actually hated doing it and was sure that Gail would have a panic attack or something from it.
"Okay... good. I think it's sweet of you to be thinking of us like this. I'm sure the Veteran will appreciate your effort. I already do."
Gail smiled even though the praise was pretty cut and paste.
"... Mikoto? ... Could you... come exploring with me?"
She knew that Mikoto didn't want her wandering around by herself, and so couldn't refuse the offer.
"You don't need to ask that. Of course I'll come with you."
Alchemy and charges:
I think I accidentally skipped a point for these alchemies, so they're done now.
(Terraria Fleeting Lava Charm && Sunstone) || Conversion Scales = Sun Charm DONE
(judge's scales && blindfold [justice is blind, after all] && malachite blade ) || Tuning Fork = Sword of Justice DONE
Got +4 total.
The first companion: 50/50. Sorry, but I want to hang on to this. Just for one turn, okay? I want to use at with my other charge.
Another Charge: 49/50.
+2 to Pricey
There's a difference between a hero and a champion. A champion overcomes threats, but a hero overcomes fears.
All my maps, click here.
Then there's also a Youtube channel I'm somewhat involved in.
A Tactical Genius: 28/50 ================================================== (+2 from generic)
+2 to Crystal
The influx of mercenaries could prove to be a large problem, as it gave the PZ side a lot of manpower. Bomber decided to start to pick them off, and would attack the Mordesh Medic (if they were still alive, otherwise the Aurin Esper was his target). What better way to do this than use The Warp, of course? Using these energies could be unpredictable, but Bomber was an expert.
So, calling upon a psychic discipline known as Biomancy, he scrolls through a mental catalog of different powers he could manifest for this particular situation. Biomancy involves the manipulation of biological energy and processes, meaning the wielder can change their physical form, or that of their enemies. "Lets see, Blood Boil, Enfeeble, Smite, Bio-Bolt... ooh, Iron Arm! This one should do just nicely."
Arcs of green energy danced through the air, gathering into Bomber's right arm. His already gray skin-analogue began to turn metallic, as biological matter is transmuted into pure iron. Bomber's arm also grows in size, becoming much larger than the other. In this state, Bomber could both defend himself from harm and beat anything into a bloody pulp.
Bomber then charged his target (either the Mordesh or, if the Mordesh is dead, the Aurin), backhanding them with his powerful iron arm. They would be sent sprawling from the impact, but Bomber wasn't done. Before they could even begin to get up, Bomber grabs them by the leg and lifts them high in the air. Then, he brutally slammed them back down into the ground. He continued his assault, punching them several times with his heavy hammer-like arm, reducing them to mush. His Iron Arm began to wear off, which is when Bomber teleported himself away to safety. It was then that he sensed something...
Bomber felt someone's mind being manipulated at the moment, and realized it was that of the person known as Serpent. This was something he could take advantage of. "Hm, I already used a lot of warp energy, so perhaps I can use something else..." An idea struck him. Opening the black void that is his interdimensional storage that resided within Hellco., Bomber pulled out a small, blue-gray crystal. It seemed rather unassuming, but it had a lot of untapped potential. The crystal was a material called Vitrum. What it did was act as a sort of battery for raw energy. The material excelled at it, being able to store and release massive quantities of energy with only a small amount of material. It was recently discovered by Hellco. and is being used in much of its technology and research.
Bomber was able to directly access that power, tapping into the energy of the crystal. The Vitrum crystal began to crackle with energy that miraculously ripped a temporary hole in time launched itself into the past. It really seemed to guide itself to the point of interest here, being Serpent's mindscape. The presence of a lot of raw energy within a mindscape can be manipulated by a person with enough skill. With that done, Bomber deposited the crystal, ready to use it again in the future.
The sun was setting, and that meant it was almost time. He felt a buzz in his pocket as his phone received a message. Pulling it out, Bomber took a look. "Preparations are done? Excellent." Bomber put his phone away, and suddenly vanished in a puff of smoke and brimstone.
Far from the battlefield, in a rather secluded area, was where the duel would be taking place. Upon arrival, the crew who had been constructing the place for him stood at attention. Their job was to build the stands for the crowd as well as concessions and an area where bets will be collected and tallied. And, well, who else to hire for the job than a crack team of Orks? Indeed, the stands were a little ramshackle, but that was their style. And, believe it or not, they were just as sturdy as the conventional ones.
Lining the stands were banners of differing color; some were teal for Cinavi while others were taupe for The Scribe. The stands were being given their final touches by numerous Grots (think like goblins). There was a large circular space that the stands surrounded. There was one thing missing here, which Bomber would contribute. Standing in the center of the area, twelve swords materialized out of the air close around his body. They flash different colors, perhaps having some sort of a symbolic meaning. He spreads his arms, and so do the swords. They then plant themselves into the ground at the edges of the circle. These would later form a magical barrier once the two combatants were ready. Yes, preparations were truly done. Bomber sent off a Grot to litter the main battlefield with fliers of the event, hoping to attract more than just the Orks and a select few others. Carrying a stack of crudely drawn representations of The Scribe and Cinavi shooting at each other (large angry eyebrows drawn on each), the Grot ran off. All Bomber had to do now was wait.
The stands were filled entirely with Orks and Grots, wearing different garbs and face paints to display who they are rooting for. Within the crowd was anyone else who decided to attend. The crowd was loud and boisterous, of course. Bomber had a few of his lackeys to make sure things didn't get too rough, but he told them to only intercept when things got too bad. The two combatants would be arriving at any minute. Bomber sat in his own personal booth in the center of the ramshackle bleachers, adorned in Hellco. color and style.
And there they were, Cinavi entering from one end and The Scribe from the other. The crowd let out a roar, ready for the duel to begin. Bomber stood up and commanded silence. He then picked up a microphone, and spoke with enthusiasm.
"Laadiiies aaaaand gentlemen! Welcome to Bomber Stadium™, brought to you by Hellco.! Tonight I am proud to host the major event of... this turn! Yes, what you have all been waiting for is finally about to begin! The duel of the ages; the fight to see who is right; the battle of the minds! Cinavi, VERSUUUUS, The Scriiibe!"
The crowd let out another deafening cheer as the two combatants stepped forward.
"By the way, there is a little gift shop that can be accessed through the exit at Column 78 that sells all sorts of things. Hellco. brand T-Shirts, snow globes, and plushies related to the event can be purchased there. No further bets can be made past this point; what has been put on the line cannot be withdrawn! There is also a field medic nearby who will tend to the wounds of the combatants and any crowd members. Oh, and there WILL be injuries."
A spotlight shone down on a hunched over Ork at the edge of the field. Next to him stood a Grot carrying a tray full of wicked medical tools. Some could have sworn they saw the Ork grinning madly. There was some unease in the crowd. No Ork ever liked a visit to a Painboy, and for good reason.
"First, I will state the offenses that had lead up to the declaration of this duel, in the words of the one who declared it himself, Cinavi: 'Basically just deprivation of will because I believe that smart people should be able to talk their way out of anything, or talk people into anything, and the general methods the Scribe used for summoning Uncle Grandpa, which I say thanks to the very tattoos on the bodies of five of us here.'
With that out of the way, I must now move on to reiterate the rules of this event:
I. Provide a perfectly circular area that sufficiently prevents disruption for the duel to occur within.
II. Have a medical professional (healer, doctor, et cetera) who is not one of the principals on the scene at all times. Giving them plausible deniability is not required, but suggested, as to not ruin their medical careers.
III. Principals are only permitted to utilize dueling pistols themselves in the duel. However, anything the pistol itself manages with , is perfectly legal in any duel. Anything caused by external occurrence is perfectly legal, as it is more than likely that it was not caused by one of the principals.
IV. The two principals must meet back-to-back in the center of the circle upon the time appointed for the duel to occur. This must either be at dawn or dusk.
V. Both principals have an impartial mutual second, who states the rules of the duel, along with the offense(s), and designates the beginning of the duel (which coincides with the statement of the word "fire"), along with its end.
VI. A duel does not have to necessarily end in death. In fact, this is frowned upon. It is best for one party to wound the other, and demand the other yield.
VII. After the principals meet as described in rule four, the second will state the offense(s) which required resolution; the principals will take exactly ten equal steps away from each other, draw their weapons, and turn exactly one hundred eighty degrees, to face each other.
VIII. After the completion of rule seven, the second will count to ten. The principals' pistols should be raised when the second reaches five. Anything sooner or later is banned. Principals should fire when the second says fire, not one.
IX. Betting on duels is permitted, as long as the principals are not directly involved in such affairs.
Breaking these rules will force a consequence. Well, the consequence for breaking these rules are unfortunately grim, I must say. If the rules are broken, well, you will have to face my own brand of soul-rending torture. Truly, it would pain me if it had to come to that. But do not doubt my willingness to do it if need be.
And with that said, pretty much anything else goes! Now, may our two combatants walk to the center of the arena, standing back-to-back."
Once they had done so, Bomber continued.
"Now, to prevent premature escape and disruption from the outside, I have set up a magical barrier. Which will be going up.... now!"
A maroon barrier of energy formed between the swords, strange runes floating between them.
"Seriously, don't attempt to break that thing. Rules can have greater power than you think, folks, especially those of honorable combat! Gentlemen, take ten paces opposite from one another! At the count of five, draw your pistol and face each other. After another count of five you may fire your weapon."
Ten paces were taken, the two opponents aching with anticipation.
"One, two, three, four, five."
The Scribe and Cinavi turned to face each other, weapons drawn.
"And now, six, seven, eight, nine...."
There was a brief pause. Tension hung in the air for what felt like ages.
"FIRE!"
Da Shootiest Bolter && Burna = Kustom Shoota-Burna (Level 6: 4/7)
Death Pact && Spirit Absorber = Soul Repository (Level 8: 4/9)
UMVAEQLV SPD DWZQWVAW PXDGE WTTI JDQOX
IKL OJEY BEM VCRVMPB DKGSB XXHGACA
JWJVAWA TQDN GZ UXL XTOX BEMAT FPIOA
=Action=
Sorodin> Hm.... who should I attack first?
Sorodin rolls a d6, and rolls a 3.
Sorodin> The Mordesh Medic? Eh, whatever the dice says. And it TOTALLY didn't only have 3s or anything. Totally.
Sorodin sits down and closes his eyes, focusing his energy. After a bit, a dark storm cloud comes rolling in, settling above the Mordesh Medic and following it wherever it goes. It starts out with a light drizzle, just enough to distract the Mordesh Medic, but does no real damage. Then it turns to a light rain, annoying the Mordesh a bit more. Soon, it starts with a moderate rain, now enough to make the Mordesh slip and fall, doing a bit of damage. Then it goes into a heavy downpour, creating large puddles and such. Now, it's acid rain. That must hurt. After a while, it stops being acid rain, and just rains a whole ton harder, flooding the whole area around the Mordesh, somehow not getting out to other places. Lightning strikes start coming down, electrocuting the water and therefore the Mordesh Medic inside. And last of all, the water freezes over, and the Mordesh is frozen in it, feeling more than a light case of frostbite. The storm cloud drifts off, and Sorodin opens his eyes and stands up.
Sorodin> So..... what did I miss?
==Alchemies==
Super Unfair Paper Mario Maker Sketchpad && Mario 64 = Super Unfair Paper Mario Maker Sketchpad 64 (level 5: 5/6)
Auto-Surgeon 9000 && Mini-Alchemieter = Auto-Merger 1/???Eh, whatever. It was going to be able to imbue item's properties into entities, but whatever.Voidmetal Bottle && Pocket Dimension = World in a Bottle 1/???
==Charges==
The Nonexistent 11/50
Essence of Rain 8/50
+2 Pit
Please check out my PvP map based around explosions and fire, FireFight!
Sometimes, I wonder why they call mapmakers mapmakers and not cartographers.
Dragons n' Stuff
Please click!
Walker: level 2, 502000 damage
Best Pun Ever: 39/50
+2 to Fseftr
Walker realizes that he's leveled up now, and decides to try out the new ability that he has available to him. Unsure quite what to do, he pauses.
"...NOW, HOW DID IT GO... UH... HMM... I THINK I SAY THE WORD AND THEN THINGS HAPPEN... UH..."
Beat.
"FORTIFICATION."
The sound of an ability being used rings out over the battlefield. Due to how the ability Fortification works, the stack is applied to a PZ entity... This time around, it's been used on Mozart II.
Due to using an ability this turn that wasn't itself an attack, Walker does not get to attack in this post.
GODDAMN IT
STUPID GENDERFLIP VIRUS
9/50 9/50
Flailblade && Absurdly Sharp Blade = Absurdly Sharp Flailbldae (2/5)
Shark && Machine Gun = MegaShark 2/9
Noose --0 Dark Magic Tome = Tome Of Self-Sacrifice 2/11
I grab a banana. I proceed with throwing it at the Uncreativity Monster. It impacts, then explodes into a bunch of poisonous spider wasps. The wasps start stinging it.
Ugh, no update tonight guys, sorry. I realize that generally trying to update at or beyond 8 PM is a pain and unlikely to get finished, and honestly I like doing the whole update in a single post.
Expect an update Sunday.
(Reposting this for duel purposes. Sorry for the inconvenience.)
I suddenly realize that I am standing in the middle of a field of decomposing mole carcasses and glass shards. Simply wonderful.
I place a machine down on the ground, and connect a number of vacuum tubes to each of the faces. I walk over to a number of mole corpses, and vacuum up the gases emitted from their decomposing bodies. I travel from mole to mole, vacuuming up steadily more and more of the gases. Soon enough, I require an extended storage system. I remedy this by attaching a number of pressurized tanks to the initial device.
I gather more and more of the gases exuded from the corpses up, filling the tanks in due time. Yet, I still continue, adding on several more tanks of greater capacity, along with symbols of increased capacity. I drain up every single mol of gas from the corpses, and fully seal the tanks. I immediately place a ladder on the side of the massive tank, and climb up to the top, building a secure platform atop the thing.
I construct what appears to be a cyclopean cannon atop the platform, overseeing the server silently. I climb back down the ladder, and put on a pair of leather gloves, along with a gauntlet on my right hand. The thing is emblazoned with two things, both glowing a fiery orange: an upward-pointing triangle, and a Sagittarius symbol. Fire, and ceration. I pull out a Resonant Portable Tank, which I hold in my left hand, walking around.
I come across the first of the corpses devoid of gas (of which there are many). I stoop down, and touch the body, already stuck through with glass shards, with the gauntlet. Immediately, it begins to dissolve, beginning to undergo liquefaction, and decomposing into some strange bone/organ/flesh/glass liquid compound. I fill the Resonant Portable Tank with the fluid, leaving nothing behind, before walking on to the next corpse, and doing the same.
I file across the field, dissolving corpse after corpse, and clearing the field. Don't thank me for my public service, no matter how putrid and disgusting this all is. I really don't deserve it. Anyhow, soon enough, the field of battle is as pristine as it ever could have been, hundreds of trillions of liquid dead moles in multiple Resonant Portable Tanks.
I pipe all of the Resonant Portable Tanks' contents into a few Bedrockium Drums upon the sides of the cannon, before pressing a button on the thing's front. Without an ounce of hesitation, I attach a tube from the top of the gas tank to the cannon's bottom. Immediately, the thing's lights turn on, glowing a fine red in anticipation. While I'm waiting for everything to fill up, I construct several more of these Dead Mole Mortars around the original one, connecting all of the piping up. Soon enough, there are thirty-nine Dead Mole Mortars centered around the power source and original mortar. I build a control panel on the side of the main mortar, and prepare everything. Skies are clear enough. Enemies are numerous enough. I press a few buttons on the control panel's touchscreen.
Loading MolebombOS Version 0.391...
Loading...
Loading...
WELCOME, "terminalAutocrat"! YOU HAVE JUST ACCESSED THE COMMAND TERMINAL TO DEAD MOLE MORTAR BATTERY NO. 894162. THIS BATTERY WAS DESIGNED FOR YOUR EXPRESS USE AND CONTROL.
PLEASE ENTER A COMMAND.
>list commands
HELP, DIRECT, FIRE, RELOAD, CONFIGURE, SCAN.
>direct
ERROR: INVALID SYNTAX. PLEASE USE DIRECT(DISTANCE RELATIVE TO MORTAR BATTERY) DIRECTION.
>direct30m north
The battery of mortars immediately directs itself to point upwards, at an angle directly facing the PZ forces.
>scan
PROPELLANT RESERVES: 100%
AMMUNITION RESERVES: 100%
>fire
The mortars' barrels all light up with a brilliant red, and globs of absolutely fetid purulent flaming grume is fired into the sky by the mortar batteries, propelled by the gases exuded from the decomposing cadavers. The air is filled with a fuliginous and putrescent odor that causes many players to vomit. I do not. This is absolutely revolting. The mortar battery fires hundreds of globs of the disgusting ammunition into the sky. I watch, and wait, observing those who vomit quiescently.
Moments later, the globs begin to land upon the PZ forces. They burst immediately upon impact, spraying putrid flaming liquid over the enemy. The odors and bacteria contained within or nearby the stuff on their end must be unbearable. The mortars continue to fire, dislodging hundreds of thousands of decomposing liquid moles from their bedrockium prisons. This continues for several minutes. I watch, a grimace upon my face. The PZ entities appear to be screaming, on fire, or vomiting, and overall panicking with the situation at hand.
The mortars continue to fire, eventually reaching a point where supplies are low.
FUEL RESERVES LOW.
>configure
WOULD YOU LIKE TO COMBINE AMMUNITION AND PROPELLANT?
>y
There is a foul hissing noise, and the fuel is depleted, and mixed with the ammunition. Suddenly, explosions begin to rain down from the heavens as methane-infused globs of flaming corpse-liquid rain upon the PZs. Fire is everywhere, the PZs are burning alive (or undead), and nobody really knows what to do. One of the mortars abruptly turns off course, and fires several shots into the distance, which glow red and disappear. I quickly redirect this error when I hear the sound of smoke from another direction. Odd.
The scent of rotting flesh swiftly turns to that of charred meat as hell rains down upon the PZs. Over time, I deplete the newly-reduced fuel resources, and the ammunition.
WARNING: PROPELLANT RESERVES 1%
AMMUNITION RESERVES 0%
PROTOCAL 13976 ACTIVE. SELF DESTRUCT PROCESS INITIATED.
I hurriedly leap off of the mortar, and flash-step away. The entire battery explodes. This explosion drops a sheet of fire and burning shrapnel upon the PZs. Hah.
Ashwood Rod && Agonized Soul = Agonizing Rod (4/9)
Depowered Cipher's Call && Indigo Flames = Slightly Less Depowered Cipher's Call (4/9)
(+2 to Twin)
Discord: 32/50 ////////////////////////////////////////////////////.
Infinity Mechanism 25/30 (+4 from Crystal) //////////////////////////////.
I stare down the Scribe, drawing my ornate dueling pistol, and loading it with what appears to be some small black and white object, before waiting for Bomber's announcement. I ignore the crazed Ork spectators. As far as I know, they've definitely bet on one of us. This is generally what happens at such events.
Ten. I watch my opponent.
Nine.
Eight. He likely observes me as well.
Seven.
Six.
Five. We raise our loaded weapons.
Four.
Three. I look the Scribe in the eyes (aim no higher).
Two (summon all the courage you require).
One. I point my pistol slightly upward.
I pull the trigger. Immediately, the object I loaded into the pistol goes flying out, streaking through the air, pointed slightly upward. It barely misses the Scribe's head, by mere centimeters.
Exactly as planned.
The instant the thing is directly above the Scribe's head, it explodes into pulsating red and blue energy, waves ebbing through reality at a precisely-calculated angle. The force of this blast, which appeared to be slightly off-center, becomes evident when the Scribe is thrown back several meters. I blink.
When I open my eyes, he is back in his original location. I raise my eyebrows, and watch as some sort of absurd timelock drags him back and forth, rendering him unable to act. Over time, the fabric of reality around the Scribe grows weary of the spatial manipulations. Glitched fragments of light begin to emanated from both the Scribe, and the area surrounding him. I take this time to load my dueling pistol with another shape, which appears to be a mere bullet. Or is it?
Waves of static roll around the Scribe's form, and I watch, observantly noting that he is unable to fire at me, given his current incapacitation. I check the time on my computer screen. Well, that's quite close to that time.
I look up into the sky, and watch as the embers of the dying sun fading beneath the horizon further energizes the already-effective sort of… Infinity Mechanism. We shall call it that. The Scribe's body itself grows steadily glitchier, fragments of code and flesh just wafting off of it, and being absorbed by the static. I train my pistol on the space where the Scribe was standing initially, waiting. I check the time once more, and put on some sort of gas mask of a vibrant red and orange hue with my other hand. I wait several more moments.
The Scribe's body has been mostly consumed and absorbed into the cloud of static at this point. The circuitous motion of his warping back and forth, and slowly being torn to shreds by the static is accompanied by me continuously checking the time, as if something were arriving. This is further supported by the fact I adorned a gas mask mere minutes ago. Finally, the last fragments of the Scribe are absorbed into the cloud of static, which continues to warp back and forth for several seconds, before it just ceases, appearing in the initial position of the Scribe. The cloud of static forms a shape vaguely similar to that of the Scribe, and the being is slowly reformed.
The process is slow and painful, of course. It begins with the chest, particles of static appearing in the air before me, right above where the Scribe was standing mere minutes ago. Blood (or any blood-analogue the Scribe might have) begins pouring profusely from the fragment of chest that has just formed. The wound is slowly sealed as progressively more of the Scribe reforms, a blood-red puddle growing beneath him. His legs and arms form next, forged from the collected data of the static. Blood still drips from any orifice it can. Next, the neck forms, blood splattering upon the ground beneath the Scribe. Lastly, the head and hands of the Scribe form. Of course, the first thing the Scribe can feel is the lack of around two liters of blood in his body. The resultant nausea will hopefully throw his aim off a bit. The blood instantaneously teleports itself back into the Scribe's body. Wonderful.
Of course, this does not mean that the hell is over. No, it has just begun. Suddenly, eight spinning red gears similar in construct to the Time symbol float above the Scribe's head. I note them, and keep my pistol trained on my foe. Suddenly, eight burning globs of some absolutely putrid flaming liquid drop from the gears, and burst on the around around and upon the Scribe. I watch the occurrence through the lens of my gas mask, and watch as literal explosions rip apart the ground around the Scribe. So, that's where those last few Dead Mole Mortar shots went. Interesting.
The disgustingly fuliginous odor of the liquid causes several Orks in the crowd to vomit upon the ground. I quiescently watch the event unfold, training my eyes on the Scribe all the while. That is, of course, because he is literally on fire at this point. Thanks for the mole corpses, Twin. Hah.
The liquid moles fester around the Scribe, still burning. Yet, the liquid seems to be seeping into the ground all the while. The entry of the ammunition and the propellant into the mortar must have had some effect on it, I presume. In fact, sections of the fluid itself seem Tainted. The pure earth that forms the clearing in the forest is stained with the arcane corruption of organic matter whilst the Scribe burns alive. The festering liquid seems to provide for a fertilizer, of sorts. Taint spreads fervently around the Scribe, various arcane afflictions entering his body whilst he burns. The corruptive influence of the Taint seems to make the air grow thick on the other side of the clearing, making it somewhat difficult to breathe.
The flaming liquid itself begins to shudder, quivering toward the Scribe's position. I watch on in interest as the liquid nears the burning calligrapher. Suddenly, the liquid mole corpses splash into the air, and swarm the Scribe. Hundreds of individual droplets of the infernal blazing flesh/organ/gas/glass fusion altered by the influence of Taint levitate into the air, forming two distinct masses of fluid. These masses slowly grow into veritable lakes of revolting semi-liquid. Moments afterward, the stuff begins to circle the Scribe.
It immediately all dives inward at once. Hundreds of gallons of flaming liquid mole rage against the already-burning Scribe, crushing him with the pressure. The stench is absolutely horrendous. Even more Orks vomit. I watch all the while, keeping my pistol trained on the Scribe. The poisonous qualities of the liquid burn the Scribe's epidermis, along with the retch-inducing stench of the stuff itself.
I'm mildly apprehensive about writing this part, but here you go. The liquid promptly dives down the Scribe's throat, the viscous, partially-solid stuff slowly sliding down. The fire, of course, should serve to destroy it before it goes all the way down. Of course, the fire will likely also get rid of the mucus lining of the Scribe's stomach, causing the acids to tear through it. Either one works. The liquid itself freezes in its movement when a singular noise echoes through space toward it. That of a gunshot. I stand, pointing my now-smoking pistol in the air. The liquified dead mole seems to be affected by this cosmic occurrence in a negative way, immediately sliding out of the Scribe's body in the entirety, leaving none of the foul stuff behind. I watch as the liquid seeps through the ground, likely depositing itself in a cave underground, directly inaccessible from the surface. I take the time to remove my gas mask, and reload my pistol, whilst the Scribe retches from that horrific experience. I don't blame him.
Of course, that gunshot in the air served more than one purpose.
Suddenly, there is a bang, and a small patch of ground mere centimeters behind the Scribe's current position goes up into dust. I look past the Scribe for a moment.
You did one thing.
I warned you on the fourteenth, remember?
Suddenly, a sniper shot strikes the Scribe in the back of the knee. As he goes down, another shot hits him in the back of his left arm. I receive a pester.
-- cucumbersTriggerman [CT] began trolling terminalAutocrat [TA] at 19:20 --
CT: It's been ten days. The job is done now. I want my payment.
TA: later
TA: im really busy right now in a duel
TA: ten minutes
-- terminalAutocrat [TA] ceased trolling cucumbersTriggerman [CT] at 19:20 --
I immediately get back to the duel, after having watched my second assassination go through, after all of this time. Well, it is not really an assassination. The Scribe is still alive, of course. I walk over to him, and point my pistol directly at his face, before planting a foot upon the arm holding his pistol.
TA: YIELD. I'D RAther not have to shoot. Nobody has to die.
If the Scribe yields, I grab his hand, and pull him up, handing him over to the medical official assigned for the duel, as was mandatory.
Of course, if he does not, I pull the trigger. While a bullet does emerge from the barrel, it appears to have been supplanted by a mass of dark gray energy, which immediately explodes upon contact with his face, not killing him, but injuring him somewhat. I absolutely refuse to do the deed myself.
Regardless, after everything is over, I put my pistol away, and walk into the crowd. If the Scribe yielded, I emerge with a somewhat satisfied state of mind. If not, I am entirely silent as I pass through the crowd, leaving the area entirely.
Okay, this is from the future, after Twin posted. I'd like to stick a little afterward in for Twin to read tomorrow. So, if you aren't him, there's no real reason for you to continue. But why write an afterword, you ask?
Because I feel terrible about myself right now.
First off, Twin, I just need to thank you for participating in all of this, despite having been obviously bogged down with work the entire time. I'd also like to apologize for pressuring you with so many ridiculous things at once. If you're reading this, and you don't know what I'm talking about, LEAVE. I'm serious. This is a one-on-one conversation here, from the idiot to the endurer.
Now, back to the point. This was, quite frankly, a rather idiotic method to do something on my part. We should have just talked the offense out like normal human beings, instead of me deciding to leap into a duel. In theory, this would have been a nice thing to do. However, it seems as if a series of unfortunate (or unluckily-timed) real-life events, along with our lacking of any general coordination beyond what you saw on the memo, caused the most undesirable result by far. I cannot state how ridiculously terrible I feel about this right now. You can just drop out of everything on my end, if you want. I can't and won't be angry. Now, as Bomber suggested, we can just work it out; our friendship won't be torn apart by this.
But that's not why I feel so bad.
I'm not afraid that our friendship will be torn apart by this. I'm angry at myself for making you feel terrible. Don't think I didn't read what you said before you left. I know you. See, no matter how many joking death threats I deliver you guys, you're still my friends. I tend to enjoy when those friends are happy, especially you. By extent, I tend to dislike it when those friends are unhappy. As such, the worst offense is when I am the perpetrator. That's generally how friendships work. But perhaps I wouldn't know. So, I'm sorry. I don't even know how to phrase it beyond "Hey, Twin. Sorry for being terrible in every conceivable way, and for this mess of an event, among other things."
As such, we at the memo agreed to do a few things for you in reparation for this disaster of an event. Every single one of the Mentis Oculus members will be +2ing you for as long as you want. We'll get you minicrit for as long as possible, if you wish. In fact, I'll give my prize from Tazz to you, if I did indeed get it. You deserve it far more than I do, for enduring all of this horrendous blazing trash from me, and for being such an amazing person in general, in contrast to my general attitude. Once again, you cannot fathom how sorry I am for all of this. This is beyond excuse, and I hope that you can come to forgive me. While I cannot see why Bomber should take any of the blame for this catastrophe whatsoever (as I convinced him to do this for me), he stated "I feel pretty bad as a bystander, and having a small hand in the arrangement of this... disaster." If you deem it wise to forgive us for this mess, you're a far greater person than I (which has just been proven by the very nature of this duel), though it isn't as if this was ever a topic of discussion.
((Yeah, it's a sidequest.))
I ram into the Aurin Esper in Goron form many times.
Come to kspcity! Transportation
http://kerbalcity.myminicity.com/ http://kerbalcity.myminicity.com/tra
Industry
http://kerbalcity.myminicity.com/ind
…
…
Ender Matrix && Demon Blood Shard = Demonic Matrix (Level 5: 5/6)
Tea || RNGesus Shrine = ? (Level 5: 3/6)
45/50 Life (+2 from TheDrivingLlama)
8/20 splat tim
+2 to TheDrivingLlama.
1 Raspberry Pi
1 of any book
1 Empty Taglocks
1 Richard Taglock
1 Popcorn
Bane of Lapis
Ender Matrix
Journal #-1
Black Hole in a Jar
Tome of Knowledge Unwritten
18 Bedrock^2 Ingots
Ultracondensed Wall
The Future: 19/50 ===================================================== (+4 from Erelye, +2 from jondanger)
Scribe's Wands || UFO Model = The Xenomorphs (5/5) COMPLETE
I +2 Generic.
The Scribe walks into Bomber Stadium, surveying the crowd. "It's amazing how many people want to see me dead. Or at least, injured." He readies himself for the duel, making last-minute checks. Breathing in and out, the Scribe faces his opponent - Cinavi. "I hope you're ready. If you're not, then I'd just like to tell you that you're going to have a bad time here. That probably sounds cliche, but it's true." The Scribe thinks back at how he got into this mess... If he hadn't summoned Uncle Grandpa, he wouldn't be in this duel. But he did, and now he is. His head was on the chopping block because someone didn't agree with his methods.
The Scribe remains stoic as Bomber signals the countdown. At five, he raises his pistol. And at fire, he fires. The Scribe pulls the trigger of his pistol, something shooting out from the pistol at high speeds. The force of the thing that ejects from the pistol blows the Scribe backwards, knocking him to the ground and causing any shots that Cinavi would have made that fire directly at him to miss. In addition, the thing the pistol fired is releasing a massive amount of golden energy - a protective spherical shield that's seemingly blocking physical and magical attacks. The crowd and Cinavi are able to get one quick look at the projectile before it impacts - it's a pink crystalline cylinder with a leaking pen inside.
Regardless of whether or not Cinavi dodges the shot, the cylinder has to impact something. And it does. The golden shields and the crystaline cylinder itself shatter upon coming into contact with Cinavi or the wall, leaving only the leaking pen, which falls onto the ground, uncapping itself. The result is a cesspool of ink spilling out into the ground, permanently staining the floor with the energies of the abyss. The ground warps in on itself, dragging Cinavi down into a gaping pit of nothingness that pulls him in, unrelenting in its force.
The corruption eats away at anything Cinavi has, tainting his very being, his very essence, and his very soul. Cinavi becomes a mockery of what he once was, a shallow figment. And the ink is growing all the time, turning into a whirlpool of black carnage. The Scribe stands up and watches. "I don't particularly know why my use of paradoxes offended you, but I take it that we're not going to be pals after this, are we. So I figure, why not end this now? I kill you here and we can move on. I know killing in this duel is frowned upon, but I think it could leave a mark."
Tilting his head, the Scribe thinks. "Actually... No. I think killing isn't the answer here. I'll leave you to rot with this malignant form for a while longer, until, like the rules permit, you are sufficiently wounded and I demand you yield to me. That's fair, correct?" Ink keeps adding itself to the onslaught, making Cinavi more and more of a prisoner. Soon, his entire body begins to crack and wither away at the stress, the churning ink pulverizing his form and even corrupting his coding. Cinavi is quite literally becoming undone. After several minutes, the Scribe nods his head.
"I believe that's enough, don't you? Now you've learned what happens when you cross me, hm? I will now demand that you yield to me, and give me my proper place as the winner of this duel. If you do so, then maybe I can turn a blind eye to your apparent hatred of me. Maybe we can have a mutual understanding of each other. And if you don't, well then..." The Scribe's hand flashes with the image of an hourglass. "You won't have a hatred of me anymore. I can tell you that much."
11/40
Alchemy: Diamond Autobow && Generic Flint and Steel
If the Soul of the Core is still alive somehow, I hug it. The Soul of the Core is so shocked to receive a kind gesture, it is momentarily stunned. Tearing up, it is flooded with happiness... until I pull back and laugh at it. Did you REALLY think anyone would ever love you, Soul of the Core?
Cue massive emotional trauma.
Check out my bad CTM map reviews here.
Since I forgot to say that: all modules installed on the factory are retrieved.
Since shooting the medic is always the first thing to do:
Hezetor uses the power of the orb of pure energy to control lightning directly on the face of Mordesh medic, this in addition to being a bolt of pure power energy is also a wonderful example of how the ability to control the energy in an environment is a great ability: see immediately after the lightning strikes the victim the energy and force of lightning are not dispersed but re-used immediately to form another lightning striking the creature again, the process repeats until the victim is reduced to a heap of ash.
+2 to Pit [AZ]
Charges
Concordant Killer 12/25
Rugname 28/50 +2 from MegaMiner
.44 Magnum && container for modules = Modular Magnum 2/?
Module || (nano-laser && nano-centrifuge) = Module of atomic manipulation (Level 12: 2/13)
Alrighty then.
Leviathan: 14/30
Manaticon Flamesprayer [Lvl. 6] 1/7
I support the next two Anti-Zero attacks by adding some energy to them! They will mini-crit.
Also, should I do the text to speech thing or not? Does it help?
An alternate timeline emerges.
However, we must first start from the beginning...
I don't know how people had such big posts at the start of the flipping game.
Also, story time.
/nullity
A few days later Redstone woke up in an infirmary in a city. “Hello, Commander Dertoxus, you have been knocked out by a stun bomb for a few days.” Redstone shook his head, “Days?” he thought, “there’s no way.” He decided to keep this thought to himself to avoid potentially insulting whoever said that. “Hey, buddy, we’re here.” whispered a voice. “Me, too.” said another voice. “So am I!” shouted a cheerful voice. Redstone opened his eyes, and saw his comrades, also his friends: Destiny, Emerald, Lapis, and Coal. With a small smile, Coal waved. “K.I.N.G was attacking the ship.” Lapis said sternly. “You mean the Killer Intelligent Neglecting Genius?” Redstone responded. Lapis gave a small smirk, but then it faded. “There’s no time for joking, we’ve gotta find Stone.” Lapis continued. Nodding with a bit of reluctance, Redstone got off his bed in the infirmary and dashed into the city.
I just took the Minecraft Noob test! Check out what I scored. Think you can beat me?!
To take the test, check out
http://minecraftnoobtest.com/test.php
War, war never changes.
The Beginning.
http://technoterra.myminicity.com
Lesser Dog NEO: 10/10.
Narration: 11/50.
Tesla Scepter: 5/whatever
+2 to Fseftr
Lesser Dog NEO, a Neutral entity, is complete! It has a mediocre HP and attack power to start, but every time a player pets it, it extends its neck, healing it slightly and increasing attack and max HP. In addition, this model is a robot to distinguish it from the original Lesser Dog, and therefore takes less damage from physical attacks but more from electrical-based ones.
AA fires off a stream of confetti at generic for some reason, doing pitiful damage. What.
Oh no
=Turn Two=
(6 / 20) R e m e m b e r m e , s o I m a y l i v e o n .
(15 / 40) Font Friend (+2 from Battlefury)
+1 to Twin
+1 to Battlefury
=Action=
I cast Pet on Lesser Dog NEO. I also construct a petting robot, which positions itself over Lesser Dog NEO and keeps petting.
The dream that you've never dreamed is suddenly about to FLOWER.
Chair-City? (Ind) (Tra)
7/20 First ESFB
5/10 SCP Foundation
Wow. My calculations say the CSI Cyber division has a 80 in 81 chance of finding SOMETHING useful with my help (thats total, btw) and they found nothing. What failures. At least they left a suitcase full of something. I look in the suitcase with a drone, and if there are no memetic hazards (or other hazards like a bomb) in it, I give it to Crusher48. He knows what to do with it, I hope.
OK, I have something important schoolwork to do tonight. Really sorry, but no update tonight, it seems. Trying to get that done while updating is not going to be fun.
Update likely to be monday at this rate.
DTG2 had a post cap, and it was a rather phyrric solution. It wreaked havoc for people in different time zones and rewarded only active posters while not letting the little guys do much more. We'll see how this one turns out, though...
/
Get it?
It's a null...from Rebirth...
An alternate timeline emerges.
However, we must first start from the beginning...