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I peruse my vast collection of antiques. Alas, I haven't any corpses. Regardless, I manage to get my hands on an eighteenth-century musket, accompanied by a bit of a lead-tipped bayonet. This should be functional enough.

I proceed to carefully affix the bayonet to its designated position, before striding into the core of the madness, not even bothering to load the weapon. I causally spear a Disembodied Hand, forcing it down to the base of the lead. Moving quickly, so to not dislodge the thing, I exit the core of destruction, before engineering a working firepit, and lighting the logs within ablaze. As the flames rage in an upward direction, I stab the bayonet into the burning logs, before disconnecting the thing. It wasn't an antique, of course. The soft metal melts over the Disembodied Hand, fusing it to a burning log. Excellent. I poke the fire several times with a foot, watching glowing sparks spitting off of the epicenter of warmth. I quickly knock several more logs over a somewhat-writhing Disembodied Hand. That is simply distasteful.

In mere minutes, the embers are glowing warmly, lead-stained ashes filling the small pit. Waiting for the thing to die out utterly, I prepare for the inevitable by establishing a small edge-runner mill in the side of the pit, applying sizable enough amounts of sulfur and saltpeter to the thing. As the fire dies out, I scoop out a handful of the ashes of the Disembodied Hand, and add them to the mixture, allowing the mill to function. few more processes afterward, I have myself some veritable gunpowder, which I immediately load into the antique musket. The ultimate sign of disrespect is utilizing the ashes of one's genetic near-duplicate to propel a bullet at the duplicate's relative, after all. I immediately get into position, aiming the somewhat unwieldy weapon's barrel at another Disembodied Hand. Pulling the trigger, a large amount of smoke bursts from the aforementioned barrel, along with the sadly familiar bang of a gunshot.

Funnily enough, I manage to miss the targeted Hand. However, serendipitously, the thing strikes another hand directly in the center. The lead mixture within the bullet seeps into the wound, along with the scattered fragments of ashes infused into the projectile. The wound itself begins to flicker with pulsating verdant of a surprisingly dull shade. I lower the musket, putting it away. I can deal with that later, after all. The flesh of the Disembodied Hand in question begins to writhe somewhat, dripping with numerous bodily fluids, some of which not ordinarily present in the hand of a humanoid creature. With a twitch, and a resounding roar, the original Disembodied Hand, wrought anew, leaps forth from the gaping hole in the center of the secondary Hand. The two hands, reformed in essence, are bound together entirely, the restrictions of flesh proving doubly callous. However, this revival is also accompanied by the sudden increase of lead in the composition of the now-joined beings.

Observing this, I deem it necessary to take several steps in a backward direction, the conjoined extremities of the flesh leaking a substantial amount of liquid lead onto the ground. The foul molten stuff pools together, a miniature lake of darkened metal in an ocean of war-torn land. The dripping of the lead seems ceaseless, forming a steadily more massive puddle beneath the horror-bound appendages.

I raise a finger, carefully overseeing the dripping of lead. The pool glows teal, sparking with psiokinetic energies in a manner akin to burning oil, perhaps. A hiss emanates across the general area, and the metal solidifies- after abruptly rising into the air, and puncturing the forms of both of the Hands, that is. The metal proceeds to solidify fully into lead, welding the Hands to the floor. That's over with, then.

I would deem it necessary to create a second post, but I'm still suffering quite heavily, in my meaningless opinion, from a lack of creativity, likely spurred on by the death of the playerbase. Focus shall have to do. Now, I've got a constitution to write.

---

Elemental Crusher && Sacrificial Knife && Concentrated Blood Essence = The Bloodletter (7/9)
Voidmetal Shovel && Necromantic Rune && Quicksilver Core = Mercurial Gravedigger (6/8)
Stamper && Scarlet Ink && Concentrated Ordo Vis = The Ratification (5/5!)

THE RATIFICATION: A scarlet stamper with a handle composed of polished mahogany. Its mark can be imposed upon official documents, infusing them with the essence of arcane order, fusing the terms and conditions of said document into the laws of reality itself, for a near-permanent amount of time.

NEW: Voidmetal Dagger && Chilled Stone && Runed Bone = The Unforeseen (1/???)

---

(+3 to Bomber)

Flow 8/50 /////////////////////////////////////////////////////.
Murmur of the Harvestman 22/50 (+2 from Richard, +3 from Crystal) /////////////////////////////////////////////////////.
Imperator 38/50 ////////////////////////////////////////////////////.

I order the Alien Drone not currently paralyzed to use Delta Sequence on a Disembodied Hand, inflicting it with the Sealed debuff. This depletes 65% of its current magnetic charge, and both decreases its damage output somewhat, and forces it to act after Uzi in the EoTB. Sealed's duration is three turns. I do hope this works.

I turn to Plantera momentarily. No sense in letting something with that little health live, after all. Pulling out a large amount of Nether Powder and a leather-bound tome of remarkable antiquity, I lament the fact that I have very few alchemies of any use whatsoever for this sort of thing. I'll have to fix that eventually, by which I mean get through my list rather slowly.

I wander through a thick forest kilometers away, surveying the inhabitants of the dark oaken land. There is but one method to enact what I desire, and I intend to utilize it the best I may. Peering through the encroaching darkness, I sight my destination, grinning slightly.

TERMINALAUTOCRAT: Here we are.

I remove what appears to be a silver shovel from my shoulder, sauntering into the clearing of my destination carefully, as to avoid drawing unwanted attention. The thick mist is naught compared to the thick reeking scent of rotting flesh and discarded formaldehyde covering everything. I quickly walk over to the nearest object, which appears to be the gravestone of one 'Edward Woodstock', a name likely of no significance whatsoever. I immediately set spade to wet, thick earth, and begin to dig. I assure you, six feet under was never an understatement. Feeling around in the darkness with the shovel, I mark the individual edges of the coffin beneath, I glance over to the rows of tombstones around me, before dragging yet another heap of moldering dirt to the pile beside me. Hearing a dull thunk upon once more setting to earth, I stare into the hole of my creation. I am greeted by the rotted hardwood cover of what is undoubtably my object of seeking. I toss the shovel to the ground, and lean into the hole, eventually merely hanging off of the edge by my knees. Lifting the coffin into my waiting hands, both of which exuding teal energy all the while. I rise to the ground once more, levitating the coffin onto the ground precisely. Grabbing the shovel once more, I force the dirt pile beside me into the hole, patting it down slightly.

Prying the wooden tomb open, I view a mildly foul-smelling sight; a cadaver half-flesh and half-bone awaiting me, a jagged grin practically upon its features. Ignoring the creeping sensation that it is watching me, I place the cover back upon the thing, before placing it into a quite sturdy wooden crate of a rectangular stature, before exiting the area the second it is dropped into my inventory.

Returning to the bunker for the third time in its history, I step through the concrete halls quiescently, tossing the silver shovel aside. Opening a particular door of steel, I enter a somewhat spacious room, lightless, save for several lit candles near the base of a crumbling stone altar in the center of the room, covered in runes of various sources. I place the crate upon the cold flooring, near the entrance, removing its contents. Walking over to the stone altar, I upturn the coffin over the top of the occult object, before lighting the wooden light ablaze upon one of the candles, and tossing it over to the crate. It will not do to leave any evidence. I place the tome from earlier upon a lectern of similar composition to the altar, affixed to the front of the very thing in question. Then, I unload the Nether Powder into a syringe filled with clear water, before carefully lowering the needle to the area upon the corpse containing the most untainted flesh. I empty the syringe into the thing, before stepping back, readying a sword. The corpse shudders several times. My vision threefold, two of the pupils peering behind the artifice of a conjurer, can clearly sight the vital aura of the creature returning. The moment the undead being rises to the floor, I impale it directly through the chest, and force downward, pinning it to the altar. As it is slain once more, I exit the room.

Heading into the storage room, I obtain several sheaves of aged paper, all of which are marked with either an Aries symbol, or a Gemini symbol accompanied by a Leo symbol. These should be adequate. Entering the altar room once more, I remove a glass jar of medium size from a previously-obscured shelf on the wall, preparing for what shall occur. Removing the sword from the corpse, I place it on the ground, watching as the body begins to dissolve into an ashen goo. I scoop up as much of the substance as I can from the altar, vaporizing the rest, and trapping the fumes within the jar as well. I swiftly apply slimeballs to the unmarked sides of the sheaves of paper, before sticking them to the outside of the jar. Sliding the thing into a light gunpowder-filled tube of some sort, I attach a fuse and a few aerodynamic apparatuses to the exterior of the thing, sealing it all in. I grab it, along with a matchbook on the side, and disappear in a flash of teal.

Reappearing on the field of battle, I place what appears to be a firework, the object of my creation, onto the ground. Swiftly striking a match, I point the device Plantera-ward, before lighting the fuse, and leaping backward. The fuse burns for a mere second and a half, before the device shoots into the air, letting out a trail of multicolored flame. In moments, the thing has struck Plantera, and exploded into several hues of fire, all of which coat the beast, and continue to burn until death, and beyond, reducing Plantera to ashes entirely, the essence of the dead being afflicting the horror eternally. There is no escape. I note with relief that the entirety of the jar was destroyed in the explosion. I honestly haven't the slightest idea what that thing might have done if it had survived. Likely attempted to reform, and murder me.

---

Elemental Crusher && Sacrificial Knife && Concentrated Blood Essence = The Bloodletter (6/9)
Voidmetal Shovel && Necromantic Rune && Quicksilver Core = Mercurial Gravedigger (5/8)
Stamper && Scarlet Ink && Concentrated Ordo Vis = The Ratification (4/5)

---

(+3 to Bomber)

Flow 7/50 /////////////////////////////////////////////////////.
Murmur of the Harvestman 16/50 /////////////////////////////////////////////////////.
Imperator 37/50 ////////////////////////////////////////////////////.

I immediately attempt to teleport over to 4009 = X, -45 = Y, 18 = Z, and buy a property in Moog City beneath The Shelf, for the purpose of void fog moisture farming. Inspiration of the property equals right to live there, no?

Afterward, I observe the Gatekeeper's arrival. What a surprise. I've gotten far too jaded for this kind of thing. Drawing Arachne's Webspinners, I direct my gave toward a Disembodied Hand. Let's see if these things are anywhere near as effective as I designed them to be. At the utmost least, that's 1,800 extra damage.

I slide my fingers down the length of the Webspinners, feeling the small indentations into the cool metal that make up the primarily decorative orchid web patterns. In reality, they are not decorative by any sense of the word. Pointing the two wands at the Hand, I whisper a word under my breath. Immediately, the substance that makes up the portion of the entity, whether it already be flesh, blood, and bone, is morphed into such, small photon emissions signifying the transmutation. I steady my hand, waiting patiently. All I need do is wait, of course.

The Disembodied Hand glows with teal energy, dripping with molten flesh incessantly. The vile stuff, upon exiting the relative safety of the Disembodied Hand, is caught up in a web of interlocking threads of cobalt energy. I flick Arachne's Webspinners upward in tandem. The semifluid composition of the external hand is rendered to essentially naught, destabilizing in instants, before beginning to flow off of the muscle and bone, unbound from the physical solidity of reality's preferred state in such matters. With mere twitches and extensions to my present grip upon the Webspinners, hunks of liquified skin connected loosely to stringy muscle tearing loose in moments, drops of epidermis spraying down upon the ground in the process. I abruptly reel my left arm backward, drawing the Webspinner enclosed within it back as well, in a singular fluid motion. The Disembodied hand is suddenly pierced by what appears to be sharpened and solidified strands of the very muscle, flesh, and bone of its current composition.

The puncture wound is immediately supplemented by the bodily structure beneath and around it dissolving, trailing up the sharpened bone tip and through the ocean of scalding dermis, only to form a veritable spine of some sort around it. With a few slashes from Arachne's Webspinners, large portions of the Disembodied Hand immediately drop off of the thing, forming impossible geometries around the Hand, netlike and searing. Fractures in the eternal fabric of space and time are immediately brought to the means of exploitation, readily. With a curved motion of my wrist, the Disembodied Hand is struck by a spine of marrow enwrapped with layers upon layers of scarlet infinity, sealed in flesh alone. The wound is filled by copious amounts of Cursed Sparks splintering off of the edges of the incomprehensible geometries levitating above. With a warm crackling noise, the Disembodied Hand is lit ablaze by Cursed Flame, the infernal stuff raging upon every inch of the thing, waxing more and more emerald by the minute. With several downward swipes of the Webspinners, the inferno is accompanied by an uncountable plethora more of unquenchable flame. Ignis durat aeterna, they said. Non utuntur ignis, they continue to say. Alas, they know it not.

I draw a vial of oil from my pocket, and toss it upon the Hand, the flames roaring upward in response, accompanied by a minor explosion. I swish Arachne's Webspinners through the air in a manner akin to a symphony's conductor, and watch on as strands of dripping flesh are pulled from the hand, coated in Cursed Flames. The entire Disembodied Hand appears to simultaneously be burning and melting. How fascinating. I arc the wands in my hands upward, hundreds of strands of burning flesh rising from the hand in tandem with my movements. Swiftly, I bring my hands down, the web of burning flesh catching the Hand, and pulling it to the ground in its entirety. I force it through the earth with psiokinetic energies, and cover the hole with equal thought. Burning eternally in a nigh-inescapable hole should be interesting enough.

---

Elemental Crusher && Sacrificial Knife && Concentrated Blood Essence = The Bloodletter (5/9)
Voidmetal Shovel && Necromantic Rune && Quicksilver Core = Mercurial Gravedigger (4/8)
Stamper && Scarlet Ink && Concentrated Ordo Vis = The Ratification (3/5)

---

(+3 to Bomber)

Flow 6/50 (+3 from Crystal) /////////////////////////////////////////////////////.
Murmur of the Harvestman 15/50 (+1 from Crystal) /////////////////////////////////////////////////////.
Imperator 36/50 ////////////////////////////////////////////////////.

I raise an eyebrow at Coolstar the moment he states the surname of the former Lord-Archmage in an apparent attempt to greet me. Fascinating, how people seem to think I'm some long-dead archwizard. Of course, I'm just joking around. It is hard enough to tell between Erelye, the Admiral Ciryatur, and myself, I've heard. Welcome.

I briefly contemplate utilizing my scheme of the moment on the LavaSharkCagoNado, before deciding against it. I'd rather not choke to death on chlorine gas this late at night. As such, I merely turn to Plantera. This is a being I can certainly work with, given that I know exactly what it is. As such, I construct a large pot of meter-thick steel, nearly ten meters in height. I connect a hose to an outlet in the thing's side, and spin several valves around, before climbing to the top of the gargantuan structure.

On my upward ascent, I flick several levers of varying quality and composition upon the side of the tank, before reaching the top. Peering into the mixture through a meter of warded glass, I can sight the pure substance. Bleach, unadulterated and toxic to the very core. The roiling fluid ceaselessly smashes against the sides of the vat, slowly increasing in volume, primarily due to the tube inputting the stuff into the chamber.

Ducking down to the side of the platform now surrounding the vat, I carefully pull a long, metallic tube forth from the side of the vat, watching carefully as nitrogen gas quickly exits the cooling system. Peering into the contents of the tube, I am somewhat surprised to see the power core empty. This simply will not do. Now, if I can manage to follow through with this correctly, I doubt that will be a problem. With a flourish, I reveal a hunk of glowing aubergine crystal from my inventory, placing the thing into the tube, and forcing it back into place. The vat shudders and hisses. The glass viewing platform glows with white energy. Noting this, I leap off of the construct, and observe from the side.

In instants, the tank erupts into a pillar of flame, rapidly decomposing chlorine gas flooding the area. I quickly don a gas mask, sighing. From the burned and corrugated chunks of molten metal, a comet-like object rises. A pseudo-crystalline core, a tail, everything. Liquid bleach flows around the horrid entity. A quick look identifies it as a Bleach Elemental. Every minuscule particle of the chlorine gas forms into a shield for the Elemental, hazy and intangible.

With a flick of my hand Plantera-ward, the spitting and hissing elemental sails over to Plantera itself in moments. The Bleach Elemental plunges into Plantera, disappearing. Immediately, Plantera appears to suffer adverse effects. These are all quite predictable, given that Plantera has just been infused with the essence of bleach, the one true opposing force to organic plant life.

The corrupted plant tissue of Plantera is further infected with the incurable ailments of bleach, seeping down to the very bulb. The remnants of the tank violently decompose, shards of burning metal and flaming chlorine gas sweeping across the general area, most affecting Plantera. Plantera is lit aflame by one of many such outbursts, and the dry tissue left remaining by the bleach serves as ample enough fuel for the eternal inferno. I telekinetically redirect a number of shards of molten slag into Plantera, watching on in silence as it is impaled by the numerous shards of destruction.

Meanwhile, within Plantera, a far deadlier battle rages. A Bleach Elemental versus the soul of Plantera. The conflict is never-ending; ceaseless, it seems. With a hint of influence, I permit Plantera to slay the Elemental. Triumphantly, Plantera is proposed the energies of the Elemental in exchange for vast power. Suddenly, Plantera withers extensively as I utilize the energies exuded in the destruction of the Elemental it assault Plantera. I proceed to exit the area, leaving Plantera afflicted with excessive amounts of atrophic potency, unusable and debilitating. Soon enough, Plantera shall be reduced to dust, I assure you.

---

Public Safety Protection Committee Headquarters, Arcus VI, Albergata Sector, XX11

A humble safety regulator sits at his desk, upon one of the various moons of the gas giant Arcus, in the Albergata Sector of Universe [REDACTED] in the [REDACTED] Cluster. Mere seconds ago, they received word of the summoning of an incredibly dangerous interuniversal being, known as a 'Bleach Elemental'. The summoning of such beings is prohibited under the Bleach Act of 1864 (Repealed 1891 and again in 1908 by the then-small INWVSAP, otherwise known as the Italian Space Party). All violations of this act are to be met with swift and medieval-esque justice. As such, the regulator calls up their boss.

"Hey, sir."
"What is it now?"
"We have detected a major violation of the Bleach Act in Universe C of the Trifecta Cluster."
"Again? I hate that law. It's like a cockroach. No matter how many times you kill it, it just won't die. Can't people see that this kind of safety is pointless? So what if people accidentally summon a Bleach Elemental while cleaning their houses and die? It's their fault if they don't know how that kind of summoning works."
"Sir, we all know about your Italian Space Party leanings. Now isn't the time to start ranting politically."
"Whatever. Just dispatch the standard."
"I will."

Hanging up, the regulator immediately contacts the Interstellar Safety Paramilitary Enforcement Society over on Arcus VI. Given that the place has been run by ISM cronies since XX02, it isn't exactly the most peaceful of places. Probably why people call it the Italian Space Power Enforcement Squadron. In minutes, the ISPES has dispatched a drone bomber to take care of the problem.

The safety regulator places their feet upon the desk before them. This job is hell, they think to themselves silently.

---

I continue to walk away from Plantera, observing the carnage caused this turn with interest. My aural nerves are suddenly overcome with a screeching noise tearing my eardrums to shreds metaphorically. I detect the source of the noise nearly instantly, looking up. I sight a monolithic starship cruiser flying over the server, a number of smaller drone ships streaking out of the hangars, followed by red energy. This thing again. Everything here is drone controlled.

Noting the only possible violation of Arcus law that could have brought anything here, I duck behind a rock. While scanners might be able to see me, half of the things here are either radioactive or burning; I doubt they'll be able to tell the difference between my bodily heat and the burning trees that are likely somewhat nearby. The flagship suddenly accelerates at speeds exceeding that of light, immediately exiting the universe, leaving around forty drones behind.

These drones all pinpoint the being that was most affected by the summoning of a Bleach Elemental. This being is, more often than not, usually the summoner. However, this is not the case in this situation. The most affected being is Plantera. Hah.

The drones realize this in seconds. The small fighters all rapidly get into formation above Plantera, before dropping a number of D-13 class antimatter warheads upon it. The immediate successors of these things are designed to drill through the earth to a planet's core, and blow tectonic plates into space. Please excuse me whilst I attempt to contain the situation. Moments before the warheads detonate, waves of teal and burnt violet forces surround the drones and Plantera. Everything within the range of the protective energies goes entirely dark. I lessen the effect of such shields, and observe the carnage. Nothing remains. The entire thing is a crater straight down to, and through, bedrock. Hah. The eradication of the drones cleans up my story, as well. Excellent.

---

Elemental Crusher && Sacrificial Knife && Concentrated Blood Essence = The Bloodletter (4/9)
Voidmetal Shovel && Necromantic Rune && Quicksilver Core = Mercurial Gravedigger (3/8)
Stamper && Scarlet Ink && Concentrated Ordo Vis = The Ratification (2/???)

---

(+3 to Bomber)

Flow 2/50 /////////////////////////////////////////////////////.
Murmur of the Harvestman 13/50 /////////////////////////////////////////////////////.
Imperator 35/50 ////////////////////////////////////////////////////.

Generic, that is indeed correct. There needn't be any question mark there, however. As for the tarot cards, I'd say The World.

I glance across the Battlefield, disregarding Uzi. Really, she's just being overly ostentatious and trying to confuse us with emotions. It's pointless. The only real option here is being able to teach the Friendly Creeper a lesson. As such, I move as far away from the entity as I can, before turning to observe the landscape behind me. I walk a few meters to the left, and fall through the floor, disappearing.

---

I walk through a dark chamber composed of stone bricks, steam pouring out of the many vents in the walls. Waving a hand before my face to rectify this, I finally glean sight of my target. I step over a brass pipe to face them. The figure is muscular, and bearing a dark cloak obscuring any features. The being before me coughs.

A metal-plated door's handle is grasped by the figure, and pulled open, revealing a well-lit and spacious tunnel bustling with robed and haggard forms, some bearing the mark of the accursed Gambler, others donning naught but a long, thick, and heavy black cloth. I nod to the bouncer, and step inside. The door closes behind me. A few passersby deem it necessary to offer me a glance, before continuing along. I note that the center of the chamber is lined with several train tracks.

Remembering the words of the bouncer, I cringe. Not him again. Looking over to an entrance across the tracks, my suspicions are confirmed. Ugh. They bring him in on a cushion of velvet, his uniform decorated with innumerable medals of service, a sword at his side. The being's eyes shine with nothing but contempt for all life, yet are devoid of warmth and empty of emotion. The entire crowd, likely filled with thousands, parts immediately, a line of armed and ceremonially uniformed soldiers standing in ranks along the line to honor their leader. Off the cushion he steps. I cringe, preparing myself for the most horrid verbal smackdown in my natural life by such a being. The entity in question rises, dignified, yet Machiavellian in nature.

The crowd cheers, eager to see the new arrivals. I look away from the Marquis of Temmie Town, uninterested. The hiss of a train's engine roars throughout the room. A train slides into the station, prepared to open the doors. A click resounds through the room, and the soldiers quickly march around the Marquis, guarding him in case of accidents. I follow the crowd to the side. Snide comments of "Only the finest stuff came in today, I heard." and "This stuff gets more and more illegal by the day, eh?" can be heard from the other onlookers.

The gates slide open, and the object of the operation can be sighted.

Hundreds of Temmies, all eager for release.

They all leap into the room, practically bouncing off of the walls. The soldiers immediately draw their automatic rifles, stooping over the Marquis to defend him. After suffering several strikes to the face and abdomen via Temmie, I duck into an indentation in the wall, waiting. Suddenly, a banging noise emanates throughout the chamber. The Temmies all stop moving abruptly. The eyes of the Marquis, myself, and most of the crowd widen. I immediately rush over to the soldiers. The unbearably heavy metal door of my entry crumples to the ground with a clattering noise, riot shields entering the room before anyone else. I can see the bouncer in the back, bound by handcuffs.

Everyone drops everything. We all raise our arms above our hands. The riot police come around, some handcuffing crowd members, others forcing the Temmies back into the train. Nobody says or does anything, watching the police. I look over to the Marquis. He nods, and steps onto the train. One of the officers walks over to handcuff me. I take a step back.

I grab hold of a bar on the side of the train just as the bouncer sneaks onto the train itself. With a quick pulling into gear, the Marquis' soldiers take control of the train. Steam belches out of the exhaust, and we speed through the tunnel, watching as the yelling officers and crowd members shoot past us.

In minutes, the train meets a steep incline, rising into the air. I struggle, but manage to hold onto the train. In moments, a gigantic train shoots out of a tunnel on our current position within the Battlefield, heading toward the Friendly Creeper. The words 'All Aboard the Temmie Train' spray-painted on the side of the vehicle give it a sinister appearance.

The train runs over the Friendly Creeper.

Skidding along, I leap off of the train, shouting 'call me later' over to the Marquis within the train, which enters the underground once more. I look over to the bloody mass that is the Friendly Creeper, noting how it did not explode, for whatever reason. Fascinating. If the Friendly Creeper died prior to this attack, it assails another random PZ entity. Or, I would hope.

---

Elemental Crusher && Sacrificial Knife && Concentrated Blood Essence = The Bloodletter (3/9)
Voidmetal Shovel && Necromantic Rune && Quicksilver Core = Mercurial Gravedigger (2/8)
NEW: Stamper && Scarlet Ink && Concentrated Ordo Vis = The Ratification (1/???)

---

(+3 to Bomber)

Flow 1/50 /////////////////////////////////////////////////////.
Murmur of the Harvestman 12/50 (+1 from Crystal and +4 from Tazz) /////////////////////////////////////////////////////.
Imperator 34/50 (+1 from Crystal and +4 from Tazz) ////////////////////////////////////////////////////.

I observe the G.F. Hemomania once more, eyeing it slightly more cautiously. This ship could likely annihilate a great deal. It must be annihilated, in turn. But, for now, I see a malformed lemon on the side of the Battlefield, just lying there. I curiously approach it, and pick it up.

You shall become my slave.

... What? I don't think this is the time.

You resist, as the last one did? Very well. You are forever cursed, as is the last one. May you both hear my statement. Birds are singing, flowers are blooming. On days like these, fools like you two should be burning in hell.

...

You will all be mine, soon enough.

Good luck with that. I'm going to build a portal, and call forth the Oversoul in ten minutes.

You do not understand the tr—what.

That's your head start, free of charge.

The lemon just sort of lies on the ground for a few more moments. When I blink, it disappears. Good. The lemon of horrors can listen. With that, I pull out Arachne's Webspinners, weaving webs in the air. Whilst I prepare the summoning portal, I contemplate the existence of the gods of Dimension 953.

---

"In the beginning, there was but one. A vast horror, whose influence stretched from the forests of Xerksvi to the towers of Alcordia. None knew of its existence, but all knew and felt its influence every day. It was a deformed horror, yellow in pigment, and dark in thought.

The Lemon.

The tendrils of this lemon were twisted, and extended far. Some called it the Prime Evil upon discovering of its existence. Others knew it as the Petty One, for it would choose smaller victories for evil over the annihilation of worlds. None could perceive its existence. On the dawn of the fourteenth millennium, all knew that a counter was required. A cosmic balance. And thus, the esteemed walnut sorcerer Ivan Aepheridion set out on an insurmountable journey, to establish the Balance.

Aepheridion worked carefully for fourteen blogarth to insure the basis to his theory of creation was indeed fact. Being met with success, he devised the ultimate walnut as a counter to The Lemon. He could not seem to manufacture the perfect walnut. Blogarth flew past like leaves in the wind, and still Ivan could not formulate the perfect walnut. As such, Aepheridion designed his master plan. He would fuse the souls of every single one of his walnut subjects, and create the Oversoul.

It took Aepheridion mere malgarth to set everything into motion. Soon enough, exactly nine thousand nine hundred eighty-four walnuts sat upon individual Fusion Spires in Ivan's laboratory, whilst the vile anusbeavers of Malpractia attempted to smash down the doors. Quickly, Aepheridion set the Detrivium Core into the Grindstone, and the process sparked to life. One-by-one, the walnuts rose two thousand five hundred feet into the top of Aepheridion's tower, where they were passed through the Probectinium Maximae, cementing their soul fusion, the thing serving as the portal through which the Oversoul would emerge. The furthest doors to Aepheridion's laboratory burst open, and Ivan swiftly leapt into the Elevator of Attenuation, barely managing to miss the angry mobs.

Ivan was trapped within the elevator for three hours as he ascended. When the doors slid open once more, he saw a beauteous sight; the Walnut Amalgam, nearly complete. The final walnut sailed upward, into the Probectinium. Aepheridion watched as it passed through. That tugarth, Aepheridion saw the birth of a god.

But not for long.

A young anusbeaver by the name of Henry Ordinum leapt atop Ivan, and mortally wounded him with a stick of cheese, before Aepheridion forced the young creature down the tower, where he fell to his death. His remains were later found and consecrated by Morvanian President ∀qɹɐɥɐɯ ˥ᴉuɔolu, along with Aepheridion.

As Ivan lay dying by the Oversoul he had sought to create, he uttered a curse so vile, so disparaging, so arcane, that the forces of plot themselves shamefully were evicted from Dimension 953, never to return. The Amalgam hovered over Aepheridion, and watched as he died. Despite his efforts, the Amalgam was no balancing force. He had missed on single calculation.

He would need to be added to the mixture.

With that, the Walnut Amalgam took Ivan Aepheridion's soul into its folds, and did ascend to become a god. The walnut souls together formed exactly eighteen human souls, along with Aepheridion's, making it nineteen. The Amalgam officially became the Absolute God of Intraimage, known as the Walnut Oversoul.

The Walnut Oversoul, initially intended to be a passive counter, to combat the active Lemon, was infused with the soul of Aepheridion, and thusly was quite active, seeking out all forces of the Lemon, and annihilating them. The Lemon, weak in comparison, fled to multiple other dimensions to escape the wrath of the Oversoul, but it always followed. Their eternal chase continues up until this very tugarth."

-- Excerpt from Howard Geraldus' Slarneth Infinities, a history text famed for its lack of bias in any way whatsoever.

---

I weave a glistening web into the air with Arachne's Webspinners, before putting them away. A swirling portal with defined edges warps into existence mere meters before it, and a massive walnut hurtles into the web. I am absolut-

Where is he?

What? You shouldn't be talking to me.

The Lemon. Where has he gone?

A953-∞±1 has fled, o A953-∞.

I am not "A953-∞". Call me the Walnut Oversoul, or Aepheridion, if you will.

Of course. Shall you perform your traditional one-upsmanship of the Lemon?

I believe so. Where has that accursed being left its mark?

The G.F. Hemomania.

The portal closes, and the Walnut Oversoul levitates into the air, its form immaculate, and its power unlimited. Suddenly, every walnut on this plane of existence begins to shudder, awaiting their master, lord, and savior. They all sail through space, time, and void to reach the Oversoul, accelerating far beyond the speed allocated to light. The walnuts gather before the G.F. Hemomania, forming a large sphere.

More and more walnuts collide with the sphere, adding to its mass. Suddenly, the sphere erupts into a monolithic orb of plasma. The walnuts are all compressed into a blue giant star. The Walnut Oversoul influences the lifespan of the star massively. Within moments, the thing begins to expand, more and more walnuts colliding with it, only adding to its mass. First, the thing becomes a blue-white supergiant, then begins to shudder, shrinking in size. Instants afterward, a supermassive black hole is birthed. It begins to fold into a beam, which is immediately fired into the G.F. Hemomania. When the thing is stabilized, and the dust begins to settle, I look up to the Oversoul expectantly.

My mark has been left. I shall go now.

Good luck.

Thank you.

The Walnut Oversoul shines with the light of nine thousand nine hundred eighty-five souls, before disappearing into the folds of this plane, back to Dimension 953, on his eternal chase. Alas.

---

Elemental Crusher && Sacrificial Knife && Concentrated Blood Essence = The Bloodletter (2/???)
Eyepatch || Evocation Lens && Crystalline Auram Essentia = Conjurer's Artifice (8/8!)
NEW: Voidmetal Shovel && Necromantic Rune && Quicksilver Core = Mercurial Gravedigger (1/???)

CONJURER'S ARTIFICE: An eyepatch with two central lenses on it, each for a pupil of an eye, placed in a manner reminiscent of the dark lens of a pair of glasses once worn by a particular Thief of Light. One is composed of a thick aubergine crystal, and allows one to see the aura in the world around them. The other, a green lens, permits one to sight the intrinsic aura of living beings. This thing is literally not going to function at higher than fifty percent capacity unless you have polycoria.

I examine the Conjurer's Artifice many times over, scanning the crystalline lattices for errors. Finding none, I slide the thing onto my left eye. Lucky three pupils is a thing I can do. Hah. Now, I need not bother with Goggles of Revealing, or Kirlian Lens modified to suit those with a penchant for conjuration.

---

(+2 to Bomber)

Murmur of the Harvestman 6/50 /////////////////////////////////////////////////////.
Imperator 28/50 (+2 from Bomber) ////////////////////////////////////////////////////.

My Alien Drone copies Twin's action.

I watch the arrival of the G.F. warships with distaste. One of these is going be going down eventually. Well, both. But, for now, I shall merely focus on one, as is economical. As such, I merely wait. I set down an oaken chair, and wait patiently upon it, watching a nearby cave for something. It should come, in time. To prepare, I lodge a Carrot-on-a-Stick into the ground before me.

In minutes, a rumbling noise is emitted from the caverns beneath me, reverberating about, and making other, similar sounds seem minuscule in comparison. Instants later, the fully-armed Bunnyman host of the Lord Rabbitor Xerivex bursts onto land for the first time in Bunnyman history. Bunnymen centuries from now shall weep to their children as they tell the tales of this vast army. I shout over to the nearest Bunnyman.

TERMINALAUTOCRAT: What are you doing here?
SIR ERIC: We are the vast army of Xerivex, good player.
TERMINALAUTOCRAT: I can see that, but why are you here? Who are you?
SIR ERIC: We have come to sight the surface for the first time in the history of our people, and I am Sir Eric Earnwood, fair player.
TERMINALAUTOCRAT: Eric Earnwood? Cinavi Kanera.
SIR ERIC: It is a pleasure, Player Kanera.
LORD RABBITOR: What is the meaning of this?
TERMINALAUTOCRAT: ?
SIR ERIC: Sir, this our first new subject. They have kindly introduced themselves to me.
LORD RABBITOR: Oh, I see. As you were. Prepare the entity transportation carts, I suppose.
TERMINALAUTOCRAT: ...
SIR ERIC: Of course.

I stand in shock, watching as the Bunnymen just casually pull over a cart with the clear intent of kidnapping me. I do not recall my senses for two full minutes, before shouting over to Earnwood.

TERMINALAUTOCRAT: Do you actually believe that you can take this place over? The only thing we can do to control the world is defeat the previous leader, up there.

I point over to Uzi. In response, Sir Earnwood calls over to his colleagues, and tells them that they must first defeat the massive fleets of this dictator to accrue glory, and end the Iron Crusade. In response, I hand the Bunnymen some fireworks. The Bunnyman army collectively practically dances in glee. Without hesitation, a mass of war machines and siege towers rise up from the caves, all constructed well enough to be able to combat flying warships. They proceed to engage the G.F. Hemomania. Instead of bothering you with the details, I shall instead provide a compendium of statements Sir Eric managed to utter during the course of the battle.

SIR ERIC: Take that, fiends!
SIR ERIC: Hahah! You lose again!
SIR ERIC: Good lord, this fellow has a gun!
SIR ERIC: I can see the depths of infinity!
SIR ERIC: Fall, warship!
SIR ERIC: Feel the cold edges of Rabbitor's host!
SIR ERIC: For the Crusade!
SIR ERIC: Die.
SIR ERIC: Look, it is Xerivex!
SIR ERIC: I am a walnut, short and stout!
SIR ERIC: This combat thing is not for me, good lord.

Hours later, Earnwood returns to my side, before shaking my hand, and carrying the fallen body of Rabbitor Xerivex back into the caverns. He is followed by the Bunnyman army. Alas. Today marks the fall of a great leader.

---

NEW: Elemental Crusher && Sacrificial Knife && Concentrated Blood Essence = The Bloodletter (1/???)
Eyepatch || Evocation Lens && Crystalline Auram Essentia = Conjurer's Artifice (7/8)

---

(+2 to Bomber)

Murmur of the Harvestman 5/50 (+1 from Tazz) /////////////////////////////////////////////////////.
Imperator 25/50 (+1 from Tazz) ////////////////////////////////////////////////////.

I continue to watch over the Binary Slime. There's definitely always something I could test out here. I pull out a diamond-tipped drill, teleport several hundred meters away in a shower of teal sparks, and begin to dig directly downward. The tunnel formed by this is exactly one block in length and width, and extends around forty-five meters downward, until my drill runs out of charge. Satisfied, I place down a Nova Cataclysm, striking the thing with a flint and steel. Hurriedly flying out of the blast radius, I hear a large explosion occur beneath me.

Descending down into the chamber reveals that I uncovered a small cave, a large magmatic river flowing through the thing. This will be all the better for my purposes. I instantaneously get to work, constructing a platform out of steel girders above the river. With a few machines, and a geothermal pump or two, I construct a functional enough geothermal energy source for the facility. This will be all the more beneficial, as there is no need for lighting, given my presence above a river of lava. I fill the girders in with Hardened Glass plating, to keep everything structured, and begin work on a supercomputer. There is one reason to do this, of course.

Several hours later, I hook the last section of ME fluix cable into the system, watching with relief as the screens around the platform light up, one-by-one. I take this opportunity to close up the hole in the ceiling leading to the surface. We can deal with that later. For now, I must get to work. I send an ad out serverwide, asking for butlers named Alfred. Only a butler named Alfred will work. As I do this, I bring up the schematics for a vehicle of some sort and a suit on the main computer screen.

Several hours later, I hear a knocking on my armored blast door. Removing myself from underneath a large, barely-assembled heap of metal devices, I stride over to the door, unlocking and opening it at the press of a button. Beyond the thing stands a stately man, clad in a suit and tie. He pulls on some gloves, and shows me his identification card. Alfred. I tell him to come on in. He says as you please. I give Alfred a brief tour of the facilities, and tell him to make himself comfortable. This should only take a few hours more. He nods, and begins to sweep the floors, as a manner of habit.

Elsewhere, the Binary Slime hops about, complacent. It is only marginally injured, and is doing quite well for itself, as an entity. A roaring can be heard off in the distance. This does not concern the Binary Slime. The Binary Slime knows this is just another act in the endless chaos of the Battlefield. The rumbling grows louder, closer. The Binary Slime is slightly more concerned. Perhaps the assault is directed at the Binary Slime? Suddenly, the Binary Slime is run over by what appears to be a fully-functional Batmobile. Within it, Alfred and I high-five each other, having just accomplished our task. We drive back and forth over the Binary Slime, deploying a number of deadly contraptions upon it. Burning oil, spike bombs, smoke grenades, you name it.

After half an hour of constant roadkilling, the Batmobile replica begins to smoke. I look at Alfred warily, and he returns my look. We immediately resolve to make our escape. The back of the Batmobile opens slightly, revealing a small hatch to the outside. Alfred and I do the most logical thing at the moment, mounting the two Batcycles conveniently stored within the back of the vehicle, and starting them up. In moments, two Batcycles burst out of the back of the Batmobile, moments before it explodes horribly atop the Binary Slime. Alfred and I carefully spin around the bikes, before running the Binary Slime over once more, as a final sign of disrespect, before driving off into the wilderness.

---

Cognitio Ethereal Essence && Spider Silk && Knitting Needles = Arachne's Webspinners (10/10!)
Eyepatch || Evocation Lens && Crystalline Auram Essentia = Conjurer's Artifice (6/8)

ARACHNE'S WEBSPINNERS: A pair of black knitting needles covered in images of interweaving orchid spiderwebs. They can be utilized in the creation, and subsequent weaving, of webs infused with the essence of fortune and knowledge.

NEW: Pocket Watch && Magic 8-Ball && Indigo Flame = Winding Circles (1/???)

---

(+2 to Bomber)

Murmur of the Harvestman 3/50 /////////////////////////////////////////////////////.
Imperator 23/50 (+2 from Crystal) ////////////////////////////////////////////////////.

I carefully watch over the Binary Slime. I proceed to go through my extensive contacts list, most of which were obtained from my tenure as the bursar of that one testificate university. I could always try talking to them. Then again, the Italian Space Mafia aren't exactly known for helping people. There is always one thing I could do.

---

Weasel City, Arcus V, Albergata Sector, XX11

A hard-boiled weasel detective sits at his desk, the blinds drawn up. This weasel is one of the top problem sleuths in the city. Solicitations for their service are numerous in quantity. Compensation, adequate. They are feeling particularly hard-boiled tonight.

The phone rings, quite suddenly. The weasel detective takes his time in picking it up. A dame in distress, it appears.

"I'm not in distress, you self-aggrandizing lunatic."

It appears as if the dame is getting angry over the phone, likely in fear of what has occurred.

"Oh my god. I am not in distress, moron."

The dame is clearly quite distressed, and requires the aid of the weasel detective.

"I DON'T need your help! It would just make things quicker!

The dame is getting frantic wit--

"Wait. Are you seriously just narrating everything to yourself in your office?"

Maybe.

"Sigh. Just come over to that one place eventually. If you hope you won't catch phthisis hard enough, you'll probably suffer less, or something."

The weasel detective is slightly freaked out by this statement. Is every client he has insane?

"..."

The weasel detective agrees to come over to see the problem. The Italian Space Mafia was going to break his door down in a few hours, anyway. It might be best for him to escape the search before it is conducted. The weasel detective stands, grabs his key, and walks out the door, shooting the lock to exit, of course. All hard-boiled detectives shoot locks. This is an immutable fact that is being stated for the record.

The weasel detective dons his fedora, puts on his coat, and heads for the spaceport. Today was going to be a long day.

---

I wait around the Battlefield, tapping my foot impatiently. He said he was going to be here ten minutes ago. He lied. I hear a grumbling in the distance.

"How was I supposed to know the mafia would have agents on the ship waiting for me?" the weasel detective muttered irritably. "They likely tapped the phone wires."

I peer off into the forest, watching as a weasel wearing a fedora and a Prohibition-era overcoat walks over to me. I point over to the Binary slime.

TERMINALAUTOCRAT: That slime over there is attempting to steal valuable abilities from one Ursarkar E. Creed. He wants reparation.

Immediately, the detective draws a key from his coat, and points it menacingly in the Binary Slime's direction.

"That fiend!" the weasel detective says, looking incensed.

I carefully pull the sum I offered to the weasel detective out of my pocket, and keep it in-hand, watching as he fires bullets out of the key into the Slime. Bursts of pure divine pulchritude blaze within the Slime, irreparably damaging its concentration. The weasel detective immediately draws the shining blade Tectrixcalibur, and stabs the Slime repeatedly, watching as ink slowly spreads within it, in a manner akin to internal bleeding, perhaps.

The weasel detective proceeds to arm himself with none other than the Smith Corona Blotspitter, typing a rather unpleasant note to the Binary Slime. He tosses it over.

The Binary Slime immediately suffers an anxiety attack from the unpleasantness of this note. The weasel detective walks back over to me, sheathing his miniature arsenal. I hand him the money, and he rides off into the sunset on a starship Arcus V-bound.

And thus ends a day in the life of a hard-boiled weasel detective.

---

Cognitio Ethereal Essence && Spider Silk && Knitting Needles = Arachne's Webspinners (9/10)
Eyepatch || Evocation Lens && Crystalline Auram Essentia = Conjurer's Artifice (5/8)

---

(+2 to Bomber)

Murmur of the Harvestman 2/50 (+2 from Tazz) /////////////////////////////////////////////////////.
Imperator 20/50 (+2 from Tazz and Bomber) ////////////////////////////////////////////////////.

Ciphertext at the bottom of Twin's post is "NOTHING IS MEANINGLESS. THERE'S NO SUCH THING AS COINCIDENCE. FIND THE PATTERNS. FIND THE ANOMALIES. UNLOCK THE CODE. UNLOCK THE GATE."

As a side note, Talist, that animation is absolutely amazing.

Also being a member of the group which hashed these out, I can safely hand out the initial link. I won't, just in case, but it might be needed.

As for Crusher, more likely than not, yes. Your faction's essential goals are ostensibly quite impossible without messing around with excessive amounts of paradoxes.

I carefully watch the Psy-Godmodder. You know, I'm quite certain that utilizing a crew of fishermen is the only possible method to defeat him. As such, I toss a rotten fish in his direction, waiting patiently.

The sound of trees being felled intermixed with paddles through air becomes especially prevalent in mere moments. Soon enough, the arrival of The Axemen can be sighted on the dark horizon, their fishing boats sailing through the air unopposed. Excited mutterings travel between figure to figure on the boats, until several reveal fishing rods.

With the skill of true fish-men, the lines and hooks go sailing toward the Psy-Godmodder en masse, most narrowly missing him. For whatever incomprehensible reason, the drawing in of the lines brings The Axemen closer to the Psy-Godmodder. At this close proximity, a number of bearded men with axes leap off of the boats, and fruitlessly swing at the Psy-Godmodder. Barbarians, I suppose.

The job of the axe-wielding maniacs, unbeknownst to them, is rather simple. All they need to do is set established perimeters for those above. No matter how much dodging the Psy-Godmodder does, he should not be able to escape this circle of axes. The fishing rods are wheeled back in. However, they are followed by fishing nets.

Hundreds of fishing nets connected to electrodes sail off of the boats, all in the direction of the Psy-Godmodder. If I inexplicably manage to hit him, I keep him alive with my mind, until I can get Richard over. But, enough of that.

50/50 expended.

Hours later, I page through the worn sheaves of a number of tomes of arcane magic. Lines of teal text on the margins of masses of dark ink show exactly how these have been used. Diagrams and symbols of a dubious origin mark a number of positions in each tome. I am currently looking for one thing of absolute importance at the present moment, given the threats of the Scribe. Let's see here. Page 437 of the Parma i Istarion should line up with this part of I Húna Parma, and such.

I place the two books upon the ground, opposite each other. Burgundy and amethyst ink line together, interlocking in brilliant circles and weaving through infinities. A remarkably complex, yet easily done, circle of occult marks lies in the absolute center of the intersect. Fascinating, given that the two authors never met up and spoke, from what I know. Scanning the four pages, I can clearly see what shall be required of me. The symbol denoting Cognitio burned into an upward-pointing triangle can only mean a few things, after all.

With careful precision, I plan out a spell in the depths of the hidden bunker I mentioned quite some time ago. A chamber has been specifically emptied for this purpose. I glance around one last time, staring at the concrete walls and burning candles. With a precise gesticulation, I begin the show. Everything is utterly still as I mutter something under my breath.

TERMINALAUTOCRAT: I hwestavílë calalcarë. Sanwënya orta. Yú i onóna rehtuva.

All of the candles are extinguished at once. Mere instants after the light fades away, it blazes anew, this time in an indigo shade. I make a controlled intonation.

TERMINALAUTOCRAT: Cenya.

The candles roar to life, more so than they had been previously. Tendrils of indigo flames streak across the room, weaving a seal into the air before me. As the fire ceases projecting itself into the image, I squeeze my eyes shut. This will only hurt a bit. I step into the flames.

I immediately pass out from the pain, both in and out of game.

When I come to, the candles are smoking, yet flameless, and the seal is gone. My vision appears to have been placed under an indigo filter. I blink several times, thus dispelling the image. There. Mental warding. That should be enough to resist all single-assailant attempts, given my alchemical backup. The image of the indigo seal is burned into my eyes only a moment more, before fading, and granting me functional enough vision to once more control my avatar. Wonderful.

---

Cognitio Ethereal Essence && Spider Silk && Knitting Needles = Arachne's Webspinners (8/10)
Eyepatch || Evocation Lens && Crystalline Auram Essentia = Conjurer's Artifice (4/8)

---

(+2 to Bomber)

Research Salvaging 50/50! (+2 from Bomber and +4 from Crystal) ////////////////////////////////////////////////////.

NEW: Murmur of the Harvestman 1/50 ////////////////////////////////////////////////////.
Imperator 19/50 ////////////////////////////////////////////////////.

The drones, having regained 20% charge, immediately turn around, fly over to the PZ Brain of Cthulhu, and unleash Supermagnet on the Creepers. Back to 0% charge, but all of these things should be dead.

Anyhow, I file a number of prerequisite forms for an auspicious-seeming purpose, just sort of igniting them with a match afterward. I watch them crumble into arcane ash firsthand. As the embers die out into mere sparks of former glory, I glance over to the opposition. Yes, you've just dealt with the trolls. I don't particularly think that is reason to let up on you, really. It is quite illogical, in my opinion. Regardless, I reveal a portion of what I burned. One lawsuit directed at a 'UserZero', along with numerous assault charges.

Suddenly, Uzi and I appear in a brightly-lit court chamber likely dimensions away from the server. Upon the seat of the judge sits our Chief Justice for the night. I bow in respect to the venerated Meowcat Supreme.

meow

A powerful paw strikes against the table, drawing everyone to rapt attention, though I seriously doubt anyone knows what is going on. Uzi suddenly realizes that her godmodding powers mean nothing here in the realm of Chief Justice Meowcat Supreme, who doesn't care about plot. I calmly stand and list a number of offenses toward our resident Godmodder, accompanied by a number of visions of these events unfolding appearing on a screen. The numerous CAT JURY MEMBERS nod in accordance with these, writing things down. It's certainly advantageous that I am currently a lawyerviscerator, of course. I would say prosecution, but we all know that in the courts of Meowcat Supreme, there is no defense, and that the word defense itself is offensive. When it comes time to make the decision, the jury ends up ruling in Uzi's favor, for whatever reason. I slap a hand to my forehead in frustration, before making a proposition to the Chief Justice offhandedly.

meow meow

What? No.

meow meow, meow meow

Dammit. You know what I mean.

MEOW meow.

Oh. I see. Shall it be done, then?

(=^・ェ・^=)

That's not a valid answer.

┏(=^..^=)┛

Fine. I sigh, drawing out the ultimate decider of the case. A quarter. That's right. This is how court battles are really decided. Thanks, democracy. I flip the metallic circle once, calling heads as it spins. Heads. Best out of three is declared in frustration. I call heads. It's heads. Best out of thirty. I call heads every time. It's heads every time. Meowcat Supreme immediately sends Uzi to Prison Land. I head back to the server. Every side of that coin, including the edge, was heads.

A day later, I am reading the Daily Meowcat, the dimension's number one cat-in-court-based newspaper. Yeah, just kidding. Nobody reads newspapers anymore. I'm reading it online. The headline is "NEWEST PRISONER AT PRISON LAND ESCAPED", predictably. I look up, seeing Uzi. Alas. However, the plus is that she got shivved by a fellow inmate on her way out. Woo. The shanking weapon was a rusty nail.

Uzi now has tetanus.

---

Cognitio Ethereal Essence && Spider Silk && Knitting Needles = Arachne's Webspinners (7/10)
Eyepatch || Evocation Lens && Crystalline Auram Essentia = Conjurer's Artifice (3/8)

---

(+2 to Bomber)

Research Salvaging 43/50 (+2 from Crystal and Bomber, +3 from Tazz) ////////////////////////////////////////////////////.
Imperator 18/50 ////////////////////////////////////////////////////.

Quote from Crusher48»

You know, I feel like someone should have a "DTG: The Godmodding Wars" forum game, which would basically be a deathmatch where everyone is a godmodder with near-infinite power (as in the OP scale broke and its crazy time levels of power).

http://www.minecraftforum.net/forums/off-topic/forum-games/436300-be-the-godmodders-defeat-notch-finished

The Alien Drones both regain 20% magnetic charge this turn. Given that nothing of use is capable of being used yet, the Drones simply build up magnetic shields that effectively neutralize most attacks aimed at them.

---

Stock Market Dimension 3: The Electrum Crash of November 22, 2015

I step back into the gateway to the SMD around an hour and a half following my success with the gold market. Looking around, I see the radical changes in everything. Competition, you say? I walk over to the nearest computer terminal, and log in. My eyes widen when I see that gold stocks have decreased in value by twenty-eight percent. I immediately spin around, surveying the competing company carefully. Silver. Silver and gold are essentially worthless, at this point. The Devilites and bipedal red crocodiles have managed to outdo the entirety of the server's economy already. Hah.

I contemplate my options deeply. I have to do something before Hellco. overruns the gold market. How does one even do such a thing--oh. I see. I pull out a phone, interlinked maroon and teal text rolling off the screen in moments. I text a quick goodbye, and get to work. I walk into the central room, peering into the deep, magma-filled hole in the center of the place, serving as the power source for the computer terminals. I deftly leap over the railing, and dive straight downwards, toward the magma. At the last second, I pull back, teal energy rolling off of my body. I proceed to construct an alloy furnace at the bottom of the pit, locking a number of tubes and heaters into place leading up to the railing. Then, I climb the walls of the pit, and leap back over the railing, not even sparing a moment before I rush over to the nearest computer terminal. I tab into the stock percentages page, and make a quick edit.

Silver 59%
Gold/Electrum 41%

Out in the other rooms, I can hear confused nakking from the crocodiles, and some noise or other from the Devilites. I rush into the nearest room, and quickly trade some gold for a few ingots of silver. Then, I drop both a bottle of liquid gold and a silver ingot into the alloy furnace, quickly accelerating the process with psionic prowess. I hand an onlooking crocodile the resultant electrum bar. This crocodile stands rather still, staring at it for a few seconds. Then, it begins to nak. The other hundreds of well-dressed crocodiles follow suit, immediately beginning to make hundreds of electrum deals. I spin around after smelling the scent of ozone and burning, to find several future mes with timetables standing around, holding crates filled with successes from my future electrum market. I laugh somewhat, and take them all, truly beginning the electrum market.

The future mes all head back to their present, and I proceed to make countless deal after deal, watching the gold/electrum stocks soar above the silver in minutes. The Hellco. competitors are likely dumbfounded by this sudden innovation. I watch as more and more of the silver is tossed into the alloy furnace, and mixed with the gold in my stocks to create more electrum, benefiting me doubly. I collect several crates of electrum bars, and head back into the past to give them to my past self once more, truly beginning the electrum market myself.


I continue to game the SMD's economy with clever time-travel and electrum creation, slowly driving the value of silver stocks further and further into the ground. Electrum is all the rage these days. In fact, silver supplies are running quite low. I recall an analysis of the Chief's Badge. There was definitely silver in that, if only traces.

I immediately call a group of Devilites and crocodiles over, and inform them of this, telling them to bring the thing back here, once and for all. Hours later, they return, coated in blood, and the torn flesh of the Chief, bearing the Badge all the same. With some aid, we force the entire Badge into the alloy furnace, and watch as the entire thing melts, and is converted into electrum. Hundreds of ingots are shot out of the output pipe, crocodiles catching them all the while, nakking eternally.


Suddenly, all of the computers shut down at once. Everyone stands around, confused. Back on the server, something horrific has occurred. I immediately contact my business associate.



Next thing you know, the entirety of the stock market in the possession of Hellco. and myself has been sold out to intergalactic competitors, and we have made septillions. Thus ends the tale of the Stock Market Dimension, for now. The entire server's economy has been annihilated by the Great Electrum Crash, at the least. Hah.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Bomber, it was a pleasure working with you on this mini-project, and I greatly hope that we can do this again. Hah.

---

Cognitio Ethereal Essence && Spider Silk && Knitting Needles = Arachne's Webspinners (6/10)
Eyepatch || Evocation Lens && Crystalline Auram Essentia = Conjurer's Artifice (2/???)

---

(+2 to Bomber)

Research Salvaging 36/50 (+2 from Bomber, +2 from Crystal) ////////////////////////////////////////////////////.
Imperator 14/50 ////////////////////////////////////////////////////.