nihil
Location: Space station, right in front a big ole hole
Allies: Crimson Corvids, [member="Lysle of the Hydian Way"], [member="Xalus"] , [member="Logan of Little Coruscant"][member="Daxton Bane"][member="Manidark Zail"]
Enemies: Black Suns, [member="sabrina"], [member="Mr. Ash"], [member="Dux Kotass"], [member="Rayl Wilded"]
Objectives: Spittin' rhymes and the like (might do some fighting in a bit though)
Listening: Passive - A Perfect Circle (Explicit Lyrics)
A gripped hand, a strangled life, a thing kept in the bottle with no holes to breath. Anger, hatred, passion, these things kept locked away, deep beneath. Things moved, things shifted, the trip down the steps, the door left open. A thing once imprisoned becomes a thing escaped, a thing chased. A lesson from a father, one who cared for nothing but himself and the experiments and the cutting and the killing. Flesh pulled from skin and put back to see if it reattached, a world turned upside down in search for answers. Lock the door, bolt it too, make sure the hinges don't move. The thing shakes, each hit a fracture of the heart, a calamity of the mind turns to a sickness of the soul. Anger guarded and turned to mental illness, eating away at the goodness that lied beneath. Food for the prisoner, what it gained substance from depleted others. We must get at the root of it, a removed father once said, we must discern where it goes when you don't show it.
Virulent things come and they go, prognosis declared from amoeba to prion, a cause that causes consequence, unbroken causality. But what happens to the mind, when it breaks, he retorted to a child chained and a child broken. Does someone get better from their sickness, a temporary infliction of damage transferred to the thing that could take it but couldn't take it all. Screams of a soul clinging to a thing it shouldn't, beings attached in unholy union, crossing-over between the two to show a decimation of differences once apparent. A child that would become two and grow into one, a struggle propelled by a father who poked and prodded when he should have loved. But where love should have lingered nothing but a train of curiosity pushed forward, running over all that would lie across the tracks. A pound of flesh felt more like a ton, a world of brightness and snow saw it melt from the rushing current of blood, flowing freely from the shattered and the dead, left living. All covered, all hidden, hidden away in that bottle with no holes.
But what of the mother? Long gone. Removed from the equation by purpose and mission and dedication. Or maybe it was that she didn't care. Maybe it was that the Jedi Code told her that she shouldn't have passion. Well passion comes from care, care leads to nurturing, nurturing to love. And this one found none of it, from neither the side that could have done something nor the side that did too much. The ghosts of the past tormented the mind, like traumatic scars carved across the brain and allowed to heal, just enough, before being open again. But he was better now, he was a broken thing rebuilt. Ascended from the desecration of the most holy of things: a thing birthed from yourself. And in the eyes of the child, parents are God. But what happens when your God doesn't love you, doesn't feel for you, doesn't care? Gabriel is what happens, a boy grown into a man who has lost everything, the demise of those around him either by chance or his own hands. Relationships left in the water to rot, universes broken because he was broken too, why couldn't they feel the same? Why couldn't they fix themselves, just like he did? In the End, he would fix everything and make it all better.
Gravity came back to him, as did recognition of the small time that passed, the station not blown to bits. He felt it, the sudden weight of his body and armor and his bones. Like a sack of potatoes on springs, his knees bent in the sudden realization and he sighed. It was an odd thing, to find gravity but still no air. Not air in the general sense, deprived of oxygen but left abundant in other compounds. Nitrogen, carbon, they all read across his visor scanner as he anticipated the moments when he could free himself from the clutches of the space suit. Spikes in the graphs, the reds and yellows and greens that fluctuated across his vision, panned away as he willed it. But then he felt it, that sense of ubiquitous oddness, the standing of hairs on end against the forearms and neck. That feeling of being watched.
Visored-head lifted towards the ceiling, towards the bulkhead, towards the wall. Mind reached out with the trails of Shatterpoint, wires strummed across the universe but only a few carried the truth of the vibrations, the true music and sound hidden in the haze of silence. The universe blind and deaf, oblivious to their own connectedness. Each was a weakness to another, a fulcrum from which others pivoted and leaned. Everything was linked and he could see it, the image of a woman in the shadow. A vision of a woman clashing against his power in the form of waves and rifts. Each strike was a flicker of light in the dark room, silence turned to motion, the potential becoming more and more a reality. The passage of time, the shift in it's perspective, all lead to the end. A knot in the lines, tied together, as all paths would converge towards one outcome. He struggled to ascertain it, to understand where his future laid. But this wasn't how it worked, not in the least. Only could possible weaknesses be divined, the center of the web that held it altogether perceived on a whim, right as it should be. But only time, only the passing of it, and the nearing of his potential, would allow him true clarity and divination. Nevertheless, he would step in front of it, and attempt to break the convergence. And he was stepping out blindly, not even sure of the presence and whether she was even there. Time had no measurement in Shatterpoint, minutes and hours but blips on the radar. He accepted the potential for this to be but a shot in the dark.
"I know you're there..." He spoke out into the emptiness around him, collecting the powers of the force for use in the very near future. Anger manifested in a bottle within him, the passions of the Sith were a controlled spectacle to this practitioner. Not something so freely used and felt, as his compatriots would often speak. "I...can smell you." He couldn't really smell her, not in the typical sense of the word. But sometimes, when words come to you, you just have to say 'em.
Allies: Crimson Corvids, [member="Lysle of the Hydian Way"], [member="Xalus"] , [member="Logan of Little Coruscant"][member="Daxton Bane"][member="Manidark Zail"]
Enemies: Black Suns, [member="sabrina"], [member="Mr. Ash"], [member="Dux Kotass"], [member="Rayl Wilded"]
Objectives: Spittin' rhymes and the like (might do some fighting in a bit though)
Listening: Passive - A Perfect Circle (Explicit Lyrics)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KCUOJn69Is0
A gripped hand, a strangled life, a thing kept in the bottle with no holes to breath. Anger, hatred, passion, these things kept locked away, deep beneath. Things moved, things shifted, the trip down the steps, the door left open. A thing once imprisoned becomes a thing escaped, a thing chased. A lesson from a father, one who cared for nothing but himself and the experiments and the cutting and the killing. Flesh pulled from skin and put back to see if it reattached, a world turned upside down in search for answers. Lock the door, bolt it too, make sure the hinges don't move. The thing shakes, each hit a fracture of the heart, a calamity of the mind turns to a sickness of the soul. Anger guarded and turned to mental illness, eating away at the goodness that lied beneath. Food for the prisoner, what it gained substance from depleted others. We must get at the root of it, a removed father once said, we must discern where it goes when you don't show it.
Virulent things come and they go, prognosis declared from amoeba to prion, a cause that causes consequence, unbroken causality. But what happens to the mind, when it breaks, he retorted to a child chained and a child broken. Does someone get better from their sickness, a temporary infliction of damage transferred to the thing that could take it but couldn't take it all. Screams of a soul clinging to a thing it shouldn't, beings attached in unholy union, crossing-over between the two to show a decimation of differences once apparent. A child that would become two and grow into one, a struggle propelled by a father who poked and prodded when he should have loved. But where love should have lingered nothing but a train of curiosity pushed forward, running over all that would lie across the tracks. A pound of flesh felt more like a ton, a world of brightness and snow saw it melt from the rushing current of blood, flowing freely from the shattered and the dead, left living. All covered, all hidden, hidden away in that bottle with no holes.
But what of the mother? Long gone. Removed from the equation by purpose and mission and dedication. Or maybe it was that she didn't care. Maybe it was that the Jedi Code told her that she shouldn't have passion. Well passion comes from care, care leads to nurturing, nurturing to love. And this one found none of it, from neither the side that could have done something nor the side that did too much. The ghosts of the past tormented the mind, like traumatic scars carved across the brain and allowed to heal, just enough, before being open again. But he was better now, he was a broken thing rebuilt. Ascended from the desecration of the most holy of things: a thing birthed from yourself. And in the eyes of the child, parents are God. But what happens when your God doesn't love you, doesn't feel for you, doesn't care? Gabriel is what happens, a boy grown into a man who has lost everything, the demise of those around him either by chance or his own hands. Relationships left in the water to rot, universes broken because he was broken too, why couldn't they feel the same? Why couldn't they fix themselves, just like he did? In the End, he would fix everything and make it all better.
Gravity came back to him, as did recognition of the small time that passed, the station not blown to bits. He felt it, the sudden weight of his body and armor and his bones. Like a sack of potatoes on springs, his knees bent in the sudden realization and he sighed. It was an odd thing, to find gravity but still no air. Not air in the general sense, deprived of oxygen but left abundant in other compounds. Nitrogen, carbon, they all read across his visor scanner as he anticipated the moments when he could free himself from the clutches of the space suit. Spikes in the graphs, the reds and yellows and greens that fluctuated across his vision, panned away as he willed it. But then he felt it, that sense of ubiquitous oddness, the standing of hairs on end against the forearms and neck. That feeling of being watched.
Visored-head lifted towards the ceiling, towards the bulkhead, towards the wall. Mind reached out with the trails of Shatterpoint, wires strummed across the universe but only a few carried the truth of the vibrations, the true music and sound hidden in the haze of silence. The universe blind and deaf, oblivious to their own connectedness. Each was a weakness to another, a fulcrum from which others pivoted and leaned. Everything was linked and he could see it, the image of a woman in the shadow. A vision of a woman clashing against his power in the form of waves and rifts. Each strike was a flicker of light in the dark room, silence turned to motion, the potential becoming more and more a reality. The passage of time, the shift in it's perspective, all lead to the end. A knot in the lines, tied together, as all paths would converge towards one outcome. He struggled to ascertain it, to understand where his future laid. But this wasn't how it worked, not in the least. Only could possible weaknesses be divined, the center of the web that held it altogether perceived on a whim, right as it should be. But only time, only the passing of it, and the nearing of his potential, would allow him true clarity and divination. Nevertheless, he would step in front of it, and attempt to break the convergence. And he was stepping out blindly, not even sure of the presence and whether she was even there. Time had no measurement in Shatterpoint, minutes and hours but blips on the radar. He accepted the potential for this to be but a shot in the dark.
"I know you're there..." He spoke out into the emptiness around him, collecting the powers of the force for use in the very near future. Anger manifested in a bottle within him, the passions of the Sith were a controlled spectacle to this practitioner. Not something so freely used and felt, as his compatriots would often speak. "I...can smell you." He couldn't really smell her, not in the typical sense of the word. But sometimes, when words come to you, you just have to say 'em.
