The Demon Plot: DEATH OF GRINDING MADNESS [July Player Event]

[pillz]

Who: Ensemble production, all individuals who opted in to the plot
When: July 9-21
Where: Two inhabited planets around the Ingress
What: The demon plot kicks off, in which malevolent shadow beings, copies of existing characters, begin to materialize and harass the PCs across the worlds. Plotting post is here, and a network post will go up within the next 2 days from several PCs advising on how to end the plot.
Warnings: Violence, psychological themes, possibly past trauma, etc.

Death of Grinding Madness
The Demon Plot
(mild spoilers for The Raven Cycle)

On July 9, a demon begins to make its way through the Ingress, summoned through by a shitty teenager.

July 9-12
Harrying

It's innocuous in the beginning. A movement in the corner of your eye, a shadow through a curtain-- merely a tree. But then the shadow figures begin to emerge into full being. Black-eyed wraiths that look like enemies, friends with whom you've had past conflict, or even you yourself. At first, it's merely harrying, minor harassment. Threatening gestures, broken gestures, jump scares.

Pursue them, and they disappear-- you might even catch a glimpse of how. They melt down into black slime, racing away across floors, through sewer grates, up walls, impossible to follow. By now, the worst of the climate freeze is over, but residual ice does pose a needles extra obstacle.

July 12-15
The Violence Escalates

In the days that follow, the situation only gets worse.

Sporadic harassment turns into outright attacks. The targeting is unmistakable. The shadow beings who can speak tell cruel tales of animosity, spite, even hatred. They are as deadly with their hands or strange powers as their doppelgangers are, and worse, they're functionally indestructible. Rip off one's head and it merely reforms out of sticky black ink. Limbs regenerate just as easily. The being might dispell for a few hours, but no doubt— it'll be back, if not to hurt you then someone you know.

The Savrii begin to notice. It's hard not to. While there is hardly an epidemic of panic, the disruptions are hard to miss-- broken windows, screams, random violence. Soon, the authorities begin to open safehouse facilities at which characters can seek shelter.

July 15-18
The Golem

On July 17, something horrific begins to happen— several shadow beings merge to form a massive golem in Kauto R1. It is a grotesque, horrifying spectacle, of limbs and eyes and pulsating flesh. It reaches almost sixty feet in height. Combined together, this shadow creature is considerably less intelligent than the individual beings were. However, it is also immensely strong and regenerates just like the smaller ones did.

Within the mall, hundreds of daytime shoppers are trapped within. Luckily, they have food and climate control. Perhaps you're one of them-- or perhaps you're trying to get in to provide medical care.

In the meantime, the attacks from the individual shadow beings don't stop. Despite the intelligence exhibited by some, all of them seem mindlessly bent on tormenting their targets until they are killed.

July 18-21
The Sacrifice

On the 9th day, a network post goes up (link pending, will be OOCly forward-dated to July 10th latest) revealing how to remove the invincibility of the attackers.

And by the 21st, the remaining beings utterly vanish without explanation— unless you happen to bear witness to the events that take place at St. Monmouth.

Comments

wegh

[squadgoals]

[It's dogged, the determination with which the shadow approaches, that of a hunter who knows they only have to keep going. Eventually, the prey will get tired. They can't keep going like you can.

This one, for example, won't go for much longer.

Lowering the gun as she closes the gap, an orange blade, thin, opaque and seeming to coalesce out of nothing, seems to sprout from her wrist, extending out over her hand. No need to distance games, here.

There's not a word spoken, no change in demeanor, expression. Just a grim march, neither satisfied nor unsatisfied with her current trajectory — a lunge straight to the heart.]

[inconsequence]

[They swerve, the Knife shooting up in an attempt to parry. Worn as they are, determination is not so easily sated. Lying down and dying, no matter the base appeal, has proven a difficult achievement for one such as they.

It's not her. They've grown wise to the ways of these things by now. It's not her.

But they should be better off if it would stop looking like her.]

CW MAYBE BEATING UP ON A CHILD HERE???

[squadgoals]

[The knife offers token resistance — enough for the omni-blade's course to be briefly diverted as it sparks off, slicing through any building structure above their heads instead.

There's a huff of disappointment — and she brings her left fist pummeling towards Chara's body instead.]

OH

[inconsequence]

[That -

They are not in the Underground. They cannot predict every motion, every sweep of an attack, every white pattern that will bounce about the bullet box. They have a great deal more of themself to keep track of besides just the red pulse of a stolen SOUL. There is a certain etiquette to the flurry and crisscross of exchanged blows; your turn and my turn, waiting respectfully for it to be over before engaging.


Perhaps they had forgotten.

The fist sinks into their stomach, doubling them over. The force of it, unexpected, brings them to their knees, winded and half-crumpled. The breathe seizes in their chest. Underhanded. They should have anticipated -

The child slashes out wildly, blindly, as if that will be enough to keep the shadow away while they recover.]

CW DEFINITELY BEATING UP ON A CHILD HERE!!!!!

[squadgoals]

[The blade finds its mark, dragging thick, oozing lines across the shadow's face, each weeping its own acrid oil. No flinching. No looking away, even as the knife trails across both dark pits, cutting open a more expansive stretch of black.

She would not let them get away.

With one hand, the shade grasps, attempting to catch the edge of their signature sweater, pin them until vision is restored. With the other, it slashes out with its own knife, humming with the promise of a different kind of pinning — more along the butterfly collector variety.]

[inconsequence]

[Black, oiled trails of some gelatinous compound, nothing like blood, perhaps more akin to rot. Not her. Not Shepard. Not any more than that thing was not Lavellan, and this is not Shepard and -

They jerk frantically, as if that might be enough to protect them from the streaking arc of a knife as it sweeps, down, down.

It finds its mark.

It reaches in and slams through the meat of their shoulder and the sound it makes is inhuman. Bucking wildly beneath its grip, pressing back until teeth bare.

They have you.

Free hand goes around its wrist. Holding the knife inside. Holding it down. Cannot relinquish grip without leaving the knife buried. Eyes shut, and eyes open, liquid bubbling out from parted lips, frothing like oil, like tar, like rot. Pouring out from open eyes, from open mouth, lips arcing up in a hard rictus.



See, "Shepard".

They can do the creepy face too.]

[squadgoals]

[The omni-blade plunges in, straight through, skewering their small body in the gray, unseeing dark. Shoulder. It wasn't a clean hit — there'd be a lot more struggling before they died, then. What's left of her grotesque expression twists into dissatisfaction. A job done badly. More work to clear out the chafe.

But something wasn't quite right.

Their hands were on its wrist, holding on to the blade-- holding it in? And something else was pouring out.

Thick drops of rent shadow drip down, viscous, splashing on to Chara, mixing with their own bubbling bile — then separating, sluicing out and back together, snaking their way back up "Shepard's" arms. As the black ink knits stickily together into a familiar visage, the world fades back in to a terrifying, technicolor scene.

But what a good creepy face.

It's enough make the shadow smile back, twisting the blade.]

cw gore

[inconsequence]

[Having a knife twisted into your shoulder, as it turns out, is agonizing. Slow and painful and deliberate enough for them to feel every muscle, every tendon, every scrape of blade to bone.

The seep of poison in through the roof of one's mouth, however. That is its own unique brand of hell. Slower, more excruciating, more all-encompassing, than any physical rending by blade. Teeth still gritted, back arching, still holding it down in place, the child begins to laugh.

Because they have a Knife too.

A red blade that slams into the underside of the shadow's jaw. Capable of healing itself over as it may be, but the loss of something as vital as a lower jaw will be nothing if not irritating.]

STILL CW GORE

[squadgoals]

[The knife goes up, and through the shadow's lower jaw. It wrenches back, a sick crack of bone echoing through the alleyway as motion and gravity do the rest of the work for the weapon. Now the face melts again, the murky ichor lolling off the remains of a human face, dripping off in dribs and drabs, eyes still marred with deep, black oil scars.

The shadow's free hand positions under the wax melt, attempting to catch the falling damage, scoop it back on to the wrecked frame. There's a gurgle, wet and half-tongued, and the blade turns, presses harder, pushing for deeper.

You feel as though if the shade did have capability of expression, it would be angry.]

[inconsequence]

[It isn't much. But it is a window, and they push back, thin legs kicking out to try and press it away. They thought of attempting to run from a FIGHT is unthinkable, but - they indulged the same instinct many times, did they not?]

[Now they're slashing, wildly. Cut it away, cut it to ribbons, get it off of them so that it will take its dark eyes and dark blade and go.]

[They have better to do.]

[squadgoals]

[The shadow exhales, an irritated bubbling sound, and wrenches the omni-blade out of its pinning, holding up its free hand — only to nearly lose it in the non-stop buffet of blows.

It slashes out with its own blade, attempting to end this, stop them. Never again having to worry, fret, about this thing.]

cw reference to poison/suicide

[inconsequence]

[Ha ha, wow, that's absolutely agonizing!]

[Too bad they've been stabbed before. They've had it all, they've felt it all; every possible way for a child to go out. Innumerable deaths by skewering, by burning, by blistering, by stomping. Not, hilariously enough, by falling.]

[Not for lack of trying.]

[Nothing ever comes close to absolute limit of their own body, the sensation of each organ shutting down one by one, poison seeping in through the sores in the roof of their mouth and leaking onto the sheets.]

[One does not know pain until they feel it, inch by inch, in every molecule of their being.]

[Determination.]

[It's a hell of a drug.]

[It galvanizes them upward, plowing away despite the hot gush of madder to their shoulder, the ways the muscles ache and twist and scream, attempting to run and clear the radius of Shepard - of not Shepard.]

[squadgoals]

[The little presence beneath them kicks out, pushing the shade back, their determination pushing the Shepard shadow back, away, just long enough t make space to move, escape.

The mouth, mid-formation, makes a guttural sound, the body, whole, gives chase.

You will not get away.

Gun out, it's shooting again, aim obscured by each oily blur of marred vision.]

[inconsequence]

[A Knife is a useful tool. Useful, but only in close quarters, and it can do very little, it turns out, when one must fend away an opponent giving stern chase. Their left side tingles numbly - or perhaps that's just the adrenaline burning the pain away until it proves convenient.]

[The echoing blast of a weapon being fired, and the child catches the corner of the nearest wall with the arm attached to their uninjured shoulder, Knife still clasped between red-stained knuckles as they skid, arcing out of the line of fire and around said corner.]

[They're smaller than she is. They can lose her.]

[Surely.]

[squadgoals]

[The target disappears around a corner. No matter, they can catch up. Steps behind, vision blurred by drip-black waxy body she may be, but there is no delay rounding the corner, pounding after their small person.

Never a sound uttered. But now at a range, Shepard excels. Gunfire ceases. If Chara were to look back, they would see their pursuant glowing a delicate blue, licks of energy cascading off of them in waves.

Once she had them in her sights...]

[inconsequence]

[Ahead - there. An open door. They hurl themself into the opening without closing the door behind them; that would be a dead giveaway regarding which way they had gone. And the thick patch of red is still soaking the threads of their sweater, laboring their breath, but they run.]

[ * Despite being hurt... ]
[ * You persisted. ]

[They're persisting. Posing dramatically when they're at their last scrap of HP. At the end of every rope, and still they will endure. Despite everything.]

[The pulse of blue behind them ignites the walls in a soft cerulean glow, but they pay it little heed. One hand cupped around the injury leaking out their shoulder, trying to keep the spatters of red from giving away their position, they sprint down the open hallway spilling out in an unfurling of twisting corridors.]

[It's not fear that lends them wings.]

[It's only ever determination.]

[squadgoals]

[Determination will get you far.

How far will it get them today?

Behind Chara, the wall explodes into chunks, several newtons too many of force blasting into it with physics-shattering accuracy. No trace of their quarry — but blood, here and there. The shade of Shepard drags her fingers through it, pulling it in its dripped direction, and follows.

No more energy exuded. Silence — or as silent as a sprinting killer gets, boots echoing off the intact walls.]

[inconsequence]

[They duck as the pinwheeling shards of plaster and whatever intergalactic equivalent Kauto may brag to its infrastructure goes spitting across the vicinity with a roaring clatter.]

[It's fast. It's too fast. The breath is taut and painful in their throat, dragging with wheezing gasps. The adrenaline that lent them that initial burst of fear-powered strength has begun to flag, and so have they.]

[No. No.]

[They do not bow. Not to this.]

[There's an open window - a residence, or a warehouse, or something to that effect, and the child vaults themself atop the stack of crates beneath it, pressing through the way their shoulder strains at the agony of movement, clambering up and over the sill.]

[squadgoals]

[It's just a moment of missed connection — but it's missed, all the same.

No more trace. Blood, here and there, but nothing certain, telling enough. The shadow paces for a minute, walking back and forth, looking down at the blood again--

--a native Savrii comes out, alerted by the commotion--

--and suddenly, there's a lot more blood, frustration rent through in one savage, acid sweep.

Flicking the corpse off her blade, the shadow picks a direction, and goes.]