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Entry tags:
Action - Semi OTA
Genessia City - Pan's Grocery checkout. Morning.
Oh, tsk tsk tsk. Young Theodore should've thought twice before picking up that egg. Now, for example, the lady behind the checkout will know exactly what he thinks. Like how well he's practiced his fake smiles and empty niceties for dolls. Yes, that means you, checkout lady. Ah, he's blushing now, hurrying out with payment and rushed apology, but there's no mistake. There's no hatred, for there's nothing there to hate. Just a gloss of cheer masking cold indifference. How healthy is it to spend so much time around dolls? He wondered how that might effect one's mental health. Would it be healthier to know, or go on believing in them?
He's thinking how irritating and dangerous this voice is, and how he might be free of it. Uncharacteristically, he hasn't spoken, thinking it vain to resist that way. He is correct. What will he do now before it says something really inconvenient? Is there an open field he can run to where none will hear? Fayren has much like that. There, perhaps, is peace, even if he does wind up breaking it.
For a holiday advent, he doesn't look very amused.
Fayren Forest - random clearing. Afternoon
What wondrous feats of superhuman acrobatics! "Inhuman" might be the better word. It's hard work, practicing these transdimensional maneuvers. Moving various, ever-changing shapes into and out of the void, with differing amounts of momentum. Stretching and extending his shape to make portals from every vantage point, then adding annihilation reactions on top of that for extra speed and force. Lord knows if the fibers weren't enhancing his brain he'd have given up in a fit of despondent nausea. If only this voice weren't so distracting!
Well, despite the little explosions and the voice overlaying them, it's quiet enough. No one's here to hear them, and none suspect the much, much bigger explosions that could appear just as easily. Just in case he ever gets really angry and decides to visit upon the world what God did to Sodom and Gomorrah. He wouldn't do that, of course. He's very moral; very cautious. There's no sense in blowing things to kingdom come. The system probably wouldn't allow it anyway.
Still, one must practice. He's very superstitious, in his way. He knows he's due for a real fight--probably due for a fight--some time this year. That he hasn't had one any year prior hasn't discouraged. And of course, he's not like the others; those pathetic, violent madmen for whom violence defined their lives and gave them meaning, however paltry. He's American. He's civilized. He'd gone to a decent college, and been educated better than most by his intellectual parents. Of course violence is a last resort. It's simply prudent to spend untold hours honing it to a point. Besides, most civilizations have such terrible, ruinous arms as a means of peacekeeping. His own country had used them twice, after all. Not that he really wanted to. "Just in case" was his sanctifying phrase. "Just in case."
But all's not well in the land of terrible weaponry he masters but doesn't use. That last boost was off the mark, and not for want of skill. Ever since the tearful departure of the one who made him so armed, the armaments had worn down, and he'd found not a smith or tailor in the world to mend them. How much practice can he afford? How many more atoms of matter can he annihilate before the fibers are annihilated too? Then he'd go back to being a largely powerless weakling; someone who couldn't stand up to any villainy whatever. Not with force.
That would never do. [OOC: Ted's being hassled by a narrator. The first part's OTA, the second can get dicey, so lemme know if you want to get in on that awkwardness.]
Oh, tsk tsk tsk. Young Theodore should've thought twice before picking up that egg. Now, for example, the lady behind the checkout will know exactly what he thinks. Like how well he's practiced his fake smiles and empty niceties for dolls. Yes, that means you, checkout lady. Ah, he's blushing now, hurrying out with payment and rushed apology, but there's no mistake. There's no hatred, for there's nothing there to hate. Just a gloss of cheer masking cold indifference. How healthy is it to spend so much time around dolls? He wondered how that might effect one's mental health. Would it be healthier to know, or go on believing in them?
He's thinking how irritating and dangerous this voice is, and how he might be free of it. Uncharacteristically, he hasn't spoken, thinking it vain to resist that way. He is correct. What will he do now before it says something really inconvenient? Is there an open field he can run to where none will hear? Fayren has much like that. There, perhaps, is peace, even if he does wind up breaking it.
For a holiday advent, he doesn't look very amused.
Fayren Forest - random clearing. Afternoon
What wondrous feats of superhuman acrobatics! "Inhuman" might be the better word. It's hard work, practicing these transdimensional maneuvers. Moving various, ever-changing shapes into and out of the void, with differing amounts of momentum. Stretching and extending his shape to make portals from every vantage point, then adding annihilation reactions on top of that for extra speed and force. Lord knows if the fibers weren't enhancing his brain he'd have given up in a fit of despondent nausea. If only this voice weren't so distracting!
Well, despite the little explosions and the voice overlaying them, it's quiet enough. No one's here to hear them, and none suspect the much, much bigger explosions that could appear just as easily. Just in case he ever gets really angry and decides to visit upon the world what God did to Sodom and Gomorrah. He wouldn't do that, of course. He's very moral; very cautious. There's no sense in blowing things to kingdom come. The system probably wouldn't allow it anyway.
Still, one must practice. He's very superstitious, in his way. He knows he's due for a real fight--probably due for a fight--some time this year. That he hasn't had one any year prior hasn't discouraged. And of course, he's not like the others; those pathetic, violent madmen for whom violence defined their lives and gave them meaning, however paltry. He's American. He's civilized. He'd gone to a decent college, and been educated better than most by his intellectual parents. Of course violence is a last resort. It's simply prudent to spend untold hours honing it to a point. Besides, most civilizations have such terrible, ruinous arms as a means of peacekeeping. His own country had used them twice, after all. Not that he really wanted to. "Just in case" was his sanctifying phrase. "Just in case."
But all's not well in the land of terrible weaponry he masters but doesn't use. That last boost was off the mark, and not for want of skill. Ever since the tearful departure of the one who made him so armed, the armaments had worn down, and he'd found not a smith or tailor in the world to mend them. How much practice can he afford? How many more atoms of matter can he annihilate before the fibers are annihilated too? Then he'd go back to being a largely powerless weakling; someone who couldn't stand up to any villainy whatever. Not with force.
That would never do. [OOC: Ted's being hassled by a narrator. The first part's OTA, the second can get dicey, so lemme know if you want to get in on that awkwardness.]