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Character Sheet - John Deer
Alias - Dei Vore
Age - 22
Ethnicity - Unknown. Possibly American or European. No noticeable accent. Lightly tanned skin.
Hair - Short, auburn. Kept clean cut, closed to his head. Only a little longer than being a buzz cut.
Eyes - Ice blue. Slightly angled.
Facular structure - Lean and angular. Any skinnier and he would appear unhealthy.
Body Structure - Muscular in a skinny way. His muscle is bound tightly on his from, wrapped like steel wires. Five feet and eight inches tall. No visible fat.
Current Job - Traveler/Vagrant.
John Deer is volatile. Prone to physical violence and bouts of mental instability. He believes in termination of hostility, not self-defense. If something or someone shows a hostile intent towards him he will ruthlessly beat it down, literally, until the hostility disappears.
However, when dealing with the sort of things John deals with on a day-to-day basis, this is an attitude formed out of survival. John is deivorous. A deivore. John eats a substance not tangible to normal humans. This would be dei, divinity, or god.
This is why John's appearance borders on unhealthy skinny. Normal food will only allow his body to survive by providing the bare minimum of nutrition he needs. To grow fat and plump, John would have to devour a large quantity of divinity, which is already a rare food source. He dislikes eating normal human food, as he thinks it all tastes bad.
Divine creatures are fairly rare in the world, hidden from most eyes. The most delectable of them all are 'gods.' These are beings that are feared and revered. Their sustenance is worship, prayer, and belief. This gives them power proportional to the amount they receive. Creatures that are revered and worshipped as well as believed in fall under the category of 'divinity,' and thus are edible to John.
John himself, due to his food source, is not fully human. His every cell has been saturated by the power contained within divine creatures and beings. His strength, his endurance, his speed, and his senses. All have been increased to inhuman levels. Which still doesn't quite put him on par with full blown deities, but allows him to fight on an equal level with divine creatures, such as pegasus, and forgotten deities.
"For my King and Country," Walter said, having muttered this phrase repeatedly throughout his life. Today he stood at the edge of a battlefield, surrounded by the other men and women in his infantry unit. They were a veritable hodgepodge of various colors and clothing. Each of them dressed themselves in whatever was available, since the military was too poor to properly outfit them in anything more than boots.
One thing was common, though, and that was the cogs and gears they hand wrapped around their soldiers. Kill counts. Every time they went into a battle and survived, they scavenged from the fallen mechanical enemy and added to their gear. Walter was special in this regard. He had his fair share of loot, of course, but he also carried specific parts that were still intact. He had quite a few ocular devices dangling from his bandolier. He couldn't remember his first spoils of war, the memory slipping through his fingers like a shadow.
Walter didn't remember a lot. He couldn't recall his childhood, or his family and friends. Even the names of his fellow soldiers slipped through the cracks. He had no need to remember them. Most of them wouldn't be around the next day. But he still recalled one memory vividly. After he had been drafted into His Royal Majesty's armed forces. After the mechanical men had descended upon London like a horde of locusts descending upon a field of wheat.
That had been over a hundred years ago. Walter had forgotten exactly how many years, but he knew it was in the triple digits. Roughly a hundred years since he had been picked upon his peers by the Inquisitors to become something both less and more than man. Something as implacable and ruthless as the enemy. Something that would never stop until everyone lay dead on this cursed battlefield that he found himself always on.
Walter looked across the field of blades, littered with both man and machine. He could see the sun glinting off metal on the far side of the field. It was moving towards them. He would give the order to march soon. He reached up to his throat, unwrapping the scarf wrapped around it. He tapped the small box hidden underneath it, attached to his neck.
"March," said Walter, his voice as pleasant as metal grinding against metal and about as emotional as a steel blade. He and his men started forward at once, moving as if they were all of one mind. The moved like an avalanche, slow but inevitable. Triggers were pulled back and blades unsheathed as they marched forward, with Walter removing the gloves on his hands. Copper gleamed in the sun as soon as the woolen gloves were pulled free. The joints in his hands bent and stretched, groaning as he made sure they worked properly. He aimed with the flintlock rifle he held, the reticule in his left eye adjusting according to the distance. He fired once, and the bullet was followed by those ejected from the barrels of his allies.
They cut down the first wave of enemies as they neared, tearing through them. Some fell over, soon trampled by the machines behind them. Others moved despite their injuries, not knowing the pain and limitations of mortal men. The two forces clashed, with Walter in the middle. He clubbed the nearest enemy with the butt of his rifle, using it as a bat. He tossed it aside as the rifle cracked from the strain, grabbing at an enemy with his hands. His metal hands clasped down and tore whatever it fell upon, eventually relieving one man of his sword. If it could be called a sword, that is. It was more of a jagged piece of metal with teeth like a saw.
Walter was the eye of a storm, the calm amidst the chaos. Whatever moved too close to him was cut down, feeling the calm fury of his attack. A blow damaged his left eye, and the metal in his right arm was dented. He attacked regardless of the damage to his body.
Eventually the battle was finished, with Walter and his men victorious. The enemy had be pushed back for now. Walter moved back with the rest of the infantry to their camp, to rest and wait until the next battle.
"For King and Country," Walter repeated. He didn't know that the king he had once served had already died and his country was in ruins. He merely kept fighting, as they all did, and as they all would.
Now for a bit of a romance short. Well, sort of. I'm only posting the beginning for now.
The Zero Confidence Man/The Zero Luck Woman
Let me start by saying that I have no confidence. I can truthfully claim to be a man with no confidence in myself. Of course, there a lot of people like that out there who don't believe in themselves, right? Except I literally have no confidence at all. Neither in myself, or other people.
Well, it's not like something tragic happened to me in the past. Rather, I have had a normal childhood. Completely, totally, unnervingly ordinary. My ascent to adulthood had some bumps, but that is normal too. A past that had no trauma or tragedy aside from the average for everyone, such as a death of a pet or a distantly related family member you don't even remember.
Yeah. So average. My whole life has been like that. My entire existence is like that. Normal. Common. Ordinary.
Average grades, average looks, average strength, average luck. No particular skills or abilities. Nothing out of the status quo. Nothing to be proud of. Nothing to be confident in.
Except, of course, the moment when I met her. Someone so completely unordinary. An opposite of me, who was nothing but normal. It was the summer of my twentieth year when I met her.
The Zero Luck Woman.
Someone wanted a dark romance story. Here's what I wrote instead.
If you had to kill the person you loved to save somebody, would you?
Probably not, right? I mean, you don't care about this other random person.
What if you had to kill her to save more than one person? Say two? How about three? Not enough? Four. Six. Nine. Thirteen.
An entire city.
How about then?
Bullet in the chamber. Finger on the trigger. Sweat in your eyes. Heart pounding.
Pull the trigger.
There are some people who won't. Who can't. There are some who wish they couldn't.
I'm the latter.
Bullet in the chamber. Finger on the trigger. Sweat in my eyes. Heart pounding. Standing in front of me. Waiting. Smiling. Arms spread out like she's expecting a hug. She knows I can't pull the trigger. Knows it. Just waiting for me to drop my arm and the gun. Come up to me and embrace me, whispering sweet nothings in my ear and telling me what a brave man I was. How smart I was to listen to her. To allow her this monstrosity.
But she sees my eyes, and she doesn't know anymore. Her smile falters. Her expression sours. Fear creeps into her eyes, matching the grief in mine.
Pull the tringer.
Now all my senses but sight fail me. I can't feel the heat off the muzzle of the gun, or the shockwave vibrating my left arm. Can't smell the smoke of the gunfire, or hear the ringing in my ears. Can't taste the sweat dripping down my face. For a second, for a moment, for an eternity. All I can do is see.
How I wish that would fail me too. Deprive me of the sight I am forced to watch. I just want the lights to turn off, and for it all fade to dark.
Can't feel my arm moving, bringing the barrel of the gun around. Can't smell the smoke. Can't taste the sweat. Can't hear the ringing.
Soon, I won't be able to see.
Shit, Phersu. That's definitely twisted.... And really depressing and sad.
"My completely secret space diary, entry 187. This will be my final entry. We.....I am currently in an unknown star system. Weapon systems are un-operational. Worm-hole drive is currently in the process of activating. Life support is failing. Oxygen is limited. There are no longer any fires in the lower decks, as there is no longer any oxygen to burn down there.
"Communications are knocked down, but a distress beacon was managed to be sent beforehand. All escape pods have been jettisoned, and the majority of the crew has managed to escape. The current crew is I, the Captain Xavier, and the deliciously deceased corpse of my dear friend Doctor Cluck. Which I am eating," Xavier said. He was dining in the bridge of his spaceship, a table placed in front of him. A single plate was on the table, filled with grilled chicken, next to a glass of wine.
"Our current destination is the warship directly in front of us. Since we have no functioning weapons left, I have decided to ram our ship into a larger ship in a game of galactic chicken. A-ahem. I'm sorry, Doctor Cluck. I'm so...so sorry. But you're delicious," He said, tears starting to drip down his face as he continued eating. The spaceship that was growing in size on the screen of the bridge was less of a spaceship and more of a moon that could move and had a weapons system. The much, much smaller ship Xavier was manning wouldn't do more than dent it.
"Here's to you, The Wind. Always kind of figured it would end this way. After all, there isn't any wind in space, now is there? You know why I named you that? I used to hear stories about Earth, back before either you or me were alive. Back when wind blew on the Earth. Nobody could be as free as the wind. Nothing could chain it down, or hold it back forever. In the end, the wind was always free. I....always wanted to be as free as the wind," Xavier said. He reached for his glass of wine, but he missed it as the whole ship shook and it clattered to the ground. Another hit from the mass that was firing upon them. The same mass he was moving towards.
"Maybe in another life. For the last time, this is Captain Xavier of The Wind. I died free. On my terms," He said, shutting off the recording. The Wind shook as it collided into the larger ship. It certainly left a dent, but the much bigger ship would continue on.
The shuttles that had escaped from the dying spaceship watched with melancholy as their home was crashing and burning in front of them.
Dark light burst from The Wind as the wormhole drive activated, creating a slip in space for the ship to move through. This was the plan of their captain, their former captain, Xavier.
The dark light died away, and with it The Wind vanished.
Now the much bigger ship was crippled and vulnerable, with a portion of it ripped away.
Not all who were as free as the wind had to die.
Boo. Anybody have any story prompts or requests for I? Meesa don't charge.
Yume no Sekai
A baby girl dreams.
There exist a place, a world, in which we all visit at some point. A world that exists merely because humanity wills it to be. A world without limits or boundaries. Endless. Nothing isn't possible here.
A young girl dreams.
It mirrors and reflects those who created it, showing them for what they truly are. A world divided from our own, and yet still connected in a way. Magic still fills this world that reflects an existence which does not.
A teenager dreams.
And this world, so far from ours and so close, sometimes leaks into our world. Slowly blurring lines of reality. Eating away at the boundaries that separate them. Coming ever so closer and closer.
A woman dreams.
The limits that bind humans fray, and the limit of the sky is pushed higher away. The stone that bears impossibility is worn away at, and reality quakes. That which is real, and that which is unreal become blurry and merge.
It is a familiar sight for her as she closes her eyes and slips into the darkness that waits for her. She visits this place almost every night. An odd land, to be sure, filled with a countless number of oddities. It can be a scary place that she visits, but rarely does she fear it. Because here, she can fly.
As her mortal body slumbers, her mind soars free into the realm in which dreams wait. Here, she is boundless. She soars through the multicolored skies, painted by those who dream with her. It is an exhilarating feeling, she finds, to be able to enjoy the sensation that birds experience every day.
But today is different. She doesn't know why, but something feels off about her dream tonight. Soon, she notices something new. Down below her, on the ground, stands a giant in the shape of a human. A colossus, who appears to be some combination of demon and angel.
Wings spread out of his back, so beautiful that they would make even the highest of birds envious. Crimson wings. Bloody wings. Feathers fall from wings like drops of blood, staining the ground underneath the behemoth.
Black horns curve forward from the temple of the humanoid, like those of a ram. Sound emanates from the horns, so sharp that they cut the air that blow past them.
Below these instruments of murder lies an imitation of the face of a man, as hard as granite and as cold as steel. The eyes that adorn this mockery of a human burn like smoldering coals, speaking of a fire that could scorch your very soul should it be unleashed.
The body the head is attached to is no more pleasant to gaze upon. A scarred body, belonging to that of the most seasoned warrior. It is nigh impossible to find a stretch of the pale skin that isn't matted with scarred tissue. The legs of the giant are covered with bloody armor that appears to be growing from its skin, completely covering the lower half of it like scabs.
She stops as this colossus appears below her, the horns that jut forward almost high enough to reach her in the clouds. For the first time as she dreams, she fears.
And it roars.
The world is filled with a sound so vile, so hideous, so completely and totally wrong that it seems to violate the air itself. She is filled with a terror so deep, so strong, so old, that it banishes any other feeling. She is left feeling cold and numb, as well as somehow incomplete.
The world itself is twisted to the whims of this behemoth. The sky turns a sickly color, as if somehow the very atmosphere became diseased. The land below her visibly dies before her eyes, every spot of greenery wilting and fading away.
Such a horrible sound, that one would prefer the dying screams of cats over it. She quakes in the sky she once loved so much, fear dominating her.
Her eyes close.
A Normal Kind of Man.
One of my favorite characters in fiction is Misogi Kumagawa from Medaka Box. Why? Because he is a self-described loser, who never wins anything. He agrees that he isn't smart, strong, handsome, cute, lucky or pretty, and yet he wants to beat people like that. He has two abilities, one to reduce anything to nothing, and one to bring anyone down to his level.
I can get behind those abilities. I'd love them. You see, because I'm not handsome, smart, strong, cute, fast, lucky or pretty. I'm none of those things, and the world can be a harsh place for people without something like that. I'd love to be able make people come down to my level. A level where nobody is special. We're all equally normal.
I'm an exceptionally normal person, you know. Everything about me is either normal, average, common, or slightly above/below average. I have no special talents. No real strengths. No real weaknesses. I'm like a jack of all trades. Nothing I'm really bad at, true. But nothing I'm really good at either.
It is an odd place. There isn't much excess of praise or blame, because you're not noticeable enough for that kind of stuff. Women don't chase after you, or show any interest in you. Neither do men, really. I mean, why would they? You aren't special or curious or abnormal or different. You might as well be a carbon copy of a normal man.
Place people like me in a crowd, you'll never find us again. We will literally blend in with all the other people. Not because we're sneaky, or good at hiding, but because we're just so unassuming. We don't stand out. We blend in. We don't even need to try to blend it. We just do it naturally.
My kind of personality isn't much better. I go with the flow, like what most people say they like, do what most people say they do. Chameleons when it comes to personality. We just change colors to blend in with the people around us subconsciously.
Nothing to see here, keep moving. Just a completely average man.
'I was made for him,
He for me,
But life ain't so sweet,
To leave us be.'
Let's start from the top. Girl meets boy. Or boy meets girl. Doesn't really matter who meets who first. They fall in love. Ah, love at first sight, because they are literally made for each other. Boy and girl stick together through the next parts. School. More school. Adulthood. Career. Marriage. True love trumps all.
That's right. It does trump all. But do you have any idea how rare it is? Pretty freaking rare. Now, let's start back from the top. This time, let's change a few things to fit reality.
Girl doesn't meet boy. Boy doesn't meet girl. They don't fall in love. They don't stick together through life. Boy meets a different girl, who he isn't made for. Who isn't made for him. Same happens to first girl. Except with a different boy, unless she was secretly in the closet.
Boy suffers through a dead end job and a pointless marriage, forcing on a smile for his children who he hopes to God don't end up like him. Life loses its color for boy, who's now man. His wife isn't much happier. They suffer through it until one of them dies, or both of them die, or one off's themselves. The other pretends to cry, secretly glad to be done with 'em.
Now girl, the first girl, isn't much better. Maybe she ends up with a deadbeat. Maybe he's a drunkard. Maybe he's abusive. Maybe he's a nitwit. Maybe he has an Oedipus complex. Who knows? Either way, girl isn't happy with him. She fools around, trying to find that missing piece from her life.
Girl thinks she finds it, in boy three. Third time the charm? Wrong, since she never met the first. So second time's the charm. Except nobody says.
Boy three falls in love with girl one. Find's out about the deadbeat husband. Girl won't leave him. Boy three offs boy two, getting thrown in jail. Girl one is now a widow. She spends the rest of her days drifting through life, having to latch onto her children to survive like a parasite.
Sorry. Did you want a happy ending?
Born in Darkness,
Wreathed in Shadows,
Cradled by the Night.
Prelude I - The Silent
My name is Simon the Silent. My first memory is of a dark room. The only light was from the moon, filtered through the dirty glass of a window. I made no noise as I came to. I was a silent child, ever since my birth. Yes, I was a quiet boy. A good boy. I did not talk, as I was not supposed to.
I served my birthmother faithfully. I did not question her, or doubt her. I was obedient, like all good children. I only ever used my voice once, when the men came with fire and steel. I begged them to spare her. They cut out my tongue and beat me, left me for dead in the room of my first memory. It was no longer dark, the fire that consumed it banishing the darkness away.
With the loss of my tongue, sound left me. I never needed to speak before, but now I couldn't speak at all. I became a truly silent boy then. My steps which served to drive further from my burning home bore no sound. I thought they were merely consumed by the roar of the fire, but the noise didn't return when the fire was too far away to hear.
I tried to scream. I couldn't even hear the air passing violently from my lungs. I stomped on the leaves on the ground, snapped the fallen twigs, bashed my fists against bark. Nothing I did made sound.
So they couldn't hear me.
I followed their trail, sticking to the dark shadows cast from the trees. I only needed to worry about them seeing me, which they never did. A good child knows how to hide himself when he is not wanted.
Eventually they stopped to camp, building a fire and joking around it. One by one, they slipped off until only the night watch was awake. His back was to me, and the fire in front of him. My shadow never crossed his vision as I pulled out his knife from his belt. No sound escaped his lips when he tried to scream. No sound escaped when he started choking on his own blood.
Now the sound had left him too. I realized that, somewhere deep inside myself. But my rage, my fear, my pain, my sadness had consumed me too much for me to recognize it at the time. I tried to scream. This time in victory, but still nothing came out from my mouth.
I turned towards the ones asleep. They never even woke up.
Sowing Seeds of Dissent,
Reaping the Fields,
Oh, how the Endless One Watches.
Prelude II - The Vile.
I watched the bandits slay the mother and cut the tongue out of the child. I engraved the child's face in my mind. Now I would never forget it. I cared not for the faces of the murderers, or the woman they cut down. I had no place in my mind for someone now dead, nor for those who would soon die.
I watched the child bleed, his life ebbing away like the tide as Death neared him. I held out my hand to stay her, which she was not pleased about. She hissed at me, the pale white skin of her face drawing tight as she grimaced. Spat out at me. Eyes filled with malice at my very existence.
I looked at her calmly, and spoke one word.
She recoiled, the mere sound of my voice causing her body to shake. On the surface, it was a normal sound, but those more attuned to the working of the universe could sense it. Feel it. The sensation of my voice worming its way into their very being, violating all that felt good and felt right. Death, who ferried the souls and actively shaped the way things worked, could feel this clearer than most.
She quietly nodded, turning away and fleeing before I could speak again. She always left before I could speak more than a couple words. What a pity. Sometimes I have so much to say, but so few can listen to me speak more than a single sentence.
I turned back to the boy and moved towards him, kneeling at his side once I reached him. His eyes swiveled up to look at me, towering above the boy as he laid in the burning cottage.
"I shall break you, boy," I said, reaching down with my long arms. He was shaking in fear, his eyes having rolled up in his head from hearing me speak. His mouth frothed as I touched his head, grasping the nub he had left in his mouth. He spoke in tongues that his kind had long since forgotten, words that tingled my older memories.
Then he slumped back to the ground as I let go, the flow of the blood stopped. I grasped the boy and set him on his feet, pushing him forward. His feet understood my intentions, continued forward so he would not fall.
I let myself ride the fire that would have consumed him, enjoying the warmth as I moved from the fire and rode the air that it fed upon. I let it carry me above the boy, observing his progress. His consciousness seemed to have returned, but he would not remember our encounter. Few people could handle the memory of one such as I. Most people simply forget to survive.
Ever wonder what's beneath the mask?
Phersu kept slamming his fists back into the face of the man beneath him, compacting the mass in his knuckles to the point they were as dense as stone. The person underneath him had long stopped moving, only occasionally twitching in response to the brutal onslaught. He kept repeating this action. Over and over and over.
"Heh....Did you think this would end differently?! Hu~.....that I couldn't kill you and take you back?!" Phersu shouted at the man, although he recognized on a subconscious level that he couldn't hear him anymore. The man looked up blankly at Phersu, or would have did he have a face. He only had a blank, porcelain white mask, just like Phersu's own. Except, now, cracks were running through it, yielding to the blunt trauma.
Phersu only stopped punching once the splintered mask started to slide off, revealing the face beneath. It had been a long time since Phersu had last seen his own face, even if it was now attached to someone else. The person it now adorned was of his own flesh, so he supposed it was still him. Technically.
The sight wasn't especially moving to Phersu, but the human part of him, the countless consciousnesses that he had absorbed and amalgamated inside of him, recoiled. A sea of human voices, shrieking in fear and horror inside his head. Not that he cared or minded. He knew the sight of his own face would drive him insane, had he not already fallen off that cliff long ago.
"This is the...hundred and third cycle. Still alive," Phersu said to himself, the middle of his mask splitting open to reveal a dark and empty chasm. His mouth, of course. He brought his mouth closer to the body whose chest he was straddling, preparing to devour the copy whole.
I bravo you, sir. I heartily thank you for such a brilliant show.
I know you do.