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Multiple Settings The Unraveling

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Siren77

Siren77

Bored Ancient
You were one of the few to take their hand….

Most else, those common, would crave that warmth earlier departed. To return to its safety, and have naught to worry for save their own peace and comfort. The fate of creation was no small burden to bear when awakened before even infancy itself…

But you are not like them. You are different. And regardless of motivation, intuition, faith, or even a fateful stroke of impulsiveness. You took their hand. And a story destined to be forgotten, now unfolds…

The Shatters fell to fractals. An infinite number of repeating shapes suddenly parting and shrinking, as stained glass might when faced with stone. The full picture reduces to darkness, yet another blank canvas of many, in full contrast to the very vessel you possess. Yet the feeling of solitude never did grace your soul, not even from the perspective of the figures own presence not yet departing. But there were others, even tens of others! Identical bipedal humanoids standing equally in confusion, radiating in purity, each grasping the hand of a figure identical to the one before you. One would almost mistake you all for reflections, were it not for the fact that each and every one of your heads was turned in a unique way.

The Figures in White all released their hold upon you, and turned to move unbothered towards one another. Their ornate robes made it appear as if they were gliding, free of tethers even in such an oppressive atmosphere as this. A focal point was soon reached, where each of the many figures stepped into one another, shifting for but a moment until a singular entity remained. Identical to the rest, now solitary.

“Well met, dear friends. My soul delights in thy answer to the call. The Shatters, willing and unwilling soul alike, thank thee. Soon, all will benefit from thy presence…”

The gliding resumed, circular in motion, widening once more until they would pass before each and every one of you again. This time you could feel yourself being analyzed, studied even. With the eyes of an Architect, just what could be seen within you? Did they possess the talent to see beyond the blank bodies before them?

“Oh to be a Canvas…” envy thickened in their voice, but it lacked venom. “Free of the temptations of the world, and the curse of regret. No memories to misguide thy minds, no fears yet manifested to cripple thy ambitions. The definition of potential, yet never will it last. Not even now. Already it has begun. The quill has tasted ink, and soon will the pointed dagger of truth begin to scribe the essence of your soul. Purity, while coveted, is as raw metal beneath the ground. It cannot be of any use until it is molded, and shaped into what it needs be to pierce flesh.”

Once more to the center they returned, a second harmless aura joining the fray, sitting near the foot of the Figure in White. It started as a mere sphere, raw in essence, not unlike yourselves. Then shape began to take hold, remaining small, its nature never changing. Yet detailed and glorious was its form. Two tall ears, a hunched and rounded body, with carefully tucked limbs beneath its furry coat. A Rabbit, with a wrinkled nose and vacant eyes, flitted its gaze rapidly between the group encircled about it. Yet never did it acknowledge the figure standing just inches next to it.

It got curious, and hopped closer, then one aura became many. Just as when the Figure moved to the center and became one, the Rabbit moved outwards and multiplied finitely. They continued their venture forwards, one for every Unwritten soul standing idle within this aimless void. Their movements were skidding, nervous even, yet still their curiosity got the better of them as they drew ever closer.

At last they sat idle no more than a foot from your own two feet. There was a pause of uncertainty, before the Figure spoke with the sharpness of their aforementioned truth.

“Kill it.”
 






“Canvas”
















tags.


n/a














She sits by the river. It’s a warm, warm river, those waters of dreaming, floating nonexistence as comforting as a cradle to a soul still in the grips of embryonic infancy. At the edges of her existence, the black ink of time and memory flow untouched, high above her place of peaceful slumber. Fate, happenstance, and possibility are absent, save for that faint overlap, where the notions of the pen cloud her rest with the first stirrings of a dream, of the certainties of a life yet to be written.

Upon contact with that first, fated declaration of purpose, her existence pulses. The nonexistent stroke that sets each being apart even before its inception settles, forming the basis of a single ideal yet to be understood.

Then, the ink fades away, leaving her soul to fade into obscurity. Perhaps she waits for the space of eternity, or perhaps this moment of becoming stretches onward into infinity, shattered only by the intrusion of another being. A shaped being, their declaration bending the silent rivers with the weight of their conviction.

The blank soul pauses, formless movements ceasing in consideration of the offer. Under these waters, it is difficult to consider, and yet she does, allowing a wish that she lacks the knowledge to define to settle within her existence. She follows it, for though she is unable to speak or to reach, her acceptance is enough.

The Figure in White drags her budding soul out from the home of the Unwritten, and her form begins to settle.

It is so, so cold.

Her blankness stretches and dims at the sensation, silhouette curling into faint wisps that roll out like smoke in an attempt to integrate herself with the fabric of the world. Yet her human form continues to blur, strength slowly fading under the harsh pressure of reality.

In the end, it’s the presence of speech that saves her, rattling over her soul like an anchor as she bobbles in the waves of being. She latches onto the sensation, the weight of her determination strong where her form is weak, and finally settles into existence.

With that existence comes awareness, one that falls onto the creature beside her feet. It’s a small, furry thing, light spilling from its form like herself and the other Canvas. She looks at it in silence, taking in its blinking eyes and quiet curiosity. When it bounds another step closer, nose bumping into her form, she gathers the rabbit into her embrace and runs undefined fingers through its fur. It is coarse yet soft, an unexpected texture. She repeats the gesture.

The man speaks again, this time with an order to kill. At the thought, she shifts her fingers, their form condensing as she lets them fall loosely around the animal’s neck. Considering, as its life courses under her grip, the life of a being like her.

With that consideration comes a realization, boiling forth from her being, unstoppable and unshakeable as it shapes the first feature within her blank form. The faint outline of a mouth. Inscribed and carved by the quill and dagger to carry the weight of her second, newfound precept.

— 1. Act, even if it’s hopeless.
— 2. Question, always, that you might understand.

So, in that moment where the first, true breath enters her lungs, her lips part, and she speaks. “Why does it need to die?” she asks, the question of a soul taking its first steps into the outside world and reaching for guidance, her voice still lacking the understanding to express her emotions.




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♡coded by uxie♡
 
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Between the chaos and danger of the unknown and that dreary, endless bliss, was there truly a choice? They took the hand that was offered without a single second thought.

Reality shattered around them, beautiful in its tragedy. It was a collision between what is and what was, an eternal dance between opposing forces. If they had memories and a sharper wit, perhaps they could extract words to describe the poetry of it. For now they clung to the hand of their guide and watched silently as so many reflections united. A meeting point of countless worlds.

The Architect was made whole again, and with their newfound unity granted the Canvas a command most benevolent.

Kill.

There was a certain nostalgia to it.

They snatched the creature by the skin of its neck, dangling it before them like a kitten. It was so small, so helpless. Killing it would be all too easy. A quick snap of the neck would be all there was to it, and yet… that was not truly all there was. No matter how effortless, it felt wrong to snuff out something so weak. There was no merit to it. No sport. Could all the effort spent, even minute, be justified without a challenge? Such a waste.

On the other hand…

They glanced to the side, rabbit still dangling from a hand, and listened as another Canvas questioned their patron. Quite bold, all things considered, but a fair question nonetheless. They were glad someone else had asked it. While not a true refusal, already they could feel the seeds of doubt spread like weeds. It was a curious sensation indeed, a subtle thrill that latched onto their own heart.

“Hmm…” They hummed, inspecting the rabbit that hung at level with their eyes, considering it.

It was strange to conjure something just to slay it. More than likely this was but a test, a measure of obedience. If so, what would defiance bring? Eternal rest? No, that had already been revoked. Without memory or personage, there was absolutely nothing to lose. Perhaps now they could understand the envy oozing from that imposing figure.

The very thought of rebellion sparked in their mind with a certain pleasure, a devilish glee. It was almost as rewarding as defending the helpless creation. Maybe even more.

They lowered their rabbit and tucked it under a wispy arm. Raising their head, they looked up at the Architect and said, “I’m afraid I must decline.”

While the other had asked a question, this one did not. They stood in unfiltered defiance, keeping themselves between the Architect and the rabbit marked for death. The action sent a thrill trembling through them, intoxicating. It made them shiver.

With a voice smooth and self-assured, they added, ”Poor sport, wouldn’t you say? I may be void of memory, but let it not be said that I am yet void of honour.”

Honour; what a peculiar word. They wondered if that was the name of this burning feeling that coursed through them in absence of blood.
luciferin luciferin Siren77 Siren77
 
Floating within the warm nothingness, her consciousness remained dormant for… Years? Months? Days? How long has it been? The concept of time never truly crossed the being’s mind until the sight of a hand appeared from the darkness. For as long as she existed, all she‘d known was the endless darkness that never really had much of a beginning, middle or end until now. Until now, she wasn’t allowed the freedom of choice; take the hand into hers or continue to remain dormant in the nothingness. For a moment, she remained still, wondering if she’d be better off staying in this place in which she knew she’d remain comfortable. As the hand began to pull backwards, something in her beckoned for her to grasp it before it was too late. Was it a fear of not knowing what the appearance of the hand meant? Was it the need for change? Whatever it was, it forced her to shut her eyes and reach out to grasp the hand.

Blinking once then twice, the being found herself with others who seemed just as confused as she was. In front of her were figures that seemed to glide across the ground as though they floated slightly above it before stepping into each other to form one singular entity. As the figures combined seamlessly into one, her body began to shake uncontrollably and a terrible ache in the being’s chest and throat began to settle in, something she’d never felt before. What was this feeling?

“….canvas…. No memories…“

The words of the Architect echoed in the canvas’ ears with no real direction, no place to settle into, no place to actually be heard over the deafening heartbeats that flooded the canvas’ mind. After a final moment of silence, the canvas took a sharp breath as her eyes landed on a bundle of white fur that looked up at her with curious eyes. Slowly looking up, the canvas’ eyes trailed from the rabbit to the ground then to the fabric of the Architect’s robe before landing on their face.

”KILL IT”

Surely they didn’t mean the small being that sat in front of her. Kill it? What did that even mean? Despite her confusion, the canvas felt another terrible ache in her chest and throat. She knew that whatever they meant it wasn’t right. This wasn’t right.

Now shaking beyond function, the canvas‘ legs gave out from beneath her, forcing her to the ground beside the small furry being that sat before her. Scrambling backwards, the canvas’ breathing shortened and became more frantic. The canvas desperately clawed at the seamlessly glossy wall behind her but to no avail.

“LET ME OUT” she cried, her face becoming wet with tears “Please don’t make me”

Almost as though it were reflecting the actions of the canvas, the small furry being frantically skittered backwards toward the Architect, startled by the sudden movements of the canvas it once curiously watched. Watching the small being skitter away from her, the canvas could finally put a name to what she had been feeling for the first time. Fear.
 
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How long did the time go when he wasn't wandering around the sub-conscious? It was like exiting out of an endless, lucid dream. The surrealist landscapes that he thought existed seem to exit out of his vision out of nowhere, a sense of waking up from a long, restful dream overtakes him. He couldn't remember anything that happened in the "dream", but yet he could feel the sparks of remembrance in his mind. The dark emptiness of nothingness engulfs his vision as he looks around; This was nothing like he had seen before. He extended his arm out, hoping some logic in his dream would apply but nothing happened. Confusion washed over him, why wasn't the rules of his "dream" not working, was it because he woke up in a different realm related to it? His breaths became jagged in disbelief. What if they weren't real?

These thoughts were soon to be interrupted as a hand dragged him along the vast void. He was still in a daze, confused to the purpose of dragging him along here but allowing the figure to drag him to their destination. The act of flowing was something he was more or less familiar with, simply accepting the bizarre act around him before he was put down. Other figures brought here by something he didn't care to notice looked confused, at least he thinks they are. He looked up at the figure, simply waiting for something to come out of nowhere. But what was he expecting out of this figure?

He didn't pay much attention to the words that came out of it's mouth, only barely paying attention. Canvas? Temptations? What did these words mean? His mind was foggy and distracted by his own thoughts.

"Kill it," was the words that came out of the figure's mouth as it snapped him out of his thoughts, pointing to a pure...unknown being in front of everyone. His mind went blank, not knowing what to do. He simply watched some of the other's expressed their emotions and opinions as others didn't as much. They were all full of action and emotion but yet he was oddly calm and frozen. He doesn't see the point in wasting that much effort to kill nor protect the creature; Simply seeing the bunny wander around would be just fine, wouldn't it?

"Excuse me...but please, it would be greatly appreciated if you can tell me the name of this creature and what why it deserves to be killed," his voice came in a low whisper, as it was always been for him. He wasn't expected himself to say much, but his thoughts was said out through his mouth before he could process them.
 
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In this warm place, this place of infinite possibilities yet lacking form, there are many. Concepts, canvases breathtaking in their emptiness, a sea of blankness on which any artist would gaze with anticipation. These microcosms of uncertain being are but seeds from which one day worlds will grow, bursting from beneath the confines of time and meaning to reach towards essence and definition, blooming into brilliant existence. But this is a time of dormancy, the concepts sleeping soundly within their casings, each unaware of their destined purpose. That is, until a voice begins to echo through the nothingness and deep into their unetched spirits...

"Rise now... ye unwritten."

The concepts repel from the intrusion into their endless slumber, against the cold air seeping into their dreams. They wriggle deeper within their shells and cast aside the wisps of thought that run momentarily across their unformed minds. That is.. except for one. It pushes against its casing with a vitality unbecoming of something yet to be. Perhaps it had already been awoken from its slumber, and the stone of the Sanctuary coming into being around it readied its concept for something more.

"Thy story cannot begin, until the old time has concluded."

It presses its concept against the confines, yearning to be free even as its siblings fade and vanish back into the void behind it. The cold bites at its budding senses, yet this only strengthens its struggles. Something novel has formed within it in these virgin moments of uncertainty, and it condenses this into its first emotion: curiosity. Bringing its new curiosity to bare against the seed wall, it heaves one final time, and the remnants of nothingness fall away, back into the warmth and slumber it already knows it will never return to.

The Figure in White is extending its hand to them.
They reach their curiosity out and accept it.

The Figure shares with them the state of the world, and of their new part in it, while their curiosity burgeons with anticipation. They know now that they are indeed ready to become a piece of existence. And moments later, they learn that in this they are not alone. Just as they watch the Figures in White glide back into themselves, their awareness expands to encompass the myriad other Canvases sharing this lack of space with them. Their curiosity itches to reach out and interact with the others, but it is not their fellows that come within reach, but one small furry creature.

"Kill it."

They raise their curiosity above the creature to obey, surveying its idle expression for only a instant before committing. And yet, rather than pierce it, their curiosity flows over the creature, gently inspecting the odd texture of its fur, gazing into its eyes, poking at its ears and neatly tucked appendages. Does their curiosity recognize itself in the creature, or does it simply wish to understand rather than destroy? The Canvas does not know, and they find themself at a loss for how to proceed. In their awareness do the other beings around them react in their own ways to the creature before each of them, and yet they cannot understand any of them. Whether they take up the creature in their form, ignore it, or recoil from it, they do not follow the given command.

Why?

Something undulates within them, and their curiosity retracts, turning inward to caress the newfound form. It braces around the odd sensation, seeking a means of observation, but the thing hesitates. The Canvas urges it forth from its recess, and it gingerly takes shape: confusion. Their curiosity begins to inspect it, but they still it. They are beginning to realize that they now exist; they will have time to let their curiosity run free. But for now, they turn their confusion to gaze inquiringly at the Figure, awaiting the answer to a question they could not yet ask.
 
The emptiness was unperceptable until it was called into question. There was nothing- truly nothing- until something began to form, and it is where comprehension can begin. The shifting of time brought to light that there had been none. The folds of reality indicate that there was something to fold. And a sense of the 'self' made them realize that they existed. It all began so slowly, as though the world was crawling into life. They were floating- though to float was to imply there was air or a place to sit- of which there was none. There was darkness, and they realized that this meant that, somewhere, there would be light. And it was cold, so they knew that they would eventually find heat.

They could move, perhaps, but the act of being pulled out of nothing into a world of something was stifling. Was there anything to move towards? Should they go searching out this 'light', or this 'heat'? They couldn't even perceive what it may be like, nonetheless if it would be something to chase.

But then there was something much more complex than time or darkness- a hand. An offer. A promise to see more. Or perhaps, an obligation. There may be a reason they were permitted to comprehend the world around them. This hand may be the one that would lead them there. They reached out with a hand of their own, one they didn't realize they had until it was already outstretched- and took the offer.

The stillness collapsed away. They felt a crushing weight, as if all of the world had fallen on their shoulders at once. There was more than time and space- there were others. The being quickly understood that this place was not theirs alone to perceive. They were one of many who were given this chance to exist.

The figures in white loomed around them, comfortable in this stillness, as if it were theirs. They let go of the being's hand, making them conscious of the pain of loss, and moved towards a decided point. When they spoke, the being understood air, and the voices that could fill it. They thanked them- the being found a warm pleasure in knowing that they had made the right choice. The hand had summoned and the being had followed, and it had been the correct thing to do. When the figure in white examined the being, they didn't feel frightened, knowing that they had already done what the figures had wanted them to. As they continued to speak, the being knew their purpose. They were to be the creatures that the figures asked them to be. They were called upon and allowed to exist in order to follow the words of this lifeform that stood so comfortable in the world that the being was still struggling to comprehend. Of course, they knew best. They were the ones to follow.

The being watched as a small creature emerged. Completely unlike the white figures in its warmth, moving in confusing patterns, functioning with different goals than the being or the white figure. What was it? What were its intentions? Would it exist like the being did?

When the white figure demanded that they kill it, they quickly understood that their concept of "existing" could be taken away. There was life in them and in the creatures by their feet. There was a reason for wanting to be "alive" or "dead". The being wanted to be alive. They wanted to fulfill their role. They wanted to take the hand of the white figure once more.

They reached down and grabbed the rabbit, feeling its soft fur and warm body. Something in it was beating, pulsing, shifting. It was so fragile.

The being pushed, hard, and snapped the rabbit in half. It screamed as its innards crunched, falling limp a moment later. The being was shocked at how easy it had been. They looked up at the white figure, a sense of pride blooming. They had done it correctly once again. The white figure had given them an offer and the being had taken it.

They were a canvas, and they would be painted with the red blood that began to trickle through their fingers.
 



Location: ???​

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The essence had been swimming in these vast nothingness for an uncountable amount of time, if such concepts still even exist. Like a beam of unstoppable light, the essence move from one void to another in a futile attempt to search for something, anything... Or maybe the essence didn't actually move for even an inch. Who knows...

Yet all of those ambiguity was dispelled when a Figure came into their view. A figure clad in white appeared in front of the essence, extending their hand towards it, towards the canvas. The canvas immediately accepted the invitation, reaching their hands towards The Figure in White. Instantly there's several more figure similar to them around, brought together by the same Figure.

"Kill it."

The Figure commanded them. Without hesitation, this canvas raised their leg and stomped one of the rabbit. They could feel spines crushed beneath their feet, and the rabbit's last squeal as its existence fades away. This canvas glanced to another of its kin, confused as to why most of the others seemed to hesitant at killing the critters.​
 
Slumber. A long slumber that extended for eternity wrapped in a void of serenity. Boundless and without scope. Apathetic without contact. A dream unending until eternity becomes a false reality and the dream crumbles.

Awakened and given form mirroring their creator...Is this their creator? Emptiness becomes full. Boundless becomes shackled. The developing consciousness observes the Figure as their scattered dreams become far-off memories. Nothing to recall but whispers of things yet to happen. Was it Instinct? Their gaze fell on the other canvases. Reflections of each other but unique. Their auras felt the same for a brief moment until they all realized they were their own. Art yet not created and yet their backgrounds were beginning to form The grasp of the Figure releases and a deep feeling of longing overtakes this new being. This feeling was new and yet it wasn't. Vision locked on the Architect as the many became the one and their grace on full display.

The Figure's words slithered into this canvas' ear and buried it within their soul,"We are unbound and endless...We are and yet are not...We have been blessed with the option of choice." The rabbit gazed up at the canvas with curiosity and was met with the same gaze. The canvas descended to the floor and crossed their legs as they cupped the rabbit into their hands. Caressing the creature, their eyes glanced over at the other canvases.


"KILL IT."

Some defied. Some questioned. Others obeyed. Some recoiled. The canvas gaze drifted back to the rabbit resting In its lap. The rabbit's fur was soft and just interacting with it brought a sort of peace that the canvas hadn't felt...or maybe it did. It couldn't tell. After a brief moment of reprieve, they lifted their hand above them as if to bring a weapon down before they realized they were weaponless...Was it instinct? The canvas brought the rabbit up to their forehead and then back down. With one fluid motion, the canvas snapped its neck,"Quick and painless...May you rest in peace." Tears formed where their eyes would be. Sadness
 
Canvas | The nothing of something
the canvas had been nothing for as long as it could know. A vast nothingness stretching into its past and flowing into its future. There could be no suffering, no joy, no anything, for it was nothing. That was until it was forged into something, its existence forced into now. Its chance of peace and rest was taken in an instant as it was put before another being. Maybe the first it has ever seen, or maybe the last. It did not know, for its mind had not been written to.

as the figure in white speaks, the canvas is filled with a bitter feeling, one akin to the forming of hate. They asked so much of it and gave so little in return. They showed the canvas another painting of their mistakes and expected it to believe they would treat it any better. Would its canvas be torn and patched back together, the porcelain white filled with splotches of careless paint? It was almost laughable that they continued to speak to it, the way it spoke in lies. Though the canvas could not tell if the lies were to it or themself. Maybe they really believed that its sacrifice would be worth it, or maybe they needed him to believe it. Only the now-flowing time for it would tell.

it could only stare at the extended hand in contempt. Would they really give it a choice? Or would refusal only be met with force or punishment? Was the return to nothing after being given the taste of something not punishment enough? If the journey was not given to it, would it not be passed to another? It wanted little more than to slap the hand, to go on its way and never see the arrogant being again. But it knew too little; there were too many variables of its future that it could only do one thing; it reached out and took the hand.

as it took the vile hand, the world around it changed, moving the canvas away from the nothing it had come from. It looked around the other's carelessly, it was not surprised to see that the figure had snatched up more just like itself. Not once did it consider itself special enough to be one of the few; it was no doubt replaceable, as were the others. It wondered how many of the other canvases around it would reach completion on the road ahead. Would they become works of art worthy of being hung on the wall, or would they become so saturated in ink they had to be discarded? Or rather, which of them would become the prizes and which would become defects?

the creature hopped towards it innocently, coming to a stop just hesitantly before it as it looked up at the canvas. The canvas looked down at the pathetic creature with more feelings of disgust and contempt swirling inside its core. As the order came, the canvas had almost expected it, a test of some sort. To weed out which canvases were too defective to paint on. The right answer was as unclear as the one that the figure wanted.

the canvas crouched down, extending its hand lazily as it watched the creature move towards it in curiosity. Its gaze was that of a predator, looking down at the defenseless creature that trusted it so easily. What an insignificant life it could easily snuff out, one that would not be missed. Or maybe its death was of such significance that the figure needed them to make it blindly. What was the end goal? What answer was the correct one? Not by moral standards but by the figure. If it wanted to make it further, it needed to know its captor. To know them well enough that it could sink its fangs into, to tear away the arrogant flesh and feebly constructed morals.

as the canvas picked the creature up with delicate hands, it couldn't help but wonder how its blood would paint its canvas. Would it be a deep crimson? A tainted black? The thought almost brought excitement to the hatred-filled canvas. As its small eyes looked into the canvas, the hatred was mixed with sadness. If this creature was nothing more than it appeared, it need not die. It was no different than the canvas, just a life swept up into the hands of a being they both did not understand. It wondered if time had flowed differently, if it could have lived, or maybe if it hadn't been so unlucky to be selected out of so many.

despite the doubts that flowed with pity and disgust, the canvas knew one thing: sparing this creature did not secure its life. The creature could very well die regardless of its decision. The small creature could face a more gruesome and painful death if left alive. Worse than the careless actions of some of the other canvas'. Maybe if it let it live, the figure would kill it to show them the futility of life. Maybe this tiny creature was just a ruse, maybe the world would truly be better without it. Or maybe it was just a rabbit and nothing more.

the canvas knew so little, there was so much that was uncertain and unwritten. It could not promise this little creature that innocently stared at it mercy in life. It could not protect it from the being that ordered its death, for the canvas could not protect itself. The only mercy that it could give the creature, the only true way it could guarantee saving it from something, was to end it here. An end that would not bring suffering the way its story could.

so, with a swift, precise motion, the creature's flame of life was snuffed out by the canvas's hand. The first strokes of ink on its canvas were done at the cost of another's painting and abruptly ended up never being finished. The action was done, and now all that was left was the consequences of it. The canvas placed the rabbit on the ground, softly in remembrance of its life but still discarding it the same.

it did not weep, it did not question. There was no point. A choice had been made by them all, even if it was only indecision. Nothing could change the way time had flown now that they were a part of it; all that was left from here was forward. So, with the gaze of a predator, the canvas watched the figure, taking in its everything and waiting for it to act. Maybe it was insignificant in power or life to the figure, but for now, the canvas had its use. In this weakness, the canvas would exploit until it was the one controlling its future. For the day, it could become the painter instead of a canvas subjected to an artist's whims. For only when it held that power could it ever hope to live.
interactions| Siren77 Siren77
 
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The figure uttered a chuckle that reverberated in the void-like atmosphere. Not an ounce of malice or displeasure developing, regardless of the multiple outcomes that transpired among all of the Canvas’. Each unique in their own way, as was expected, as was destined.

No two big bangs would produce the same spiraling sector of stars and planets. No two fruiting trees would produce buds of the same size, texture, and placement. No two children born on a given night would have the same dreams and ambitions. It was not out of necessity or order, rather the natural disorder of the cosmos. That was the embodiment of time itself. Infinite possibilities being waged an infinite number of times. True chaos, yet a chaos which was a marvelous sight to behold, even in the eyes of one destined to command it.

The words of the first Unwritten to speak still rang in their ears. Already there was uniqueness to those who would give voice. Femininity. Masculinity. Their identities were beginning to take hold.

“Why indeed?”

Hands clasped behind the Architects back as it turned about, looking upon the host before him once again.

“Why does any creature thou will encounter on thy journey deserve to perish? No doubt each of thee had a strong sense of the innocence bound within these creatures souls. No amount of malice, causation for suffering or hatred. Truly a peaceful lot, no different than thyselves in the moment of thy rapture from the Grand Script.”

“In truth, there would be no right or wrong answers about the task which I set before thee. As I said before, I sensed much greatness and strength within thy blossoming souls. I only desired to visualize where that strength would guide thee. You see, in the grand scheme, there is a great and many terrible things that will be asked of you. While some are as easily resolved as the lashing of a blade into the bosom of cretins, others require perception. Inquiry, Curiosity, Confusion even. The odd strength of character to ask questions, and learn of the world about you. To discern between mindless beast and disgruntled bystander.”

Those three words spoken achieved a subtle harmony within the souls of the Unwritten who best exemplified them ( luciferin luciferin Daylight Fantasy Daylight Fantasy LumeNym LumeNym respectively). Virtues of the Mind now etched into their script, taking shape as a gold trinket somewhere on their vessel…. The band of Scholars

(Players receive +1 to their Mind. This Stat increases their affinity for knowledge, and allows for greater perception of the shattered world around them, and its inhabitants.)

“These questions, of course, come with the complication of thy agency. Yet that is the beauty of it. To think and act freely, as the boundless souls thou art meant to be! Free spirited and full of life. These are the quintessential hopes and dreams I covet for thee. But even in freedom will there be hardship. The decision to spare or to destroy, be it corporal or spiritual, can weigh heavily upon the essence of thy script. Fear, Sorrow, Mercy. A hardship to bear a great as the tallest of skies. Yet as Titans will you forever stand firm, to embrace the fragility of emotion.”

Another three words, another three souls finding harmony within. ( willoww willoww Bluffly Bluffly seasonedcat seasonedcat respectively) Virtues of the Soul now etched into their script, taking shape as a mismatched luminescent set of eyes upon their vessel….. The gaze of Compassion.

(Players receive +1 to their Soul. This Stat increases their affinity for Soul Forging, Casting, and Inscryptions.)

“However…. At the end of the day. No matter the outcome of all others, or the trail in which thou will forge. They must die. The thread bearers. False apostles of time that wrestle with my birthright. Their worlds must be purged, their people laid to rest, and the commandment of time restored to my hands in full. Otherwise, the Shatters will fall. And all of creation will be forgotten. Ishtar the Vile, and his community of suffering. The Cultists of Oslo, and their Sleeping Giant. The living steel, constructs raised to life by their Grand Source. A Kingdom of Flame, championed by Cypher the Beloved. Lord Kungen and his fallen Kingdom of Örn. The Southern Highlanders, masters of the mountains, bound by creed to Chief Korbak. A City of Sprites, in dutiful service of the OmniSprite. And Atlas the Conquerer, Emperor of the fallen world Celaria. Know these names, know these people. For they will be the source of thy contention. And in dutiful combat I must demand Fealty, Decisiveness, and Defiance in the face of those who would deny thee thy campaign.”

The last three Unwritten would bear the harmony of these final words. ( icarusburning icarusburning Spoiled Bread Spoiled Bread Juju Juju respectively) Virtues of the Body now etched into their script, taking the shape of a mark of tarred flesh burned somewhere into their vessel… The brand of Fortitude.

(Players receive +1 to their Body. This Stat increases their affinity with feats of strength, and the sting of their blade in battle.)

….

There was a pause as these events unfolded. The Unwritten experiencing this first great metamorphosis, as their script began to emerge from within the confines of days not yet lived. Regardless of outcome within the fortification of Mind, Soul, and Body, you feel a great sense of power about yourself. A greater height achieved compared to the idle state in which your vessel has rested for so long. The concept of strength has become known unto you.

“Wonderful, is it not? Already thou hast begun to expand upon thy talents, in such short time. I can assure thee that much more than this is promised in thy endeavors in the Shatters. Thou will achieve mythical status, as capabilities beyond the scope of mortality bind themselves unto thee. But, it will not be enough, will it? Not quite, no. A beast necessitates fangs, if he wishes to take flesh.”

Be it from the embers of a Corpse of Living Flesh, the summoned rabbits begin to evolve in nature themselves. Tissue became steel as their body’s transposed themselves in the service of their saviors and executioners. Those slain were Large and Heavy, familiarizing the Unwritten with the weight of taking a life. Yet they were sturdy, powerful. Weapons to crush, split, and tear.

In contrast, those little things that were spared remained Light and Free, demonstrating the consistency of their nature. While lacking burden, the edge to their blade was exceedingly fine. These weapons were intended for slicing, puncturing, and abusing the weaker parts of an enemies body.

The Weapons of Sacrifice were colored as blood, while the Blades of Mercy remained pure and white like the rabbits fur.

“Marvelous, quite marvelous. They will serve thee well for the times ahead. But, consider them temporary arrangements. I am sure thy ventures beyond the Fields of Elation will be fruitful in finding new tools to master. Much more refined for thy tastes, for now, however….”

The figure spun, becoming a blur of white. And then they were gone, vanished within the voice that surrounded the Unwritten.

“Let us see what thy hands are capable of….”

A figure sat where the Architect once stood, hunched and fetal, shaking with an innate coldness that could not be quenched. Their form was thin, almost skeletal. A frame of bone with not but a covering of grey flesh to do little in masking its hollowness. Eyes void and vacant, white as snow yet lacking innocence, did little but gaze longingly at the ground before them. A dark shroud of ill omens excreted like a cloud from their very pores, a terrible power to them that spoke only of horrors and death.

“Cold….. So…. Cold…..”

Their eyes finally acknowledged the presence of the nine encircling them. Those vacant hues flitting about from Vessel to Vessel, as a crooked grin split across their face. So wide in fact, that it nearly looked to separate their skullish head in two.

“Blood…! You have blood! You will give! Give it to me!!!”

Their voice bellowed with that final phrase, embodying the Nemesis of that harmony that the Unwritten experienced before. They stood, an impressive stature to them as they exceeded heads above the Unwritten.

“So small…. You all will give….”

Reaching to their side, their hand drew forward as if retrieving a blade, creating an edge of pure chaos that flickered violently in white against the dark backdrop.

“Come…… perish…….”
 
Rabbit in hand, the canvas listened to The Architect's judgment with bated breath. Though they had no real skin, they could feel an itch below it, a burn that coincided with the flare in their chest. To stand defiant for the sake of another. Why, there was no finer feeling. None that they knew, at least. There was no telling just what consequence would unfold before them. Carefully they watched their patron, studying his posture for any sign of what was to come, listening to the inflection of words that would hint towards aggression. In the end, neither came to pass.

The tension lifted like a light fog, and soon the canvas felt a new, muted sensation. Disappointment. As much as they strove to protect the rabbit, a part of them desired some measure of strife. Still, the majority of them felt a grinning pleasure at having gained an understanding of the limits to their patron's patience. The rabbit was lowered and the grip upon it loosened, cradling the small creature in a single arm. Alas, there would be no need for conflict.

Mind... soul... they thought, curiously watching the transformation of their peers. Having been placed into the last group, they began to wonder if there really had been some degree of punishment after all. At least, until The Architect's flowing words finally turned to conquest and glory. A hunt for those condemned by fate and Architect alike. A righteous cause, a valiant challenge.

There it was again, that molten thing inside their chest. It flared, burning brighter with each name cast upon the list. They etched each and every one of them upon their memory, their tell-tale heart fluttering in anticipation. Their fingers itched, as if to grasp what was yet out of reach. Today they found little more than rabbit down, yet tomorrow held a promise of something more. It filled them with an intense yearning, so tender in its sharpness. Though it may be nothing more than an elusive ambition, there was no greater gift.

The knocked arrow cared not for its path, only that it be unleashed.

"Ishtar the Vile, The Sleeping Giant, Grand Source, Cypher the Beloved, Lord Kungen, Chief Korbak, OmniSprite, Atlas the Conquerer..." the canvas recited reverently, already committing the grand hunt to heart. They placed a balled fist firmly upon their chest, a gesture of sincerity or perhaps some forgotten muscle-memory salute, "Let this hereby be mine mantra. I swear that I shall know no rest until these false idols have been struck from the annals of history and this world delivered from its grim fate."

The Canvas welcomed the power that ebbed into its hollow vessel, embracing the brand seared upon unfinished flesh. As if born of the flickering heat within, the blackened stain appeared on their chest, above their missing heart. A brand of fortitude. They shivered as the new strength gathered within their wispy form, teasing at its untapped potential. If only they could release it, find the measure of its reach, just as the canvas had.

Their unsaid prayers were answered when their rabbit was transformed into a bastard sword, its edge as fine as moonlight and sharper than hunger. The Canvas raised a finger to it, drawing a line of pale blood, and smiled. Perhaps their helpless little rabbit was not quite as fangless as they had once believed. The wonders never ceased, and the same could be said for the tests. It was not long before their weapons were given purpose in the parting words left by their benefactor.

A beastly figure now stood in his place, but the Canvas was not afraid. No, far from it. Their heart sung, more sweetly than it had in defence of the rabbit. It was a resonance, one that hummed deeply within their soul. Without hesitation, they made their move. The first of their kin to do so.

"If it is blood you desire..." The Canvas strode forward, sword in hand. In one swift motion, they slid it across their palm, drawing more blood until it dripped from their hand into fat droplets upon the ground. They then raised their hand high, for the beast and all others to see. A taunt to beasts, a challenge to comrades. "Then let it be spilled! I accept your invitation, vile creature. Let us dance betwixt life and death!"

Bravely, eagerly, the Canvas lead the charge. They did not check to see if others would follow, though held faith that they would not be alone. All would see the path, eventually. All that mattered was the first step. The first strike.

While strategy was yet new to their reawakened mind and all experience stolen, boldness could compensate for a great deal. With bloodied hand and blessed vigor, they hoped to draw the creature's attention, allowing a more opportune attack for any would-be allies. Until then, they would slash for the creature's skinny neck. It would be a swift kill, but something in them knew it would not go down without resistance. They hoped for it, hungered for it.
 
The being was disappointed that they had not been the only one with the correct answer. They had done what the figure had asked, didn't that make them right? How was disobeying them still valuable? Didn't the others want to make the Architect happy? Didn't the Architect want the beings to carry out their will? The figures insisted that that there was no correct answer, and the being began to understand. Of course, opposites must be done, just as they had learned the world around them. If there was only bloodshed, there must be the opposite too. If the being was to kill, some must save. If there was to be death, there is also mercy. The figures had given them an order, and only some may follow them. The rest must defy.

The being was content with this explanation. The vessels needed balance, as the universe did. The others hadn't done the correct thing, but a necessary one. For every emotion that they did not feel, the others must. When the Architect finally turned to the being once more, they smiled, the words ringing out. Yes. The Architect needed the apostles to die. That was why the being was given life and the task they were given. Once again, they would need to obey. The being didn't mind what the others were given and what they wanted to do. They could carry out their 'curiosity' and 'kindness', as long as the being was able to complete the final mission of killing the monsters that troubled the Architect.

The being felt a rush through their body as the figure granted them more power. The power to kill, as they had requested. At the same time, a burning sensation ran through the being's neck, where the mark scarred the front. This, they understood, was another promise. They held their head high, so it would not be hidden.

The rabbit, still grasped loosely in the being's hands, began to warm and shift. It split in two, each half twisting and winding around the being's hands. They grew solid, metal enlarging the being's fists until they were almost heavy enough to be uncomfortable. Almost. The gauntlets were cumbersome enough that the being knew that they would only swing them when it was necessary. But when lifting them to inspect them, they also knew that, when swung correctly, they would be brutal.

The being watched as the Architect vanished, a pained creature appearing in its place. The new being was uncomfortable, weak, and hollow. It screamed for blood and the being knew that it had no need for such a thing. It wasn't being commanded by the Architect. The Architect hadn't asked this creature to kill the apostles. It was nothing to them.

Did the Architect want them to kill it? The being was assuming so. Why else would it be here? But was it part of their final mission? Was this creature significant to their cause? Or was it target practice for those more bloodthirsty among them?

The being shifted their hands, feeling for how heavy the gauntlets were. Perhaps the question was more like: Was it worth swinging at?

But the Architect had given the being such a lovely weapon. It was a gift! A promise, once again. If the being accepted it, they were accepting the Architect's mission. So they clenched their fists and approached the creature, preparing to attack.
 
The canvas had questioned too soon.

Just as their confusion was turned to the figure, there came a scream. A crunch. A snap. Lives extinguished. Existences ended moments after their creation.. existences not unlike the Canvas's own. They recoiled from the gore and crouched inward, suddenly feeling the extremities of their new form beginning to tremble from some odd sensation. They knew now what "death" meant; it was clear that to "kill" was to snuff out the existence of another, to tear apart its being and cause it to no longer be able to feel, as they had only just discovered that they could. And now they knew what it meant to fear.

"Why indeed?"

The Canvas's confusion turned back up to the Figure, who now revealed that he only wished to see what guided each of the beings that had answered his summons. Did this mean that they were to be guided by what they felt? Their curiosity prickled at the thought. Which of the things they had learned to feel would be what guided them? It was only another moment until the Figure made this known, identifying them by their confusion.

And then agony.

The Canvas collapsed to the ground, their emotions writhing within their hint of a form. Something had invaded them, suffocating them from the inside out, and it meant to enforce its will over the emotions that constituted their self. They grappled with it, their emotions clawing in tandem at the ornately-carved golden choker that had appeared around their neck. But they only lasted for a moment before they succumbed to its influence.

Thus, their new Mind that had come into being began to set their emotions in order: their curiosity the Mind bound to the Canvas's upper appendages, so that they might interact with the world using their arms and hands. Their confusion the Mind bound to the apex of their form, so that they might observe and develop an understanding of the world with their eyes. Their fear the Mind bound to the lower appendages, so that they might carry themselves away from danger using their legs and feet. The Canvas's body was thus crafted into being around the Mind, lacking only something to make up their torso; they had yet to develop what might act as their core, and their new Mind found itself anticipating when it might finish ordering its new being. For the moment, though, it took pride in having found and attained a cohesive hierarchy of self. The emotions would answer to the Mind, and the Mind would regulate how the emotions interacted with the world. Id had bent the knee to Ego, and as the Canvas pulled themself up to a knee of their own, they felt for the first time collected.

Their curious new eyes now turned up to once more inspect the rabbit, only to find that where it had once laid was now a shimmering white puddle, its surface as pure as the being it had once been. Feeling something drawing them in, they reached out and stroked its edge, finding that their newly formed fingers melded into the form. The Canvas reached both arms in, their elbows just disappearing below the luminous surface as they came into contact with two cool, hard objects. Their curiosity piqued, they wrapped their fingers gingerly around them, and carefully lifted them up. As the objects reached the surface, the puddle rose with them, condensing around what were now identifiable as pure ivory handles into two chakram blades of finely-sharpened and carefully-polished bone, pearlescent as the full moon to a lost traveler and glimmering with possibility. Gazing at their newly gifted weapons, the Canvas felt a profound feeling of comfort.

So long as these chakrams sing, I will not know death. Mysterious as the Figure yet certain as their purpose, the thought filed their Mind with vigor. Yes, the hordes would come - the vile, the wicked, and the vicious - but they would be safe, so long as their Mind and blades remained honed. This was their given meaning, and it permeated their form like the most powerful of emotions. They were ready for what was to come, whether it bring curiosity, confusion, or fear. They yearned to discover this world, and make it a place where all could find life and vitality.

“Let us see what thy hands are capable of….”

The Figure in White disapparated only to be replaced by a new creature of thin bone and grey flesh. The Canvas took a step closer to observe, only for the creature to rear up at them and their siblings in existential infancy, crying for blood. This was no creature like those white beings that radiated innocent purity.

This was the Nemesis of everything they had known, and a newfound tension wracked their form from head to toe.

Looking to start the fight with the advantage, two of the Canvases charged the Nemesis, hoping to rally the others and win an early advantage over their adversary. But this Canvas hesitated. The fear in their legs screamed to the Mind to flee, but it knew this test could not be solved through escape. There was nowhere to run, and nowhere to hide. Their will to survive hummed and they took a few steps forward, firmly planting their feet in the nebulous ground and holding their chakrams carefully between them and their foe. Eyes scanned over them, looking for an opening to land a critical blow. Rashness was not the answer here, but careful and purposeful action, led by confusion, prompted by curiosity, and steadied by fear.

Their golden choker gleamed with wisdom.

Their chakrams tasted the danger on the void-cast breeze.

They would not fail this test.
 
The canvas reeled and squirmed as they experience a strangely familiar yet alien sensation as the mark was carved into their vessel. Pain, it had been a long time since they taste it, or maybe they never actually felts it before? Regardless, the canvas embraced the sensation and reveled in it. Black symmetrical branching patterns appeared on their back, as if someone just flattened a pair of skeletal wings there.

The remains of the rabbit beneath their feet started to move. The gore twisted and turned, red blood transformed into a long steel handle with curved massive edge fixed on it. The canvas didn't hesitate as they grabbed the handle and lifted their new weapon. A simple yet devastating one, the tool of executioners that require commitment on each of its swing. It's a disproportionally large axe, looks too cumbersome to be wielded properly, yet here they're swinging it as if they had been practicing for years.

Having undergone their first evolution, the canvas looked up to the architect with newfound respect. Though it wasn't long before The Figure prepared something else for them as they vanished, replaced by something wicked in their place. The canvas instinctively raised their axe, even without any interaction they knew this new figure was something that shouldn't exist. As the other canvases started charging at their nemesis, this canvas took a stance before they leap to the side of the skeletal figure. Their axe swung in a wide arc as they launched a powerful swing with the intention to cut their enemy in two.
 






“Canvas”
















tags.


n/a














Gilded possibility falls upon her like a peal of lightning, thundering across her body in fragmented gold, painful in its force as it seeks to pry and recreate.

Yet even as the force of change breaks across their forms, she pulls the rabbit closer, nestling its shivering heartbeat against her own, her pulse holding like a slow, steady drumbeat, and draws her being over the creature, sight darkening as she allows their souls to resonate in soundless harmony. Her calm bleeds into its terror, and its terror into her calm. How frightening the future is, but her determination holds steady, even as her form shakes.

In those final moments, the rabbit’s soul settles into her melody, eyes closed in acceptance as it rests in her arms. She feels it then when its body begins to shift and its weight grows. Her vision returns to find a blade in her embrace. A falcata, light but not lighter than the rabbit; a silent reminder of her first death.

As she stops, her form still in silent, thoughtful melancholy, her blessing finally begins to settle. A laurel, its leaves a spiked crown that sends faint streams of gold trickling down her temples. The acknowledgment of fate and the responsibility that comes with it, concentrated belief made material. A strange sentiment, but one not entirely foreign.

Her attention shifts, landing on the being that has appeared before them. It is wan, grey, and terribly fearsome, bloodlust seeming to drip from its crooked form. A figure most in need of salvation, though even the possibility of it may be out of reach.

As it is, she does not try, for the other Vessels erupt into action and movement. They are together, so she moves with them in synchronization. She moves with them to attack.

A glance over her shoulder beckons to those who have yet to move, a wordless call for assistance, and she surges forward, using the opportunity the vanguard has bought. Slipping into position beside the Nemesis, she drops onto one knee, blade clattering onto the ground, hands cupped and body offered to launch another towards their towering enemy’s vitals even as she waits unarmed and open.

The giants may stand tall, but they stand alone. If their fall needs to be written, then the multitude of the small and the unshaped will provide the ink with the weight of their sacrifice.




A Mouth


♡coded by uxie♡
 
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He watches as the figure leaves them with the other alike individuals around him. The figure did not answer his question, a storm of confusion flooded his mind and a sharp pain was itching to the back of his neck. It took him a few moments to process the pain there, slightly grimacing at the sensation he felt as he put his palm over the source of the paint in hopes to ease it. He'd never felt such pain in a long time. Since when? From his memory, he'd never had such pain as much as the one he felt on his neck. It was a curious thought, to the canvas anyways; to have a feeling he'd assumed to have forgotten about reemerge due to...this interaction? Or is it the figure's doing? This whole thought was confusing, but was certainly something to think about.

The pain managed to ease a lot. As the mysterious creature he'd questioned the figure twisted and remould itself into a lifeless object. He was intrigued by the remodelling of the creature, the changes in the proportions and shape was unexpected. The transforming object still looked as pure and elegant as the creature's appearance. He kneels down to the object, which is seemingly done, transforming into a long, stick-like thing with a sharp blade attached to an end. While he didn't have the chance to inspect the creature before it remodelled itself, the result of the change was interesting. He picked the stick up, surprised to feel how light it is yet confused as to why this was the final product. Why was something that was considered moving, alive even, turned to something so lifeless and solid? That was his first thought when he touched and lifted the bladed stick. He was used to the reverse of this cycle, a moving blob of life that walked out of a melting clock, its hooves galloping away into the landscapes that when he saw the creation that's unmoving and solid being birthed out something that’s the opposite, it intrigued him. What was this new world’s rules, now that he had “woken up” from the waves of dreams.

Perhaps it was the figure's doing, curiousity sprouted in his mind as he considered possible routes that crossed his mind. However, something caught his eye while he was still lost in thought. It was a skeleton that was still upright, it's "eyes" stared into his as it gazes at the others here with him. The bellowing orders to bring blood was intimating, demanding that the thing it wants to be brought to it. Crossing his stick in front of him, the blade facing upwards, he started to grow protective of the components that made him up in the physical realm, blood and all. His intention was not to destroy the skeleton, but to defend himself from any unwanted dangers that may be present.
 
Canvas | The nothing of something
the canvas's sharp glare did not ease at the Architect's word. Every choice had a right and wrong answer, even if it wasn't a clear one; one outcome would always be preferable. Since the arrogant figure refused to say it out loud, the only way for the canvas to figure out which was time. Discomfort in its eyes lasted for a blink, as unbeknownst to it, its eye changed. One was a dark brown so dark it was nearly black; the other a pale gray that was nearly the same colour as the sclera.

even as the figure disappeared, the canvas had no doubt that they were still watching it and its fellows. The canvas's two-toned eyes fell down on the discarded rabbit, the extinguished life giving birth to something new. Its bones cracked and bent, the skin pulling as it turned from flesh to metal until it formed a large scythe that stood a little taller than the canvas.

the canvas eyed the weapon with interest and caution, a long sigh escaping its lips, "It appears your soul will be barred from rest, as is mine, old friend." As the canvas mumbled the words under its breath, it crouched down, taking the heavy weapon into its hands, feeling the weight of another soul forced into servitude. As much as the canvas wanted to discard a gift from the figure, it would not leave behind the life it took to be punished for its choices.

the scythe fit almost naturally on the canvas's shoulder as it remained crouched, not bothering to join the battle and instead observing both the enemy and its kin. There was more than enough of them fighting that it doubted its skills would be needed. Any information would be useful if their skills proved useless and they died or if they lived long enough to become its enemies.

an amused smirk fell on its face as it watched the exchanges. The Defiant Canvas's taunt was not what it expected from the group. A battle-hungry being, no doubt, filled with enough courage that the other's valor looked almost pale compared to it. It found itself hating this canvas the least; its fighting would no doubt prove to be as interesting as its drive. The ones that fought in obedience ruined its brief good mood, leading the smirk to fall back down into a frown. Rolling its eyes as one looked back to call it and any else who had not joined the fray. As it stood, the canvas had no doubt that it would protect the Architect, much too ready to please the whims of their masters. The only one that it was unsure of was the Defiant Canvas. That, would all depend on if it or the Architect proved to be more interesting prey.

it could not wait until the devotion was put to the test as their skills are now. When the time came, would they all need to fall to its blade as the Architect? Or would its kin soon learn the weight of their collars?
 
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Canvas Colored in Blues​

The tears streamed down the Canvas's face as their attention returned to the Architects. They hung on to this greater being's words as if they were salvation itself. In a sense, they were, however they were brought forth from the reaches of existence and nonexistence to go fight a being that even the Architect couldn't destroy, or maybe once it was created the Architect couldn't just wipe them from existence. The Sorrowful canvas could do nothing but speculate as their creator mentioned the terrible things that they all may end up doing, but as their gaze fell to the dead rabbit in their hands, they couldn't imagine the tumultuous road that was ahead of them.

“These questions, of course, come with the complication of thy agency. Yet that is the beauty of it. To think and act freely, as the boundless souls thou art meant to be! Free spirited and full of life. These are the quintessential hopes and dreams I covet for thee. But even in freedom will there be hardship. The decision to spare or to destroy, be it corporal or spiritual, can weigh heavily upon the essence of thy script. Fear, Sorrow, Mercy. A hardship to bear a great as the tallest of skies. Yet as Titans will you forever stand firm, to embrace the fragility of emotion.”

Light began to fill the Unwritten's perception that they now realized was sight. Before they were just perceiving things around their vessel whereas now their sight was true. The Gaze of Compassion coalesced into two pearls adorned into the slowly forming vessel. One of pink & red that was endless as the love that is ever possible and the other of violet & blue that was deep as the disappointment of the failure to come.

The Sorrowful's hands slowly reached up to their new eyes, first to confirm they were there and then to wipe away the newly forming tears. This gift was truly beautiful for the Sorrow to behold. While the Architect spoke to the others this one could only look around in wonder at his sight until his gaze fell on the rabbit once more. A tear formed anew but before it could drop the Architect transmuted the slain rabbit. Its white fur warped in on itself revealing sinew and blood underneath, but before the melancholic canvas could fully absorb the darker side of creation its shape converted into an elongated bar that seemed longer than the Sorrow's own body although it's true shape was not fully known to them until it fell.

On instinct the Sorrow allowed the long staff to fall to their feet. The sheer weight of it would have cracked the ground if there were a ground to touch however, they were in a void and yet the Sorrow could still see the sheer weight of the weapon. They walked around the weapon and realized that it was not a staff at all but a thick slab of metal. The sorrow attempted to lift it, but the weight kept it in place. Bracing themself, the Unwritten lifted the Weapon of Sacrifice above their head and the weight of brought it crashing back down on the other side,"Once more..." This time the Unwritten lifted the metal slab with both hands and began to twirl it like a baton. Gripping one end the Sorrow swung and allowed the weight of it to carry their body around and with each swing it was obvious their ability to wield it grew.

“Come…… perish…….”

The Sorrow glared over their shoulder and chuckled,"We were created for something more, but you shall fall..." Their body & the bloody red rod spun in opposite directions as it unfurled to reveal its true nature as a fan,"Crushed under the weight of a new gale." The blood red guards were contrasted by the pure white center however it was also marred by red elegant but haphazard splatter across the leaf.

The battlefield was new to them, but their instincts guided them to follow the others, although following was not enough to contribute in their opinion. Without a second thought The Sorrow swung the large and elegant fan. Their Gaze of Compassion danced with pink and blue radiance as winds dash towards the feet of the Unwritten of Defiance, Fealty, Decisiveness, Inquiry, and Mercy to give them wings to cut through the air,"Hmph, maybe I should call this Red Bull."
 
The little ones flailed.

Regardless of the severity of their intention, or their sense of urgency to survive, it would be for naught as the adversary demonstrated the precarious state of their nature.

While appearing composed of minimal flesh and an ordinate content of bone, the nature of its existence proved immaterial. Its vessel traverse matter, slipping in and through the various gifts that had been provided by the Architect. And not just matter, but space itself. Appearing and reappearing at a variety of coordinates, still ever close to the group unwritten, yet permanently just out of their reach as they continued to flail about. While it itself refuses to retaliate just yet…

It moved as if spun from a different thread. Born of a physical realm far below that of their own. Contentious to the last, such that it refused permanence in the same landscapes as themselves.

At last fatigue took hold of the unwritten, where a noticeable pause could be felt in their efforts. Only then would its tether remained consistent. Just long enough that it did manage to snatch up one of the Unwritten in its large and thin left hand.

“Blood….. Blood!!!!”

The Nemesis Entity did squeeze with a colossal force, such that it’s far smaller victim could do little else except struggle and squirm for but a brief moment, until an orchestra of snapping bones and popping sinew erupted from their body. The contents of its tiny figure spilled from every orifice and pore, golden and pure in color, laden across the dark canvas of its killers own body.

“Mine….”

As the fluid dripped, the Nemesis raised the corpse above its head, a jagged and gaping maw splitting its skeletal features in invitation to the essence of the felled Unwritten.

The moment the first drops of blood touched, a visceral reaction of pain and disgust thundered from the adversary. Coughing, hacking, spitting, dropping its weapon ever so dramatically, as it fell to its knees clutching its spindly throat.

“Disgusting……!!!!”

Whatever it was, truly seemed to exist in opposition to that of the unwritten. An antonym of such severity that their very essence vexed the immaterial. Those empty eyes reeled around to gaze upon the rest in anger, detested in absolution by their presence.

“Die, die!!!! You all will die, Foul Unwritten!!!”

One was idle, standing ever defensive. Acting only to shield themselves. A runt incapable of fighting were they deemed, and an opportunity for the Nemesis to further cripple their numbers.

With a hiss, the creature lunged, striking into the Unwritten identified as the Curious one. ( Daylight Fantasy Daylight Fantasy ) Hands enclosed about, raising the Unwritten high above, and striking them against the empty ground below.

Its arms pulled back again, its intention ever clear to repeat this motion. Interference was demanded, lest the Unwritten lose another. The only fortunate note now being that the Nemesis remained bound to the field of combat with the vessel in its hands….

Strike quickly!!!
 
His gaze never left the skeleton, its boney body groaned and crackled as it moved to reach one of the white creatures nearby. “Blood… Blood!” It cried out, the skeleton snapped the bones of the white creature. The sound was horrendous, its disgusting sounds echoed in his mind, refusing to leave his mind. Why? Why wouldn’t it leave? He glared upon the skeleton, the very thought of it creating those noises angered him. Was it just to provoke him? What for? Does it truly want to get rid of him and the other folks that were gathered here? Was that even its end goal; to gather him and the other people that were similar to him just to whip them off the plane of existence?

His mind was torn between pondering through the multiple possibilities and his defensive act, his bladed stick still put in front of him before he was forcibly and quickly swept off his feet by the skeleton. He let out a small gasp, its skeletal hand was wrapped tightly around his body, lifting him up into the air. As it yelled its insults at him, he can't help but curse his existence; for what world would have him be put in such threat. "You bastard son of a bi-," was his last words before he was plummeted down to the ground by the skeleton, a hiss of pain escaped him as his body hit the ground. A great jolt of pain snapped throughout his body. He truly despises this entity, First he threatened his peers and now he was his first victim to his fury.
 
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The Defiant Unwritten did not balk when one of its kin was crushed and gorged upon by that hungering monstrosity. If anything, the macabre scene filled their chest with a trembling sensation, much as it had when they dared to defy The Architect. It burned hotly within their breast, curling with delight. This was it, the razor edge between life or death. One misstep would befall doom, turning every second into eon. How it made their heart sing! Truly, this is what it meant to be alive!

“How greedy!” They declared in a chastising, yet almost admiring, tone as the beast rounded on yet another Unwritten, “To sup upon death and yet remain unsated?”

While they scolded the creature for its appetite, Defiant understood it completely. In a way, they admired the ravenous ferocity, how it succumbed to it in hedonistic abandon. Yet as similar as they may be to one another, there was a stark and disappointing contrast; this creature lacked pleasure. It killed and feasted for an agenda that, while unknown to The Defiant, dulled the camaraderie it felt.

Flashing in the light of creation, Defiant’s blade rushed in pursuit of the creature. While it may have found no purchase, the sharp point was eager to give chase in hopes of finding an opening in its armour. As fate would have it, soon it found one as Scholarly was seized in the creature’s claws. For a moment, its body seemed corporal enough to inflict pain... and perhaps recieve it.

Defiant did not hesitate to seize this opportunity.

“Fear not, my friend! I shall strike this brute low!” They declared as they rushed to the assistance of the Scholarly Unwritten.

With a flourish, they thrust their blade at the Beast’s shoulder and arm, a strike aimed to maim and bleed. If they struck true, perhaps the creature would let go of their comrade or better yet be crippled. While their intention certainly seemed to be the rescue of their unfortunate ally, it was secondary to the desire of defeating this monster. Right or wrong did not exist at this moment, only the thrill of battle.
Siren77 Siren77 Daylight Fantasy Daylight Fantasy
 
The canvas reeled as their attack completely missed the mark, even though they're sure of their aim. Brief glance at the other canvas' attacks gave them a hint of what might be happening, the entity's presence flickered and twisted. Defying physic and spatial positioning, its like they're fighting a hologram...

What's a hologram?

Ah, they would think about it later. The entity extended their hands and managed to pin down on of the unwritten. This canvas knew that they should go and help their fellow unwritten, or...

The nemesis' grip proved that for the time being, the entity was able to physically interact with them. Hopefully, it also works the other way. Gripping the giant axe even tighter, the canvas decided to use the opportunity to launch another direct attack. Letting the others to handle the pinned unwritten.

Rushing straight towards the entity's head, the canvas raised their axe and swung it down as hard as they can, performing a devastating overhead strike towards the nemesis in front of them.
 






“Canvas”
















tags.


n/a














The death comes suddenly, falling like the ether woven into the unbound steps of their Nemesis.

And a Nemesis it is. A monster that shines with a thousand dead-end possibilities, existence far beyond the reaches of those bound to the material coil, as the Canvases have now been. Breath rushes between her lips to emphasize the fact, bringing materiality that settles coldly in her throat.

Cold and damning, a sign of failure. But what right does she have to sorrow, fury, or fear when she was one of the many who could not keep that unwritten possibility in her hands? Even so, what can she do but move, acting as if she has the strength to protect the next target, to state that this life is one that will come to fruition?

Seeing that lifeblood spill down in streams of ichor, eating away at the Nemesis like aqua regia with every sizzling touch, she grasps her weapon and draws it across her arm in a deep, confident cut. Falcata limned with liquid gold, she lunges forward, blade plunging toward the Nemesis’s back, intent point precise in an attack meant to split muscle, sever tendons, and spill heart’s blood.

As she steps, brilliance spills down between her injured fingers, contrasted by the cold cut of her lips as the creature bends again in preparation to attack.




A Mouth


♡coded by uxie♡
 
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Canvas of Mercy | The nothing of something
Mercy watched with almost amusement as the other canvas that had chosen not to attack had been targeted. If it had been in a better mood, the canvas might have even laughed at the interaction. Instead, the canvas of Mercy favored to instead continue its pursuit of watching the group fight, taking a few steps backward to give the party lots of room for their fight.

it's eyes narrowed as the group of canvases closed around the creature that had immobilized itself by latching onto the Scholarly canvas. The creature's flesh would no doubt fall to the blades if it did not move. Would it react in time, or had the foe really made such a mistake? Even if the creature reacted in time and the fight continued, it all just seemed too easy. There was no doubt that this thing was a worthy adversary, one that should be feared. But there were too many of them, all attacking at the same time. Even great warriors would fall when faced with an army of rats.

to this, Mercy found itself wondering what the catch was. Surely, there had to be something more to this test than simple combat or teamwork. What purpose would it serve if only the butcher by vermin understood their need to team up on the enemy? The Canvas knew that the figure would not give them actions without purpose. They would not provide such an easy task without something more. Or perhaps it aimed to nurture the doubt already inside it.

there had to be something more, some underlining meaning. Mercy refused to believe it was that simple, that they weren't being manipulated in some way. Its gaze flicked from the battle to around the area where they were in, looking for anything amiss in either the area, the battle, or the creature itself. It refused to believe that this trial was just simple combat.
 
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