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| Softer Than Shadow He Comes | |
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| Topic Started: Jun 29 2010, 03:18 AM (909 Views) | |
| Forge | Jun 29 2010, 03:18 AM Post #1 |
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Continued from The Siege of Lame Deer In Forge’s mental prison he had no access to the thoughts and feelings of the Shadow King. They Cheyenne was completely isolated from any stimuli except for the pain the entity saw fit to inflict. Forge couldn’t imagine if Shadow King was annoyed or frightened at how the Hellfire Club members were going through the town of Lame Deer. The Hellfire Club wasn’t having the easiest of times but they were holding their own and making progress. Forge was given perspectives through the eyes of some of the townsfolk so that he could witness the torture and horrors that befell his teammates. He saw as they were attacked. He also saw that they were advancing. Every so often the Shadow King would comment that all he needed was a distraction. Forge knew this was true. Time was ticking away and the amplifier that he had constructed was powering up. The power was being drained from the entire region and once it reached critical mass Shadow King could breach and infect every mind on the planet. Through the eyes of the enslaved, Forge saw the hardware store team break through the ranks and past the mechanical sentries. They entered the store and the telepathy dampener was destroyed in a shower of sparks and bluish smoke. Then Forge got a sign that Shadow King may have been displeased. The White King’s mind was stretched across the rack. Hooks and barbs dug into the mental representation of his flesh. Forge was plunged into immediate darkness, no longer skewered by metal chains. He wasn’t seeing any visions of Lame Deer. His arms were suddenly bound behind his back. Chains wrenched his feet downward and his wrist upward. Forge’s arms were almost to the point of dislocation as he was stretched beyond impossible means. Forge cried out in pain but no one could hear him except for Amahl Farouk. Shadow King had thrust Forge into darkness and a new brand of torture upon the strappado. The White King was in safe keeping for the moment but Shadow King had other matters to tend to. With the psychic dampener destroyed he was much more vulnerable. Psylocke could weasel her pretty little nose into the minds of his drones and usurp control. She could try to even free her White King, not that it would matter. Shadow King had raked his mind across the coals and already used every nugget of knowledge. The gears were turning so saving the man would be a lower priority. They wanted to foil the plan, destroy the amplifier. Farouk’s priority was to disable the White Queen. Unlike the Hellfire Club he had all the time in the world. His attack could take place at the speed of thought. To the outside objective it would barely be a moment. Shadow King took pride in his subtlety. He was the snake in the grass that found a way into the garden through an unseen crack. For him, however, the cracks were obvious. They might as well put out a welcome mat. All he needed was to knock gently. “Help me, Bets. It’s me, Jamie,” he whispered to her mind softly. |
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| Betsy Braddock | Jun 29 2010, 11:56 PM Post #2 |
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Telepathy (I'm not a bloody ninja)
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One moment Betsy was in sight of the gym, the darkness still consuming the town, filling it with shadows, appropriate considering their true foe, fighting her way to get to the building and praying she had her timing right, when suddenly it was like a switch had been flipped and she could see again. It was not that her physical sight had been cleared, but the oppressive curtain that had been down, separating her mind from its usual free roaming had suddenly fallen and thoughts rushed in. For a moment she recoiled as her defences sprang back up into place, blocking the tide that was ready to surge and sweep through her head. Despite being denied her telepathy for only a short while, it was still a shock to the system and the White Queen almost stumbled exiting the Jeep. With her telepathy returned, she was back on form, able to deal with the hostile forces quickly and also more carefully, able to enter their minds and return their freewill without doing any extensive physical damage. There was no need to subject them to any more suffering or humiliation; they were her King’s people and as far as she was concerned, would be treated with the same, utmost respect as he had always extended to her. “Help me, Bets. It’s me, Jamie…” “Jamie…?” Betsy froze up for a second, her eyes widening in shock as she heard that familiar, that comforting voice in her mind. Oh god, it was her brother! He was – No...No. Her brother was dead. He died over a year ago now, she went to the funeral, she stood in the rubble that had been her family’s offices for decades, where he had died…She felt him die… ::You’re not Jamie. Jamie’s dead...:: Pausing in the street, the telepath slumped slightly, her eyes closing as she instead sent the message out to whoever was playing with her, torturing her. But…What if it was Jamie. She had never actually seen the body after his death, something which went a long way in leaving crumbs of doubt and regret in her mind, making her wonder, especially in those initial weeks after his death. ::Jamie is dead.:: Her conviction strengthened, she now reached out, confident her defences were adequate, searching for the mind of Jonathon. The town was littered with minds, the majority still under the controlling influence that drove them, some were free and the remainder were the other members of the Hellfire Club. Nearly there…Don’t think about Jamie, not now, she told herself firmly. Now was not the time for old ghosts. Plunging through the sea of minds she searched for her target, trying to fish it out from the others around her, but carefully, cautiously, as quickly as she dared.…The mind is in many ways a fragile thing, if the right door was found, the right – or rather the wrong – weakness found, then the damage could be irreversible and the wrong course of action could prove deadly. ::Forge…My King, it’s me…:: she whispered out, directing the message towards him, wherever he might be, uncertain if he could hear it or if he would even be in a state to answer her call and all the while images of her brother, flashing before her eyes, wracking her with guilt. She hadn’t done enough to try and save him, she had just watched him die… ::…Jamie?:: the name was a near inaudible mental whisper, the seeds of doubt were firmly in the purple haired woman’s mind and she raised a hand to her temple, swaying slightly on the spot as she fought back. Jamie, I’m so sorry…I couldn’t save you. I wish I could have.… |
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| Forge | Jul 1 2010, 08:50 PM Post #3 |
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Forge remained twisted in agony within his mental prison. It was dark, darker than even the cloudiest night in the desert. If he had access to all his mental faculties at the time he would imagine it was as dark as the grave. Since the Shadow King had left him for parts unknown, Jonathon Silvercloud’s only company was the pain. It gave him a point of focus. The isolation may have driven him insane but the torture was something else. He had never been so utterly cut off. There was no outside stimuli other than the agony that Faouk saw fit to dispense in his time away. In his mind, he panted for breath. The twisting of his arms was making breathing difficult. Forge’s teeth ground tight and his eyes were squinted. Through the cacophony in his mind there was a whisper that was barely a sound to get through but somehow a whisper floated that was like music to his ears. ::Forge…My King, it’s me…:: Through his squinted eyes he could see a faint glow. It was violet, the distinctive color of Psylocke’s mental signature. She was probing trying to find him. The light was far in the distance but in the darkness the faintest light traveled easily. Then, the light faded. The White Queen must have become distracted. For a moment, Forge’s heart sank. Farouk was pleased. With just a few simple whispered words he had sent a shiver down her pretty little spine. The specter had his foot in the door and that was more than enough room for him to get to work. Shadow King opened up a tableau before Betsy. It was a scene that she had seen before. After Death’s attack on London, Betsy had returned to attend to family affairs. The business was in danger and there was the funeral to attend. Jamie’s coffin sat in the front of the room. Flowers were arranged nicely around the box and the mourners sat with their eyes full of tears. “If you had been there sooner, you could have saved me,” the false Jamie whispered to his sister. “Why didn’t you have a vision?” Jamie’s voice hovered in the air as the scene faded to another familiar memory. It was another funeral with twin coffins lying side by side. The church was entirely different. The crowd was larger and filled every pew beneath the arches. The coffins were at the foot of a large stained glass window and the white lilies were placed lovingly on the rich wood coffins. The death of these two people had affected many. “How many people are grieving our parents because of your negligence? You weren’t there when Mum and Dad needed you Bets. I love you but has your head ever been screwed on right?” After another shift there was a hearse driving down the street. The pallbearer wore a dark suit and a velvet top hat. His face was somber as he led the procession. The funeral wasn’t so traditional that it was a horse and carriage but rather a dark hearse. Through the glass panels on the side the coffin was fully visible. A brightly colored yet tasteful banner read ‘Brother’. A small procession of family and friends followed. “How long before your trend continues and you kill the last of your family?” the voice of Jamie Braddock asked. |
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| Betsy Braddock | Jul 6 2010, 01:25 AM Post #4 |
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Telepathy (I'm not a bloody ninja)
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Flitting through the astral plane, Betsy continued to press on in searching for Forge. It was not too dissimilar to playing hide and seek. While the machine that had dampened her telepathy was now very much destroyed, there was still something there, denying her. It was like wading through tar and trying to see through the water of the Thames…The telepath was reminded of the fight with Famine in many ways but this was different. Famine had been a mess of energy, of power bloated beyond manageable control of what Chamber was used to but what she could feel here and now in this town, her opponent knew how to utilize every ounce of his power… Psylocke was about to increase the force behind her presence in the astral when the scene began to change around her and her default butterfly form became human, clad in black. Black dress and matching fitted little jacket, black hat with a delicate veil and black heels and stockings…Impractical but elegant funeral wear…A sick feeling of dread filled her, tainted with sorrow as the plane became a church, weak late spring light trying to invade through the glass of the windows, sombre organ music reverberating through the air, off the stone walls. Rows and rows of young faces that would be better suited to a wedding or a christening, instead all dressed in black, almost all of them familiar to her. “…No…” she murmured, a tear slipped down her cheek, her eyes fixed on the coffin she could see at the end of the church – that she was being made to see…The words spoken in her older brother’s voice mocked her “Why didn’t you have a vision?” “They don’t -” Betsy cut herself off. Her powers of precognition didn’t work like that, popping up on demand, letting her know which course of action to take. They were sporadic, sometimes meaningless until after an event or the crystal clear vision of what the future would bring, but not the event that would cause it, something that would easily not happen if a different course of action was found. Nothing was certain… “My visions don’t work like that, but then my own brother would understand that fact.” Steeling herself to fight off the vision of the funeral that brought with it the desperately lonely feelings from that time, the image faded and a new scene came into being, this one worse, if possible. Betsy was surrounded by familiar walls, known from Christmas carol services and Easter celebrations of her childhood, the old village church near Braddock Manor. It smelt the same…The scent of lilies cloying at her, making her feel ill and the smell of the wax polish for the pews and that old smell churches had of dust and old books and old flowers and the undertone of death, of the crypts and the graves outside, giving you that sense you could smell the deceased... Her parents death had been an accident of their own making. That had hurt the siblings deeply; the fact it wasn’t expected or with a chance to say goodbye, killed in a work accident…They had always been so wrapped up and involved in work, throwing themselves into it and leaving so little time for their children. It was one of the reasons why Jamie had always been so resentful at times towards the twins, their instinctual bond and tight connection from birth giving the other a constant companion….No, no this was all part of the façade, of the attack to wear her down. Betsy had always been treated very much as the little girl of the family, not trained for business, coddled and indulged in ‘whims’ such as her piloting, as no one could have guessed what would happen… A hand went to her temple as the telepathic images pressed in on her, battering her down, the scene warping once more to reveal another coffin, another funeral procession but not one she had ever seen…Brother…her worst nightmare, the fear that kept her awake at night, the reason she had begged Brian to come and live in New York, why she had spare keys, why she shared an office with him, keeping him close when she could… “I killed no one in my family.” Lifting her head, the hearse vanished, along with the procession, the street in her hometown now empty, stretching away in a blaze of summer sunshine. Asserting control, Psylocke folded her arms across her chest, her outfit changing from black to white and surveyed the patch of astral plane she was within, repairing patches that did not quite match her memory of the village. The distraction was keeping her from her search for the White King and she was beginning to get impatient. “Now then darling, wherever you might be hiding, how about you come out and meet me properly, eh?” ::Jonathon….Jonathon if you can hear me it’ll be over soon…:: she urged, the telepathic message strong and fiercely determined. It was still impossible to track him down wholly, it was as if someone was covering him, concealing his mind from her but she knew that he was there and that just because she could not feel him did not mean he would not be able to hear her. “Come on then, is that the best you have ‘Jamie’?” |
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| Forge | Jul 10 2010, 04:57 AM Post #5 |
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The Shadow King loved every moment of it. He read the pain and anguish as she was force to relive the funerals of her parents and beloved brother. Farouk had sensed a very special connection between Betsy and her older brother and hoped to exploit it to his advantage. Like a cat toying with a crippled mouse he was just enjoying her pain. She was a high order telepath and in Shadow King’s mind it made her torment all the more enjoyable. He relished the fact that he was getting under her skin but after all, he had years of experience at that sort of thing. Psylocke experienced each scene as if she were there once again. The wounds reopened and Shadow King basked in the pain. He bore down on the woman with the image of the procession of Brian Braddock. It was an image of things to come. She would ultimately wind up as the cause of her brother’s death. “I killed no one in my family.” The White Queen steeled herself and lifted her pretty purple head. She dashed away the scene of the funeral procession. It dissolved and danced like attic dust motes in a golden beam of sunlight. Apparently, Shadow King had left out a few details in the recreation of her home town and the White Queen saw fit to make the necessary changes. She called out to him. She wanted to see her tormentor, as well as the captor of the White King, face to face. “I’m right here behind you, love,” Shadow King said as he appeared behind Betsy. He was wearing a perfect facsimile Jamie’s body. His curly black hair hung loose around his shoulders. It was a bit unruly but when he was in the office he had kept it pulled back nicely. Jamie’s beard was neatly trimmed and it framed his off-kilter smile perfectly. Everything was perfect down to the gray suit and the light blue tie that hung slightly loose around the collar. The devil was in the details after all. “Did you miss me, dear sis?” he asked with a slight pout. “Then again, we’ve never officially met.” Farouk held up his left hand and a marionette appeared. It was fashioned to look like the White King dressed in his old clothes and apron that he normally wore in the work shop. “But he knows plenty about you…and now so do I.” Shadow King held up another marionette. This one was designed to look like the Black King complete with dark cape and face obscuring hood made of billowing Darkforce. “They were both amazing hosts. Quite gracious. Are all Hellfire men so accommodating? I do hope you can offer some sort of challenge. I want to get all the enjoyment I can. You do realize, you are not leaving here. The astral plane is my realm, the clay in my hands,” he said. Shadow King dropped the puppets and they dissolved into the ground at his feet. With the smell of smoke and ash flames began to lick up the sides of the buildings. Window’s cracked and shattered. Cars exploded. Slowly bodies began to appear. It was like they were melting in reverse. Bones appeared first and then flesh layered upon the bones until the bodies were complete. The buildings shifted slowly and grew. The small village expanded into a full blown city. They were standing in London during the attack by Death. “This is going to be child’s play compared to what I have in store,” he said. Far away from the psychic fisticuffs Forge was locked away. On the astral plane he may as well have been on a different planet. He was being shielded by Shadow King but Betsy’s telepathy was able to squeak through. Her voice came through the darkness and promised it would be over soon. Inside the Cheyenne the hope began to rise again. He tried to smile but his pain was too great. |
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| Betsy Braddock | Jul 13 2010, 11:37 PM Post #6 |
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Telepathy (I'm not a bloody ninja)
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Reordering her hometown gave the telepath a growing sense of control and a smug satisfaction that her opponent had gotten some of the details wrong in his effort to torment her with images of the non-existent funeral. Psylocke steeled herself, keeping just how much the funeral of her twin had unsettled her. It was a very real fear, one that she kept deep inside and something that she would not even admit to Brian even though she suspected he harboured the same fear of losing his twin. They just did not talk about it, keeping each other close. It was why he had come to New York and why they shared an office, staying together, just as they had as children. Constant companions. They had spent time in this village…Ate sweets from the shop on that wall, rest their bicycles against that railing…The air took on a pink tinge as details were righted, set the way they should be, bricks and plant pots and signs cascading into place, shifting along buildings, bricks cracking out of place to allow the quaint little buildings to adjust. For the moment the telepath did not concern herself with thinking how her shield had been bypassed enough to extract the information about what she had just seen and experienced, almost perfect but for small details, only that her defences obviously had been bypassed. The White Queen increased her guard, staying on alert, ready for anything if she could not keep her memories sacred. Ready for… Even in the astral, her features paled and a cold shiver ran down her back as she heard that familiar voice. It cut through her and she turned on unwilling legs to see that her foe had taken the form of her brother, of Jamie. Betsy was incensed. Her blue eyes went wide, brimming with a flaming anger as she stared at the spectre stood before her, clad just as she remembered her big brother on and average day at work…Had he worn that when….No. No she could not let this man win, she could not let him plant those seeds of doubt and anger at herself. “How dare you! How dare you desecrate the memory of my brother like this!” the space around her face crackled with pink energy, her butterfly aura blazing out forcefully in the façade of the little village street around them. Her ‘breath’ or better put, the simulation of her breath, caught in her throat as the puppet appeared, fashioned in the image of Jonathon. He was baiting her, goading her, Betsy knew that, but the anger was hard to hold back, the more he taunted, playing with the puppet of Forge, then producing another, this one of the Black King. “I am sure if you met them face to face you would not have so easy a time. They are not telepaths after all, coward,” she kept her head raised, blue eyes boring right into those of her ‘brother’. “And I shall leave when my work is done. You do not have sole ownership over the astral plane, darling, you’re not the only telepath in the world after all. Sorry and all that.” In her STRIKE days she had come across countless unpleasant characters and many since she had joined Hellfire, but her STRIKE work had brought her into contact with other psionic mutants, of varying degrees of power and all with some bloated ego and superiority outstripping their actual power but this man…He was powerful alright, Betsy could feel that. The Shadow King was no common adversary but Psylocke was not about to back down and roll on to her back like a puppy. Around her the scene cracked and disintegrated in the wake of the puppets being destroyed, fire crawling up the buildings in an ostentatious display as the images peeled back, the location changing once more. Gone was the sleepy little market town and now Betsy found herself in London, stood in the midst of the rubble of what had been left of Braddock Industries after Death had struck. Bodies littered the site, strewn carelessly like forgotten toys in the rubble. Bitter reminders of how they had been too late… “This is going to be child’s play compared to what I have in store,” he said to her and Betsy narrowed her eyes, clenching the idea of her fists into pale, slender balls, knuckles white. “I’ve had bigger men for breakfast, luv,” not one to point out her past successes, Betsy did not divulge the information that not only had she stopped the apparently unstoppable Juggernaut, had been part of the group responsible for halting the slaughter of the citizens of London, had held her own against the likes of Daken, but she had also brought down the Horseman Famine. Psylocke was not cocky about her chances here, but she was confident. She had been near death several times and had been outmatched before. Too much was at stake here for her to even contemplate folding. Increasing her defences even more, she wrapped layer upon layer of telepathic armour around herself, the sequence projected into a visual representation, her white dress changing into something more like her armoured bodysuit but not as sleek, heavier set and fiercer out of a show of strength of her telepathic abilities. Betsy knew she could grow even more, increase the size of her astral form but she held back, not letting everything out just yet, knowing that she may well need her full strength in the fight to come. Looking around the expanse of astral plane on which they were stood, she crinkled her fair nose slightly and brought her hand up, holding it there for a moment before bringing it down within its armoured glove, the scene of destruction peeling away as she swept through the illusion, battling it away with a deep glare of concentration etched on to her face behind the armoured mask she wore. “Enough games. I know these images well enough for them to not be revisited.” The ashes and bodies began to crumble, stirring as a wind picked up, sweeping the lighter debris across the streets as it grew stronger and stronger until the wind howled and for a moment it was nearly impossible to see as dust filled the air, blotching it out into a dark grey, the gale howling down the canyons of rubble and stone and glass as Psylocke swept the scene clear, bricks and mortar ripping away from buildings which groaned under the pressure, removing the death and the destruction. Holding back a gasp, she relaxed her hand, the air clearing around them, the London street presented as it should be, before Death had come to the ancient city and broken it beyond repair. “Now, remove the guise of my brother. I’m sure you love your little games but I’m afraid I’m not here to play. Awfully sorry to disappoint you and all,” reconstructing the street had been a small strain on her and she used the moment she spoke to him to refocus her mind, to keep that spark burning within her that spurred her on. “I am here for the White King and you shall not stop me from retrieving his mind,” Betsy took on a defensive stance, the pink light burning brighter around her head as she prepared for his next move, not knowing if he would move to attack her with the astral image of her brother or bear down on her once more with images of the deaths of her family. Whatever he was going to do, she was prepared and waiting. |
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| Forge | Jul 15 2010, 01:02 AM Post #7 |
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Farouk loved to play his games. He got the sickest of pleasures from stringing the minds of his victims out and playing them like a violin. He could twist his claws and show them memories of their darkest most hated secrets or show them fears that had not come to realization. There were so many ways to cause pain and he had been in proper practice for a long time. His time in the astral plane had also made him confident, if not overly so. The White Queen was formidable. She cleared away the images he had created. She stripped London down to its true appearance of what it had been before the attack. The bodies and the burning crumbled to dust to leave the city as she remembered it. Quite boring, in Shadow King’s opinion. The Queen then began to wrap herself in armor. It was a show of strength to show her adversary how strong she was. On the astral plane everything they saw was a representation of something else. If she struck a blow against the mental parasite, it was not with her fists but with her mind. She might be wielding a sword, an ax, or a hammer but it was her mind and her telepathic abilities that were doing the actual attacking. The armor that was being constructed around her body was just the representation of the barriers she had built through her life through mental training as well as the added defenses she would be instilling for the eminent attack. The mental wind that Psylocke kicked up began as a gentle breeze. It stirred the dust that had created the bodies and burned out cars so that they swirled slowly at first but the wind picked up force. The wind had raged to hurricane force. The borrowed locks of hair, unruly as they were, whipped around Farouk’s face. The bottom of his jacket flapped madly. It was quite a show of force on the Queen’s part. She was talented. She was powerful. Farouk would enjoy showing her just how little she was worth. “Now, remove the guise of my brother. I’m sure you love your little games but I’m afraid I’m not here to play. Awfully sorry to disappoint you and all,” Betsy ordered. “I am here for the White King and you shall not stop me from retrieving his mind.” The violet light around her face grew in intensity. It was fueled by her determination and her righteous fury. It was almost sweet. She fell into a defensive stance, her mind on tip-toes expecting an attack from any angle. “As you wish,” Farouk said simply. Shadow King shook Jamie Braddock’s head. His hair shook from side to side. The shiver went down his body like a dog shaking water from his fur. More dust flew from his body in a sudden burst. He was no long wearing the guise of Betsy’s beloved brother. Shadow King was now a towering hulk. His body was stacked with rippling muscles and tight sinew like ropes. He was clad in fish scale armor and wore metal studded bracers and greaves. A bronze gladiator’s helmet with the face of a lion obscured his appearance. In one hand he carried a weighted net and in the other was a gladius sword that glinted along its wickedly sharp edges. Shadow King flung the net outward and it spiraled toward Betsy threatening to entangle her within. He charged forward with a grunt. The sword was raised and ready to hack through her armor into the delicate body and mind encased inside. Using a very small amount of focus and energy, Shadow King opened up a small window in front of the captive Forge. He had a front row seat to the defeat of the White Queen. The Cheyenne watched helplessly as the gladiator charged on the armored queen. He tried to use all of his energy and effort to send a message to Betsy. Any way to send her extra energy or vital spirit or telepathic support but t was no use. He had no telepathic skills whatsoever, in fact he was vulnerable to psychic manipulation and that was what got him into this mess in the first place. “Show him how we do it with Hellfire,” he whispered. |
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| Max_Coleridge | Jul 15 2010, 07:35 PM Post #8 |
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Darkforce Manipulation, Teleportation
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The explosion lit the small town of Lame Deer like a second sun kissing the ground. It was yet another display why he tolerated the Bishop’s eccentricities. But the Shroud had no time to savor Fallout’s breathtaking display of power, they were only half done. He disappeared from the street, leaving the townspeople in the hands of Steed, Rawson, and Shatterstar; when the darkforce cleared, he strode onto the roof of the gym. Going down on one knee, he bowed his head in concentration, sending darkness and his eyeless gaze throughout the building. Room after room, he searched from the top downward. The fidgeting of his gloved fingers, clenching and unclenching his fist was the only outward sign that the Black King was not as calm and composed as he projected. Ever since he’d seen the puppet-like quality of the townspeople, repulsive memories from a time in his life, the only time in his life when he felt truly helpless and humiliated, resurfaced and clawed at the mental bars that kept them tentatively restrained. The spectacles he had seen in those few months, the things he had done - Max wasn’t a religious person by nature but he was sure that his soul had been tainted, tainted in a way that the mere vices and indulgences of the Hellfire Club could never match; if his soul had ever been clean, even been pure, he had lost that as a child when his parents were killed, but before the Shadow King had torn into him, he had at least been, in some way, better than he was now. If they lived through this day, he would find Ms. Steed and take her to bed, drown those hateful memories with other diversions. Eventually, he did find Forge, at the lowest level of the gym, sprawled on the floor like a discarded toy dropped by a forgetful child temporarily amused by other sport. Nearby, a machine clicked and whirred ominously. Darkforce erupted silently from the air and suddenly, the Shroud emerged, tendrils of black mist clinging to him. His passage was soundless as he advanced on the helpless form of the White King. Going down on one knee beside his counterpart, he regarded Forge’s pitiable state - his gray skin, hollow cheeks, and sunken eyes, his robotic arm and leg in disrepair and showing in a way that Forge would have deemed embarrassing. Even in repose, his face was twisted into a grimace of pain, horror, and despair that was difficult to look at. With his mouth set into a grim thin line, the Shroud reached out with a gloved hand and grabbed Forge’s throat. Death would be the White King’s freedom. Ironically, the mentally deficient Shatterstar had, in some sort of idiot-savant way, foreseen just this possibility. Forge’s throat seemed reed-thin under the Shroud’s fingers. The Shroud prided himself on being adaptable and prepared for anything; swiftly, his hand went to one of the many compartments hidden in his suit and emerged with a vial. He plunged the narrow needle between his fingers and into Forge’s veins. The powerful poison was enough to kill even the strongest, healthiest man in a few seconds; in Forge’s fragile condition, his body spasmed, the muscles tightened in one last desperate struggle to fight then relaxed and expelled Forge’s last breath. The White King was dead. |
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| Betsy Braddock | Jul 17 2010, 11:21 PM Post #9 |
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Telepathy (I'm not a bloody ninja)
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The real fight had not yet begun; Psylocke knew that just as well as the Shadow King surely would. So far it had been a dance between them both, each displaying their capabilities through a sort of one-upmanship, as if they were simply showing off their costumes at a masquerade ball. This was going to be no picnic, the White Queen was well aware of that, but it did not deter her. Her opponent was strong of mind, a parasite that required a host to suck dry, to torture, but Betsy refused to believe that that made him unbeatable. He had to have a weakness, a vulnerable aspect to his abilities, the same as anyone else. If the ancient mutant Apocalypse had been defeated, along with his Horsemen and converts, then so could this leech, this worm before her, using her brother’s form to mock her, to throw her off. Bastard. It was almost working. The longer she stared at him, the more her anger grew, flaring up, making the representation of her hands shake, nails digging into the image of pale skin that was a construction of her thoughts. “As you wish,” he replied and began to shake his head, the motion travelling down the rest of his body as he literally shook away the form of Jamie Braddock and transforming instead into an imposing warrior of colossal proportions. Like a great gladiator from times of old, he towered above Psylocke whose armour now appeared as effective as rice paper against what was to come. His weapons, the sword and the net were extensions of his powers, putting them on show for her to either threaten her or in some sick way, impress her. Her skin crawled a little as his thought patterns came too close and she got the sense of him, even if she could not pick up definite thoughts. And there were those who dubbed Hellfire evil…Some people had no concept of what was really out there in the world, the real villains and the real threats. Threats that you would never be aware of until after you were consumed by them. Surrounded still by the blaze of violet light, the Queen of Hellfire took the moment of the Shadow King’s reforming to create her own weapon, a broadsword of bright steel with fretwork running down the blade, Excalibur given form. Her twin had always loved those Arthurian myths and tales of knights in armour and that memory added to her strength and determination in creating the blade along with a shield bearing a red cross upon it, like that of Saint George. “Show him how we do it with Hellfire…” Betsy froze as she half heard a familiar voice speaking out to her, the whisper coming as if on the breeze. “Jonathon…?” she turned her head as the voice came to her but soon forgot about locating the voice as the net the gladiator wielded was coming towards her. The telepath flung herself sideways, slamming her shield down upon the ground and kicking her legs over her head. It was not a graceful manoeuvre and even in her astral form, the idea of slamming into the ground made her think of the pain that should be flying up her nerve endings. Hacking out sideways at the net, she ripped into it, tearing at the webbing with the tip of the blade. Did he think she was such a pushover, that he could just toss a net and that would be that? Fat bloody chance; she was a Braddock and a Queen of Hellfire, former agent of STRIKE and also bloody pissed off. Scrambling back to her feet, Betsy deflected his sword with her own, mismatched by centuries and fighting styles. The London street had turned into a field of battle and vaguely, the telepath recalled some news article of a female gladiator they had unearthed, in London or some other English city, a young woman who had fought hard for her life only to die in the end and remain forgotten for hundreds and hundreds of years. Would that be her fate? Not if she could help it, not with so much at stake. Her blade cut through the air with an eerie humming sound as she thrust and parried with the strength of her will behind her. Fencing was not a sport she had ever felt the need to partake in, but she had seen people sparring, including at home in the Hellfire Club, although that had been more for eccentricities than a way of keeping your life safe and it was her strength of mind and fierce determination that guided her blade rather than her technical knowledge of the skill. Their telepathic duel was sending ripples out across the astral plane, but Betsy refused to be beaten. Dimly, she wondered what had become of her physical body, hoping that it was being watched over by one of the members of Hellfire, as if anything happened to it, then without a body, she would be trapped on the plane forever. It all only added to fuel her anger and her determination. Then, it was like a distant light had gone out, one she wasn’t aware she could see until it had gone and Betsy froze for a second, a frown furrowing the face within the armoured helmet she wore. What…The telepath ducked, almost too late to avoid another blow, blocking it clumsily as she stumbled, falling on her back with the ferocity of her opponents attack and she felt nothing as she lurched back up, lunging at him once more. She would see this finished, if it was the last thing she bloody well did. |
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| Forge | Jul 28 2010, 02:43 AM Post #10 |
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In response to Shadow King’s display of power the White Queen materialized her own sword and shield. Probably some throwback to her past experience or some pretty little knickknack she had seen in some museum or mummy and daddy’s dusty trophy case. Farouk didn’t know and didn’t care. If there was some sort of emotional connection or basis for the projection it would be all the stronger. The Queen was suddenly distracted and turned her head to the side. Shadow King took this opportunity and attacked. The young woman flung herself to the side in an evasive maneuver. Shadow King’s gladiator net spiraled outward but the woman swung her sword. The tip was sharp and keen it sliced through the mesh webbing. She wasn’t going to be so easy to ensnare after all. Farouk would have to switch his tactics and try to keep her off balance. She parried with her own sword to protect against the attacking blade. She was good, he had to admit. She was blocking him and even coming near to strike her own blows against him. Again, this was all in the mind. Everything they saw was not a physical image but a representation of the mind’s power and finesse. Farouk knew that if some outside observer were watching them on the astral plane, they would likely be swallowed up in the energy they were expending. The bystander would be tossed about like a tiny schooner in an angry sea. The titans were shaking the earth. Betsy lunged forward once again with her blade aimed right for Farouk’s head. It could have been a killing blow and Forge knew it. His window to the battle was still opened as if it were a two-way mirror. He felt guilty about his momentary distraction of the White Queen. Forge had mustered enough strength to call out to her and almost had her head cut off because of it. She recovered but needed to gain her footing again. Slowly, she gained ground. As the White Queen struck with her sword Farouk dodged and twisted around her. His form changed suddenly. He gripped Betsy’s shoulders with scaled claws as he grew even larger. His armored face grew and his neck elongated. The head split into five necks. The gladiator’s body swelled and twisted outward until he was suddenly a mythic beast. A five-headed hydra from the old stories. London towers and buildings suddenly morphed into spires of stone and the streets turned to rough volcanic rock beneath their feet. “I think this is where we part ways,” the hydra said in a five voiced chorus. The monster’s jaws opened wide and snapped down toward Betsy. Suddenly, within Forge’s private prison his body seized up. He drew a breath tight within his chest. The Maker felt like he was becoming thin and the world was evaporating. No he was evaporating from the world. He faded from the mental dungeon as everything grew brighter and brighter until he was burned in the light. Shadow King was diving in for the sudden kill while Betsy was off balance from her latest strike. His hydra jaws were dripping with acid and he was going to savor feasting on her mind but it was as if a wrecking ball had slammed into his chest. The shock of it all caused Farouk to lose his concentration for a moment. The craggy landscape around them shattered and rained down like so much broken glass to reveal the blank emptiness underneath. Shadow King gasped out, “What? He’s dead?” The parasite’s host body had been killed. He had not expected this outcome. He knew the Hellfire Club was less than altruistic but surely they would’ve tried to save the White King instead of killing him. Farouk was in freefall without a net. “You’re White King is dead,” he sneered. “Killed by your very own Max Coleridge.” He hoped this would give the violet telepath some sort of distraction. It would be time enough, hopefully, to gather himself. Shadow King began to pull himself together by his bootstraps and knit his essence back together. He would wither without a physical host unless he was solely in the astral plane. The drones of Lame Deer were not his true host, just projections of his control. Perhaps one of them would do for a moment. Perhaps he would be more powerful solely existing on the astral plane but the machine would not amplify him without a physical host. Shadow King was pulling together the matrix of his energies as quickly as possible. Time was not exactly on his side. |
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| Betsy Braddock | Jul 31 2010, 09:46 PM Post #11 |
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Telepathy (I'm not a bloody ninja)
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The astral plane, warped to mimic the streets of London, stretched out all around her, mocking her memories both good and bad of the city. The astral plane was not a physical place, it was a flowing realm, constructed of thoughts and energy, intertwined with memory. When the Shadow King struck her armour, he was striking her mind, not causing physical pain but the results could still be just as deadly. Betsy had heard of telepaths who had their minds shattered upon the astral, leaving their physical body a mere shell in the physical world. Then there was the opposite scenario, which Betsy was trying to push from her mind to limit distractions; death in the real world, while on the astral, meaning there was no body to go back to, left a fragmented mind to drift on the psychic tides before being blown away like petals in a wind. Battling hard, Betsy swung at the Shadow King, aiming to get a heavy blow in, but he was a highly skilled opponent and he smoothly evaded her attack, darting around her then grabbing her by the shoulder as his form flowed into a new, monstrous shape. The White Queen struggled, thrashing against his hold but she was pinned by his scaled claws. He bore down on her, the plane shifting around them to become some mythic battlefield more suited to his new, bestial persona of legend. Betsy fought against his grasp, swinging her sword up to strike him in this much stronger form that outclassed her own. “I think this is where we part ways.” “Don’t count on it, luv,” the telepath responded darkly, bringing her sword upward to try and deflect the impending attack. Betsy tensed, ready for what could possibly be the end, when the monster stopped, almost disorientated and she used the window of opportunity to throw herself backwards, rolling and coming up in a crouch, bringing her shield up, her ‘arm’ aching from his claws. The change that had come over him however, stopped being a welcome reprieve and started to unnerve Psylocke. Keeping on her toes, she readied to block then counter his attack once more as he lunged forward, ready to strike, only for him to fall backwards again, the landscape around them exploding. Dropping her weapons at the force of the telepathic backlash, Betsy shifted her form, wings spreading from her body as her human shape twisted into that of a butterfly, buffeted around in the strong psychic currents and the fractured shards of their battlefield. Then she heard the words, those impossible words that made her fight so very futile… Dead…No. Dead…. The news shook Betsy to her very core as numbness spread through her and there was only an emptiness as she reached out to Forge in an attempt to find him, it was a trick, it must be. “Killed by your very own Max Coleridge.” The words hit her like a bullet and for a moment she wanted to reach out from the astral plane and give Max the mental thrashing of his life, but no…No, no, if Max has killed Jonathon, it must have been out of necessity. The balance within the Hellfire Club was occasionally turbulent, but both courts were strong, well formed sides of the chessboard. There would be no real benefit for Max to end Jonathon’s life and should that situation ever arise, God forbid, it would not be under terms like this, it would be as evenly matched men. They had ways in Hellfire, ways that were not about to be broken….God…I hope you know what you’re doing, Max… “I have faith in whatever it is that Max has done,” Betsy’s butterfly form rippled, shining with an intense violet light as the wings extended and she retook her human form on the plane, armour once more covering her body, but the armour she bore now was the suit created for her by Forge, dark purple in hue, with the white queen chess piece depicted on her upper arm, marking her for what she was and she was bloody proud of it. “If the King is dead, then you’re in for a whole world of pain, dearie, as I’m hardly done with you yet and I hold you personally responsible,” narrowing her blue eyes at the parasitic telepathic force, Betsy gathered her psionic energies quickly, focusing on the beast before her and unleashing one of her psycho blasts at him. It was not her most powerful, but it should hold him back as he made to attack her once more. The aim was to try and keep him back, keep him off guard long enough for her to be able to make him over-confident or even desperate to finish her off, revealing a moment of weakness within his anger that she could turn to her advantage and beat him, put him down permanently, send him to some dark recess of the plane where he wouldn’t bother anyone for a long time, wallowing and weak in his defeat. The thought made her stand her ground as she reassembled a field around them, pulling him into the grand ballroom of the Hellfire Club, made impossibly big his shape appearing as a stark contrast to the opulent surroundings. “Shall we dance?” |
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| Forge | Sep 7 2010, 10:24 PM Post #12 |
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Jonathon Silvercloud’s eyes snapped open and he snatched a breath. With wild eyes he looked around anxiously and sat up. His hand whipped to his chest to feel his rapid heart beating as if there was something he could do to steady the pounding muscle. Where was the Shadow King? Where was Betsy? Just a moment ago Forge had been twisting on the rack at the mercy of Farouk. He had been in such pain and then it ended. He had been hanging in blank space with his body pierced by barbs and hooks. Now he was sitting on a dirt floor surrounded by pungent smoke. There was a wizened old man sitting cross-legged on the other side of a small fire and he was smiling softly. “Naze?” Forge asked. The old man nodded slowly as he prodded the fire with a stick. He crushed some herbs in his other hand and sprinkled them across the flames. More smoke rose to fill the close-quartered tent with a heady yet enjoyable aroma. “It is me, Jonathon. Can be assured of that,” the old man said. Forge had been tricked before. The Shadow King had inhabited Naze’s body to fool him in Lame Deer. In the world of mutants there were all kinds of tricks. There were shapeshifters and then there were those that could possess the body of another person. Then there were telepaths and illusionists that could project their thoughts flawlessly. “This has to be another trick. Where is Betsy? Is she still fighting? How can I be sure you are real?” “Your Queen is still fighting the creature that rode inside my body and used your gift to conquer the world,” Naze said. “I have to go help her! They are all in trouble, time is going to run out!” Forge replied excitedly. “You cannot help them. You are dead,” Naze explained. Forge stalled. “What did you say?” The Maker asked though he had heard clearly. “You are dead, Jonathon Silvercloud. Your Black King killed you to shatter that creature’s foundation and throw him off guard so that she may have a chance to win. Our time may be short, so we must be quick in our words,” Naze said. Forge was confused. If he was dead then where was he? What was he doing in that tent and why was he dressed in buckskins and naked from the waist up? “Where am I Naze, am I still in the Astral Plane?” Forge asked. “The Astral Plane is only one Between. We are in a different Between. The Astral Plane is for the mind, this place is for the heart. Here, for the time being, you are whole.” The White King had not noticed before but the hand that he had clutched to his chest was not made of metal and synthetic polymers but made of flesh and bone. He held it out and examined it in the firelight. His hands shot to his leg. It too was made of flesh. Forge jumped up to his feet and smiled broadly. He bounced on the balls of his feet, going from one leg to the other. It felt amazing! He had completely forgotten that his mentor had told him that he was dead. “My young Silvercloud,” Naze said, “our time, as your body is fleeting. “We are together for a short time. You must listen to what I say.” Forge sat down and crossed his legs on the other side of the fire. He was ready to listen intently. “You were always the Chosen One of His People,” Naze explained, to send a stab of pain into Forge’s heart. He had spent much of his life running from his heritage and destiny. As a young man the Maker had turned his back on Naze and his teachings. Any joy from his body being made whole was quelled by shame. “Your friends can save the world. It was not your doing that loosed this creature. He is the Adversary. He twisted your shame and your gift. He used my body to deceive you,” the old man said. “I know but Betsy is fighting for her life and the minds of the entire world. Is there nothing I can do?” Forge asked. “You are dead, in the Between. This fight is not for you,” Naze said. Forge was even more confused. “You said he was the Adversary. You always said my destiny was to defeat the Adversary. How can this not be my fight?” Naze sipped from a small clay bowl. He set the bowl down and stated. “There will always be an Adversary and you will always be The Chosen One of His People. You are great among men but you know your legacy to The People.” Naze turned his head to the side as if he heard something. “Just as I thought,” he said. He turned to the side and lifted a small bundle of leaves that was tied with a cord. Naze inhaled the scent from the bundle and said, “You were never a disappointment to me. I had faith then, and I have faith now. Until we meet again my Jonathon Silverlcoud.” Naze dropped the bundle on the fire and thick gray smoke billowed out of it. The scent was savory but the miasma overtook Forge quickly. He leaped forward onto his hands and knees. “Naze!” he called out but was quickly lost in the blank gray of the other Between. |
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| Forge | Sep 22 2010, 10:57 PM Post #13 |
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JP between Betsy and Shadow King It wasn’t the first time, but it was the most recent time, that Amahl Farouk had gotten his legs cut out from under him. He had been bested by Charles Xavier many years ago and the times he had been defeated since then were far and few between. He had not expected the Black King to kill his White Court counterpart. It left him without a host and grasping at straws. Now the violet tressed beauty was hemming him in. Shadow King was looking for a refuge in the storm when she fired a mental blast at him. She then flared in her butterfly form, deceptively powerful and took on an armored appearance. All around him a grand ballroom of the Hellfire Club constructed. “Shall we dance?” she asked. With no time for a retort, Farouk shrouded himself in the guise of a well-groomed and sharply dressed man with amazing good looks. All around him he constructed men and women in the same general dress. It was a fancy party for the rich and powerful. He hoped to distract the Queen long enough to gain his bearings. Or saunter around and drive a mental knife into her pretty little brain. Before her, the Shadow King took on a new form, playing along with their new playing board, his shape transforming into that of a handsome, well heeled man. Around them, the ballroom began to fill with beautifully dressed men and women attending a great, grand masque, their costumes rich and elegant. It could have been any night in Hellfire, in any century. The White Queen felt out of place amongst the silks and velvet gowns of the female half of the crowd, her armour changing so that she now wore a white gown, befitting of her rank, her curled hair piled atop her head, still its delicate violet hue, worked through with ropes of pearls and amethysts. A white and silver half mask concealed most of her features, white ribbons securing it in place. Farouk had melted into the crowd, lost in the swirling sea of masks. Tensing, Betsy pushed forward in the crowed ballroom and was swallowed up by the revellers who swirled and laughed, spinning to the music, drunk on wine and the atmosphere. A tall man in black and silver caught her hands and began to turn her, trying to pull her into a dance with him, but she resisted and pushed away, trying instead to focus on the Shadow King, knowing that he could attack her at any second. The patch of astral plane had become disorientating, filled with excess and psychic chaff that made it difficult, and her in her wearied state, to risk sending out a wide blast and risk falling into a trap… The crowd danced and swirled around them. Farouk took to one of the female projections and swayed through the mass. He led the dance so that he could keep at least one eye on the White Queen. One of the men tried to dance with her but she pulled away from him. She scanned the crowd herself trying to target her prey and avoid the inevitable attack. Farouk eyed the graceful queen through his mask. His dark eyes peered through the laughing face of a jester. He guided his dance partner around and then switched at the downbeat, trying to blend in. Psylocke would be expecting an attack and it would not be easy to best her. He would have to strike quickly and powerfully to knock her off kilter to buy more time. Farouk waltzed behind the White Queen. He extended his hand and a silver dagger snapped out from under his cuff. Farouk broke from the projection he danced with and spun on his heel. He stabbed down with the blade to the nape of Little Miss Braddock’s neck. The projections of the revellers made it hard for Betsy to navigate the dance floor, jostled by them as she tried to push through the swirling masses around her. He had to be there somewhere…Hidden amongst the false memories and thoughts of those twirling around them. Normally she would be at ease within such a crowd, able to move through them with the easy grace that came with being the White Queen. Here, no one seemed to know her as they danced, passing her by as if she was a scrap of material floating on the wind. Her blue eyes remained observant behind their mask, as she scanned the crowds, seeing a hundred men who could have been the Shadow King, thoughts trickling through her fingers like sand as she tried to get a hold of his evil mind…There were just too many…No, no it was just s trick, a ruse to throw her off her path. Lifting her skirts, Betsy shouldered her way through a group of women who had gathered around her, tittering behind their fans and masks, slowing her down. “Where are you, you bloody great bastard…” Psylocke asked herself through gritted teeth, eyes narrowing. He had to be there…Before her, off and away through the crowd, she caught a glimpse of a coat of the shade donned by Farouk and she pitched forward, pink lights glowing around her eyes as she readied a potent psychic blast to take him down, her slippered feet hurrying across the floor. In her haste, the White Queen allowed her shield to drop and when she felt the stabbing sensation at the back of her neck, only then did she realise her great folly. Her mouth formed a small O of shock, soundless, as she felt the excruciating pain of her mental body being destroyed surge through her and she collapsed to the floor, her white ball gown billowing out, empty, as her body dissipated like fine fog, leaving behind the clothes her psychic form had taken on. She had…failed. |
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| Betsy Braddock | Sep 25 2010, 12:00 AM Post #14 |
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Telepathy (I'm not a bloody ninja)
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JP with Psylocke and the Shadow King “I’ve won, you pampered twit,” the Shadow King crowed as he watched the White Queen crumpled. “In a matter of moments my powers will be expanded to a limit you cannot imagine!” Psylocke’s frail body had dissolved away leaving only the clothes that she had projected for herself. The clothes fell limp to the dazzling floor, slowly trampled by the dancers that continued to revel around the celebrating Shadow King. With no more need for the distraction, Farouk cast the dancers away. They dissolved into tiny motes of golden dust and settled to the floor. The mental parasite retained his form of the elegant club member in the mask. He drank in the victory and set about calling together his energies. He needed a new host immediately or he would be lost to wither in the ether. Then his powers would be amplified and his mind would sweep across the planet like a plague. The White Queen plummeted through an endless dark chasm in freefall, unable to stop herself or even think about her descent. As she fell, her essence was slowly turning to dust that drifted away on the astral winds, vanishing into the gloom of the astral. Everything that remained of Betsy started to fade and crumble like old, dried petals, disintegrating into dust after a short spell of grandeur. She closed her eyes so that she would not see, forgetting how to breath and how to think – No! As the last fragments of her astral form were about to fall away into the black nothingness around her, Psylocke remembered. She remembered who she was, why she was there and what she had to do. Gathering her remaining strength, the telepath concentrated on pulling the shreds and tatters of her projected form together, binding it tightly, reshaping herself. As she reformed, her descent slowed until she came to a stop, hovering in the pitch black air. It was cold, or at least there was the sense of being cold in this part of the astral, real cold, the sort that made your heart skip a beat and your legs seize up. Stretching an arm out, she inspected the slender limb, ice white in the darkness, her body whole once more. She could do this… Looking upwards, she allowed her head to fall back, her hair tumbling down her shoulders as she narrowed her eyes. Barely visible was a small pinprick of light above her, from where she had fallen. She had to reach it. Tensing, the White Queen pushed herself upwards, her effigy rushing through the dead space around her. She had to do this. The Shadow King looked around through the eyes of each of the drones that he controlled in Lame Deer. They were automatons but they served quite well to provide as his eyes and ears around the town thanks to the small amplifier that the Maker had created. The Hellfire Club was still doing their best against the mindless drones and the mechanical creations that were working mindlessly for their mast. Farouk directed one of the drones to the gymnasium. It was a teen in a letterman’s jacket. His legs drove him forward mechanically and down the stairs to the basement. Farouk then began to pull his energies together and force them into the mind of the teen. Shadow King needed a physical host for the machine to amplify him and since the White King had died, Farouk’s tether to the fleshly realm was cut. He was adrift in the sea of the astral plane. Now he was forcing his way into the mind of the teenager. Admittedly, the Shadow King was weak from his encounter with Betsy and it was going to be quite painful for the poor boy as the parasite took over. It was a sacrifice Shadow King was more than willing to make. The pain of someone else was something like candy to him. But in a moment that pain would be shared by every sentient being on the planet, and it was going to be delicious. Psylocke gathered speed as she rushed upwards, literally flying through the recesses of the astral, her mind fixed on her target and what she had to do. She vowed she would not be struck down in such a manner again, even if it was by such a formidable opponent…Never again. She could not be so weak again as to so very nearly fail and lose her entire mind while at it. Her eyes narrowed , marring her marble like face as she repeated the thoughts over and over, still rising upwards, the pinprick of light becoming a circle, becoming a way up, back into the mindscape of the Shadow King. Holding her breath, she paused underneath the spot from where she had tumbled out into an almost uncontrollable freefall, steeling herself, gathering ever ounce of psychic energy and power that was hers to command, remaining perfectly still for a matter of seconds, although the span of time seemed so much longer. Looking upwards, she cautiously felt out, working out where the Shadow King was, feeling that he was weakened and concentrating more on obtaining a new host and the confidence in his victory than on defending himself, for what was there to defend from now? Shaking her head, the telepath positioned herself and began to slowly rise out of the floor, coming up behind the still elegantly formed shape of Farouk, slipping silently back up on to the chessboard. As her feet rose above the floor, she balled her hand into a fist and brought it back, mustering every scrap of power, then plunged it towards his head, sending psychic energy smashing into him, tearing at his mind, ripping and burning away at him. “You don’t get rid of me that easily, darling.” Shadow King was funneling himself out of the astral and into the body of the teenager for a permanent residence when the White Queen rose up and struck him from behind. He equated the feeling to having a blade made of pure psychic energy slice right into his cortex. He let out a roar that reverberated around the realm. The ballroom around them shattered to leave the pair floating in a background that resembled the clearest night sky with innumerable stars dotting the landscape. Farouk’s body shifted and morphed. He couldn’t break free from the blade but his body quickly re-molded itself. The back of his head became fluid and reformed so that he was facing the White Queen and her power was driving through the center of his forehead now. Through the elaborate mask, his face pour malice and hate. He struggled to break free but found that he couldn’t. Instead the entity rocketed through the astral plane, using the last reserves of his energy and pulling free from the youth, dragging Psylocke along with him. “I’ll kill you!” he roared, losing his calm demeanor. As she attacked, the Shadow King let out a roar that shook the astral plane and Betsy had to anchor herself firmly in position to stop herself from being flung aside in the shockwave. He turned his head towards her, eyes burning through her soul as he stared her down, still fighting against the attack she was driving through his head, not allowing the force of the psychic assault to diminish, even for a second. She had to keep fighting. Then he broke his position, still struggling like an animal in a snare, dragging her with him as he tore through the astral. She felt the threads that had been connecting him to a new host snap and he was once again adrift in the mindscape, hurtling through it at a tremendous speed with her in tow, almost leaving her mind fragmented behind. “I’ll kill you!” The words reverberated through the White Queen, echoing and booming through the astral plane, almost deafening her with the sheer evil force of them. Struggling, Betsy sought to slow them down, increasing the ferocity of her attack, pouring yet more psychic energy into him, filling the yawning chasm with brilliant, blinding violet lights. “The hell you’ll kill me! This is what you get when you take on Hellfire, my dear. We will not be lapdogs to anyone.” They hurtled across the plane but violet lights burst open like fireworks that slowly filled the empty spaces. It was going from an inky blue-black to a dazzling purple that matched the Queen’s telepathic signature. Shadow King twisted and rolled in attempt to shake her loose. She kept pouring energy into him through the connection she had made through her attack. Their velocity was slowing and the spirals that they etched in the space were no longer tight but relaxing out and becoming drunken loops. A flat asteroid appeared in the emptiness and they angled downward. Shadow King crash landed onto the rocky surface. Their momentum dug a trench along their entry until they came to stop. Farouk glared again at the queen. “I won’t let you do this to me,” he sneered. His thin and fading form was translucent but he suddenly took on the coloration of the asteroid. His body was becoming the same material but he was not being absorbed into the surface. He could not break free from Psylocke. Then all around him dark spires of dirty brown asteroid rock rose with startling speed. They curved up and over to form the beginnings of a dome. “I won’t let you leave here, little one,” he said softly but bitterly. Betsy was almost dizzy from their flight across the plane, spinning and swirling through the astral like scraps of paper on a strong wind. She kept up her assault, although she could feel the Shadow King weakening under her unexpected attack, devoid of a host body from which to draw strength. But he struggled and he fought her, bucking against her psychic stranglehold. He put her in mind of a dying animal in a trap, defiant to the last and grimly, she held on as they fell through space. Their descent took a sharp turn and they smashed into the rocky surface of an asteroid. For a precious moment, Betsy almost lost her grip, her powers wavering for just a second at the shock of the impact, but she righted herself as they slowed down, eventually coming to a stop. With some effort, the White Queen flipped her opponent and knelt up on his chest, holding him down with all her might, staring balefully at the malignant being. “You might not let me, but I will,” she said in a calm voice, much calmer than her earlier rage. The fury was abating. Betsy had always been quick tempered, feeding on the thrill of battle and adrenaline, but now in this nexus, everything seemed to be so clear and sharp. She twisted the blade of energy she held within him, digging it in deep. Even as he changed to the same material as the asteroid beneath them, he refused to give up, attempting to form a prison around them both, threatening her. “I’m sure you wouldn’t. But I don’t think that is up to you, Farouk,” she replied, readying herself as the spires rose around them. Mustering everything left in her, every ounce of strength and every empowering memory and feeling that she had drawn upon in the past, she poured it all into him, filling the filthy, begotten corner of the astral with blinding light, bringing her blade up, then forcing it back down in a fluid moment for one final strike. Releasing him, Betsy willed her effigy to change once more, becoming a butterfly, soaring upwards through the spires, pushing past the rocks that rose above what remained of the Shadow King. “You will stay here and you have not bested me. If you ever escape this self styled little prison, I recommend that you leave Hellfire well alone, as this is just a taste of what I will do to you, should you ever threaten me or mine, ever again. Farewell, Shadow King.” Shadow King tried to rise up from the gritty asteroid but he was trapped by Betsy’s impaling. His body was hardening, he was taking the form of the stone and he couldn’t seem to reverse himself. The spires were closing in to form the dome above him. He could see the violet butterfly rising quickly through the shrinking hole casting brilliant light upon the stone walls. Then he was left in the darkness once the skylight sealed itself. Amahl Farouk wailed out in anguish but it lacked the strength he once had. It did not shake the stones of the asteroid, in fact the sound barely escaped the rock walls that formed his prison as his mental form solidified into the stone. The asteroid floated along silently. It was just one of the many remnants of telepathic voyages in the astral plane; another bit of space junk in the boundless void. |
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| Max_Coleridge | Sep 28 2010, 11:51 PM Post #15 |
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Darkforce Manipulation, Teleportation
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The Shroud stayed on bended knee beside the body of Jonathon Silvercloud. Oblivious to deadly and frantic struggle the White Queen was having with Shadow King in the ether, the air in the vaulted ceiled gymnasium was as still and quiet as a cathedral. The minutes crawled by, slow and heavy, each one seeming to drag on for an eternity. Medicine and first aid had never greatly interested him, but one vital fact weighed on the Black King’s mind – the window was between three to five minutes, an instructor had said, up to three minutes, you have a pretty good chance, after five minutes… don’t bother anymore. One minute passed. Then another. And another. He loomed over the corpse waiting. ‘Not too soon,’ he told himself, playing chicken with Forge’s life in the balance. But if he revived the White King too soon, the Shadow King might return to his host and it would’ve all been for nothing. Another minute fell away in the quite fell away in the gloom. At some internal signal that now was the time, the Shroud’s quick fingers found what he thought of as a rejuvenation phial, nanomachines ready to clean his blood and stimulate his heart and brain back to life; he’d had them made for himself, in case a venomous mutant got a lucky bite in. Popping the phial into the syringe, he plunged the needle into Jonathon’s neck. “Maker… Maker,” his demanding voice shattered the silence and filled the room like thunder. “… Jonathon,” he said quieter and pressed his fingers to Forge’s neck. The Black King didn’t wear his emotions on his cuff for all to see but he did feel. In the hush as the moment seemed to hold its breath, Max quietly added, “You can make it back to us. You’re stronger than people think you are.” |
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7:25 PM Jul 11