MPC 48C: On The Third Day (Extinguished)
Mar 25, 2018 2:05:06 GMT
Post by Alice Alexandria on Mar 25, 2018 2:05:06 GMT
MPC Name: On The Third Day (Extinguished)
MPC Number: 48 C
Reward Requested: Post Count +
This life was a failure. A mistake on all fronts and in all aspects.
The last moments of life flicker by in a hazy phantasmagoria of images, so vivid and clear that they might as well be real. Torture, to see this failure happen over and over. A being of purest light, slowly dragged to oblivion and reduced to a stained, darkened mess, something so humiliating that the option of continuing, of coming back in a corrupted, horrific and downright monstrous state was disgusting. But at the same time, the anger made it all the more appealing. Revenge. Darkness against darkness. A shadow snuffing out other shadows.
A goddess in shining gold and teal armor cleaving down groups of foes, an attempt to purge the world of darkness. A solitary soldier's crusade against all evil. Ophanimon is glorious, impaling the hideous, yellow-eyed monstrosity with her javelin, the sole burning, pure light in the darkest parts of the digital world. And with her other hand, she launches pointed, narrow crystals at more of the monsters, the horde of darkness that slowly grew. But this delectable bloodbath was without end, and in time, the solitary crusader's assault would finally sputter to a halt, an inevitable, unstoppable ending to this knight in shining armor.
What a waste. She doesn't even deserve that name. A divine crusade? No, this was genocide, plain and simple. The others told her as such, faint visions of wings and angelic beings passing through the void. And as Ophanimon's crusade grew more and more violent, more and more bloodthirsty, the darkness seeped in, like it always does. In the end, everything is darkness, after all. All is evil in the eyes of those so pure, so infallible, that even the slightest flaw can be considered a threat. Are these doubts just the darkness? Another flashback soon passes by, tormenting the very soul, the very core and esscence of what was once a being.
The arrival of Ophanimon was met with fear. Beings of shadow mercilessly slaughtered one by one in a systematic order, starting with the weakest. None were fit to live, though in the end, this was what would redeem them, a purification through death, a purging of evil through their own infinite suffering. Throwing helpless souls into the scarlet sea of blood, the dull red stars in the sky staining the scene a blood colored haze of murder and death. And yet, it is all perfectly acceptable in her eyes, for these creatures were impure, they deserved nothing less. In fact, this was to be their salvation, what would help them become good once again. Accepting the light through death. Finding joy in their own destruction...
There were many, many ways to justify what she had done. It was all for the greater good, after all. They would all come back to life as purer beings. And until then, she would rip and tear until it was done, sticking her divine lance into the ribcage of her enemy and filling their insides with holy light, bursting them from the inside and releasing their data into the world to be built into something, anything else. This entire part of the world was impure, and as the only one willing to cleanse it, she never once faltered, never truly questioned herself, never stopped.
A spear becomes a scythe. What was once a field of impaled bodies becomes shredded, fragmented data, divided so finely it was akin to dust. Hatred burns. All of darkness must die, and now, she herself was unforgivable without realizing it, giving into darkness not through a deal with the devil or through sin, but willingly nonetheless, a vicious being made only to purge those it saw were unfit to live, weaving a web of destruction, burning and decimating all to come into her path. Ophanimon was no longer glorious, she was evil incarnate, even worse than the very beings she used to hunt down. It had become beyond even sport. It was casual, like breathing. Killing was like breathing to her now, a grotesque, morbid dance of deletion and eradication unable to be stopped...
Threee of the beings rose up this time, each with their single yellow eye. Try as one might, this was an impossible battle, and the sole being of vengeful, perfect justice went to war anyways, her scythe ripping into the core of one and almost being blasted in half by one of the others. All must go to the darkest depths of hell, and stay there for eternity. This was no longer about purging the wicked, it was about simply killing as many foes as possible to stay alive, to prove that there is something even the devil fears, shards of razor-sharp death riddling the insides of the being she had previously ripped into with her scythe.
It was supposed to be glorious, a moment that in her deluded state, Ophanimon thought of as her greatest, kicking off the dissipating body of one of the yellow-eyed monsters and almost reaching one of the others for an immediately fatal blow, but a beam of red light strikes her arm, melting it clean off, stray bits of data sparking off the remains. Picking the scyhte up in her other hand, she continues, mauling her foe without a single care for her own well-being, a berserk, hateful creature with no purpose other than death. She was the angel of oblivion, an unstoppable force, a creature that had killed so many of the unholy, unforgivable abominations that she may as well have been one herself. Another red beam, and soon enough everything fades to white, an anticlimatic ending for the death goddess she had become. A fitting one, really.
And now, looking back in the void between existences, it was nothing short of reliving hell over and over. A punishment so severe that nothing could possibly be more fitting. The rage still burns inside, an unwillingness to accept defeat. To be reborn was to forget all the pain, the fury, rage and anger, the bloody, heartless massacre Ophanimon had caused, a monster among monsters, something which had become feared by all. Perhaps it would be best to forget all this, for the better of everyone.
But it would not allow the darkness to go away. It ran far too deep now, something so ingrained into the very essence of code. A black mark, unable to be washed out. To be reborn meant becoming the very thing that causes such hate. A servant of darkness, of demons. It was time to accept that, either way, to move on and finally become someone else, someone who is undeserving of redemption.
Despite being reborn in a small, weak body, cradled inside an egg, a toxic, yellow blob full of mildly ill intent, the light inside their heart lay extinguished.
But perhaps that is for the best.
Word Count: 1148
MPC Number: 48 C
Reward Requested: Post Count +
This life was a failure. A mistake on all fronts and in all aspects.
The last moments of life flicker by in a hazy phantasmagoria of images, so vivid and clear that they might as well be real. Torture, to see this failure happen over and over. A being of purest light, slowly dragged to oblivion and reduced to a stained, darkened mess, something so humiliating that the option of continuing, of coming back in a corrupted, horrific and downright monstrous state was disgusting. But at the same time, the anger made it all the more appealing. Revenge. Darkness against darkness. A shadow snuffing out other shadows.
A goddess in shining gold and teal armor cleaving down groups of foes, an attempt to purge the world of darkness. A solitary soldier's crusade against all evil. Ophanimon is glorious, impaling the hideous, yellow-eyed monstrosity with her javelin, the sole burning, pure light in the darkest parts of the digital world. And with her other hand, she launches pointed, narrow crystals at more of the monsters, the horde of darkness that slowly grew. But this delectable bloodbath was without end, and in time, the solitary crusader's assault would finally sputter to a halt, an inevitable, unstoppable ending to this knight in shining armor.
What a waste. She doesn't even deserve that name. A divine crusade? No, this was genocide, plain and simple. The others told her as such, faint visions of wings and angelic beings passing through the void. And as Ophanimon's crusade grew more and more violent, more and more bloodthirsty, the darkness seeped in, like it always does. In the end, everything is darkness, after all. All is evil in the eyes of those so pure, so infallible, that even the slightest flaw can be considered a threat. Are these doubts just the darkness? Another flashback soon passes by, tormenting the very soul, the very core and esscence of what was once a being.
The arrival of Ophanimon was met with fear. Beings of shadow mercilessly slaughtered one by one in a systematic order, starting with the weakest. None were fit to live, though in the end, this was what would redeem them, a purification through death, a purging of evil through their own infinite suffering. Throwing helpless souls into the scarlet sea of blood, the dull red stars in the sky staining the scene a blood colored haze of murder and death. And yet, it is all perfectly acceptable in her eyes, for these creatures were impure, they deserved nothing less. In fact, this was to be their salvation, what would help them become good once again. Accepting the light through death. Finding joy in their own destruction...
There were many, many ways to justify what she had done. It was all for the greater good, after all. They would all come back to life as purer beings. And until then, she would rip and tear until it was done, sticking her divine lance into the ribcage of her enemy and filling their insides with holy light, bursting them from the inside and releasing their data into the world to be built into something, anything else. This entire part of the world was impure, and as the only one willing to cleanse it, she never once faltered, never truly questioned herself, never stopped.
A spear becomes a scythe. What was once a field of impaled bodies becomes shredded, fragmented data, divided so finely it was akin to dust. Hatred burns. All of darkness must die, and now, she herself was unforgivable without realizing it, giving into darkness not through a deal with the devil or through sin, but willingly nonetheless, a vicious being made only to purge those it saw were unfit to live, weaving a web of destruction, burning and decimating all to come into her path. Ophanimon was no longer glorious, she was evil incarnate, even worse than the very beings she used to hunt down. It had become beyond even sport. It was casual, like breathing. Killing was like breathing to her now, a grotesque, morbid dance of deletion and eradication unable to be stopped...
Threee of the beings rose up this time, each with their single yellow eye. Try as one might, this was an impossible battle, and the sole being of vengeful, perfect justice went to war anyways, her scythe ripping into the core of one and almost being blasted in half by one of the others. All must go to the darkest depths of hell, and stay there for eternity. This was no longer about purging the wicked, it was about simply killing as many foes as possible to stay alive, to prove that there is something even the devil fears, shards of razor-sharp death riddling the insides of the being she had previously ripped into with her scythe.
It was supposed to be glorious, a moment that in her deluded state, Ophanimon thought of as her greatest, kicking off the dissipating body of one of the yellow-eyed monsters and almost reaching one of the others for an immediately fatal blow, but a beam of red light strikes her arm, melting it clean off, stray bits of data sparking off the remains. Picking the scyhte up in her other hand, she continues, mauling her foe without a single care for her own well-being, a berserk, hateful creature with no purpose other than death. She was the angel of oblivion, an unstoppable force, a creature that had killed so many of the unholy, unforgivable abominations that she may as well have been one herself. Another red beam, and soon enough everything fades to white, an anticlimatic ending for the death goddess she had become. A fitting one, really.
And now, looking back in the void between existences, it was nothing short of reliving hell over and over. A punishment so severe that nothing could possibly be more fitting. The rage still burns inside, an unwillingness to accept defeat. To be reborn was to forget all the pain, the fury, rage and anger, the bloody, heartless massacre Ophanimon had caused, a monster among monsters, something which had become feared by all. Perhaps it would be best to forget all this, for the better of everyone.
But it would not allow the darkness to go away. It ran far too deep now, something so ingrained into the very essence of code. A black mark, unable to be washed out. To be reborn meant becoming the very thing that causes such hate. A servant of darkness, of demons. It was time to accept that, either way, to move on and finally become someone else, someone who is undeserving of redemption.
Despite being reborn in a small, weak body, cradled inside an egg, a toxic, yellow blob full of mildly ill intent, the light inside their heart lay extinguished.
But perhaps that is for the best.
Word Count: 1148
