[mature] Ruthlessness is mercy upon ourselves; round four - round three results inside

[a demon]

“You.”

The dragon’s voice rumbled like thunder through the air, you could feel it in your chest—and somehow, despite all the others, you knew it was talking to you. A purple aura outlined its mountainous frame, spreading out like a dense cloud of miasma. The Stratosians never saw it coming.

As they neared the dragon, faces twisted and mouths open in war cries that would never quite reach your ears, they came to a sudden stop—almost as if they had run straight into a wall. Their bodies crumpled, their bones splintered and cracked. Tears streamed from their eyes as blood started pouring from their noses and ears. They floated in the air, spacing out into a perfect circle around the dragon.

When they tried to resist, their bodies would crunch and contort—twisting in unnatural ways until all they could do was whimper in pain. And there was nothing you could do except watch.

“I killed you,” the dragon said, though its mouth never moved. “I pulled off your head, how are you here?”

A sudden ripping sound filled the air, and then squelching, and then the screaming and the begging for it to stop—the Stratosians had regained their voices. Perhaps it would have been better if they didn’t.

“I see,” the dragon grumbled, tilting its horned head. “A very persistent little soul, indeed.”

Without warning, the dragon surged towards you—mouth open, a fireball flickering to life inside its gullet. It roared a long stream of fire, swooping past. Unsure if it had missed, it soared back around and opened its mouth, drawing in a deep breath to prepare for its next attack.

The Stratosians were still screaming—their skin peeling back, as if invisible hands were pulling it from their bones.

Despite its size, the dragon was surprisingly agile. It shot through the air, narrowly avoiding your attacks—until one lucky shot caught it in its right eye, and blood sprayed through the air. The dragon roared furiously, breathing its fire in all directions. Some of the Stratosians were turned to ash in an instant and carried off by the wind.

They were the lucky ones.

The others were still hanging mid-air in their own version of Hell.

You couldn’t back off now to help them, though.

Now was your chance.

You attacked with a fury you didn’t know you were capable of, sending the monster spiraling back down to the earth below. You chased after it, screaming, screaming so loud you didn’t know if it was you or one of the horses hanging above you being skinned alive—but then time started moving slower.

The fall started to feel more like you were sinking down into water.

And then fire billowed up from below with a roar. You could feel your eyes melting in your skull from the heat, smell your flesh as it started to bubble. You wanted to scream but even that had been stripped away from you.

Suddenly, you appeared back at the beach—encircled by the waves, bowed at the foot of the great, shadowy titan’s throne. It was laughing at you. The wolf demons lingered nearby, some crouching—others had been crushed, but their heads moved and their bodies and limbs twitched as if they were all still alive.

“Did you enjoy re-living your past lives?” The titan cooed. "Always doomed to fail."

The ground began to rumble beneath your feet.

All that was, all that you ever were, started rapidly flickering through your mind—from birth to death.

Something terrible was coming, though, and as the memories became more vivid, you could feel yourself becoming more afraid, though you weren’t certain why.

—

Something wicked this way comes.

FOR THIS ROUND

-Your character is back in their own body.
-You still have the element you chose in the last round.

1. Describe the battle with the dragon.
   
2. Describe witnessing the Stratosians being tortured.
   
3. Describe being burned alive.
   
4. Describe the sudden, uncontrollable fear they feel at the foot of the demon.
   
5. The first two to respond should leave their post open-ended for the last round.
   
6. The last three to respond can describe being taken back to the afterlife, or fade to black.
   

Posts must be a MINIMUM of 1000 words.
The last three to respond will be eliminated.
The last three to respond need only respond with 500 words.
The deadline to respond is Wednesday, October 28th 11:59PM EST.

If you are eliminated from this round, your character will return to the dead and you will receive a genetic 5-space trait to be passed on to their descendant or another character they deem worthy. Whoever receives the trait will suffer psychosis and be plagued by visions of the quest for at least one starter and four posts (they can all be the same thread). Severity of the episode is up to the player, and they may choose to keep the ailment if they’d like. They may retain all memories of the contestant and their past lives, if the player chooses.



—



RESULTS FROM ROUND THREE:

Lillith, Arik, and Gail - Eliminated/forfeiture of trait, since you didn’t respond. I’m sorry!

[anaemone]

anaemone

You.
It echoes. Not only in her ears but in the very marrow of her bones. It rattles through her chest, arrests her heart, stills her breath. She will die, she knows this. She feels this, too, in the marrow of her bones. She, a thing made for bleeding. She, a thing made for dying. She, a thing that has always been so dreadfully fragile.

And yet. She knows she must fight.
Because there may be death on the other side of this, but even she knows that it will not be final. There will be another death after this one. And then another. She has made some grave mistake coming here, agreeing to be the demon’s plaything. (Although, had there been a choice? Had it been decided for her when her soul had been stuffed back into that useless, useless body? The annoyance she had felt then feels impossible now. Here, where she cannot see beyond her fear.)

The pegasi turn to charge and she thinks to join them. She thinks that, perhaps in this body, she might somehow be less of a coward. She will be a useful thing. She will fight beside them, even if the ending is already written. Even though there is no chance at all for them.

But then, a terrifying stillness, each and every one of them stopped short. She watches in horror as their bodies contort, as the blood springs forth from their eyes, their gaping mouths, their noses. And she screams, loud enough that she cannot hear the sounds of their bones snapping beneath that terrible, invisible pressure. Their limbs snap, their necks twist, and she, too, is paralyzed. How proud they had been, the pegasi, how courageous. And yet, their bravery could not save them in the end.

Still, the dragon’s words echo. Through her limbs, into the very cavern of her chest, despite her own screaming. Despite the sudden return of sound, the cacophony of their screams, too. She will die, she knows, just as they are dying, and there is nothing she can do to stop it.

Except.
Except to fight.

The dragon surges forward with a great breath of fire and, heart hammering, she envisions a wall of water. And it comes, though it is not as tremendous as she’s imagined. It is enough to absorb some of the fire, enough that she comes away only singed. Her nerves begin to hum with electricity, some sharp, heady dose of adrenaline. It leaves her trembling as she watches the great beast turn, prepare to bear down on her again.

And that fear turns into some sharp, suffocating rage. It is hot and bright and unlike anything she’s ever felt before. It is injustice that fuels her anger, how the beast had reduced such proud, courageous creatures to twisted horseflesh, broken bones, blood. How the world had done the same to her, once, how she’d bled for so much less. How pointless it all is! A sound unlike anything she’s ever made before comes clawing, ferocious, up from the very depths of her soul. But it is not the terrified sound she’d made when those creatures had come from her. It is not fear, it is something much more primal. She surges forward, reckless in her fury, armed only with the very same water that had once killed her. It had become a part of her in her death, moving seamlessly from her lungs to the rest of her. It had gotten into her blood and now she conjured it from thin air, commanding it to attack with all of her might.

She hardly noticed the burst of blood from the beast’s eye. It did not slow the onslaught. It did not give her pause. Instead, she advanced, screaming so feverishly that she could swear all the world could hear it. They could hear it and know that it was her. Even as the beast fell and she with it. And, for the space of a breath, she thought herself victorious. Triumphant. The beast bested, falling, falling, and her chasing it down. And how beautiful a feeling.

And how fleeting.
Replaced by fire. A fire so hot, so blinding, that she did not have time to fear it. No, the last thing she felt was surprise, see. Because she had believed herself triumphant, a victor. Pain, too. Pain as the fire took first those eyes. The eyes she had deemed useless when she’d been returned to that meager, pitiful body. Fitting, then, that they should be the first to go. Pain as the fire took her flesh. Pain as the flames took to those great wings and she began to plummet, swallowed up by the heat. Reduced to so little, reduced, almost, to what she had been before.

And then. Then the fresh, stinging smell of saltwater, cool sand beneath her knees, her mouth pressed into the seabed. She blinks and lifts her head, the smell of burning flesh some distant memory. And there, before her, the great demon, the puppeteer. Around him, the hounds, broken, whimpering.

She rises from where she’d knelt before him and wonders if it had all been a dream. Had she enjoyed it? No, but she does not answer, only stares. What is the game? When will it be over? Will she be doomed to repeat it for the rest of eternity? This cannot be hell, she thinks, this is something much worse. Her throat is dry and exhaustion has begun to work its way into the very fiber of her being. She wants more than anything to go back to sleep.

“I don’t want to play this game anymore,” she says quietly. It is not defiance but surrender. She bows her head, consumed with a new fear as the ground begins to shake. “No,” she says, quiet, for she does not have the energy left to scream. And what good would that do anyway? It would not change the way that fear sinks its rotten teeth into the meat of her heart. Again, she is paralyzed by it, her mind flooded with memory. “Please,” she gasps instead. The fear tears at her heart, her brain. It leaves her quivering, trembling, breathless.

Again, she will die, she thinks, and she cannot help but feel as though this will be the worst death of them all.