Paroxysm

Glory stood still as a statue amid the storm of debris, red-hot metal and shards of earth, compacted by Glory’s mind, tracing thin but deadly lines through the surrounding air space. Her will steeled, the missiles sparked molten streaks along the guiding paths of her influence, none allowed to come so close as to cause visible harm, with a wide orbit that brought them safely around Glory, so that they impacted the protective barrier behind her, where they remained floating briefly as the spell sapped them of their destructive power. This, Glory could not focus on, however, no matter how she wished to observe the efficiency of the spells employed by the mages. More pressing concerns demanded her attention. There was a hole in her chest. Meat and blood and fur spilled out of it, before the squirming insides knitted close again, the image whole and unmarred. The first salvo struck home, and Glory let loose a psychic scream, of pain and agony intermingled with a dash of loss. Small bodies fell as Glory took a step forward, some still twitching, others mangled with pieces missing. A hot flash of metal from Ethic, and another shot into Glory, except this time there was no scream, no tiny, fur-covered corpse to signal an injury; instead, the image of Glory winked out, with the bullet visible in the forcefield, before it fell to the ground with a small clink. Glory reappeared beside a fountain, and another bullet struck clean through her image, except this time nothing appeared to happen. Another Glory, another bullet, until six Glorys stood staring as Ethic retreated into the Gardens. The six walked slowly until they met in the center of the room, facing the exit into the Garden, and then they walked as one, following, slowly, after Ethic. Only one moved with any sort of distinctiveness, as she looked over her shoulder, back at the audience, and then in front of them, at the bodies that littered the floor. Her image skipped a few frames, did not turn back in a fluid motion, but a jerky, inhuman one. A tangled, confused wave of sensations crashed through the parlor doors and into the gardens, an intermingling of physical and emotional delusions, fear and pain, tightly bound together, transmitted as a weapon of the mind, with compulsions to confound and impair. This, Glory did without meaning, as black-taloned hands held onto the doorway, pulling a heavy, red-scaled body through, its size impossible to be contained by the building it was emerging from, without damaging the interior. A gigantic head, with a teeth-filled maw emerging to roar, gouts of fire and smoke billowing from its throat. The head faded as Glory strode through it, with more scenes playing, some of human warriors, others of fantastical beasts, all transmitting without thought or reason. Without transition, Glory’s true form reappeared, and this time remained; she was a great, swarming mass of rats, a roving carpet of fur as she advanced. An electro-kinetic storm brewed around her, electrical arcs clinging to the individual rats that made up her body, as her two mental disciplines worked together. A spike of agony, built by recollection of the audience, by Ethic, and by Glory, took root in Glory’s mind before being directed toward Ethic, not hurled, not thrust like a blade toward the heart, but assembled and then, where the two psyches met, handed over like an unwanted, second hand sweater, to be received or rejected.

It is an apple. Less than one-hundred calories, and weighing less than two-hundred grams, with a crisp, crunchy flesh that satisfies and delights, it is absolutely, definitely, one-hundred percent an apple. Even if it does have a golden skin, with a faint glow surrounding it, the presence of which sends shivers down the spine. It’s an apple, Glory Be repeated, and not for the first time. The apple slowly spun as it lifted from the table by invisible hands, its form revolving, spinning slow as Glory inspected it, peered at it from across the table, so close as to put her nose to it. The large man—Jeesin, the slime had taken to calling him, although the name in his head labeled him differently—jerked his head to Glory as he was returning from Aralyn’s table, then toward the apple, but his look was distant, with his brow knitted in confusion. Glory realized her slip, saw that the apple was not there for him, nor was she, for that matter. His attention drawn by ghostly intuition. The apple plopped gently onto the table, the golden fruit rolling to its side; Glory dropped her compulsions, all save the one that held her form, and realization dawned on the man, his reaction guided by gentle push and shove. “Oh!” ‘Jeesin’ shouted, throwing one hand behind his head in embarrassed apology. “I didn’t see you there—” She deposited her name in his thoughts, so that his tongue found it readily, along with a history they didn’t share, not that he knew any better. “—Glory! Gave me a fright, hun; I hope the gran is doing well? Haven’t seen old…? Well, no matter! What can I do for you?” The apple was upright again, its glow back to prickling the skin, leaving Glory awash in a pleasant, cold sensation, as if receiving an unexpected but not unwelcome breeze on a summer day. Glory pressed one finger tip to the apple, sliding it toward the man as he stepped back once, bringing himself squarely in front of her. “It’s an apple,” She said, this time vocalizing the words. Letting the realness of the simulation coax the reaction, not the power behind her intent, “but not like one I’ve seen before. Want to eat it?” The man looked at it, unsure. Glory would not wholly force him, not beyond a nudge here and there; she would not break those that did not bend. Not without need. The man struggled visibly for a moment, a ‘no thank you’ hanging on the tip of his tongue, ready to be brought up in defense of his stomach versus the unknown. Then an idea took root in his head, shoved the the polite refusal aside. “Aralyn,” The man called, reaching out a hand to pluck the apple from the table. Glory Be almost slapped it away, before she stopped herself and allowed the scenario to happen. “Want dessert? A golden…?” No, Glory decided; it was not a golden apple, just a plain yellow one, no glow, no glint of gold. “…A, a apple,” Jeesin finished. “Compliments of Glory’s granda, straight from the only orchard still operating in Biazo.” Glory watched, waited; she would allow this. The tent flap opened to reveal another arrival, and she nearly redirected the newcomer, to deny the introduction of another variable, but then decided there was little harm in letting it happen. Her image did not turn, did not acknowledge the arrival, but many of her numerous eyes watched curiously as a young girl entered, with a mind more radiant than usual, put together not dissimilar to Glory’s own. More human than what was Glory’s, but, then, Glory could not fault someone for the things they could not help.

Welcome to the sandbox.

I, along with others, use the simplified white theme without much issue w/r/t copy-pasting text over. One thing I've noticed is people clearly pasting from their discord servers while using the dark theme, which is some of the backgrounds I've been seeing in posts lately. Plz stop. Or at least hit If you're not going to do anything fancy with your posts.

How time flies. I remember when you were a fresh faced 19-wanting-to-be-20.

The blades snapped closed and ground against one another, their motion temporarily halted as Glory made adjustments, disassembled the force into a dense cloud, nearly opaque. The atrium was an unfortunate terrain for a fight, Glory realized. It limited her selection. Glory continued to move, pulled by an invisible force, with the duster following in her wake. Her image crossed round the room until her back was to the audience, nearly to where she could feel the hum and thrum of power, what separated the onlookers from certain death. The cloud visibly decreased in volume as Glory drew from it, siphoned the abrasives again into blades, packing them tighter and thinner than before, more whip than sword. The reins of her telepathy slackened, with thoughts of excitement and optimism being broadcast, radiating from Glory as her image briefly collapsed, to show the collective that lay beneath. A flash, a glimpse; she was a mass of fur and tails and beady red eyes, a creature that carpeted the marble floor, spread wide and flat, crashing and breaking against one another. Then the mass reformed, followed by the image. Glory could not see her opponent’s bullets any longer, so fast they spun; she understood the theory, however. One blade lashed out as Ethic’s rush brought her within three yards of Glory, the blade did not travel directly, however, but took a meandering path; it snapped to the side, hit the floor, and sprung up from the marble with a smack, ricocheting into the shrapnel’s orbit, followed by its sister, this one on a linear, straight path, to meet Ethic head-on. Where the cloud had settled behind Glory, ripples ran through its surface, before it erupted into a storm of more thin, nearly invisible constructs, these to run interception; they stretched over Glory and shot downward, where Ethic was to be. The cloud diminished. There was no penetrating force here, nor an intent to shear. Glory may have lashed out with her claws, but as they impacted, they would not fight the current, but join with it, her power propelling it along the orbit, tracing her own lines of power along Ethic’s, each impact a new, destabilizing force, the frequency slightly different, with the harmony thrown off. And all at once, Glory heaved, brought her lines down and into the marble floor beneath Ethic and herself, with the intent of redirecting the empowering force of Ethic’s shields down with them. She reached behind with her mind, grabbed hold of the cloud …? Ah, right. Glory broadcast, in belated realization. Altered her plans. Her image did not collapse, but a vanguard of rats sprung from her illusionary body, the five of them separating the moment they were visible.

Thoughts and images came unbidden to Glory Be, whose own inner turmoil lay in the vice-like grip of her will, never allowed to overwhelm or impede those nearby. She stood awkwardly in her spot, where it had been indicated she should stop, a fixed distance from her opponent. She chewed nervously on the sleeve of one arm, the over-sized cuff hiding the hand within. Before that image of herself could fully crystallize, it wavered, twisted and became distorted, before collapsing to be replaced with another. This one stood confidently, the same frumpy young woman, but bolstered with an atypical confidence. This was all still new to Glory Be, whose idea of a good time leaned more toward exploring the mysteries of the world, secreting away truths. Fighting lacked appeal, and so did the pain and blood that came with it. Inflicting, or sustaining, injury, too, did nothing for her. Here she was, surrounded by splendor, faced down by a would-be opponent, and with a gallery of ritzy onlookers as audience, no less. Yet, no adrenaline spike. No rush. Fight number two, and Glory still got nothing from it. It had better be more fun than fight number one, at least; she was starting to wonder why people bothered. A hundred noses twitched as Glory’s two hundred eyes regarded her opponent. She felt the mischievous, frenetic energy of her kind die down somewhat, to be replaced with her curiosity being piqued. This one’s thoughts felt weird. Not indistinct, not impenetrable, but oddly shaped and contained. This strangeness caused Glory to redouble her compulsions as a reactive response, hammering in her image, of the girl, with pale skin and black hair, well-worn clothes, with eyes full of life and fun and warmth. “Hiya!” Glory chirped, smiling wide and bright. She held up a hand, letting the sleeve fall away from her arm. “Glory Be, not opponent girl; I have a name!” As she spoke, she probed outward, not with her telepathy, but with the equalizing force of telekinesis. A Rat King was small, vulnerable, but its mind packed a wallop. The fine net of power Glory often kept about her expanded — it doubled, then tripled — in size, until it pushed against an opposing force, the magic that defined their arena, protected and sheltered the atrium from harm. Chinks in the armor, gaps where her power could grab hold — Glory redoubled her effort with gritted teeth, found handholds to latch onto, announced by a chorus of crystalline chimes and the groaning of stone. Integrity held as evidence of arcane prowess, but Glory’s probe ended in success as the power receded, the tide ebbing until it centered on Glory again, setting the air around her swirling and lashing. “Calibration?” Glory placed a hand on her hip, thinking. “Metrology?” Did she intend to take Glory’s measure? In many of the Welander tomes Glory had read in preparation for this bout, where the primary theme was of physical conflict, the tone of the fighters often reflected an overly and unnecessarily macho bent, so perhaps in a round about and awkward way, her opponent was saying, ‘I’ll test you!’ or ‘I’ll evaluate your power!’ Glory’s smile broadened as she straightened her stance, bringing her hands together in an inaudible clap. “Please do ‘calibrate’ me!” Two bands of pressure scythed outward from Glory, sand and other particulates, abrasives gleaned from stone, from the air, and from what was tracked in by the guests, all brought together to give substance and cutting power to the force, so that when it met with resistance, the tightly packed and in-motion material did not simply crush, but cleaved through. The bands extended and crossed, like the blades of scissors, snapping shut as they entered the opposition’s space. The attack was a lazy gesture, a haphazard, crude swing of a sword; Glory’s body pivoted and drove to the side, carried on telekinetic winds as the force swept through their small arena in a tumultuous storm, smashing into the magical protections, forcing crystal and stone to sing again.

Thanks, Metty. Really keepin' a guy grounded to reality here.

will i win the lottery

You can scratch that itch in any of the areas, to be honest. You should go to whichever land you think is most interesting and you should be fine. Some have greater and lesser emphasis on themes, but you can generally succeed in writing whatever type of character/setting you wish, no matter where you put down roots. I like that in Russian there are no articles. I believe the author of Lolita complained about that loss of simplicity, if I'm remembering right.

Sure.

I don't normally go for these sort of things, but I'll throw my hat into the ring for the chuckle. *is not a seething mass of skeletons outside of Sitra Ahkra.

Welcome to Valucre.

Not to trust the skull.

So my coworker that smells like ass might be doing more damage to me than just assaulting my sense of smell. Thanks, Carlos.