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About TheWilySpookster

  • Rank
    Liberator of Knowledge
  • Birthday December 29

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  • Location
    Mission Viejo, California
  • Interests
    Writing, Film, The Great Old Ones
  • Occupation
    Part-Time Deity

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  1. "Watch your back...yeah, that should be doable." As the Notcromancer cleaved through the horde of undead, Slovort raised his dagger and stabbed them as they got close, coiling his whip around their legs to trip them up, buying him more time as he handled the ones that got to close. As this went on, Slovort heard the ogre speaking as it did it's part in thinning the rotting herd. Though the words were foreign, the meaning was clear in his mind. He and his newfound ally were only safe for as long as the ogre had an easier source of food. Unless it could be reasoned with. "Hey, I know you're probably a lot more worried about the immediate threat we're facing, but that two-headed freak of the week is going to be a whole lot less friendly unless I do something about it, so I suggest you cover me." Trusting the Notcromancer to do as he asked, Slovort cracked his whip in the air to try and draw the ogre's attention. Licking his lips with both of his tongues, Slovort struggled for a moment to find the right words, before grabbing onto them with ease. "O, der daan duun maal, A'dr kelaan duun ghalaan a draach!" (You, with the two heads, I'd like to make a deal!)
  2. As the Notcromancer covered his ears, Slovort cleared his throat. He scanned the crowd of undead trudging towards them, as well as the rapidly approaching ogre, feeling discouraged by the odds stacked firmly against them, yet knowing there were few options left. He weighed the possibilities in his head before settling on what felt like the best course of action. Focusing on as many corpses as he could, with the ogre in the center of his vision, he took a deep breath and began to speak. "BU---" Before the word could leave his lips, Slovort choked on it, as the ogre veered away from himself and the Notcromancer and directly into the crowd of undead, snatching them up in it's massive hands and ripping them to shreds with their massive teeth. It was beginning to seem to Slovort that everything that could possibly defy expectations, and throw a curveball at his fairly rigid worldview was more than happy to do so at every opportunity, and perhaps even relished it, taking great pleasure in his confusion. It wouldn't be all that surprising in the end. If clothes can talk, and furniture can demand equal rights, then a concept can go rogue and begin torturing him. But some things are a bit too far-fetched, even for Vechynacht. Comforted by this lie, Slovort found his words again. "Well that changes things. You can uncover your ears now, man. I think we can take them without my little...talent."
  3. "So...what do we do, then? We're surrounded by the angry, bite-y living dead, we're hearing voices---" The near-deafening crack of splitting wood roared through the air, sending Slovort running in fear towards the man he had only moments before suspected of necromancy, the Notcromancer, if you would, nearly knocking him to the ground. Leaning out from behind the Notcromancer's back, Slov's eyes went wide with terror as his whole body slackened, his legs barely supporting his weight as the urge to give up then and there, resigning himself to the gnawing teeth of the surrounding corpses washing over him. "And for the love of all that could possibly kill me, th-th-th...that thing over there, that fuckin' thing had to show up! Oh Caernobog you cruel bastard, you!" Overcome with despair, Slovort finally slumped over onto the grass, spouting out a continuous stream of obscenities, condemnations of every deity he could recall the name of for letting this happen, and the occasional giggle as the grass tried and failed to drag it's willing victim down into the ground below, only succeeding in tickling him. After a few moments of self-pity went by, Slov began to speak in coherent sentences once again. "Mind telling me your name before we're butchered, man? When we wake up afterwards, I'd like to meet with you again, maybe we can get a drink, assuming we still have tongues or throats and all those nice things." A few more moments passed before Slov acknowledged what he had just said, suddenly remembering the lack of finality in death Vechynacht was somewhat known for. "Gods, I don't want to die like a coward. Everyone I try to talk to will probably be just as spineless as me in the end." Though Slov's faith in him or the Notcromancer surviving was still abysmally low, the urge to fight back found itself stoked within him, fueled by a desire that would make any true warrior proud. Die with honor, or something marginally similar. Motivated by this decision, Slov hopped to his feet and drew his weapons, his frayed whip in one hand, and a dagger in the other. "Okay, I might have a plan. I don't know if it'll work, and it could backfire terribly, but we might as well try it. Can you cover your ears? I need you to be deaf for this, otherwise...bad things, for you and me by association."
  4. I'm glad you agree. Not a lot of people seem to be particularly interested in my board, which is partially my fault for slacking a bit in regards to setting up viable questlines and doing any advertising. But hopefully this will all go well, and we enjoy ourselves. That's all that matters in the end, yes?
  5. Now that we have a new, if unexpected addition to the thread, I felt it would be appropriate to set up this OOC Thread. Welcome to the first semi-successful thread in my humble Sub-Sub-Board of Vechynacht, @MrDoubleSunday, I can only hope that we all have ourselves a good time filled to the brim with insanity and absurdity. @Florin
  6. After listening to Leon's outburst, B.G. was in even less of a mood to trifle with their quite literally electric lead. Watching as everyone else prepared for their duel against the lovely guitarist down on the ground, B.G. began to do the same. He began by stripping off his troublesome mask, hanging from his now sky blue and crystalline fingers in a stretchy mess barely recognizable as having been an imitation of a human face. "You served decently, mask. I wasn't thrilled by your performance, but it wasn't the worst I've yet to deal with. You were perfectly mediocre. Now be free." Without a moment's hesitation, B.G. tossed the mask into the crowd. "Whoever caught that, don't throw it out! It could be worth money some day!" Having done away with his ill-fitting disguise, B.G.'s sparkling features were visible for all to see. His body looked as if it was carved from glass-like quartz, multi-faceted and perfectly geometric in its shape. Light reflected off of his surfaces with a dazzling glow, as he removed his bass from its case, and slung it's strap over his shoulder. After adjusting it for comfort, B.G. lightly strummed it for a few moments, picking random chords before pausing, seemingly satisfied with how it sounded. A few moments later, B.G. burst into blinding white light, before dimming once again, revealing a significant change. B.G. was no longer wearing his formal attire, and instead had on a pair of tight black jeans, a grey T-shirt, and a denim jacket, all tied together by a garishly blonde mullet wig. The Looking Glass Man had taken center stage in B.G.'s shoes, and shamelessly eyed the band's new opponent. L.G.M. of course did not actually have any visible eyes to be eyeing her with anyway, leaving his lustful stare completely unnoticeable, to the bassist's ignorance. "Le's show dis gal what Dancin' With Destiny's really packin', shall we?"
  7. It Comes at Night- 8.5/10 I've never really known how I feel about "Slow-Burn" types of movies, horror or otherwise. While I loved The Witch, I was less impressed with The Invitation, a movie I may need to talks about as well. Perhaps the factor that makes or breaks it for me is whether or not the film can make its slower moments feel interesting. It Comes at Night I feel was very much successful with this. This story of a family struggling to survive the aftermath of a mysterious apocalyptic outbreak was incredibly tense and frightening, all while focusing more on the fear and paranoia felt by our main characters when faced with another group of survivors whom they come to distrust. Personally, I felt there was hardly a dull moment to be had, and believe this to be yet another standout horror film that will give James Wan and those bastards at Blumhouse a run for their money.
  8. " Don't think I will, actually. I'd much rather see where, uh...where all this leads." Slovort's friendly grin refused to falter, but his nerves were taking a visible toll. He was no stranger to the weird and inexplicable, and was well aware that the wildest claims were usually true, if not horrifying understatements in comparison to what was really going on. But in spite of that, the concept of a disembodied voice belonging to some unseen phantom was beginning to seem a little outlandish. After all, who was to say this man surrounded by the living dead wasn't the one responsible? Insanity wasn't unheard of around these parts. And after all, very few things in Vechynacht had much reason to stay hidden. He very well could be a necromancer that had gone off the deep end, and thankfully enough had decided to pick a fight with something that didn't count as sentient. "Hey, you wouldn't happen to be a necromancer, would you?" Now why had he asked that? Slovort's stomach tightened as he realized his mistake. If this man truly was delusional, then he believed the appearance of these undead to be the result of some entity named Aderahn. Which meant Slovort had potentially rocked his currently fragile worldview, and put himself in danger. "I...I ask everyone that for everyone I first meet, I don't really know why, you know? I guess you, uh, you just kind of have that necromancer look, with the...the way you dress..." At this point, Slovort was very much tempted to use his Tongue to try and escape this situation. A quick suggestion, something to distract him while Slovort put a considerable distance between himself, and this crazy necromancer-type, with his corpses and his mysterious incorporeal voice. A voice which Slov soon recalled he could hear loud and clear, putting a significant damper on the insanity conclusion he had jumped to mere moments before. With the seeds of doubt planted in his mind, Slovort couldn't help but wonder where the man who was seeming less and less like a necromancer could have possibly obtained the corpses that were beginning to appear claustrophobically close to the two of them. "Where, um...where did all these guys come from, anyway? Couldn't have been from around here, you know? Plenty of bodies, all animated too, but they're all in various states of disrepair, you know? And as I'm sure you can see, these guys..." Slov made a playful attempt at punching one of the corpses in the arm, but recoiled when it tried to swipe at him with long, claw-like fingernails. "...Are, uh...are definitely not, my Gods they sure are aggressive." At long last, Slovort gave into the fear that had been slowly boring into him with every revelation that occurred in the past few minutes. His eyes widened with fear, and his smile finally broke as he realized that for the first time in Vechynacht's convoluted history, he was in The Verdant Lie, and he was legitimately in danger. "They're not yours, are they."
  9. Pfft.
  10. Just as he had hoped, Somar struck the Kaantus at center mass with tremendous force, causing the creature to fall back into the furnace, shrieking as the flames claimed it for themselves. Upon impact, Somar's sandy form coalesced into a singular mass, before bursting outwards and away from its target, before reforming a few feet away, returning the sorcerer to his fleshy self. Sprawled out on the ground with a look of complete and utter bafflement on his face, Somar sat up and stared at the Kaantus as it struggled in vain to escape it's fate. He did not speak for some time, intent to watch the result of his risky maneuver. When the beast finally ceased it's writhing, words returned to him. "It worked." Mere moments ago, Somar was sailing on a manic high that only nigh-suicidal confidence could possibly feed. But with that very high fading, former feelings of determination were hastily mutating into realizations that what had just occurred should not have worked, even if they should have. The situation may have been perfect, with lube on the ground, and a coiled sword wrapped around the Kaantus, only needing an extra little push, but the only thought rushing through his mind was that he should have failed spectacularly. "It worked." Disbelief changed into despair. Somar's success was the result of a fluke, of chance, of an act of God. This was the truth, even if it wasn't, and it sent Somar's mind reeling. He continued to gaze at the charred corpse of the beast he couldn't possibly have been able to have helped slain, even though it was obvious he could. Lying back down on the ground, Somar turned his attention to the night sky above. Cid would probably be flying back soon to collect them, which meant he'd have to face her and be congratulated for his contribution to the hunt. His contribution, which was as circumstantial as a lightning strike, even though it wasn't. Yes, like a lightning strike he barreled towards the walking incarnation of Death itself, and by pure chance managed to be its downfall, despite there being little actual chance involved at all, as it was nearly guaranteed with all the factors that were in place. But this refused to dawn on Somar, who continued to agonize over it all. How could he live with it all, knowing that any respect he gained would not have been earned? Then, of course, it hit him. Nobody was aware of his shortcoming, for there wasn't really one in the first place, aside from himself. Which meant all he would have to do was clam up even more than he already had. No one had to be aware of his flaws, his mistakes, anything that could lessen him in their eyes. He merely had to keep up the facade. "It...WORKED!" Somar was back on his feet in mere moments, arms pumping the air while a grin split his face. He laughed like a hyena, as tears streamed down his face. Whether it was due to joy at the group's achievement, a breakdown due to the stress of the whole situation, or perhaps a hidden disappointment at falling back into old habits, he could no longer tell. Neither answer felt like it could be true anymore.
  11. "Oh, we've tried that actually. Didn't work, as I'm sure you can tell. You'd think human flesh would be a lot more flammable, but apparently not here in the ol' Lie, it's just too clever for us, you know?" Clad in a long-sleeved jacket and pants, wearing a studded leather chestplate over his clothes, a grinning young man looking to be in his mid-twenties stood a few feet away, licking his chapped lips with two separate tongues. "Yeah, we've tried moving in some of the local bad seeds, see if they'd want to set up a little commune, but that didn't work out, so we tried introducing some dangerous wildlife, but they're all docile now, so after that, we went so far as to see if we could just piss it off enough, but it turns out the poor bastards that make this place up are just really nice, so we kind of gave up after that." The man looked between Kel'Anar and the undead creatures surrounding him, his smile slowly growing less genuine as he waited for some sort of response. "So, uh...undead, huh? Can't say we ever thought about that, since we always thought they'd just be integrated...but hey, if you're gonna, well, cleanse the world and all, might as well leave no stone unturned, right?" At this point, the man was beginning to feel quite embarrassed. It occurred to him that the mysterious disembodied voice he had heard while walking by might have literally meant the world at large, and was in no way concerned with The Verdant Lie and the ire it brought to the people of Vechynacht, who were unsettled by its role as a relative safe haven within the sprawling death trap they called home. But rather than admit he was at fault, he decided to buckle down further. "The name's Slovort by the way, I couldn't help but hear you two talking, and I felt a need to, well...chime in. Where's the other man, by the way? There were two of you, right?"
  12. [BASICS] First name: Slovort Surname: Bolenkit Nicknames: Slov Alignment: Chaotic Good Race: Human Marital Status: In a relationship Gender: Male Age: 28 Role: Mage, Face [PHYSICAL] Voice: Varies, typically whatever the listener finds the most appealing. Eyes: Light Blue Complexion: Pale Height: 5'7" Weight: 130 lbs. Build: Average Hair: Bald Tattoos/markings: The majority of Slov's skin is covered in tattoos of runic symbols, barring the occasional blank space where none have been re-inked. Other- Two tongues. [MENTAL] Demeanor: Talkative, Excitable, Friendly, Mischievous Hopes: Live his life to the fullest, help out where he can, stay relatively sane and normal. Fears: Going crazy, Being the villain Likes: Talking, Arguing, Persuading Dislikes: Relying on his abilities, the more unstable citizens of Vechynacht. [GEAR] Tattoo Needle [WEAPONS] Tongue of Thongs- Not one to stray away from a particular theme, Slov's weapon of choice is a long, multi-corded whip outfitted with sharp bits of steel. Dagger- Not one to sacrifice efficiency in combat just because it didn't fit the tongue motif, Slov also carries a trusty dagger with him for when his enemies are drawn in close by his whip. [STRENGTHS] Omniglot- Slov is capable of speaking just about any language fluently, and without accent. Ventriloquist- Slov is a skilled ventriloquist, able to throw his voice to great effect. Expert Impersonator- Slov can manipulate his voice to a supernatural degree, allowing him to impersonate the speech of those he has spent some time listening to. Uncanny Charisma- Even without the use of his abilities, Slov is very persuasive, his friendly personality and natural oratory skills often proving sufficient enough to achieve his goals. "The Tongue"- By utilizing the strings or symbols tattooed onto his body, Slov can magically convince sentient beings, and even the world around him to bend to his will. By tattooing the word or phrase he plans to use onto his body, he adds it to his repertoire of orders. Slov's orders are limited by the amount of space left to write on his skin. In addition, depending on the severity of the order's effect, or the strength of lesser orders', the word or phrase must be written multiple times. After an order is spoken, the necessary amount of tattooed words/phrases erase themselves, leaving the skin free to be re-inked. [WEAKNESSES] Cooldown- Slov cannot give orders one after the other, and must wait a couple minutes before giving another. Overly Excitable- Slov's mind runs a mile a minute. He is always trying to be the center of attention, whether he realizes it or not. This often leads to confrontation, as in spite of his relatively kind nature, he is easily fired up and enjoys arguing. Weak- Slov is not a particularly strong man. In combat he relies more on speed and evasion to come out the victor, as a well-aimed strike could easily wound him mortally. [SKILLS] Competent Tattoo Artist- Though you can't expect him to draw anything note-worthy, Slov is skilled enough with a needle to inscribe himself with his symbols. Vechynachtian Outsider- Slov has lived a significant chunk of his life in Vechynacht, and is as knowledgeable as any natural citizen. But for whatever reason, he just isn't as strange as those native to the land, being much more grounded than most, though that isn't saying too much. [FAMILY] N/A A skilled wordsmith since childhood, Slovort Bolenkit moved to Vechynacht at the age of eighteen, wishing to find a home more suitable for one like himself, an anomaly in search of somewhere equally anomalous to challenge him. It has been ten years since, and Slov isn't disappointed. With endless opportunity to do good and make the most of his talents, Slov has become a silver-tongued hero of the people in his adopted home, albeit of minimal recognition.
  13. Thanks, Fae made it for me.
  14. “You’re late, and so is the rest of the band, we have to start our performance soon. Glad to see you’re here though, Do you know where the rest of the chucklefucks are?” At the sound of Leon's voice, B.G. slowly rolled over onto his back, his face contorted into a shiny, plastic grimace, his crystalline form more obvious than ever as the mask's illusion continued to flicker. He clutched the mask, and shoved it as far as he could manage back onto his head, tucking it's loose ends into his collar. "Haven't got a clue, man. I've been spending the past twenty minutes just trying to get this mask to work, and let me tell you, I'm fucking appalled at how they couldn't manage to provide a mask that'd hit my...let's just say unique, head shape. I mean, is it really that hard to give a guy a properly fitting mask so that he isn't a magical fuckin' wardrobe malfunction? I mean co---" The sound of a guitar ripped through the air, interrupting B.G.'s rant, as he sat up to look at it's source. A lady all decked out in leather, toting a beautiful looking instrument. "Hot damn." The Lady in Leather called out towards B.G. and Leon, saying something that the bassist failed to hear, as he was much too focused on ogling her and her guitar, in no way helped by the sudden explosions of sparks bursting from her guitar. Completely and utterly transfixed, he started shifting his gaze back and forth from her to Leon. "Leon, can you tell I'm smiling 'cause of my mask? If not, tell her I'm smiling, I want to make sure she knows I'm sm---" “B.G., Find our bandmates. Let me have this…alright?” B.G. found himself grumbling with disappointment, but knew he owed it to Leon after having kept him waiting all this time. "Yeah, sure, whatever you say, I'm on it." B.G. began to rise to his feet. "Now where do I begin...?" Moments before he had reached a standing position, a sudden crash from the stage stopped B.G. in his tracks, twisting his head to face the source of the noise while remaining relatively frozen in place. Standing atop the stage, was none other than Dancing With Destiny's very own drummer Luke Strixx, looking thoroughly toasted, though no less so than was typical for him. "Well okay then, there's one, now how about the others...?" As if on cue, Avveline waltzed into view, levitating him off of his feet and onto the stage with a yelp, as she followed suit. "I have legs, you know!"
  15. Greetings. I have a feeling you'll like it here. Lovely people, lovely lore(aside from my own), what else could one wish for?