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Mote in God's Eye. [Open]

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The sour ale burned but was refreshing. It was a metaphor to his life. In the darkness of the closed tavern a lone man drank by himself letting the alcohol bleed him of the pressure in his veins thick as nickel. He was lost. How long had he been this way? For once time felt meaningless. There was a few seconds of pause in-between his lips hugging the glass, and every time such did his mind fall into submission of oppressive thought. For so long he had no idea what it felt like to be human, to bleed, to suffer of loss; it was all so foreign but he savored it like an intoxicated masochist. On the lacquered black wooden bar top to his right was a gun as black as the counter-top, and of the shadows crawling along the edges of the the underground tavern. It made not a sound, but he could feel it. Screaming...crying...roaring in passionate agony. Even after all this time he wasn’t used to its constant, torturing yells, but he understood it. For a long time that had been him there in the very same position, barely able to keep sane, suffering from the pandemic of the one who had made him their owner.

The man known by the epithet “Consequence” lifted the glass mug and filled himself with beer once more. Several gulps later the glass was empty, and he was once again lost in his thoughts. Setting it down in-front of him he pushed his right hand forward lazily sliding the glass towards the bartender who rest in the shadows obscuring his identity altogether, but happily obliged confiscating the mug with gloved digits and returning it with ale and a little something extra. Saving himself from his own thoughts and the distraction of the black gun’s psionic shrieks, he lost himself in his own melancholy intoxication.

Opening expositions at bars or taverns wasn’t the most original idea, but here it actually had meaning. There was something prolific about sitting here, in the dark, alone, the antithesis to the bustling charisma of the settings usual vigor. For many years Nicholas could hear the healthy banter of mercenaries and vagrants alike all coping with life and the oppression of existential problems beyond themselves by losing themselves in alcohol and laughter. It was bittersweet when they drank down to their last nickel flip or ate all the food they had to spare and was left with a void within that nothing could quite fill. Everything about their struggle was desperate, but as beings given the illusion that they could control their lives, it was equally beautiful. On the receiving end, as nothing more than a weapon born through the vision of a famous weaponsmith long since departed, Nicholas never had free will of his own. All he ever had was suffering. The slave to his owners will. Forced to worship the pain of stretching his materialistic conduits the mind of the sentient weapon had begun to break at some point. It wasn’t so bad at first. Still, when the demon-eyed gunslinger who would become his final immortal owner grasped the immaculately designed weapon...everything changed.

So how was he here? Made of flesh, sitting in the darkness of a still tavern that echoed his thoughts like a visionary chamber replaying the past about him. Well it was a place such as this that had his first experience with people, when that gunslinger was very young and still naive. It was a place such as this that he experienced love for another man for the first time, and Nicholas became able to understand his owner to be. Or so he thought. Pink matter was a strange thing. Nothing could prepare him for the disdain that would later fill his heart as he drank endlessly next to the very weapon that was responsible for his agony.

“Most raging alcoholics rant about their lives when they get in your mood…” a cacophony of disjointed voices echoed from the black where the bartender stood, yet it was more accurate to say that they echoed from the very underground tavern itself. “Will you not do the same?”


Nicholas was silent. Defiant even. There was no real solution to his fragmented psyche, or route that could bring the conclusion of his epic to a true ending. Instead he drank to forget about it all as he remember seeing so many times before. Still...it didn’t help. It just detached him further and brought the tons of weight that could snap a man in to rushing down on him without relent.

“You already know it all. Do you take me for a fool?” Nicholas murmured with a voice of calm rationale. It was young, but it was incredibly professional for someone who had been drinking for so long.

“It couldn’t hurt to say it out loud…”


It seemed he knew of this underground tavern’s legend, although it was less of a tavern and more of a locale for a frightening society of the world’s surrounding murim, where only those often detested but never seen or heard of parlayed. There were wise men in this world who lacked morality, and it was here that they gathered to create some modicum of civility when possible. On this day it was largely silent, and there was no one but himself there...atleast at that moment. Still, this place and the great history of what had occurred there was known very well, and that is why he had come.

He felt sadness within him. Though with this sadness came the realization that he still had an obligation to fulfill. Staring at his half-empty mug for a moment his thin lips curled into a sadistic smile.

“I am Consequence…”

And from there he told the darkness of the tavern his story.

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