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#Post#: 1048--------------------------------------------------
Re: Ancestor Worship
By: MAT Date: March 19, 2025, 11:47 am
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Yorick Tsipras
HTML https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1F3tCmvXqFTlAT1j9JHc8k280TMxJzRNNPcuFY1Mi33Q/edit?usp=drive_link
[float=right
max=45%]
HTML https://splatomat.com/personal/images/DH/yorick/yurik2.jpg[/float]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]Do not stand at my grave and weep[/font]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]I am not there, I do not sleep[/font]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]Do not stand at my grave and cry[/font]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]I am not there, I do not die[/font]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]Euthanatos | Notoriety 2 | Medium[/font]
[hr]
He opened his eyes to blackness. Lying on his back in a darkened
room with no landscapes. Nothing to see, nothing to touch but
the cold floor beneath him. Standing up, he searched for some
deviation, some outcropping, some thing that would make any part
of the space different from the rest. There was nothing.
Looking down, he saw that he was holding a weapon. Colin’s
rifle, the Ruger; the ‘Careless Whisper’. He wasn’t here to
kill; it wasn’t in his hands to be used. It was just a reminder.
Something to hold on to. To touch something that his friend
touched. He clutched it against his chest in a hug, ignoring the
chill of its steel and aluminum and imagining warmth instead.
Yorick started walking, but it didn’t take long before he
literally ran into something. A transparent wall. It suddenly
had a reflection - a pane of silver, a mirror. He was struck by
the look of himself. Burned, bloodied, exhausted,
grief-stricken. He hardly ever even looked into mirrors; didn’t
like facing what they showed.
He turned to find another way, but continually bumped into walls
that turned into mirrors. A path emerged, but it was maze like.
A labyrinth of reflections. They were all different. Different
versions of himself.
[center]“Do you ever think about what might have been if it
hadn't happened?”[/center]
The first reflection was almost similar. In it, he wore a
soldier’s uniform stained with dirt and oil, and was also
holding a rifle. A cigarette was suspended in his lips. His hair
was ruffled and spatters of blood covered the front of his
jacket.
The second was clad in a black cassock and Roman collar. Holding
a bible. Hair slicked back. Smiling. The third version was
wearing a business suit and a pair of sharp glasses. The fourth
was heavier and more muscular. A wild-eyed survivalist, his
beard tangled and a knife clutched tightly in his fist. Then a
man with sunken cheeks and hollow eyes, clutching a needle with
trembling fingers. Then a version of him wearing a blood-stained
apron, calmly sharpening a long knife.
On and on it went. Some similar to others, some dramatically
different. He kept trying to make his way through the maze, but
just kept running into walls. Then he stopped short. This mirror
didn’t show him at all. It showed another man. At first, he
didn’t recognize the figure, but then, suddenly, he did. He’d
seen the man before. But from where?
“I don’t know who you are,” he said aloud, looking at Geoffrey’s
face. He felt like he ought to, but there was some chasm between
his own mind and heart and the truth. Something that barred
recognition.
Yorick looked down. His modern clothes were gone. He was clad in
the rustic clothing of a farmer from ages past. The rifle was
gone too, and now he was holding a baby. A little boy wrapped in
white cloth.
“My Niketas,” he said with a smile, looking down at the baby’s
face. “My boy who triumphed. Our gift from god.”
#Post#: 1049--------------------------------------------------
Re: Ancestor Worship
By: Jenn B. Date: March 19, 2025, 3:41 pm
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Geoffrey Wodeward
[float=right
max=45%][img]
HTML https://sharedalbums.b-cdn.net/fcf47666-74d6-4cdc-a0ce-19e35bce1703.png?rotate=0&width=800&height=800&optimizer=image[/img][/float]
[br]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]ey ƿhat þis nicht is
long[/font][br]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]And ich ƿið ƿel michel
wrong[br] [/font]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]soregh and murne and fast[/font]
[font=Arial, sans-serif][/font]
[hr]
He picked up his pace as he headed down the dark street. Eyes
looking to the left and right. In the windows of houses and
buildings, he caught glimpses of faces and figures as if they
dwelled within. Illumination from any number of sources showing
him any number of things:[br]
A young man with wide blue eyes, a determined set to his jaw.
Hands clutched around a shortbow while he tracked a thief
through a sunlit forest.[br]
The dark-haired woman from the Roman street, bare feet carrying
her through a field. Behind her, a man with braided hair sitting
on the floor of the back of a VW bus. Behind him, a wild-eyed
man who roved across the remnants of a battlefield, fingers idly
plucking a lute. [br]
A woman with kind eyes, eternally tired-looking, the shadows in
her eyes and the hollows her her cheeks making her look more
corpse than woman. She fed a small white dog meat from her cold
fingers, laughing when the creature licked them. [br]
A man with tousled hair and aquiline features who recoiled at
the sight of him and bolted, dropping the heavy book in his arms
as he did. Full of sigils and strange markings that slowly oozed
blood out of the ink.[br]
Another woman, ghostly pale skin, long red hair stremaing behind
her. At firs,t he started, recoiled at the sight of her. She
smiled unkindly, tilting her head back to bare her throat to
him. The trees around her seemed to bend to him, inviting him
in. [br]
Another man with the proud bearing of an apex predator, bold and
commanding. The light and reason in his eyes fading by too-quick
increments until he was but a slavering beast....[br]
He turned away quickly. Found himself facing a large picture
window, stretching impossibly wids on either side. [br]
And he reached out, fingers pressing to the glass. A barrier he
couldn't pass. Staring Yorick in the face, something
too-familiar to him, and then yet...[br]
"No," He agreed. Hesitant, uncertain in a way that suggested he
was long out of practice with uncertainty. "Why would you? We've
never met." Something in his cold core was sure of that, at
least, though not the how or why: who he was looking at was not
quite who he thought he was. [br]
His fingers flared against the glass. He lowered his head to
press his forehead to it. A scene of warmth and light just
beyond his grasp. Of life. Something he'd heard about only in
passing, vaguely. Even for the Damned, some things were too
painful to talk about.[br]
"You look happy."
#Post#: 1050--------------------------------------------------
Re: Ancestor Worship
By: MAT Date: March 19, 2025, 9:02 pm
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Yorick Tsipras
HTML https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1F3tCmvXqFTlAT1j9JHc8k280TMxJzRNNPcuFY1Mi33Q/edit?usp=drive_link
[float=right
max=45%]
HTML https://splatomat.com/personal/images/DH/yorick/yurik2.jpg[/float]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]Do not stand at my grave and weep[/font]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]I am not there, I do not sleep[/font]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]Do not stand at my grave and cry[/font]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]I am not there, I do not die[/font]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]Euthanatos | Notoriety 2 | Medium[/font]
[hr]
“Are you sure? You seem so familiar. I feel like I’m supposed to
know you. I feel like your identity is here,” he said, gesturing
to their surroundings, to the mirror labyrinth. “Here, but just
out of reach. Close, and yet so far away.”
The baby cooed, and Yoirick rocked him a little, making an
exaggerated happy face. “Of course I’m happy. Why wouldn’t I be?
My wife and I tried so hard for so long. And then we went on a
pilgrimage. Yes we did!” he said, lifting the baby up slightly.
“That was where we met him. The pale man on the road. Atlas. Who
asked us where we were going. Who was taken with me. Said I
reminded him of the mythical hero Pygmalion. The magical
sculptor. Ironic, don’t you think?”
The baby was gone, and now Yorick stood in the center of
carnage. The nothingness floor beneath him was surrounded by
blood and shattered debris.
“He killed her. So that he could have me. And Niketas…” Behind
Yorick, stood a toddler, then a young boy, a teenager, then a
young man. The man gained wrinkles and his hair slowly turned
grey. Then he vanished.
“Who are you? Why are you here?”
The man behind the glass seemed very dangerous. Wild. Feral. But
with the barrier between them, Yorick felt more at ease.
#Post#: 1054--------------------------------------------------
Re: Ancestor Worship
By: Jenn B. Date: March 20, 2025, 8:18 am
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Geoffrey Wodeward
[float=right
max=45%][img]
HTML https://sharedalbums.b-cdn.net/fcf47666-74d6-4cdc-a0ce-19e35bce1703.png?rotate=0&width=800&height=800&optimizer=image[/img][/float]
[br]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]ey ƿhat þis nicht is
long[/font][br]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]And ich ƿið ƿel michel
wrong[br] [/font]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]soregh and murne and fast[/font]
[hr]
He turned hs head a little to the side to look down the hall of
mirrors. Every reflection behind them warped and distorted; his
face, then Yorick's, any combination of others that blurred and
passes beyond the glass. [br]
"What are trying to know?" He asked. In a shard of glass, he
watched himself standing resolute, arms crossed in front of a
roaring bonfire. One by one, the shadows of people that
surrounded him hurled themselves through the flames, emerging
invigorated on the other side. [br]
He turned away to see a sunlit house, very old to a more modern
eye. A fair-haired woman looked up at the sight of him entering
through the door with a smile, rushing to put her arms around
him...[br]
He looked back at Yorick. The peaceful scene had gone to ruin.
The carnage in the wake of a life stolen to the night.[br]
"When one of us sets their sights on you, there's not many
things you can do about it." The cant of his head, a little
canine, suggested some kind of sympathy behind a lot of
resignation. This was the way it was.[br]
Then, the sight behind Yorick caught his attention with a
frown.[br]
"No." He protested, pointing a finger at the old man before he
faded to dust. "That's not right. He'd said, the whole family -
"[br]
It ripped up from some place he'd forgotten about. An assurance
that swiftly turned to confusion, what he was seeing not
matching up to what he'd understood and been told. He returned
his hand to press to the glass.[br]
"My name is Geoffrey." It was true: up close, he looked like a
serial killer. An unhealthy pallor to his skin, a deathlike
stillness to his movements. A coldness in his amber-colored
eyes; the look of someone who had seen and also certainly done
too much.[br]
"I don't know where here is."
#Post#: 1055--------------------------------------------------
Re: Ancestor Worship
By: MAT Date: March 20, 2025, 7:55 pm
---------------------------------------------------------
Yorick Tsipras
HTML https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1F3tCmvXqFTlAT1j9JHc8k280TMxJzRNNPcuFY1Mi33Q/edit?usp=drive_link
[float=right
max=45%]
HTML https://splatomat.com/personal/images/DH/yorick/ricky3.png[/float]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]Do not stand at my grave and weep[/font]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]I am not there, I do not sleep[/font]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]Do not stand at my grave and cry[/font]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]I am not there, I do not die[/font]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]Euthanatos | Notoriety 2 | Medium[/font]
[hr]
Yorick squinted at the question. His eyes took on a dreamy haze
and his expression slackened. “Anything. Everything. Nothing in
particular.” The last phrase caused him to smile. “I’m trying
to know the reason. Trying to find purpose. You recur here.”
[center]Not like me. A thing.[/center]
The words rung out in the space, and for a moment, it seemed
like Yorick regarded him as a thing, and not a person - as an
idea, as a notion. As something unreal. But then doubt crossed
his face. Or maybe a resistance; an unwillingness to accept
that. A resolution that the man behind the glass - the dangerous
man - was in fact, a man, and not just a collection of concepts.
Again, his voice seemed to boom quietly throughout the black
void.
[center]I just don’t make the distinction between one kind of
person and another.[/center]
Yorick shook his head slightly. He wasn’t entirely conscious,
but he wasn’t entirely unconscious either. Geoffrey’s confession
of not knowing what this space was lodged in the mage’s mind
like a little piece of BBQ bone stuck in his throat.
“Here is everywhere. And nothing.” He lifted his hand, then
lowered it. Like a roller coaster. Like someone holding their
arm out the window of a moving car. Undulating. A Wave.
“Imagine a ribbon, rippling in the wind. Flowing, floating,
flying. It sails through time and space. Through existence. It
touches everything, and everything that it touches, it takes a
copy of into itself. And thus, it gains.”
He walked slowly around Geoffrey. “Imagine you could grab the
ribbon. Because it touched you it would make a copy of you, and
you are now part of its entirety. And because you are now part
of the ribbon, and you inherit the qualities of the ribbon, you
copy what you touch, and you are touching the ribbon. Thus, you
make a copy of part of it, and take that part into yourself.”
He made a full circle around the other man, returning to where
he’d started. “The ribbon has limitless energy and inertia. When
you grab hold of it, it carries you to new places, to new
knowledge, to new purpose. And when you let go, you come back to
the place you are. To the original version of you. The same,
but changed.”
Reaching up, he grasped his chin and rubbed the side of his
face. He looked worried now. “Well, Jeff.” Yorick pressed his
face to the glass, then. It clouded up with each of his exhaled
breaths. The condensation spread, revealing that instead of one
pane in front of the other man, there were now four surrounding
him in a box.
“You don’t look well.” It was an observation borne of
compassion. “You are a man touched by death. And I am a man who
knows death. Maybe…that’s why you’re here. You have known death
and you are trying to know life.”
#Post#: 1056--------------------------------------------------
Re: Ancestor Worship
By: Jenn B. Date: March 20, 2025, 11:10 pm
---------------------------------------------------------
Geoffrey Wodeward
[float=right
max=45%][img]
HTML https://sharedalbums.b-cdn.net/c0885f09-5d09-426b-8312-77b688531fa9.png?rotate=0&width=800&height=800&optimizer=image[/img][/float]
[br]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]No morning colder than the first
frost[/font][br]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]No friends closer than the ones we've
lost[br] [/font]
[font=Arial, sans-serif][/font]
[hr]
"Well. That's certainly somewhere I've never been before." It
was accompanied by a laugh, a quiet chuckle. Maybe to cover a
little, how lost he seemed otherwise. The echoing voices
picking his attention up. Reminded him of something he couldn't
quite place. [br]
While Yorick went on, one of the panes rippled to reveal more
images from his own subconscious. He sat in a medieval castle,
by a window overlooking the sea at night, in conversation with a
man of feral appearance, but knightly bearing. He lay on a field
next to the same man, looking up at the night sky, continuing
the dialogue. A couple of people unconscious in the VW bus
parked nearby. Every star distorted like a Surrealist painting,
a vibrant hallucination.[br]
He followed the motion of Yorick's hand, trying to follow the
explanation that came with it. A ribbon that looped, sweeping up
everything like the hands of fate or the Almighty. All
encompassing and all knowing. He was turning that over still
when the walls of the box closed around him. [br]
He looked to one side, then the other. Instinctively bashed a
fist to one pane, found it held more solid than he could break
with his strength. The reflection flared, showed him the
smoldering orange ruins of the aforementioned castle. Men on
horses surrounding it, dressed in priestly vestments and
tabards. They carried torches and crossbows, and pieces of wood
sharpened to points. [br]
His sharp eyes found Yorick again when the image dissipated.
Fingers slowly uncurling. Thumb pressing to the knuckles of the
hand, pressing lightly to encourage them to crack before
releasing.[br]
"Life." He repeated the word, slowly shaking his head. "That's
not possible." He seemed certain of that. Dragging his fingers
through his unkept dark hair. [br]
"Who are you." Then, he pointed again, putting one foot behind
him, then the other. Pacing out the confines he'd found himself
in, feeling out the dimensions. Certainly looking for a way to
break loose.[br]
"You're not him." One bright amber eye squinted a little further
than the other. "You look like him. It's remarkably unsettling."
#Post#: 1057--------------------------------------------------
Re: Ancestor Worship
By: MAT Date: March 21, 2025, 1:01 pm
---------------------------------------------------------
Yorick Tsipras
HTML https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1F3tCmvXqFTlAT1j9JHc8k280TMxJzRNNPcuFY1Mi33Q/edit?usp=drive_link
[float=right
max=45%]
HTML https://splatomat.com/personal/images/DH/yorick/ricky3.png[/float]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]Do not stand at my grave and weep[/font]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]I am not there, I do not sleep[/font]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]Do not stand at my grave and cry[/font]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]I am not there, I do not die[/font]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]Euthanatos | Notoriety 2 | Medium[/font]
[hr]
“Don't be afraid.” Yorick was only partially aware of what he
was doing when the walls closed in around Geoffrey. Navigating
the dream-ribbon was tumultuous and challenging. Nothing was
certain. And that was when he was consciously trying.
“I don’t mean to hurt you. I can’t, even. Not your mind or body,
at least, are unscathed. Your heart, perhaps…is a different
matter.”
Yorick pressed both hands against the glass. He scrutinized the
other man just as intensely as he was being scrutinized. But he
had no reference. No understanding. Where did he come from? Why
was he here? Was he even real? What did real mean?
“Why is it not possible? I know that it doesn’t feel like it can
be. Entropy feels absolute and consuming. Crushing. An ache that
resonates through every cell in your body. Stasis is a trap. Its
definition is its effect. But dynamism still exists. Change can
still exist.”
Geoffrey asked who he was, and he looked down, clearly hesitant.
Sentiments of insecurity and distrust radiated off of him in a
way that was noticeable to the senses - smell, sound, and sight.
“My name is Hector.” His real name, his birth name. The one
given to him. Even though it was real it felt unreal, and even
though it was true it felt false. He’d been operating under a
different name for most of his life. “But my friends call me
Ricky.”
He made a dismissive gesture with one hand. “Yeah, yeah, they
would if I had any. The joke’s been made.”
Yorick shrugged and grinned when Geoffrey said that he wasn’t
‘him’. “Give a guy a chance,” he said with a wink.
#Post#: 1058--------------------------------------------------
Re: Ancestor Worship
By: Jenn B. Date: March 21, 2025, 9:26 pm
---------------------------------------------------------
Geoffrey Wodeward
[float=right
max=45%][img]
HTML https://sharedalbums.b-cdn.net/c0885f09-5d09-426b-8312-77b688531fa9.png?rotate=0&width=800&height=800&optimizer=image[/img][/float]
[br]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]No morning colder than the first
frost[/font][br]
[font=Arial, sans-serif]No friends closer than the ones we've
lost[br] [/font]
[font=Arial, sans-serif][/font]
[hr]
What, afraid? Of you? You look like I could snap you like a twig
before you had the chance to breathe.[br]
The voice of that wolf that had stalked through that forest
sounded in the space. Snarling, out of sight. Geoffrey narrowed
his eyes, though, at the idea. Reflecting the sentiment in a
different way. [br]
"Change? Sometimes." He did agree on that. In the course of his
existence,he'd changed and been changed, done and seen things he
wouldn't have ever thought possible. "Life, though? Is
different. I don't think you understand, Hector. I'm -"[br]
He hit a fist against the side of the box again as if to make a
point. The glass shattered, revealing the scorching heat of a
bright noonday sun. It illuminated a skyline he only caught a
glimpse of as he recoiled in terror, but seared in his eyes as
familiar. Somewhere he'd been. The shores of Lake Michigan
lapping against steel and glass skyscrapers, among them the
tallest in the world....[br]
The world then faded to nothing abruptly. Right before he began
to burn.
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