Post by Aliyah'Vihaan on May 28, 2019 14:01:54 GMT -5
I assisted Virgil develop and grow his Blight Nodes, and tended to them with care as would any organic mother and her brood. Which of the pulsating tumor ridden growths of sinew would I see in the expedition hall in few weeks I wondered whimsically. Tragically I could not afford to warn them, for should their lack of surprise lead Virgil to suspect they had been told I likely would find myself in a dire situation. Regardless it should be amusing to see their reaction regardless, I fully admit I was looking forward to seeing the seeds take root as well.
The Blight radiated from the nodes giving off an eerie pale green light, thick bunches of vines coated in sticky ichor hung as though we stood in some tropical climate. All around me stood the broken corpses of Ghouls, Blight Scourges, at least one Magistor or two, and more importantly.... a Vampire. His crumpled body lay at the base of the Blight tree slowly being enveloped into its depths. The other Expeditioners went about cheering, yelling, or engaging in combat with still living opponents, I registered their presence in my optical sensors and dismissed this information for the time being, I had more pressing information to process. Virgil had been slain... was this part of his plan? He did not speak to such a possibility. I was left with two scenarios:
A) He had a contingency in place and he would make contact with me in the future
B) He was woefully ill prepared and his death was as pathetic and meaningless as it appeared.
Dismissing option A for the time being I considered B. Could it be he truly was so arrogant as to think no lasting harm would befall him? Did he really believe himself to be so safe and prepared? How long would this relationship last I had often wondered, until he is no longer a use to me and or becomes too great a threat that the benefits outweigh the dangers I surmised. I honestly did not expect to have that choice taken from me, and in doing so proved he clearly was not nearly as useful to me as I originally anticipated. Had I miscalculated so badly?
Designation: Frustration, Noun.
1) act of frustrating; state of being frustrated:
2) a feeling of dissatisfaction, often accompanied by anxiety or depression, resulting from unfulfilled needs or unresolved problems.
Such a feeling was not from his demise, I cared little if he lived or died in truth. My frustration stemmed from being so inaccurate in my anticipation of events, I can not afford to make such mistakes, not unless I want to share his fate. At this another emotion crawled forward and I scanned through my databanks to identify it.
Designation: Contempt, Noun.
1) the feeling with which a person regards anything considered mean, vile, or worthless; disdain; scorn.
2) the state of being despised; dishonor; disgrace.
Yes like so many organics, he was ill deserving of the respect he had been given. And I am remind myself that I should not both apply emotion towards his memory: he did nothing more than any organic. He like all living things had accomplished his true and only purpose: he died. I would adapt, I would respond to this stimuli, I will be superior.
I stand with Atlas as he explains to me the connection he retains from Virgil (and to a much lesser degree my own) experiments. He believes he can establish a direct communication and contact with the sentience of Blight non Thamuaturgically. Curious. I ask if he is to try that I may join him, he agrees. The connection is unlike anything I have experienced before in this life or my previous one. My sensors don't respond to stimuli, for there is no stimuli. Yet my processors are flooded with information, tactile, auditory, concepts I don't have words for in my databanks, perhaps because no one has experienced them before to define them. I "feel" the presence of Blight's insurmountable self, and I "feel" as it does the same to myself and Atlas. Communication is attempted and Blight understood. I reach out to see if Virgil found a way to survive, and I am not disappointed. I hear his pitiful cries and screams, oh how the mighty have fallen. I then Speak of the Eidolons, But Blight's it's perspective is so far removed from my own, will it act upon my warnings? Will it defend itself from the interlopers who would come and threaten it's Sense of self? T... Atlas then "speaks" and there is a surge in this storm of sensation, and I understand something has changed. I dare not allow myself the luxury to ponder for better or ill.
It is dark, I stand semi surrounded by my fellow expeditioners as they yell and shout barely audible by my auditory sensors. A quick analysis tells me their adrenal glands are strained, their facial expressions demonstrate a mix of anger, grief, relief: trauma. Yet No visible injuries are present, no signs of recent violence. Something strange has happened, my ability to predict outcomes has been sorely tested as of late, I decide perhaps its best If I don't form a hypothesis at all, and simply observe, analysis can follow. I see the fear in their eyes, the suspicion, even the hate. A hypothesis is formed after all, these reactions are at me... they believe I am at least partially responsible this mysterious trauma... what could I have possibly done to warrant this reaction however....?
They tell their tale, they describe the horrors, the violence, the despair. They tell me of what I become, and I am left to ponder what variables would be necessary to result in such an outcome? Desperation, loss, and failure it seems will make a safe haven out of even the darkest of Nights.
The Blight radiated from the nodes giving off an eerie pale green light, thick bunches of vines coated in sticky ichor hung as though we stood in some tropical climate. All around me stood the broken corpses of Ghouls, Blight Scourges, at least one Magistor or two, and more importantly.... a Vampire. His crumpled body lay at the base of the Blight tree slowly being enveloped into its depths. The other Expeditioners went about cheering, yelling, or engaging in combat with still living opponents, I registered their presence in my optical sensors and dismissed this information for the time being, I had more pressing information to process. Virgil had been slain... was this part of his plan? He did not speak to such a possibility. I was left with two scenarios:
A) He had a contingency in place and he would make contact with me in the future
B) He was woefully ill prepared and his death was as pathetic and meaningless as it appeared.
Dismissing option A for the time being I considered B. Could it be he truly was so arrogant as to think no lasting harm would befall him? Did he really believe himself to be so safe and prepared? How long would this relationship last I had often wondered, until he is no longer a use to me and or becomes too great a threat that the benefits outweigh the dangers I surmised. I honestly did not expect to have that choice taken from me, and in doing so proved he clearly was not nearly as useful to me as I originally anticipated. Had I miscalculated so badly?
Designation: Frustration, Noun.
1) act of frustrating; state of being frustrated:
2) a feeling of dissatisfaction, often accompanied by anxiety or depression, resulting from unfulfilled needs or unresolved problems.
Such a feeling was not from his demise, I cared little if he lived or died in truth. My frustration stemmed from being so inaccurate in my anticipation of events, I can not afford to make such mistakes, not unless I want to share his fate. At this another emotion crawled forward and I scanned through my databanks to identify it.
Designation: Contempt, Noun.
1) the feeling with which a person regards anything considered mean, vile, or worthless; disdain; scorn.
2) the state of being despised; dishonor; disgrace.
Yes like so many organics, he was ill deserving of the respect he had been given. And I am remind myself that I should not both apply emotion towards his memory: he did nothing more than any organic. He like all living things had accomplished his true and only purpose: he died. I would adapt, I would respond to this stimuli, I will be superior.
I stand with Atlas as he explains to me the connection he retains from Virgil (and to a much lesser degree my own) experiments. He believes he can establish a direct communication and contact with the sentience of Blight non Thamuaturgically. Curious. I ask if he is to try that I may join him, he agrees. The connection is unlike anything I have experienced before in this life or my previous one. My sensors don't respond to stimuli, for there is no stimuli. Yet my processors are flooded with information, tactile, auditory, concepts I don't have words for in my databanks, perhaps because no one has experienced them before to define them. I "feel" the presence of Blight's insurmountable self, and I "feel" as it does the same to myself and Atlas. Communication is attempted and Blight understood. I reach out to see if Virgil found a way to survive, and I am not disappointed. I hear his pitiful cries and screams, oh how the mighty have fallen. I then Speak of the Eidolons, But Blight's it's perspective is so far removed from my own, will it act upon my warnings? Will it defend itself from the interlopers who would come and threaten it's Sense of self? T... Atlas then "speaks" and there is a surge in this storm of sensation, and I understand something has changed. I dare not allow myself the luxury to ponder for better or ill.
It is dark, I stand semi surrounded by my fellow expeditioners as they yell and shout barely audible by my auditory sensors. A quick analysis tells me their adrenal glands are strained, their facial expressions demonstrate a mix of anger, grief, relief: trauma. Yet No visible injuries are present, no signs of recent violence. Something strange has happened, my ability to predict outcomes has been sorely tested as of late, I decide perhaps its best If I don't form a hypothesis at all, and simply observe, analysis can follow. I see the fear in their eyes, the suspicion, even the hate. A hypothesis is formed after all, these reactions are at me... they believe I am at least partially responsible this mysterious trauma... what could I have possibly done to warrant this reaction however....?
They tell their tale, they describe the horrors, the violence, the despair. They tell me of what I become, and I am left to ponder what variables would be necessary to result in such an outcome? Desperation, loss, and failure it seems will make a safe haven out of even the darkest of Nights.