Hawlin

What Are You Listening To?

What Are You Listening To?

What Are You Listening To?

Animalia (REBOOT)

Nvm back to being dead

Stranded: Blacksite (High casual Sci-fi/fantasy Horror)

Their hands folded then readjusted to instead lace their fingers, trying to seem as 'upstanding' as the situation would allow, though as the moments passed Jasper's enthusiasm finally began to wane. A disappointedly perplexed frown became of the cheer that had tugged at his expression, and it was just about the moment when he took a breath to try to call out to the walls for an explanation...that the lights snapped off.
In all of his time, here, never once had the lights gone out. Here, out in the void, without even a glint of illumination from under the door, the darkness was an unwelcome absolute.
Without their sight, the world fell away, leaving Jasper in a sea of silent eyes; tiny lights in the distance as his fleeting mind played tricks on him. It might have taken more time for him to snap, the distant sounds gaining a more personal edge to them as they were all he could focus on, but the gentle hiss of the door's locks disengaging as they lost power was the final chill up his spine, sinking nails into his skull from an imagination left to fear the voices the silence would soon bring, being left at their mercy.

Jasper knew the dimensions of the room, and a single step brought him to the door, practically colliding with it in his haste to palm and press it in any direction he could evoke the contraption to yield, his breathing quickly becoming frantic.

Purchase.
Others had a head start, The Draught having backed up their advance in light of the swiftly deteriorating conditions since their door-to-door executions had become a full-blown riot. Two prisoners with bloody, dripping hands clutched fragments of a metal tray, using the torn metal as grizzly shivs on a third body that laid slumped against the wall. Judging by the mess, it had been a quick and vicious scrap, rage having claimed their senses as they were merely desecrating a corpse at this point.
One had the sense to turn towards the sound of sliding metal...and the wafting scent of copper and ozone that leaked from the room. Flashing red lights briefly illuminated the figure, within, in all of their stacked countenance, a raspy dry yet hauntingly feminine voice croaked in seeming greeting, "Gentlemen...~"

The man tapped their accomplice on the shoulder, earning a shove and a maddened bark of "WHAT!? WHAT THE...f-fuck..." as they followed the gestures to the emerging occupant. The three engaged in a gawking stare-down for what felt like minutes but had likely been maybe a handful of seconds. Flashing red lights, the brief moments of darkness, the distant mournful roar of what other monsters were contained down here, poor decisions were hastily made.
With a flash, the two moved, comraderie lost as one bolted down the hall and the other leapt for the figure. Another moment of light...it all ran red as the knife repeatedly came down. In the darkness, the two were gone, back into the cell that echoed choking wails of desperation and agony, accompanied by forked-tongue whispers hissed with promise...and a few sobbing apologies to accent sounds of tearing fabric.

Stepping out of the cell, once more, Jasper finished pulling the shiv from their clavicle, tossing it to the side and flexing with a restored vigor as the youth and potential of the criminal's essence was used to sculpt the once-druid back into their preferred form. The cuts and stab wounds swiftly sealed as simply as how Jasper used a torn section of cloth to wipe off the trickles of thick black ichor that had become of his dehydrated blood. For good measure and decency, they slipped on the tattered shirt the man had been wearing. Better than nothing, even though it was a size too small.
With the welcoming party having not shown, and the stand-ins being a bit less than accommodating, Jasper was left lost in a hall they'd only seen once before. With a dismissive sniff, looking over the mess, once more, hands on their hips and contently nodding on a job well done, they started off down the hall in the direction of where they thought the roar from before had come from. Jasper hoped there would be proper light and maybe a shower somewhere nearby, as both sounded equally suitable to ease the headache the flashing lights were causing.

What Are You Listening To?

Stranded: Blacksite (High casual Sci-fi/fantasy Horror)

With a huff, Jasper lowered himself onto the bed after some time fruitlessly willing the ship to crash or something with all of the floor-shoving. Sitting, arms resting on their knees as his head hung, he stared into the floor and then his hands, turning the palms up. This was a lonely haunt; all the threat of what reminders were scribbled on the clipboard hung beside the sliding door outside. In truth, he couldn't tell if was even still there...and the darkness of their thoughts began to sink back in with that single spark to reawaken old demons and fresh wounds.

What if they all know? Lock the box and throw away the key, forget about the door and its contents, weld the door shut and nothing in his smooth metal tomb would change...for centuries.

The worry made his throat tighten up once more, choking back the emotions that had once been released years ago as tireless screams of vocal cords that would re-knit themselves fresh with every breath.

Forgotten~
Newspaper footnotes to be gawked over and then discarded~
"...How appalling! How Horrifying! Have you heard the news? Murders...murderers a-and..." Jasper looked up, thinking he heard something like a voice so clear he could have sworn it was right beside him. A palpable moment of stillness came and passed, waiting with a racing heart before lifting his hands to his face. Deep calming breaths dragged the seconds by, but the ghosts would not go so quietly.
All the lies~
Imagine the spin they put on it, even~!
Faces; expressions aghast with slacked jaws as they watched you do it, saint~
The trees are gone, now. You cut them down. You cut them all down with your own hands and drank their sap to spite their memories.

It was then just a brief flicker of a woman's face, contorted in a dislocated yet silent scream. Their skin a pale grey, pulled taught over the bones and sinew, beneath, sunken and sallow like the hollow, accusing eyes.

He was on his feet, retching and spasming even as he stretched to the tips of his toes, fingers twisting as they pressed into his face almost as if trying to crush his own skull. A soft gargle of a shivering inhale reluctantly hissed between his chattering teeth, the promise his ghosts demanded being made as his lips twisted into horror.
Yet...before his anguish could break the silence in another fit of screams, another sound made the walls gently chime. Distant thumps and pops accompanied by the screams of others from beyond the walls. Audible rushes of air being devoured by flame and the snaps of doors sliding open, only for the voices and noise to continue anew, refreshed by the next victim. This tangible stimuli was a sickening comfort...that the hollow void of space would house fates as awful as his own waking nightmares.

Jasper sank to his knees, arms swinging to the sides and dragging across the floor as his expression relaxed into an empty stare. If there were tears left in him, he would have been a mess at this point, but the bloodshot thousand-yard stare held a chilling reflection in the door of a repeatedly broken animal who came out the other end with an anticipatory realization.
These sounds were not stopping...these ones were quite real...and they were getting closer.

Standing once more, he swept up to the door, pressing his ear against the metal to listen to the sound of change. The world was once again alive with death; he was certain something was happening, and this singular detail teased the outline of a manic grin on the corners of his lips. The sounds were coming his way! The doors would be opened and...and whatever happened after...who knew?
The unknown variables set alight his senses as if shaken awake, his heart fluttering with a desperation to join the sound...to make more of it. The elation spurred a brief maddened laugh as he looked around his room and then down to himself. Any other circumstance, the promise of entertaining guests would send him to and fro to make himself presentable and prepare hors d'oeuvres. Unfortunately, his state would have to suffice...and the guests would have to be the ones providing the snacks.
Jasper shook the sudden pangs of hunger at the thought, easily distracting himself with equally unsound processes of contemplation. His mind swam with what his words would be, squirming and stumbling, indecisively, through a few terrible jokes as he failed to grasp the danger behind the noises.

Stranded: Blacksite (High casual Sci-fi/fantasy Horror)

Lanes...

Rising, Jasper's arms flexed chords of sinew and muscle under their taught flesh, a push-up in the exertion which the repetition had stolen all meaning from the act, the count left irrelevant. This has become his life, his meditation, respiration and methodical pace in the flexing and flow of blood to meet the demands of hungry musculature. Perhaps it was another layer of spite, the top torn from their prison jumpsuit to leave them with only the legs and the fabric from the seams of the former top in order to sinch it into place with a messy temporary knot. Glazed and rippling, their muscles rolled through their back with every repetition while their eyes remained locked on the door of his cell.
Today may not be the day, nor was yesterday or the weeks before it, and any promises of the tomorrows' whispered from yesterdays past would fall to a grace found only in the marks next to the untouched bed.

'Untouched' was an inaccurate description, the impression on the thin sheetless pad that served as a mattress hinted to a frequented kneeling-spot for the saint...or...at least that was how Jasper would see himself. A martyr, even, having moved the pieces for the check to be called, some time by those whose presence would leave more of an impact than the old footprints in an overgrown grove, once upon a time.
Easing themselves to kneel, he ran his fingers through his hair, sweeping it back and resting his palms on his thighs. It felt like ages since the door had been opened in earnest, the meager slot and the shelf upon it for which goods and nutrients had ceased falling to the floor, as none of the staff retained the stomach to come in and clean the mess that was left.

No brave souls.

A single overturned plate sitting atop a putrid black mass of what had been freeze-dried meatloaf, a year ago. Reheated and unfurled, sallow after the first week and disgusting litter within days of it having spilled haphazardly by the door. In return, the door's edges had accumulated rust from algae and lichens pushing waste liquids against it for years, a blatant defiance that threatened to melt down the very metal, given a few decades of such aggressive rot. The receiving port which such goods had been delivered through had since been welded shut from the outside to contain the maladies; festering molds still managing to creep around and past the seals. From the outside, the door to the cell was a horrific warning, appearing almost ancient in comparison to the rest of the block.

With all hope, the door would bind, the rust would expand, and the door would open, no more.

Cells.
Within cells, interlinked.
This cancer was the last and finest of my works, a threat to any who would pity and question the reason of containment.

"What's behind that door?" I would hear a naive voice, long ago, and a haggard voice simply replied, "Doom."
I only knew they spoke of my fate with the light yet hollow rapping on the door with the knuckle of a finger. It felt like an eternity ago, but that single act of contact renewed my soul. Meek and disjointed as it may have been, the simple acknowledgement was enough to pull me from my trance. No words were heard, since.

For a moment, I was alive, once more.
Then it was gone...countless repetitions ago...

Holding themselves up during their recollection, Jasper then sighed and lowered themselves, again, to continue their endless push-ups...a song teasing across their lips. To him, every time, it was a symphony of voices.



______________________________________________

The outside of Jasper's cell was marked with a collection of 'X's drawn by sharpies where the mold hadn't leeched through the seams, and under places were the fetor consumed. The window had long since been painted over and it was anyone's guess what transpired, within.

What Are You Listening To?

Stranded: Blacksite (High casual Sci-fi/fantasy Horror)

Lord Jasper of The Lanes, Keeper of Dusks, The Mad Druid

Jasper

Race: Tulak

Age: Appears mid-late 20s

Gender: Male-leaning

Appearance
Jasper stands at a lean and ambiguously lithe 6'4" fit with a swimmer's tone and a rich tan. Eyes, glinting like fresh amber, usually affix an sardonic mirth under a defined brow to compliment their Romanesque nose-bridge. Full lips and a mild feminine softness to domesticate an otherwise angular facial structure. Shoulder-length, thicky wavy brown hair of a deep luster that almost glints like polished steel. Shapely hips but a flat chest, and not a hint of a hair ever having grown on their face. His antlers were messily sawn off, leaving flat stumps, though proud pointed ears still poke through their hair, shamelessly betraying their heritage.

Equipment
- A dormant ebony shrub, painstakingly tended to like a bonsai in order to grow with a crescent edge, giving the armament the appearance of a marbled black pole-sickle. Infused with their own mana, this otherwise simple piece of wood holds up in quality comparable to more commonly used materials. Fit with a spike at the other end, tapering crookedly with the ringed cores of the tree, the design is that of a highly unconventional 'double-weapon'.
- A 'utility belt' of sorts with a few pockets containing several fistfuls of rose seeds, and one pouch containing a handful of soil from Vai-Ralu for sentimental reasons.

Incarcerable Traits: LIGHT DOMAIN

• A Candle; What Burns Twice as Bright
  
  • Resplendent with the stolen potential of others, Jasper's mana pool is a vast yet finite and gently bleeding source, being removed from the forests of Vai'Ralu. 'Mana' involved has been conditioned to reflect in vitality and does not 'regenerate' normally.
  • Stereotypically, this 'potential' can be transferred by direct physical contact, resulting in what many would expect from 'Healing Magic', though unfocused and wild, more suited for tending plants than knitting flesh and mending bone. Their lost focus has caused such variability in results that it would not be uncommon for wounds to heal into rough jagged scars at best.
  • These days the purpose of this ability has taken on a selfish edge, expending mana to 'Accelerate' metabolism, gradually regenerating damage to their own flesh and bolstering their physical limits as tendons and ligaments seamlessly stitch together micro-tears and subsume bruised musculature. While only usable in small bursts, the ability to refresh their own stamina mid-engagement was a problematic key detail in the debriefing after arrest.
• The Sin; Footprints Beyond The Line
  
  • As essence can be learned to be transferred and carried, the act, itself, requires the action of taking. Through direct physical contact or 'chained' through another carbon-based lifeform, The Sin begins with the first half of an otherwise noble practice.
  • To take without outlet, to borrow without return, Jasper earned his place in Alcatraz through the violent and reprehensible act of abusing the art of gardening to devour life essence and add to his own the stolen potential of said robbed lifeforms.
  • Lacking in mana, or once mana has been exhausted from a victim, ATP from cells and electrical impulses are siphoned off and reconverted into 'mana' for Jasper's pool. Small as this amount may restore, hardly close to enough to justify the act, those suffering from Jasper's vampiric touch were left as shriveled desiccated husks. Supposedly, spite was reward enough.
  • Though this act was first carried out in a moment of rage, fear of 'A hound with a taste for human blood' lead to Jasper seeing seldom save the inside of an isolation pod for most of their sentencing and trip aboard The Alcatraz. Security is advised to keep at least seven meters between themselves and the inmate at all times.
  • As this ability is not originating from any known divine favor or greater source, the only way to protect ones' self from The Sin is to avoid direct contact. In truth, Jasper belongs on The Alcatraz, as councils and juries alike agree that the perversion of life magic goes against the very order of nature and labels Jasper's existence as an existential threat, being arguably the first scholar of 'Death' magic.

Personality
What rumors of 'The Mad Druid' that had been disseminated describe Jasper as a recluse, imposing and set with a withering skeptical glare upon their brow at almost all times. Arrogant and quick to anger, it was not uncommon for the descriptions to facsimile traits of a vicious and territorial beast with a contemptuous loathing for humans.
In truth, were it not for The Clash, as Jasper came to know the day of the incident, few would have acknowledged their presence. Wholesale condemnation was the only way for the governance of Vai'Ralu to save face and retain the dignity Jasper tore out of the profession. Reclusive, guarded, but passionate for their craft and caring towards life, a moment of weakness and confusion brought about the fall of this otherwise noble Tulak Gardener...and with so many minds made up, Jasper has been adapting to living up to expectations, since.

Bio
The quiet days; Jasper had been given over to and raised by The Coven of Gardeners, druids of Vai'Ralu, to maintain the order of the planet's vast forests. Little was known of his parents and why he had been relinquished to the hedge-mages and he was too young to even remember their faces. There came a point in his adolescence where he would begrudge their abandonment of him to the wilds, and it was an anger that was tempered with duty and purpose. What life there was to live, elsewhere, was not the role he would inherit, and the gravity of the responsibility was a consuming one with little time for old mysterious wounds to fester.
The role was a decidedly noble task, balancing the respiration of the trees and shrubs throughout the seasons. The allocation of potential from weeds and parasites to be a boon on crops, instead, was a methodical and mathematic reasoning within Jasper's morals.
It was good that trees grew.
It was good that the trees bore lush fruit for villages and then towns and then cities.
Happiness found in the faces of others was a quantifiable good, carried out by his hand to conduct the symphony of harvests. When the work was done and the days grew short, every cycle he would lull the forest into their dormancy for winters. Years were left uncounted and all Jasper's life was the legionous voices of his personal kingdom; Jasper's Lane.

Something he could not do, however, was what the humans brought to the race's doorstep.
Technology. Innovation. A homogenized efficiency that he and his land was sold into...forcibly cooperating with the humans to make neat rows for their tractors to tear at the soil and strangle the trees for more and more and more, every time. Many called this a golden age. Most of those many were the fattened, greedy, hollow-eyes of smooth-skulled monkies from worlds unknown to Jasper; laughing and shaking hands with any and as many as they could sow their infectious laughter into.
The songs grew soft as the hum of the beaten soil and torn trunks seldom offered their voices to Jasper who, at first, believed it was a temporary adjustment. Truly, humanity needed him, for they made this journey with seldom a bite to eat. It was a miracle that they could have made it across the sea of stars, to arrive at the foot of what the humans called 'Eden'.

It seemed, however, that humanity had, in fact, brought something. A bitterness and contempt for what was different from themselves; not a single one he ever met, even when they ran his orchards to withers, ever spoke his name. In his own field, where his whims were law and had been so for a century, one dared to call him a 'Walking hat-rack'. Trees were left broken, branches and bark peeled off by the steel arms of their loud rumbling carriages that shook the very will from what Jasper saw as his only true family...and it was then that the songs would change.

The human farmers would face bogs that consumed their vehicles, jungle-like foliage to impede the most marched of footpaths, and Jasper's intentionally cryptic threats of the land having been angered and no longer accepting visitors. Signed and levied treaties from his own kind saw through his non-compliance and 'Sanctioned Gardeners' let themselves in to tame his kingdom...to subjugate his very invested essence in a way he saw as being dismembered and flayed.

The Lanes were sacred ground, and the humans would see every root upturned and their own godless crop planted in its stead.

Little mystery, was it, that Jasper would be found near the front of the Tulak when the Humans tried to assuage the growing anti-human coalition. In this standoff, after a tense moment of silence, the outcry from his people had Jasper to assume a grave affront had been committed in the open for all of the sky above and soil below to behold.
This instance was known to Jasper as 'The Clash', when the town square ran red from the release of pent-up rage over transgressions both perceived and palpable.

Jasper was on record to have personally slain three dozen humans and human-sympathizers in their fury, drudging in a public shame for The Coven of Gardeners as he reaped a bloody tithe. Drinking in the essence of hale and harmed, alike, Jasper felt justified in 'reclaiming what was taken from him', as if the murder of the colonists would somehow make things right, in any way whatsoever.

Coverage of the event would describe Jasper as a witch, a heretic, a necromancer, for such a crime on such a scale was simply unheard of and fundamentally unthinkable.
For a gardener to go so rogue? Surely not! They were a bad seed, left to fester and lay fallow the morals of the whole of the Tulak people. A stain that had been feared as nearing demi-godhood...and ultimately an impurity to the good people of Vai'Ralu which only the Humans and their 'Alcatraz' could deliver them away to save relations, nay, the whole of existence...that one so vile as 'Jasper of The Lanes' could be pinned for the events of that day and simply sent away into the stars, never to bother The Alliance, again.

Containment aboard The Alcatraz was fairly simple, after being apprehended by a score of his cohorts with 'diplomacy' on their mind. The details are lost to record and deemed irrelevant. Jasper...resplendent with the essence of the humans and tulak he murdered...hardly eats or sleeps, and is kept within a 3mX3mX3m cell in high-security. Biographical sensors are in place to ensure the inmate is within their cell. 'Food' issued is to be on a strict 1500 calorie diet intended to slowly starve the inmate of their pent-up vitality, pending restructuring of containment protocols.
At no point is any living matter to be allowed into the cell. Sensors reading such tags will result in the sectioning of the cell, which will then be flooded with aerosolized sedative and a venting of oxygen until either the secondary reading is neutralized or the inmate in rendered incapacitated, allowing for the retraction of the foreign entity.

Sentenced: 700 years.