A black trench coat drapes over a burly figure as he enters through the flimsy front door, flowing with his entrance. The apartment has never been that comfortable, far less sophisticated than the gentleman had been used to. He was 28, chin scruffed, looking like someone out of a shady, B-movie noir thriller. Right down to the piece in his inner pocket, he had all the looks of an untrustworthy detective, and yet, he was just how he dressed for the winter. He certainly felt like a detective, however, when he came across the scene in his home. His wife had collapsed in the center of the room, breathing, but still...
"Karen?..."
He walked over, not even bothering to take off his thick coat as he knelt down and felt her cheek. Cold sweats... something was wrong. She needed a doctor, but the nearest guy was a quack. The next nearest?... 5 miles away. For those deeper in the city, they may have been able to afford a fancy new automobile, get the steam train to the hospital... Here? Carriages still outnumbered cars.
"Come on, Karen... can you speak?" No response. He slapped her to try and stir her, only to feel that her forehead was hot. Red hot. "No... no, not you too..."
It didn't take much investigation to discover the problem. A polio outbreak had rocked the city, and while they were safer on the outskirts, they weren't safe, especially with his position at the print shop. The paper boys barely knew hygiene, and being so young they were quite prone to illness. He himself had recently survived the ordeal, but Karen? This was the first time his wife had come down to it. He started looking for someone who could help, any firemen, law officers, or ambulances. And yet, with the evening young, the streets were quite empty. He knocked on his neighbor's doors, no response... What had happened? He went back to his apartment and picked her up with a sigh.
"Look, I'm going to get you to a doctor, just-
As he turned towards the door, someone knocked firmly. Hesitant, he set Karen down and opened the door, only to be confirmed by two policemen.
"Mr. Hal?" One of the officers questioned. The gentleman gulped as their aim looked to his wife, then stared daggers at him. "So you couldn't keep her out of this either, could you?" "What do you mean? I think she's got- "Yeah, yeah. Tell that to the judge. We were here on suspicion of homicide but I think we have all the proof we need." "She needs a doctor! She has a fever!" "We'll worry about her in a moment. Getting a killer off the streets is more important." "This is- "I don't give jack squat what you have to say. Shut the hell up until you get to the precinct!"
The gentleman got on his knees to plead, only for a billy club to strike his head. He was out like a light, and the fate of his wife would wait to be seen...
When he awoke, Mr. Hal was in handcuffs, lying on the floor of a cold, empty holding cell. It took a moment for him to remember everything, but it came to him in a flash. He rose with a start, looking around for anyone. All he could see were other holding cells, empty, and a single, gruff guard. The guard cracked his neck and came forward, twirling his baton before dragging it along the cell bars.
"Sir, what's going on?" The gentleman pled out weakly as he approached the bars. He was driven back as the guard struck a bar directly in front of them, causing them to ring in his ears.
"Ah, shaddup ya bum." The guard spat, clearly having even more disinterest for the man's wellbeing that the last. "I don't make small talk with child killers."
"Child killers?" The gentleman was confused, eyes widening as he nervously scratched the back of his neck.
"The name Rosa ring a bell?" The man's eyes went wider. He couldn't possibly mean... "'course it does. Ain't they your daughter?... Or rather, weren't they-
"You shut up about her!" The man bared his teeth, and the guard sighed, twirling the baton again.
"Aaand there it is... Ya did kill 'er, didn't ya?"
"She was in the damn hospital, in quarantine! I couldn't have seen her if I wanted to!"
"The perfect alibi, ain't it?" The guard now cracked his knuckles, not letting his gaze off the man. "Damn shame we know the truth."
"She died of polio you insensitive swine! Lay off me!"
"I'd watch ya tongue. Hate ta add harassment to ya rapsheet too."
"I'm innocent until proven guilty, and I know I'm not guilty."
"We know ya are guilty. Ya work at The Dally Times, don'tcha?"
"Yes, but what does that have to-
"And ya went in ta interview the polly docs, right?"
The man winced; the guard was right. "What's it to you, prick?"
"Ya act like ya didn't have a chance to kill 'er, but ya did. Poisoned 'er where she lie, hurtin' a poor defenseless girl... Yer own child, no less."
"I'm already hurting enough from this. You don't have to frame me because you want more money-
"I don't hafta but I am. Kiss yer freedom buh-bye, because this little conversation? I think after this I can add harassment to yer charges too. And considerin' ya bucked up, assaultin' an officer. Looks like yer prolly gettin' the death penalty."
"You son of a..." The man rammed against the door in desperation, dropping any innocence. "You want to keep me in here from something I didn't do?! I'll give you a reason you sorry sack of-
The world went black, flashed white, went black again. A gunshot echoed, repeating, slower and slower, distorting, muffled... A clean shot from the officer's gun as the man tried to draw his own...
This is where the story of Sorya Hal began, dead in a cold, dingy cell, framed for a crime he didn't commit. He was not the only one, far from it, but things were going to be different for him... very different...
@Tommia :The polio thing is conicedental because wherever Vandrik flies and wherever he deems his next hunting ground is plagued by a feverish disease that makes the village to weak to defend itself
Echo, echo, echo... the gunshot became a distant hum. Sorya was dead, but not. It's at this moment that he opened his eyes, and shuddered. The holding area suddenly seemed far darker and dingier than it has before, and he soon realized why. The outline of the guard was black ink against the shades of grey in the prison. Sorya stood, like he was a human, but his spirit exited his body, taking a strange and distorted appearance. It was though the light still affected him, but the shading was... off. His body was black and inky as well, but unlike the guard's it shone under the light. The guard stumbled backwards, his motions jagged like those of a silent film, and worse yet, there was no noise but the guard's breathing... no footsteps, no hum of the lights, just the ringing of the gunshot and whispers of corruption under the... thing's breath. The guard fired his weapon again, and the noise Sorya made was not his own voice. The day would just keep getting stranger and stranger...
In fact, Sorya could not speak at all, yet he was there. Someone else stumbled into the room, and they took a crumbled white appearance, kind of like paper. It was hard to understand, but he still got it. Sorya was somewhat spiritual, after all, so the shades of grey must have signifies one's morality... so why was he grey and not white?...
Writing began to appear on the wall across from him. "YOU BEGIN TO UNDERSTAND". Sorya blinked, thinking to himself. "REMEMBER THE PROMISE YOU MADE. YOU HAD GIVEN UP ON IT. WE REMEMBER." Sorya was further perplexed, but could not speak to respond. How did they know?... and with what was happening around him, was... magic real? "MAGIC IS MORE REAL THAN YOU WILL EVER BE IF YOU FAIL AGAIN. WE HAVE GIVEN YOU A SECOND CHANCE TO FULFILL YOUR PROMISE... TO FIND A WAY FOR YOUR DAUGHTER, AND NOW YOUR WIFE, TO LIVE ON EVEN AFTER DEATH. DO NOT DISAPPOINT US. YOUR STORY BEGINS NOW."
The rain was heavy as Sorya and his wife Karen laid their daughter to rest. Just nine months after she was born, she was dead. The cause of death? Polio. The two were shaken, and Sorya was desperate. Her life was so young, and just as the world has begun to prosper, she was robbed from it.
The two rode the carriage home when they caught a glimpse of the headlines. "BREAKING! RESEARCHERS DISCOVER PROOF OF MAGIC!" Dally Times's articles about magic had become slightly common over the past months, but this time was much different. It started with serial murders connected to a pen, and spiraled out of control into suspicion that magic was real. Generally, it was played up for thrills, with so-called "mediums" thriving. However, the tone of these articles had seemed serious... and they kept coming despite public outrage. Sorya, as an employee of the Dally Times, had been reading these articles and they'd piqued his interest, especially given recent events, but this was something he wasn't told about at the print shop. The morbid thought that maybe, perhaps, magic was real, stirred his mind; why else would they not tell him about this? Maybe they could bring her back...
The next day, he went to his boss's office to confront him, but he was gone. All he could find was a shimmering pen, and a note written by his boss; "IT'S NOT WORTH IT". It didn't take a genius to realize what his boss meant, but where could he have gone? His trench coat was draped over the chair, favorite gun in a hidden pocket, but the seat was cold. Suddenly, the pen rose, and started writing again. He was startled as a figure formed from within, a visage of his former manager, except he appeared as through drawn in black ink. "DON'T DO IT, SORYA". Sorya came closer, the figure moving as though they were in a cartoon. "PLEASE DON'T". He drew closer, and the figure ran with the pen. Sorya pursued, calling out frantically.
"Hey! What does it do?!" The figure just shook its head. As it turned the corner, something didn't seem right... it was like it was flat... drawn on a piece of paper, always facing him even if the figure wasn't. He gave pursuit, sensing that things must run deeper than they seemed at first glance. "Hey! Just tell me, please!"
As he turned the corner around a crate of paper, he suddenly felt himself being grabbed by the neck. Slowly, his body began to grow pale, losing its color as he resisted. He soon realized the figure grabbing him was the entity vaguely representing his boss, non-euclidean as his mind tried to comprehend its two-dimensional appearance from this angle. That's when it struck... the pen. He kicked at the pen, suddenly causing it to fly out of the figure's hand, and then, they disappeared completely with a tormented scream. Falling to the floor, Sorya gasped for air before standing. Ink had covered the floor, the air crackling with distortion around the pen in a way he couldn't describe. Spaced seemed like it was getting folded into pieces of paper before being quickly unfolded, folded again, unfolded again, flat sheets superimposed and separated. It was so disorienting that he nearly missed when he tried to grab it... and yet, as he grabbed the pen, his body remained the same. He inspected the tacky thing, a gold plated fountain pen with a chunky reservoir and a silver clip. He gave it a click, and the point sprang out, beginning to drip with blood. He dropped the pen in shock, and it bounced off the floor before writing on its own, in blood. "WRITE WHAT YOU DESIRE. WE SHALL WRITE HOW YOU MUST RECEIVE IT..."
Considering the amount of people left on the forums, and the unfortunate timing of the saga (Christmas time) I would put the number of people needed to around 5-6, then replace the rest with NPC's, or make people make multiple champions. There just are not enough people left on the forums for 16 places.
I'd be open to running two characters, though I'm not sure if that prospect would scare people off or not.
Also, the Forums have definitely died down for reasons I've discussed in the past. Quite a few people left because of the main site, and I only came here because Tournament of Champions is a pretty major event. I will say to give it time, however; a lot of Sagas go to die around Christmas time, but if we wait to start it and remind people about a week into 2025 we should get more entrants!
A way for his wife Karen and his daughter Rosa to live on even after death... how would he do it? Sorya had barely escaped the precinct, and now sat sulking in the rain, which to him was like ink dripping from a broken beaker. What had he even become, really? This golden pen, clasped in one of his featureless hands, seemed to work magic, but what magic, and how? Suddenly, it flew from his hand and began to write in front of him. To him, it was ink on a canvas. To observers, it was blood that the rain didn't seem to wash away. "TO RESTORE THE VIBRANCE TO YOUR LIFE, YOU MUST STEAL THE VIBRANCE FROM OTHERS. LIFE COMES AT THE COST OF DEATH. PLANTS DIE TO FEED ANIMALS. ANIMALS DIE TO FEED OTHER ANIMALS. TO WRITE THE STORY YOU WANT TO SEE, YOU MUST WRITE IT IN BLOOD."
Blood... like the pen made? He seemed confused for a moment as the pen returned to him, flying through the air like a dart. He caught it, and thought to himself. When he first found this thing, it turned his boss... into blood...? No, wait, what did this mean? Did the pen really want him to kill...
...but that's when it came to him. He wasn't a lawful citizen in the eyes of anyone anymore. To those that would recognize him, he'd be known as a criminal. To those that didn't, he would be a horror beyond their comprehension. It didn't matter if he tried to obey the law anymore... so why should he? That's when he thought on, to the cops trying to frame him. He knew exactly where to start, but what could he do? The pen flew out of his hand, and wrote one more time. "ALL LIFE FLOWS WITH VIBRANCE. TO PAINT YOUR WORLD, YOU MUST TAKE IT AWAY. DRAIN THEIR COLOR LIKE A SPONGE, AND SIPHON IT INTO YOURSELF." How exactly would he do that? "YOU WILL NOT LEARN UNTIL YOU TRY. FOR NOW, ACT NORMAL." Ah, yes, a living drawing is perfectly normal. He looks like he's made of some weird, ghostly paper, he should be a wet crumpled mess! The pen flew back to him too quickly to catch, the blunt end intentionally striking him between the eyebrows.
"Ow! What the hell?!" He could not speak, but as a stranger finally came down the alley, he saw what appeared to be a speech bubble sprawled across the nearby wall, with his words written upon them. The stranger quickly ran, and Sorya sighed. Better than dying at least. The precinct isn't so far from here, he thought, taking a look at his trusty revolver. It's now he realized that he didn't have any spare ammo on him, yet the six-shooter had six bullets in its cylinder... even though he could have sworn there was only one in the chamber for emergencies. He smirked, and he was tempted to fire a test shot, but he waited until he got to the precinct...
The rain coming down on the roof created a chilling ambience in the room as the private "investigator" pored through the pages. Sorya, a man who poisoned his family to cash in on their life insurance policies. Of course, the investigator knew the truth, but right now business was booming. The new prison in the outskirts was empty, and they would get subsidies for every criminal they could stuff in there; even if Sorya was dead, they'd already planned on framing him, so he was here merely to put together the rest of the pieces... or rather, make them up. He spoke with the chief, adding onto the forged files that he was guilty of slaughtering multiple police officers as well... he may as well have been a serial killer! In fact, he was!
"So, you got the "investigation" done?" The police chief uttered. He was a rather skinny man, but his attitude and mustache more than made up for what he lacked in physical intimidation. "Just about, officer," he returned, twirling his pen in his hand. "There's just one last thing we need to take care of, covering up his death. I'm thinking he... skipped the city?" "No, that'll get us in trouble, tarnish our reputation as dependable." "Already sent to prison?" "...you know, we could do that, but what if his other relatives come to see him?" "Simple song and dance, really. They just tell them he's not available to talk."
The lamp on the table beside the investigator began to flicker as the night became its darkest. He sighed as the bulb burst, the light disappearing and taking what color he could make out with it. The chief stomped over to the door and turned on the overhead light, and it too started flickering. A chill went over the chief, however, as he approached the door... had the paint on the door always looked so faded? That's a weird detail to fixate about, however, let alone be put off by. There was money in the budget to get it repainted if it really bothered him.
"Hey, Charles," the investigator called out. "You just gonna stand there?" "Shut up," he fired back, scoffing. "I just got over here." "...you've been standing there for about a minute, Charles." The chief blinked for a moment... why did he feel so uneasy? So faint? A cold sweat began to build, and he felt a little weak. Maybe he caught cold? "Stop messing with me, I'm coming."
As the chief went to sit back down, the light flickered more and more, slowly getting dimmer, losing the warm red glow as it burnt out. Wanting to alleviate his concerns, he went over and locked the door, finally returning and sitting across from the investigator. He lit up a tobacco pipe and started to smoke, at least illuminating his face.
"There, that's better," the chief attempted to joke. "...are you feeling alright?" The investigator questioned, seriously concerned now. "Yeah, I'm... I'm fine." "So, about this..."
The two continued to talk, focusing back on their work before they suddenly heard a click from the door. Someone had unlocked it, and suddenly, it burst open as the vague shape of a man stepped through. His figure was dark and smoky, glowing slightly as he pointed his gun towards the chief and pulled the trigger. What could only be described as the opposite of a gunshot rang out- no, in. It was the opposite of sound, the opposite of an explosion, like a miniature vacuum. Black, inky darkness traveled through the air and pierced the chief, causing the color to drain from his body. He suddenly collapsed, as though all of the energy had been absorbed from him at once, and coughed up... ink. The investigator lunged at the strange, flat figure, easily pushing him around like a big sheet of... paper? However, just as easily as he could crumple the form before him, the form latched on, and its touch was the worst thing that could have happened... his eyes stared into an inky void, a place of bitter darkness and lifelessness. Everything around the figure was in muted shades of grey, and soon, that extended to the investigator and his clothes. Rapidly, his essence was drank from him, until his body went grey, then white, then simply... crumpled like a piece of paper. The chief, who was barely conscious, fainted from the sight, sparing him the same agony that the investigator felt. Perhaps there was mercy for him...
After a few days of traveling through the city, Sorya found he was capable of creating entryways to places he's been before by drawing on walls with his pen. However, due to his extreme lack of skill, he's somehow managed to be dragged across the multiverse! Now on an unfamiliar plane, he brings a very different way of life and a different style of combat to the table. Perhaps this monochrome contestant can add a dash of color to the competition?
Height: 6' 1"
Weight: N/A
Age: Deceased
Blood Type: Ink
So what does he actually do?
Sorya is capable of manipulating the colors of mana in a very literal sense. Everything is made from, or fueled by, mana, and he is capable of deteriorating someone's connection to it. You may be thinking this makes him nearly useless against someone who doesn't use magic at all, but the opposite is slightly true; while normal attacks are going to be more effective against him than magic, beings that do not practice magic generally carry much less mana, and having it drained can have a quicker effect. His very presence mutes the colors around him, and any weapons he uses inherit the ability to drain mana. This is most prominent with his revolver, which can pierce deep into the body and stunt someone's mana supply from the inside out. It's theoretically possible to work through his powers, but it's especially painful.
His talents are quite niche, however, and while they're potent, he needs to expand his toolkit to avoid becoming too predictable. This requires him to master his magic pen, but currently, he is unable to utilize its full potential. The only talent he's learned with it so far is the ability to draw rudimentary objects and pictures that lead to places he's been before, but these talents are highly flawed and untrained. He generally has to keep any objects he creates simple, such as a basic lockpick or a shiv, and he's prone to mistakes when creating portals, often leading to him being in the wrong place at the wrong time...
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Worms in the Apple — Part 1
"Darling? Is something the matter?..."A black trench coat drapes over a burly figure as he enters through the flimsy front door, flowing with his entrance. The apartment has never been that comfortable, far less sophisticated than the gentleman had been used to. He was 28, chin scruffed, looking like someone out of a shady, B-movie noir thriller. Right down to the piece in his inner pocket, he had all the looks of an untrustworthy detective, and yet, he was just how he dressed for the winter. He certainly felt like a detective, however, when he came across the scene in his home. His wife had collapsed in the center of the room, breathing, but still...
"Karen?..."
He walked over, not even bothering to take off his thick coat as he knelt down and felt her cheek. Cold sweats... something was wrong. She needed a doctor, but the nearest guy was a quack. The next nearest?... 5 miles away. For those deeper in the city, they may have been able to afford a fancy new automobile, get the steam train to the hospital... Here? Carriages still outnumbered cars.
"Come on, Karen... can you speak?" No response. He slapped her to try and stir her, only to feel that her forehead was hot. Red hot. "No... no, not you too..."
It didn't take much investigation to discover the problem. A polio outbreak had rocked the city, and while they were safer on the outskirts, they weren't safe, especially with his position at the print shop. The paper boys barely knew hygiene, and being so young they were quite prone to illness. He himself had recently survived the ordeal, but Karen? This was the first time his wife had come down to it. He started looking for someone who could help, any firemen, law officers, or ambulances. And yet, with the evening young, the streets were quite empty. He knocked on his neighbor's doors, no response... What had happened? He went back to his apartment and picked her up with a sigh.
"Look, I'm going to get you to a doctor, just-
As he turned towards the door, someone knocked firmly. Hesitant, he set Karen down and opened the door, only to be confirmed by two policemen.
"Mr. Hal?" One of the officers questioned. The gentleman gulped as their aim looked to his wife, then stared daggers at him. "So you couldn't keep her out of this either, could you?"
"What do you mean? I think she's got-
"Yeah, yeah. Tell that to the judge. We were here on suspicion of homicide but I think we have all the proof we need."
"She needs a doctor! She has a fever!"
"We'll worry about her in a moment. Getting a killer off the streets is more important."
"This is-
"I don't give jack squat what you have to say. Shut the hell up until you get to the precinct!"
The gentleman got on his knees to plead, only for a billy club to strike his head. He was out like a light, and the fate of his wife would wait to be seen...
Worms in the Apple — Part 2
This is where the story of Sorya Hal began, dead in a cold, dingy cell, framed for a crime he didn't commit. He was not the only one, far from it, but things were going to be different for him... very different...
Dark Duality, Bright Hopes — Part 1
Echo, echo, echo... the gunshot became a distant hum. Sorya was dead, but not. It's at this moment that he opened his eyes, and shuddered. The holding area suddenly seemed far darker and dingier than it has before, and he soon realized why. The outline of the guard was black ink against the shades of grey in the prison. Sorya stood, like he was a human, but his spirit exited his body, taking a strange and distorted appearance. It was though the light still affected him, but the shading was... off. His body was black and inky as well, but unlike the guard's it shone under the light. The guard stumbled backwards, his motions jagged like those of a silent film, and worse yet, there was no noise but the guard's breathing... no footsteps, no hum of the lights, just the ringing of the gunshot and whispers of corruption under the... thing's breath. The guard fired his weapon again, and the noise Sorya made was not his own voice. The day would just keep getting stranger and stranger...In fact, Sorya could not speak at all, yet he was there. Someone else stumbled into the room, and they took a crumbled white appearance, kind of like paper. It was hard to understand, but he still got it. Sorya was somewhat spiritual, after all, so the shades of grey must have signifies one's morality... so why was he grey and not white?...
Writing began to appear on the wall across from him. "YOU BEGIN TO UNDERSTAND". Sorya blinked, thinking to himself. "REMEMBER THE PROMISE YOU MADE. YOU HAD GIVEN UP ON IT. WE REMEMBER." Sorya was further perplexed, but could not speak to respond. How did they know?... and with what was happening around him, was... magic real? "MAGIC IS MORE REAL THAN YOU WILL EVER BE IF YOU FAIL AGAIN. WE HAVE GIVEN YOU A SECOND CHANCE TO FULFILL YOUR PROMISE... TO FIND A WAY FOR YOUR DAUGHTER, AND NOW YOUR WIFE, TO LIVE ON EVEN AFTER DEATH. DO NOT DISAPPOINT US. YOUR STORY BEGINS NOW."
[EXPUNGED]
[HELP]
Dark Duality, Bright Hopes — Part 2
Two years earlier...
The two rode the carriage home when they caught a glimpse of the headlines. "BREAKING! RESEARCHERS DISCOVER PROOF OF MAGIC!" Dally Times's articles about magic had become slightly common over the past months, but this time was much different. It started with serial murders connected to a pen, and spiraled out of control into suspicion that magic was real. Generally, it was played up for thrills, with so-called "mediums" thriving. However, the tone of these articles had seemed serious... and they kept coming despite public outrage. Sorya, as an employee of the Dally Times, had been reading these articles and they'd piqued his interest, especially given recent events, but this was something he wasn't told about at the print shop. The morbid thought that maybe, perhaps, magic was real, stirred his mind; why else would they not tell him about this? Maybe they could bring her back...
The next day, he went to his boss's office to confront him, but he was gone. All he could find was a shimmering pen, and a note written by his boss; "IT'S NOT WORTH IT". It didn't take a genius to realize what his boss meant, but where could he have gone? His trench coat was draped over the chair, favorite gun in a hidden pocket, but the seat was cold. Suddenly, the pen rose, and started writing again. He was startled as a figure formed from within, a visage of his former manager, except he appeared as through drawn in black ink. "DON'T DO IT, SORYA". Sorya came closer, the figure moving as though they were in a cartoon. "PLEASE DON'T". He drew closer, and the figure ran with the pen. Sorya pursued, calling out frantically.
"Hey! What does it do?!" The figure just shook its head. As it turned the corner, something didn't seem right... it was like it was flat... drawn on a piece of paper, always facing him even if the figure wasn't. He gave pursuit, sensing that things must run deeper than they seemed at first glance. "Hey! Just tell me, please!"
As he turned the corner around a crate of paper, he suddenly felt himself being grabbed by the neck. Slowly, his body began to grow pale, losing its color as he resisted. He soon realized the figure grabbing him was the entity vaguely representing his boss, non-euclidean as his mind tried to comprehend its two-dimensional appearance from this angle. That's when it struck... the pen. He kicked at the pen, suddenly causing it to fly out of the figure's hand, and then, they disappeared completely with a tormented scream. Falling to the floor, Sorya gasped for air before standing. Ink had covered the floor, the air crackling with distortion around the pen in a way he couldn't describe. Spaced seemed like it was getting folded into pieces of paper before being quickly unfolded, folded again, unfolded again, flat sheets superimposed and separated. It was so disorienting that he nearly missed when he tried to grab it... and yet, as he grabbed the pen, his body remained the same. He inspected the tacky thing, a gold plated fountain pen with a chunky reservoir and a silver clip. He gave it a click, and the point sprang out, beginning to drip with blood. He dropped the pen in shock, and it bounced off the floor before writing on its own, in blood. "WRITE WHAT YOU DESIRE. WE SHALL WRITE HOW YOU MUST RECEIVE IT..."
[Deadline ends next month]
Also, the Forums have definitely died down for reasons I've discussed in the past. Quite a few people left because of the main site, and I only came here because Tournament of Champions is a pretty major event. I will say to give it time, however; a lot of Sagas go to die around Christmas time, but if we wait to start it and remind people about a week into 2025 we should get more entrants!
Dark Duality, Bright Hopes — Part 3
Now...
A way for his wife Karen and his daughter Rosa to live on even after death... how would he do it? Sorya had barely escaped the precinct, and now sat sulking in the rain, which to him was like ink dripping from a broken beaker. What had he even become, really? This golden pen, clasped in one of his featureless hands, seemed to work magic, but what magic, and how? Suddenly, it flew from his hand and began to write in front of him. To him, it was ink on a canvas. To observers, it was blood that the rain didn't seem to wash away. "TO RESTORE THE VIBRANCE TO YOUR LIFE, YOU MUST STEAL THE VIBRANCE FROM OTHERS. LIFE COMES AT THE COST OF DEATH. PLANTS DIE TO FEED ANIMALS. ANIMALS DIE TO FEED OTHER ANIMALS. TO WRITE THE STORY YOU WANT TO SEE, YOU MUST WRITE IT IN BLOOD."Blood... like the pen made? He seemed confused for a moment as the pen returned to him, flying through the air like a dart. He caught it, and thought to himself. When he first found this thing, it turned his boss... into blood...? No, wait, what did this mean? Did the pen really want him to kill...
...but that's when it came to him. He wasn't a lawful citizen in the eyes of anyone anymore. To those that would recognize him, he'd be known as a criminal. To those that didn't, he would be a horror beyond their comprehension. It didn't matter if he tried to obey the law anymore... so why should he? That's when he thought on, to the cops trying to frame him. He knew exactly where to start, but what could he do? The pen flew out of his hand, and wrote one more time. "ALL LIFE FLOWS WITH VIBRANCE. TO PAINT YOUR WORLD, YOU MUST TAKE IT AWAY. DRAIN THEIR COLOR LIKE A SPONGE, AND SIPHON IT INTO YOURSELF." How exactly would he do that? "YOU WILL NOT LEARN UNTIL YOU TRY. FOR NOW, ACT NORMAL." Ah, yes, a living drawing is perfectly normal. He looks like he's made of some weird, ghostly paper, he should be a wet crumpled mess! The pen flew back to him too quickly to catch, the blunt end intentionally striking him between the eyebrows.
"Ow! What the hell?!" He could not speak, but as a stranger finally came down the alley, he saw what appeared to be a speech bubble sprawled across the nearby wall, with his words written upon them. The stranger quickly ran, and Sorya sighed. Better than dying at least. The precinct isn't so far from here, he thought, taking a look at his trusty revolver. It's now he realized that he didn't have any spare ammo on him, yet the six-shooter had six bullets in its cylinder... even though he could have sworn there was only one in the chamber for emergencies. He smirked, and he was tempted to fire a test shot, but he waited until he got to the precinct...
The rain coming down on the roof created a chilling ambience in the room as the private "investigator" pored through the pages. Sorya, a man who poisoned his family to cash in on their life insurance policies. Of course, the investigator knew the truth, but right now business was booming. The new prison in the outskirts was empty, and they would get subsidies for every criminal they could stuff in there; even if Sorya was dead, they'd already planned on framing him, so he was here merely to put together the rest of the pieces... or rather, make them up. He spoke with the chief, adding onto the forged files that he was guilty of slaughtering multiple police officers as well... he may as well have been a serial killer! In fact, he was!
"So, you got the "investigation" done?" The police chief uttered. He was a rather skinny man, but his attitude and mustache more than made up for what he lacked in physical intimidation.
"Just about, officer," he returned, twirling his pen in his hand. "There's just one last thing we need to take care of, covering up his death. I'm thinking he... skipped the city?"
"No, that'll get us in trouble, tarnish our reputation as dependable."
"Already sent to prison?"
"...you know, we could do that, but what if his other relatives come to see him?"
"Simple song and dance, really. They just tell them he's not available to talk."
The lamp on the table beside the investigator began to flicker as the night became its darkest. He sighed as the bulb burst, the light disappearing and taking what color he could make out with it. The chief stomped over to the door and turned on the overhead light, and it too started flickering. A chill went over the chief, however, as he approached the door... had the paint on the door always looked so faded? That's a weird detail to fixate about, however, let alone be put off by. There was money in the budget to get it repainted if it really bothered him.
"Hey, Charles," the investigator called out. "You just gonna stand there?"
"Shut up," he fired back, scoffing. "I just got over here."
"...you've been standing there for about a minute, Charles."
The chief blinked for a moment... why did he feel so uneasy? So faint? A cold sweat began to build, and he felt a little weak. Maybe he caught cold? "Stop messing with me, I'm coming."
As the chief went to sit back down, the light flickered more and more, slowly getting dimmer, losing the warm red glow as it burnt out. Wanting to alleviate his concerns, he went over and locked the door, finally returning and sitting across from the investigator. He lit up a tobacco pipe and started to smoke, at least illuminating his face.
"There, that's better," the chief attempted to joke.
"...are you feeling alright?" The investigator questioned, seriously concerned now.
"Yeah, I'm... I'm fine."
"So, about this..."
The two continued to talk, focusing back on their work before they suddenly heard a click from the door. Someone had unlocked it, and suddenly, it burst open as the vague shape of a man stepped through. His figure was dark and smoky, glowing slightly as he pointed his gun towards the chief and pulled the trigger. What could only be described as the opposite of a gunshot rang out- no, in. It was the opposite of sound, the opposite of an explosion, like a miniature vacuum. Black, inky darkness traveled through the air and pierced the chief, causing the color to drain from his body. He suddenly collapsed, as though all of the energy had been absorbed from him at once, and coughed up... ink. The investigator lunged at the strange, flat figure, easily pushing him around like a big sheet of... paper? However, just as easily as he could crumple the form before him, the form latched on, and its touch was the worst thing that could have happened... his eyes stared into an inky void, a place of bitter darkness and lifelessness. Everything around the figure was in muted shades of grey, and soon, that extended to the investigator and his clothes. Rapidly, his essence was drank from him, until his body went grey, then white, then simply... crumpled like a piece of paper. The chief, who was barely conscious, fainted from the sight, sparing him the same agony that the investigator felt. Perhaps there was mercy for him...
Introducing... Sorya Hal
After a few days of traveling through the city, Sorya found he was capable of creating entryways to places he's been before by drawing on walls with his pen. However, due to his extreme lack of skill, he's somehow managed to be dragged across the multiverse! Now on an unfamiliar plane, he brings a very different way of life and a different style of combat to the table. Perhaps this monochrome contestant can add a dash of color to the competition?So what does he actually do?
Sorya is capable of manipulating the colors of mana in a very literal sense. Everything is made from, or fueled by, mana, and he is capable of deteriorating someone's connection to it. You may be thinking this makes him nearly useless against someone who doesn't use magic at all, but the opposite is slightly true; while normal attacks are going to be more effective against him than magic, beings that do not practice magic generally carry much less mana, and having it drained can have a quicker effect. His very presence mutes the colors around him, and any weapons he uses inherit the ability to drain mana. This is most prominent with his revolver, which can pierce deep into the body and stunt someone's mana supply from the inside out. It's theoretically possible to work through his powers, but it's especially painful.His talents are quite niche, however, and while they're potent, he needs to expand his toolkit to avoid becoming too predictable. This requires him to master his magic pen, but currently, he is unable to utilize its full potential. The only talent he's learned with it so far is the ability to draw rudimentary objects and pictures that lead to places he's been before, but these talents are highly flawed and untrained. He generally has to keep any objects he creates simple, such as a basic lockpick or a shiv, and he's prone to mistakes when creating portals, often leading to him being in the wrong place at the wrong time...