Post by Kalaboo on Nov 2, 2019 7:18:38 GMT -6
Superstition held that the day of the fall of Strongbone Manor would mark the beginning of the end of the dynasty, that they would waste away in number and in honor until the last of its walls crumbled in shame. The Manor was the work of countless generations, each tearing down the works of the past or building upon them, a sort of ideological back and forth waged through arcs, domes and varandas. The devil was in the details, in the nuances lost to any but the Strongbones. Whose fate was questioned when a stone oozaru bared an odd number of fangs in its maw? Why were there only six alcoves in the Room of the Tapestry when Siceraria the First had sired twelve sons? Why was everything covered in dust, sheets and police tape? Truth is, the end had long begun.
As fate would have it Kalaboo was drawn to the place of his death. The underground of the Manor had escaped the investigation and sacking above it, and in the absence of any living soul had acquired a very distinct aura to it. Echoes of emotions and deeds best left forgotten had stirred into shape in those bare hallways and laboratories, and as he ambled through them the ghost came to realize that there was more of him than he cared to admit. The windless breeze that carried the shattering of vats and the spilling of culture fluid whispered back the lucid ravings of a saiyan turned mad by grief… and power.
The haunt cared little for these attempts on his consciousness. He had already agonized over every little damned action he had taken that day and these wisps would need much more to earn even a glare from him. Still, he was sure to dispose of the parasites so brave as to take him on, taking after his image and emotions was just in poor taste.
Knelt over a pool of his own blood, now a dry stain speckled further than the flickering light above could reach, Kalaboo found the reason of his second coming. A phylactery of unconscious making, an object that had carried great value in life, even if his possession of it had lasted but precious scant instants… He opened Chard’s pocket watch. Faithful even after so long, it ticked away the seconds, in spite of its broken innerworkings and cracked glass, and the lid-side still bore the picture of Kalabas and Chard. The ghost shut it, subsiding the bittersweet memories that flooded his mind. His transient state was safe for now, but lingering here could prove dangerous. The more he fed these haunts the more real they would become. One Kalaboo, albeit a sane one, was enough.
His intangible form phased through the ceiling and earth, surfacing right beside the entry hall's stairway. Something unnatural alerted his senses, however, an energy all too familiar, yet with no preternatural hint in any way. Was his ki sense stuck in a feedback loop? Stranger yet, as the read became clearer the better he sensed the impossible…
"Chill?"
As fate would have it Kalaboo was drawn to the place of his death. The underground of the Manor had escaped the investigation and sacking above it, and in the absence of any living soul had acquired a very distinct aura to it. Echoes of emotions and deeds best left forgotten had stirred into shape in those bare hallways and laboratories, and as he ambled through them the ghost came to realize that there was more of him than he cared to admit. The windless breeze that carried the shattering of vats and the spilling of culture fluid whispered back the lucid ravings of a saiyan turned mad by grief… and power.
The haunt cared little for these attempts on his consciousness. He had already agonized over every little damned action he had taken that day and these wisps would need much more to earn even a glare from him. Still, he was sure to dispose of the parasites so brave as to take him on, taking after his image and emotions was just in poor taste.
Knelt over a pool of his own blood, now a dry stain speckled further than the flickering light above could reach, Kalaboo found the reason of his second coming. A phylactery of unconscious making, an object that had carried great value in life, even if his possession of it had lasted but precious scant instants… He opened Chard’s pocket watch. Faithful even after so long, it ticked away the seconds, in spite of its broken innerworkings and cracked glass, and the lid-side still bore the picture of Kalabas and Chard. The ghost shut it, subsiding the bittersweet memories that flooded his mind. His transient state was safe for now, but lingering here could prove dangerous. The more he fed these haunts the more real they would become. One Kalaboo, albeit a sane one, was enough.
His intangible form phased through the ceiling and earth, surfacing right beside the entry hall's stairway. Something unnatural alerted his senses, however, an energy all too familiar, yet with no preternatural hint in any way. Was his ki sense stuck in a feedback loop? Stranger yet, as the read became clearer the better he sensed the impossible…
"Chill?"
