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Better Than Gore

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About Better Than Gore

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  • Birthday 07/05/1992

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    Arizona, USA.

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  1. Arthur closed what little distance they had between each other in the blink of an eye; Ryker had little to no time to react, so he let basic instinct take the wheel. Ryker needed to reopen that gap so he could act accordingly, so he preformed a go-to Muay Thai fundamental known as the teep, or front push kick. His forward right knee rose and the remainder of his leg lashed out, simultaneously moving his hips and shoulders backwards to add a little more oomph to the attack. Ryker's foot aimed to make contact with Arthur's abdomen. There wasn't enough force for it to hurt per say, but certainly enough to stop his momentum and leave an opening for Ryker to follow up if Arthur's advance continued. Assuming Arthur didn't reconsider his approach, Ryker was ready for him this go-round with a hand combination. Starting with a basic left jab. @Voldemort
  2. Arthur spoke of fate. "Who are you?" Ryker added in before Arthur continued. It had been quite sometime since an outsider stumbled upon Absalom, let alone actually stepped foot inside. "Couldn't say, nobody has explored the entirety of the Sarcophagus and lived to tell the tale." At this point Ryker was just feeding into the superstition surrounding the crater, all anyone had to go off of was tall tales. Some believed an ancient alien civilization crash landed and inevitably died off, only for their technology and weaponry to be scavenged by those brave enough to step foot inside. There were many variations of the story, of course. Most believable was that the technology helped contribute to building their beautiful City. "Now you're starting to piss me off." Ryker clenched his jaw. Taking a final hit of his joint, it would be flicked onto the floor and snuffed out via boot heel. "Tell you what, if you manage to beat me in say... hand to hand combat, I'll accompany you to the Sarcophagus." It was at that very moment that a shuddering chill crept up his spine. A chittering like noise broke the silence of their stare down. It was starving. @Voldemort
  3. "Did Miguel lace me again?" Yes. It had happened on more than one occasion. Ryker's gaze fell upon the joint betwixt his fingers, contemplating whether or not it could have been tampered with. That was really the only possibility, otherwise there may have actually been someone in his establishment demanding to be taken on a tour. Ryker stared at it for a good moment or two before returning Arthur's stare. Then it dawned on him, it unfortunately wasn't some psychedelic experience, Arthur was real. "Well, this is officially the last time I volunteer to close." Ryker sighed and shook his head in disappointment before taking another hit from his re-appropriated cigarette. "You must be referring to the Sarcophagus. It's supposedly ancient and alien in nature." Ryker made sure to express the word alien exaggeratedly with his hands. Or at least that's what all the stories foretold. Why they decided to build an entire City just above something so mysterious was still a mystery. He personally thought the Matriarch must have been touched in head to come up with such an idea. "Do I look like a god damn tour guide to you?" Rhetorical question. @Voldemort
  4. Owning and operating a nightclub meant you were the first one in and the last one out. Closing was tedious--correction, closing properly was tedious. Cleaning up after a night full of booze, drugs, and many other vices was very time consuming. Most of the time Ryker had help, but not tonight, as considerate as he had felt he was now regretting that decision. If uninterrupted, preparing the Club for the morning shift would take him a couple hours. So as soon as the last person stumbled out the front doors, he went to work, picking up every bottle and glass, disposing of them properly. Glass wear went into the sink behind the bar and bottles went into the trash. Once that had been accomplished, out came the washrag, wiping up the tables and bar top with a combination of bleach and soap. Then came the chairs, placing them neatly atop the tables. Last but not least, sweeping and mopping, which was probably the most time consuming out of all the other tasks. People were messy. But before he could truly close for the night, Ryker had to enjoy a vice of his own. Taking a seat at the bar, he would withdraw a nicely rolled joint from his jacket pocket. Placing it firmly between his lips before lighting it. It didn't take long before a majority of the club reeked of potent cannabis, as plumes of smoke were exhaled from his nostrils only to forever linger. "What a night." A sigh of relief escaped him as his eyes slowly but surely glazed over. @Voldemort
  5. "Leaving it up to me, eh?" Ryker chuckled. A hand snaked down and patted Pyrrah's rear only to grab a handful. "What do you think, Pyrrah? Do you want Celine to watch?" Ryker's gaze hadn't drifted from Celine, even as his hand sought something much more delicate, playfully rubbing momentarily before returning to his lap. Ryker was already set on letting Celine stay, despite what his newfound pet may have wanted. "I assume you can close up tonight, #3?" --- "Absolutely, sir. Enjoy." Nodding in acknowledgment, #3 left the office, closing the door behind him. Escorting Celine's money to her vehicle, he would stand watch at the bar and would probably have to break up a fight and or throw a customer out that got too hands on with a dancer. "Well then," Ryker added just as the door came to a close. "Let's see what you have hidden under there, shall we?" Another snap echoed. Creating some distance between the desk and himself via scooting his chair back a bit, his leg would return to its original resting place atop the other, getting comfortable once more. "Make yourself comfortable, Celine." Which could have meant numerous things. @Witches Brew @Houndy Poochykins
  6. "Quite the find." Ryker's gaze lingered for a moment or so after her spin concluded. "That's correct, Pyrrah." His hand gestured for them to sit, allowing them to get comfortable before returning to his own seat. Now that he had seen the merchandise, it was time to conclude their business. Once seated, his closest hand would open the top drawer of his desk and feel for his lock box. Hastily entering the combination, the locking mechanism would click open, permitting him access. "Same arrangement as before, I presume?" Celine wasn't dumb. Pyrrah was a rare find and unfortunately with rarity came a much higher asking price. A brief chuckle followed his question, he knew ahead of time what her answer would be, but it didn't hurt to ask. Taking a moment to eye what he had stashed inside, he closed it with a sigh, before she had a chance to interject he stood up and made his way to the wall just left of his desk. Placing his hand against it, a bright red beam traced the outline and the wall unveiled a safe. Entering yet another combination, the door to said safe opened exposing a large stack of neatly folded currency. "That should do it." Hopefully. "You can count it if you'd like," Ryker assumed Celine trusted him by now, despite his borderline sociopathic behavior and line of work, Ryker was a man of his word. "Now the real question is, what exactly should I do with you?" His gaze turned to Pyrrah. Ryker didn't have the slightest clue what she was capable of, he was trusting that Celine had done her research before coming to him. Was she educated enough to do payroll? Or did he just hire another pretty face? "Ahhh, now that's an idea." Apparently he had already made up his mind. Making his way back to his seat, he situated himself and snapped his fingers, demanding that she come to him. It was probably better to assert his dominance in the presence of Pyrrah's present owner, if that's what she considered Celine. "Come lay at my feet for the time being, I'll better assess your skills once we're alone.. unless of course you'd like to observe and or participate Celine?" Another smile. @Witches Brew @Houndy Poochykins
  7. Their escort was stationed just outside of the main entrance, prepared to greet them upon arrival. He even went as far as opening the car door for them once their vehicle stopped. "Ah, Celine. Mr. Albrecht has been expecting you." His hand was offered for assistance. Around his neck was a lanyard that read #3, the number itself didn't have any relevance, Ryker's memory just wasn't what it used to be. #3 and the rest of the security personnel inside were all dressed alike, a white n-neck shirt that was probably too small for their massive frame, black cargo pants and steel toed boots. "On our way, sir." Leading them inside, they would have to navigate their way through the crowd, which wouldn't prove too troublesome as the patrons seemed to scurry upon noticing his approach. Fog billowed from machinery and snaked across the floor, some found it a little on the extreme side, due to having to practically wade through it. Aesthetics were everything to Ryker. If the fog didn't make that evident, then the strobe lighting and random laser shows would. Granted, every performance had a different stage effect. Had to keep them on the edge of their seat, right? Every once in awhile #3 looked over his shoulder to ensure he hadn't lost Ryker's company, he'd have his head if so. Upon reaching Ryker's office, another security guard would promptly nod and open the door for them. Inside was an entirely different atmosphere, it was a lot colder in this room, for obvious reasons. It was practically bare, save for a couple paintings on the wall, presumably lineage. There was a much smaller stage stationed in the center, equipped with a pole, and speakers sporadically placed. Then a desk, with two rather comfortable looking chairs placed in front of it, and the head honcho himself. Seated in an equally comfortable chair, with one leg folded atop of the other. Ryker was dressed much fancier than his hired muscle, he adorned a slim fitting black suit, equipped with a vest and a royal purple tie. Dark brown hair was half-assed styled into a fauxhawk, high faded on both the sides and back. Hazel-green eyes observed their movements, with an occasional twitch. His fingers racked the desk repeatedly as they approached, out of impatience or habit was for them to decide. "Celine! How's business?" A smile greeted the duo, a flash of silver from capped canines. Standing to properly greet them, Ryker stood at 5'11" and was athletically built. His sleeves were rolled up just below the elbow, showing off his vibrantly colored tattoos, stretching from the tops of his hands up onto his shoulders and beyond. Stubble coated a chiseled jawline, likely out of laziness. Bags laid underneath of his eyes due to his habits, he had probably been up for days at this point, which persuaded him even more to bring on an assistant. "What do you have for me today, hm?" He gave Celine's companion a once over before making his way around the desk to get a closer look. "Do a spin for me, will ya sweetheart?" He even incorporated a hand gesture just in case she didn't understand his inquiry. @Witches Brew @Houndy Poochykins
  8. Fatal Seduction was thriving; which was a double edged sword, on one hand clientele increased significantly and on the other hand they were slowly but surely expressing less interest on the entertainment the establishment had to offer. They wanted variety. They wanted exotic. Ryker agreed and sought out entertainment the City of Absalom had never seen before. In order to work for Fatal Seduction, an entertainer had to go through a screening process, assuming they passed they were placed on a probation, so to speak. An entertainer had a preset amount of time to make a certain amount of money to be considered for full time employment. With his high standards, most didn't make it through the screening. It was rather simple; if a potential employee could turn him on, his customers would be putty in their hands. Which spelled money. Ryker's schedule was hectic, if he wasn't interviewing, he was off running his other line of work. Perhaps a secretary would be beneficial. That was something he often pondered, but it would have to be someone he could trust. Someone who was capable of running his club in his absence. Sure, there were plenty of people on his payroll that could fit that role, but there was one problem with that, they were all men. Hired muscle to do Ryker's dirty work. He couldn't trust them to keep an eye on his beloved Club, or to put their noses where they didn't belong, among many other things. It would have to be a woman. So that's what he was looking for today, a secretary. But at the same time, they had to fall under the same category all of his employees did. They had to be beautiful and above all else, exotic. Just his clientele seeing them would put their wandering imaginations at ease. "Sir, I believe your interview has finally arrived, should I escort her to your office?" A brutish voice came to life inside his earpiece. "Please." Ryker answered. And so he waited. @Houndy Poochykins @Witches Brew
  9. Geography The Arcology is a colossal megastructure comprised of scintillating agri-domes, elegant spires, and graceful monorails - encompassing a microsociety of about ten thousand souls. Its towering heights lord over the desolate remains of a once pristine alpine forest, the only point of light in the sprawling wasteland. Holographic advertisements loom over the churning industry of the surrounding badlands, acclaiming the virtues of this jewel of self-sufficient civilization. Organization Absalom is divided among its shareholders, with the position of owner and leader granted to the majority stake. While some maintenance of the overall structure is maintained by the owner, individual levels and wings of the arcology are the responsibility of their private holders. As such, interior aesthetics of one area may vary drastically from another. Because the fundamental right of a citizen is property, those that own no property, or whose property, including their life, is rendered forfeit by incurred debts, are stripped of citizenship and relegated to servitude and slavery until such a time as the debt is repaid. In reality, however, because a lack of means to protect one’s assets is commonly considered forfeiture, even those completing their contracted enslavement often immediately find themselves back in bondage just to be able to feed themselves. Free citizens, but whom own less than 1% of the arcology, are a fragile middle class that dwindles daily, and are only replenished by new arrivals to this futuristic ‘utopia’. Government and Politics Law Contracts rule all but the most informal of exchanges. Because there are no non-private adjudicators, private middlemen almost inevitably favor the party with greater influence in disputes regarding these contracts, making justice a hopeless pursuit for most. When adjudication fails, squads of private security forces are deployed, leading to brief but incredibly violent shareholder turf wars in which one party will attempt to seize the assessed debt it feels it is owed. The common result is total seizure of assets, to cover the ‘cost’ of the operation, and subsequent enslavement. Somewhat paradoxically, the average day is relatively peaceful and secure for the bulk of the arcology’s denizens, as the threat of wholesale destruction and the ubiquity of high-powered personal weaponry make most sane people strongly reconsider the use of physical force, or attempting an unlawful act. Nonetheless, criminal elements do exist, inseparably entwined into the fabric of the ultra-capitalist society, functioning as yet another tool for ambitious holders to undermine their peers. Foreign Relations Absalom's foreign relations are currently still formative, but are generally cordial. The owner recognizes that national governments, even those with inferior technology, command resource monopolies that a neofeudal city-state cannot hope to match in open conflict. Trade and diplomacy are conducted openly to import what little the arcology cannot produce on its own, and to market its own products far and wide. Military The Arcology’s armed forces consist chiefly of the private security forces hired and outfitted by the aggregate of the holders. However, the owner separately employs a full company of mercenaries loyal to herself, as well as a fleet of 200 semi-autonomous armored drones that can rapidly deploy anti-riot ordinance as well as lethal munitions if necessary. Economy Absalom's economy is a complicated mix of give and take. It's a lucrative locale for companies or governments to contract out the labor necessary for product manufacture, being that labor is so cheap and available here due to the prevalence of indentured servitude. In a way you could say that Arcology City's biggest export good is labor. Workers of all sort are exploited within the territory of Absalom. Factory workers, laborers, programmers, and sex workers are the most common types. A sizable portion of the population is under some contract or another, often the indentured servitude kind, binding them to a term of unpaid service. These terms, and by extension the people for which they are made, can be bought and sold. In the sprawling slums that comprise the hinterlands around the main tower there are dozens of industrial sectors dedicated to the processing of raw materials. These factories are populated largely by the lowest rung of Arcology caste, and as they are indentured their labor is sold cheaply. Moving within the tower, scores of programmers are bought and sold from one corporation to the next. The trade of indentured servitude contracts is common with workers that have special skills. Another practice is for companies to own nothing but these contracts, selling or renting the rights to various corporations as freelance indentured servants. Absalom produces high tech and completed goods. Anything from portable electronics, to medical prosthesis, or even fully functional life auxiliary Androids. These kinds of goods are what most companies in Absalom sell abroad for money and goods. The main import of the city is raw materials and food stuffs, as these things are difficult to find or produce. If you can dream of something and there is a way for that thing to be manufactured then you can probably find it in Absolom. Just don't think about the exploitation that built it and you can sleep easy. Canon and History Completed Threads History The origins of Absalom are hardly a secret. While the average citizen might not be aware, anybody who goes out of their way to research the subject will quickly run across local folklore. Absalom is not a nation, not in the sense that a traditional nation is. Rather, having no actual governing body, it is a microcosm of individual organizations attempting to live in proximity. It is generally agreed between corporations that a certain respect for common law is necessary, but why do all of these groups choose to operate here? The reason is simple, and it has a name; The Sarcophagus. The Sarcophagus is a structure that exists, buried deep underground at the very heart of Absalom. The only portion of this structure that exists above ground is a vast open hole - a hole over which the main body of the city is suspended over. It has been speculated that this structure, The Sarcophagus, is actually a ship from some unknown space faring civilization that crash landed in the wilds of Fracture. Nobody knows for sure how it got here. Back when the city first formed, it was occupied by tomb raiders and grave robbers who went into this opening to look for treasure, and what they found was both wondrous and terrifying. The Sarcophagus was filled with autonomous machines, hyper advanced technology, unheard of metals, and most perplexingly it was also stuffed to the brim with the living dead. They aren't Zombies, so to speak, but rather their organic components have been commandeered by the very technology that built their home. These early adventurers waded into the depths of The Sarcophagus. Those lucky, or skilled enough to return came back with tech that had previously been unseen and unheard of. It was these few who began the very first corporations of Absalom. These days, ventures into The Sarcophagus are rare and dangerous. It is less profitable than it was in the beginning as an understanding of the tech within has been reached. With the ability to replicate the tech laying inside, it's seen as a net loss to send people inside, even if they do return alive. Even so, it is estimated that a mere five percent of the structure has been explored with untold miles of corridors and Chambers laying unseen beneath the wasteland below, and around Absalom.
  10. Chapter 1: Imprisoned. “Hope in reality is the worst of all evils because it prolongs the torment of man.” — Friedrich Nietzsche The cell’s darkness was massive and palpable; it robbed those inhabiting it of their sense of direction, they stood motionless and afraid to budge. They were accompanied by a sinister silence broken only by the gnawing and scurrying of rats. The gnawing only grew louder and nearer, filling them with dread lest the starving rats attacked their bare feet. One prisoner in particular leaned against a stone wall and slumped down, exhausted. Only to feel the slimy creeping of an unknown creature on his face. Horrified, he rose and determined to pace in the tiny cell. A guard finally arrived to deliver a slice of bread and a cup of water — the prisoner was outraged that three days had passed without a meal. The guard offered bad news; only one day had passed, his sense of time had vanished. Located in the Church was a dimly lit basement — two narrow side-by-side cells, they appear to be about four feet wide and eight feet long. Rust has eaten away the edges of the cells’ steel doors. Cracked paint, stained with filth, covers the walls. The heat was virtually intolerable and the aroma was terrible. Within one of these cells was the empty shell of a man, a once proud and noble Knight, stripped of his nobility and pride. Left to rot once the governing body of Temple City uprooted themselves to somewhere more worthy of their attention. On the brink of starvation, carcasses of rats and other creepy crawlers littered the cell’s floor. His hair and beard unkempt. His face sunken in and skin taut. The sound of footsteps and voices could be faintly heard above him. “Down here!” He shouted probably to no avail. Hope. @Spooky Mittens & @Witches Brew
  11. Pregnant? Zanzarog was silent for a moment while he pondered on what she said. He had been away for awhile, so he wouldn't have seen any of the early signs that normally came with pregnancy. Morning sickness, mood swings, what have you. Who told her this? Zanzarog doubted anyone in Coth of all places, was educated enough to detect pregnancy so early. Mythandriel certainly wasn't showing by any means. “That's.. that's.. fantastic!” Zanzarog shouted, his hands immediately took hold of her waist and lifted her up into the air. Spinning her around a couple times before putting her back down safely onto the ground. “Who confirmed this?” He inquired. Zanzarog was excited, that much was certain. There was also a large amount of worry and paranoia running right alongside it. Mythandriel likely wouldn't pick up on those due to how exaggerated his excitement had been. How was he going to do what he needed to do with Mythandriel carrying his child? Was this the test Nisnav hinted at? All of this was frustrating and exciting all at the same time. Before Mythandriel had a chance to answer his question, he pulled her back into his embrace once more. “I hope it takes after you. I'm not too great looking.” Zan laughed. @Witches Brew
  12. “On time for once, that's a surprise.” Zanzarog's voice came from seemingly nowhere. Emerging from the brush clad in a dark robe, his hands were folded into the sleeves and the bottom dragged along the ground, he was practically a shadow. A massive one, but a shadow nonetheless. “We don't have much time. They have probably already realized I'm missing.” His hood shifted as he looked over his shoulder back towards the swamp. They? Who was he referring to? Zanzarog needed to keep Mythandriel in the dark for now. “I have something for you. I borrowed it from someone back at camp.” Shuffling around in his robe an open hand outstretched toward her, within it was a necklace. The chain itself was gold, it shimmered when the moonlight struck it just right, but the prize was the jewel attached. Crimson and rather large in size, it pulsed vibrantly in his palm, rhythmically even. “This necklace is special, well, it is now that I got my hands on it.” A chuckle escaped him. “Don't ask me how, but it's imbued with parts of my very essence. It pulses along with my heartbeat.” Zanzarog continued. Now Mythandriel wouldn't have to worry whether or not he was alive, she had reassurance with every glow. “We will have to meet in secret from here on out, it might be days, weeks, even months until we can safely see each other again.” He explained. Once he finished speaking, he stepped closer to her and embraced her. Wrapping his massive frame around her and squeezing lightly. “I love you Mythandriel and I always will.” @Witches Brew
  13. “I don't belong in that place anymore.” Zanzarog scoffed. It was up to Mythandriel to decide which place he was referring to. “Your time is up,” Zanzarog added, he cast a sidelong glance at the demonic creature leering at them. Hopefully Mythandriel could read lips. ‘Meet me here tonight’, was mouthed just before his helmet was repositioned atop his head, a skeletal grimace stared at her once more. “You never saw us.” His fiendish companion felt the need to chime in, only to swallow hard when Zanzarog silenced him with a stare. “Until we meet again.” An armored hand sought the top of her head, giving her a pat. Twirling his halberd, it positioned itself across his back once more and he took a step back creating distance between the two of them. Mythandriel wouldn't be able to read his facial expression due to his visage; however, his tone said it all, regret carried it. But it was too late for that now, there was no turning back now, the path he chose forbid it. Forbid them. But perhaps there was a fork somewhere that would allow him to be with her once more. “Goodbye, beautiful.” His orcish dialect came into play, he doubted the demon understood it. @Witches Brew
  14. “As you wish.” An enormous hand rose to take hold of the visage, fingers snaked into the sockets and lifted it. Mythandriel's assumption was correct. Zanzarog was the man behind the mask. His face was riddled with scars and lacerations, one was far more prominent than the others, it stretched diagonally from his forehead to his upper lip. His right eye was a cloudly white, blinded from the injury. Heavy bags laid underneath his eyes, as if he hadn't slept for days, weeks even. One of his tusks was capped with silver, likely due to a break. Nisnav's torture had done a number on his appearance, but nothing compared to the mental strain. “I forgot how persistent you can be, Mythandriel.” Zanzarog's voice had also dramatically changed, it wasn't just the helmet altering it. Lifting his chin, more scarring was visible at the throat, it appeared his vocal chords had been savagely operated on. “As promised,” In one swift motion the halberd came down, the blade hovered just inches away from her face. Inching closer, the point of the weapon would rest underneath of her chin, lifting it to force a stare, assuming his monstrous appearance diverted her eyes. His face contoured into a smirk. “Do we have time for this, m'Lord?” A fiendish voice called out from the brush. Red eyes peered out at Mythandriel and their Master. Moving the brush from its face, it was a demonic looking creature, impish in nature. “Either kill her or let her go, I'm sure the opportunity will present itself again later.” It hissed. “Aye, you might be right about that.” Zanzarog added, lowering his weapon. “If you have something to say to me, now's the time, otherwise… you'll have a chance to scream it next time we meet.” @Witches Brew
  15. The chase was on. Black Phillip was fast, but his stamina wasn't on par with his speed. Soon the beast would slow down; however, they had quite a head start, so by the time they did come to a stop they were exactly where they needed to be, bordering the forest and swampland. They would be waiting for her there, giving the Springjack a moment or two to catch his breath. The Necromancer would dismount and draw his halberd, wielding it upright and motionless. “What do you hope to accomplish little Elf? Are you that eager to die?” His voice boomed and his head tilted out of sheer curiosity. “It's not yet your time, but I could certainly make an exception.” @Witches Brew
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