4292/Lost to Apathy

Lost to Apathy
Date of Scene:	07 July 2016
Location:	The Brutal Lands
Synopsis:	A chaos sorcerer meets the soul thrashing black sorceress. Undivided Chaos finds delight in the Brutal Lands
Cast of Characters:	975, 1008

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Drowned Ophelia (975) has posed:
Imagine, for a moment, a land; A brutal world built on metaphor given flesh, where exhaust pipes push up from the ground and beer trees pour their amber fluid for the consumption of the masses. Where giant spiders spin bass strings, the difference between 'weapon' and 'music' is thinner than intent, and everything is generally just fucking awesome thanks to the Gods of Metal.

Far on the eastern continent of this warped and broken land is the home of the Drowning Doom. The gloom that perverts and warps all around them has taken seed here; Graveyards spout like mushrooms, dead trees swaying with thin films of bridal veils and a freezing mist continually pours from rifts in the earth. The closer one gets to the Sea of Black Tears, the worse the infection of Sorrow becomes; Undead mill in their mutated and confused masses, resting from the last Season of Pain and regaining their strength. The very air shudders with the sound of metal; Beautiful fucking metal. Pale creatures sulk and stew, content in their apathy, while more esoteric forms - crawling heads or ghostly sirens - scream and wail in rapture to the misery, sickly things that worship the Dead Gods of Black Metal.

Within the cave itself, appearing more like a rotting skull than anything else, lays the Sea itself; More of a lake in terms of width, but like sadness it goes far deeper than it does wide. A small platform juts out from the stoney shore into the black waters, which tremble and shift slowly. But of the creature herself, the Queen of Tears, there is no sign - yet. The perverse, the broken hearted, the narcisstic nihilists are welcomed here among the Doom.

THEMESONG: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GZqfH1LQEOQ

Argast Wyrdseeker (1008) has posed:
    Such a place drew the eye of many things, but today it drew the attention of the gods of chaos. Primarily the prince of excess, Slaneesh, wanted to know what this place withheld, and to a lesser extent Tzeench was curious about the seemingly undead. Riding in on his fire-hooved nightmare steed, Argast and his warband arrived. He looked to the closest undead and dismounted. Every step he took, his chaos staff clanged onto the ground. "You...Tell me who is lord of this strange, yet delightful land. My gods must know.."

Drowned Ophelia (975) has posed:
A fire hooved steed? Wouldn't even draw a bat of an eye; Not with the Reapers running loose on screaming skeletal horses looking for beating hearts to cut down. Or the RazorBoars, one part long-neck chopper bike, one part stab-pig. The gathered hoardes of the Doom part as the Sorcerer moves within, the occasional patrol returning or heading out; Huge vehicles made in the Judas Priest vein, with trembling blowers and V10s crackling with fire. Most of some form of tortured undead strapped to them; A man in an electric chair, jittering with excitement and a rictus grin as he pilots his own execution about. Or a opera phantom stamping and hammering in time to the thrashing black metal, cackling in mad rejoicing at what can only be called a fusion of rock organ and hot rod. Small baby carriages that carry explosive dolls, floating brides with small lightning storms spiraling above them.
Death Metal. It's not a sound - it's a way of life. A civilization.

One of the NecroMoshers - creatures stolen from Middle Earth's Gol Dutha during the Black Flags Tour - cackles madly, metal blades driven into it's boney form clanking and clashing as it points a clawed hand towards the cave. Towards the Sea of Black Tears. A Dork - orc corrupted with the Black Tears - adjusts heavy metal frames, and licks a tusk. "What my compatriot is saying is we - the Drowning Doom - are headed by our front woman, Drowned Ophelia." The Dork pauses. "Although the appropriate term for our kind is Tear Drinkers. Of course, I was drinking from the Black Tears before it was cool."
As if on cue, the rambling mass of Undead part, leaving a path forward to the cave itself. From within, the liquid concentration of grief, misery, and sorrow beckon - a faint salty smell, fresh turned earth, like memories that refuse to die.

Argast Wyrdseeker (1008) has posed:
    "Tear drinkers. An interesting name." Argast says. His warband chatter amongst themselves, though the followers of Slaneesh shout out how they have arrived at home. Argast motions for them all to follow him. The smell intruiged him the most, and what it made him think of. "Lord Tzeench...this would be a boon to your service, I am sure." He muses. More and more, the sorceror found himself liking the Drowning Doom.

Drowned Ophelia (975) has posed:
For a creature of Chaos, the Brutal World might feel just like coming home. Hell, Slaneesh warriors might just suck up the sounds at the Screaming Wall, a massive seaside cliff of amplifiers where even the most casual of seagull call can cause a thunderous rippling. For the Khornites, the eternal warzone that is the wilds, where demonic armies march against human allies and the drowned dead. Tzeench? The constant mutated twisting of swallowed sorrow from the Sea of Black Tears. Even the Lord of Plagues would find home in the poisonous Tainted Coil.

As the warband approaches, the Sea of Black Tears boils; Bubbles rush to the top, burbling and growing taller and taller. The screaming, wailing, gnashing of teeth from the Drowning Doom grows louder - an audience growing louder as the lead singer approaches the metaphorical stage. And Ophelia rises, garnered in the liquid ectoplasm of the Black Tears like a tight dress, her skin a pale blue, the ebon ichor forming claws where fingers should be. Her claws twitch, and eyes open. Black lips pull into a smirk, before she lifts a hand. Walking across the water to the stoney shore
"Oh. Hey."

Argast Wyrdseeker (1008) has posed:
    Argast looks over to the singer and offers a bow. "I take it you are the leader of the Tear Drinkers. A pleasure. I am Argast Wyrdseeker. Sorceror Lord of Chaos." He introduces. His followers likewise bow their heards, though each follow their creed's vices. Ophelia would find that the armor Argast wore gave off it's own powerful aura of darkness, almost as if it were alive itself.

Drowned Ophelia (975) has posed:
"Mm hmm. Drowning Doom, now. They were Tear Drinkers, once. Just like my parents."
Ophelia looks past the sorcerer to her own crawling chaos, lifting her hands with palms upwards. The cheering undead's wordless cry rise in a crescendo, before the Queen of Tears turns her attention to your warband. Black claws slithering across metal as she circles, chewing on her lower lip. Eyes flicking to you.
"Love the look. Very ****'ing dark. Brutal." A flash of too white teeth, before she's gliding back to her original position. The black ichor drips from her cheeks and claws as dark tears, poisoned love and grief stricken hate in liquid form.
"I don't get many visitors anymore; At least, not those who are breathing. Can I offer you a drink..?" That playful, wicked little smile again as she gestures to the Sea of Black Tears. Well, she had to try; It was in her nature.

Argast Wyrdseeker (1008) has posed:
    "No, thank you. My armor sustains me. It seperates me from the need for nourishment or even sleep. Many of my followers seek the glory of the chaos gods to gain a set for themselves." That said, a few followers of Slaneesh, inhumanly attractive in their looks, allow themselves to ponder the offer. Argast, meanwhile, gathers up some of the winds he could feel in the area and conjured a small flame in his hand. "If you like brutal, you will love Khorne's deamons. Perhaps in time, the gods will see fit to unleash them." He says, banishing the flame. "Yet...tell me more of your power, this Death Metal."

Drowned Ophelia (975) has posed:
The Queen of Tears' smile thins slightly as her claws curl from their proffering gesture, but she doesn't seem upset by the refusal; After all, everyone will drown in time. That's the thing about water - it gets everywhere. "Oh? I think I would. Why don't you bring them along during the next Season of Pain? I'm real ****'ing sure I can find use for a hardboy."
Eyes flick down to the fire, her palm cupping her elbow, her chin in her hand. Her eyes blink, then turn back to you as you ask about her -favorite- subject; Death Metal. The black lipped smile grows askance as her arms droop, then rise again;
A guitar bubbles into existance between her claws. Long necked with a slender body like a spider curled in death, the machine heads up top being actual wake candles. The Six Stringed Sorrow. She flicks a clawed tip along the lowest string, sliding it up the neck, a dark sound curling away - Air shivers as the wake candles light up with blue flames.
"Death Metal? It pleases the ****'ing Dead Metal Gods. It'll give you power, make you stronger - it'll twist the world to your whims."
Her wrist flicks again, hitting a heavy beat; Armies marching. The fall of hammers. She lifts a leg and slams it down, the ground shuddering in sympathy. She then lets the sound fade away with that single power chord, arm drooped across the Six Stringed Sorrow.
"It's powerful - but it'll have no master. The IronHeades and the ****'ing Tainted Coil have their own sound; What do you need to know?"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2sWn3wiqGJ0

Argast Wyrdseeker (1008) has posed:
    Argast closes his eyes and lets the chord flow over him. He can feel the power of the metal, and all it offered. Yet, it also reminded him of something else. "Hmm....Your words. Spoken like the old shaman of my tribe. Tzeench can offer the same, in terms of the power to re-shape the world." He says, letting a taste of chaotic magic flow from his fingertips. Raw, untamed power licked at both the living and the dead. Small portals that allowed deamons from the realm of chaos itself openned briefly. "Perhaps we have both struck the chords of the same energy, but in different ways. You through the power of death metal, and I through the winds of magic. Imagine the potential if we combined our abilities on your next Season of Pain..." He says, laughing slightly. "The fools of the Empire, and the union would be unable to resist the lures..."

Drowned Ophelia (975) has posed:
"Yeah. I could always use something to spice up the ****'ing side stage."
Laughs the creature, her eyes drifting to the Six Stringed Sorrow. Clawed fingers curl around the neck, thumb stroking with the tenderness of a lover, before she opens her hands - the instrument bubbling out of existance once again. She then presses a finger to her cheek, tilting her head slightly.
"Union; Buncha ****'ing heroes out to do nothing and do it fast. I'm patient, though. I'll see their little hearts break, and their little lights snuff out one after another in the rising tide... It's so very easy for these ****'ing humans to give into sorrow. To sink beneath the waves and float.. But what the ****s an 'Empire'? That like the 'Emperor' of the Tainted Coil? That guys a ****'ing dick."

Argast Wyrdseeker (1008) has posed:
"Not quite. They are fools who follow a god named Sigmar. Blind fools all." Argast says with a shake of his heads. "They refuse to see the truth of chaos. It stirs, remains, and will remake the old world. They will either submit or die." He says, staff slamming into the ground. He then looks to Ophelia. "Their emperor is named Karl Franz. An elector count and a fool." Though he takes a knee, and hovers his hand over the ichor. "But....I wonder how he would like a bath in this..."

Drowned Ophelia (975) has posed:
As if stirred by the thought of swallowing an Emperor, the Sea of Black Tears churns. Slow waves roll to the stoney beach, and are dragged thickly backwards, clinging to the rocks as they go. Drowned Ophelia's own smile brightening up slightly; Less to do with happiness, more to do with showing teeth. "I'm sure it'd help him see things differently; When your breath grows cold and still, your whole perspective can open right up." She laughs, cracked and more than a little broken. "Hey, bring the ****'er on by sometime. We'll see how many bubbles he has in his throat - hell, maybe I'll let him be a footstool.. if he comes back up afterwards."
She wiggles a finger, 'come-hither' style, as she's walking out to the cheering crowd of the insane undead. The Six Stringed Sorrow hisses back to existance once again between her hands, claws flickering along the strings. The tune - the shuddering sound that seemed to come from the air itself - is seized; Changed. The pace quickened, Drowned Ophelia tilting her head back as she communes with METAL. Electricity flickers off the neck, grounding itself at her feet, the strings of the Six Stringed Sorrow beginning to glow.
Pot fires explode away from her in a line, clearing space as the wind picks up, forming storm clouds above. This was Drowned Ophelia's HOUSE, the seat of her power. The screaming throngs of undead grow louder, drowned out as lightning bursts from the clouds above to strike in front of the creature. And then again and again, faster and faster until it forms a cage of twisting, living light. It culminates in a crackling explosion that leaves the taint of ozone on the air, Drowned Ophelia letting the tune chop away. And there is - The Hearse! One part cadaver carrier, one part hot rod, a roll testament and temple to DEATH METAL. It's engine already rumbling, frame shuddering with restrained power.

"Look, I've got a gig to hit, but it was real cool talking to you. -Finally- someone who gets the need to push everyone under." A girlish, broken giggle.