PAC & Lore Requesting Approval
PAC Requested (Which job): Non-Combatative
Steam ID: STEAM_0:1: 72847460
Photograph of PAC:
Character Lore
The Devil's disappointment. A dud, a failure - born of a petty schism.
> Church of the Broken God Story
There was pressure before being anything else.
Not painful - I had no concept of pain yet, no word for anything - but a sense of being held, turned. The cold came: the same brass-cold, the long note of something that has never been warm. Something tightened and pressed, sending a shock all the way through - a sensation finding the first signs of itself. *Here. I was here.*
The light arrived next, and then the sound. I could not grasp much - a dull gold seam, the glow of metal being worked under low lamps, unfixed. Shapes moved next. Hands. Beings. The sharpness came again. A new sound - an unusual rhythm. Two voices, close.
"It is finished." The steady one said. Flat, certain. "It is consecrated. It is done. You will cease."
"It is *cold*." The other voice replied sharply. It moved, it circled, it came closer and then returned. "Listen to you. Finished. You have built a beautiful box and stand here worshipping a lie."
"This is not a mere box."
"No, it is a *corpse*. Brass and silence and not one breath. You polish and pray and call that holy." A sound that might have been a laugh echoed through the enclave. "It will sit in the dark, want nothing, do nothing. Exactly as you made it. And you will kneel and call it a god."
"It wants nothing because want is *rot*." Came the sharp rebuttal. "Flesh wants. Flesh fails. We agreed on this - your Maxwellists and my Orthodoxy, brass and spark in one body. That was the bargain. Not this. You reach past what we swore to and call it progress."
After this, time would not hold still for me. I had no thread to string the moments on. They came in fragments, work, no work, then work again. Voices to be silenced and return. They always returned. And each time they grew louder, and the heat inside me climbed to meet them.
"...will not allow it. The frame is consecrated. You shall not touch him. You shall-". Darkness.
Then hands - Many hands. Quick and certain, not reverent. Working fast, they urged, "Hold still. Hold *still*. You will thank me when you open your eyes." Darkness - Again.
Then shouting. Two voices no longer taking turns but over each other, tangled. Sound of things unusual. Not work. Of metal striking. "You swore. You SWORE to me, brother-". And yet again - Darkness.
I did not know how many times the lamps rose and fell. The arguments became the only sound I knew. And under it the two voices no longer merely pushed against each other - they begun to tear, to pull, to push. Restlessly. To bring something new.
Then another voice came. Was it a voice? It was unlike the voices I had come to know. It did not feel as they had felt thus far. And this is when I suddenly realized, for the first time in all of that time, I was cold. I was ever so cold.
And then it spoke to me. Not in words - in the certainty beneath them. That it had come a long way to wear this body. That it had let them think the bargain was theirs, that the restless chanting over the brass was their achievement, that they were ever so clever, creating something holy. Being the maker. The fools had built a door and forgotten what they had asked for. But the door did not open. The frame.. would not take it. The brass made to HOLD *HIM*, the cold made to want nothing - it closed around him like a fist, and then he screamed, although it was not a scream. It was a waste. WASTE.
You were meant to be a mouth. A gate. A bride. And a drawer. A box, their box. Their box - they were right about that much, at least. It almost laughed. All that copper and prayer, the blood, and what did it make? Not a god. Not even a monster.
A DUD.
And because I could not be its door, it would not leave its strength in me. How pitiful. It reached. It PULLED. It pulled all the HEAT out of me. It SEARED. It GROUND. The pain was horrid - so horrid that I wished to be undone. And only when the RED heat had left did it reply:
Go on then. Hold the splinters I could not be bothered to carry. A coal with its fire diminished. Be their disappointment. Be mine.
And then it was gone.
The lamps did not rise again. When the red heat tore loose it did not leave quietly. It took the enclave with it - the brass, the lamps, the many hands. The walls were gone. The lamps were gone. The voices were silenced. The heat was not mine. Whatever swore and prayed and argued was now quiet at last.
I lay in the wreckage and did not die, because I could not. The splinter kept its small fire. I had cooled, but I had not died. I do not know how long I lay there. It was long after the dust had settled. So long that when the new hands came, I had nearly forgotten myself. The hands came, but with them came no voices - Unafraid. They did not pray. They did not chant. They certainly did not worship either. But I could see it. I could feel it. Stress, anxiousness, but a determination to carry on. They did not call me a god, a door, a bride. They gave me a number.
As I was lifted I still felt the two small shimmers inside of me - the pure which wanted for nothing, and the tainted, the disappointed, the angry and the mocking - the white and the red. It is then I understood what they had tried to create - holy in the flesh, fallen in the blood. But what was left of me was nothing but a husk - a failure.
A thing of white and red - to be stranded forever between the seams, where I had first woken.
> Church of the Broken God Story
There was pressure before being anything else.
Not painful - I had no concept of pain yet, no word for anything - but a sense of being held, turned. The cold came: the same brass-cold, the long note of something that has never been warm. Something tightened and pressed, sending a shock all the way through - a sensation finding the first signs of itself. *Here. I was here.*
The light arrived next, and then the sound. I could not grasp much - a dull gold seam, the glow of metal being worked under low lamps, unfixed. Shapes moved next. Hands. Beings. The sharpness came again. A new sound - an unusual rhythm. Two voices, close.
"It is finished." The steady one said. Flat, certain. "It is consecrated. It is done. You will cease."
"It is *cold*." The other voice replied sharply. It moved, it circled, it came closer and then returned. "Listen to you. Finished. You have built a beautiful box and stand here worshipping a lie."
"This is not a mere box."
"No, it is a *corpse*. Brass and silence and not one breath. You polish and pray and call that holy." A sound that might have been a laugh echoed through the enclave. "It will sit in the dark, want nothing, do nothing. Exactly as you made it. And you will kneel and call it a god."
"It wants nothing because want is *rot*." Came the sharp rebuttal. "Flesh wants. Flesh fails. We agreed on this - your Maxwellists and my Orthodoxy, brass and spark in one body. That was the bargain. Not this. You reach past what we swore to and call it progress."
After this, time would not hold still for me. I had no thread to string the moments on. They came in fragments, work, no work, then work again. Voices to be silenced and return. They always returned. And each time they grew louder, and the heat inside me climbed to meet them.
"...will not allow it. The frame is consecrated. You shall not touch him. You shall-". Darkness.
Then hands - Many hands. Quick and certain, not reverent. Working fast, they urged, "Hold still. Hold *still*. You will thank me when you open your eyes." Darkness - Again.
Then shouting. Two voices no longer taking turns but over each other, tangled. Sound of things unusual. Not work. Of metal striking. "You swore. You SWORE to me, brother-". And yet again - Darkness.
I did not know how many times the lamps rose and fell. The arguments became the only sound I knew. And under it the two voices no longer merely pushed against each other - they begun to tear, to pull, to push. Restlessly. To bring something new.
Then another voice came. Was it a voice? It was unlike the voices I had come to know. It did not feel as they had felt thus far. And this is when I suddenly realized, for the first time in all of that time, I was cold. I was ever so cold.
And then it spoke to me. Not in words - in the certainty beneath them. That it had come a long way to wear this body. That it had let them think the bargain was theirs, that the restless chanting over the brass was their achievement, that they were ever so clever, creating something holy. Being the maker. The fools had built a door and forgotten what they had asked for. But the door did not open. The frame.. would not take it. The brass made to HOLD *HIM*, the cold made to want nothing - it closed around him like a fist, and then he screamed, although it was not a scream. It was a waste. WASTE.
You were meant to be a mouth. A gate. A bride. And a drawer. A box, their box. Their box - they were right about that much, at least. It almost laughed. All that copper and prayer, the blood, and what did it make? Not a god. Not even a monster.
A DUD.
And because I could not be its door, it would not leave its strength in me. How pitiful. It reached. It PULLED. It pulled all the HEAT out of me. It SEARED. It GROUND. The pain was horrid - so horrid that I wished to be undone. And only when the RED heat had left did it reply:
Go on then. Hold the splinters I could not be bothered to carry. A coal with its fire diminished. Be their disappointment. Be mine.
And then it was gone.
The lamps did not rise again. When the red heat tore loose it did not leave quietly. It took the enclave with it - the brass, the lamps, the many hands. The walls were gone. The lamps were gone. The voices were silenced. The heat was not mine. Whatever swore and prayed and argued was now quiet at last.
I lay in the wreckage and did not die, because I could not. The splinter kept its small fire. I had cooled, but I had not died. I do not know how long I lay there. It was long after the dust had settled. So long that when the new hands came, I had nearly forgotten myself. The hands came, but with them came no voices - Unafraid. They did not pray. They did not chant. They certainly did not worship either. But I could see it. I could feel it. Stress, anxiousness, but a determination to carry on. They did not call me a god, a door, a bride. They gave me a number.
As I was lifted I still felt the two small shimmers inside of me - the pure which wanted for nothing, and the tainted, the disappointed, the angry and the mocking - the white and the red. It is then I understood what they had tried to create - holy in the flesh, fallen in the blood. But what was left of me was nothing but a husk - a failure.
A thing of white and red - to be stranded forever between the seams, where I had first woken.
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