Non-Weekly Quote:
(Updated when the fancy strikes us)
"Strong Pokemon, weak Pokemon. That is only the selfish perception of people. Truly skilled trainers win with their favorites" - Karen, E4
Did someone say missions? Because I think I just heard someone say missions. Current Tourney Leaders James Ramos - 2/0 Randy Savage - 2/0 Breia Exarch - 1/0 Daniel Genrud - 1/0 Sophia Blackwell - 1/0 Zackary Joel Ortega - 1/1 Devlin - -0/70 |
|
| You are currently viewing Althea as a guest. If you would like to view the RP forums or post in the out of character forums, please register an account. Enjoy your stay! Join our community If you're already a member please log in to your account to access all of our features. |
| The Weight of One's Sins | |
|---|---|
| Topic Started: Mar 2 2010, 06:17:39 PM (99 Views) | |
| Hex | Mar 2 2010, 06:17:39 PM Post #1 |
RIP AND TEAR!
|
(Disclaimer: concept inspired by Dante's Inferno's Death boss fight. Death's final lines quoted from Mass Effect 2's ending for dramatic effect, and because quite frankly they sound freaking AWESOME.) Wrote this for BVS forums, fanfiction of my character thar. His Senkai release is based around the scythe, and I wanted to expound on how he got it. Also, had a 8-12 page paper due for college shit and needed something to write about ASAP. -_- Also, randompic tiem, since there was very little description of Asta proper - third person limited perspective, from his PoV, so paying much attention to how he looked seemed a bit narcissistic.  - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Oh. Well. That could have gone better. The elder kaiju surveyed the sea of blood and flesh with a clinical eye, his demeanor betraying little of the struggle within as he attempted to convince himself that it had all been necessary, that it had not been his own weakness that had led to this holocaust of life. Perhaps if he had been just a little bit more diplomatic, if his initial attempts to mollify the mob of mortals had not been wasted on their superstitions, they might have been able to amicably part, to the benefit of both parties. Perhaps if he had simply made a lurid demonstration of the first attacker, rather than simply knocking out the halfwit with the flat of his own blade, the rest of the group might have been sufficiently cowed to let the unmotivated daemon leave without a single drop of innocent blood on his hands. Perhaps if he had better judged the individual skill levels of the ringleaders, realized that two had themselves been nearing kaiju-class power simply through raw chakra capacity and concentration rather than the Rites of Ascension, Astaroth chided himself, he would not have so direly underestimated the lot of them, would not have had to release the control arts, would not have turned the quiet, grassy plain into a churning maelstrom of broken corpses, of seething detritus and severed limbs - a morass of blood and bile. And perhaps he might not be dying, but that seemed less important for some reason. Astaroth wasn't sure why, actually. Seemed completely ridiculous; he hadn't known any of the idiots, and neither he nor the earth itself would mourn their deaths. They had brought it on themselves by attacking him and refusing to avail themselves of repeated offers to let them walk away scot-free; he certainly hadn't been looking for a slaughter, though that was as much from laziness as his own dubious set of morals. It was the unwanted knowledge that the victims had left others behind, families and lovers, friends and battle-brothers. Innocents who would have to come to terms with the death of their loved ones, who might decide to take it out on him. Perhaps rightly - he did not care to delve too deeply into that line of reasoning. It was as much his own inability to retain control that bothered him as the death, though, and that dissonance bothered him as much as either of the two major problems. Kaiju, by definition, were unstable beings. The crux of their entire existence was that – while still human - they had become one with two or more demons, literally absorbed and subjugated the spirits of the vile creatures and added the creatures' power to their own. Once they had Ascended, or "undergone apotheosis" as some preferred to refer to it as, their form was no longer solid, concrete; it became limited by nothing but their own imagination and the subtle guidance of the depths of their psyche. Some preferred to keep their original form, while others allowed themselves to change drastically, acquiring tentacles, altering the material from which they were formed, growing dozens of feet taller, or any number of vastly improbable forms that nevertheless were brought to fruition by their sheer willpower. Their form became as much a part of them as their personality; muteable, but as integral to their psyche as their daily routines and positions of power. And nearly all of them did have positions of power – charismatic or no, they were literal beacons of power, attracting others to their causes, their villages, their war-clans. Even if they happened to look like an angry old dude dressed in simple white and blue-green robes and had a penchant for avoiding work. He still wasn't sure whether his mind had been playing a trick on him, or if he had just been high as a kite when he thought that up as his permanent form. Even if he was pretty much used to it by now. To release control - to relent for even a moment from the constant task of repressing the shattered remains of the psyches of the demons they had once absorbed, was to simply transfer it to the beasts that waited, ever vigilant, ever malevolent, ever lusting for that which they had lost. Some kaiju lived for that sensation, threw caution to the winds and shared control freely with their guests. Others had found ways to suppress them, to completely incinerate all remains of the demons that had lived for a fleeting moment of time within them. Astaroth was not so lucky. Or skilled, he supposed. Perhaps it was simply that he was not yet up to the task. That was the reason that he stressed control in every aspect of his being; measured his reactions, avoided using more force than necessary, opted for diplomacy rather than war whenever possible. Granted, part of it was just that he was lazy and the latter of each option required more effort on his part than the former, but that wasn't really the point. He wasn't quite sure what the point had been, actually. Astaroth was reasonably certain that he had been going somewhere with that line of thought, but things were becoming quite foggy in a roundabout way, and for some reason he couldn't quite remember what the initial thought had been. Something about his fellows. Their forms? No, that didn't quite sound right. Or maybe it did. It did sound vaguely right, but he wasn't quite sure why. The subject seemed tangentially related at best, so it didn't entirely make sense to have been the focus of what he'd been thinking about. Maybe he had been pondering it for exactly that reason – but no, there had been a larger point in there. Somewhere. Maybe the part about kaiju being very resilient...? No, probably not. It was true enough – kaiju were, after all, humanity evolved; already-powerful warriors amped up to eleven, lethally honed killing machines bulwarked by the raw power of high-class demons and shielded by their own raw power as much as by any sort of actual defensive skill. Some didn't even bother avoiding most attacks; they could ignore them or regenerate immediately anyways, so why ruin a glorious acrobatic maneuver or unstoppable rampage just to pull an arrow out of your shoulder when it would pop out on its own in less than a second? Oh, right. That hadn't been the point he was trying to make, but it was related. Vaguely. Well, he hadn't actually been trying to make a point, Astaroth vaguely recalled through the haze, but there had been the part about opening the Gates. In retrospect, not one of his better ideas. Sure, limitless power, body's true potential, immensely boosting combat ability temporarily, all that rot. That was part of why he'd learned the technique, back when he'd been a power-hungry idiot who thought that spending one's life in search of power was a perfectly legitimate way to live. Oh, those were the days. Things were so much simpler then, and no one saw him as a threat then – and rightly so, though Astaroth was loath to classify himself as a threat even now, unless cooking a mean batch of scrambled eggs every morning and avoiding people – and work – with equal gusto for the rest of the day was threatening to anyone else on the damn continent. The kaiju's thoughts were interrupted for a moment as he paused to unceremoniously drop to his knees, unable to support himself any longer. Not that he had actually been consciously supporting himself for the last minute or two, given that his body seemed to have stopped reacting to any of the commands he'd been trying to act out in the meantime, but the slurry of liquefied life seemed to be moving. Which was a little weird, Astaroth had to admit to himself. Weirder than the day had already been, that is. Given that it was a reasonably flat plain, inside a small depression as it so happened, it didn't seem entirely realistic that there would be a whole lot going on with the area's layout. Short of an earthquake, of course, but there wasn't nearly enough scalding lava melting things nor yawning chasms opening up to swallow him whole to support that theory. Unless earthquakes were invisible, now, in which case he was pretty much just screwed. Wait, no, that didn't even make sense. Sort of. Well, it was more the effects – what did an earthquake look like, anyways? ...More screwed. It wasn't like he'd make it another two minutes regardless; he had opened the eighth Gate in his body, that of Death, and while it had certainly allowed him to surpass his own body's limits to the point that he'd been able to dispose of the more skilled of the mob without having to release control of his primal form, that was a small blessing given that it had consigned him to death regardless. In retrospect, that was sort of the whole thing with the Gates – eight gates, opening each one gives a larger increase in performance as the user surpasses the usual natural safeguards in their body, but with significant downsides once the action was over – but Astaroth had sort of been banking on... well, he wasn't quite sure what, exactly. It just didn't seem right that for all he'd accomplished, despite having used that technique to try to avoid losing control, the end result was that he'd be dead in minutes anyways. So much for karma; you spend half your career trying to be a halfway decent dude and end up dying in a ditch anyways, and karma just walks by and takes a dump on your still-cooling corpse. Well, okay, in retrospect, he really should have seen this coming. Just because he had a fancy new title and the ability to shamelessly flaunt some laws of nature didn't mean that he could flaunt all of them, and demon spirits or no, Astaroth was not so egotistical as to think that he was a god. Proper noun or common, didn't matter. The point was that he had stuck to his principles and remained in control until the end, and there was no guarantee that reverting form would have led to a better result, overall; he would have won, of course – primal kaiju were effectively invulnerable, and only vaguely less so to their own kind – but how much damage the amalgamation of the spirits inside him would have wreaked, on -his- village's land, before he had been able to regain control. There would very likely have been casualties, and Astaroth, for his part, was willing to gamble with his own life in order to avoid wasting those of his villagers. Even if he really would have preferred to, you know, not die. The distracted kaiju may have very well spent the remainder of his rapidly-dwindling life lost in thought had he not been distracted by a pleasant little whirlpool developing not far in front of him, providing the thick film of claret with an outlet. Confused as his thought processes were, it still seemed off, for some reason. There hadn't been nearly that much blood to start with, depression or no, and even if there had, it should have been gone by now – at the rate that the grisly slurry seemed to be flowing into the depression, which he couldn't quite see into, it should have been long gone by now. And something was coming out of the crimson chasm; inchoate shadow, formless yet purposeful. Ensanguined ebony rose above the edge of the chasm, blood cascading off of its coalescing form in thick rivulets that seemed to fill the chasm as it arose; by the time the indistinct figure was entirely above the brink, the entire chasm had filled up, even raising the level of the rest of the pool to knee height with the foul, viscous liquid. And at the center of it all, wrapped in tattered ebon robes forever stained in crimson, ascended a figure; vague, nebulous, writhing shadow cloaking the cracked ivory of ancient ribcage and grinning skull. Eyes shining with malevolence more foul than any Astaroth had encountered glimmered darkly within its shrouded brow, as skeletal hands formed from the void, bones appearing in place as one gargantuan hand pointed at the fallen daemon. Silent, judgmental, accusing. Death spoke. The voice cascaded around the arena, cold and caustic, erupting from every direction as though it were a thousand judgments in one. “Your fate is decided. Everlasting damnation for your sins.” The world broke. Astaroth could do little more than watch as everything outside the sea of blood, which was incidentally currently engaged in soaking his trousers rather unpleasantly, disintegrated. Earth and sky became one as they entered the cold embrace of oblivion, the very planet around him breaking and falling apart in a cataclysm beyond imagining. Shards of crust, their size beyond reckoning, shattered into smaller shards, which in turn were swallowed by the devouring void. The hills around them disappeared as well, drawn whole into the gaping maw of nothingness, leaving naught behind but the circular arena in which he knelt – still grisly with the remains of the last battle, blood continuing to pour from Death's cowl. Either the world really had just freaking exploded, or he was dead. Or hallucinating. Possibly all three. Astaroth, for his part, did not care to ponder too heavily which of the three was more likely. He was too busy trying to come to terms with the idea of – death. No, Death. Kaiju did not... “die.” At worst, they retreated. Short-term. With that much sheer regenerative ability, nothing short of absolutely eradicating every fiber of a kaiju's being could possibly actually kill one, and so far no one had been able to actually pull it off, though not for lack of trying. Throughout history, not a single kaiju had actually died. Period. Even during the short – but violent – orgy of violence once the first batch were born. War had very nearly become obsolete; oh, sure, there were border skirmishes and constant in-fighting, but it was all between mortals or during diplomacy. Half of it was friendly, by this point. Heck, he knew half of the kaiju personally, didn't get along with most of them, and they'd still never bothered declaring war. Didn't accomplish much, just wasted time and effort. So – on one hand, he was making history. That was kind of cool. Not the good kind of history, though. It was really more of the kind that ended up with the person to discover it dead and nailed to a wall, or a cross, or a ceiling. That was... well, that was sort of the other hand. The part about dying, that was. Astaroth wasn't entirely sure he was on board with that. It really didn't seem worth the trouble. And then there was the whole part about leaving his village behind, which was also not entirely to his liking. They apparently liked having him around, for some reason he'd never quite been able to fathom, and leaving them alone would pretty much just translate to a quick and inordinately bloody takeover by the nearest kaiju. Leaderless villages tended to go that way, and quickly to boot. Too many leaders and not enough land; the instant they sensed weakness, any of the neighboring territories would invade, butcher anyone who resisted, and take over. The daemon had spent much of the last few decades training his villagers, determined that even if he should meet an untimely fate they would be able to take care of themselves – but it was too early, dammit. None of them were anywhere near complete with their training, and even if they had been, the likelihood of holding off another kaiju for any length of time was nil at best. So. Not really an option. He hated to be difficult, but the situation was sort of untenable; it wasn't so much that he was afraid of dying personally – Astaroth had always been vaguely curious if there was actually any truth to that religion rot, and if so, how viable a training ground the underworld might prove to be – but the whole thing with the village sort of rankled, and besides, it didn't seem entirely right that he be thanked for saving a bunch of lives by dying horribly. For that matter, death by drowning on a bloody platform in the middle of space after exploding the Earth was not high on his list of things to do. It was roughly forty-seventh, right after finding - and giving a big manly hug to - whoever invented the idea of stabbing people in the face, but still ranked above dying deep underground due to a freak accident involving full-body implosion. The voice came once more, a chorus of whispers sounding layered between each word. “Come, face eternity. Soon, you will be joined by those whose lives you have ruined, whose souls you have damned.” Ah. Well. That simplified things. A lot. Astaroth wasn't entirely sure how he had damned anyone, or what “damning” someone entailed for that matter, but it sort of sounded like a threat to his village. That, he could not allow. Whether or not it was this intruder's fault or if it – he? - was simply doing its – his? - job, the kaiju was not prepared to simply lie down and leave his flock to the ravages of Death himself. And so, he stood. Slowly, of course, but he stood. Astaroth did not think too deeply on why it was possible now when it had been entirely impossible just a few moments ago, for down that line of reasoning was the constant niggling question – what if he was already dead? If that were true, nothing he did now could have any real effect; he was not willing to adopt that mindset, and so simply gratefully accepted the blessing as gracefully as he could. It was not as easy as it had seemed, at first, and the azure and alabaster of his robes were now freely mixed with crimson – but he was standing, able to move, and with the will to fight. Even if it was little more than willpower animating his body, given that he seemed to be entirely out of chakra. Not surprising, given that that was yet another helpful side effect of opening too many Gates, but still annoying. Without jutsu, without body reinforcement and essence imbues, he would have little to rely on but his blades and well over a century of weapon training. Every movement was slow and tortuous, pain lancing through every fiber of his being as he gradually moved one arm to the hilt of the upper of the two weapons at his side, but each twinge of pain, each torn muscle, was an affirmation that he was alive, that all of this was to at least some degree real – that there was a chance, a very real chance, that he could make a difference. That, if his training and willpower did not fail him now, that he might be able to avoid failing his battle-brothers and sisters, save the innocents, live to protect them from other threats. In light of the magnitude of the situation, expecting everything from himself seemed like little more than a natural response, a duty that he would be woefully deficient as a person and as a daemon were he to shirk it. There was little doubt that it was his duty to try, his duty to succeed. To accept any other result would be to fail, completely and utterly. He spoke, then; certain of his words, certain that he had at least a chance. Whether that was wishful thinking or simple fact remained to be seen, and he did not intend to ponder that dilemma. “You govern the fate of death. But even fate is a truth wound by time.” Death did not immediately grace him with a reply, simply wordlessly extending the outstretched hand fully as it moved the arm to the side, an ill wind blowing as the singularity that had begun to form began tearing bits and pieces from reality around him in order to assume its true form. The scythe's massive ivory blade appeared first, pulsing with a corona of ebon shadow, and the intertwined bone and steel that formed its handle writhed in endless torment as each shard of the spinal cord that served as the handle coalesced in its hand. As it finished forming a moment later, the wind, which had been picking up the entire time, erupted in a wildly pulsating hurricane of scything chakra before abruptly dying down, vanishing completely into the void surrounding them as the sea around them calmed. It spoke once more, any semblance of civility buried under the unbridled anger that flowed through each word, each of the thousand reverberating voices seemingly more incensed than the last. “Mortal, you are mine!” The immense blade was as silent as a whisper, but quicker than thought; metahuman reflexes or no, the rebellious kaiju was barely able to halfway unsheathe his own blade before Death's scythe impacted, sending him reeling backwards through the thick muck. The sword was nearly pulled from his hands from the sheer force of the blow, and no sooner had he managed to barely keep from slipping in the slurry before the blade returned, if possible, more violently than the first time – a tempest followed the vicious strike, and as every muscle in his body screamed out in mortal agony, as he felt his legs give way before the unbelievable force, for a fleeting moment, Astaroth knew fear. It was an inimical sensation, one that he had not been cursed with in decades. Part of being in the highest ranks of nearly-invincible god-beings with a clan of fanatically loyal ninja, some among the most powerful on the continent, at his beck and call, was that he tended to run into very few serious problems, much less ones to whom the correct response was “run screaming.” He had always cultivated a sense of humility, as much to fill the vague sensation that something was missing ever since ascension as to remain as human and reasonable as possible, but after long enough spent like that, the senses were deadened somewhat. Atrophied. Even as the sensation washed over him, it was replaced with a curious sort of euphoria, one that took a moment to identify as pleasure, of excitement. It had been so long since he had been able to experience a true life or death fight, combat in which more was at stake than someone's pride, that Astaroth realized he could do little more than revel in the fleeting moment, short though it may be, and take it for all it was worth. As his mind completed the morbid observation, his body reacted naturally, smoothly flowing towards the hulking figure through the thick film of blood and scattered corpses that restricted his fine footwork. To stay purely on the defense would be suicidal. More suicidal than merely taking on freaking Death in mortal combat, anyways. The skeletal apparition had an immense mobility advantage, not to mention an advantage in that it was not essentially holding itself together through sheer willpower, rather than, say, having a working body, and Astaroth was not so egotistical as to think that he could keep it up for long. Hope and purpose could only bulwark him for so long; he would have to push for a quick end, or risk defeat as a result of his own tactical failure. And so, he met the next swing head-on, deflecting it with as little effort as possible and using the opening to stride a few feet closer before being pushed back on the defensive as scythe morphed to spear, razor-edged tip shooting towards him faster even than the scythe's deadly arcing swings had been, with even more force behind the tip. To have interposed himself in the blade's way at that point would have been foolish, and he was only borderline dense for having started this whole thing, not pants-on-head speshul. Definitely a big difference, though the end result either way was that he had utterly failed to anticipate the blade snapping back into scythe configuration and coming back at him every bit as quickly, forcing the beleaguered kaiju to defend himself, only barely avoiding being cleaved cleanly in twain. Even if he wasn't sure that this whole thing had been a good idea, that didn't mean that he planned on dying horribly five seconds into combat. While his opponent was certainly an intimidating figure, Astaroth had put too much on this fight to lose – and while Death's scytheplay was unquestionably masterful, the apparition would be hard pressed if forced into close-quarters combat. The scythe's advantages were reach and power, expressed by massive arcing swings, all heavily telegraphed by nature of their execution; in close, they would turn to disadvantages. It seemed that his opponent had reached the same conclusion, as the floating figure receded a few feet to match his approach. The kaiju wasted no time congratulating himself, instead focusing on closing the distance once more; even when skeletal hands burst from the churning lake below them to stop him with the strength of the dead, he obliterated them in a heartbeat and continued the inexorable advance. The scythe came once more, charged with necrotic energy that bubbled and raged across its surface like a living cancer, and rather than face it, Astaroth dashed forwards; constrained by his environment as he was, there was no time to be wasted on flashy parries and counters – even the scant half minute since the fight had begun had already been more than he could have believed possible for his body to have survived, and it was unequivocally informing him that it was not going to be especially helpful for much longer. Environmental hazards be damned, if he was going to win, it had to be soon. His opponent had apparently not been expecting the sudden change in tactics, and was unable to react before the kaiju's sword cut through it, slicing through its ribcage in an instant. It seemed completely unperturbed, but the pain lancing through its voice when it spoke a moment later told volumes of the truth. “Pathetic human. You have changed nothing. You have merely attracted the attention of those infinitely your greater. Those you know as Reapers shall be your salvation through destruction.” And then, abruptly, with no warning or fanfare, it collapsed into the vile, viscous mass in which Astaroth stood, disintegrating instantly into the red, staining it for a moment before vanishing completely. The kaiju stood for a moment, adrenaline still pumping through his veins, waiting for something to happen. It seemed strange, surreal, as though he had been cheated somehow. It simply did not make sense that the Reaper himself should be so fragile that a single slash from a sword, albeit a very well-made one, should instantly kill it. That was – Death! The Reaper himself! If it was as simple as running the poor sod through with the nearest pointy object, any halfwit with a butter knife could call himself immortal, and back up the statement. ...Eh, maybe it had been an off day for the harbinger of all that was generally unpleasant. Astaroth, not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, shrugged and moved the retrieve the scythe, which the monster had dropped before disappearing; it looked like a fine weapon, and while it would likely be a bit unwieldy, it could at least serve as a trophy. And besides, using Death's scythe might be a good way to intimidate people, which would lead to great things, like keeping them from attacking him. Classy and utilitarian, the best of both worlds! He picked up the weapon, and in an instant, the raw, necrotic essence of the underworld rushed through him, a tsunami of power that cascaded through every fiber of the daemon's being. An instant later, another force of necrotic energy tore through him as Death's bony talons rent his back, shredding flash and bone with equal ease. His reaction was purely physical, completely separate from any sort of cognitive function or actual planning; long before Astaroth even realized what was happening, he had intuitively moved forwards, blunting the force of the blow and protecting organs from harm, before spinning in place and cleaving the treacherous thing cleanly in half, bisecting it at a forty five degree angle. The effects were obvious and immediate; the bottom half instantly disintegrated into its component particles, while the upper half simply floated in place for a moment, grinding out a few words before vanishing in thin air. “You have failed. We will find another way.” Once more, the world around him imploded in on itself; once more, consciousness immediately proved to be difficult to hold on to. This time, though, there was no long silence, nor moment of reflection; before Astaroth had a moment to analyze what had just happened, the world went black and unconsciousness claimed him. The only coherent thought that came to mind before blessed darkness overtook him was that that really could have gone better. |
| Profile // Journey | |
 |
 
|
| Twitch | Mar 2 2010, 06:22:38 PM Post #2 |
|
tl;dr |
|
.::Travis Anderson::. Profile: Click Here || Current Mission: Into the Breach | |
|
|
|
| Hex | Mar 2 2010, 06:26:46 PM Post #3 |
|
RIP AND TEAR!
|
END YOU |
| Profile // Journey | |
|
|
|
| Twitch | Mar 2 2010, 06:34:45 PM Post #4 |
|
<3 |
|
.::Travis Anderson::. Profile: Click Here || Current Mission: Into the Breach | |
|
|
|
| Hex | Mar 2 2010, 06:59:03 PM Post #5 |
|
RIP AND TEAR!
|
jk bb ilu |
| Profile // Journey | |
|
|
|
| Twitch | Mar 2 2010, 08:02:53 PM Post #6 |
|
Fag. |
|
.::Travis Anderson::. Profile: Click Here || Current Mission: Into the Breach | |
|
|
|
| Munchkinator | Mar 2 2010, 09:10:55 PM Post #7 |
Don't waste my time.
|
no u AND SON I AM NOT SEE COMMENTS ON STORY, OTHER THAN "TRAVIS IS TOO FAGGY, DIDN'T READ," which is accurate but doesn't let me bask in the afterglow of praise |
 | |
|
|
|
| Twitch | Mar 3 2010, 01:24:31 PM Post #8 |
|
Awesome shit. Is this one of many works or is it just its own piece? Either way, it's pretty awesome. So...did he die for good? I ran into a bit of ambiguity at the end and I'm too lazy to go back and reread the end. >_>; |
|
.::Travis Anderson::. Profile: Click Here || Current Mission: Into the Breach | |
|
|
|
| Munchkinator | Mar 3 2010, 06:42:52 PM Post #9 |
|
Don't waste my time.
|
The ambiguity of whether or not he died is intentional. It's a standalone fic, but linked to his actual story, yeah. Even if I haven't actually, uh, written. Said story. Yet. I did the ending that way since it was a standalone class assignment, but in the full timeline it's basically backstory, so yes, he did survive - it's basically just the truth of how he got Death's scythe. |
|
| |
|
|
|
| Twitch | Mar 3 2010, 07:06:09 PM Post #10 |
|
|
|
.::Travis Anderson::. Profile: Click Here || Current Mission: Into the Breach | |
|
|
|
| Munchkinator | Mar 3 2010, 10:02:29 PM Post #11 |
|
Don't waste my time.
|
|
|
| |
|
|
|
| 1 user reading this topic (1 Guest and 0 Anonymous) | |
| « Previous Topic · The Fine Arts · Next Topic » |
6:43 PM Jul 30
