07-09-2017, 03:20 AM
The Sage awoke as the rejuvenation liquid seeped from the tank. He felt surprisingly hale given his condition during the end of the fight. His jaw had been worked back into place, though his throat felt exceedingly dry. He stepped from the tank, and found to his dismay that the rejuvenation effects were also anesthetic in nature. The Sage clutched at a nearby hand rail, barely noting his surroundings as he fought against the pain in his head.
A figure appeared on the outskirts of his blurred vision, and a ringing voice intruded upon his hazy thoughts.
“Yeah, you’ll want to take it easy there for a notch or two, pal. People your age shouldn’t be signing up for death tournaments, even if you are immortal.” There was a pause before the voice added, “Uh… that’s my opinion, not Syntech’s of course.”
The Sage broke through his infirmity enough to catch hold of the speaker. A small figure that he could probably place as a gnome… or perhaps a halfling? Their outfit clearly marking them as a low-ranking Syntech Technician. The neon pink hair was pulled into pigtails, a style that looked feminine, but the Sage had made the mistake of inferring too much about the little folk from their appearance before, and was loathe to repeat the experience.
“I thank you for your concern, burrower. However I shall be fine in a moment.” the Sage said with a brusque tone. His head was a maelstrom of opposition he did not need right now. Though the event itself was now over, the Sage’s goals were in no way completed. Karl had been more difficult to speak to than reports of last year’s event would have suggested, but there were several others with whom he wished to speak before they scattered to Omni’s whims.
The Technician just shrugged and jerked a thumb towards the nearby door. A pink balloon of gum appeared in the Syntech employee’s mouth before snapping in a way that made the unsteady nerves of the Sage strain. “Suit yourself Gramps. No skin of my foot.”
Ah. Halfling then.
With a serious effort, the aging scholar exited the room with the rejuvenation vat, entering a smaller room for changing and neatening of one’s personal appearance. The Sage looked about the room for some semblance of clothing, but there seemed to be nothing besides the minimal garment Syntech had seen fit to give him for his time in the tank. He cast a quizzical glance back towards the technician, who simply fixed him with a sour look.
“What? You’re the one with the power to create anything you imagine. Did you want Karl to give you more than free healing of that hole in your chest?”
The Sage’s eyes darted to a mirror as she said that. The blackened scar of a cylindrical gap had been filled in. His skin seemed to have formed in and around a spider web of dried ink, giving the injury an unpleasantly tessellated look. The Sage was simply glad that his now somewhat untamed beard hid the similar scarring from his fractured jaw. As he looked he noted the scars from his time on Cinnabar remained stained by the ink as well. Whatever this is, the simple healing of Karl Jak’s machines will not be sufficient…
“Whenever you finish priming and propping, you just go through that way,” the technician pointed, “and down the hallway. Look for the door labelled teleporters. Karl says to have a wonderful time and to see you next year.” The last sentence came out with such disdain that the Sage almost laughed, but in his current condition he could manage little more than a smile. The Syntech employee sauntered off without waiting for a response, leaving the Sage alone with his thoughts and his ailing body.
The Sage spent some time in the room, summoning a more professional set of attire than traveler’s clothes he had been wearing during the event. A more traditional robe, a soft red-tinted brown, with bright red sigils imbraided on the trim. The Sage noted in passing that the sigils were those of the language he could not decipher, though by now the appearance of those runes was no longer alarming to him. At least on the short-term scale.
Within minutes the Sage exited the prep room into the main chamber itself. A variety of primes were arrayed about the room. Tearen Wover watched from a corner as the crash mage Gildarts stood in the middle of the room, laughing with a carefree joviality that the Sage had not experienced from him during the event. He must have been distancing himself from the competition? No, he chose not to attack me during the event, even with allies to help him. That is not the action of one who is seeking victory at any price… There was information here the Sage had missed, and he made a mental note to take a better judgement of the Omniverse’s strongest wanderer.
The Sage spotted his quarry amidst the scattered array of primes, and made his way over to the still sullen form of Graowr. Considering she had won the event, the…girl?... seemed among the least contented of the room. A survivor’s guilt? The Sage wondered as he drew near, Perhaps I was a tad over blunt with our exchange…
The blue-skinned warrior was making small talk, or at least engaging in the conversation just enough not to be considered rude. The red coated man she conversed with had a youth that his silver-white hair belied, and his stance was a dead giveaway of an experience warrior. The Sage approached the majin champion.
“A well fought match, I must congratulate you. In less stringent circumstances I would hope to count you as an ally instead of a foe. You have my sincerest apologies for any injuries you may have accrued during our bout, physical or otherwise.”
A figure appeared on the outskirts of his blurred vision, and a ringing voice intruded upon his hazy thoughts.
“Yeah, you’ll want to take it easy there for a notch or two, pal. People your age shouldn’t be signing up for death tournaments, even if you are immortal.” There was a pause before the voice added, “Uh… that’s my opinion, not Syntech’s of course.”
The Sage broke through his infirmity enough to catch hold of the speaker. A small figure that he could probably place as a gnome… or perhaps a halfling? Their outfit clearly marking them as a low-ranking Syntech Technician. The neon pink hair was pulled into pigtails, a style that looked feminine, but the Sage had made the mistake of inferring too much about the little folk from their appearance before, and was loathe to repeat the experience.
“I thank you for your concern, burrower. However I shall be fine in a moment.” the Sage said with a brusque tone. His head was a maelstrom of opposition he did not need right now. Though the event itself was now over, the Sage’s goals were in no way completed. Karl had been more difficult to speak to than reports of last year’s event would have suggested, but there were several others with whom he wished to speak before they scattered to Omni’s whims.
The Technician just shrugged and jerked a thumb towards the nearby door. A pink balloon of gum appeared in the Syntech employee’s mouth before snapping in a way that made the unsteady nerves of the Sage strain. “Suit yourself Gramps. No skin of my foot.”
Ah. Halfling then.
With a serious effort, the aging scholar exited the room with the rejuvenation vat, entering a smaller room for changing and neatening of one’s personal appearance. The Sage looked about the room for some semblance of clothing, but there seemed to be nothing besides the minimal garment Syntech had seen fit to give him for his time in the tank. He cast a quizzical glance back towards the technician, who simply fixed him with a sour look.
“What? You’re the one with the power to create anything you imagine. Did you want Karl to give you more than free healing of that hole in your chest?”
The Sage’s eyes darted to a mirror as she said that. The blackened scar of a cylindrical gap had been filled in. His skin seemed to have formed in and around a spider web of dried ink, giving the injury an unpleasantly tessellated look. The Sage was simply glad that his now somewhat untamed beard hid the similar scarring from his fractured jaw. As he looked he noted the scars from his time on Cinnabar remained stained by the ink as well. Whatever this is, the simple healing of Karl Jak’s machines will not be sufficient…
“Whenever you finish priming and propping, you just go through that way,” the technician pointed, “and down the hallway. Look for the door labelled teleporters. Karl says to have a wonderful time and to see you next year.” The last sentence came out with such disdain that the Sage almost laughed, but in his current condition he could manage little more than a smile. The Syntech employee sauntered off without waiting for a response, leaving the Sage alone with his thoughts and his ailing body.
The Sage spent some time in the room, summoning a more professional set of attire than traveler’s clothes he had been wearing during the event. A more traditional robe, a soft red-tinted brown, with bright red sigils imbraided on the trim. The Sage noted in passing that the sigils were those of the language he could not decipher, though by now the appearance of those runes was no longer alarming to him. At least on the short-term scale.
Within minutes the Sage exited the prep room into the main chamber itself. A variety of primes were arrayed about the room. Tearen Wover watched from a corner as the crash mage Gildarts stood in the middle of the room, laughing with a carefree joviality that the Sage had not experienced from him during the event. He must have been distancing himself from the competition? No, he chose not to attack me during the event, even with allies to help him. That is not the action of one who is seeking victory at any price… There was information here the Sage had missed, and he made a mental note to take a better judgement of the Omniverse’s strongest wanderer.
The Sage spotted his quarry amidst the scattered array of primes, and made his way over to the still sullen form of Graowr. Considering she had won the event, the…girl?... seemed among the least contented of the room. A survivor’s guilt? The Sage wondered as he drew near, Perhaps I was a tad over blunt with our exchange…
The blue-skinned warrior was making small talk, or at least engaging in the conversation just enough not to be considered rude. The red coated man she conversed with had a youth that his silver-white hair belied, and his stance was a dead giveaway of an experience warrior. The Sage approached the majin champion.
“A well fought match, I must congratulate you. In less stringent circumstances I would hope to count you as an ally instead of a foe. You have my sincerest apologies for any injuries you may have accrued during our bout, physical or otherwise.”
If history is to become legend, it first must be recorded.