{SP-F6} the cat and the tree <<Calming the Soul>>

[Pinball 1]

Players Stats:

Spoiler

Level: 31 (Paragon Level 36)
Health: 760 | Energy: 114
DMG: 20  | ACC: 3  | EVA: 3 
 
Skills:
 
Combat Skills:
►Combat Mastery - Damage [13/13]: Rank 3 
►Energist [8 SP] 
 
Weapon Skills:
►One-Handed Straight Sword [30/30]: Rank 5 
►Martial Arts [8/30]: Rank 2 
 
Utility Skills:
►Searching [30/30]: Rank 5 
►Extended Mod Limit [10 SP] 
 
Extra Skills:
►Hiding [30/30 SP] ~ Rank 5 
►Parry [10 SP] 
►Survival 
 
Familiar Skill: 
►Grappling Familiar [10 SP] 
 
Armor Skills:
►N/A
 
Modifiers:
►Vanish 
►Justified Riposte 
►Night Vision 
►Detect
►Tracking 
►Reveal 
►1HSS Ferocity 
 
Inventory
»[Equipped] [Demonic] Cold Fervor: +2 Freeze, Phase, Cursed 
»[Equipped] [Perfect] Dragon’s Skin: +3 EVA
»[Equipped] [Perfect] Warrior’s Focus: +3 ACC
 
Battle Ready: 
» [2x] Teleportation Crystal 
» [Demonic 1HSS] Jack’s Hellfire: Burn, Bleed, Blight, Cursed
» [Demonic 1HSS] Astral Blade: Holy, Fallen, +2 Damage

Housing Buffs: 

Spoiler

“Well Rested”:  -1 energy cost for the first three expenditures of each combat
“Squeaky Clean”: The first time you would suffer DoT damage in a thread, reduce damage taken from DoT each turn by 25% (rounded down)
“Filling”: Increase the effectiveness of a single food item consumed in a thread by +1 T1 slot. This can exceed normal Cook enhancement caps. Ex: A perfect T2 MIT food gives 35 MIT instead of 30
“Relaxed”: Increases HP regen by (5 * Tier HP) and decreases full energy regen to 2 Out of Combat Posts.
“Item Stash”: +1 Battle Ready Inventory Slot

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               

once, there stood a tree by the road. 

high. proud. strong. it stood away from everyone, 

doing neither harm nor good to anyone. it had never loved anyone,

nor had it ever flowered. it was dependent on no-one, 

and no-one was dependent on it. 

the tree knew how to keep everyone at bay. 

the forest, the field, and the road with all its travelers. 
and it had always been like this.

                                                                                                                                         

Shit.

 

His vision was spinning. His head felt fuzzy. There was no worse time for it.

 

Shit.

 

If exhaustion could kill someone in Aincrad, Pinball would have been dead on his feet long ago. He knew that. It was why he was still running, barreling through hanging vines and snagging underbrush with an unabashed sense of urgency. But it couldn't kill him. This was something different entirely. So why here? Why now? It wasn't like he'd even been awake for very long. His sleepless nights were behind him -- at least for the most part. With a frustrated shake of his head, he tried to wrest the imminent wave of nausea away. He had to stay up. He had to keep going.

 

His body disagreed. Overtaken by a dizzy spell mid-stride, his vision blanked and he felt himself stumble. His boot snagged on something, and he lost balance, uprooting thorny brambles as he fell over and slid across the forest floor. Where pain would have been was replaced with the dull sensation of being poked, courtesy of the ever benevolent Cardinal. At least there was a bright side.

 

And then all was still. The young swordsman flipped onto his back, heaving, his body riddled with bright red tears and cuts and pricks, his health lower for it. But that was the least of his concern. He couldn't run. Pinball blinked slowly, still wheezing and coughing and struggling, unable to move himself. Above him the canopy swayed with the wind, and birds fluttered above and below thick branches. The sunlight was in his eyes, and what golden rays around him could pierce the close-knit mesh of trees above dappled the forest floor in splashes of brilliant illuminated color. Slowly, with much effort, he winced and brought the back of his hand to cover his face. He closed his eyes, just for a moment.

 

But he must have blacked out. When he opened them, he was on his side, and he could now hear the steady crash of a waterfall and see the bubbling stream of a river beside him. Despite himself, he was crawling towards it. With staggered movements, he used his knees and elbows to push and pull towards it. He had to get there. Why did he have to get there? For some reason, in spite of the painstakingly expended effort to try and remember, he couldn't. He blinked again and he felt his balance tilt.

 

When he opened his eyes this time, he was on his hands and knees, sagging limply in front of the rushing water. And he was thirsty. So thirsty. His throat felt like it was on fire. Pinball scooped  up water in cupped palms, but instead of drinking from it, he splashed it across his face and rubbed it in. Again. And again. His eyes were burning. But he had to get up. To wake up. And although the water was simulated and the sensation on his skin was not quite like the water he remembered from all those years ago, he had hope that it would do the trick. He reached out again for another cup but stopped.

 

There was something in the water. His eyes widened. Pinball reached for it, his hand breaking the surface of the water, the sound of the waterfall in the background slowly fading away -- and like a rug being pulled out from under him, he was gone, descended suddenly into the blackest depths of unconsciousness.

Edited April 7, 2021 by Pinball

[Pinball 1]

He found himself greedily gasping for air as his eyes shot open.

 

There was nothing around him. Or more specifically, there was an absence of anything.

 

Fathomless void surrounded and enveloped him. With his hand on his throat, Pinball staggered and stumbled his way forward through an endless expanse of darkness, his head on a swivel, searching for something - an exit, a person, some hint or clue as to where he even was. The floor beneath him was merely a reflection of the void above, and with every step sent receptive ripples throughout as though he were walking across water. But it wasn't water, and there was no depth to it or anything else, and although he travelled for what felt like hours, by the time he finally came to a stop there was no obvious sign that he had even made progress in the first place.

 

Pinball had found absolutely nothing.

 

But there was also something else to it. It was very obvious to him that he couldn't focus. And despite knowing that, for the life of him, he could grimace and grit his teeth and furrow his brow in frustration all he wanted, because he didn't know why. He didn't know where he was, or why he was there, how he had gotten there, or what was happening to him. It almost felt like someone had blindfolded the eyes of his conscious mind, and was now quietly shepherding him along through the darkness for a purpose unknown; he quite simply couldn't make heads or tails of anything past the sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach that something was terribly wrong, and that there was something horrifying waiting for him just around the corner.

 

Was he still in Aincrad? Was he dead? He had so many questions but nothing to draw answers from, and when he tried to connect the dots that cloudiness settled in and he found himself horrendously incapable of doing so. And it felt like the longer he dwelled on it, the harder he tried to break free of that sickeningly imposed blindness, the more severe his questions became. "Where am I?" eventually twisted into "Who am I?" The realization was unsettling beyond comprehension, and it dissuaded him from any further attempts to peek beyond the veil.

 

So he kept walking, because there was nothing else he could do.

 

Seconds stretched into what felt like years, years to centuries, and eventually he collapsed and could go no further.

 

That's when he saw it. As if had simultaneously placed itself right in front of him just as he had fallen into hopeless despair. He pushed himself to his feet again just so he could stand frozen in awe at its base: a colossal oak stood stalwart in the middle of an eternal, miasmic night. Its roots were gnarled and thick and strong, and it stretched up into powerful, sturdy branches supporting a massive canopy of glowing, golden leaves. It was beautiful. It was comforting. No, it was comfort. He wanted to curl up against its mighty trunk and sleep knowing that he was protected by its defiant independence -- that no matter what happened, no matter where he was or wasn't, he would not be swept away by the world's omnipresent gloom.

 

And then the tree reached out and spoke to him, and it told him a story of: "R E G R E T."

Edited April 7, 2021 by Pinball

[Pinball 1]

Thum-thum-thum-thum-thum.

 

The noisy rhythmic hum of an electric fan above woke him. Although the curtains were drawn and he could not see through them, he could hear the birds singing, and he knew that it was likely early morning, and that his neighbors were probably getting ready for the day and that if he wanted to have a productive one himself, he needed to get out of bed and do the same. He wasted too many days by sleeping in far too late, and even past that, many more were spent taking naps or otherwise lazing about the house. It was about time for a change, and with what sun was peeking through the blinds and brightening his room, he knew that there was no better time for it.

 

Of course, getting up wasn't always that easy. Especially not when you're heavily inclined towards the allure of rest. Tiredly running his hands across his eyes and rolling over in bed, he held a silent five-minute long debate with the wall as to whether or not he should flip the blankets over and sleep in just a while longer. Unfortunately, the wall won the argument in the end, and all at once he got up in a hurry to get ready, telling himself that if he hurried and got it over with quickly, he wouldn't have to suffer through it as much.

 

Or he would have, should he have been able to make it to the dresser before doubling over in a spontaneous fit of agony.

 

Excruciating pain. Like someone was shoving a hot knife into his skull. Like his mind was simultaneously being gripped at either side and being slowly ripped apart. Letting out a strangled scream through clenched teeth, he slammed the top of the dresser as memories came rushing in. Thoughts and feelings and still images of scenes long since past. Of love and joy, but mostly of sorrow and grief and struggle and pain. There was no escaping it. There was no end to the flood that came crashing down on him, seemingly intent on uprooting the very foundations of his psyche, viciously and mercilessly turning everything to indistinguishable ruin. There was no end.

 

Until he felt the touch of their hand on his shoulder.

 

"Hey. You're okay."

 

And they embraced him, and he embraced them too, even while he was shaking like a leaf in their arms and he was desperately clinging to the back of their shirt as if he thought that if he let go, they would fade away and leave him with nothing but his memories.

Edited April 7, 2021 by Pinball

[Pinball 1]

While hearts prickled by despair would never easily mend, trying his best to focus on them and nothing else made the torrent of turbulent emotions somewhat easier to endure. Soon he would steady, and he'd take deep breaths, and the violent shaking would subside. Not once did they let go or leave him, nor did they even try to in the first place -- they were there for him, unconditionally, his anchor in a cyclone of madness. He returned to them.

 

"Thank you," he said, punctuated by a measured breath, "thank you. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry," they replied, "I'm here for you. Always. How are you feeling?"

"Better."

"Good. Come on, you should wash your face. Do you need help?"

He didn't think so. But he wanted help. He hesitated for a second, but a second was all it took for them to start standing with him.

"Come on. Let's take it slow."

 

They did. They were with him every step of the way, his hand in theirs, even as the pain in his head grew worse and he slowed, frustratingly cupping his eye and leaning against the bed post for support. But whenever he stopped, he grit his teeth and pushed forward. Their hand never left his. The bathroom wasn't far, but with every step the room seemed to stretch and they seemed that much further from it. But he didn't care. As long as they were there with him he could live with that pain.

 

"It was just a nightmare."

"..." He mulled it over, then nodded in agreement. "Yeah."

"A really bad one."

"The worst."

"Here. Just rinse off a bit. You'll feel a lot better after."

 

Suddenly, they were in the bathroom, and he stood leaning in front of the basin, his eyes on the running water rushing across its edges and down the drain. He reached out for it, but stopped before his fingers touched the stream. He pulled away from it, troubled.

 

"About the dream."

"..."

"It was so... dark. And lonely. And it felt like there was no end to it. Like there was no point to it, either. Not for others, but for me specifically, and I- I felt so lost. But here, I-"

"Well, of course it was dark. And lonely. And cold, too, right? I've heard it all before. It's all you talk about. All you think about."

A chill ran up his spine. For some reason...

"You deserved it. Every single second and every sleepless night. You deserved all of it, and so much more."

He looked up, into the mirror, at the thing standing beside him, and he felt his heart drop.

 

"You deserved it for leaving me," it wailed.

Edited April 7, 2021 by Pinball

[Pinball 1]

The world was melting around him. The very fabric of reality dripped and puddled into miasmic nothingness at his feet, chunks of space sloughing off of itself as if it were finally shedding its skin and revealing something much darker and more twisted beneath its discarded veneer than had originally seemed to be. It was confusing. Mind breaking. It sent him into a panic. There was no longer any bathroom, no apartment, no outside to speak of. There was still no SAO, no Aincrad, no ties that held him there.

 

There was just that place, that moment, and that thing, and the very concept of substance spontaneously ripping itself apart.

 

"Y-you -- I don't..." But he couldn't even find the words. Honestly though, who would be able to while staring that sort of thing down? It was a morphing amalgamation of people he had known, people he had wronged, speaking at once and lashing out weirdly, unnaturally, clawing its inhuman mass towards him slowly with fleshy, spike-like tendrils that anchored onto what would be the floor if there was one to speak of.

 

"You left me," it groaned, and then it shuddered with unimaginable anger. "You left me!"

 

He tried to speak again but physically couldn't. He couldn't speak, he couldn't move, he couldn't guard himself from the horrible feeling of dread and guilt and anxiety and fury and annoyance and sadness, sadness above all else, weighing so heavily on him that his knees buckled under the weight of it all, and he cupped his head in his palms and trembled. One after another, the memories that had driven stakes through his forehead flooded his mind again. Of Lucy, of Froppy, Dustin, Mishiro, of the what-ifs that could have been but now never could be, all because of the life he had lived and the choices he had made. It was terrifying. It held him back. Pulled him back, kept him from moving forward, and it was trying to drown him in the waters of anguish. And it was winning that fight. It always had been.

 

There was no way out. It crept closer to him. He couldn't utter a single word in protest.

 

"Come home," it pleaded.

 

"Come home," it screamed.

Edited April 7, 2021 by Pinball

[Pinball 1]

Where was home, exactly?

 

What was a home, even?

 

It was where you laid your head and slept at night, wasn't it? Somewhere safe and quiet, where you rested after a tiring day and awoke to the sun pouring through the curtains and started your morning refreshed and anew. Well, he hadn't had anything like that for a very long time. He slept when he collapsed of exhaustion, or when he literally couldn't stand the sights of the same well-walked paths he took across the floor, travelling without a purpose. He clutched his shirt, pulled on it. It felt like he was suffocating. He beat on his chest, as though if he hit himself it would stop the pain. It hurt too much.

 

Well, maybe then it was the people you cared about, and the people who cared about you. The ones who were there for you unconditionally, helping you through the worst of times, knowing fully well that you would do the same for them without question. It was support, love, trust, you and them fighting against the cruel injustice of reality together. But he'd abandoned everyone he cared about. He'd crumbled them all up with his own hands and tossed them aside. He hadn't wanted a home. He didn't deserve it, after all. Even when it hurt him, them, when their hearts broke in unison, he pushed them away. He'd cut those threads. He'd burned those bridges. Tears fell from his eyes now, dribbling down his chin in waves even though he tried his hardest to fight them.

 

"Why won't you come home?"

 

The heavy impact of a blade whizzing past his ear caused Pinball to flinch and scramble backwards. One of it's tendrils had launched towards him, trying to spear him through the eye, and it had only nearly missed. With a gurgle and a groan it inched closer, even as the blade-like appendage retracted, and left Pinball panting with a racing heart. He hadn't felt pain since the game had started, but for some reason, he had the unreasonable fear that if he got impaled by that thing, he would feel something a thousand times worse.

 

Fight. He had to fight.

 

Why did he have to fight?

 

His body moved of its own volition and finally stared it down, his face slick with sweat and tears. He couldn't. And yet he had to. He didn't know why, but he had to keep living. He couldn't remember why. He didn't understand his own logic. But he glanced down at his hand and clutched tight in shaking fingers, he held a long, sharp pair of scissors. His eyes lingered for only a moment before flicking back towards the abomination of his own creation.

 

A flurry of appendages came whizzing towards him and he charged forward to meet them. Ducking, tilting, hitting the ground and rolling out of the way, sending a spray of water-like droplets through the air as he slowly but surely closed the distance. They were quiet now. So was he. He pushed closer. A tendril cut his cheek, tore through his side, across his neck, through a leg. He pushed through it. And now that he was hooked he was speared from all angles and there was nothing he could do about it. His body came to a stop and jerked violently under the force of each accumulative impact. He swayed, as if he were going to fall over, but at the last possible second he righted himself, regained his balance, and pushed through it again, his eyes empty. He was driven by single purpose. And then he was standing inches away from it, littered with wounds. He placed his hand on it's shoulder. Slowly, with careful precision, he shoved the scissors through its gut and dug it in.

 

And Cold Fervor erupt from its back, still glowing dimly as the remnants of his Sword Art faded from the blade's edge.

 

It laughed. Its voice was one, singular, and kind above all else, if not carrying the slightest twinge of melancholy. Pinball held them close. Wrapped his hand around their back again, even as his sword was stuck through it, and held them tightly, shaking like a leaf, as though if he thought that if he let go, they would fade away and leave him with nothing but memories.

 

"Now that wasn't so hard, was it?" Pinball took them both to their knees, his arms still wrapped tightly around them.

 

"Set me down easy, now. There..." They let out a soft sigh of relief. Of bliss, but also of resignation. It was bittersweet but he didn't want it to end.

 

"Listen. Tomorrow is a new day. When you're ready, come home, okay?"

 

As their life slowly drained in his arms, Pinball let their head rest on his tear-stained shoulder, tilted his own head back, and screamed.

                                                                               

Action Taken: Sword Art - Shadow Explosion [-13 EN] {Well Rested} 
Grief: ID#187732 BD: 8 (Hit) MD: 2 (Miss) ~ 20*15= 300-5= 295 DMG + FREEZE 

Pinball: 760/760 HP | 101/114 EN | 20 DMG | 3 EVA | 3 ACC | 8-10 FRZ | Phase 

Grief: 0/190 HP | 80 DMG | 5 MIT 

Edited April 7, 2021 by Pinball

[Pinball 1]

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