έγινε άλλος άνθρωπος

As the strong adhesive that was placed on the back of the paper finally activates, the Guard Captain slowly takes his hands away, ready if need be if the parchment decided it did not want to cooperate, and lets out a relieved sigh when it doesn't move. Taking a couple steps back from the bricked wall near the steps of the Goethe Hotel to admire his work, whilst also being mindful of the busy foot traffic that was present at this hour.

After a couple of minutes, he finally nods his approval, turning on his heel to traverse the Administrative District again, beginning to locate other areas to pin the wanted poster up that reads;

WANTED: Name: 'Mr. Apocalypse' Gentleman with long blonde hair, tied in the back, and green eyes. Suspect was last seen in a white suit and pants. If seen, do not approach, and notify the nearest Silvermane Guard.

It had been ages since he had found himself with even the qualm to set foot amongst the snowy planet that his newest companion, Bishop, had hailed from. 'Hailed' was rather generous but he had final say on their destination and the boar-entity was fickle enough. Detouring to familiar grounds wouldn't hurt them. He was absolutely sure of that.

The guardsmen of the Administrative District were on high alert but when they would take to patrolling the streets and marching up and down the inclines, he would appear. He would walk the streets and while he's sure the guards are here and there, the crowds are rather full for midday. Was it lunch at this hour? Or was it a weekend tradition to fill the streets with yourself and friends to loiter? He stops, Bishop runs into the back of his legs.

By the time he discarded the notion and cared for the previous notions he spotted a marching form, six feet of metal and leather that rattled the stone alone with his matching alone. Off he goes with his bulletins and Otto slowly comes up to card his finger over the surface. Compared to the bishounen wanted posters and similarly flat-faced doodles of other wanted persons, his poster has a modicum of effort that is both amusing and bemusing alike.

He smiles faintly. Obviously, someone with a budding talent had tried quite hard with this.

He rips it from the wall unceremoniously, and flicks the brown paper at Bishop. The Quarter Trotter was fiery and did not enjoy anything being thrown at it, and thoroughly tore through its delicate paper exterior with a sharp cry. It's offense at being treated like a pet avenged, its pride settles down at it sneezes at him.

it has only been a few days, but you've grown  —  at the risk of sounding particularly callous  —  almost bored of the frenetic energy that has taken hold of belobog ever since the return of the eternal freeze.  still, though it wasn't so much a decision as it was an inevitability, your choice to stay on the planet of jarilo vi and volunteer at one of the many makeshift infirmaries for the sick and injured — is not one you regret. so it's no surprise when, one early morning, just as the sun is about to rise, shy yet revealing itself through a single stroke of painted gold across the rapidly-lightening sky, a silvermane guard urgently requests for you to follow them.  they mutter something quickly about someone getting injured quite substantially, so you excuse yourself from the companionship of a woman with a lingering cough and accompany the guard to your next patient.

you are  —  surprised, though, when you see this patient.  less so by his identity, a man you recognize from an earlier encounter on the herta space station — as you have seen far more surprising individuals here than him — but more so by the nature of his injuries.  it's immediately obvious that this man had gotten in a fight and, by your estimate, did not exactly win  —  though when you discover that it was the silvermane guards who had been his opponents for reasons still unclear to you, you have to wonder why.  the guard who brought you here has, rather skittishly, disappeared from view.  a revelatory detail surfaces mildly in your memory: there had been a curious bruise forming on that guard's left cheek.

gingerly, you rifle through the first aid kit that silvermane guards have to spare. something to sanitize with is the most important thing.  without looking at the man, you address him as you pick out supplies one by one,  “may i take a closer look at your hands, mr. apocalypse?”  now that you think of it, the silvermane guards didn't even tell you what the injuries are.  at least from here, you can make out the angry red on his knuckles, the backs of his hands. setting the measly bit of gauze aside, you extend your hand expectantly for his.  “one at a time, please.  and let me know if you are hurt elsewhere.  the silvermane guards haven't been the most transparent about the circumstances surrounding your injury  …  what happened?”

GHSnowswept2025 Prompts!

The aptly reply to one's request for help is usually a strange side glance and a wonder of intention with a situation like his. Out within the snow and perhaps wandering where he shouldn't, evidenced by his roughed up visage and the tangy smell of copper, so why would you extend yourself for a troublemaker at his beckoning? You would be much safer as an average citizen to take yourself back indoors and phone yourself up the authorities of your local station or parliament.

But he does not surround himself with the innocent upper crust of civilians in his issues unless they are adamantly in the way of the greater good. This ? Being injured by the Silvermane Guards in his escape after they had spotted him through a book store and into the alley around the edges of this town, that was just something he'd have to deal with on his own. And on his own he managed to track a familiar face in a bit of a stupor as he pitched quite a tough sell to even someone of meager stature within the ethical medical field. A slight bend of the ear as it burns, you see.

Good on him for being able to pick the needle through the hay with the individual's previous behavior on display, an attachment for his previously useful actions evidently enough to warrant being memorized. Charmed. It's when he offers his hands that he notices the particular bruising he has formed all across his knuckles and wrist. It was still so new to be reminded he had blood within his system so frequently as this—his first tussle within the Lantern Rite had left him in quite a shock, but bleeding more than twice in one festival was quite new. He wishes to run his hands over his tender fists and hidden bruises near the center of his mass. A broken rib, not even a year after returning in idealized flesh, how quaint in its hilarity!

"You can, my dear. I've overdone it with this body a couple of times, so a lesson in hubris is sometimes warranted." He allows some personal information slip, this universe had far more pressing things going on. If this turned against him one day, what is some more lying to an Apocalypse?

He watches his first hand be prepared for wrappings, but not before they are cleaned with instruments she had fetched. If the inquiry into his recent activity was anything to go by, it'll probably be best to indulge. Stories for services—or maybe just passing the time before payment is due. Whatever it may be he obliged her request.

"You could say I set about a string of misfortune upon their dear Captain. A fellow with golden hair not unlike my own, but he's quite broad and speaks intensely when not an absolute sweetheart for his citizens. I had taken to becoming a patron for a local theatre and let's say, an actor took my words most personally." He does not go further than that while he keeps his tone most positive. The lack of detail surely and purposefully aids an overworked mind to dwell and ponder, if they should. "A bit of property damage to the stage and being reported seen amongst the ruins of their offline power source, once, has gotten me quite in trouble. I can assure you no trouble like that is my direct fault, and I arrived properly after the power had gone out across the city. They'll need more than words to prove I've done anything."

Ororon hums as he walks back to his table with a scrappy looking lantern in one hand and a pen and paper in the other. Having been handed these items only a couple of seconds ago from a kind volunteer that had greeted him a warm smile that he could not help but return in kind. Enjoying the calm and peaceful atmosphere, that he still was trying to get used too, but, from the many kind interactions he's had since setting foot on the planet, he wouldn't mind braving the cold again for another visit!

Once he makes it to his work area, he begins to write as many memories as he could on such a small slip of paper. Being found by the Master's of the Night Wind, his Granny's teachings, meeting the Captain, the Traveler and Paimon, and his many friends, their victory against the Abyss. So many that, if anyone was looking, it almost looked like a bunch of scribbles on a piece of paper.

As the piece of paper held no more space, Ororon couldn't help but pout as he had so much more to add. He lifts his gaze to look around the encampment, and his eyes hand on a suited individual that was standing beside him. He tilted his head at the blonde stranger, curious, while also being a little nosy as he asks, "What did you write for your lantern?"

GHSnowswept2025 Prompts!

Keeping to himself in the snow and ice was easy when the faces blur into faint nothing or passing nobodies all while he moves without knowing the entirety of the space just yet. The blond man had run from dangers of the man-made variety of the Silvermane Guards and powered up foes from a bygone era for him, he'd seen and raced with a face that he just keeps meeting like it's a bad comedy, and even had quite the pleasant reunion over a surly little creature. It seems like the entirety of the universe's heavy hitters were all gracing planets and festivals like there's a bulletin board they all abide by.

Perhaps that is what it is. This IPC he's heard quite a lot about has a monopoly on information, broadcasting, and infrastructure across the galaxy—this planet being one of them. Maybe that's something he should look further into, especially now that he's found a rhythm to the madness.

And that madness leads him to a workstation in the area where children and adults all coalesce for a good few hours before dispersing themselves around the area. Metal canisters taken as souvenirs or left behind to be buried, no doubt, as a tradition like this is not unlike New Year traditions abroad on Earth. It was coming up beside a rather punk-styled young man who seemed to scribble with fervor till there was no space left. And when he drew the young man's attention, Otto Apocalypse simply smiled and shook his head.

“This is so fucking stupid!” Nikola leaned her forehead against the wall of the museum’s entrance hall, an empty wine glass in her right hand. “Seriously, two drinks per person? What kind of rule is that? Do they really not yearn for riches? I said I’d pay double.” Of course, the wall didn’t respond. 

Nikola let out a sigh and turned around, taking a look at her surroundings. Most people were chatting amongst themselves, savoring their drinks as they wandered throughout the halls of the small building. Nikola couldn’t care much less about this backwater planet’s history. All the interesting things were deep below their feet, in the makeup of the golden ore. Up here were just stuffy adults who didn’t know how to have fun.

Someone in the shadows off to the side caught her eye—a figure with a terrible haircut radiating an obnoxious aura. It reminded Nikola of her former worst enemy, that Overseer who left poor Joachim without a father, that horrible selfish man who took his best Valkyrie’s life for nothing. In fact, even the color of his hair was the same…was that Otto?

Nikola could almost hear the blood rushing through her, a pang of hatred in her chest that she hadn’t felt since Otto’s death. She didn’t even consider that it couldn’t be him, it felt like him and that was enough. In fifteen seconds she was at his position. In sixteen, her left hand, charged with the full power of her gauntlet, had formed a fist and was raised over his head…and by the end of the sixteenth second, she brought it down.

GHSnowswept2025 Prompts!

It was through the crowd that he heard the sound of rapidly approaching feet, clicking of heels with a lighter weight compared to the older folks that have taken over the walkways. Sixteen seconds. It took him sixteen seconds to have any chance of keeping the wine within his glass still red and without shards, micro or otherwise, ruining the glass.

The museum kept its doors open at night so the older populi do not have to feel uninvited as the event this late calls for simply walking in, talking, and leaving as they pleased. The older, greying crowd stays around longer than the older, parent staged adults who probably had somewhere to be at night. As he takes a second to watch a blond gentleman—a man in a woolen sweater and boxy glasses walking out with his adolescent son asleep in his arms—he now has 9 seconds to react.

He takes a sip from his glass when the air pressure changes with the swing aimed near and at him. The displacement of a portion of the crowd, gasps of those dashed between, and the increase in the steps intensity. 5 seconds. And that's when he jumped out of the way with a spring in his body's core, his soulium bodies of the past would auto calibrate his landing and absorb the shock, but he ends up falling to his knees as something blossomed in his knees. That final second—he ends up dropping his glass of wine in the rubble sent flying and landing all around him.

He sighs with a hint of ridicule.

There was that peculiar man again. Tall, long blond hair, well-dressed - he stood out among the other spectators, but only once the eye found him tucked away at a table on the second floor of the claustrophobic fight club.

"Apocalypse... wasn't it?" Wriothesley couldn't forget a name like that. He set his hand on the back of the empty chair on the other side of the table as gasps erupted from the ring below, signaling some kind of upset. His eyes darted toward the old, rusted rail fencing them off from the bright spotlights and the worst of the stench of sweat, curious to see what kind of move had caught the whole crowd by surprise. One of the contestants slammed into the chain link surrounding the ring, mouth bloody, head lolling to one side, but still on his feet.

Wriothesley had been there before.

"Most people don't come to these events just to treat them like a private dinner," he joked. His eyes flitted over the briefcase by the man's leg as they swept back toward his face. A businessman of some sort, maybe even the owner of the place, which piqued Wriothesley's curiosity.

"Mind if I join?" He pulled the chair out and sat without waiting for an answer. "Don't worry, I'll make it worth your while. A wager, if you're interested. But not on a winner - there's plenty of takers for that bet downstairs." And that was also why he couldn't find anyone interesting enough to play these low stakes games of his. With a placid smile, he folded his arms.

"How about something left better to the whims of fate?" Would Mr. Apocalypse supply his own idea for what he believed to be completely random? Would he lie? Wriothesley was curious - his own wager with himself.

GHSnowswept2025 Prompts!

The place was not a venue of his own choosing but it was a backdrop he could, and has, taken underfoot before for a situation not dissimilar. Between Earth and Belobog it shows a consistent line drawn by humanities baser desires and the wants and needs for some greater. Without going into the socioeconomic background of the planet hosting this Soulwarm Festival to begin drawing his lines of similarities, otherwise he'll be here for quite a while and perhaps getting a bit ironic in his musings, so he'll think about the folly of man instead as clicking boots resound in his ears.

The bones in his ears are already perked from the roaring crowd and picking up the sound of certain steps over cheering, a rattling metal cage, clapping, stomping; it simply was harder, not impossible. He doesn't pick up his acidic green irises from the carnage as Wriothesley finds him through the rabble and ruckus of the gathering. He is not impolite, so he ends up casting his scalding gaze back at the man who had joined him above it all.

He is sitting on the opposite side of the table where they are both drawing a line. Otto places his briefcase a tad closer, a small nudge of his foot, as he cups his hands against the table.

"I see you remember me, sir." He doesn't offer the man the same courtesy as the sound as a rather noteworthy addition to the copper colored mats and brick washed over the entire arena. "I wouldn't choose something far out of the way for us both. Taking up in the Administration District at this time while I'm closer to the mines at this time?" He shakes his head.

The kicked out briefcase is brought up and Wriothesley handles his own seating, is when they both crept into the subject of betting. A raised hand, and a waiter nods as they start their descent down the metal stairs, the hearty THUNS signifying their empty room once they get further away. Betting, hm? The house rules usually dictate any betting on the affiliates, fighters or otherwise, fall under an umpire or ticket salesman. That, he can agree, is not where his interests align. So, he gives in to the inquiry.

"Something to the whims of fate?" He fills the space with a question, from a question. His head doesn't turn, but tilts ever so slightly, as the crowd lights intensify beside his silhouette. Both of them are washed in golden light for just a second, a familiar ending. "I cannot say I know of anything beyond the means of understanding or means of tampering, but I can take up something far more appealing. A bet of trust."

He lets an intense second hold as he returns his head to its straight, rigid position along with his proper posture.

As with any snowball fight, there are some passersby that get caught up in it. Unfortunately, at this point, some of the local children had gotten in on the fun, and it had grown in size to something that Dahlia would be unable to control- and more importantly, did not particularly want to.

And- well, he’s busy running interference.

A stray snowball hits the head of a frail-looking blond man. The culprits shriek and laugh, running off, throwing snow all the way. Dahlia walks over to offer a hand, the dusting of powdery snow that he couldn’t perfectly remove from his coat evidence that he had been a victim of such circumstance many times recently.

“Sorry about that, but the kids need a way to get their energy out. Here- this’ll warm you right up!”

And a small wrapped red candy is offered. There is no pyro infusion involved, however, and if the man was to eat it, he would only taste something most akin to cinnamon and pepper.

Having put himself within the frays of the snow plains was not something he would expect to be drawn into anything, much less noticed. He had been coming back from the inhospitable area of the outdoors, the more mountain area that had winds that could lift a man or tear through weaker clothes, but he came back just fine as the person who was supposed to be his guide essentially rips into him. While Otto Apocalypse had worn the thicker jacket and orange belt of the team who had wanted to go exploring so he was warmer and could be seen if the snow picked up—he'd basically left them behind and went off on his own until the very end. If they didn't have such a rigorous schedule for the safety of the majority ordinary humans of the guests, he'd probably just have taken himself back without the group.

He knows his own limits but who was he to stop the man from teaching him a lesson in front of children and teens who are likely to do the same thing ? He just silently watches on as he turns his ears off. That was his first mistake as he suddenly felt his head collide with a projectile. It was soft so it shattered all across his head, shoulders, and the guide in front of him—but Otto did not jerk as he slowly turned his head around. The children playing, ah. He forgot how mischievous youths are and wonders if it was perhaps just a random coincidence he was hit or if the kids had decided upon this, as a rather short young man comes over to apologize.

He pays the other his silent attention, not a fuss to be seen as he takes the offered treat. With candy as payment, he runs his synthetic tongue through his mouth and while the wintergreen and dry air gives him the numb sensation short of frostbite in anyone lesser. The candy couldn't hurt. Maybe it'll pass the time as his guide taps his foot, still staring daggers at him.

"Thank you, young man. And it's alright as no harm was done, but do try and rally them against harassing those in the valley tour group. We're already cold as is." His tone is neutral and placating as he slowly undoes the red candy, popping it in his mouth.

A brief second of a general waxy sensation and flavor gives way to a spiciness only found in cinnamon. The woody flavor is more intense than the birth and wintergreen leftover from his forest expedition so it overpowers it in a blooming sensation. That's before he was punched by an almost unusual amount of pepper. Peppermint had been expected for even a mature menthol flavor was expected, but no. Pepper, as in the ground variety from a black shelled pellet for food.

how surprising, she muses to herself. i had no idea so many of my acquaintances are professional trotter trainers. mr. aventurine, and lord kujou, too ... — huh?

kallen squints a little, then frowns. is that ... otto? suddenly, the announcer shouts something about the semi-finals — and someone spills their drink all over presumably-otto's pants. kallen cringes a little, then — either out of some kind of mercy, or some kind of desire to escape second-hand embarrassment — glances aside toward the racetrack itself. the trotters are surprisingly cute ...

when she looks back in otto's direction, he isn't there anymore. well, if he really is a trainer, then certainly he has to come back for his trotter, right? her attention meanders back to the adorable trotters as the announcer lists off a variety of ... food names? honeycake sounds really tasty ...

then, a little while later, after the announcer says something about a brief intermission, kallen catches sight of otto again. and sure enough, beside him, is a cute little thing. unable to help herself, in spite of the moroseness that has increasingly plagued her these days, she finds herself waving toward it — and inadvertently, toward otto as well. ah, right. her hand stills briefly, then she reinforces her smile, and approaches the duo.

“when did you become a trotter trainer?” she asks as soon as she's within earshot, sniffing, not entirely bothering to mask the subtle accusatory tone in her voice. she crouches down to get a better look at the trotter, tilting her head and cooing a little in order to cajole it, extending a careful hand as she watches for its reaction. “they're even cuter up close ... what's your trotter's name, otto?”

This thread! Post Round One Trotter Races!

Having changed his position in the crowd to hold space on the trace from his Trotter to come up to him, the prideful pet kept himself steady and sneezed at him when it saddled up next to him. The Trotter was different from it's kind in it's own way but the visual differences in it's leathery ears looking more like wings then ribbons and it's golden mouth dipping closer to silver when it opens it's mouth for a treat that Otto managed to slip to it, before the sound of heels caught his attention.

While there were boots, heels, sneakers, and sandals all around him that resound on the metal and cement stands—these were different in the fact they met carpet right beside him. Where he was in the pit, nobody should be down here unless they had a pet or—oh. When he sees her it's like he's in his youth again. The long white hair belongs to her and no other Kaslana in his mind, the purity of her heart reflected through how she is nearly untouched save for what he knows: he's the blemish that stains her face and heart. He knows what he's done and imparting that knowledge upon her had led them to this rather stilted conversation.

She keeps herself at a distance, a consequence of his tarnished hands throughout the world she no longer could now much less its people, but that was just her soul in comparison to his own. To him, it had all been worth it, even after his understanding had changed with his trip through space and time.

Speaking of space. This space between them, with a Trotter in it physically and a bloody sword twisted by his hands in her ideals she left with him, it stayed that way. Clotted and situated that sword was, it was invasive and harmful, and yet he decides to keep the peace and not rip what could kill this relationship on a bad day from its place. He decides not to challenge her or even bring up any incidents, focusing on the pet that gained her attention and gave him an out. At this point, the races meant nothing as his chest bloomed with a fire he had never forgotten. It had dulled, perhaps, but that was in absence.

Now, with Bishop under her gentle hands the prideful Trotter stood at attention while pushing up its forehead into her hand. It effectively shook its head around to use her hand to pet himself, even as Kallen did pet him in turn. Truly, giving himself a pat on the back but in his own way.

The cheers littering the Fight Club steadily grew to a deafening roar, as another knockout could be seen in the center stage. 

Bronya did not so much as flinch, as she witnessed the brazen display of violence within the heart of Belobog’s Underworld. She kept herself covered as best as possible, glasses to shield the eyes and a cloak to cover her hair - otherwise she would be rejected at the door. The Supreme Guardian shouldn’t be subjected to such violence, after all. Yet this should not apply to her, for she is not the Supreme Guardian, merely a woman who happens to look like her. 

Her eyes shift to the left, scanning the environment through violet colored glasses. She wondered who would be in attendance to watch the bloodsport. Those all-seeing eyes of Truth caught an unwelcomingly familiar face, in the form of her former Overseer. Everywhere she went, somehow the Apocalypse seemed to follow, recently. Her eyes gaze back towards the center stage, then back to Otto Apocalypse. An idea seemed to spring in her mind- the thoughts of a much deserved outlet of frustration in seeing one who should not be alive so many times in such a short amount. 

Quietly, like one experienced in the art of stealth should, Bronya approached Otto, and when she stood in front of him, opting not to meet his eyes for she hadn’t been sure of what would reflect in her gaze, Bronya spoke loud enough for him to hear. “Overseer,” she opens, her voice as still as the azure waters not present to put Bronya’s actions to a halt, “would you like to go for a round or two in the center ring?”

The floor was not open to others stepping on it or touching it as Otto Apocalypse watches the two in the ring going at it like this was anything other than a sport. They go at it like they have something to prove to themselves or the crowd, a show of course or perhaps a moment of pride for the brawny. He wonders if it is worth it as one takes a rather nasty hit to the face as the crowd sets itself in an uproar of gasps, cheers, and boos.

This wasn't his usual scene he would take up in but he had first found himself within the underworld section of festivities, and a rather note-worthy amount of notable figures going in and out, had led him to stay. Perhaps it was the lofty gentleman who wanted a swing at their pride, maybe it was the persons of greedy intentions with tricks up their sleeves, maybe it was the envious stares of people without the courage or strength to do this themselves. Or maybe it was the—

"Overseer." Said in a drawl he finds in his most recent of memories. —inevitability. They keep meeting, and yet it was only a matter of time.

"Miss Zaychik, a pleasure to meet you once again." He greets her with a gentle incline of his head as he is soon drowned out by the cheers and boos of the crowd.

The gentleman who was struck earlier had finally retaliated in turn, and they evenly paced around each other again. Otto turns his attention back to someone who is bound by their temporary truce, being in the crowd as he was. Drawing him into the ring, he internally chortles, he can see through the intentions and couldn't agree more. Why not, after all?