MISERY

did you know that if you took all of the dna out of your body and laid it end to end, you could make it from here to the sun and back 100 times? you'd also fucking die.

"Get up," MISERY commanded. He stood tall among the swirling blackness, the oscillating "fabric" of his cloak indistinguishable from the Shadow's influence altogether. Had one no prior knowledge of MISERY and the way in which he carried himself, they would likely think him a consequence of whatever hell had befallen the castle. Surely, he must have looked like one of them. A creature of the shade, born into this world as the progeny of Aincrad's most vile floor boss yet. Or, at least, that's what MISERY assumed this was all about. He couldn't fathom any other reason for such a crude and sudden

So the NPC had managed to elude MISERY, deriding the Player's strength as minuscule and not worth bearing as a threat. If only he knew the sort of twisted machinations such a decision wrought. "Take your breaths now, while you can," MISERY mused as the fiend made his escape, sprinting back out into the palpable blackness of the storm. As MISERY moved to chase him, he found his movements sluggish and difficult. It seemed that the puddles around his boots had grown rather attached to him - literally. "Curious," MISERY breathed, wrenching his appendages from the obsidian quicksand. "Wha

He'd seen it all. An NPC had just murdered a child in cold blood. A real, human child. There would be no respawning for that tortured soul. Though MISERY had understood the gravity of the storm and its peripheral dangers, he hadn't stopped to consider the possibility of NPC-on-Player fatalities. Such an unimaginable feat may have shaken those with lesser mental fortitude to their core, but wicked grin stretched across MISERY's masked visage from ear to ear. So that's how it is, huh? He shifted his weight. So be it. With the newfound knowledge that NPCs were just as dangero

As if the storm wasn't enough, obsidian primordial ooze now seeped through the soil to the surface and began skittering about the players. Those who remained immobile would find it creeping up their appendages and attacking their flesh. MISERY was certain he'd seen at least one poor fool swipe away a healthy collection of the black oil to reveal a crimson just as solid. It was, of course, overshadowed by the black again as quickly as it was revealed. For those who remained on the move, such as MISERY, the sludge did not have the same effect. Though, with the chill that was filling the are

Vibrating air oscillated all around MISERY as he strode to and fro, sauntering from home to home and plundering their belongings amid the chaos. It wasn't an honest living - nor a particularly lucrative one - but the mobile puddle of sludge took great joy in each and every treasure and trinket he lifted from the unsuspecting victims of the storm. Too distracted were they with what loomed outside to take note of the menace that lurked within. Each time he emerged from one of the structures, he found himself bracing against increasingly sharp gusts. Wind and shadow alike pulled back at his

As the maelstrom of shade cascaded against MISERY's frame, he did not buckle or concede. He was awash in the substance of his reckoning, bathing in the chaos that it wrought. Something was happening to Aincrad, and regardless of the outcome, MISERY would see it through to its natural conclusion. He strode along through the city streets, largely unhindered by the wisps of obsidian that licked at his ankles and suffocated whatever light sources they were attracted to. It seemed that the shadows had already taken their toll on the guardsmen of the settlement, who hadn't so much as even notic

There it was. The final piece of the puzzle. All that MISERY had had left to procure was something to boost his luck. And in this hole-in-the wall shop clutched by the ghetto of the Town of Beginnings, he found it. The Gloves of Caerus. They were simple, but that didn't matter. What was truly important was the effect that they would have on his quest. As he didn't see the shop owner around, who was most likely in the back of the shop working on crafts, MISERY simply scooped up the item and... "forgot" to pay. There was no security. No cameras. And even the Tracking Skill would be useless

MISERY had had no illusions about the quality of the Blacksmith's work, but he hadn't anticipated the speed. It seemed that slithering through town and evading the guards had been worth it after all. "Your work is quick, and of superior quality. I'm sure I will be back again soon." With that, he procured the items and stashed them away in his inventory. He took another brief glance around the shop, keeping an eye out for anything that might aid him in his quest, but didn't see anything particularly alluring. He'd gotten what he'd come for, and now it was time to depart. Lingering did

Like cosmic ooze, MISERY poured into the shop. He hadn't even bothered opening the door. Rather, he slid beneath it, his shape indistinguishable from a puddle of viscous tar. It wasn't the most convenient way to travel, but with a fresh orange cursor and guards afoot, he couldn't afford to maneuver around the city without the use of stealth any longer. It just so happened that his version of stealth was... unorthodox. A discount for beginners? How convenient. MISERY would be a fool not to take advantage of that. Ah. It was only for materials. A shame. His sludge-like form slowly

STATS MISERY Level: 7 HP: 140 Energy: 14 DMG: 1 MIT: 27 Thorns: 18 Bleed 2 Regen 2 EQUIPMENT Currently Equipped Ordmordeo Tier One; Rare Two-Handed Battle Axe An amalgamation of mismatched bones held stiffly together by an unseen but foreboding force. They have taken the shape of a scythe. Bleed | Bleed Blood Veil Tier One; Perfect Heavy Armor Only a Grandmaster of the craft is capable of producing work such as this. Rather than typical plates of metal, it is

MISERY Name: Adam Church Gender: Male Age: 28 DOB: March 8th Height: 6'3" Weight: 205lbs Nationality: American HISTORY There's no easy way to explain Adam's origins, because he himself is unaware of them. Some years ago, he woke up in New York City. His black hair was bloodied, though the liquid had congealed into sticky, matted hysteria. There was blood on his hands, too, though it was still fresh. Wet, warm, and its original red coloration. A far cry from the mess that covered his aching brain, which had blended into t