Infected with The Crazy

[Abomination]

Closed to The Writing Writer.

Seconds seemed like hours. Hours seemed like days. Paths, trails, roads, streets, passes, bridges, trees, buildings, towns, the sky, and the ground. The ground was where The Homunculus found himself now, in one of Radasanth's many streets. His sense of time was lost to him, and he had no concept of how far he had wandered from The Citadel. He couldn't even remember the battle he just had there before his entire body had to be regenerated. Assimilation had proven to be a very ruthless ability, as it allowed both the acquisition of strengths and weaknesses. Viral got up, lost in his own confusion and delusion. At times the world around him was spinning, and at others it just waved back and forth. There was something inside of him that was causing this; that was sapping him of his very life. He forgot his master, his rationality, and reverted back to instinct; to hunger. A hunger for assimilations, a thirst for genetic data. In the back streets of Radasanth, Viral had picked himself up and regained full control of his motor functions. With that, he also regained his ability to sense nearby potential assimilations. Though this power was in very weak condition, it picked up on a very close signal. A feeling that happened to be directly under him. He looked down, but there was just a dirt road.

If the feeling was indeed under him, then there must be some way to get there! His view turned to the surrounding structures on both sides of the street. Worn-down houses, almost shacks really. They were connected to each other at the sides, very few of them even having paint jobs. It was possible that one of these buildings had some sort of underground passage, which was the only explanation for this phenomenon, Viral thought. For the moment, it appears that all of his sense were intact. It may have been related to the hunger, or perhaps his regeneration skills were finally making their way to his mind. Either way, he was looking for the way to this hidden room and cared for nothing else. He investigated one of the nearby houses, finding the door locked. All of the windows were boarded up as well, so no entry there. He decided to try the door one more time.

BASH! The door fell down after the tenth body slam, finally giving way to the strength of The Homunculus. He walked inside and noticed some very old pieces of furniture, decrepit and covered in some sort of white sheets with holes in them and covered in dust. The walls were made of wood and some of the boards were jutting out completely, like someone was trying to rip them off for a while but stopped for some reason. To the side was a winding staircase leading both up and down, and Viral took the downward route. While entering the darkness, his vision did not suffer as much as it normally would. It was like he could see in the dark half as well as he could in the light. He didn't notice of course, and pressed on into the darkness, passing through a heavy mist like that of a musky swamp at night. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, there was a short hallway that lead to a single door. As he walked closer to the door, he noticed scraps of clothing and dried blood stains on the ground. Upon reaching the door, the smell of blood overwhelmed his senses and clouded his ability to track potential assimilations. He remembered the smell of blood, and knew that it was usually related to his assimilations. His target was definitely in there, he thought.

He turned the doorknob and opened the door, and the room was pitch black, even for his limited night vision. He walked inside, his eyes adjusting to the darkness and looking around curiously for his assimilation target. Feeling around the wall near the door, he found an unlit torch and some matches lying at its base in a hole in the wall, and walked into the middle of the room before using the matches to light the torch. He didn't know where he picked up this skill, but it was deeply ingrained into his subconscious. It was another example of his assimilations benefiting him in ways other than physical appearance and abilities. The torch was lit, and he saw the room in front of him.

The walls were entirely red, and there were words all over them. In fact, it looked like the words were written on something that was attached to the walls. The stench of dried blood was starting to suffocate him. He squinted as he looked at the strange things on the walls, and more confusingly than alarmingly he realized: It was skin.

[The Writing Writer]

Two hundred and forty-six souls cried out, infuriated by their grim fates. They sought revenge. They wished to make their destructor pay for his deeds. They wanted to see him suffer, as he had made them suffer so. How unfortunate for them, that they were dead. Their vengeance would never come to fruition. Their prayers for righteous justice would go unheard, for they were dead, and the Writer, alive.

It was dark. A lone candle provided the only light within the wretched room. The golden-white flame danced and jerked, strobing it's orange glow about the small room. The floors were of stone, cold and smooth. A single wooden column stood in the middle of the room, supporting the dusty, cobweb draped ceiling.

The mad poet sat, legs crossed, atop his desk, eyes locked on a weathered scroll. It was a wondrously depressing tale of an assassin known as Praenuntio, and his comrades, The Banishment. Their time had come and gone, but their tale remained. Such was the power of the written word. Text could truly transcend time. Long after the mighty warriors had fallen, their armor turned to rust, their bones to ash, their stories would remain. This was why the Writer had immersed himself in the written word. When the flame of his life was extinguished, as was the fate of all mortals, his scrolls would remain. His poems, his lyrics, his stories, all would remain in his stead, and they would tell the world who he was and what his life was like. And thus, he would be immortalized, through ink.

A loud crash snapped Jacob's attention away from the scroll in hand. His eyes shot upward, staring at the ceiling above. Dust fell from the many splinters of wood overhead, resting on the mad poet's hair and face. Something had fallen upstairs.

The Writer quickly rolled his scroll and placed it back in his desk. He took his candle in hand and carefully made his way towards the door. Before he had managed to place his hand around the rusted iron knob, the sound of footsteps sent a chill up his spine. Someone had violated the sanctity of his lair.

The mad poet placed the candle in his mouth, holding it horizontally with his teeth, hot wax dripping from the candle and resting on his chest. He climbed up over the doorway, and positioned himself comfortably within the trusses of the ceiling. He placed the candle firmly onto one of the trusses and gently blew out the flame.

His heart rate climbed higher and higher as each step down the spiral stairwell echoed down the hall and into his beloved sanctuary. His heart nearly exploded when he heard the rusty hinges of the door below him creak open, crying in agony as a foreign hand forced them open.

The sound of a match shifted the Writer's attention to the center of the room. There, holding his torch, standing in his room, was a man the mad poet did not recognize. His attire did not mark him a law enforcer, so what in the hell was he doing in Jacob's lair!?

The intruder did not appear to be much older than the mad poet himself, and seemed more curious than anything. Perhaps he was simply a young adventurer who had wandered into the very wrong place.

The mad poet crept along the ceiling, moving from truss to truss, haulting when he was directly above the young man.

" Ding dong, did the bell ring.
Announcing a guest with it's familiar ping.
Only there was no bell, nor a knock on my door.
Nor a query or warning, simply a CRASH! NOTHING MORE!

Now tell me, dear stranger, why are you here?
Have you come to discover the last frontier?
Tell me now, as my patience runs thin.
Tell me your purpose, before the conflict begins. "

[Abomination]

Viral dropped the torch and jumped back when he heard the voice, looking up at the figure creeping along the ceiling. In the dim light of the torch, it looked like two bright pink eyes obscured by long hair with the dark outlines of limbs attaching themselves to the wooden boarding in the trusses of the ceiling. Half of the trusses were damaged, missing, or had splintered pieces of wood sticking out of them, but the one housing the strange person was intact. The flame flickered as Jacob spoke, his voice having a trance-like effect on Viral. With his own two eyes, he could see the source of his craving.

Close.... very close...

Viral knew this voice. It was that of the virus.

Soon I shall control you. One more assimilation, and the beautiful part is you don't understand what I'm talking about. You're still so stupid, but don't worry... It'll all be over for you soon.

Viral grabbed his head, believing that up until this point that virus was merely a bad memory. He knew so little of his battle with Ifrit that he thought maybe it didn't happen, that maybe he hadn't been infected with this virus. Why had it been dormant until now? Why did he regain his senses in such a convenient place?

Come on, don't be that stupid. How much I impair your ability is entirely up to me. Now, go ahead and touch the wall-man and I'll finally be free.

Viral pulled back, clutching his head like it was about to burst into pieces. He wanted to get whatever this out of his head, but deep inside he knew it was futile. He reverted to his original goal of satisfying his craving for assimilation, seemingly forgetting everything the virus said. Suddenly, the words that Jacob spoke registered into his head.

He found himself recalling words from his memory in a deep, dark bellowing voice that echoed as it spoke, "...YouR thRone for mySElf..."

The craving was a very abstract one. He didn't know whether he wanted to simply touch, hold, bite, or devour Jacob. He wanted some sort of contact, and yet at the same time he salivated at the thought of devouring him. His eyes were stark white, and he shot both his fists forward at Jacob, his arms stretching like rubber, expanding toward The Writer.

[The Writing Writer]

The young man who had invaded Jacob's personal space bubble was an anomaly, almost as much as The Mad Poet himself. He behaved as if both afraid and befuddled all at once. His insecurities reminded Jacob of himself in the early days of his descension into madness. At all times unsure of what is real, or an illusion, frightened by one's own sadism and desire for blood. Yes Jacob could empathize well with this one, but that did not excuse his trespasses. He had seen the lair of The Writing Writer. He had to die.

Jacob's twisted poetry seemed to have startled the young man, as the jumpy lad dropped the torch he had been carrying. At that moment Jacob was thankful for his cobblestone floors; had they been wooden, his lair would be up in flames and converted to ash in no time. It also seemed as though the boy fought an internal battle of his own, for he clutched his head and struggled furiously. No doubt an inner demon tormented him. Jacob knew this feeling too, but he had given in to the voice long, long ago.

Before Jacob's thoughts had the chance to wander however, the strange young man attacked, his arms stretching out towards Jacob. It was an astounding feat. He must have been very flexible.

Jacob released his grip of the ceiling and dropped to the table below, avoiding the stretchy boy's attack. Jacob landed on top off his desk, both feet planted firmly, poised to spring forward. Jacob leapt from the table towards the boy, his arms ready to grab hold of the intruder and tackle him to the ground. Jacob's pink eyes were wide as he drew near, wide as the leg's of a prostitute.

[Abomination]

Viral pulled his arms back to their original length and found himself unable to move as Jacob launched himself at The Homunculus. With the torch flickering, various parts of the room were dimming and others were brightening. The redness of the skins on the walls flickered as well, like moments in time, or like the birth and end of a life. This lair was a symbol of beginnings and endings. It was something unholy, something you couldn't go into without coming out changed. Viral knew that this might be the end for him, as he was completely unable to resist the will of the virus. His eyes were tiny dots as the madman flew at him, ready to grab him and do unspeakable things to him as he was unable to resist. All his instincts were telling him to run, to escape this impenetrable force field around his body, and in desperation the recesses of his mind gave him a will. It was only through this unique thought that his next actions could be performed at all.

He pulled out his short sword from its sheath and stabbed himself in the heart, immediately dropping to his knees and coughing up blood. Like a dog gnawing its paw off to escape a shackle, Viral injured himself to escape the grip of the virus. It was only by tapping into his most desperate basic instinct that he was able to inch a small victory from the virus. Jacob flew over him, his hands just barely making contact with Viral's coat as he passed. The genetic data sponged from the coat into his body, like his clothes were a part of him as well. Since they changed their very color from a previous assimilation, and even when he was trying them out they changed to fit his build, perhaps they were part of him from the start. Viral felt his consciousness fading as his body turned pale from the blood loss, his hands still tightly gripping his sword. The blade had punctured his heart, and although something like that can't kill him, it could put him out of commission for hours, maybe days.

The Virus was silent, like it was shocked at Viral's self-destructive behavior. Perhaps it was merely mulling in its plots, or maybe it was working hard at taking advantage of this assimilation. That's right, the assimilation had begun, but it was unlike he had ever experienced before. His hair grew all the way down to his chin, turning a light shade of yellow from its previous color of white, his eyes turned to a deep red, and rings formed around his eyes like that of a man with exhaustion. His fangs remained, his clothes remained, and parts of his facial structure- notably the eyebrows and chin- chained to match Jacob's. His nails become slightly longer and sharper. Whereas before his assimilations would be more of a mix between the assimilated and his former form, this one was a different one altogether, only having some parts of both. It was more like it was combining elements from all his assimilations up to this point. His arms fell limp and the sword slipped out of his body as if the insides of his body were pushing it out gently, and he had turned so pale he looked like a corpse. For a few moments, he didn't move, but then he suddenly jumped up and looked at his hands like he was looking at them for the first time.

The Virus' eyes were sharp and blood red, wide and with more rings around them than on all the people's fingers in Radasanth. At first his mouth hung open, but then it closed and turned into a hideous smile. The wound in his chest closed, and inside his body new machinations had taken root to repair the wound in his heart. If there's one thing that was consistent, it was the rapid regeneration during an initial assimilation. He was still a Homunculus, and yet he was a Virus. Viral was gone, ironically he had taken his own life before the virus could. After following his instincts and then becoming a slave to Luc Kraus, perhaps that was his first and only act of true free will. He turned to Jacob, who had recovered from his failed attack.

In a voice matching Jacob's own he said,

"A sword in heart,
An identity in doubt.
Who am I? I am you.
Who are you? You are too.

I have come to discover the last frontier.
The purpose of my visit is all too clear.
I'll tell you, as my patience is thinner.
Your work was breakfast, my work is dinner."

Holding his hand right hand up, his pulled his hair down the right side of his face, obscuring his vision in his right eye. He was trying to emulate the current appearance of Jacob, who hadn't adjusted his hair after his landing. While The Virus had taken control and Viral was no more, there was still something wrong. There was something inherent in being a Homunculus, something pre-programmed that neither of them had any access to. The Virus had broken the assimilation process somehow, and with that, at least for this assimilation, he had broken the self-defense mechanism of not becoming the one being assimilated. He saw the beautiful poems on the wall, the art and the wonderful atmosphere of this room. Then, he saw Jacob, someone that represented doubt and reminded him that he wasn't Jacob. He had started down a dangerous path of becoming The Writer, and there was only one way for Jacob to avoid having his existence being replaced by a copy: to survive.

The Homunculus ran at Jacob while screeching like a banshee, his tongue hanging out and twice its normal length. His arms were in front, his nails primed, ready to claw into Jacob's face on contact. He wanted to tear the skin off this handsome man, he wanted to write a eulogy.

[The Writing Writer]

Jacob sailed over his target and landed awkwardly on his cobblestone floor, sliding a few feet as he turned to face his opponent. He was a bit frustrated that his attack had missed. He did not want a long, drawn out battle to be fought in his lair. The only battles meant to be fought within these walls were battles of quill and parchment.

Jacob was insulted by the mere presence of this person. Every second the strange boy spent standing in this room, basking in the orange glow of Jacob's candle, filled Jacob with a primal rage. Like a dog defending his territory, Jacob's eyebrows became angular, his eyes, bloodshot and furious. He clenched his fists and moved to attack again, but found himself unable to move, for what the intruder had just done to himself made even the Mad Poet scratch his head.

The intruder had stabbed himself, in the heart no less. Blood poured onto the cold, stone floors, seeping into every crack. It flowed like a hundred tiny rivers, spreading all throughout the room, trimming every grey stone with a thin, crimson line. It was somewhat beautiful to behold, but Jacob was still confused.

If that had not been enough, the young man now seemed to be, changing. His hair grew and changed colors and his skin lightened. It appeared to be the same shade as Jacob's now. The Writing Writer had seen many things in his life, but this had to be one of the most unusual.

And then horror came. It took hold of Jacob's heart and squeezed it tightly till it seemed to stop, for what he saw happen next should have turned his hair white. The intruder turned to face Jacob, but his face was not the same. He...he looked like Jacob. He very well could have been his brother, his twin even. In the intruder's twisted grin, Jacob saw his own. What in the world was happening?

Jacob stumbled back, fear gripping tightly at his very soul. He couldn't move, he couldn't speak. All he could do was tremble. If that was not enough, the intruder began to speak. It was uncanny. His voice was identical to Jacob's. Not only that, but the intruder spat his own lyrical lingo, mimicking the styles of the Mad Poet himself. Was this man a Doppelganger? Was he sent here to punish Jacob for succumbing to his madness?

The intruder screeched like a demon as he sprinted at Jacob, clearly intending to cause him serious harm. At this point, Jacob was too shaken to attack. He was not fit to defend his lair in his broken state, and so he did something that in any other circumstance, he wouldn't even think of doing; he fled.

Jacob scrambled to his feet and darted to his left, running fast as he could towards the door. He did not know what to do, did not know what to make of what he had seen. All he could feel now was fear. It shouted at him, screaming in his ear, telling every muscle in his body to run, and so he did.

[Abomination]

Homun.

The flickering torch showed the periodic movements of The Writer and The Homunculus, their forms like hunter and prey in this dark chasm of the city. The sound of their feet hitting the cobblestone floor stifled Jacob's hurried breath and The Homunculus' snarling. A long, purple tongue hung out of his mouth as he ran, his claws chattering against each other in anticipation.

Culus.

It was his name. His calling. No matter how much information is buried within the recesses of his mind, the word Homunculus remained a mystery. It was a clear and vivid word in his head, and he knew that it described him. After all, his psyche was merely the merger between assimilated and assimilator. He chanted it in his mind. Homun Culus Homun Culus Homun Culus. It was his name.

The difference in their respective speeds was obvious at this point: Jacob was going to reach the door. He was going to open it in time and make his way out of here. Could Homun let that happen? No! This was the perfect place to die! To have Jacob's blood spilled among all his beautiful pieces, to have his heart ripped from his body and his blood drank among the many poems and strips of flesh. What a perfect way for an artist's life to end! No more doubt would remain of who the true poet is. To be immortalized in his own work is what Jacob should truly wish for, so why does he resist?! He must not escape. Rip. Maim. Tear.

His feet scratched the ground due to the sudden stop, and he threw his right arm behind him, like he was going to throw something. Then, he threw his left arm back in the same manner. Rip. Roaring and screeching like a wild animal, he threw his arms forward, their forms stretching and extending at a much faster speed than his running. The long arms formed an arc rather than a straight line, finally coming together with his nails inwardly extended when they reached the door. In appearance, it looked like the kind of arms you'd see before a hug, with one above the other but both parallel to each other, but this was no hug. Maim. Jacob was now between Homun and the door, just barely out of his reach. He had wild eyes and his mouth was salivating, and blood was still streaming out of his body. With a tug, he pulled his arms in, bearing his teeth and ready to bite into the flesh of his prey. Tear.

Right as he pulled his arms in, however, the torch flickered one last time to reveal his bloody claws and then it went out for good.

[The Writing Writer]

The screech of the intruder was something of hell itself. It seemed to resonate for an eternity within the ears of the Mad Poet. Even his insanity could not drown out the terror that had overcome him. Jacob gripped at his chest, clenching it tight, for fear of his heart beating it's way out of his body. He had to get out, now.

Salvation was nearly at hand, for if he could escape his lair, he could stumble into the streets. Surely the local guard would come to his aid and slaughter the beast that sought his very soul. He was so near, so very near to the door. His arm was extended as far as it could reach, barely inches from the rusted iron handle. Closer and closer his fingers drew to the handle until finally, they reached. His fingers wrapped tightly around the cold iron, gripping it tightly, pulling the door open inches at a time. This was it, he would be free. A worm from a bird.

But oh, how fate seemed to hate him. The pale hands of the doppleganger slammed into the door, closing it tight. He was too slow. Jacob would not escape this day. He could feel the shadow of death, looming over his shaken form. The Mad Poet turned, facing his fate dead in the eyes. He could no longer contain his fear, Jacob screamed in terror. It was a blood curdling scream, the kind that would turn black hair white, and turn white hair to dust. But a strange thing happened in this moment of release, a memory popped into Jacob's mind. A seemingly random memory.

He recalled his mother's face. Something he had not given a single thought in many years. Her pale skin and dark hair mirrored Jacob's own. People had always said that he had inherited his mother's appearance. She was a quiet and delicate woman. She was an artist, much as Jacob was. The difference being that Jacob painted with words, and she painted with paint. That seemed to be the context of this memory.

Jacob could see her smiling face as she worked. She was painting a portrait of Jacob himself. He knew this moment well, and soon realized it's significance. When his mother had finished the painting, she turned the canvas about to show it to her young son. Sure enough, it looked exactly like the boy. However instead of being overjoyed, Jacob saw himself crying, his tears falling on the wet paint. His mother pleaded with him, asking if he did not like the painting. Jacob did like the painting, it was very good. What he did not like, was what he saw in the painting. It was his eyes. He hated his eyes. The eyes of a demon, they had been called. His mother simply laughed and said that they were beautiful eyes. The tears that had fallen on the painting, ironically fell directly on the eyes. It seemed that both Jacob and his counterpart hated their eyes. So much so that they cried.

And that was it. This doppleganger, this intruder did not have Jacob's eyes. His eyes were of crimson, of blood. He did not have the Mad Poet's eyes, within his mind was not the same madness. And if he did not understand Jacob's madness, then he did not understand Jacob. If he did not know Jacob, and know him well, he could be outsmarted. He could be beaten.

As the intruder grew nearer, Jacob's terrified eyes narrowed. His eyebrows arched and a smile crept across his face. As the doppleganger propelled himself at Jacob, the Mad Poet brought back his right arm and threw a furious punch at the face of his attacker. The torch flickered out, and a battle bathed in darkness began.

[Abomination]

The Homunculus cackled with glee as he felt his arms warp around the body of Jacob, pulling the man towards him with such speed and intensity that The Writer's body was literally flying through the air toward him. He couldn't see his prey, but his firm grip assured him that when his arms finished shrinking back to their original size, he would be chomping into the tender flesh of Jacob. Yes! I will bite down, bite down, bite down!

Right as Jacob got to him, something unexpected happened. SLAM! Jacob's fist connected squarely with Homun's face, sending the latter flying backwards with his grip on The Writer completely gone. He flew back, his eyes closed with pain and his grimace wide and terrible. Hitting the ground, he found himself rolling along it accumulating dirt and debris. He slowly got on all fours from the ground, a stream of blood trailing from his forehead down his nose and finally onto the cobblestone floor. He could taste his own blood in his mouth. It wasn't exactly the flavor he was looking for. HE TRICKED ME! That fiend! That fear... was it all an act?! How could I not have foreseen this? I have assimilated him! Should I not know everything?!

The failing of his predictions was more and more evident. Previously, he existed simply in the mind, a mere suppressed consciousness. Yet, he had access to all the tomes of the magician Luc Kraus, all the battle experience of the warrior Teric Bloodrose, and even all the memories of that demon girl! Now... not a single thing was coming to mind. Not one incantation, not a single battle stance, nothing! Was it really this limiting on the outside? There was still something blocking his full potential.

He got up, brushing the dust off himself and stepping forward, hearing a metallic noise beneath him. Taking his foot off the blade, he knew that it was his sword. He picked it up. At the very least, he should be able to use this man's memories against him. He searched his mind, searched and searched, and right when he reached something significant, a sudden wash of motion sickness passed over him. It was such a strong, nauseous feeling that he almost lost his balance. The most he got was something about his eyes. He felt like his strength was sapped, and he recognized this feeling. The assimilation had ended! Any advantage he once had was gone now. What was it about his eyes? Honestly, Homun did not know what he looked like right now, but apparently instead of turning into Jacob, he turned into something else. He wasn't looking into a mirror when he was looking at The Writer after all. Although, his appearance did not change when the assimilation ended. His facial structure was still the same as The Writer's, but considering his hair, eyes, the rings of exhaustion around his eyes, and his fangs... only Jacob may be able to see the resemblance. He realized that something went amiss with the assimilation.

No matter! This fiend had carelessly damaged The Homunculus, and for that he would pay! I'LL RIP HIM APART. I'LL KILL HIM! ARGHH!! He screeched and held the sword up, ready to strike down at anyone around him.

The underground lair, however, was having none of this loud behavior. It was an old place, poorly-constructed, with only half of its supporting structure remaining. Due to the darkness neither of them could see, but pebbles were littering the ground from the ceiling, and various stone was cracking between the trusses. The smell of blood was starting to get drowned out by the smell of dust and brown rock. This place, however sacred it was to Jacob, would not last much longer at this rate.

Homun focused, trying to pinpoint where Jacob was. He was half-tempted to try to emulate The Writer's speech again, but he knew that Jacob's fear was merely a ploy to get close to Homun and injure him. Then, he looked toward a particular direction and saw something peculiar. It was like the faint white outline of half a figure, but it was so fractured he had to squint to piece it together. What was it? It didn't cast any light, but he could see it. Was it a hallucination? He didn't start seeing it until his assimilation ended. Homun didn't care, as he charged toward this figure screeching violently. He was enraged and wanted blood, and he wanted it [i]now![/b] He swung his sword side to side as he ran, wanting to cut down anything in his path toward this figure. As he ran and roared, the whole place was shaking.

[The Writing Writer]

The doppleganger's face was unexpectedly solid. From the way he flung his arms around earlier, Jacob assumed the intruder to be made entirely of rubber. It seemed that was not the case. It was all for the better however. A face that solid had bones deep within; bones to be broken.

Normally Jacob would have immediately followed his punch the moment in connected. He would have chased his temporarily shaken opponent and proceeded to unleash a fury of painful, down-right dirty blows. The fight would have ended in only moments, and Jacob could return to his reading. Unfortunately for that to happen, Jacob would need to be able to see where his opponent had ended up, and as of right now Jacob could not see anything. With the exception of the purple-green blotch of color momentarily burned into his eyes from the light of the torch, which soon faded, leaving Jacob with nothing but black. It was a nice color, or compilation of all, but too much was just shabby.

Jacob found himself in quite the predicament. His opponent was more able in combat do to his stretchy arms, so Jacob would have to use his quick, if a bit twisted wits to subdue his opponent. But the darkness that was once his lair provided a significant kink in the formation of strategies. This was simply unfitting. Chess isn't much of a game if you can't see your opponents pieces. He would have to remain idle for now. And so Jacob waited, and listened, breathing lightly, but steadily.

The sound of dripping blood and shuffling feat filled Jacob with a sense of satisfaction. He knew now that he had hurt the doppleganger. If he could be hurt, he could be killed. The next sound to resonate within the Mad Poet's ears, was the sound of steel scraping against stone. It seemed the intruder had found his blade. Jacob hoped that the strange young man would elect to stab himself once again, saving Jacob the hassle of fighting in the dark, but somehow Jacob knew that such a convenient occurrence was unlikely, at least in the Writer's case. Luck was rarely on his side.

On his side...that was it. His side. His lair. This was Jacob's lair. No one had ever before set foot within it's walls, and only Jacob knew the layout of the small room. In fact, Jacob knew the location of every loose pebble, every protruding splinter. Jacob may have been blind, but he knew his way well enough around the room that he could navigate it without his sight. Suddenly, the tables were turned in Jacob's favor.

Jacob began moving slowly, carefully, quietly to his left. Side-stepping, foot over foot, careful not to scatter the tiny rocks that littered the stone floors. He stayed on his toes, stepping lightly as he possibly could. He was thankful now for his lack of comber some shoes. As Jacob continued on this path, a familiar screech echoed throughout the small room. Jacob could hear hastened steps and the zing of steel through air. The intruder was on the offensive. Jacob moved quicker now, he wasn't sure if the doppleganger could see him, but his wild opponent must've had some idea as to his location, else he most likely would not have attacked. Jacob leapt upward, grabbing onto the trusses once again. He pulled himself up, the wood cracking and splintering under his weight. The beaten down old house seemed to be reaching it's breaking point. Jacob hoped for just a few more moments of stability. His lair was seemingly lost, but at the very least he could escape with his life.

Jacob continued moving through the trusses like a squirrel through the trees. He made his way around the room to where he thought may have been the rear of his opponent. It sure sounded like it, as the screeching was muffled slightly. Jacob waited for the wailing wonder to make his next move. There was little Jacob could do as of right now other than roll with the punches. If an opportunity presented itself, it would be ceized without hesitation.

[Abomination]

Homun could see his target getting closer and closer, but shortly before he reached this vague light in the darkness it vanished upwards. He stopped and immediately tried to follow it with his eyes, but it was no use. He had to concentrate hard just to see that light, he couldn't follow it around unless it stayed in one place long enough for him to notice. The whole place rumbled again, and some dirt fell into one of his eyes and caused him to drop his sword and try to brush it out with both hands. The most annoying thing was the lack of close contact throughout this whole mess. Jacob had made the only blow so far, so what was he doing now? Playing Homun for a fool, that's what! I'll rip out those pretty eyes of his and smash them in the palm of my hands! I'LL SPLIT HIS SKULL IN HALF! I'll DEVOUR the ARM that HIT me!

He reached up to the trusses and extended his arms again, wrapping them around the wooden supports. He tried to pull himself up, but instead his strength caused the already-weak trusses to break and the whole supporting structure fell on top of him. The wooden structure smashed into his head and he stumbled backwards, noticing the damp ground he was standing on. Since the start, he had been bleeding. His heart was in a fragile state, he lost a lot of blood, and he was pretty sure his brain had been damaged a couple times by now as well. He was going insane. WHY WOn'T hE coME ouT?! WHY WHY WHY?! He screamed, flailing his long arms and destroying more of the supports keeping the ceiling from crashing down. The wooden structure that fell on him caused more damage than he thought, because his head was literally split open with his brains hanging out in the center. Since his body had autonomous function, as long as the tattoo on his thigh was intact he could operate in the same manner even without a head, but his energy reserves were depleted. His life-giving blood was running low, and in his euphoric state he had lost control.

This lair was going to collapse. The shaking wouldn't stop, and some parts of the ceiling had already collapsed with mountains of earth pouring through. Homun started laughing maniacally. His high-pitched laugh was coupled with his screeching.

"Hide hide HIDE while you can.
But count me out of your hideous plan.
I won't wrap my hands around your throat this time.
But I'll take what is yours, and make it mine."

Of course, he meant the works of Jacob that had been accumulated in this lair. The ones that were going to be destroyed by this cave-in. While Jacob may not have clear recollections of each and every one, deep inside the memory of The Homunculus these works will continue to exist. Everything Jacob has ever done is deep inside Homun's limitless memory, and while he can't access it now, someday he will. When he does, he'll know where to find Jacob. He'll know how to deal with him then. He will destroy The Writer once and for all, and steal his life. He roared and laughed, the ceiling directly above him shaking with instability.

Suddenly, the ceiling couldn't take it anymore and collapsed on top of The Homunculus, burying him within the the lair of The Writer. Homun could survive such a tragedy, as experienced by his fight with Teric Bloodrose, but Jacob could not. With only a few moments left before the whole place was gone, if Jacob wanted to escape this was his only chance.

[The Writing Writer]

The doppleganger seemed frustrated, what with the screaming and all. Jacob only wished that he could see the intruder, it would have been so amusing to watch him throw his fit. However Jacob could not see his opponent, and instead he listened with a smile.

Jacob's self-indulgence was cut short however, as the trusses he rested on began to shake. No less than a second later, a roaring thunder drowned out all other noise within Jacob's sanctuary. Either a terrible storm had hit just outside, or the house was falling apart.

A sense of urgency overcame Jacob and he immediately dropped from the ceiling, landing hard on the cold, stone floors, dampened lightly with the intruder's blood. Jacob carefully made his way towards the door, stepping over obstacles as his toes brushed up against them. He kept his arms high, ready to take the blow of any falling objects, thus protecting his head.

It was frustrating having to move so slowly. His body screamed at him to GET OUT! but he could not rush, lest he lose his footing and disorient himself. He had to know which direction he was facing, or else he would be lost within the darkness, and soon after buried alive within his own lair. Poetically just, perhaps, but not a fitting end for The Writing Writer.

Jacob continued to press onward, fighting his urge to run. He had to be careful, had to step lightly, had to stay focused. Thankfully the rumbling of the old house was loud enough to drown out both the voices in his head, as well as the voice of the intruder. There were little distractions beyond falling dust and splinters of pine.

Jacob kept one hand extended, feeling his way through the darkness, searching for the security of an old, rusted handle. For what seemed like a life time now, his hand had been searching idly, but finally, it met with a familiar oak door. Relief was often an amazing sensation.

The Mad Poet ran his hand across the vertically aligned planks of oak and soon found the handle. He grasped it with all his strength and flung it open, running fast as he could into the hallway. The light of the sun that once only showed through the windows now shined through many cracks and holes in the floor above.

Up the spiral staircase the Writer ran, skipping a step with each bound. Out of the stairwell and into the living room. Jacob leapt over the furniture, still obfuscated behind white sheets. The ceiling crumbled all around him. Large pieces of wood fell to the floor, either shattering on impact or breaking through the floor and into the darkness below. One large piece of the ceiling fell uncomfortably close to the Mad Poet, forcing him to take a considerably large step backwards, which was nowhere he wanted to go. The twisted wooden ball of death broke into the floor in front of Jacob, lodging itself within the floor, effectively blocking the doorway. Jacob gritted his teeth and screamed in frustration. Just once he wished the story would be written in his favor.

Acting almost purely on instinct, Jacob ran for the window. The house was at it's limit. In a matter of seconds he would be crushed beneath wood. Wood! Was The Writing Writer truly to be undone by a mass of dead trees!? It was too humiliating, too ironic, he would not allow it.

With every bit of energy his body could accumulate, Jacob ran for the window. His lungs burned and his heart pounded. His legs were sore and his eyes had dirt in them. He could not recall ever being so uncomfortable in all his life. The annoying thing was, he was about to become all the more uncomfortable. but at least he would be alive.

Jacob jumped through dusty window, shielding his cranium with his arms. The glass gave way to his body, shattering on impact, a few of the shards lodging themselves within his forearms. His body hit the dirt road hard and skidded across the many bits of gravel, covering him with more than a few scrapes and cuts. For a moment he lay there, amazed at how bad so many minor injuries could hurt. He tilted his head in the direction of his house, and watched with a grimace when all at once, his former home, sanctuary and library became nothing more than a pile of rubble. So many days and nights he had spent within it's walls. It was strange, and somewhat saddening to think that he would never spend another second within his lair. Not even a tiny moment. It was gone.

As was to be expected, the locals started to gather around the house. Most just chatted away with one another, the same mindless conversation's coming from each of their forever flapping jaws.

" Did you see it happen? "

" No, but I heard a rumbling and didn't see storm clouds, so I came outside to see what was happening. "

" Me too! I heard it, so I came out! "

" Yeah? I was cleaning dishes, when I heard it. What were you doing? "

" Well I was in my attic, then I heard it, so I came out! "

Jacob couldn't help but wonder if they had come out or not. It wasn't apparent based on the fact that they were all outside...

A few of the less intellectually challenged made their way over to Jacob and helped him to his feet. They even brushed him off a bit. How kind, only they were effectively brushing glass further into his skin. Jacob jerked away from them and waved his hand in dismissal, as if to say that he was fine.

The Mad Poet stood there with them for a moment, staring in awe just as they all did. Perhaps his thoughts were a bit more sentimental then theirs, but even so, it was the first time in a long time he felt as if he fit in with the crowd. It was a strange feeling, both comforting and troubling all at once.

Concerning the intruder, Jacob was sure that he was dead. But still, he had seen rubber survive worse things. Had he some matches on him he would have set what was left of his home and his many works of art ablaze, if only to be certain that he would never see the intruder again. But it was summer time, and Jacob didn't smoke.

The Writing Writer shed a silent tear for the loss of his home. He was unsure what he would do now. He felt accomplished for having escaped death's cold embrace, but still, he was homeless now. But, perhaps it was time. Radasanth had begun to become rather dull in the past few months, what with all the finest warriors marching off to fight in the civil war. Jacob smiled that good old clown-like smile. He had heard that Ettermire was nice this time of year.

Closing post.

[Abomination]

The ground where Homun had originally collapsed upon at the start of this escapade had now partially caved in to accommodate the empty space of Jacob's former lair. It was the break of dawn, and a Radasanthian man going to his day job noticed something peculiar sticking out of the ground. It was a hand, reaching upwards. The man had been one of the onlookers of the other day, but he distinctly remembered no such appendage sticking out like this.

He walked closer to investigate.

Maybe someone had fallen in? After all, there may still be open spaces in the area that the ground collapsed into, so it was not as solid as other parts of the road. Although, something caught his eye about the hand.

He bent down and peered at the hand.

The hand was a peculiar one indeed! It was dirty, pale, skinny, had nails like some of the old women down West Maple Street, and there was dirt under the nails. While the thought that one of the old crones fell through the ground, the dirt under the nails told him that something else happened here.

That this hand came from below.

His expression quickly turned to horror at the realization, but it was too late. Before he could draw back in suspicion, the hand reached up and out stretched an arm that was longer than any arm the man had seen before. He was about to lose his balance and fall to the ground, but the arm coiled around his body like a snake, including his neck to muffle any attempts at screaming. With a strong, sudden pull, his entire body crashed into the ground and sunk in faster than quicksand.

A minute passed, and then part of the ground started slowly receding downwards. A body slowly emerged from the ground. A skinny, blonde-haired figured caked in dirt and blood. Its left arm was still stuck in a very thick part of the ground. He pulled to try to release it from its earthy prison, but to no avail. Clenching his teeth, he suddenly jerked his constricted arm and there was a loud snapping noise. The arm fell limp and slid out of where it was trapped. The twisted, broken arm hung at the figure's side as he climbed out of his would-be coffin. A piece of bone was sticking right out of his forearm. The arm slowly untwisted itself and the bone regenerated back into place, and the rest of his wounds followed suit. The regenerated slowed down however, so he was still left wounded and bruised, but at least he could move around now thanks to that assimilation just now.

He smiled at the dawning of a new day. His teeth seemed sharper than ever. He pushed his hair aside from the left part of his face as he had done in his fight against Jacob. He found that he can control whether or not he changed his appearance during an assimilation. He would later discover that this range included staying the same, emulating the target halfway, or shapeshifting into them completely. For now, his only goal was finding more assimilations to unlock the information locked away in his mind. Also, to eventually find Jacob and finish the job once and for all.

"Goin' to work, ma'am," he said in the gruff voice of the man he just killed.

[Ataraxis]

Quest Judging
Infected with the Crazy

I apologize for the wait, and I’ll commence the judging right away. All in all, guys, this was good stuff.

Homun is in Red, WW is in Yellow


STORY

Continuity

H ~ 5/10 – To be frank, I didn’t quite get as clear a feeling of why he did what he did as I had hoped. I knew he’d just gotten out of a fight from the Citadel and that his unusual perception of time was due to his assimilation ability, but I never got a clear feel of what he was. Homunculus? Of course. But what is that? A creature borne of coincidence? A construct? If so, what made him? I don’t expect you to answer these questions, though, just touch upon them and set the boundaries of what is known and what is not.

I know these are a lot of questions and that I wouldn’t ask this of a human character, but that’s a given. The nature of a Homunculi seems a lot more complex than a human’s, so I can’t very well take it for granted, can I? I did pick up that Homun couldn’t remember things, being a transitional creature of instinct more than anything else, so the vagueness of everything else has solid reasons for being there.

W ~ 7/10 – Jacob’s human, yes, but he’s also insane. That’s also something that can’t be ignored, and in your writing, I never got why he was insane in the first place. Still, there was insight into a time where he was a sane little kid with issues about his unnatural eyes, so that compensates somewhat. Even if just in passing, you should mention the origins of the Writing Writer, though the choice to make it an ambiguous reference or an enlightening reminiscence is yours. I knew why he was there, underground: it’s his lair, his place of respite, and he was writing again. The mention of 246 souls also revealed a lot: he’s made the place his home for a while, and has been doing the same thing in it just as long. I also enjoyed his future prospects at the end of the incident, which gives me a good idea of where he’s heading off.

Setting

H ~ 5.5/10 – A good setting is an engaging setting, one that sticks to the readers head even after they’ve finished. I remember you mentioning boards jutting out halfway, but most of the battle was about darkness, trusses, and blood-slicked cobblestones. I have to admit that your description of the skins on the wall, though brief, was very well done. That’s also an image that stuck to me, and eerily so. Also, you’ve used the torch well in lighting only pieces of the room at first, which helped raise the tension. Homun breaking the supports in his fit of rage and literally bringing down the house was a nice display of interaction with the setting.

W ~ 6/10 – Most of the above applies to you too, WW. You’ve done the same amount of descriptions, but what got you the edge here was that your style of writing made the setting stand out more. I had very clear images when described Jacob at work, sitting on his table, the dust that feel from the ceiling when Homun entered, the roaring thunder he thought was either a storm outside or the sound of his precious home collapsing. Befor that, you described shafts of light as he rode up the winding stairs like some sort of blessing after the drowning dark. If you’d kept these descriptions coming in, you’d have gotten more here, but in general the shining points weren’t consistent enough with the rest of the thread.

Pacing

H ~ 6/10 – Homun, your style is good but you have a proclivity toward making certain points drag on. I really think it’d fit more of a fast-paced kind of narrative, but there’s a good number of run-ons and roundabouts that hurt you. Examples:


“…he threw his right arm behind him, like he was going to throw something. Then, he threw his left arm back in the same manner.”

“In appearance, it looked like the kind of arms you'd see before a hug, with one above the other but both parallel to each other, but this was no hug.”


“…nails like some of the old women down West Maple Street, and there was dirt under the nails. While the thought that one of the old crones fell through the ground, the dirt under the nails told him that something else happened here.”

There were also passages where you went very technical about his abilities, though I somehow ended up with more questions than I started with, which I’ll talk about more in Clarity. I figure you’re capable of writing things out like you think them, which gives you a definite flow, but what comes out can sometimes be roiling and turbulent. It would make things much clearer if you filtered everything and made the focus of your ideas stand out more. And sometimes, you didn’t sell your attacks: the first time Homun stretched his arm, there was so little buildup that it was only three or four notches above the infamous ‘KAMEHAMEHA’. As the fight went on though, you dealt with that very well, and it wasn’t an issue anymore.

W ~ 7/10 – You have a grasp of your character that tells you what style runs and what doesn’t. Being insane doesn’t mean that his narrative has to be like reading the Apocalypse in the reverse, and you realized that. The contrast between a clear and relatively organized narrative, interspersed with a few moments of rapid and crazed moments, painted a good picture of what Jacob was. The reason you didn’t get higher though was that at some points, you sensibly repeated things you’ve mentioned in previous posts and some of the less important parts of the action did drag on quite a bit. Also, you make mistakes that are hard to dismiss, so I found myself hitting the brakes a few more times that I’d have liked. More on that in Mechanics.

CHARACTER

Dialogue

H ~ 7.5/10 – Though you say he’s Infected with the Crazy, I think his dialogue was crazier than Jacob’s, which is something I liked. The internal battle between Virus and Viral was interesting, even touching at times: Virus came off as a bit over-the-top villainous parasite, but his dialogue really wasn’t badly done. Viral seemed like a disturbing cross between traumatized child and mind-numbed monster, especially with his DisTUrbInG iNTonaTioN. That was a very nice touch. You also recreated Jacob’s prosody quite successfully, carrying across thoughts and emotions with a similar flash, including an additional hint of snarkiness. The last piece of dialogue of the thread was a very awesome variant of the returning villain’s evil ‘I’m back’ one-liner.

W ~ 6/10 – Jacob only spoke once in this thread. For what it’s worth, I have to say that it was a very, very good piece versification of his thoughts and emotions.


Only there was no bell, nor a knock on my door.
Nor a query or warning, simply a CRASH! NOTHING MORE! I could actually feel him change from his aloof singsong voice to one of really demented anger. Could almost feel the spit on my face.

But there really wasn’t enough. It was only just that one post, and beside the people who talked when he jumped out the window, your dialogue ends there. Speaking of those, I have to admit I laughed, but their mob-mentality and surprised idiocy was really excessive. It was very Ionesco, to a point where I’m a bit suspicious about your sources... Ever read the Rhinoceros? That’s theatre of the absurd, and though there’s always a heart of truth in the way things are depicted there, it still remains absurd, exaggerated and unreasonable – by choice, granted. Here, Jacob’s the insane one, yet of all the people there he seemed like the only one with his head screwed on right (though I know that in certain situations, people with mental illnesses are those with the most common sense).

Action

H ~ 7/10 – I understood that stabbing himself in the heart gave Viral a momentary victory of Virus, and also screwed up the common process of genetic assimilation, but I didn’t really catch how that worked. Otherwise, the stumbling and confusion in your first post did set a very ‘I’m a confused monster on the prowl’ mood, which also happened to be how he’s supposed to act a while after assimilation. The mechanics of his ability weren’t always clear, which I’ll touch upon again in Clarity, but you really did go out of your way to explain how he could do this and that, and why he reacted in certain ways to a variety of stimuli. Your writing was very thorough, sometimes overly so as I’ve mentioned before, but it made you get a high enough score in this category. Also, you broke down the walls: broke down the frikking walls.

W ~ 6/10 – For all the good scenes you’ve strung together, they always struck me as sensible things that a sane person would do. I clearly remember Jacob being a lot more insane in your last battle. He was trying to take down a tree with a stick, for heaven’s sake. But his reactions here were very close to those a sane person would do, faced with the danger of Homunculus. His reaction to Homun’s face mirroring his own, but exuding something palpably wrong and vicious, was something I’d probably have done myself: that is, get scared shitless and run away. Being crazy, I thought he’d be fascinated by this rare occurrence, and his poeticism should have inspired him then. When does a man eve get to see himself, before him, in the flesh instead of a mere image in the looking glass? Even if Homun was basically just a ‘clone’ of him, I’d have expected maybe a few verses spent in wonderment. Jacob was a bit out of his character because he was too believable as a sane person when he should be miles away from the bank of common sense. For any other character, the action would have netted you a pretty high score. I did like when he found himself again and sucker-punched Homun right on the forehead when the damn thing was trying to eat him. That’s just crazy.


Persona

H ~ 7/10 – Homun/Viral/Virus. Three pieces of your character, three pieces that have fought, let down, stood up and fought again, until only Homun remained – who’s mostly Virus, but also not the same. His personality was pandemonium, and I thought that it worked for you rather well. The destructive rage that Viral couldn’t control, the vicious hunger that drove it as much as Virus’ influence, his final display of free will through more than the instinct of survival, through the desire to survive, was quite nearly amazing.

W ~ 6.5/10 – I’ve really touched upon Persona when I discussed Action. His fear, his annoyance and his strange indifference to what could have been very inspirational experiences made him almost look like the sanest guy in the thread, idiot villagers included. I did like how you showed a piece of his personality through the flashback about his artist mother and the painting she made of him. As I said, I was insight about an old part of him that, just a little bit, seems to have survived through the breaking of his mind. I liked the irony of how it was a piece of sanity that helped him return him to his ‘stable’ insanity that got him into fighting Homun head on.


WRITING STYLE

Technique

H ~ 6/10 – Homun, you had run-ons and a style that made the narrative hazy at times, but it was very in-depth and tried to convey a wide panel of information without falling into the realm of instruction manuals. Some of your similes were awkward to read and didn’t always have the best of connections with the compared element. Take that part about hugs, for example. Bolding and capitalization was a nice addition that, though not exactly literary, did bring you an advantage. Also, you didn’t focus on one type of sentence, but chose simple, complex and semi-complex types with a variety of punctuation, which gives the narrative a much less bland feel.

Here’s also a quote that I really enjoyed and that uses past information from WW’s posts to make something quite beautiful (same effect is also found in Homun’s dialogue where he first copies Jacob):



”He wanted to tear the skin off this handsome man, he wanted to write a eulogy.”


W ~ 7/10 – Writer, you had a very clear and usually colorful style that carried across a good vibe and flow throughout the thread. Only, you had your own share of bogging slumps. Some of your rhetorical devices were magnificent, while others were not so stellar. Here are examples:


”Just once he wished the story would be written in his favor.” This says a lot about what he’s been through.

and:


”Had he some matches on him he would have set what was left of his home and his many works of art ablaze, if only to be certain that he would never see the intruder again. But it was summer time, and Jacob didn't smoke.” I don’t know what it is about your writing, but you have a lot of incredibly simple sentences like this that just say a lot in very few words. For those who think I’m whacked for liking this, focus on what both parts of the sentence actually entail, what information they bring and how they tie in together. It’s so simple, and it works so well.


“…eyes were wide as he drew near, wide as the leg's of a prostitute.” Here’s when it’s not so stellar: it’s not exactly the best of comparisons. Like, ‘eyes as round as a prostitute’s butt’. Can you honestly tell me you see anything else but the girls in a Sir Mix-A-Lot music video? No, really? Baby got Back? You best be kidding.


Mechanics

H ~ 6/10 – Run-ons, misspelled words, wrong tenses and repeated words are things you have to look out for. They aren’t abundant, but they’re there.

W ~ 4.5/10 – Misspelled words, a lot. Basically its/it’s problems, but they get to you after a while. When in a thread with someone, try and pick out his or her mistakes, and ask if he/she’d so kind as to scratch your back in return – metaphorically speaking, that is.

Odd-numbered are Homun, even-numbered are The Writing Writer


reverted back to instinct; to hunger. (1) Pretty sure a dash was what should have been used here, semi-colons being for related independent clause or for separating pieces of enumeration that already contain punctuation.

For the moment, it appears that all of his sense were intact. (1) senses, appeared. I know that ‘For the moment’ makes it feel like present, but it really should be past tense.

Jacob's lair!? (2) That kind of punctuation, though apparently better to convey confusion, isn’t grammatically sound. I won’t deduct any points from this, since it was only used once, but be wary, and remember a question mark works too.

Haulting (2) halting

In the dim light of the torch, it looked like two bright pink eyes obscured by long hair with the dark outlines of limbs attaching themselves to the wooden boarding in the trusses of the ceiling. (3) Heavy Run-on

battle with Ifrit that he (3) No idea who this Ifrit is – do you expound on this later? Is this the guy you just fought, or some other guy before?

whatever this out of his head (3) whatever this was

Descension (4) I know it’s a word that you can find in a few dictionaries, but descent sounds so much better.

stretchy boy's attack + table towards the boy (4) sounds awkward, and what made Homun look like a boy? I think there are better terms to describe him. I also just checked his profile, he’s 5’9 and looks 20. You’re three inches taller, yes, and three years older, yes, but I don’t think that warrants a ‘boy’.

something like that can't kill him (5) couldn’t

it was unlike he had ever experienced before (5) unlike what he had

facial structure- notably the eyebrows and chin- chained to match Jacob's. (5) dashes are spaced on both ends, but that’s just a technical point that doesn’t count in your score. I think you meant ‘changed’ rather than ‘chained’ though

His nails become slightly longer and sharper (5) wrong tense, became

body as if the insides of his body (5) r.w.

looked at his hands like he was looking (5) r.w., may have been for effect, but didn’t deliver

eyes were sharp and blood red, wide and with more rings around them than on all the people's fingers in Radasanth. (5) awkward simile, though I get where you were going

If there's one (5) if there were

Holding his hand right hand up, (5) Self-explanative

his pulled his hair down (5) he pulled his

now seemed to be, changing. (6) commas are for pauses like ‘taking a breath’, not to ‘stop and wonder what word to choose’

The Writer and The Homunculus, (7) It’s not like The Hulk, The Man or The Tick

information is buried (7) was buried

to have his heart ripped from his body and his blood drank (7) his blood drunk

the true poet is (7) was

To be immortalized in his own work is what Jacob should truly wish for, so why does he resist?! (7) was what Jacob… why did he resist… grammatically unsound double-punctuation

he threw his right arm behind him, like he was going to throw something. Then, he threw his left arm back in the same manner. (7) threw, throw, threw - r.w.

pulled his arms in, bearing his teeth (7) baring his teeth

beating it's way (8) its

She was an artist, much as Jacob was (8) ‘as much as Jacob’, or ‘much like Jacob’

realized it's significance (8) its

their eyes. So much so that they cried. (8) So much that

Due to the darkness neither of them could see, but pebbles were littering the ground from the ceiling, and various stone was cracking between the trusses. (9) I’m not sure what you tried to do here.

wanted it now![/b] (9) bad code

deep within; bones to be broken. (10) Bad use of semi-colon: ‘within – bones’ or ‘within. Bones’

moment in connected (10) it

do to his (10) due

blood and shuffling feat filled (10) feet

within it's walls (10) its

stepping lightly as he possibly could. (10) stepping as lightly as

comber some shoes (10) cumbersome shoes

it's (10) its

ceized (10) seized

supporting structure fell on top of him. The wooden structure… The wooden structure that fell on him (11) r.w.

Everything Jacob has ever done is deep inside Homun's limitless memory, and while he can't access it now (11) wrong tense, ‘was deep’ ‘he couldn’t’. It goes on for a while during that paragraph too

running fast as he could into the hallway (12) as fast as he could

The house was at it's limit (12) its

Was The Writing Writer truly to be undone by a mass of dead trees!? It was too humiliating, too ironic, he would not allow it. (12) Again, the double punctuation… but that made me snicker

it's walls (12) its

mindless conversation's coming (12) conversations

more sentimental then theirs (12) sentimental than

nails like some of the old women down West Maple Street, and there was dirt under the nails. While the thought that one of the old crones fell through the ground, the dirt under the nails told him that something else happened here. (13) kinda repetitive

slowly receding downwards. A body slowly (13) r.w. Also, in the same paragraph, ‘ground’ is repeated twice as well

The regenerated slowed (13) regeneration slowed

he can control whether (13) could control

[i]Clarity

H ~ 6.5/10 – Because of the excessive detail in a few places, the sheer volume of the less important scenes in others, it was rather hard to get a good idea of what you were trying to convey, most of the time.

W ~ 8/10 – Nothing really made me quirk an eyebrow.


MISCELLANEOUS

Wild Card

H ~ 6/10 – I enjoyed reading your writing, and if I ignore the issues with clarity, it’s something that is frighteningly solid. You can make your character stand out by the way he acts, thinks and feels in a way that I haven’t seen very often.

W ~ 7/10 – The part where everyone’s ‘That’s why I came out’ and Jacob’s ‘thought’s about the obviousness of that fact cracked me up. Exaggerated, yes, but it still had a nice effect that I can’t dismiss.


TOTAL

62.5 for Homunculus!
65 for The Writing Writer!

EXP Rewards

Homun Culus would have gained 335 XP, but because it was requested, Homunculus exchanges what gold he would have won for the remaining XP needed to level, that is to say 250 XP. Thus, Homunculus gains: 585 XP!

Jacob Zachary Buhrkheardt gains: 1000 XP!

GP Rewards

Homun Culus gains: 0 GP!

Jacob Zachary Buhrkheardt gains: 500 GP!


FINAL NOTES

Good job, men. Ata out.

[Witchblade]

EXP and GP added!

Homunculus reaches level 1!