Rekstahl comes to his senses. The sheer staggering amount of death that has preceded this moment astounds him.
"Pointed. Wasted. Their deaths accomplished nothing," Rekstahl mutters almost in shock. "I could have made their sacrifice worth something! I could have sacrificed them!"
The evil cleric raises his hands to the heavens which he cannot see. The cold dark of space where the Great Old Ones dwelt was out there. He began to despair that he would be able to see the lovely vision of madness he knew he could bring the universe.
"I don't know what to believe in regards to who is trustworthy, but if Charlene really was Hired Muscle, then perhaps her insight was in fact best. While I myself will not vote for you, Goat, I will not stop the others from trusting their survival instincts."
Rekstahl only vaguely hears all the requests heaped on his head regarding the killer robots. He glances at the small man's "robotic" remains and the smoking pile of ash that was once Bryn. Rekstahl doesn't seemed pleased and broods over the ash for quite a while. He slowly eyes the remaining contestants.
"It would seem, I am not likely to make it out of this. Once this round is over, I will once again be vulnerable to the predations of these machines."
Looking at Charlene, the priest says simply, "I don't trust you. You seem too much ingratiated with our 'host'." Rekstahl throws up a clawed finger at Mittens. He narrows his eyes.
"I don't claim to be anything but what I am. The rest of this," Rekstahl spins around including the entire arena. "This is just another path to the place of enlightenment in the dark places of the mind."
He approaches Finwa and reaches to place a hand on her shoulder. "And now you too have tasted the pain of awareness. Let go this thing called sanity to which you cling. I can bring you a vision which will allow you to know your Bryn in a way you never could in life."
As the Cthuloid entity bursts forth, Rekstahl raises his arms in triumph. His single grotesque wing outstretched to its full extension. For the second time in his life he had completed a summoning ceremony to help bring a creature made of the stuff of insanity into corporeal existence. He felt a sense of accomplishment as the monster consumed Velval and Professor Tinkerton.
He so happy inside he felt his mind unhinge from the experience a little as he gazed into the swirling mists of the portal, and whatever was there touched his thoughts. He collapsed and nightmares overcame him. Blissful and sweet the images assaulted and tore through his mind like a cadre of art films seen through the smoke-filled haze of a film noir class. He lies insensible at the feet of Alexander Maxerson.
The hooded man laughs heartily. For a moment, he actual sounds human. Then he stops and a sickly sneer graces his visage. "You are all so dramatic. I am not building a voodoo doll, like..." the murderous monk gesture's at Velval. "It doesn't even matter whose blood it is. This ritual just needs blood to represent the corpus. To help make material that which may not be. My display of 'talent' will indeed be 'special',". He chortles, glancing at Charlene Oftenseen.
He catches a few drops of Brynjard's blood in the bowl side of his implement, and sprinkles it on a portion of stone that seems a little bare.
Rekstahl looks at the bloody rag in disdain. Picking it up, he casually flings it over an edge of the arena into what is apparently a Strijacien Claw Beast den. The snarling and fighting that erupts as the Ji'real System natives fight over the rag is quite concerning.
Rekstahl favors Mittens with an unsavory look. "You really have all the fun deaths waiting for us, don't you cat," he spits out, a little bit of anger showing.
Turning back to Brynjard, Rekstahl looks unamused. "Fresh blood or don't waste my time. When physicians and nurses poke you with a needle to draw your blood, I assure you they take more than I am asking. For players in a game peopled with criminals, both of you are awfully squeamish to provide just a little of that humor." The evil cleric's eyes narrow.
"It was surprising that no robots managed to kill that first round. Is it possible you two are robots and have discovered a similar programming? Perhaps that is why the young lady has been so 'taken' with you of a sudden, Metalhead."
Murder Monk votes Alexander Maxerson for Team Leader.
Finwa wrote:
"I'm not sure I want to add my abilities to your talent, Murder Monk. You might get something very strange indeed."
The monk smiles. "You misunderstand me. I am no witch who needs to add your 'talent' to my cauldron. I merely need more blood than my small body can provide to help activate the magic needed to show my talent. A few drops of that would be all I need." He taps a crooked finger against his lips. "Perhaps all I need do is wait for dear Leonian to 'miss' an apple. Plenty of Finwa-ian blood would be available then." The smile is not pleasant to see whatsoever.
Rekstahl moves to Alexander's side. Using the bowl spoon side of his ceremonial implement, he catches some of the dripping blood.
"Excellent, Maxerson! You have chosen wisely. Now if I can put that brute strength of yours to use. Some of these stones are fairly heavy. I imagine your talent my be a wonderful display of excessive strength. I would be happy to allow the use of these arcane stones for such a display if you are willing to arrange them to my specifications."
"Au contraire, my dear Duke, sweet Finwa, and others. Nothing in life is not gained without blood, sweat, and tears. I only ask for you to donate a small portion of one so that I may display my talent. Simple bloodletting is far from the purpose of my skill."
The evil man chuckles. "Besides, even if we were not all murderers, it has been made clear to us, we are to entertain these masses with our show of bloodthirsty behavior as we ruthlessly choose which of us to die each round." Rekstahl waves a bloody hand to encompass the stadium that surrounds them.
"I will offer a deal then. Whoever is first to assist me will receive my vote for Team Leader. Anyone who follows will remove themselves further from consideration in my eyes as a killer robot. After all, can robots bleed?"
The sound of chanting is heard from the twisted cleric. He uses his bizarre ceremonial implement to cut his hand and smear blood across many of the stones and other items he is using to construct....something?
At Charlene's mention of blood, he perks up. "Blood you say? Yes, please do cut yourselves. I could use a little more on this stone and that." He points to some kind of wooden rod covered in blasphemous runes.
Several boxes suddenly elevate from a platform rising out of the arena floor. Cackling, Rekstahl rushes to them and begins to make something. he can be heard mumbling.
"I assure you, my recipes are for beings greater than ourselves. Only a few mortals are able to consume Soul Souffle with a side of dried Sanity in ID broth."
Looking at all the varied dishes, the chaotic priest seems very interested.
"Instead of making my own dish which would shred one of your feeble minds (thus allowing me to make the dish for the next contestant), I will sample yours and make suggestions for improvement before the final product is served."
Alina: shepherd's pie:
Rekstahl approaches Alina's station. His hand darts out from his sleeve quickly holding a strange ritualistic tool with a serrated blade on one end and a deep bowl almost like a pipe on the other. He scoops some of the shepherd's pie in the bowl and samples.
"Interesting...your naivete is non-existent, but your innocence shines through brilliantly. The lack of malice in your potatoes is a shame, and you may want to try cooking the carrots and peas in unbridled anger next time."
Brynjard & Finwa: Calamari w/ pilaf side; Red Wine Braised Octopus, Hilopites, Smoked Marrow and Fennel Fronds & White truffle sauce spritz; Peach Ice cream:
The disturbing cloaked man steps into the maelstrom of dancing, whirling, and chopping which makes up the station of the rock legend and the young woman with feline characteristics. As if he had somehow memorized the steps, Murder Monk bends over a dish as Finwa tosses a tentacle to Brynjard, stands up as a cloud of spices is tossed at the entree in front of him, and moves on to the next dish when Brynjard spins to place vegetables in a saucier.
"Your overall flavor of chaos as your chosen special ingredient is commendable. You two seem to be in perfect synchronization in your ability to make decisions and the result is wonderfully insane." This is spoken while chewing a tentacle hanging out of one side of his mouth. "Yet your strongest taste is also your detriment. I fear there is not enough separation of one from the other. And that is something all should fear."
The twisted cleric grabs a dead squid and puts it on his head, the tentacles jiggling. He winks back at Brynjard. "You should try to do your thinking from here." He replaces the squid in a sink to be cleaned.
Charlene (via Four Seasons): tuna sashimi, tomato-watermelon gazpacho, chili-glazed lamb chops with papaya salad, filet of bison with perigord black truffles, and Earl Grey Pot de Crème, with appropriate beverages and wines.:
A small robotic creature painted in a garish pattern to match the colors of major sponsor RorTek strolls up to Murder Monk. It carries a tray laden with the bounty "provided" by Charlene. Sampling each dish, the man grimaces.
"Such precision, such exacting care...no trace of the chaos of human life. Whoever made this should be the next cooked. Whoever ordered this should be forced to do the cooking. that is the only suggestion I can make."
Eldon: bacon and eggs ice cream - special Golden Opulence:
Rekstahl grabs the bowl and eats the dessert greedily.
"Wonderful! Made by the hands of one who knows not decency nor the taint of righteousness. This could only be achieved by the one depraved and unburdened by moral obligation. However, next time add more heart to your dessert. The one from that hero you killed would be perfect."
The evil man smiles at Eldon and salutes him.
Leonian: rabbit stew:
Again Rekstahl approaches a cooking station to sample.
"Much indignation in this. Made with a sense of defeat of purpose. It allows the meat to remain rare, as it absorbs the rawness of the depression in the broth. Exquisite. You would be one which would yield great pain in your outbursts and the strain of your mind breaking. I look forward to watching sanity ripped from you and your life given new purpose, Leonian." The light in Rekstahl's eyes as he gazes at the small man is truly terrifying.
Alexander: flaming cow:
Without any preamble, the clawed fingers of Murder Monk's hand reach out and tear a substantial hunk of Alexander's barbaric Bovine Flambe. As he brings the large meat to his lips, juice and blood dripping, Murder Monk's mouth distends razor sharp teeth are suddenly visible. It opens wider and wider, and one looking into it can feel the void tugging them and urging them to come forward and leap into it. This feeling ends as the man stuffs the entire piece into his too-wide maw. Blood squirts and bones crunch. A pensive thoughtful look appears on the lunatic's face.
"Ah, just like All Mother makes it. The rage contained within is the best spice! I would suggest you consider the addition of youth. A child stuffed inside the cow pre-cooking would do nicely."
Mattie: deviled eggs:
The monk approaches the spunky girl's offering with interest. Taking one of the now glowing stuffed eggs, Rekstahl pops it into his mouth. His eyes widen and a strange look, one of distress, crosses his features. Rekstahl doubles over; a strangled cry escaping his lips. He remains this way for a moment breathing hoarsely, sounding as one who struggles to inhale through a garroted throat.
Suddenly, there is a horrible ripping sound of flesh and cloth. A membranous fluid spurts from the cleric's arched back. Some kind of protrusion has erupted from the right upper portion of his back. It stretches and elongates dripping viscera and placential-like goo. As it reaches out, a membranous skin can be seen between several sturdy bone structures. It is a single grotesque wing which readily sheds the blood and fluid stretching towards the top of the arena. Fully extended the wing is five feet in width.
A cackling laughter steadily is heard. The monk stands upright in one quick motion, his arms outstretched. His eyes wide and the cackling becomes a maniacal laughter.
"This is the best thing I have ever eaten in my life!!" Rekstahl screams to all who listen. "It is a sign! I live and I have been blessed!"
To Mattie, Rekstahl says, "Change nothing. Your dish is perfect."
Breathing hard after all the sampling and critique, Murder Monk turns towards the nearest camera. The wing folds down and seems almost to match his hooded cloak except for the gore.
"The choices are obvious. Expand your mind and you can see them clearly..." His twisted evil smile of sharp teeth fills the screen of a galaxy of vidstreams.
Murder Monk votes Mattie as Team Leader. Murder Monk votes Charlene F. Oftenseen as Team Loser. Murder Monk scanbots Hamish. Murder Monk snitches Finwa & Byrnjard. Murder Monk sneakbots Leonian Mousekewitz. Murder Monk heisters Alexander Maxerson & Eldon Gorski. Murder Monk killer robots Ms. Kevorkia. Murder Monk hired muscles Mittens.
"We can all live, little one. Live in the glory of Those Who Live in the Space Between the Stars. We merely have to defeat the robots amongst us. We are not in Mittens other gameshow Kindergarten Highlander."
In case you're actually confused, the Great Old Ones would be Lovecraft's Cthulhu, Nyarlothotep, Yog-Soggoth, etc.
The self-proclaimed prophet's prayers interrupt with a derisive snort.
"I make no claim to be anything except what I am, a harbinger. A stormcrow to the war for sanity. And correct, you are only succeeding in reducing the chances of stopping the robots. Not increasing. The whispers in my mind say that doing your enemy's job for them is certainly not sane. Perhaps you are all believers in the Great Old Ones after all..." Rekstahl leaves the implication hanging in the air almost tangible, a twisted smile on his face.
Rekstahl shakes his head. "You condemn me because you cannot hear the music I bring? I must 'perform' openly for it to count in your trivial game? I assure you, if you open yourself, the song of the space between will reach you."
The cloaked man raises his arms and a giant jumbotron comes to life over head. A display of the stars shows in crisp detail. The camera angles seem odd as if they are trying to avoid the the balls of light, but instead highlight the darkness. It was strangely unsettling, somehow the eye didn't want to follow the direction the camera seemed to be taking.
"Behold! Listen to the Song of the Spheres!"
As one continues to watch the display, no sound seems to emanate. Instead, the watcher can hear whispers in their mind. The same whisper that one hears right after one is cut off in traffic, after the Retrovian steak is brought cooked incorrectly at the restaurant for the second time in a row, or after someone insults one's offspring's ability to perform a communal sport. Yes, the whisper that demands immediate satisfaction. The one that describes the worst possible thing, and suggests one do it, right then, right now, the urge that comes and other senses suppress...why do they suppress this? Is this not the first thing one feels? The basic desire? The song is heard clearly then. And it says, HuRtTHeM!
He considers the "threat" of Brynjard for a moment before dismissing it.
"Your approval is unnecessary. Either I am a robot or I am not. Either I am a prophet or I am not. Either I am the harbinger of a new age of enlightenment or I am not. This group's," the cowled man waves his hand to encompass the contestants, "is irrelevant. All are criminals. Misunderstood by society. Misunderstood by themselves. In the coming time of the Great Old Ones return, even this misunderstanding will be meaningless. Only those who seek to embrace the horror of the coming dark or who are already enlightened will survive."
The red cowled creature that has sat in prayer this whole time to prove its devotion finally rises.
Without any preamble, the monk approaches The Hollow and bows.
"Of all those amongst us, you are closest to perfect. I can only pray that these other fools will learn from you before we are all forced to suffer further in this pointless game."
Murder Monk stands in his holding cell looking around at the monitors displaying the faces and names listing his fellow contestants. He smiles as he looks at their petty crimes of mass murder.
Soon they would learn the true horror that waits in the dark. Killer robots? Pathetic. Redemption? Impossible. Morality? Irrelevant.
Murder Monk closed his eyes and prayed knowing that the time of illumination was at hand. An evil smile spreads across his face.
Incarcerated: As one can only imagine, the criminal known as Murder Monk earned this name for crimes heinous and despicable. He is believed to be one Rekstahl Davila, born on the desert moon of Xailehc, famed for the numerous cults of forbidden gods that are frequently and inexplicably found and purged from its surface by the Intergalactic Council of Planets. If this assumption is correct, Rekstahl was born as the result of carnal rites performed and best left undescribed. Purportedly "saved" as a small child during one of the many raids on whatever cult was being exterminated at the time, Rekstahl was introduced to civilization and soon had a legacy all his own.
Strange deaths and mutilations seemed to always happen to people in the areas around where Rekstahl lived and worked as a charity relief agent. Frequently under suspicion, Rekstahl always managed to elude indictment as no tangible proof ever surfaced. Eventually, an ICP Agent named Jiminy uncovered a plan to unearth a relic buried below the city where Rekstahl lived which would summon some obscene and horrible dead god in bloody sacrifice. As Jiminy and his fellow Agents burst into the Miskatonic Charities office, Rekstahl knowing himself to be discovered initiated a device of some kind.
An unspeakable terror was unleashed and much of the city was devastated by a tenticular horror, the lives of hundreds of innocents fed to its insatiable appetite. Through the acts of many brave Agents and other citizens, the beast was destroyed or at least banished. Jiminy survived and managed to capture a creature which appeared to be wearing the garments of Rekstahl Davila, but was mutated and no longer clearly identifiable as the villain. His identity now in question, the creature was nicknamed Murder Monk by sensationalist media, and he was transferred to Tartarus a ultra-security prison built within the bowels of a dead planet long devoid of atmosphere from some catastrophe in the past.
When the call for "volunteers" for the new DeathMatch show was first announced, Murder Monk's name was mentioned quickly and often. It is suspected that even if Murder Monk wins freedom, a Killer Robot won't be far behind...
Personality: Demented, cold, and utterly calculating, Murder Monk has a sinister sneer and a penetrating gaze which intimidates many. Many suspect his dead god is pleased with his disciple and protects him. Many around the cultist suffer terrible nightmares of formless monsters who consume their souls in slow agonizing bites. He seems to revel in this inner pain and turmoil almost as if he can sense it. He knows that the game is most likely one grand double cross, but he very much plays to win none the less.
Appearance: Murder Monk wears bulky robes to hide his humped back and three vestigial mini-tentacles growing on side of his torso. He doesn't have conscious control of them as they seem to move based on nervous impulse. Fortunately they are short, and the bulky robe usually hides them well. His face has been distorted away from human, but with all the races in the galaxy, he doesn't yet look unusual enough to be distinctive. At least not his face.
