whats up heckers i have a new prompt feast ur seeing orbs
((Immortality is, like, the best concept to work with in an RP isn't it? Yeah, it is, so here's an immortal John who was granted his immortality (and a bunch of other powers) after he stupidly agreed to become the vessel of an Olde Timey God so that he can fight off evil creatures and dark forces. Skip forward thousands of years later, and John now works at a museum as a tour guide/exposition faucet. He still fights evil, but he struggles to both keep his little secret /and/ pay his bills.
This is MULTI-PARA with a 6 PARAGRAPH MINIMUM FOR THE STARTER. I'm accepting any character besides the Amporas, Makaras, Zahhaks, Nitrams, Nanna, Grandma English, Grandpa Harley, Midnight Crew, the Felt, Jake, Jade, Jane, and the Dancestors. No genderbends, and the trolls must be humanstuck. I will **ONLY** do shipping with a Dave, Dirk, Roxy, Rose, or Karkat--and the chances of shipping happening are really, really, really low. PLEASE CONFIRM YOUR CHARACTER WITH ME BEFORE YOU RESPOND.))
Tired. Oh, god, he was so fucking tired. Waking up was a chore, and each day tore into the next one with ever increasing wariness. He was too damn old, and he couldn't go on. The thought of continuing forward through his life, hell, to the next day filled him with sorrow. /Fuck/. He didn't want to go to work. He really, really, /really/ didn't want to go to work. Get a job at the museum, he said. It would be funny, he said. These assholes don't know shit about history and you need to school them, he said. Now he has to get up at Fuckface o'Clock, trudge his old dusty ass to the museum, give some goddamn tours to a variety of bored as hell patrons, and then walk around telling mothers to (/please/ holy shit) get their offspring off the goddamn fake dinosaur.
He was almost six-thousand years old, for goodness sake. At this point, he should be able to slip into an easy retirement. Get a mansion, buy a Ferrari, crash the Ferrari, and then cry a lot about the crashed Ferrari. Except, he can't have all that, because no one believe that underneath his disgustingly handsome youthful guise is an ancient douchebag who just wants retirement benefits.
John Egbert was his name, and making huge mistakes was his game. Though, a very long time ago, his name wasn't John Egbert. It was a name from a culture and tongue washed away from memory like silt in a river. No one but himself knew that name, that culture, that tongue. The only thing that remained were the legends, the myths, all of which were actually true but...Well, he couldn't entertain crowds, pay his bills, /and/ ward away suspicion if they were real. He had to fabricate reality, which was always fun.
For some reason, he had thought that making the Ghostbuster's theme his alarm was a good idea. Spoiler alert: it wasn't. What used to be his favorite song was now the veritable harbinger of death. His eyes blinked, groggy with sleep and unable to fully comprehend that it was time to get up. After a moment or two of hearing 'Who ya gonna call?' like a banshee's horrid shriek, he groaned and flopped onto his side. Fingers splaying, he turned the alarm off and could only rest his head back against his pillow in pitiful defeat.
"Fuck." He whispered.
"/Fuck/." He whispered again.
"Ugh, Jesus fucking Christ, /no/." John was now moaning into his pillow, fighting the urge to go back to sleep.
Eventually, he decided he had to go face his demons. John rose from the bed, throwing the covers off and stumbling into the bathroom to start the day. His mirror greeted him, showing him the dark-skinned visage that was his face. Blue eyes, silvery white hair, his skin dotted with freckles, curling with old tattoos upon his arms and chest, and marked with several scars. Tall, dark, nerd. "'Sup sexy, you come here often? Of course you do. It's your house. Apartment. Whatever." He muttered into his reflection, and continued on with the harrowing task of getting ready for work.
One disgusting montage of a shower, teeth brushing, and hair brushing later John was already out of his apartment and on his way to work. On his chest gleamed the bright little badge that said his name and proudly proclaimed his title of guide. He worked in the mythology section of the museum, informing the masses about the trials of Heracles, the many affairs of Zeus, and the carriage pulling cats of Freya. Then, at the end of every forty-minute tour, he got to have a talk about himself.
One of the things he was most praised for at work, by far, was his knowledge about the Heir of Breath, the Vessel, Breath Reborn, whatever people wanted to call him. Honestly, it was probably the /only/ reason he even got the job, considering that he appeared to be so young, and definitely stood out like a sore thumb in the museum's environment. But, of course, it wasn't hard to know so much about this Heir, because John /was/ him. It was one of the better parts of his job, getting to openly share many of his experiences. For a small time, he got to be completely full of himself, and he loved it. He loved when people asked him so many questions about the Heir, he loved when children clamored over themselves to see the murals, sculptures, and paintings of the various depictions of himself, their eyes wide as they asked 'Was he real?'--to which he got to answer, yes, in a way he was real. It /almost/ made the job worth it.
When he arrived at work, it was already time to start the first tour of the time. He droned on as they moved through the various exhibits in the mythology department, trying his best to seem like he wasn't completely dead inside. He cleared up misconceptions along the way--no, Persephone wasn't /just/ Hades' wife, she was the Queen of the Underworld and you better respect her goddammit.
Thirty minutes had passed, until they were on the last exhibit of the tour. Finally, he could begin the constantly repeated monologue he had made about himself, and it was at this point in the tour that he really seemed to come alive. His voice became bright, his expression lifted, and his stories became truly enthralling.
"Who's heard of the Heir of Breath?" He'd begin, watching the hands go up. "Geez, only four this time? That's okay, that's fine. You're about to learn all you need to know. It's actually a crash course, but whatever." John coughed, stood up straighter, and began the tale.
"Once, over six-thousand years ago, there was a god. We have no information on his true name, but many accounts have named him 'Breath'." His true name had been Be'Rath. Though, 'Breath' was just as fitting.
"Breath and his fellow gods waged a constant war against the forces of evil in this world, 'demons' as sources have deemed them. Though, as time wore on, the gods were slowly beaten into non-existence and it was Breath, the god of Storms and Freedom, that remained. For a time he stood his ground, fighting the good fight...until he couldn't fight anymore. He, too, would soon vanish."
"It was at this point, that he had gotten desperate. This world needed to be protected, the beings who lived in it were far too precious to lose. Then, one day, he came across a mortal boy. The boy was a baker's son, humble if not a bit lacking in tact. There was more to this boy, however, for his soul was...different. His soul was Breath's own. Breath then realized who this boy was, and who he must become. This boy was to be his legacy, to inherit all that Breath had and to carry on his fight. He was to become Breath anew, once their souls became one."
"Breath came to the boy in the dead of night, and told him of the gods' plight. The boy listened hard, and once Breath had finished his plea, the boy simply nodded his head. 'Whatever I can do, I will do it. Let me be your hands, your eyes, your body. I will go where you cannot, and do what you cannot do once you pass from this realm. This is my destiny, and I shall finish what you started.' The boy said, and then boy and god were one."
"The Heir is known as being a beacon of hope. He has shown himself in the most dire of times, helping whoever he could whenever he could. Possessing the immortality of a god, and the powers of one too, he was a force to be reckoned with. The stories say that when he arrived, blessed hammer in hand, demons fled in fright. It was he who managed to banish thousands--no, millions--of demons back to their world and keep them there...Though, who knows? Some might be around today, and if some are around..."
John looked over the crowd, winking at them. "Then the Heir is still kicking, too." He said, and the first tour of the day had been concluded. Grinning, he waved the tour group off as they went on to the next section of the museum (or just straight up left). That was fun...Now he just had like, twenty more. John stood there, feeling pretty good about this hard day's work so far, until he noticed something out of the corner of his eye. Something darker than sin, something more terrible than the shadows under the bed.
If one was going to be technical, he had two jobs. Tour guide by day, monster killer and godly vessel whenever the need arises.
John sneaked away then, following the trail of darkness, chaos, and disgust that demons usually left. Down the back hallways of the museum he went, reaching for a rather ornate bracelet on his wrist. When he removed it, it was a hammer. A beautiful, beautiful, hammer. Her name was Zilli'Hu, and he loved her.
The trail lead off to an older part of the museum, one no one had touched in about a decade. Dust had settled everywhere, thick grey blankets of the stuff had laid down on podiums, stairs, chairs, and tables. With a 'pwoof' the dust burst, revealing a creature that could turn any stomach. Oozing with what looked like sludge, eyes made out of fire--it was like an edgy Muk recolor, honestly. The edgiest Muk recolor ever. It made some sort of strangled scream once it saw John, moving to flee--but it wasn't fast enough.
John moved forward, a blink and you'll miss it sort of movement. He slammed the hammer down, again and again, until the demon screamed once more in agony and exploded into ashes. He took a few steps back after that, planting the head of his hammer onto the floor and moving to use the weapon like a cane. Job well done, he thought. It'd been awhile since one of these guys showed up...He probably would have actively sought one out, sooner or later, to at least alleviate his boredom.
He turned around, lugging his hammer onto his shoulder, ready to get the hell out of there and get back to his 'actual' job when he saw...Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit. "Shit." Shit, shit, shit. Fuck. Someone was there. Staring at him. Fuck, fuck. John stood there, a deer in headlights, until he weakly cleared his throat and began talking, his voice cracking just a bit.
"Oh, uh, /wow/. That was /some/ bug. It was like, a tarantula or something. Don't worry! I, um. I killed it. With this prop hammer. It's dead. It's all good. Are you lost, though? The bathroom's not this way, if you're wondering." Oh fucking goddammit he was going to have to flee the country and burn his apartment room to a crisp and forge another passport /again/. Shit.
(ᕗ ͠° ਊ ͠° )ᕗ terminator: the quest for eyebrows (ᕗ ͠° ਊ ͠° )ᕗ
