No treats, only tricks.

[youcanthideo.livejournal.com]

[This...power.]

[Mantis could feel a surging increase in his abilities as he stepped into the room. Everybody's mind was crystal clear, an open book. Objects larger than he'd ever been able to move were easily toppled over. Possession no longer required the help of music...and hallucinations were no long restricted to the small scale of one person.

So what did he do with the power this room granted him? Why, he abused it. Anybody within range would suddenly find themselves immersed in a world of horribly vivid hallucinations. Walls closing in, grotesque monsters, bugs, bats and rats; the floors swallowing people like quicksand--the walls melting. Anybody's deepest and darkest fears crawled out of the doors lining the halls and went straight for their victims.

Of course none of it was real, but Mantis' victims didn't know that.]

((ooc: sorry I'm posting this so late! I was sick the last few days and couldn't bring myself to do much of anything. I hope you can still enjoy it~ Feel free to yank monster ideas from any videogames/movies/whatever you want!

Only floors 3-8 are affected so nobody is forced to participate, and you can escape.))

Comments

[THIS IS THE THREAD FOR THOSE WHO WENT TO THE WRONG PARTY]

[colonelcrotchgrab]

[Only minutes ago had Volgin been nursing a drink at a booth at a Halloween party for the faceless at a nameless bar behind a seemingly normal door, snug in the illusion of a city where everyone kept asking which "James Bond" movie he was from. Oh, he thought that was going to be the worse of his problems.

Instead, someone got sick with a case of... something and started sharing.

Even better, someone else had the foresight to seal up the place before the giant could leave and now the bar was ripe with the stench of the dead. The exit was clotted with bodies, easy kills for the things. How Volgin survived that, he had no idea himself; the things were fast, furies of claws and fangs and gnashing whatever else that mangled and made bloody ribbons of anything they came across.

Concrete, metal drums, and an impenetrable hull later, he could not break down a door fast enough and had to run to the other side of the bar.

The bitter Soviet was now in the cellar, with a table as a shoddy barrier, its leg in his hand. He was clinging to it like a lover over the distant dream of a shotgun. Or something mildly explosive.

He was getting tired of these bad days.]

[antipasogyry.livejournal.com]

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[colonelcrotchgrab]

What are you doing here.

How about you be remotely useful and hit something with a stick?