RE: The Glorious Championship! [S3G5] [Round... Uh, Seven? The Oasis]
01-29-2014, 03:59 AM
(This post was last modified: 01-29-2014, 04:01 AM by MaxieSatan.)
One would think a man so obsessed with mindless self-indulgence would at least take minor measures to cut down on bureaucratic misery, Gerald Crumb thought as he pinned another sheet of paper to the bulletin board. He squinted at the strings tying the pages together, considered rearranging some, and decided against it. They had to go together this way, right? That was the only way that made sense, surely.
He stared at the notes remaining on the desk and sighed. The neon lighting of the room, chosen not out of any coherent design scheme but more or less at random, flickered.
Maybe reroute the blue string through Cailean? No, no, that wouldn't resolve that damn third trial, would it?
This whole thing had to have been devised to torture him. The autograph book, which he knew he'd brought with him, being engulfed by the sun at the last minute. The last-minute round change when he decided that “islands are played out”. The repeated trips to Denny’s, which wouldn’t have been so bad if it didn’t involve entering a different plane of reality due to the less-than-convenient location of The Hedonist’s estate, and which could have been avoided if he didn’t keep “forgetting” items that he wanted to order. All things that he undoubtedly had the energy and power to do in the blink of an instant, but instead he foisted them off on his less-omnipotent lackey, evidently for fun.
But at least I’m managing to make progress, he thought to himself; a thought which was immediately interrupted by the appearance of the Hedonist, who burst from thin air in a flash of confetti (something which frankly became less whimsical every time he did it).
“Ah, Crumb, glad you're still here! I was worried I’d have to go searching for you!”
Crumb’s grip tightened, slightly fracturing the pencil in his hand. That literally doesn't make even a tiny bit of sense, you ape. You can see everything in your domain and teleport around it at an instant. Out loud, he gave a noncommittal grunt.
“Well, I know it might be a bit of trouble, but I need you to add another contestant! Think you could do that for me real quick?”
The man in the lime-green hat took a long while to breathe and compose himself. Finally, he managed to choke out a response, using as much derision as he could without seeming insubordinate. “Another contestant, you say?”
The Hedonist grinned and nodded, the tassel on his hat bobbing around frantically. “See, I've really been enjoying it – the battle, and everything, I mean – but it's just, you know... it's going so quickly, you know?”
He did not, but didn't feel capable of saying so. Instead, he shrugged while the djinni continued. “So I figure, you know, get another one or two guys in there, just spice things up. Especially since Convy is –”
In an instant, the man in the lime-green hat leapt to his feet and slammed his fists on the desk. “What about The Convolution, sir? Are you telling me that a round ended without anyone dying, everyone was operating under the assumption that a contestant had died, and now that same contestant is back for more? And, having told me about this null round, which will require all sorts of work to fix, you want me to add yet another contestant?”
The Hedonist responded with a sympathetic smile, which his servant had by now learned was code for “I understand you’re upset, but I’m not really interested.” Normally Crumb would have done his best to calm himself, but this was getting to be too much, and he would say his piece.
“A couple things never even happened anymore, and I don't know what they are because they weren't and they aren't! A Grandmaster that I didn't know existed is dead, apparently, and I didn't even know that was possible! Then there's all the damned paradoxes, because naturally the only one with any respect for the timestream died almost immediately, and now the contestants are disproving each other! What happens when they try to disprove you? Because you damn well know that they will! There's no fucking protocol for any of this, and you just keep throwing more of it at me!”
The Hedonist yawned, turned his back on his servant and shook his head. “I’m really not that interested in this, Gerald. I keep you around to deal with these things, so deal with them, alright?” In an instant, he was gone, leaving Crumb to grumble and begin sharpening a pristine pencil.
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Deep within the twelfth basement of the Sanctum Intumus, Highest Priest Deliverer-Of-Glory (formerly Sage Father Deliverer-Of-Glory, formerly Father Guardian-Of-The-Northeast, formerly Brother Giver-Of-Very-Many-Pamphlets, formerly Apprentice Bartleby Mackerel) was disturbed from his meditation.
He slowly stood up, old, weary bones barely maneuvering into place. As it was prophesied, so shall it be, he thought as he gently ran a hand over the perfectly chiseled Code of Rilaga, which lay on a stone pedestal decorating the otherwise-bare room. Today, I shall die, and that is to be expected. But, in doing so, I shall save the world.
The Highest Priest, with one last glance at the deepest part of the church, sighed wearily and entered the chamber - a chamber taken over time and time again, by gods both good and evil, but successfully guarded by the Ninefold Monks for centuries. Within, as expected, was one typewriter and one horrifying ethereal monstrosity slowly forming above it.
The priest raised his hand up high as the demon turned to face him. “O great Maowyn, I beg of ye: I, your humble servant, will suffer a thousand deaths that no other man or woman shall feel such pain!”
A pause.
Etiyr and the priest stared each other down, the former scowling and the latter trying desperately to avoid panicking. The candles around them flickered. Upstairs, an explosion could be heard.
Then, once again, silence.
Slowly but surely, the demon’s expression began to crack, giving way to a wide smile. “Pffffffffahahahahaha!” He shook his head and looked at the ground, then returned his gaze to the priest. “Oh, you fucking moron, you really thought you could do it with her help? Sorry to say, but she’s a bit busy at the moment.” Gradually he began to grow, and the light in the room began to dim, as if he was blotting it out, no, absorbing it. Deliverer-Of-Glory shrank back, but maintained a brave face. “Don’t worry, though, I’ve got all the time in the world. So, how about those thousand deaths you were getting all excited about?” The demon stalked towards him (well, hovered, really, but it felt stalky) and the candles gave off less and less light, until...
Well. The phrase “snuffed out” comes to mind for at least two reasons, but neither is technically accurate, so we’ll just leave it there.
--------------------------------
Crumb sighed. Okay, you can do this. It’s just something entirely unprecedented and which goes against the entire concept, and which could possibly lead to an endless hell of nothing but grand battles for every damn person, animal and vacuum cleaner in the universe, forever being brought in to sate the fool’s apparently ever-increasing bloodlust, but... He paused, shaking his head and waving away the summary in front of him (some lady with an axe hewn from dragonbone, something something gradually succumbing to berserker rage and terrified of what she was becoming – interesting, but too high-concept for the boss, and too much of an advantage to keep things interesting). Immediately, a new one appeared, detailing a man who might or might not have psychic powers, it was really pretty ambiguous. As he leaned over to view the details, he heard a shout and what sounded like (hypothetically valuable, but practically infinite due to The Hedonist’s powers) mahogany walls being broken to splinters behind him.
Once more, the man in the lime-green hat sighed. Without turning, he intoned, “I’m busy enough as it is, and I really do not have time to deal with this.”
The response he received was a smoky hand slicing at his back, but not drawing blood (and not for lack of trying). Slowly, he scowled turned around to face Etiyr, who towered over him to the point that his head scraped the ceiling; he held the typewriter, still bound to him, in one hand. With the other, the demon grabbed him by the collar, lifting him into the air until their eyes locked. “LISTEN, SHITHEAD. I want one thing, and that’s to get the fuck out of here. So how about you make that happen, and you can keep that cute little jugular vein of yours?”
Crumb responded by punching him in the face, something which wouldn’t have been that impressive if the recipient had fully regained physical form. Etiyr recoiled and dropped him to the ground; quickly, the Hedonist’s assistant strolled over to the desk, pulled out a handful of pens from one of the drawers, and began throwing them, one by one, at the demon.
“I’ve been having enough trouble as it is with the past, I’d rather not deal with aborted futures as well. But I suppose that’s a bit much to ask, isn’t it?” He slashed at Etiyr’s throat with a handful of writing utensils, causing him to drop the typewriter; Crumb quickly followed up by stomping on it, resulting in a very loud but mercifully brief clacking. “No matter what I do, you morons will find some way to twist the timestream in more and more convoluted knots. So thank you, Etiyr, for giving me this opportunity.” He crouched down and began yanking at the platen, eventually managing to pry it off the device and toss it to the corner of the room. “Now listen. I’m fairly sure you’re only here because, even in your timeline, you still killed Maowyn, and you still got the whole spiel from the bug. Last I checked, protocol is to explain the position to me, isn’t it?”
Etiyr growled and tried to stand, but only managed to prop himself up on one arm. “Sure, boss, I’ll explain some positions for you! YOU CAN START BY POSITIONING MY FUCKING TALONS UP YOUR –”
“Yes, yes, very nice. I already know the general idea, anyway.” Crumb hoisted the typewriter and smashed it against the wall, again and again, the banging of metal and clattering of keys filling the room.
Eventually, he stepped back and slammed the battered and broken machine to the ground. Next to it laid a demon who looked less like a harbringer of misery and death, and more like a sickly old man who simply happened to be made of otherworldly smoke. “The successor is supposed to prevent paradoxes, for one thing, and I’m fairly sure every one of you has done the exact opposite of that. Don’t worry, though.” He smiled. “I’ll make sure none of you endanger the timestream again.”
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Deep within the twelfth basement of the Sanctum Intumus, Highest Priest Deliverer-Of-Glory (formerly Sage Father Deliverer-Of-Glory, formerly Brother Guardian-Of-The-Northeast, formerly Brother Giver-Of-Very-Many-Pamphlets, formerly Apprentice Bartleby Mackerel) continued to meditate as planned. Above him, Etiyr had just (surprise surprise) given a profanity-riddled tirade about how ridiculous the ninth trial was, and frankly he should get credit for completing them all just by virtue of doing it as a typewriter, but nobody was particularly interested in hearing it.
This was a shame, because he would end up missing the debate that ended in the destruction of Maowyn (which, in spite of the terrifying theological implications, all the monks who did witness it found quite interesting), but all things considered, it was probably still preferable to the alternative.
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The Oasis was ironically named; there had been water there once, of course, but in recent times people mainly remembered it as a filthy, miserably dry pit in the middle of a pleasant (if not especially interesting) prairie. Locals would often make jokes about it at the expense of people passing through – talk about the thousands of bats that came out and ate anyone not wearing garish, mismatched clothing; or say that it would go below freezing at a moment’s notice so you should really wear a parka, dearie, and don’t take it off because really it happens very quickly and it’s better to be a bit hot than at risk of exposure; or claim that there were gems lining the walls if you went down far enough. It was all nonsense, of course; bats hadn’t ever been seen in the area, and there had never been anything of value down there – though recently, a couple more inventive townsfolk had spiced things up by attaching fake jewels to the walls (not very far down, just far down enough for gullible folks to imagine that nobody had reached that point before them), which would administer an electric shock to anyone who touched them carelessly.
While none of these were true, three things definitely were: the Oasis was damn twisty, it was damn hot, and the lower you got the worse it was. And it was at the very bottom, scattered around the final remnants of a not-quite-boiling lake that still kept the lower caverns full of steam, that the contestants found themselves. Crumb’s voice boomed all around them.
“Attention, contestants. As I speak, I am on my way to destroy The Hedonist, the man who brought you into this fight to begin with.” He very deliberately paused, intending to give them a chance to feel hopeful about their situation before he continued.
“I wouldn’t get too excited, however, because you’re going to continue fighting to the death regardless. You see, there’s two concerns I have about letting everyone who remains go free. First of all, your mere existence could pose a threat to causality as we know it, and frankly we have enough of those kicking around as it is, so I wouldn’t mind if all but one of you left the mortal coil – it would make things much simpler. Secondly, and in most cases this isn’t your fault so much as the fact that I’m sick of you all, I hate you and want you to die in horrible agony. Er, except you, Ekrith. I haven’t really gotten a chance to hate you yet. Anyway, with that in mind, I hope you enjoy yourselves. Oh, and one last thing.” The not-quite boiling lake gave off just a bit more steam.
Then it began to bubble, and then, slowly but surely, the water level began to rise.
“I’ve seen to giving the lake a more interesting tidal cycle. It won’t go up too high, but it will be shifting frequently and rapidly, so for the moment I’d suggest you get a move on.”
He stared at the notes remaining on the desk and sighed. The neon lighting of the room, chosen not out of any coherent design scheme but more or less at random, flickered.
Maybe reroute the blue string through Cailean? No, no, that wouldn't resolve that damn third trial, would it?
This whole thing had to have been devised to torture him. The autograph book, which he knew he'd brought with him, being engulfed by the sun at the last minute. The last-minute round change when he decided that “islands are played out”. The repeated trips to Denny’s, which wouldn’t have been so bad if it didn’t involve entering a different plane of reality due to the less-than-convenient location of The Hedonist’s estate, and which could have been avoided if he didn’t keep “forgetting” items that he wanted to order. All things that he undoubtedly had the energy and power to do in the blink of an instant, but instead he foisted them off on his less-omnipotent lackey, evidently for fun.
But at least I’m managing to make progress, he thought to himself; a thought which was immediately interrupted by the appearance of the Hedonist, who burst from thin air in a flash of confetti (something which frankly became less whimsical every time he did it).
“Ah, Crumb, glad you're still here! I was worried I’d have to go searching for you!”
Crumb’s grip tightened, slightly fracturing the pencil in his hand. That literally doesn't make even a tiny bit of sense, you ape. You can see everything in your domain and teleport around it at an instant. Out loud, he gave a noncommittal grunt.
“Well, I know it might be a bit of trouble, but I need you to add another contestant! Think you could do that for me real quick?”
The man in the lime-green hat took a long while to breathe and compose himself. Finally, he managed to choke out a response, using as much derision as he could without seeming insubordinate. “Another contestant, you say?”
The Hedonist grinned and nodded, the tassel on his hat bobbing around frantically. “See, I've really been enjoying it – the battle, and everything, I mean – but it's just, you know... it's going so quickly, you know?”
He did not, but didn't feel capable of saying so. Instead, he shrugged while the djinni continued. “So I figure, you know, get another one or two guys in there, just spice things up. Especially since Convy is –”
In an instant, the man in the lime-green hat leapt to his feet and slammed his fists on the desk. “What about The Convolution, sir? Are you telling me that a round ended without anyone dying, everyone was operating under the assumption that a contestant had died, and now that same contestant is back for more? And, having told me about this null round, which will require all sorts of work to fix, you want me to add yet another contestant?”
The Hedonist responded with a sympathetic smile, which his servant had by now learned was code for “I understand you’re upset, but I’m not really interested.” Normally Crumb would have done his best to calm himself, but this was getting to be too much, and he would say his piece.
“A couple things never even happened anymore, and I don't know what they are because they weren't and they aren't! A Grandmaster that I didn't know existed is dead, apparently, and I didn't even know that was possible! Then there's all the damned paradoxes, because naturally the only one with any respect for the timestream died almost immediately, and now the contestants are disproving each other! What happens when they try to disprove you? Because you damn well know that they will! There's no fucking protocol for any of this, and you just keep throwing more of it at me!”
The Hedonist yawned, turned his back on his servant and shook his head. “I’m really not that interested in this, Gerald. I keep you around to deal with these things, so deal with them, alright?” In an instant, he was gone, leaving Crumb to grumble and begin sharpening a pristine pencil.
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Deep within the twelfth basement of the Sanctum Intumus, Highest Priest Deliverer-Of-Glory (formerly Sage Father Deliverer-Of-Glory, formerly Father Guardian-Of-The-Northeast, formerly Brother Giver-Of-Very-Many-Pamphlets, formerly Apprentice Bartleby Mackerel) was disturbed from his meditation.
He slowly stood up, old, weary bones barely maneuvering into place. As it was prophesied, so shall it be, he thought as he gently ran a hand over the perfectly chiseled Code of Rilaga, which lay on a stone pedestal decorating the otherwise-bare room. Today, I shall die, and that is to be expected. But, in doing so, I shall save the world.
The Highest Priest, with one last glance at the deepest part of the church, sighed wearily and entered the chamber - a chamber taken over time and time again, by gods both good and evil, but successfully guarded by the Ninefold Monks for centuries. Within, as expected, was one typewriter and one horrifying ethereal monstrosity slowly forming above it.
The priest raised his hand up high as the demon turned to face him. “O great Maowyn, I beg of ye: I, your humble servant, will suffer a thousand deaths that no other man or woman shall feel such pain!”
A pause.
Etiyr and the priest stared each other down, the former scowling and the latter trying desperately to avoid panicking. The candles around them flickered. Upstairs, an explosion could be heard.
Then, once again, silence.
Slowly but surely, the demon’s expression began to crack, giving way to a wide smile. “Pffffffffahahahahaha!” He shook his head and looked at the ground, then returned his gaze to the priest. “Oh, you fucking moron, you really thought you could do it with her help? Sorry to say, but she’s a bit busy at the moment.” Gradually he began to grow, and the light in the room began to dim, as if he was blotting it out, no, absorbing it. Deliverer-Of-Glory shrank back, but maintained a brave face. “Don’t worry, though, I’ve got all the time in the world. So, how about those thousand deaths you were getting all excited about?” The demon stalked towards him (well, hovered, really, but it felt stalky) and the candles gave off less and less light, until...
Well. The phrase “snuffed out” comes to mind for at least two reasons, but neither is technically accurate, so we’ll just leave it there.
--------------------------------
Crumb sighed. Okay, you can do this. It’s just something entirely unprecedented and which goes against the entire concept, and which could possibly lead to an endless hell of nothing but grand battles for every damn person, animal and vacuum cleaner in the universe, forever being brought in to sate the fool’s apparently ever-increasing bloodlust, but... He paused, shaking his head and waving away the summary in front of him (some lady with an axe hewn from dragonbone, something something gradually succumbing to berserker rage and terrified of what she was becoming – interesting, but too high-concept for the boss, and too much of an advantage to keep things interesting). Immediately, a new one appeared, detailing a man who might or might not have psychic powers, it was really pretty ambiguous. As he leaned over to view the details, he heard a shout and what sounded like (hypothetically valuable, but practically infinite due to The Hedonist’s powers) mahogany walls being broken to splinters behind him.
Once more, the man in the lime-green hat sighed. Without turning, he intoned, “I’m busy enough as it is, and I really do not have time to deal with this.”
The response he received was a smoky hand slicing at his back, but not drawing blood (and not for lack of trying). Slowly, he scowled turned around to face Etiyr, who towered over him to the point that his head scraped the ceiling; he held the typewriter, still bound to him, in one hand. With the other, the demon grabbed him by the collar, lifting him into the air until their eyes locked. “LISTEN, SHITHEAD. I want one thing, and that’s to get the fuck out of here. So how about you make that happen, and you can keep that cute little jugular vein of yours?”
Crumb responded by punching him in the face, something which wouldn’t have been that impressive if the recipient had fully regained physical form. Etiyr recoiled and dropped him to the ground; quickly, the Hedonist’s assistant strolled over to the desk, pulled out a handful of pens from one of the drawers, and began throwing them, one by one, at the demon.
“I’ve been having enough trouble as it is with the past, I’d rather not deal with aborted futures as well. But I suppose that’s a bit much to ask, isn’t it?” He slashed at Etiyr’s throat with a handful of writing utensils, causing him to drop the typewriter; Crumb quickly followed up by stomping on it, resulting in a very loud but mercifully brief clacking. “No matter what I do, you morons will find some way to twist the timestream in more and more convoluted knots. So thank you, Etiyr, for giving me this opportunity.” He crouched down and began yanking at the platen, eventually managing to pry it off the device and toss it to the corner of the room. “Now listen. I’m fairly sure you’re only here because, even in your timeline, you still killed Maowyn, and you still got the whole spiel from the bug. Last I checked, protocol is to explain the position to me, isn’t it?”
Etiyr growled and tried to stand, but only managed to prop himself up on one arm. “Sure, boss, I’ll explain some positions for you! YOU CAN START BY POSITIONING MY FUCKING TALONS UP YOUR –”
“Yes, yes, very nice. I already know the general idea, anyway.” Crumb hoisted the typewriter and smashed it against the wall, again and again, the banging of metal and clattering of keys filling the room.
Eventually, he stepped back and slammed the battered and broken machine to the ground. Next to it laid a demon who looked less like a harbringer of misery and death, and more like a sickly old man who simply happened to be made of otherworldly smoke. “The successor is supposed to prevent paradoxes, for one thing, and I’m fairly sure every one of you has done the exact opposite of that. Don’t worry, though.” He smiled. “I’ll make sure none of you endanger the timestream again.”
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Deep within the twelfth basement of the Sanctum Intumus, Highest Priest Deliverer-Of-Glory (formerly Sage Father Deliverer-Of-Glory, formerly Brother Guardian-Of-The-Northeast, formerly Brother Giver-Of-Very-Many-Pamphlets, formerly Apprentice Bartleby Mackerel) continued to meditate as planned. Above him, Etiyr had just (surprise surprise) given a profanity-riddled tirade about how ridiculous the ninth trial was, and frankly he should get credit for completing them all just by virtue of doing it as a typewriter, but nobody was particularly interested in hearing it.
This was a shame, because he would end up missing the debate that ended in the destruction of Maowyn (which, in spite of the terrifying theological implications, all the monks who did witness it found quite interesting), but all things considered, it was probably still preferable to the alternative.
--------------------------------
The Oasis was ironically named; there had been water there once, of course, but in recent times people mainly remembered it as a filthy, miserably dry pit in the middle of a pleasant (if not especially interesting) prairie. Locals would often make jokes about it at the expense of people passing through – talk about the thousands of bats that came out and ate anyone not wearing garish, mismatched clothing; or say that it would go below freezing at a moment’s notice so you should really wear a parka, dearie, and don’t take it off because really it happens very quickly and it’s better to be a bit hot than at risk of exposure; or claim that there were gems lining the walls if you went down far enough. It was all nonsense, of course; bats hadn’t ever been seen in the area, and there had never been anything of value down there – though recently, a couple more inventive townsfolk had spiced things up by attaching fake jewels to the walls (not very far down, just far down enough for gullible folks to imagine that nobody had reached that point before them), which would administer an electric shock to anyone who touched them carelessly.
While none of these were true, three things definitely were: the Oasis was damn twisty, it was damn hot, and the lower you got the worse it was. And it was at the very bottom, scattered around the final remnants of a not-quite-boiling lake that still kept the lower caverns full of steam, that the contestants found themselves. Crumb’s voice boomed all around them.
“Attention, contestants. As I speak, I am on my way to destroy The Hedonist, the man who brought you into this fight to begin with.” He very deliberately paused, intending to give them a chance to feel hopeful about their situation before he continued.
“I wouldn’t get too excited, however, because you’re going to continue fighting to the death regardless. You see, there’s two concerns I have about letting everyone who remains go free. First of all, your mere existence could pose a threat to causality as we know it, and frankly we have enough of those kicking around as it is, so I wouldn’t mind if all but one of you left the mortal coil – it would make things much simpler. Secondly, and in most cases this isn’t your fault so much as the fact that I’m sick of you all, I hate you and want you to die in horrible agony. Er, except you, Ekrith. I haven’t really gotten a chance to hate you yet. Anyway, with that in mind, I hope you enjoy yourselves. Oh, and one last thing.” The not-quite boiling lake gave off just a bit more steam.
Then it began to bubble, and then, slowly but surely, the water level began to rise.
“I’ve seen to giving the lake a more interesting tidal cycle. It won’t go up too high, but it will be shifting frequently and rapidly, so for the moment I’d suggest you get a move on.”
Spoiler