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GBCE · 09-07-2011, 10:36 PM

Originally posted on MSPA by Pharmacy.

Mambo Merrifield was incredibly miffed at her situation. She was going around doing her regular business as a practitioner of fine occult arts, searching for a particular mistress called Phere. Plus, she had that wonderful Tek with her. Although enjoyable (can’t work what you don’t like, you know?), this pursuit was more difficult than she wanted to admit. There were so many people, so many places. Plus, there was this particularly rude policeman in front of her. Merrifield had no idea why he decided to arrest her - something about “Manslaughter” and using “that damned horse as evidence.” Apparently, Captain Cedric Sigmundson had the nerve to ride with her, on Abys no less! The presence of such a stranger made the Voodoo priestess even huffier.

The police station was getting closer. In the past, Merrifield had been in jail before. She was never fond of jails –too small, too claustrophobic. She shuddered at the thought of such nefarious prisons. Merrifield never really disliked everything, but prisons were a special, special exception. There must be something she could do.

Suddenly, a ruse lighted in her head and she could not help but have a smile cheekily curl up on her flat face. A while ago, Merrifield visited the forgotten graves of the sewers and to her fortune, she had discovered a fresh corpse of her now servant, Abys. Of course, she raised the hapless Abys to her own needs, charming her with so many fetishes that the poor undead was now more horse than woman. There was this one spell in particular.

Jiggling her jewelry, the priestess gestured and sang an enchanting nothing from her mouth. At first, there was nothing. At first, Mambo and her spiritual familiar kind of lost their shape, and then lost their features. Before the police duo could register their thoughts, they realized they were riding on a blob of formless flesh. Suddenly, the tumor-like pustule collapsed like a wet piece of meat, deftly slipping away from the feet of the surprised Captain.

Sigmundson was made of sterner stuff and he managed to recover rapidly. As he jumped up from his pratfall, he realized that much to his ire, there was that slippery Priestess and her familiar. Of course, his eyes widened even more in shock when he realized that Cadet Tek was in the grasp of that damned Merrifield! First, she had to use her magic. Then, she kidnapped his trusty cadet? Damnation! As on cue, Mambo Merrifield gave him a mocking wave and giggled.

“Damn,” Sigmundson growled, his authoritarian voice shaking with hidden rage. “You.” This lady was a notorious criminal and he had her just in his grasp. Then, she had to use her damned magic to slip away like a slimy lizard. Now, there she was, smug and all. - mocking, teasing.

Merrifield’s eyes lighted up in mischievous sadism, as she made greatly exaggerated gestures with her feeble arms to signify her thinking (and insults towards the irate Captain), humming all the way. Without batting even a soulless eye, the Priestess simply spoke, “Ou fout led passe chien.”

Sigmund just stood still, scratching his head.

Merrifield huffed a bit. He was not aware of such a rich culture in which she came from. How plebian! In a final attempt at an insult, Merrifield twirled around her steed, startling her hostage. “Well, then, au revoir!”The priestess chortled, as she turned back. However, she turned her head for one final say. “Masisi devègonde.”

Sigmundson just stood. His cluelessness was almost sort of hilarious in a cute way. However, Mambo Merrifield had no time to let amusement seep into her simple mind. She had a job to do and fortunately, she had leverage in the form of such a charming Tek. Ignoring the profanity-spewing policeman, Merrifield and her goods took off, the camouflage fetish activating its effects as she disappeared. This job may just have become simpler for her.

***

Sigmundson simply stood, his rage tranquilly seething within his very psyche. How was he going to find his cadet Tek, and especially Forensic Specialist Melissa Harmon? Sigmundson’s soul seized with concern at the thought of this doctor. That woman was incredibly important to him for various reasons. Of course, the most important was she was part of staff (of course).

The Voodoo Priestess had connections with the Casino and had made an offhand mention to the missing Harmon. The Captain figured he could use Merrifield (who was a notorious criminal, known for her sacrilegious mutilations of the body using dark magic). Now, part of the evidence galloped away into the distance, leaving him with his heart tender with sorrow. He was never going to find the good doctor alive and well.

But wait!

Why he was just near a police station! The Captain gave himself a light whack on the head for being such a blockhead with a tunnel vision. Without trepidation, Sigumdson hurriedly trooped into the police station, not a single second in water. A random commotion (plus several cats screaming for no reason) was heard from this building and suddenly, Sigumdson came out with a police car, making sharp turns at the corners of the alleyways. His pursuit finally rewarded him as he could see the Voodoo Priestess with her horse, his cadet, and most of all, evidence.

***

Cadet Tek whimpered. It was his first job and suddenly, things started to turn for the worse. Although his boss Cedric was usually kept his behavior way below loose cannon standards, there are times where the Captain occasionally dips into the “bad cop” demeanor, and this was one of the bad cop moments. Apparently, Cedric had the nerve (and insanity) and drive a car up to Tek and his kidnapper. What was more insane though was Captain leapt from the running car (crazy!) and jumped on the Priestess!

As of now, there was a scuffle on the pursuing Abys – Sigmundson with various weapons and Merrifield with her vicious spell-charms. Both of them were attempting grievous harm towards each other. However, Tek in his nervousness was not so sure who would win. So enraptured was he in the fight, that the hapless cadet (and the fighting two) did not realize there was Otto Matic’s Casino rapidly appearing in the distance.

Pick Yer Poison · 09-11-2011, 06:42 PM

Originally posted on MSPA by Pick Yer Poison.

It was the perfect crime.

Klendel crouched catlike on the gargoyle statue, his dark skin and black clothing blending perfectly into the dark skyline. The wind buffeted him and the rain drenched him, but his grip was too strong to break and he didn't care about the water. He allowed a ghastly grin to force itself out onto his face. He had, in record time for him, set up most of the mafia gangs in the city to turn on each other at a moment's notice. Rivalries would flare up and alliances would snag on each other. For every gang that entered the fight, two more would be pulled in to defend or support their allies. It was an impressive setup given the amount of time he'd had to put it together.

He looked down on the unsuspecting city and couldn't help but chuckle darkly. It really was the perfect crime. He had no interest in ruling after the gangs had finished each other off, he didn't particularly care if the city was destroyed, he wanted no monetary reimbursement - as far as anyone could tell, he gained nothing from it, so he would never be suspected. But by destroying what was essentially the city's would-be rulers, he ensured that its people would never be subjected to the tyranny they would face otherwise. No matter how many died in the chaos that it took to free the city, it would all be worth it in the end.

But until then, it was necessary to disguise his activities, which meant becoming a criminal. Only after they were free would the people of the city recognize the great boon he had granted them, for they were foolish and thought they knew best, thought that the shadows on the cave wall were reality. But he had seen the Star that granted them all freedom, and...

He shook his head. He was ranting to himself again, something he thought he'd stopped long ago. Evidently not. He gazed down to the city below again, wondering if any of its inhabitants had any idea what was in store for them.

---

"He's close, I can tell," Detective Northwind muttered to himself. He'd been on the trail of this shadowy figure for only a couple of days, but he was astounded by what his target had managed to accomplish in just that short span of time. He didn't have the whole picture, but he was pretty sure that the villain had somehow managed to set the stage for a major gang war. That was clearly the objective, but...Northwind furrowed his brow. Something was troubling him. He couldn't figure out why his target was setting this whole thing up. He pull out his notepad and flipped a few pages in until he found the set of notes he was looking for. A few words were spread across the page, with various explanations and contradictions written around them.

The word on the left, money, was crossed out. At first Northwind had assumed his target was hired by some other gang to set it up, but he was rapidly running out of gangs that weren't being set up and were capable of paying for an operation of this magnitude.

The word next to it, revenge, was not crossed out, but it might as well have been. Nobody could have been wronged by every one of these gangs. It simply wasn't possible. At least, Northwind was pretty sure it wasn't possible, given that there were more gangs in the city than he had toes. Anyone who had crossed that many gangs would certainly be a notable figure, and would've had a good deal more trouble getting into the confidence of the gang leaders. After a moment of consideration, Northwind crossed out revenge as well.

Which left two words - love and insanity. Love was unlikely, but possible. One hell of a romance, that's for sure, Northwind thought with a chuckle. He thought insanity was much more likely. No one in their right mind would be doing this. He circled insanity as the most likely option and closed his notepad, placing it and his pencil in an inner pocket in his trenchcoat, pulling his hat lower over his head as he stepped out from under the overhang and into the pouring rain. Unusual for this time of year, but he had bigger things to worry about. There was a criminal mastermind on the loose.

A flash of lightning, followed shortly afterwards by a burst of thunder, punctuated his thoughts.

Ixcaliber · 09-25-2011, 01:23 AM

Originally posted on MSPA by Ixcalibur.

Show Content

The corridors of the Matic Mansion were busy with thugs clutching machine guns, darting this way and that, through a veritable maze of passageways. None of the mobsters seemed to pay heed to Phere, Ivan or the woman he carried, perhaps more preoccupied with a full scale mob war that had erupted upon the casino floor. By this point it was no longer the rest of the families in town against Matic, but everyone against everyone else. Presumably there had been one shot that had gone a little too wide and suddenly a whole mess of old feuds had been reignited. Even with Detective Norst’s keen sense of direction the group had trouble navigating the tangled hallways. That said they would have taken significantly less time but for the fact that the casino floor was pretty much a no-go.

Their circuitous path took them past dismal back rooms where Matic casually circumvented the laws of the land, printing counterfeit keynotes, all but indistinguishable with the real thing. Detective Norst felt more than a little uneasy that he was here to work with the mafia boss, rather than to bring him to justice, but he was a practical man and declaring war on one of the families was a sure way to end up in an early grave.

Eventually they found their way to Matic's office. From the furniture that lay in pieces to the fine art that was smeared with an unpleasant red paste it was apparent that at one point this office had been pretty fancy, even if all that was left were splinters and goo. Matic stood in a cloud of his own cigar smoke, his hand cradling a whisky as he stared out of the window, looking over the midnight city. He watched as the rained pounded oppressively down, relentlessly hammering against the window it was a dull beat underscoring the dismal scene. While Phere sashayed over to the mobster, her hips swaying in a way they never had before this genreshift, Detective Norst cleared a space amongst the debris and laid Forensics Officer Harmon down.

“We’re here Matic.” Phere announced herself. The mobster didn’t respond immediately, taking a puff of his expensive cigar and staring blankly out into the pounding rain. Impatiently Phere’s foot tapped like a metronome keeping time with the drumming of the rain. Eventually Otto turned to greet them. He was dressed in a dismal dull brown suit; rectangular spectacles perched on the very edge of his nose. He was scrawny, his features drawn, with dark bags hanging around his eyes; he looked like a man on the bad end of a losing streak. One who spent a lot of time worrying about how it was all going to turn out.

“Miss Phere.” Otto said. “Under more pleasant circumstances I would say that it was a pleasure. Today your visit is just the latest in a long line of things I’d rather not have to deal with.” He took a sip of his drink and wearily turned back to the window. “It’s probably too late. We’re probably past the point of no return now. Every family in town is at my gates, baying for my blood and I’ve not a fucking clue how any of them found out I temporarily had the damn thing. I should just give up, get the hell out of town. It’s the only sensible option left.” He sighed heavily and Phere took a disinterested drag on her cigarette. “But fuck it. Fuck ‘em all if they think I’m goin’ out without a fight.”

“Frankly Mister Matic.” Phere replied. “You give me what I want and you can stick the Tome where the sun doesn’t shine and I won’t give a damn.” Matic raised an eyebrow at the dame, before shrugging and downing his drink in one go.

“To business then.” He said, disinterestedly tossing his glass to the floor. The shattered glass didn’t look all that out of place in his shattered office. “Don’t we need a change of… atmosphere? I never was one for this detective crap.” Phere was already going through her backpack before he said anything; in no time at all she had the slightly battered and bruised Tome in her hands. Affixing Matic with a stern gaze she placed her hand upon the bookmark, ready to remove it from the Tome.

“Don’t even think about going back on your word Otto.” She said sternly. Matic nodded and Phere swapped the bookmarks.

--------

Elsewhere in the building, and a little earlier in time, the Kryesan Brothers, a trio of thugs who rarely left one another’s side, were making trouble. The near identical triplets were dressed in ill-fitting suits, primarily because it is difficult to find a suit that fits a gentleman of such a musculature and size. Though they were not exactly identical, they were close enough that it could be difficult to tell them from one another at a glance, many found checking their ties (navy, maroon and mustard) to be the easiest way. Their features, barring a couple of distinctive battle scars, could be most succinctly summed up with the words ‘generic mafia heavy’. Interestingly they all had matching dragon tattoos, though they were the kind of tattoo not visible unless you go looking for it.

Importantly they had a score to settle with Matic and they weren’t exactly being subtle about it. Guns blazing they were slicing through the token resistance still remaining on the basement floors. Had they attacked at a better time they might have been easily overwhelmed by gang of thugs sent down to subdue them, but as it was to imply that there was someone who had the authority to send a gang of thugs anywhere was to vastly underestimate the chaos which the casino had descended into. As it was they proceeded unimpeded, their mindset barely changing as the genreshift shifted them back into the form of The Hydra.

--------

Everything switched back to science fiction; Phere became the android PH-373, Forensics Officer Harmon was Doctor Harmon once again and Ivan was still Ivan albeit a more alien version of himself. Doctor Matic, more or less the same as previously described except in a labcoat rather than a sharp suit, and with no trace of a cigar anywhere, suggested they make their way to a nearby laboratory where he and one of his right-hand men, Jaeger, was waiting to carry out the upgrade. PH-373 dismissively instructed Ivan to stay here and watch Harmon. Her behaviour had been erratic, unpredictable. She needed supervision.

Ivan, though he was careful not to show it, was pleased to have been given such an order. While the others had been distracted with their discussion he’d lifted the Tome out from PH-373’s backpack and left to watch the unconscious woman, he would have plenty of time to examine the source of the mysterious geomantic energy. He closed the office door, giving himself a little privacy. This genre’s version of Matic’s office was just as lavish, but in a more high-tech manner. Everything had a sleek futuristic look to it. Consequently it was somewhat less damaged; the metal furnishings had slightly melted but were far more in tact than could have been said of Detective Fiction. Ivan spread the Tome out on the desk and began to read.

--------

From the steel catwalks hanging over the entrance hall of Matic’s fortress, Klendel regarded his handiwork in the battle that raged below. As long held alliances shattered aliens turned their death rays upon other aliens, robots let loose laser fire upon other robots. It was anarchy. All it had taken was one shot in the wrong place and the invading force had turned upon one another, their uneasy cooperation forgotten about. Matic's mind controlled monstrosities held the line against anybody trying to escape into the fortress proper.

Admist the throng stood a machine, a robot taller in striking blue and white patterned armour. As was undoubtedly the intention, he resembled a police officer. NORTHWIND's riot shielding protected him from the laser blasts and miscellaneous other dangers that surrounded him. While there was little doubt in his mind that these people were criminals who ought to be arrested he was assigned to a specific criminal. The best he could do was radio back to base and tell them to send a squadron out. This was something that he did as he checked his scanner.

Klendel had been busy since his arrival. Most of that time had been spent weakening the alliances between the various warring gangs. The fruit of his labour could be seen the in the chaos that filled the entrance hall. NORTHWIND was from The Procedurals, a group that liked to consider themselves the police force of the city in the same way that the miltary gang liked to believe they were a real military. The Procedurals had agents in place throughout the town, so it hadn't taken them long to learn that the lies they had been fed (rumours that the Heist Gang were planning on violating the truce that existed between them) were in fact lies. It was that point that Detective Northwind had been sent out on the trail of the individual who had been spreading such rumours.

Now in the midst of the biggest brawl the city had ever seen NORTHWIND's scanner indicated the location of the figure he had been tracking. His cameras realigned themselves, looking up into the catwalks that hung overhead; he spotted something moving through the shadows. His jetpack flicking on automatically, he headed towards Klendel.

"Halt Criminal!" He announced. "You Are Under Arrest Under Suspicion Of Inciting A Riot."

--------

The upgrade of PH-373’s communication array occurred with the kind of uneventful precision that can be expected when a machine is in charge of the proceedings. Matic’s assistant Jaeger, who was technically human but who more closely resembled a mass of scars and stitches that had somehow gained sentience, had been very efficient. Jaeger spoke with a lisp and his larger patches of skin looked mismatched, with one part of his face looking like it had come from an animal. PH-373 wisely declined to enquire.

PH-373’s communication relay worked something like a vague map of the city, and throughout the city were moving nodes, radios and phones and other communication devices which she could speak through if she chose to. At the moment in Sci-fi there were rather a lot of available nodes to communicate with. Previously as the scope moved away from the city and out into the multiverse these nodes were not accessible, the best she could do was send a blanket message that could be picked up by all of the nodes or perhaps none of them; it was not an exact science. Now, with the upgrade installed, no matter how distant the person she wanted to communicate with she could speak solely to them, and in real time.

“Now if you don’t mind, the Tome.” Matic said as PH-373 got to her feet. Matic felt anxious, it was possible that Jaeger shared his feelings, though you would be hard pressed to tell how the patchwork man was feeling at any given time. This whole situation, the lengths he had gone to in order to get the Tome back, and he had no guarantee that PH-373 would actually give it to him… It was not like Matic to accommodate the requests of others; he preferred to take things by force and usually had the upper hand to do that with. It was a testament to just how powerful the Tome was that he was willing to indulge this android to regain control of it. With it he could do so much more than change the genre of this pitiful town. He eyed PH-373 warily as she searched through her backpack.

“The Tome appears to be missing.” She said. Within moments Doctor Matic had pulled an experimental plasma pistol from his belt. PH-373’s left eye whirred and spun in a slightly alarming manner.

“Yeah right.” Matic scoffed. “Hand it over. I need that Tome!”

“It is back in your office.” PH-373 said. “I am wirelessly networked into every camera in the city.” She added by way of explanation. Matic regarded her with suspicion for a long moment and then tossed his gun to Jaeger.

“Watch her.” He said. “If she tries to leave before I get back shoot her.”

“Yeth Doctor Matic.” Jaeger nodded in confirmation, causing PH-373 to momentarily worry that his head would fall off.

--------

Despite a short car chase during the genreshift Merrifield, Cedric, Tek and Abys left the detective genre in much the same configuration as they entered it, albiet closer to the castle/casino/fortress than before. The only real remnant of the genre was the lingering animosity between Merrifield and Cedric. Lieutenant Cedric irritably contemplated whether anyone would believe that he had mistaken the creature for a previously undiscovered caste of Gark. Though he obviously wouldn't act upon such a violent impulse against a mostly innocent creature, he couldn't help but smile as he briefly entertain the thought. For Merrifield's part, she didn't like to be bossed around, something that Cedric didn't seem to be able to stop himself from doing at the moment.

They moved through the alleyways for shelter from the raging winds, though there was no escaping the pounding rain that took their bad moods and made them even worse. The battle that was going on in the fortress had poured out into the streets around it. Sleekly designed robots crouched down behind chest high walls as alien plasma fire rained down upon them. Cyborg pirates battled with photon cutlasses. Genetic abominations scythed through the unwary, gobbling up the corpses for sustenance. In short it was exactly the kind of brawl any sane person would refrain from getting involved with. Merrifield instructed Abys to head around the back, to find a less suicidal entrance to the Fortress.

"Hold it." Lieutenant Cedric commanded. "We go in through the front; I never sneak in through the back door." Merrifield and Cedric eyed one another in disdainful silence.

"That is fine." Merrifield said spitefully. "You can do what you want; I didn't even ask you to come along." For a moment Cedric considered arguing with the creature, but decided against it. He didn't really want Merrifield to come with him anyway.

"Come on Tek." He said, dismounting from the grisly Abys-horse. Tek glanced nervously at the fighting crowd.

"If you don't mind I will sit this one out." He said nervously. "Good luck though."

Lieutenant Cedric rolled his eyes and waved them off. They trotted off towards the back of the fortress bickering between one another. Cedric drew his trusty plasma rifle Sigrar and without hesitation sprinted towards the chaotic throng. “BRING IT!” he screamed as he opened fire upon Matic’s genetic abominations.

--------

Ivan flicked through the mysterious Tome, towards the back of the book the last few pages were empty; the last page containing text was written in a dark olive green and writ itself before his very eyes.

“What the hell.” Ivan muttered as he read the words: ‘“What the hell.” Ivan muttered as he read the words-’

He watched as the book wrote about how he watched as the book wrote about him, before opting to flick backwards through the previous pages. Text of various colours described the events as they had happened to the other competitors. Ivan couldn’t help but notice there was a lot of purple text. Going back even further the text was just plain black and it described the numerous petty wars carried on in the town before their arrival, seeming to focus around a gang now disbanded and a Streetsmart Upstart now dead. He flipped all the way to the start of the book; the first words written within described the formation of the town. A crash of thunder from overhead drew his attention to the storm still raging outside the window. He couldn’t help but concur that this town did not have long left.

Ivan turned his attention back to the Tome and how he could best make use of the geomantic energy that flowed through it. Unfortunately for him and perhaps for the rest of the town as well, he was interrupted by a blow to the back of the head. Doctor Harmon stood over him, his body collapsed to the cold metal floor. Her eyes were vacant and drawn, her face expressionless, her hair hung in untidy tangles. In her hand was some random gadget gathered from the various machines that filled the room. She paid no heed to the fallen kid, her attention solely focused upon the Tome. Seemingly oblivious to anything else in the world, she got down to work taking apart machinery and rebuilding it into something else entirely.

--------

Doctor Cassandra Scala strode down the corridors of the Doctor Matic's fortress like she owned the place, occasionally coming across a wandering scientist or an many faced abomination broken loose from its restraints and casually putting them down with a quick blast from her ice rifle. She hadn't been particularly fazed by the temporary genreshift wherein she had been a murderous heiress out for petty revenge against the Kyresan Brothers; her issue was more that the damned android who was supposed to be helping her out had gone frustratingly radio silent. In the meantime she had been left navigating the maze of laboratories and corridors, heading towards Doctor Matic's office in the hope that The Hydra would be doing the same thing. There was a crackling as her radio reconnected with PH-373's.

"Where have you been?" She asked icily. "When we made this deal I was assured that you would lead me directly to the Hydra."

"There was a fault with my communications array." PH-373 replied. "It has been attended to and I can now direct you to the Hydra." PH-373 proceeded to reel off the directions towards Doctor Matic's office, ending it with a confident: "I predict that by the time you arrive the Hydra will already be there. If it chooses to redirect I will keep you informed." Doctor Scala scowled; sure that PH-373 was watching her do so.

"You had better be right this time." Scala said sternly. "I might be forced to reconsider our partnership if it turns out you are doing little other than wasting my time."

--------

Doctor Matic slammed open the door of his office and for a moment gawped at that which he saw. All of the machinery in his room had been cannibalised, rebuilt into something other. His desk had been cast aside and where it had stood there was the Tome, partially visible inside a complex case of metal and machinery. Coming off from either side of the case was a framework, extending a little way and then rising into the air and forming an arch large enough to permit a person through.

“Shit.” was all Matic had to say about this development. At the side of the structure Doctor Harmon stood, putting the finishing touches upon the dimensional gate. For just a moment, the view of the miserable midnight sky was obscured by darkness and something awful, something that no human was ever meant to lay eyes upon, and then it flickered away. Matic sprung into the room. “Do you have any idea what you are doing?” Harmon did not respond, carrying on working on the machine as though there was nothing wrong. “Stop that right now.” Matic reached for his plasma pistol, only to remember that he had given it to Jaeger.

Desperately Matic lashed out against Harmon, shoving her away from the machine. She stumbled back, but caught herself and turned towards Matic. As he stared into his eyes he could for a moment swore she was something other than she was, something ancient and powerful; something monstrous that he had just pissed off. Harmon shoved him away and turned back to her work. Matic stumbled back, tripping over his hastily discarded desk and collapsing to the floor. For a moment he sat stunned, and watched the Doctor work on the machine, too rattled, too nervous to do anything. He pushed it down, whatever this was it was clear that he couldn’t let it happen. He grabbed the first thing that came to hand, a rusty old wrench and slammed it down onto the casing that housed the Tome.

Black energy rippled through the framework, and also, not that anyone in that room was watching, through the skies of the town. Harmon lashed out at Doctor Matic, landing a kick in his ribs, but he would not be deterred. He kept smashing the wrench against the casing, pieces of metal and wiring flying free. The building began to shake violently and the window before them shattered. Rain poured in through the hole and attention of the Doctors was drawn to the world outside. Black energy ran through the clouds and cracks were opening up in the streets, exuding the same pitch black energy. Wordlessly Matic climbed to his feet, barely even cognizant of the pain in his ribs. Behind them The Hydra darted into the room escaping the collapsing corridors. Almost immediately its attention was drawn past the man it had come to kill and to the strange black energy flowing through the skies.

Across the town people stopped and stared into the skies, or fled from buildings collapsing under the stress of the dimensional catastrophe. Suddenly everything changed. What had moments ago been Matic’s fortress was suddenly a fantasy castle with tall towers and crenellated battlements. Surrounding the castle like some kind of bewildering moat were cracks in the earth, and beyond them entirely different genres upon each side of the building. The wind still blew, easily demolishing some of the structurally unstable buildings in a section of the town that had gone all children’s fiction. Running through the clouds a web of black energy focused along the cracks in genres. The whole thing looked very unstable; a small building that had become the focus of lovecraftian horror shook violently before collapsing in on itself and disappearing forever.

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GBCE · 09-28-2011, 09:57 PM

Originally posted on MSPA by engineclock.

TO THE GOOD PEOPLE OF VD, AND THOSE OTHER FINE FOLK WHO READ IT:

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Godbot · 10-01-2011, 04:57 AM

Originally posted on MSPA by Godbot.

Lt. Cedric of the Spacemire Marine Corps slammed his robo-boot into the chest of the nearest android soldier. Its sleek laser pistol clattered to the ground and the robot landed on top of it, pinned under Cedric's weight. Instead of bothering to fire his weapon, he simply crushed its torso under his suit’s enormous bulk and powerful servos. He hefted his enormous chainsaw plasma rifle with one arm and opened fire on the crowd, not really bothering to aim for anything in particular. He didn’t have to. His battlesuit’s onboard AI adjusted his aim every couple of shots, and he automatically shot several targets neatly through the head while mauling the rest with bolts of searing plasma.

“Lieutenant,” noted the combat AI in a soothing female voice, “there’s an inbound assault vehicle on your six.” A helpful blue arrow pointed behind him on the hologram HUD floating around his completely unprotected head.

“Thanks, Val,” said Cedric, punching out an alien that was sneaking up on him for emphasis.

He glanced over his shoulder while still firing Sigrar blindly at the screaming crowd. Sure enough, an alien vehicle that looked like a motorcycle on steroids was barreling towards him, firing loud, inaccurate built-in machine guns at random angles while its pilot cackled wildly and waved around a Kogoblian battle standard. Lt. Cedric brought his plasma rifle around and fired off a few rounds at its massive front wheel, which somehow managed to roll at 60 mph even though it was covered in spikes. The shots bounced off it harmlessly, and Val re-calculated Cedric’s aim so that the next volley of plasma bolts ricocheted off the wheel into other hapless enemies.

“I shouldn’t have to tell you to retreat, Lieutenant,” his AI reminded him.

“Really?” grinned Cedric. “I was thinking just the opposite.”

He flicked his wrist and put out one hand, and his gauntlet automatically dispensed an incendiary grenade. A series of stylistically unreadable alien numbers lit up on the face of the small glowing explosive and began to count down. Cedric sheathed Sigrar into its enormous holster on his back and flexed his armored fingers, waiting as the Kogoblian warbike hurtled towards him.

“Throw it!” cried Val. His HUD covered itself in exclamation points.

The grenade ticked seconds closer to zero.

The driver gunned the engine.

“CEDRIC!”

The space marine’s fingers clenched around the explosive, and he threw it with as much physical force as an explosion from a regular grenade – at the ground. The incendiary bomb smashed into the street nearly a dozen feet from Lt. Cedric and burst open in a shower of space napalm, creating enough fire and heat to melt the surrounding cobblestones into a pool of lava. The warbike swerved to avoid it.

Cedric stood his ground and put out a hand.

As the giant death motorcycle shot past him at close to 80 miles an hour, he clamped his hand around a machine gun jutting out of the side and pushed off from the ground just as it was flying out from underneath his feet. He swung his far leg over the side of the bike and slammed his giant steel fist into the side of the shrieking Kogoblian’s head as he went past, knocking it off its bike and through two robots and a wall. He landed solidly on the driver’s seat and twisted the ignition, plowing straight through the crowd of rioting gang members.

No wonder this thing didn’t give the pilot a way to aim the guns.

Robots and aliens in all sorts of shapes, sizes and silly costumes hurled themselves aside as Cedric tore past them, shredding the road and sending cobblestones flying behind him as he aimed the warbike straight for one of the entrances to Matic’s stronghold. Two dozen plasma turrets sprouted out of the street and the fortress wall and primed their cannons. (The stronghold also deployed some spidery little security drones, but those were mass-produced and pretty easy to smash under a giant spiked wheel.)

“You’re insane!” screamed Val.

“You knew that when you got on board!” bellowed Cedric as he pulled himself back, lifting the gigantic spiked wheel clear off the ground and powering towards the door. Laser fire bounced harmlessly off the bike’s unstoppable armored chassis as he crushed his way through the turrets on the ground, spinning the bike’s front wheel at full power and aiming it directly at the armored front door of the stronghold –

---

The mighty oaken doors of Castle Matic slammed open, letting in a torrent of freezing rain. A distant bolt of lightning silhouetted a knight on an enormous armored warhorse rearing violently in the doorway. The second its front hooves touched ground, Sir Cedric’s mighty steed broke into a run, its horseshoes clanking loudly along the stone floor of the main hall.

The archers and crossbowmen posted outside the front gate poured in through the doorway, kneeling to take aim with sharp eyes and sharper arrows. Sir Cedric ducked over Horsegark, the Horse with No Name as crossbow bolts and shafts blurred past. A few bolts shattered against the warhorse’s ironclad flank, which did nothing besides make it even angrier. It took off down the hall, snorting and rolling its eyes furiously.

The hall parted in opposite directions up ahead. On a whim, Cedric wrenched the massive horse’s reins to the right, but it tugged the reins back and ducked its head, redoubling its speed. Cedric swore and covered his head with an arm as the horse put out a shoulder and smashed directly through the stone wall, shattering brick and spraying thick dust into the air. The unnamed horse quickly slowed to a rather angry trot, whinnying and snorting as it flicked its tail and blinked dust from its eyes.

The dust settled, revealing Castle Matic’s courtyard. Just a bit of moonlight seeped from between the dark thunderclouds, lighting up a trickling stream running through neatly trimmed grasses and around statues of hooded angels and dragons. Under the shade of a grove of perfect trees that just barely reached the top of the walls, a set of marble steps and a vine-covered archway led to nowhere in particular.

It was quiet. Peaceful. Hardly standard fare for an Archwizard.

...Wait.

It was quiet.

The archers hadn’t come after him.

He looked over his shoulder. He was well out of range, but no one had bothered to give chase; they were busy barricading the doors and trying to pull up the drawbridge to keep out the rioting peasants. Obviously there were still more guards up ahead that they were expecting to finish him off.

They didn’t know him very well.

Cedric turned his gaze to the tallest tower where Archwizard Matic would be –

And he was lucky he did that, because otherwise he never would have noticed the entire tree being swung down on him like a club. He pulled Sigrar from its sheath and slashed through it in an instant. The upper half fell harmlessly to one side, and the considerably shortened trunk thudded into the ground a few feet from Horsegark’s hooves. As he caught his breath, Cedric followed the trunk up for some 10 feet until he was eye-to-eye with a snarling ogre. Clothed, thankfully.

“You’ll not get past us, Sir Knight,” a voice called from the shadows. A knight in black armor riding a manticore stepped from the grove of trees. He drew a cleaver-like blade from his side. “I am Kirsch, captain of the Archwizard’s guard.”

As he spoke, a handful of knights entered the courtyard from subtly placed doors and drew around Sir Cedric, pointing spears at him and grabbing chains hanging from the ogre’s collar to pull it away. Horsegark pawed at the earth angrily, refusing to be fenced in. Cedric put a hand on its head and met Kirsch’s eyes hatefully.

“This battle ends here,” announced Kirsch.

Cedric laughed. “Once you’ve rallied the rest of your men, you mean? Need you a break, to erect another wall to hide behind?”

Horsegark put a foot solidly forward, and Cedric hefted his enormous blade.

“If you’ve come to put an end to me, you’ve not brought nearly a big enough ogre.”

Kirsch glared and flipped down his visor. “For the Archwizard!” he commanded.

The spearmen lunged and tried to stab through joints in Horsegark’s armor. A few spears got through, which made the horse rear into the air furiously. One knight saw his chance and maneuvered his way in front of the warhorse to try and get a clear shot at its underbelly. His armor made him a second too slow, and the horse brought its hooves down on him, delivering a crushing blow that made him crumple to the ground.

Sir Cedric raised his gauntlet and gathered a ball of fire around his off-hand. He swung his arm around behind him, hurling a scorching wave of heat and flame into the spearmen at Horsegark’s flank, and followed it up with a sweeping blow with his enormous sword at the knights on the opposite side, clearing away the attackers. As Horsegark tackled a hapless spearman in front of him and trampled him into the ground, the others scrambled to their feet and scattered, discarding their worthless spears and drawing short swords.

Cedric whipped the Horse with No Name’s reins, and it charged straight for Kirsch, but the ogre stepped in its way, bringing its tree trunk around and aiming a blow at Cedric. The knight hurled a ball of fire in the beast’s eyes, and it bellowed and stumbled backwards. Cedric pulled the reins to one side, stopping Horsegark’s charge as the ogre went for them again. It missed them completely, but one flailing arm hit Cedric solidly in the chest, knocking him off his horse.

Horsegark turned and ran past, getting out of the way as the ogre thundered towards Cedric. Cedric climbed to one knee and reached for his sword. As the ogre tried to bring its tree trunk down on him again, he slashed through it vertically, slicing it into two useless halves and cutting through the ogre’s palm. The ogre roared in pain and staggered backward, dropping its two pieces of lumber.

Sir Cedric tossed Sigrar to one side and cracked his steel-plated knuckles. Horsegark caught the sword in its teeth.

The ogre reached out to grab Cedric. The knight dodged to one side, but the ogre caught him and lifted him into the air, one mighty hand wrapped around his torso. It leaned in to bellow in his face. Cedric winced at the smell and wiped spittle from his face.

With the other hand, he grabbed the ogre by the collar of its rags and delivered a vicious right hook to its jaw. The ogre was much too large, heavy and stupid to feel much of anything, but the surprise made it drop him and stumble backwards. Cedric recovered quickly and followed his first strike with an elbow to the gut, making it double over, and an uppercut once its face was within reach.

Meanwhile, one of the footsoldiers tried to sneak up and steal the enormous broadsword from the warhorse’s mouth as it stood and watched the fight. Horsegark headbutted him in the face.

The other soldiers kept their distance.

The ogre managed to reach over its shoulder and wrench Cedric free of its neck, forcing him to break his sleeperhold by grabbing him by the face and throwing him violently at the ground. Cedric landed hard, just barely avoiding the marble steps, a likely fatal blow.

The enraged ogre raised its fists and prepared to bring them down onto Cedric with its full weight behind them – a certain fatal blow.

Behind him, a blade clattered against the ground.

Horsegark grabbed one of the chains on the back of the ogre’s collar in its mouth and wrenched it backwards, whinnying through gritted teeth. The ogre managed a strangled roar and grasped at its neck, bending over backwards and giving Sir Cedric a chance to tackle it in the stomach.

Unfortunately, its thick fat somehow managed to absorb the blow, and the ogre wrapped one mighty hand around Cedric’s chest. The chain on its collar snapped, and before Cedric knew what was happening the ogre had slammed him into a wall some four feet above the ground, where it slowly started to crush the breath out of him.

As he kicked uselessly and started to black out, Cedric desparately grabbed the ogre at the neck and the shoulder, digging his armored fingers into it and forcing its head and arm in opposite directions. The ogre clenched its bad hand and tried to bite down on Cedric’s arm. The knight gritted his teeth.

The ogre roared.

Cedric roared louder, and the ogre’s arm came clean off at the shoulder.

It staggered backwards, shrieking like an animal as blood spurted from the wound. Cedric didn’t wait to get his breath back as he landed on the ground. He stepped forward, whirled around and smashed the ogre’s arm against its own head, knocking it off its feet. Before it hit the ground he was already swinging it around again, and he slammed it into the ogre’s neck. The ogre jerked, so he did it again, and the ogre was still.

Sir Cedric’s chest heaved as he lifted Sigrar from the ground, gripped it in both hands and leveled it in front of him, glaring at Kirsch with what energy he had left. Horsegark trotted up next to him, snorting and flicking its tail from side to side. Behind his visor, Kirsch was somewhere on the razor's edge between triumphant that Cedric was on his last legs, and utterly terrified of him.

As the two knights stared each other down, the stream that ran through the courtyard flowed around Cedric’s feet, rising and swelling in front of him into a clear, hulking, flowing form with two glowing eyes. Kirsch threw his head back and laughed dramatically. The manticore growled along with him.

“FOOLISH KNIGHT!” he declared. “Your first error was trying to defeat me, and you have erred for the last time! I am Kirsch, loyalest knight to the Archwizard and the mastermind behind the takeover of the Kingdom of Anglemark! I have slain leviathans in the Sea of Seven Pillars, and I have tamed Ijarathea of the Central Forest! You can defeat my soldiers, but you cannot best me in the field of battle!”

“This water elemental cannot be harmed by fire or steel!” crowed Kirsch as Cedric looked into its eyes, sizing it up. “Just as the wind does not break a tree that bends, your blade will pass right through it, and it can quell the hottest of flames! I knew from the beginning that you would spend yourself on the ogre, so that I could end you at your weakest moment! Don’t you see?! YOU’VE FALLEN RIGHT INTO MY TRAP!”

(This, of course, wasn’t true at all. He’d had no idea who Sir Cedric was or that he had been coming, but he’d been hoping that bringing an ogre along would intimidate Cedric into surrendering without a fight. The elemental was just a defense set up by the Archwizard, but Cedric didn’t have to know that.)

“You never had a chance at winning, Sir Knight,” Kirsch continued as Cedric superheated Sigrar and sliced through the elemental, vaporizing it instantly. “I created the illusion that you were close to victory only so that you would play into my hands without knowing it! You never even knew there was a plan until it was too late, and now you shall fall before me, just as countless before you! This is the mind that Archwizard Matic relies on to fell cities and slay armies! As Sun Tzu once said-”

He yelped as the ogre’s thrown arm smacked into his chest and fell to the ground. The manticore sniffed at it. He flipped up his visor in disbelief, staring at the tiny puddle of water on the ground. “Y-you can’t just do that!” Kirsch stammered. He wasn’t even done with that speech.

Cedric shrugged. “’s made of water,” he grunted. The manticore put a paw over the ogre’s arm and began to gnaw on it as the knight climbed back onto his unnamed horse.

“Now listen, Kirsch,” growled Cedric. “My quarrel is with the Archwizard. If you're to put yourself in my way, you can do it yourself.”

“Guards! Finish him! Now!” yelled Kirsch, pointing his cleaver-sword at the bearded swordsman.

The guards stood right where they were. Except for the ones who were already dead.

“He’s wounded!” cried Kirsch. “He’s tired! You can kill him!”

“I said, you can do it yourself.” Horsegark pawed at the ground and snarled, like a bull preparing to charge.

Kirsch stared at the men, and then at the knight in front of him. He swallowed and raised his cleaver-blade. If they saw him being weak (and he refused to admit that they were already seeing it), he'd never manage to control his troops again. He jabbed his manticore in the sides with the heels of his boots. It growled, far more eager than he was to get into a fight, and it rushed at Sir Cedric without warning, baring its teeth and ripping up grass with its sharp claws as it ran. Horsegark boldly charged forwards without waiting for Cedric's command, and Cedric hefted Sigrar, gripping it in two hands because he no longer had the strength to hold it in just one. Cedric roared at the top of his lungs, aiming to end the fight in one slash of his godsword.

Kirsch ducked at the last second, and Sigrar missed entirely. Kirsch's sword bit through the flexible plates down Cedric's side, and he grunted in pain as the blade cut his flesh. As their mounts turned and charged again, the manticore thrust its stinger at Cedric, forcing him to block with his sword while Kirsch scored another hit with his cleaver-blade.

“Do your men know you fight like that?” called Cedric as they turned to make another pass.

“My men know I win,” Kirsch retorted. Cedric gave him a smile as they rushed each other again. Kirsch aimed a thrust at Cedric’s wounded side, but he blocked it with Sigrar as he slashed through the manticore’s wing as it extended it to trip Horsegark. The manticore cried out and kept running, blinded by pain. Cedric drove his armored boot into the side of its skull as he passed, and the manticore crumpled and fell sideways, skidding a few feet on the wet grass.

Cedric hopped off of Horsegark and strode over to Kirsch, whose leg was pinned under his mount. He pinned the manticore’s scorpion tail under one foot and drove his sword into it, splitting carapace and severing it the upper half. Cedric lifted Sigrar and swung it in a circle, burying the entire edge of the blade into the shrieking manticore’s side, finishing it off quickly.

Kirsch cried out, too, as the blade shattered his armor and buried itself in his pinned leg. Cedric dragged him free of the manticorpse, pulled him to his feet without a word and punched him square in the jaw, knocking him over again. Kirsch groaned and did his best to sit up as Cedric snapped his cleaver-sword over his knee and discarded the pieces.

“Where are the rest of you?” Kirsch managed to ask as Sir Cedric climbed back onto his horse.

He looked down at Kirsch.

“The other knights,” Kirsch repeated. “You can’t kill the Archwizard by yourself. How many more of you are there?”

Cedric sniffed and looked into the distance.

“Hope rides alone,” he said simply, and Horsegark thundered off, leaving Kirsch to lie and bleed in the pouring rain.

---

After countless turns, a jumble of staircases and not a whole lot of guards, Cedric and his nameless horse made their way to the roof of the castle, where a haphazard cluster of stone buildings built into either side of the inner wall formed the base of Archwizard Matic’s tower. The collection of roofs was a vast and uneven expanse of nothing, about fifty feet across and slick with rain. Steps were scattered around the roof, allowing easier access to roofs that were slightly higher or lower than the others, as if there were any place to go on the roof or a reason to get there.

In the distance, another of the castle’s towers crumbled under the weight of the swirling blackness gathering in the cloudy sky. The Archwizard’s influence, no doubt.

Horsegark slowed a bit as they climbed the spiral staircase along the outside of the tower. In the pouring rain, it would have been a slippery deathtrap, but the tower was covered in a tangle of vines that made for decent footholds. The stairs wrapped around the tower twice and ended in a square platform around the top of the tower, giving access to the doorway.

As he reached the top, Cedric checked his side. Valthen’s armor was no longer shattered, and it was just finishing knitting itself back together in a fiery red glow, the way it always did when he was out of battle. Which was rarely. As the cracks sealed and the glow faded away, thunder crashed loudly overhead, and a bolt of lightning struck the spire at the top of the tower. Sir Cedric gathered a ball of flame around his hand and hurled it at the doors, blasting them open violently.

The Archwizard stood on the opposite side of the room, with his back turned. The room was crammed full of musty shelves of leather-bound tomes and all manner of mystical devices that whirred and clicked and didn’t seem to do anything in particular, and yet it still seemed bigger than it did on the outside. Tables were strewn with books and potions that were almost definitely evil, and a marble archway sat in the middle of the room, vaguely flickering. Even worse, the modestly beautiful and utterly furious Princess Melissa sat on the floor with her hands bound to a table leg. On the other side of the room, a half-elven boy who Cedric didn’t recognize lay in a heap on the floor, wrapped in a wizard trainee’s robes.

Oddly enough, Archwizard Matic seemed completely uninterested in any of his captives, who he was no doubt keeping for nefarious purposes. Instead, he was rifling through numerous papers and magical texts scattered across an enormous workbench. Occasionally, he would glance out the window as if preoccupied by something in the night sky. Something like the swirling blackness, which was obviously his fault anyway.

“Unhand the princess, Archwizard!” bellowed Cedric as Sigrar erupted into flame. Horsegark snorted and stamped a hoof for good measure.

“Oh, god damnit,” muttered the princess. “Seriously?”

The Archwizard turned, a little startled but mostly just distracted. “Oh, a knight. Now’s not really a good time,” he mused, stroking his long wizardly beard.

“Nalzaki,” he called, snapping his fingers twice. “Take care of our guest. I have a world to save.”

As he turned back to his books, three horrible roars that could have made stone peel and trees wilt sounded out in something approximating a rough unison. Cedric whirled around in time to see an enormous tail shoot past and coil around Princess Melissa, snapping off the table leg she was tied to and dragging her out the door as she screamed something about how Cedric had better not fucking dare save her, she did not need his shit right now and you’re not even listening, are you?

Sir Cedric wasn’t listening.

Even though its feet were somewhere far below the platform, Nalzaki towered over him, slowly beating its 15-foot wings as it hovered with the princess dangling from its long, serpentine tail covered in armored scales. Each of its three necks bore a collar engraved with runes, and each of its heads ended in three wicked horns and a mouth full of razor-sharp fangs. Even as Cedric watched, one of its heads belched out a plume of of smoke. Its three pairs of eyes each glowed a different color in the heavy rain, but each looked a different degree of murderous. Behind it, the sky began to crack and split open.

A wicked grin crept onto Cedric’s face. He leveled Sigrar in front of him.

Finally, something challenging.

GBCE · 10-04-2011, 10:10 PM

Originally posted on MSPA by fluxus.

Show Content

Anomaly · 10-05-2011, 03:09 AM

Originally posted on MSPA by Anomaly.

The moment the knight drew his sword, Nalzaki's deadliest-looking head, the jet black one with glowing red eyes, reared back before spewing a massive gout of flames at its foe. The flames burned hot enough to fuse any knight's armor into a single piece and incinerate them within, brightly enough to temporarily blind any who looked directly into them. As the smoke cleared, however, Nalzaki realized that the knight and its horse, rather than becoming its next meal, had vanished entirely. That is, until they decided to announce their presence with a leap and a slash across the dark head's neck. Blue-black blood dripped to the roof far below as the head roared in pain, although unable to clutch the wound due to a lack of arms.

Furiously, the hydra turned to see its attacker land almost gracefully upon the ground, blood dripping from his sword. It attempted to kick the knight away with its massive talons, but he was too quick to dodge while perched upon his steed. Infuriated, Nalzaki descended and landed on the rooftops, the trio roaring simultaneously in a twisted harmony. The knight relentlessly charged toward his now-reachable foe, sword ready to tear into the beast's leg.

But despite the ferocity of Sir Cedric's blow, he hadn't expected the hydra to be so heavily armored. It was fairly obvious that the Archwizard hadn't stopped with the control collars. Nalzaki was Matic's last line of defense, so, naturally, it wasn't going to go down that easily. Nonetheless, it was not so well-defended as to be indestructable, as the navy stains on Sigrar's edge plainly showed. Momentarily stunned, Cedric was unable to avoid a powerful strike from the hydra, and was knocked a good ten feet back. Though sent sprawling, the knight's grip remained steadfast, and Sigrar remained in his hands. As he dashed for his steed, Nalzaki's central head, a lighter gray with deep orange eyes, opened its mouth and fired a bolt of lightning directly at him. A very near miss, Cedric could feel his hair stand on end from the powerful charge of electricity.

Cedric leaped onto Horsegark's back and charged parallel to the hydra, deftly avoiding bolt after bolt from an increasingly-agitated dragon head. Making a wide circle around the hydra, Cedric skillfully maneuvered his way back to Matic's tower, once more charging up the staircase. Angrily, the dark head attempted to ram its head into the knight, nearly impaling him on its horns but coming up short. Simultaneous bursts of fire and electricity slammed against the tower, but the heavily-defended structure proved enough to protect Cedric from both. He quickly made his final charge up the platform, and made a second leap toward the darkest head, intent on fully severing it.

Nalzaki was prepared this time. They quickly leaped backwards and, flapping their mighty wings, took to the skies. Cedric nonetheless made a clean landing below (largely in part to heat-induced columns of rising air), and, his voice thundering boldly, turned to the heavens.

"Have you no fight left, hydra? I have not yet warmed up! Do you think you can simply fly away?" In fairness, they could simply fly away, but with Matic controlling them it was doubtful they would.

The sky blue head, its blue eyes glowing, had so far remained inactive, simply an observer. Were it not attached to the deadly whole, one might be led to believe that it wasn't even all that hostile. This person would, however, be very wrong. Noting the uselessness of its brethren, the light head decided to take matters into its own figurative hands.

As Cedric attentively gazed at the triple dragon quickly disappearing into the sky, he did not fail to notice a burst of blue traveling at meteoric speeds toward the rain-dampened rooftop. He began gathering fire into his sword in advance, watching very intently as the ball impacted a number of feet away. Ice crystals spread rapidly from the projectile's epicenter, the rainwater coating the rooftop quickly freezing solid. Sigrar radiated enough heat to keep Cedric and his horse from freezing solid, but certainly not enough to prevent the battlefield from becoming coated in a thick sheet of ice.

Nalzaki quickly descended, heads roaring, tail swinging slowly with Princess Melissa still firmly in its grasp. Despite its seemingly unquenchable rage, it seemed to be very adamant about protecting the princess from harm. The dark head, seemingly ignoring the efforts of its light counterpart, immediately breathed another burst of flame, which was fully absorbed into Sigrar by the all-too-prepared knight. The central head quickly tried to counteract this with an opportune bolt of lightning, but, much to its shock and chagrin, the knight managed to deflect this attack with his sword as well. He immediately discharged the pent-up fire into the left eye of the light head, causing it to roar in agony and bringing the whole of Nalzaki to stumble backwards.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

With a sigh, Archwizard Matic closed yet another dusty tome, and shoved several stacks of paper aside. Nothing. Despite his efforts, he could find nothing to reverse the destruction caused by the Tome. He rifled through yet another bunch of papers, then tossed them to the ground, dissatisfied. He dug through bookshelf after bookshelf, unable to find anything, anything at all, that could save him - and everything else - from the opening of the rift. Potions, spells, enchantments... all of them were useless. He couldn't even teleport himself away from the destruction, not to another plane, not to anywhere at all. There was too much interference from the rift he was powerless to close.

Archwizard... Screw it, he thought. Dr. Matic had been in control as long as he could remember. It was he who personally led his fledgling band of scientiflics against the might and power of Lord Horrorshow. It was he who personally slew Lord Penworthy and caused such anarchy to overtake the city. It was he who led his growing gang in battle against the Dungeon Crawlers, and took control of their "impenetrable" fortress. Sure, he had enemies. Sure, his health was already bad and getting worse. Sure, anyone in town would slit his throat at the nearest opportunity. It didn't matter. He ran this town.

And now it was all going to be destroyed.

Dr. Matic shut a final volume and tossed it aside. It was useless. Not even with the powers granted by the Fantasy genre could he muster up the ability to close the rift and restore order. The Tome was all that had held the city together. The Tome was the lifeblood of the city, without which the world was doomed. The Tome had held unspeakable powers over the minds and bodies of everyone, over the fabric of reality itself. Its destruction had rendered everything meaningless.

Dr. Matic stood up and walked across his chamber, hands folded. He was getting too old for this. What point was there in continuing to futiley struggle against fate? The Tome was in its final pages before it had been destroyed. It was the only end possible. The end of the world had always been set in stone. It was foolish of him to think himself a god among men. In the end, what would it matter? Everyone was going to die, and the history of the world, the struggles of the eternally divided city, would be forgotten in the face of an uncaring universe.

But Dr. Matic wouldn't be there to watch it happen. He couldn't bear it. Sure, maybe he was a moralless bastard. Maybe he didn't have any regard for anyone or anything. Maybe he was the greatest evil in a city of villains. But he had never wanted total destruction. The business had finally gone too far. This was the end.

Dr. Matic slowly walked to the chamber's exit, ignoring the shocked protests of his now-awake "apprentice". His feet echoed deeply on the cobblestone platform outside as he unflinchingly advanced forward. In front of him, the fight between the hydra and the knight continued. Both would perish in the rift, their struggle was for nothing. Less than an hour remained for the city. The end had come.

Taking a final gaze at the city he had so long called his domain, Matic stepped from the platform, arms spread wide.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

With a beating of their mighty wings, Nalzaki managed to hold Sir Cedric and his horse at bay before again taking to the skies. The cracks in the sky grew larger and larger, as the wind picked up in intensity. The hydra found it increasingly hard to fly without being swept away by the mighty currents of wind. A heavy rain assailed the city, relentlessly pounding down upon rooftop and dragon alike. In a desperate bid to kill the knight in one blow, the hydra reared back, ready to divebomb.

It was then that the doctor-turned-archwizard hit the ground with a sickening crunch.

In an instant, the bright runes adorning the collars upon the hydra's necks faded away to nothing. Their brightly glowing eyes faded out as well, returning to a more natural coloration. Slowly, minute cracks spread across the surfaces of the collars, until they finally broke apart and clattered to the ground. Nalzaki immediately began flying more erratically, each of its heads looking around rapidly in a daze. Though they at first appeared to be dropping, they managed to restabilize themselves and hover in the air.

What the hell just happened? What are we doing here? We were just sending that Ivan guy to get that bookmark, weren't we? Was I unconscious? Razaran sounded rather agitated, though still collected enough to not panic outright.

If you were unconscious, we wouldn't be flying right now. Something must have happened that took control of our minds entirely. Probably the Tome, although it didn't seem to do that last time. Nalyg, though sounding reasonable as always, was slightly worried.

Who cares why it happened when it happened? We hardly even look like ourselves anymore, Nalyg. And Kanpeki, why aren't you saying anything? The Kryesan's male elements turned their necks simultaneously to gaze at Kanpeki, who was facing away, seemingly gazing into the distance.

Is something wrong, Kanpeki? Nalyg asked.

...Yes. Yes, something's wrong, Nalyg. Kanpeki turned to face the other heads, revealing a huge burn running down the side of her face, at the center of which had once been her eye. Nalyg and Razaran briefly gazed in horror. Kanpeki sounded and looked outright traumatized, for the first time since the three had been joined.

After a short time, however, Nalyg finally took notice of a weight on his tail, and immediately hoisted it in front of his face to find a very annoyed-looking Melissa Harmon staring him in the face.

"...Dr. Harmon?" Nalyg questioned, incredulous. How had she gotten there?

"Oh, now you decide to talk? Couldn't have done that before you dragged me around as bait for Cedric? One moment you're some asshole's minion and the next you act like none of it even fucking happened?"

"What are you talking about?" Razaran asked. "We did none of that. We weren't even in control of our own bodies!"

"You weren't, huh? Sure. Why not? How about you prove it by setting me down?"

Far below, Cedric angrily shouted at the hydra. "If you harm her, hydra, I will personally see to it that you are dead by the end of the hour! Descend, cowardly beast!" Taking very careful aim, the knight launched a fireball at his foe - not meant to collide, of course, as that would risk them dropping the princess to her death. The fireball simply blazed by, dangerously close, as a warning shot more than anything.

The three heads and the doctor-turned-princess watched in unison as the fireball shot by, narrowly missing the Kryesan. "Set you down? Do you really think that's a good idea now, doctor?" A second near-miss shot by. "We'll get you to safety. Hold on tight, doctor." Nalyg carefully lifted the "princess" above his back, releasing as she gained a decent grasp of his neck. Conferring with Razaran and the still-shaken Kanpeki, Nalyg issued forth into a downward spiral, keeping a good distance from their attacker. They carefully landed on the stairs on the opposite side of the tower, temporarily safe from Cedric.

Without pause, the sound of galloping hooves rapidly grew closer. "We don't want to fight you, Cedric," Nalyg quickly shouted, slowly climbing the stairs. "Put your sword down! You've done enough damage as it is!"

"I'll not fall for your trickery, hydra! Put the princess down, or you die!" Cedric led Horsegark up the stairs, leveling SIgrar at the retreating hydra. All around them, the castle that had been the home of the late Archwizard began to crumble under the ever-darkening sky. The city was on the brink of annihilation.

SleepingOrange · 10-06-2011, 11:49 AM

Originally posted on MSPA by SleepingOrange.

fluxus Wrote:

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As a being so thoroughly steeped in and focused on magic, the rapid shifts between high-fantasy and heavy-science genres and back and back again had proven more jarring for Cascala than it had been for most. After Contessa, she'd abandoned bothering to try to maintain her genre-independent identifty and just gone with the flow, which had made the transitions much easier for the most part; still, flickering back and forth between a great wielder of the arcane and a genius madwoman with a jetpack (with a brief stop as a vindictive femme fatale who wielded money like a knife) had taken its toll. Following the final shift, Cascala took a few moments to lean against a dungeon wall and collect her thoughts and her identity.

Fantasy as a genre suited her well; even under the influence of the Tome's idea of fantasy, very little about her differed from her non-genred form. Her robes were slightly less ostentatious and had a few glyphs and runes stitched into the flowing patterns just to keep up with the expectations implicit in the ideas of "wizard", but overall there wasn't much visual change past the addition of a small, cylindrical hat. Internally though, Cascala could... it was hard to put words to it, but it was like she could feel magic more. It was as though every possible spell or ritual was essentially one application of the same skill, just expressed differently. In her own world, Cascala has little time for or training in disciplines beyond water and weather control; in this one, mana swirled around her, whispering secrets in her ears and urging her to burn the city or bury it or break it.

With a grin that was surprisingly less malicious than could be expected given the thought processes behind it, Cascala swallowed the urge to cackle and made to oblige.

A column of ice rose violently formed the floor next to her (because old habits die hard) and punched a corridor to the surface level before splintering away. Cascala rose though it, smiling as the torrential downpour parted around her. As she climbed the air, Archdoctor Matic plummeted through it; she reached hovering height enough to see over Castle Matic's ramparts about when he fatally reached floor-level. As Nalzaki escaped its mental shackles and confusedly descended to the courtyard, Cascala looked up to the sky. What she saw, and even more what she felt, shook her to the core.

---

"Are you sure you want to go through with this?"

"Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well, I mean... You're always pretty opposed to just blowing up everything."

Samuel Orange sniffed haughtily and pursed his lips. "No, I'm "pretty opposed" to blowing up everything just for the sake of blowing it up. When it makes sense and is in-character, I'm all for it. I just don't subscribe to the Michael Bay school of authorship."

"Oh." Gerald paused for a few seconds. "So, what, Cascala just wants to show off or something? Is she supposed to be acting like a typical fantasy wizard?"

"Nah, see... This is basically the same thing as when she started the hurricane spell at the beginning of the round. She doesn't know everyone's in the castle, so as far as she's concerned, the best way to make sure someone dies is to destroy the whole city. This just gives her a way to make it happen faster and better."

"It still kinda feels forced."

Samuel shrugged. "I think you're just looking at it the wrong way. I mean, if you spent your whole life being told "You have to kill these people or your entire civilization will collapse", and then you were handed a big button that said "Carpet-bomb the city they're in", you'd press it. It wouldn't make sense for her not to take advantage of this."

"I guess."

"Trust me, Botterson, I've thought this through. Besides, large-scale destruction like this gives a reasonable narrative explanation for any given person to die when the time comes."

---

Above and below and through Cascala's hurricane, streaks of blackness wove their way across the sky and exerted their influence on the land below. She gaped at the corruption that had suffused her spell, gawked at the fractured quilt of clashing genres that had spread itself across the city. With the exception of one small cluster of buildings that seemed pristine (and oddly as though they weren't really there at all), much of the place was already succumbing to the storm: an elegant white tower, bristling with sensor arrays and surrounded by hovering spacecraft gave in and toppled; as it fell, it crossed a dark border, transforming into a greyscale skyscraper and crushing what looked like a cluster of brick buildings. All around it, as far as Cascala could see, people and architecture were buffeted and broken by her work. It was excellent, but it wasn't enough.

She reached up towards the roiling, spinning, crackling clouds. She could feel the churning forces above her, primal Gate magic that she had no name for but could watch the workings of as though she'd known them all her life. With a mad laugh escaping her lips she waved her staff, sending a swathe of clouds tumbling counter to the spirals they'd been forming and causing the web of blackness to writhe portentously.

Across the city, in a small section that had rather appropriately settled into Disaster Fiction, there was a cacophonous screech of stone and soil being torn apart molecule by molecule. The Disaster Fiction slums, comprising about four square blocks, began to rise into the air; it formed a crumbling floating island, shedding water from the storm and its sundered sewers, and drifted across the sky. The ground beneath where it had been couldn't even rightly be called ground anymore: it was just a shimmering pit of the same blackness that blanketed the sky and separated the genres.

Succumbing completely to the evil wizard archetype, Cascala shrieked with sadistic glee and pulled her other hand up. With it came a cozy little Fairy Tale village, about twice the size the Disaster area had been; she made throwing motions, muttering dark syllables that were much harsher and guttural than her usual elegant magespeak, and the pair of genre islands careened across the sky before crashing into other sections of the already-battered city. Another swing of her staff brought three more chunks of landscape rising above the rest, and another dismissive gesture sent them too hurtling lethally into other districts. The blackness that separated the genres widened as the city tore itself apart; individual sections began drifting away from each other, and as Cascala turned the scenery itself into a weapon of the setting's destruction, the gulfs of nothingness crackled darkly.

---

In a building that wasn't entirely where it appeared to be, the raging storm and ballistic buildings outside were raising some eyebrows. Macy Farah leaned against a windowsill, watching several rude huts transform into condominiums before meeting the ground with a cacophonous thundering; it was far enough away that she couldn't hear the screams, but it was still an unsettling sight. She turned back to the room, frowning slightly as she picked her laptop back up and joined the others.

She drummed her fingers pensively across the keyboard as she opened MSPaint to occupy herself. "This just really doesn't seem safe."

Alexis shrugged across the table, not looking up. "It's not like we have a lot of choice. What are we going to do, leave? Might as well just make the best of it."

Edgar Voysen nodded. "I get that this is the first time for both of you, but Alexis is right. This is pretty typical stuff, really. Nothing ever happens to us; we're pretty much outside events."

There was a brief pause in the clicking of keys, and Samuel looked up. "I dunno if I'd really say that. Not this time, at least. The Tome's messing with the metafictional metaphysics."

Macy scowled, clearly worried, but Samuel waved a hand before returning to his typing. "It still shouldn't matter; the storm's not touching us, so I don't see a reason to worry. I was just saying this isn't quite usual. I trust Jennie to run this thing right."

Gerald crossed his arms, half in annoyance and half in triumph. "You just love to disagree, Sam."

"Oh, come on, don't start in on this." Jake Skalavre threw his hands up. "It's been so long since you two have been at each other's throats. We've already got potential problems, can we not have surly backbiting be one of them?"

Gerald and Samuel both harrumphed under their breaths; Samuel didn't break his typing stride, and Gerald muttered something about "journalism work anyway". There were a few minutes of quiet, broken only by the click of keys and the pock of mouses (as well as the omnipresent howling of the hurricane); that quiet was eventually dispelled again by Samuel.

"Hey, Norm?"

One of the two men talking quietly in the corner looked up. "Mmm?"

"What about Nalzaki?"

---

Nalzaki and their passenger had been pretty understandably focused on Cedric; it wasn't a surprise that none of them had spotted the dark figure of Cascala against the dark sky or heard her laughter above the storm. She'd missed them too, on the far side of the tower as they were and focused on her magic as she'd been. Cedric had no time for floating women; he had distressed (if abusive) princesses to save from conniving dragons.

Horsegark's hooves kicked sparks up from the cobblestones as Cedric rounded the tower, Sigrar blazing bright and casting the knight's determined features into snarling relief. Princess Melissa dismounted, struggling to balance in the rain and ice and her ridiculous flouncy outfit; Kanpeki gently nudged her in the chest.

"You should get higher in the tower. We wouldn't want you hurt by this man's foolishness."

Harmon scowled. "No, I'm staying here. That idiot won't attack as long as he thinks he might endanger me."

Kanpeki nudged her again more forcefully, still taking care with her horns. "No, I think this has to be done. It's clear he will not listen to reason and seeks only to destroy. He will endanger us all so long as his myopia lasts."

There was reason to it of sorts, and it wasn't as though Harmon had much love for the pigheaded brute in any case. She gathered her extraneous skirts and tottered upwards as Nalzaki thundered down. Razaran let lose an enthusiastic gout of flame, roaring out loud and mentally hissing now this is more like it. Kanpeki's good eye narrowed as the triarch lunged for the mounted knight. Steel met fang and scale and fire met lightning and rain as hydra met warrior. Each expected it to be their last meeting.

---

"Feels a little overdramatic."

"It's the climax! Besides, what are they gonna do, just fly away?"

"I guess it is. I'm not arguing the events anyway, more the tone. I think you're breaking out the big guns too early."

"Well, I like it, and it's my funeral if it's too much anyway."

Norm shrugged. "Yeah, it is. I'm alright with the rest of it, although I assumed Nalzaki was closer to Cascala when you started the scene."

"Nah, courtyards are big, and wizards are small. I think the mention of Matic's fall as she was rising was what got you thinking they were close by. She's gonna notice them soon, especially if Nalzaki and Cedric keep at it, but it makes more sense and is more convenient if they're doing their own thing for now. It also gives Harmon a chance to do some work on her sensor, too."

The man next to Norm nodded. "Yeah, good, thanks."

"Anyway," finished Samuel, "I think that's about it for now. I like the idea of Ivan being the only one who sees Cascala for now; maybe he tries some kind of rune magic to stop or distract her, or even just brings her to Nalzaki's attention, but that's all up to Alexis. Overall, I think–"

A tremulous female voice cut in. "What… What's that?"

All eyes turned to the window. "You said we'd be safe here!"

Moments later, masonry and earth met steel and glass in a deafening crescendo of destruction.

"Oh, God, no, no. Macy. Macy!"

GBCE · 10-08-2011, 04:44 PM

Originally posted on MSPA by fluxus.

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The simple fabric of his robes blew listlessly in the wind as Ivan stared out through the gash in the side of Matic’s castle. Where once had been solid fortification- wood, rock, and stone- now gaped an open wound, exposing the castle’s innards for all the world to see. Matic was dead, or at least Ivan hoped he was. Even for an arch wizard, surviving a fall from such a height seemed highly unlikely. And Ivan should know, shouldn’t he? After all, he was Matic’s apprentice. Or he had been.

Rain poured in through the massive hole, pooling between twisted floorboards and soaking through Matic’s works- all the things he and Ivan had spent months analyzing. It didn’t matter now if their research was ruined. Matic was dead and the Tome was likely to be as mangled as the rest of the tower- if it even existed at all. Ivan nudged a broken bit of glass out of the hole with the toe of his shoe and watched it spiral towards the ground. They’d been so close. Ivan had been close. He’d finally been able to pinpoint the source of the energies that were causing the universal shifts. He’d found a sort of code made out of some intricate and archaic magics that no one had thought to look for in sequence. It was deeply rooted in the Tome behind a hell of a lot of wards and it had taken ages to unbind. But they’d finally managed it. He and Matic could’ve harnessed those energies, even prevented their effects. And right now Ivan could’ve been holding the title of ‘Wizard’. Unfortunately, however, it seemed that in the last fifteen minutes he‘d even lost his apprenticeship.

Or maybe he'd never been an apprentice. Or half an elf. He’d been a detective once- and someone from another planet. And Matic had been a criminal, that much was certain. Turning weary eyes towards a sky that was now a sea of banded clouds, dark energy, and hammering rain, Ivan made a noble attempt at putting his memories in order. This had been, arguably, the longest night of his life and exhaustion was beginning to take its toll. It felt like all the versions of himself he’d encountered throughout the night were fighting for precedence over one another… leaving him with nothing more than a headache and something of an identity crisis.

In the bailey below Nalzaki and a knight were at each other’s throats, a clashing of fire and ice that Ivan could feel even at his distance. He wondered if by some coincidence the fire-wielding knight was another of the eight contestants, but decided quickly that it didn’t matter. The battle he was observing belonged solely to Nalzaki and he wasn’t going to get involved. Resigned to leave the hydra to its fate, Ivan removed his wand from its pocket within his robes, the weight of it reassuring and strangely familiar.

The city was falling apart. Cascala’s wrath still careened overhead, smashed bits of ruble and people mingling with the rain. Ivan had watched her climb through the air mere moments after Matic’s suicide, her pretty face contorted into something inhuman . He’d seen her break apart an already broken city and laugh. And he’d done absolutely nothing. He’d never been one for heroics; the idea of ‘glory’ seemed great on paper but the truth of the matter was that Ivan only worried about taking care of his own. It wasn’t cowardly, it was smart. That’s why he felt incredibly stupid as he raised his wand and directed a curse laced heavily with an electrical current towards Cascala.

Phere ran her hands down the front of her surcoat, flattening wrinkles in the fabric that didn’t exist. She stepped lightly over Jaeger’s body, smoke billowing in miniature curls from the hole where his nose had once been. The room in which she’d allowed the slobbering fool to hold her captive had remained relatively untouched by whatever had ripped through the rest of Matic’s spire. Moments ago she and Jaeger had watched bits of castle wall explode into the night sky from the room‘s cloudy window, all but one pane of glass shattering as the tower quaked with a deafening roar. It had all ended in permanent fantasy, a genre in which Phere felt an inherent ease, but she couldn’t prevent herself from hesitating to open the door to Matic‘s main chamber. Her hollow-granted glimpses of the room outside weren’t pleasant by any means; this world was essentially being pulled apart at the seams, all her plans turning to shambles. She exhaled sharply and beat a well-manicured fist against the wood of the door. When was it that she’d lost control of them all?

Clenching her teeth in a silent fury, Phere leaned against the stone wall and attempted to calm her nerves. She needed a haven- somewhere to escape all the madness so that she could reassert her power. But where? The spire had the potential to become a fortress… but Ivan and Harmon knew her location. And even so, nothing in the city was safe from the dimensional rift. Finding her way to the city’s outskirts would be risky if not utterly insane. Phere, for the first time in a very long time, felt trapped.

She hated feeling trapped.

Crying out in frustration, Phere’s boot collided stiffly with Jaeger’s side, the blunt sound of leather meeting flesh disturbingly loud within the confines of the room. As she reared her foot back for a second strike, however, a small silver spyglass fell from the folds of her coat and landed with a delicate metal clank on the floor. Regaining her composure, Phere straightened her crown and bent to retrieve the scrying glass, an idea beginning to take shape in the back of her mind. There was a determined set to her jaw as she opened the door and stepped lithely into Matic’s ruined study.

Many things happened at once.

Cascala allowed her laughter to flow freely, an icy cackle that was drowned out by the howl of the storm. The winds only intensified with each passing band of cloud and gusts ripped at the hair and clothing and circuitry of any soul unlucky enough to be out of doors. But it wasn’t as though any of these people had a choice, really. Cascala found joy in stripping them of their homes and genres, and her pretty mouth was a soft and inviting grin as she watched a portion of the Western quarter fall to ruin. She no longer had the will left to stave off the effects of the genre shift and allowed herself to spiral further into an evil madness.

Magic coursed through her and she’d never felt so alive, knowing full well that she was capable of a beautiful and so utterly terrible power. But there was a silver undercurrent running stream-like beneath her own spells, a magical pulsing that emanated from the spyglass on its chain about her neck. Diverting her gaze from the destruction, Cascala peered into the glass and found the empress Phere staring back at her, the barest hint of a smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

“I currently find myself staring at the hydra.” Phere almost sounded bored as she glanced about in a lazy manner. “And it seems to have itself in quite the predicament.”

Cascala scowled, her pretty brows knitted. “I’ve had a change of heart, Empress. The hydra is nothing more to me now than a single drop of rain amidst a downpour. If you’ve failed to notice, I’ve quite got my hands full at the moment.” She made as if to sever their connection, but the drawl of Phere’s refined accent stopped her short.

“Very well, Cascala,” the empress said, “do what you like. Just know that this call wasn’t only about the beast; I was prepared to strike up a deal. I was prepared to offer you something far more powerful than revenge.”

Cascala eyed Phere with a wicked interest. “Go on.”

Phere allowed herself a small smile as she held up a richly engraved book for Cascala to see. “I’m prepared to offer you the Tome.”

But before Cascala could respond, a searing pain engulfed her left arm, as though her very bones were alight with fire. Her shrill shriek of agony cut through the storm like lightning. Her eyes rolled wildly about, searching for her attacker, until they came to rest on the young man peering out of Matic’s ruined tower, his wand raised and still hissing with electrical magic. Cascala propelled herself toward him without thinking twice, her bargain with Phere forgotten.

Ivan’s steadfast resolve crumbled as soon as he caught Cascala’s gaze, and he turned quickly around, searching for the stairway. What he found was Phere standing before the door to the next room. Ivan wasn’t in the least surprised to find her out of Jaeger’s grasp- but to find her reading the Tome was another matter entirely. She smiled knowingly as he gaped at her and Ivan could only hope that their alliance still stood.

Then the floor buckled with a sickening crunch of wood and, as Phere stepped lightly back through the doorway, Ivan crashed to the now-angled floor and began to slide. , desks, and much of Matic’s varying magical apparatus spewed forth from the tower’s open side as Ivan used every bit of his strength to wedge himself into a shallow alcove. What awaited at the end of the wooden slide was far worse than the plummet Matic had taken towards the ground. Cascala hovered just outside the Castle’s broken opening, her arm blistered and blackened, eyes lit with malice.

“Think you can play the hero, do you?” Her voice was low as she inched ever closer, so slowly. Ivan scrambled to face her, balanced on a wall that was now where the floor had once been. The tower gave a lingering moan, bits of stone and plaster dusting their faces white.

Raising his wandhand, Ivan sent a silent curse towards Cascala that even he knew was futile. Catching it in her unburned hand, she laughed quietly, a pleasant sound as though he’d just told a joke that only she understood.

Her expression then smoothed into a kind sort of pity, and she almost looked sad. “A persistent one, I’ll give you that.” Her voice was soft and sweet as she caught the second curse he hurled at her. “Tell me, were you always so brave?” Ivan remained silent. She was close now, so close, and her pleasant tone was grating on him. “I can see in your eyes that you recognize death,” she hummed. “This is a valiant end. They will sing of your courage. That is, if any are left come dawn.”

The wall-turned-ceiling above them gave a splintered scream as rain water burst through its plaster skin, soaking through their robes. Cascala didn’t bother keeping herself dry and let it run in watery ribbons down her face. “Ivan, did you know human beings are made of water?” His blood ran cold at the use of his name. “That’s something a smart young man like you should know.” She began to collect the rain between cupped palms. “But just as water gives life… so too can it take life.” Cascala removed her hands; instead of falling, however, the pool of water she’d collected hovered before her chest as though she were still holding it, growing larger with each drop of rain. Ivan raised his wand, but as he did so the water-mass swallowed it and wrenched it from his grasp.

“Now, now,” Cascala chided as the water snapped his wand in two, “Sending so many curses flying about is considered poor etiquette, Ivan. I thought you’d know better.” It was then that the wall upon which he was standing crumbled through. Finding himself dangling by his arms from a jagged beam, Ivan steeled himself and refused to look down, choosing instead to wearily meet Cascala’s gaze. She sighed. “It would appear I’m boring you. And here I was, believing this to be such a pleasant conversation.” One of his hands lost its grip as Cascala’s water-globe fashioned itself into a pick made of ice. “Though I suppose you really must be going.”

Ivan watched her in a dismal sort of fascination, his wandhand dangling by his side. He’d never been particularly talented with wandless magic, but as the mad witch raised the pick above her head and dropped her good-natured façade, he felt lightning begin to gather within his clenched fist.

Cascala’s voice was cool as she said, “You can’t even fight back,“ the look in her eyes barren and disgusted.

“I don’t need to,” Ivan replied quietly as he directed a crack of energy towards her. “Water conducts.”

Her howl of pain sent a miserable shudder through his bones and Ivan turned his face away. His fingers began to slip.

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Pick Yer Poison · 10-09-2011, 04:45 AM

Originally posted on MSPA by Pick Yer Poison.

All over the city, Klendel's plans were coming together. Gangs were murdering each other in the streets as their leaders comitted suicide or died beside their followers. Four of the major gangs were already completely exterminated, and several others were close to that point as well. In sections of the city where guns were present, constant gunfire was heard; in those where it was not, the sound was replaced by either the clash of swords or the much more varied sounds of magical fights.

Khan stumbled in the middle of his charge as a bullet from one of the members of the Greatest Degeneration's soldiers' revolvers embedded itself in his lung. He coughed up some blood and held it up to his face with trembling hands. A second bullet in his head silenced him completely, and the rest of the Screaming Eagles howled with outrage.

A member of the Hacker Slashers sliced off the head of the Librarian Collective's leader, roaring with triumph. The rest of the gang quickly dropped their improvised weapons and surrendered. Unfortunately for them, the Hacker Slashers rarely took prisoners.

A door guard walked into Archwizard Matic's zoo of alchemical abominations to relieve the previous guard from his shift. He was shocked to find the guard dead on the floor, sharp gashes like claws across his chest, and the gate stretched wide open. Matic's creations were already long gone.

The Engineers laughed maniacally as their steampunk warmechs forced the disorganized remainder of Dr. Matic's troops into a terrified retreat, firing gatling guns and flamethrowers into the panicking mob. The passed over the border to Archwizard Matic's castle, and the warmechs became manticores and dragons, firing poison spines and belching enormous flames at the fleeing mages.

Kirsch limped his way to the chapel, where he told a cowering wizard-in-training to fetch him the commanders. With Archwizard Matic dead and summoners attacking them, he had no idea how to salvage the situation. Fortunately, he considered himself good at thinking under pressure. He positioned himself at the podium of the chapel, resting his weight on it while trying to make it look like he wasn't doing so. It wouldn't do to have his lieutenants realizing he was weakened, especially considering he suspected some of them were like him and were just waiting for an opportunity to kill him and steal his position.

Half a mile away, a privately-hired sniper peered through his scope at the man behind the stained glass window. It was difficult to be certain, but was pretty nearly sure that he was looking at the man was supposed to kill. He adjusted his scope in accordance with the wind that had been brought up by the strange storm that had appeared, then pulled the trigger.

A bolt of magical energy impacted on the back of Kirsch's head, cracking his skull and causing shards of it to splinter into his brain. His eyes rolled up in his head and he slumped down on the podium, then fell to the floor in an awkward, bloody pile.

Meanwhile, Matic's abominations clashed with The Engineers and their ridden beasts, forcing them to fall back. The few remaining members of Matic's gang, caught between the two opposing gangs, were killed in the skirmish, most of them in particularly painful and embarassing ways. It's only to be expected, of course; there aren't a lot of noble methods of death when you're getting mauled by a giant cactus with legs.

The Greatest Degeneration finally managed to finish off the Screaming Eagles. They had taken heavy losses when the horde had gone berserk due to their leader's death, and many of them were beginning to feel the ill effects of the radiation-based weaponry used by some of the higher-ranking Screaming Eagles. They were preparing to fall back when they were set upon by the Good Bad Uglies, an ally of the former Screaming Eagles. Although they had arrived too late to save their former allies, their moral code dictated they take vengeance anyway. And so they wreaked havoc on the weakened and diminished troops of the Greatest Degeneration, until none of them were left.

---

"Stop right there, criminal scum!" NORTHWIND ordered Klendel. "Nobody breaks the law in my town!" Klendel wasted no time responding, and flipped off of the catwalk. Latching onto the railing with his stretchy arms, he swung under it, releasing himself in time to be thrown past NORTHWIND, bursting out through a window and landing with a roll on the ground, his rubbery body absorbing most of the shock.

He winced as he tried to get up, pinpricks of pain breaking out all over him. He looked curiously at himself, and found tiny rivers of red running all over it. It several moments to register in his mind that he was bleeding. He'd never bled before. Blood was the weakness of others, not of him. He stumbled into an alley as NORTHWIND screamed out of the window on his jetpack, zeroing in on his position.

Klendel ran as fast as he could on his injured feet, picking twisting and turning alleyways in an attempt to get NORTHWIND off his tail. NORTHWIND found he was unable to keep track of him from the rooftops, and landed in order to continue the chase on foot. Klendel panicked momentarily when he found his way blocked by a large steel mesh fence before he remembered he could just climb over it.

He took off running as soon as he hit the other side, ignoring the cuts in his feet as best he could, although they still worried him immensely. He kept a tight hold on the combat knife in his hand, an irrational scenario of it slipping out of his hand and cutting him springing up in his mind. The backpack containing the enemy intelligence documents bounced up and down against his back.

Private Northwind dropped down after him, determined to retrieve the documents at any cost. Letting an enemy soldier into their encampment was bad enough; letting him escape with mission-critical plans was unacceptable. "Stop right there!" he demanded, but was not surprised that it did no good. He pulled out his pistol and fired several shots at Klendel, missing but making him glance back with a frightened expression on his face. Northwind bared his teeth and raised his pistol to fire again, but Klendel made a sharp turn and dived through a nearby window. Northwind idly wondered what was with him and diving through windows, then kicked the door down and fired a few more shots into the room, half-hoping they would hit something.

Klendel lay panting and bleeding in the corner of the room, completely untouched by the bullets, but rather worse for the wear from his bad choice to land on another patch of broken glass. He looked up darkly at Northwind. "What now? You kill me and take these papers back to your foolish leaders?"

Northwind pointed the pistol at him. "Yes. Now give them to me."

Klendel laughed. "And what if I'm the good guy here? Did you think of that? Have you never stopped to consider the lies your leaders are telling you?"

Northwind didn't respond, but didn't fire either. He'd only just realized that his gun was out of ammo; he'd wasted the last of his shots firing into the room as he entered it. He mentally berated himself for doing that, but since Klendel's knife was the only actual weapon either of them had at the moment, he did his best to keep up the bluff.

Klendel could tell something was up with Northwind. Even if he didn't have his mental sniffing powers in this genre, he knew he had the advantage at the moment, and decided to press it. "You don't even know what's in these documents, do you? They didn't tell you anything at that fancy camp you went to." A nasty grin spread across Klendel's face. "I've seen your men do things that would make you piss your pants. Dogs beaten so badly they starve to death because they're too afraid to come out for openly-offered food. Men with their eyes cut out being forced to play 'I Spy,' and getting knife cuts for every wrong answer. Ditches full of children afraid to cry for their parents."

Northwind found his hand was shaking. He was a bit angry with himself for still letting the spy live, but he found himself strangely unwilling to make a move. "You're lying. My superiors would never order such a thing."

Klendel chuckled nastily. "Are you ever told what the war you're fighting is for? And do you know the lengths your army is prepared to go to to win it?" He had no idea what war they were fighting, and was mostly banking on the fact that most armies had a lot of less-than-honorable jobs to prove his point.

Northwind lowered his pistol slightly. "I...I...how do you know?"

Klendel forced himself up the wall slowly. He was still bleeding, but he was more used to the pain by now, and it no longer hindered him as much. "You think I'm playing for the enemy team? They thought that too, when I stole their intelligence." He regretted not having a cigarette to light at this point. It would've really improved the performance. "I play both sides and come out on top. My friend, I don't steal documents to win wars. I do it to save lives." He stretched out his hand to Northwind. "Throw those butchers behind you and help me win the hidden war. Together we can be heroes."

"I...I..." Everything Klendel was talking about was what Northwind had joined the army to stop from happening, and everything he was promising was what he had joined the army to do. He lowered his pistol and gripped Klendel's hand. "Let's do it...partner."

Klendel's grin widened disturbingly. "Let's start right away," he said, and stabbed Northwind in the gut. He sank to the ground in shock as Klendel pried their hands apart disinterestedly. A pool of blood was beginning to collect below it, and he added to it by coughing up a fair amount into it. His gun clattered to the floor. He looked up at Klendel with dull eyes, and Klendel was suddenly overcome with hatred for him, for the man who had shown him that everyone is capable of bleeding when cut. He kicked him as hard as he could in the face, and Northwind toppled over backwards, the last light dimming from his eyes.

Akumu · 10-12-2011, 12:59 AM

Originally posted on MSPA by Akumu.

Sigrar cleaved through an icy blast, spraying the hydra's metallic hide with flame. “What have you done with the princess?” Cedric yelled, adding “RARRRRRGH!!” as he spurred Horsegark forward to engage the beast of hell.

“I told you, she went up the tower to get away from your insanity! Stop attacking!” Nalyg implored. Still, the charge continued. Horsegark leapt towards the hydra, as Cedric leapt from Horsegark, driving himself at improbable speeds straight towards Nalyg's head. Just behind him, Razeran struck viper-quick and closed its jaws around Horsegark's midsection. Cedric heard the crunch of teeth against armor and the terrible pained whinny from behind, and screamed with even more righteous fury than usual as he brought Sigrar flashing towards the hydra's central face.

Black lightning shifted and fractured.

Captain Sigmundson brought down the grip of his service revolver, giving the mustard-tied Kryesan brother a solid blow across the temple. The thug dropped like a sack full of ground beef. Sigmundson flipped his revolver around, catching the grip and swinging around to cover the other two brothers. “You're under arrest for kidnapping, assault on a police officer, and resisting arrest. Resist some more. I dare you, you filthy animals.”

One of the brothers let his tommy-gun clatter to the floor and put his hands on his head immediately, but the other was too busy smashing in the windows of the Captain's car to comply. Sigmundson shifted his aim, but hesitated, filled with confusion as to why and how he had gotten his black-and-white in front of the elevator bank on the fourteenth floor of Matic's casino. Before he could get his mind right, a terrible crunching came from above and the elevator doors blew out in a gust of air and rainwater, smashing all in the hallway against the far wall.

- - -

Above, the stone tower leading to Archmage Matic's workshop dropped downwards and canted precariously to one side. The beam to which Ivan desperately clung jerked away from him, and he was suddenly in the open air, falling freely through the lashing rain. Sheets of parchment ejected from the study fluttered around him, and time seemed to move so slowly that he could read each word, penned in his own hand over years of apprenticeship. It had all seemed so important, but now the only thing he could think of was his sister's face. There would be no one left to get justice for her, now. I'm sorry, Jeremiah.

Then he hit the staircase.

- - -

Had Princess Melissa not been clinging to the thick ivy growing up the side of the tower as she made her way up its rainslick stairs, she would have surely plummeted to her death. Now, hanging on to the tower wall above her, she glanced below to see the base of the tower replaced with a building of glass and metal, twisted and shattered under the tower's weight.

Somewhere in the wreckage, Sir Cedric was probably still battling the hydra. Melissa found it hard to believe that only a short time ago she had thought of the knight as simply an overzealous boor. It was clear now that he was in fact dangerously unhinged. They probably all were, in fact. What could have thrown her in with this collection of lunatics and monsters? She set her sights on the top of the tower, and began to climb. Her ticket home was up there, a way to get away from all this madness and back to the comfort and seclusion of the Ivory Tower, and she would be damned if she was going to let it slip through her fingers.

Coming around to the side of the tower that was angled towards the sky, she found a crumpled figure lying in the crook between the stairs and the tower wall. As she inched her way upwards, it shifted and groaned within its overlarge robes. Melissa watched the apprentice with concern, then looked back towards the top of the tower. She was so close! With narrowed eyes and a set jaw, she continued to climb.

Empress Phere stood over the prone body of Cascala, a small frown creasing her face. The mage had spasmed and her fine vestments singed and smoked, but she still breathed. Despite Phere's best efforts, neither Ivan nor Cascala had managed to kill the other. It looked like she would have to take care of this herself. Phere cast about her gaze and settled on a ceremonial dagger caught up in the corner of the room. She began to move towards it, when black lightning scythed across the room.

PH-373 grabbed her head and screeched inhumanly. Her wireless connection was attempting to connect to cameras that were currently carrier pigeons, scrying circles, and other genre-appropriate analogs. The cross-feedback was overwhelming. Her vision systems were linked directly into the implant, and it could not be turned off. The only option was to disconnect the affected systems altogether. The pain stopped, but she was blind.

In the doorway, Princess Melissa stared without comprehension at the interior of the tower summit. Past the stone archway she was standing in, the room was gleaming metal and wires. An automaton built in Empress Phere's image shuffled slowly over the slightly angled floor, moving slowly towards an unconscious woman strapped with a stupefying amount of machinery. Past the gaping hole where wind and rain whipped in from the darkness was a makeshift archway, leading nowhere, covered in frantically blinking lights and buzzing with barely contained energy. From this came a garbled voice.

“Mell-lllsss that xxkkou?”

Princess Melissa stepped impulsively towards the voice, which tugged at the back of her memory. As she crossed the threshold of the room, her sodden dress constricted and twisted, seamlessly transitioning into a side-buttoned shirt and parachute pants, as was the fashion on Valak Orbital. She was an agent of the Culture, and everything in this room made sense.

She made a bee-line for the malfunctioning gateway, ignoring the mad scientist and android. “Drone? What's happened to you?”

“Yyyyou should kn-kn-know, you did it to meeeebbbutt that's not important right now. This is so much bigger than a power struggle on a back-k-k-k-kwoods planet. I've seen suchhhhhings, attached to this device of yours. You need to rip out my memory core and get it back to Contact. I'm done for, but maybe we can save reality.”

Harmon was already prying away the hastily welded sheets of metal enclosing the archway, and gasped when she saw the internal workings of the drone splayed out and interconnected into bits and pieces of electronics and machinery from around Matic's workshop. She looked around plaintively, blinking back tears as she realized she didn't even know where her partner's optical sensors were and that she couldn't look him in the eye.

“There's... there's nothing I can do. Your fusion to this thing is permanent.”

“I know that! But we're professhhhhhionals, and we knew the risks when we signed up. So do it already! Do it...”

Harmon reached into the innards of the machine, grasped the still-living heart of the drone, and pulled. It was kind enough not to scream when she did it.

And right about then, PH-373 clobbered her over the back of the head with the Tome.

The android pounced on top of Harmon as she fell, closing its hands about her throat. It was screaming something about how everything had been under control until she had fucked it all. Harmon was having trouble concentrating on the exact grievances as she asphyxiated. She tensed the muscles in her neck and glanded React, kicking up into the android's torso as her body flooded with stress hormones. PH-373 flew off into the side of the gateway, from which electronic entrails still trailed to the core in Harmon's hand, but bounced back almost immediately to fall upon Harmon again.

“I could reach everything, I could see everything, and now I have nothing because you had to go and break the universe!”

They rolled about on the floor, PH-373 out for blood and Harmon trying to protect the vital memory core and her life. Genres fractured again, and they were a battlefield nurse and an Axis double agent, then a country surgeon and a corrupt mayor. The cells of reality constricted, and the tower shook as the building underneath tore itself apart with the stresses of different modes of perception trying to patch themselves together. Some things remained constant: the floor was slick, tilted, and at the bottom of the slope had a gaping hole leading out into the night. Soon enough, flickering through genres too rapidly to enumerate, Phere, Harmon, and the Tome launched out into the emptiness.

GBCE · 10-14-2011, 03:06 AM

Originally posted on MSPA by Pharmacy.

The aftermath, thanks to the tampering of the Tome, continued its effects. Though the fabric of reality was wearing dangerously thin, the destruction was surprisingly elegant. Like the unfortunate Harmon and Phere currently falling in the darkness, the objects and the denizens were going through all the roles of all the genres at an inhuman pace. Unfortunately, existence in this world was not as real as the contestants.

As people were bent to this invisible, oppressing hand, they had no choice but to act their parts. Tragically, the Tome, the tyrant of this reality has been gone and its kingdom was crumbling down to nothing, not chaos, not destruction – just nothingness. Dimensions distorted in indiscernible ways as the hurricane in the sky shifted to suddenly extremes of the monochrome. However, that was not the most interesting part.

With each flash, things started to disappear. Pop, like they were nothing. The bar, once a tavern, once a fuel station, blanked out, leaving nothing in its wake. The lab, the temple, the corporation, that blanked away too. Buildings were disappearing at an increasingly alarming rate, as though someone was taking a large eraser to them.

People also disappeared, but not immediately. As they were merely a face of reality, they were used to one role, not this many roles! The phasing through many realities was too much for most of them, too many roles in too little time. At first, it was unnoticeable. Then, they suddenly behave erratically, moving in abnormal ways and as they degenerate into babbling madness. Pop, gone in a flash, just like the buildings.

The mansions, casinos, facilities, apothecaries – did it even matter? – buildings were crumbling. Corpses piled high around the mountains. The sight was atrocious but, Tek was not paying attention. He was taking in more than he can handle and his existence was at the edge of death. He was a technopath, then a police cadet, then a private – there were too many roles, too much information. His mind was at the edge of insanity at the sudden onset of information. However, he wanted to resist. He did not want to be prey to his doom. Tek did not know the reason. Part of it was pure fear, but what were the reasons? Why would he want to continue existing? Why? Why?

As he thought, memories started to trickle in through the haze of his roles. There was the time when he first initiated into the Cyber Punks. There was the time when he got his first cybernetic eye. And, there was that time he met Abys. For some reason, he shuddered. They were not exactly romantic with each other, or even casual friends! However, that slight connection, the little time they met, between them seemed to invigorate him. It almost made Tek feel –

Nothingness had consumed almost everything, save for the few body parts, corpses, all suspended in the monochrome void. However, Tek floated there in the nether void with errant rubble as his companions. Though everything was disappearing in the process of disappearing, Tek’s mind felt more lucid than ever. In his mind, he could even remember a small tale in his head…

There was once a child named Theodore Thales. He was an extremely bright kid, tinkering with metal bits and found objects. Engineering was his first and continual passion, but alas, his family was impoverished and education was expensive. As he grew older, personal ambition and dissatisfaction at the world led him to join a technological-futurism gang. His innate knack for machinery exploded into inhuman expertise under that criminal organization. Despite his eventual augments, he was still humane and polite, albeit quiet and distant. Much to the chagrin of his peers, Thales insisted on being called by his nickname, bestowed upon him by his loving family. The nickname?

Tek.

Short for many things, like technical, technological, and "terrific!" as his late mother gushed. It was much personal nickname-slash-codename for the mechanic of the long-gone Cyber Punks. Plus, it was much catchier than boring old "Theodore Thales." He was never much a person for formalities. Tek smiled fondly at this memory. He was not a mere device anymore. He, for once in his life, felt

real.

The realization invigorated Tek and the slight mechanic lurched forward. He was not exactly a combatant or a leader, but one thing remains clear in his mind. He swerved around, looking at the remaining few items popping away into disappearance. Tek quickly grabbed the largest, the most dangerous thing that caught his eye, a vicious looking hybrid of the chainsaw and a rail-gun, former property of the Screaming Eagles, but did that fact matter anymore? With determination gleaming his eye (and his mechanical substitute too), Tek immediately balled up his hand, and thrusters on his boots immediately activated. Thus, Tek went away. After all,

There was someone he needed to meet.

***

The destruction of the round was commencing, but Merrifield was paying attention to her surroundings. Though she could be quite manipulative if she felt like it, the genetic monstrosity was basically an infant, petty and ignorant. As such, she was trailing up the mountains on her steed Abys, munching on wandering mutants and errant corpses that were so common. Surprisingly, she was not paying even an iota of attention at the disintegration of Dr. Matic’s property on top of her.

Merrifield was dementedly curious, not exactly loyal to one obsession and prone to flitting from choice to choice (for example, the current state of Abys). Not surprisingly, she found experimenting to be incredibly alluring. To her chagrin, her wonton experimentation during the round had been costly. As much as she hated to admit that, she was running out of fuel.

Merrifield was extremely tired, barely even able to keep awake on her forced servant-pet. The monstrosity felt that her control was on the cusp. It was taking her effort to keep control of Abys and even worse, holding herself together. Of course, her mind was not blank. After all, she had a purpose: to get the Tome, long gone and forgotten. However, that goal was at the backburner so to speak. Most of her thoughts were preoccupied with petty things –

–so many petty things that she did not notice a blade tearing at her side.

Merrifield commanded her steed up the mountains and attempted to gauge her injuries. Her eyes became even larger once she saw the state of the wound. The gash was large and gaping; the edges of the frayed cut were rapidly dissolving into sludge. Worse of all, stuff was spilling out of her like the contents from a split flour sack, sludgy insides dripping out like rotten meat. A fetid smell filled the air, as her flesh dripped over on the side of Abys and into the infinitesimal nothing. To her horror, Merrifield found that painful.

She looked at her opponent. To her surprise, it was that Tek person she took away before. With his erratic stubble and filthy green jacket, the slight man looked like something that Merrifield could squish under her proverbial thumb at the slightest thought, but for some reason, he seemed more confident, more dangerous. He spoke not a comforting word, but the shining in his red eye and his weapon told her everything. He was not the prey. She was the prey. At this realization, fat tears dribbled from Merrifield’s eyes. She felt afraid, very afraid.

The scuffle between the two was incredibly pathetic, Tek had the obvious advantage. He darted. He swung, making open holes in his enemy with his unwieldy weapon. With each wound, Merrifield became sluggish, even less conscious – more defenseless! The feeling was incredibly scary! Merrifield began to cry.

Suddenly, rubble rained down.

Tek managed to swing out of the way, his rockets fueling his dexterity. On the other hand, his opponent was not so lucky. With a sickening sound of ripping flesh and crunching bones, Merrifield and her steed got squashed under an errant piece of the laboratory. Thus, the two fell, victim to the gravity of the shifting reality.

Merrifield had made sure that her penultimate goal was to absolutely survive and now, she had failed said goal. The rubble was the final straw for her. No matter how much willpower she had, no matter how powerful she was, she could not save herself. Merrifield knew it. The time had come for her. She was going to die.

Now that she was in the inevitable grasp of death, she had, for once in her very short life, time to think. Oh, how she was silly, so afraid of the end for all the wrong reasons. What were the reasons exactly? Did that even matter? The genetic monstrosity could not help but smile at her foolishness, but now everything is going to end for her and for some reason, she felt alright with this, although she was very much in pain.

She took the last few seconds mulling over her short life. The monstrosity realized when at death’s door, you tend to see things in a new perspective. All in all, her life was wonderful and happy. She met new friends and strangers, for which she was thankful for. She did a lot of exciting things. Suddenly, Tek followed with his rocket. As the dying monstrosity observed, he had this anguished, but determined look on his face. Merrifield thought a little more, but she did have this one single regret.

She looked at Abys, who had seen better days. Then, she looked at the concerned Tek. With smile on her face and tears dribbling upwards, Merrifield let go of her “toy,” knowing better that she was a person. With a gentle push, the monstrosity pushed the former assassin into the surprised Tek’s arms. Oh, how Merrifield wished she could do more, but Abys was honestly at her limit. She had too much pain and her un-death was pure suffering.

With that thought, Merrifield smiled at Tek and then immediately liquefied. The genetic monstrosity was losing form. Her thin skin was peeling away, her remaining organs partitioning into garbage, her collagen and muscles softening and fraying. Her single cells swelled and burst into essential organic compounds. Yet, those too, degenerated. Her proteins denatured, her lipids got radicalized, every single molecule within her was dissolving into useless molecules. As her mind melted away from the apoptosis, Merrifield closed her melting eyes and murmured to herself,

"It’s good to be alive."

***

"Abys. Abys! Can you hear me?" Tek snapped in desperation.

The mechanic and the assassin continued their fall, supplemented by unknown acceleration. To Tek’s surprise, the monstrous appearance of his co-worker was melting, to say the least. Gobs of flesh pulled away from her from the velocity of their descent. With each strip of skin melting away, each chunk of muscle disintegrating from the speed, the former cyborg assassin was getting more and more human. Before long, there was Abys – natural, familiar, and most of all, sans robotic supplements – almost as if that monster pressed a reset button on her.

Abys’s eyes fluttered open, but to his surprise, Tek was not staring into the eyes of the abyss anymore. He found warmth, content, and familiarity. It was almost if he was staring into the eyes of a close friend. As soon as he made contact with her eyes, the former assassin smiled – not a smirk or a sarcastic slash of a mouth, but a genuine smile. Almost as if, she was happy to see him. "I hear you, Tek."

Tek’s heart leapt in sudden joy at the reactions of Abys. "Oh, Abys, Abys!" Tears began to streaming from his remaining good eye. "We are so alive and well." Then, the mechanic choked on his words as phlegm from his sorrows began to build up in his throat. "I have so many things to share and, and –"Tek’s lip trembled in joy. "Maybe, we can hang out more or something!”

Abys’s face soften into a gentle smile. "We are already friends to begin with, Tek. But –" Abys tilted her head sadly down. "My time is up. It has been up a while ago."

Tek’s only eye widened in shock. "No, no no!" The mechanic continued to repeat that single word. "Don’t go, Abys. We have so many things to do! Please , we can fix you up. Remember the Cyber Punk motto– "

The assassin laughed bitterly. She, indeed, had so many things to tell him, but unfortunately, she had no time left. She was going to pass on. How tragic. If only they spent more time together, maybe things would blossom between them, but alas, she had to keep to herself. How silly of her. However, her end was close and this was not the time for thoughts. She glanced at Tek and smiled, "You are a good person, Tek."

Then, she closed her eyes.

"ABYS!" Tek cried. "ABYS! Oh lord, ABYS!" The mechanic continued to cry the name of his comrade into the nothingness. Though the dimensions were infinite, even the ruins and the landscape could not hold all the sorrow of this single nobody.

Such is the power of character.

***

Though Merrifield had just expired, her sludgy remains still existed, subject to the whims of current reality. Some of the liquefied meat dissolved away immediately, as though they did not existed in the first place. However, the genetic monstrosity was made of significant amount of matter and plenty of chunks of her still remain. Hitting a pocket of reverse gravity, an errant part distorted and flung in full force of the opposite direction.

Just at the same time, two contestants of this grand battle were facing off each other. Emotions tense, attitudes frayed. Though the current conditions were not pleasant, there was much excitement as Cedric, Son of Sigmund and Nalzaki, the Typhren Kryesan continued their little skirmish in the ruins of Dr. Matic’s facility.

"I suggest you do not try this,” Kanpeki hissed under her breath, eyeing Cedric with her remaining good eye.

Nalyg looked at his co-worker and heavily sighed; knowing whatever comes out of his comrade’s mouth would fall on deaf ears. There was a massive bruise on the middle Kryesan’s head and it was not helping their situation. Not did that matter, since he was more concerned with defending their bodies with impromptu shields.

Their opponent swung forth and a wall of flames violently lurched towards them. In defense, Nalyg swung his tail forth, extinguishing the flames immediately. Feeling belligerent, Razaran took the opportunity to dart forth a limb-spear with an addition of a dozen bladed scythes as a supplement. The former mercenary’s patience was wearing thin at the length of this fight and he wanted to get this over with.

The knight wordlessly smiled. His draconic opponent was putting up a good fight, but the Son of Sigmund could do more. With a mighty yell, Cedric advanced. Time passed and the four flickered through many genres: a knight superhero parrying a sickle from a shape-shifting super villain; a soldier leaping up to a three-barreled howitzer; and many more. As the flaming edge came closer and closer to the flesh of Nalzaki, the pure randomness of the shifting reality decided on science fiction.

And at the same time, a gob of meat suddenly rained on them.

A familiar arm fell down on the two combatants. Spouting a punctual (but appropriate) expletive, Cedric raised his shifting gun to defend himself from the oncoming sludge, flames empathetically flaring up in protection. Despite the horrible smell, Cedric’s weapon did a fine job at protecting him from the foreign flesh. However, the chainsaw bayonet was still active and the fated blade touched the falling fin. The accessory did a fine joke liquefying the meat, and spraying the results everywhere. Nalzaki, unfortunately, got the full brunt of the fetid liquid, making them look like they landed in a slaughterhouse head-first. Some of the stuff even went into their mouth. Disgusting!

Despite that, the fight still continued.

***

Chaos could only last so long and soon, the genre maelstrom ebbed away, leaving empty pockets of nothingness and large swaths of ruined buildings. Despite that, things started to recover. Buildings were patched up, rubble swept away, corpses identified, mourned, and buried. However, the reality of the universe seemed to change. The cities were various, but not to the point that there were gross differences. The dimensions seem less controlled, less artificial, yet more vibrant, more reasonable. If this universe had a genre, the genre would be called

real life

and it seemed to stay that way, not that Tek seemed to mind. He was currently fussing over his appearance, adjusting his suit and washing his face. After making sure his tie was just in the right way, Tek hooked on the eye-patch and gave just as equal attention. Though his cybernetic eye was still functioning, Tek was not exactly keen on drawing attention from others. Whistling, the former mechanic hopped into his sedan and drove off to the flower shop.

As he fumbled for the dollars, Tek felt pretty content at things in his life. After the disaster, the former Cyber-Punk, decided to set a small business, which exploded into a successful entrepreneurship firm, with thousands of patents and popularity. Not forgetting his humble origins, Tek opened scholarships and donated to charities, to make sure that the disadvantaged could get the benefit of technology. Plus, no more gang wars, no more violence! This was not exactly heaven, but it was pleasant.

Tek took a surreptitious sniff of his flowers, a bundle of acacias, carnation, camellias, roses, and every species he ordered from the (confused) florist, as he went to his destination. He wanted the flowers to be fresh and nice, just the way she liked. Of course, he was just not thinking about the flowers. Despite the time, the past was still very fresh in his mind. The strangers, the chaos, it is hard to forget that sort of things. Finally, he reached his destination.

A modest tombstone made of marble, simple yet austere. Tek smiled sadly as he placed his bouquet in front of the grave marker. "Hello, Abys."

Tek spent the remaining afternoon lying besides the tombstone, thinking about things. He thought about his past, he thought about his future. He thought of the friends he met, the enemies he argued with, and things he had done. He thought about his next projects and his taxes. He thought about the skies, the stars, and especially Abys. Although his mind was busying up, Tek sighed and though how, despite everything

Life was beautiful.

GBCE · 10-14-2011, 08:19 PM

Originally posted on MSPA by engineclock.

Show Content

The Spectator sat in a chair of bone, perfectly still.

Her pose was oddly loose, as if some careless person had set her up like a doll and left her there. Slack ropes of her hair trailed on the floor like the train of an enormous gown, coiling around her in a limp tangle and gathering in pools around her feet. Curtains of it lay plastered to the sides of her face, framing a calm smile; her expression was blank. She might have been asleep if it wasn’t for the absolute placidity of that smile, so delicately written on her face that it seemed about to slide completely off.

The air flickered; there was a sound like a door being opened and Crowe appeared without warning in the center of the room, pen and notebook in hand. The expression on his face seemed to indicate that wherever he had just come from had been somewhere not entirely to his liking. Glancing disapprovingly over an open page, he straightened the cuffs of his immaculate suit and cleared his throat; whatever he was about to say died in his mouth as he caught sight of the Spectator on her chair, sitting quietly in a sea of red.

“He’s dead now,” she said softly into the silence. “He died some time ago.”

Slowly Crowe tucked the notebook back into his pocket, smoothing out the nonexistent creases. “Ah,” he said reluctantly. “Yes. That.”

“It was slow,” the Spectator continued. Her smile never faltered. “Tormy knew what he was doing when he killed him. His life ended inch by inch. I felt all of it. It was so beautiful I nearly wept. How does that happen, Crowe? How could he die? We were never alive, he and I. We were the same.”

Her assistant said nothing for a moment, the little of what could be seen of his face unchanging. “Kasaiyya,” he began, watching her twitch her head at the name, barely able to move under the weight of her limp hair. “He wasn’t-”

“He was the same as I.” The Spectator’s voice was suddenly cold. In the strange intangible that way that always accompanied it, Crowe felt her eyes turn their gaze on him. “I thought we would stay separate, that nothing would change, but there was something of me in him when he died and I felt it. I felt what should have been his soul leave his body in agony, second after precious second until there was nothing left.” She looked down at her hands, lying loosely on the arms of the chair. “He was never alive. How do you kill what isn’t alive? How do you kill what’s already dead?”

“Why are you asking this?”

“Is it that easy to die? Is it so simple? You should know. You’re mortal. You aren’t like us.”

Crowe narrowed his eyes. “I can’t see how that matters.”

“Can’t you?” She turned her head towards him, still smiling. “I saved you once. You were so close to becoming like me. You feared it more than anything. There was nothing you wouldn’t have done to stop it, nothing you didn’t promise me. Why was that, Crowe? I never thought to ask you and now it’s too late. What did you have to fear? Was it so bad knowing that you could die, that you would? I wish I knew. I can’t understand it. I wonder if he did, before it happened.” She turned away again, her voice growing thoughtful. “I wonder what he would say.”

“It doesn’t matter what happened to him,” Crowe said exasperatedly. “Whether he died or not isn’t important. You are still alive and he-”

There was the sound of a taut string snapping and suddenly Crowe was slammed against a wall, a thunder of beating wings assaulting his ears and the Spectator’s smiling face an inch from his. In his shock all he could see was the blankness of her expression, as rigid as if it had been carved on to her. The smooth stretch of skin where her eyes should have been stared blindly at him through the cover of his hands. “How dare you,” she breathed, “how dare you mock me like this. Alive? I was never alive. I was made from death and I have been death for as long as I have existed. He was the same, he was, I felt it, and he died a bloody death screaming for a mercy that didn’t exist. ‘Help me, help me, you can’t do this, I’m you, I’m you I’m you I’m you I’m you,’ he said. I let him die. Was that it, then? Was that the only aspect of life allowed to us? Some pitiful screaming end to whatever it is we are?”

“Listen to yourself,” Crowe hissed. He shoved her away, absurdly aware of the fact that the Spectator had forgotten to change her expression. She always did that when she was upset. “You both knew you were never going to save him. He wouldn’t have done it for you.”

“But that wasn’t it, was it?” she said, her hysterical tone at odds with her pleasant smile. “Was it? Do you know what he was planning, what he was going to do if he lived? Do you know what he was going to do to me?” She was losing control over her form, the dead weight of her hair dissolving into a single mass of boiling red. Her face had gone completely stiff; she had stopped bothering to try to speak through it.

“I know. It was what you always wanted, wasn’t it? He only had to ask and you would have gone along with it,” Crowe said coldly. He stepped to the side of her, his movements deliberate. She turned to face him; her features disintegrated into a fluid mass, her lower half flowing into a coil of muscle and scale that undulated like a whip. Around him he could feel the walls of the tower humming with a sound that shook itself inside into his bones. “Whatever happened between you and him ended when he died. His plans were over from the moment they began, absurd as they were. He was a fool to make them and you were a fool to believe him, Kasaiyya, even for a second. Tell me,” he said, raising his voice, “did you truly imagine that it would work? Are you that blind? Remember what you are.

Her response was a wordless scream delivered through jaws that were suddenly no longer anything human, serpentine and terrible with teeth that ran with blackish fluid from where they had burst out of her skull. Her shoulders rolled forward and melted back into a torrent of flesh that all at once seemed to suggest arms, legs, a torso, a massive beating heart. Pale skin liquefied, turned transparent; for the briefest instant Crowe could see the roiling mass of nothingness that comprised her before it solidified into a wall of armor. The last vestiges of her form were torn away in shreds as a monstrous coil of scale and bone swelled into existence where the Spectator had stood, loops of muscle winding through the air and slamming against the walls. Through it all a terrible scream arose, a thunderous howl that threatened to crush him under a hammer of a sound. Crowe didn’t flinch. As the shadow of the monstrosity fell over him and eclipsed his view of the ceiling he looked up and smiled thinly.

“Back to our senses, are we?” he said.

“I WILL END THIS NOW,” the red worm roared, jaws stretched impossibly wide. Its head swung wildly from side to side, spattering black fluid across the tower’s floor. “I WILL NOT BE DEATH. I WILL NOT SUCCUMB TO THIS FATE. NO ONE WILL DENY ME WHAT SHOULD HAVE BEEN MINE, WHAT SHOULD ALWAYS HAVE BEEN MINE! I WILL NOT STAY A SLAVE TO DEATH!”

All at once Crowe was aware that the eyes of the tower were open, pupils shrunken down to pinpricks as the Spectator drew upon them, red tendrils erupting from her sides and piercing the floor with a series of deafening cracks like a thousand bones breaking at once. Blood pooled up from the shattered surfaces, frothing in the worm’s convulsions. The eyes rolled from side to side desperately, frenzied in their pain, and with sudden clarity Crowe saw that their visions had vanished and been replaced by endless reflections of the Spectator’s myriad forms. The worm’s coils strained against the walls, threatening to buckle them; above it all rose a roar that climbed to an unbearable pitch before descending once more into barely recognizable words.

“BEAR WITNESS,” the worm screamed, “I AM GOING TO CREATE LIFE.”

In the center of the tower the red worm snapped its enormous jaws into the empty air and trembled, its coils frozen in the throes of rage. For the slightest instant, the time it took to draw a breath, there was a silence so absolute that Crowe found he could not hear his heart beating in his chest.

“You can’t,” he said.

She did.

__________________________

It started as a whine on the edge of the contestants’ hearing, a dull buzz that resonated in the backs of their skulls. It was nothing more than a whisper, the slightest suggestion that something was amiss; most of them didn’t notice it at all, and those who did dismissed it as a side effect of the constant genreshifting. Not a single one of them thought to give it any more thought than that.

As it grew, however, it became harder and harder to ignore. The more attentive among the contestants began to notice a strange tone to it, as if a broken record hidden somewhere nearby was stuck playing over a single note. The more they focused on it the more the sound seemed to elude them: it had no direction, no indication of origin other than the vague feeling that it was close, somewhere they should have been able to see. The more paranoid among them looked around for a source and, finding none, assumed that it was some weapon wielded by an unknown attacker and prepared accordingly. The rest simply wondered if they were going mad.

Then without warning the sound doubled in intensity, and even the skeptics found themselves clutching their heads. The sound was clearly distinguishable now, a high wavering singing like a finger trailed over the rim of a glass that infiltrated their minds the way no ordinary sound should have done, interrupting their thoughts and drowning out all the noises of the dying city. The sound continued to grow in uneven bursts, driving all semblance of thought from their heads and leaving only a brilliant pain that burned like fire within them, everywhere and nowhere at once. Still it rose, higher and higher, pushing them beyond what they thought they could endure until all they knew and all they were was a searing song of pain and fear.

One of them fell, no longer able to support themselves, and then another, clawing at the floor senselessly in their agony. Someone screamed, someone bit their tongue; all of them regardless of their location felt the same incredible pressure building inside their skulls and driving them out of their minds with its insistency. Every time they thought it could go no higher it spiked again, up and up until they could no longer tell it apart from their thoughts, could no longer remember if there had ever been a time when the sound did not exist and they weren’t a part of it, drowning in a seamless torrent of a woman’s voice, screaming and screaming and screaming.

Then, as quickly as it had begun, it stopped.

________________

A door slammed; Crowe stepped out onto a mountain.

His suit was soaked from the knees down in red and black stains that shone wetly in the light from the burning buildings. A massive burn zigzagged across his side and ran down his leg; he walked with a heavy limp on his right side as he made his way out onto the terrain. Corpses in varying states of dismemberment littered the ground, crisscrossing the patched-looking rock with streams of blood and other things that might once have been attached to a body. He walked through them as if they didn’t exist, holding his notebook in a white-knuckled grip. The parts of his face not smeared with blood were pale.

It was difficult to tell upon first sight that the bodies surrounding him were human. Some sported pieces of metal fused onto them at strategic locations; others were covered in fur and feathers that melted into each other with little regard for logic or taste. Most of them were in poses that suggested that their last few moments had been filled with interpretive dance. Delicately he picked his way between them, nudging the occasional piece of meaty shrapnel out of the way. He was searching for one in particular; he found it by the smell.

At the edge of a puddle of former contestant, Crowe began to write. A delicate script that seemed to curl back in on itself in ever more complicated patterns appeared on the page, forming strange shapes that quickly tangled together into an illegible mass of lines and dots. His hand barely seemed to touch the paper as a complex series of symbols appeared, encircled by a ring and connected to one another by a web of hair-thin lines. Crowe paused, looked over the page; in a single movement he ripped it out of the book and dropped it to the ground.

Instantly the contestants appeared before him in a neat circle, clustered around the sad remnants that had once been Merrifield. Most of them were caught in the awkward act of trying to remember where their brains were; a few didn’t even register the sudden change in location. Crowe looked them over in disapproval. He made a distracted attempt to straighten the tears in his jacket before clearing his throat pointedly at the gathered seven.

“Well,” he said, folding the book closed, “that’s it. Excellent job, everyone. I can’t even begin to say how proud we are.”

The contestants exchanged glances among themselves. Phere raised an eyebrow.

“However-”

“No,” Cedric said, a thunderous frown appearing on his face. Beneath him, Horsegark snorted. “This isn’t going to work.”

The four-armed man stared.

“We’re already in one of these, er,” the knight continued with a casual wave of his hand, oblivious to any change in atmosphere, “battle things. With the red angel woman with the great big tits.” He held his hands a considerable distance from his chest.

“The Spectator,” Crowe said.

“Yes,” Cedric agreed. “I mean, I can understand why you’d want us, especially myself. But we’re already been taken, see, you can’t just run off with us.”

“I am here in her interest. She is still the one managing you.”

“What’s got her so busy she can’t come get us herself?”

There was a long silence. “She’s indisposed at the moment,” Crowe said, “I’m afraid.” A drop of blood fell from his hair and landed in a puddle of the same.

“Did you kill her?” Phere cut in sharply.

“What?”

“How did you do it? Tell me.”

“She’s not dead!”

“What about you, can you be killed?”

Cedric gave an offended snort and rested a hand on Sigrar’s pommel. “Of course he can, look at him. He doesn’t even have a sword.” Horsegark nodded approvingly.

“The Spectator didn’t either, that doesn’t mean anything,” Phere shot back. “He brought us here. He’s probably the same sort of thing that she is. Or was.”

“Nah,” Cedric scoffed, “Why would he be working for her, then?”

“Why the hell are you arguing about this?” Crowe said angrily. “One of your number just died!”

The contestants were silent for a moment, their expressions ranging from regret to apathy. The puddle that had been Merrifield gave a desultory bubble.

“You could definitely kill him.”

“But how?”

“We are not discussing this!” Crowe cried. “This round is over! You’re done!”

“He doesn’t have wings either, I expect that’s probably part of it.”

“Will you shut up, you great fucking musclebound idiot,” the suited man snarled, turning on his good leg to face Cedric. He pointed furiously to the gash on his side with one of his arms. “What does this look like to you? What does it fucking look like? Do you think I popped down here to have a pleasant chat, is that it? Looking for some casual conversation with a glorified thug who’s clearly got compensation issues to work out? Because this is completely thrilling, let me tell you. I am dazzled by the sheer breadth of your intellect. She only tried to tear herself in half, that’s all, that’s all I had to deal with, it wasn’t like I-”

“Are you still trying to get us to join a battle?” said Cedric. He looked confused.

“No,” Crowe said, flipping to a new page and clicking his pen. “I am not.”

“Because it does kind of sound like-”

“Your next round,” Crowe said loudly, “will take place on the battlefield between the Thünderwölf clan and the city of Santa Nada. The siege has lasted generations; both of their cultures revolve around this conflict and the weaponization of specific forms of music used in such. You will be placed at random locations between the longship fleet and the city’s center. It is important to note that weapons such as you understand them do not exist in this world; any that you have on you will be altered accordingly upon arrival.”

“What if our weapons are broken?” Ivan asked hesitantly.

“I don’t care,” Crowe snapped. “Figure it out.” He flicked the pen across the notebook page in a swift X and rapidly circled the center; a hundred doors slammed simultaneously and the contestants were gone.

The silence in their absence was overwhelming. Crowe let himself sink onto the rocks and sat there in exhaustion as the remains of Merrifield bubbled quietly away.

________________

Show Content

Ixcaliber · 10-15-2011, 10:13 PM

Originally posted on MSPA by Ixcalibur.

In a tent lit by strange flashing lights, a woman sat, meditative. The thumping beats of the music that filled the tent did not seem to faze her, in fact this seemingly distracting music was the very core of her activity. Without it all she would see was glimpses.

They are coming

Their arrival announces itself:

A storm of death.

A rising crescendo to break us out of our stupors

To bring this war to an end.

They are blood and bone and hate.

They are fear.

Where they go they leave only despair.

Their wake is a city reduced to ruins.

A bloody coup of this broken land

A raven haired queen is victorious.

Her clan shattered,

Not triumph only butchery.

The shamaness snapped back to the present as she came to realise that she was not alone in her tent. Standing over her a familiar figure, a woman with black hair and a black orb where her eye should be. She was wearing a long brown jacket and matching trousers. Vala struggled to reconcile this with her trance-visions of the Empress. She had seen her, standing on the battlements, the skies burning red behind her; the raven haired queen of the Thünderwölf Clan. To the shamaness her clothing looked more like something one of the men from the city would wear. On her belt a synthesiser showed that she meant business.

Phere clutched at her head with one hand. The flashing lights and the thumping beats that permeated the tent were already getting on her nerves. As the shamaness rose from her seat, the sound of the music ebbed and faded away, the vibrant lights flickered and died.

"Empress." Vala greeted her not discourteously. "My name is Vala and I am the shamaness of the Thünderwölf Clan." Phere was slightly taken aback. She was used to having the drop on others and it was disconcerting to suddenly have things be the other way around. Vala was, to be blunt, wearing very little. Her skin was pale, her eyes a stunning blue, her hair long and blonde and plaited halfway down her back. The only clothing she wore, if it could be labelled as such, was glowing neon jewellery, bracelets and anklets and the like. She was not especially attractive, a little too thin, too starved and desperate to be called beautiful; not that Phere had ever taken the time to assess the attractiveness of any person she had ever met.

"How do you know who I am?" Phere asked, almost hesitantly.

Vala strode past Phere, she plucked a selection of heavy robes from where they had laid discarded. They were a mixture of dark browns and ash whites; natural colours, subdued compared to her bangles. "As I said I am the shamaness for this clan." Vala said as she dressed herself in the heavy robes. Once done, she turned to regard Phere as though everything had been explained. When Phere's frown did not clear she continued: "I have been having visions of you for weeks, of you and the six others that come to this land. You bring with you a tide of death, upsetting the balance that has caused us to remain locked in this forever siege."

"You see the future?" Phere's voice remained impassive. "Divination is impressive but I doubt whether you have any degree of accuracy."

"You lead us to bloody victory over Santa Nada." Vala said. "But it is a grim day. You do not care how many die in your efforts. You do not care about our war at all. I can see this." Phere regarded the shamaness silently. "I would implore you, do not. Do not do this to our clan. Leave us be and I will leave you be in turn."

Phere laughed. "You believe such a half-hearted plea will move me to reconsider what I have been assured is a winning strategy?" She chuckled to herself. Vala did not look surprised, disappointed perhaps but not surprised. "Okay." Phere said. "But I want something in return."

Vala was shocked. She replied so quickly she nearly tripped over her words. "Name it, whatever you want. Anything to stop the devastating loss of life you would inflict upon our clan."

"You." Phere grinned, "You will work for me and will without question carry out whatever task I set you to." There was a moment of silence between the two women as Vala weighed up her options. She decided she didn't really have a choice, she had to do whatever she could to ensure the clan's safety. Mutely she nodded her assent, and Phere's grin only grew wider. "Leave me for a moment." Phere instructed. "I have business to attend to. Wait just outside the tent, if you know anything about me you will know that I will know if you do not." Without another word Vala peeled back the canvas tent entrance and stepped outside.

Phere felt pretty pleased with herself. She had just earned herself a servant in exchange for nothing she was not going to do anyway. It had taken her the entirety of the first round to figure it out. There she had attempted to claim dominance over the city they had been placed into, starting with the Cyber Punks as a matter of convenience and then via the use of the Tome. Even if she had been successful, if Doctor Harmon had not stood in her way and brought the city to anarchy, then what would she have achieved? The city was gone now, destroyed for all she cared. It had taken that for Phere to realise that the dominance over these rounds was at best temporary dominance; transient and ultimately inconsequential.

Her goals had shifted, since taking control of the worlds in which she found herself was ultimately pointless she had made the decision to take control of the only constants in this battle; the people with whom she was placed here. To this end Vala would be valuable, if not as a soothsayer then as a guide to help her more easily navigate through this unfamiliar terrain, but Phere, now more than ever, had no illusions about holding onto Vala once this round had concluded. The shamaness was disposable, even more so than her last set of allies. As Vala sat on the cold floor outside the tent, guarding her new mistress from whoever might walk in on her, Phere looked away; far away.

Show Content

Pick Yer Poison · 10-24-2011, 03:31 AM

Originally posted on MSPA by Pick Yer Poison.

As a side effect of not having anything resembling organs that might wear out, Klendel had led a very long life. He had seen the turn of at least three centuries and the ends of countless regimes and rulers, many of them at his own hands. Although the previous round had lasted nearly an entire day, to him, it was but the blink of an eye, all but lost among the other countless blinks he could remember.

He glanced around himself darkly. A common sort of city presented itself to him; gloomy, dark and moody. Just how he liked it. He wandered around for the few minutes it took him to find a seedy bar. He didn't drink, but every time something went wrong with a plan of his he liked to have a nice sulk. It was something he had done less and less frequently as his plans became more and more successful, and he found himself anticipating it with a feeling approaching eagerness. He wondered idly if there was something wrong with him, then chuckled at the absurdity of it. Only one person had ever been right where he was wrong, and she was...

He cut off the train of thought sharply as a painful memory threatened to overtake him, the effort actually forcing him to grunt. He disliked this recent trend of memories physically affecting him. An unintentional grunt, or heaven forbid a flashback at a critical moment could easily ruin an entire scheme. Not that memories he hadn't thought about for most of his life resurfacing on their own wasn't worrisome enough. Just like to count my...blessings, I guess.

He wandered into the bar and took a seat in a dark corner, away from the windows and the main lighting. He received a lot of curious and frightened looks on the way in and while he was sitting. He made sure that the former quickly turned into the latter, and soon the entire bar lapsed into silence, everyone inside it trying to pretend that the terrifying abomination in the corner wasn't actually there. A grin spread across his face; he always liked being feared.

---

Harmon leaned against a wall, rubbing her throat gingerly. She could still feel Phere's fingers gripping it, slowly squeezing the life out of her. All her work had in a lab before. No androids trying to strangle her, no hydras trying to kidnap her, no overcompensating knights trying to do everything for her. But, she found herself arguing, it was much more boring.

But the Tome...she'd almost escaped from the battle, and then the opportunity had slipped out of her hands. She balled her fingers into a fist and hit the wall with it. Damn Phere! She'd ruined everything! She rubbed her hand as she cursed Phere, Phere's plans and schemes, and her own stupid ambitions.

She sighed. She needed a drink to nurse and a quiet atmosphere. Looking around, she noticed a number of what were labeled "jazz bars," but the patrons were laughing. That wouldn't do at all; far too noisy, and far too cheerful for what she was intending to contemplate. Wherever she went, there could be no laughing, that was for sure.

Unfortunately, Harmon found, as she strolled along the surprisingly empty streets, that finding a bar whose patrons weren't laughing and which didn't have jazzy music oozing out of every crack was like finding a needle in a haystack. She was about to call it quits when she noticed an out-of-place bar - or rather, she nearly walked by it, since the reason it was out of place was that it was silent as a tomb. The patrons had their heads ducked down and few were talking above a whisper, and the jazz music was so soft she could barely hear it. Perfect. She walked in.

---

Klendel sat in his corner of solitude and fumed silently. He hadn't actually ordered the drink in front of him; a terrified but daring, waiter had brought it to him. Klendel had given the him his best slasher smile for the effort. He was pretty sure the poor man had nearly wet his pants on the spot.

He had let that detective get too close. He had been sloppy. The thought sifted inside of his head like a fly trapped inside a room, desperate to get out, smashing itself into any source of light available in a vain attempt to escape. Worse still, it was constantly sparking more of his newley released memories, those half-remembered past blinks he had struggled to ignore all his life. Memories of other times he had messed up and someone who was just doing their job had gotten too close. It wasn't his fault, Klendel thought angrily, squeezing his fists. Why did he have to die for it?

He glanced up vaguely at the sound of the door opening, returned his gaze to the window, then quickly snapped his eyes back up as it registered in his mind that Harmon had just walked in through the door. As soon as her saw her start to look around, he faded into the shadows and shut his eyes to prevent their bright redness from giving him away. After about half a minute, he reopened them; as he expected, Harmon had decided there was nothing in the bar that was more pressing than getting a drink, and was already ordering one at the counter. Klendel kindly waited until the bartender had, with a shaking hand, poured her drink, before announcing his presence. "Miss Harmon! So nice of you to join me!"

Harmon whirled around, somehow managing not to spill her drink in the process. She recognized the shadowy figure from the beginning of the battle, but had only caught a few glimpses of him since then. Her mind struggled to come up with a name for him, and she recalled a brief exchange with Phere where she had referred to him as "Klendel." This was not what she needed right now. She opened and closed her mouth a couple of times in astonishment before managing to blurt out, "Where the hell did you come from?"

Klendel grinned widely. "I think you may find me to be very good at getting where I want to be." He gestured towards the chair across the table from him. "Please, have a seat. Perhaps we could have a nice chat while we drown our sorrows?"

Harmon hesitated. The very look of the dark creature in the corner made him untrustworthy in her mind. Every impulse told her to get the hell out of the bar that very instant. Unbidden, an image of Cedric popped into her mind. "Wait for me, milady! It's not safe for a princess here!" She grated her teeth and grabbed her drink, striding over to where Klendel was sitting. I can take care of myself, you pompous buffoon! She slammed her drink down on the table and sat down in the chair haughtily. "Yes, let's," she responded huffily, glaring into his red eyes. "I've got some questions for you anyway."

The psychotic grin on the Cog's face grew wider. "And I have some for you. Perhaps we can organize a trade? For every question of yours I answer, you answer one of mine." He was confident that she wouldn't know enough about him to ask anything he'd prefer to keep secret. She was a doctor, but that blasted hair woman had described her in a manner that made Klendel see her as a scientist. Either way, he doubted she would be able to ask only what was necessary, and avoid wasting questions on things she could deduce on her own. The ability to do that took experience, which Klendel had more than a century's worth of.

Harmon sipped her drink as she considered the offer. She was sure Klendel had some kind of agenda; he certainly looked shifty enough, and all the signs pointed to a background manipulator. She'd barely caught a glimpse of him since the battle had begun, and suddenly he seemed interested in her? It smelled fishy to her, but she decided that she needed information about him just as badly as he needed information about her. Alright. She would play Klendel's little game for now. "It's a deal, but only if I get to ask the first question."

"I accept your condition." Klendel was already able to anticipate what she would ask first. She didn't know his name, but he knew hers. A position like that would make most people feel uncomfortable, and she would almost certainly seek to rectify that at once.

Which is why he was understandably surprised when Harmon's first question turned out to be, "What are you?" The scientist leaned forward expectantly, although it was clear she didn't want to get too close.

The grin on Klendel's face shrunk almost imperceptibly. How had she known? A number of inane theories ran through his head, from mind reading powers to sheer luck, but he quickly had to admit that he was at a loss. He was forced to admit that he had underestimated her, and decided to be thankful that he had not done so under circumstances where the consequences might have been far harsher.

"I," he announced, idly stirring the lukewarm drink in his glass with a long clawed forefinger, "am a Cog."

"What the hell's a Cog?" Harmon demanded.

Klendel pulled the claw out of his drink and wagged it at her. "Now now, wait your turn! I get to ask you a question now." He took a moment to ponder what he wanted to ask her. He suspected she had already met several combatants he hadn't, and even if she was a bit biased about some of them, knowing her viewpoints would be useful. "What do you think of each of the other combatants, including myself?"

Be vague, would he? Well, two could play at that game. "Well," Harmon said through her teeth, "I've only met Cedric, Phere, Nalzaki, and you, and I think I can say with confidence that you're all egomaniacal lunatics and you all deserve each other." The toothy, unfading grin on Klendel's face was starting to get on her nerves. "Now, my turn. Why were you chosen for this battle, or if you don't know, what is your best guess?"

Klendel leaned back in his chair as he mulled over his answer. His best guess was that Her Royal Hairiness had brought him into the battle because of his extensive experience in manipulation and subterfuge, but that wasn't information he wanted to become widely spread. He spent a few moments constructing a lie before replying. "You might recall during the introductions that the...Spectator whispered something to me." He spat the hostess' name out without intending to. Star, I hate that bitch. "Well, I heard it well enough. I think she feels I remind her of herself for some reason, but that's the only real reason I can think of. Most of the others are much stronger than me." He looked Harmon up and down. "That much, I think we may have in common."

He steepled his fingers and grinned across them at Harmon. "I liked that question. So much so that I think I'll ask you the same thing. Why do you think you were chosen for this battle?"

Harmon took another sip of her drink, thankful that she hadn't gotten something too strong. "I was the scientist who developed the Many-Worlds Hypothesis. I don't know if that applies everywhere, but back home that was sort of a big deal." She shrugged. "Other than that, I'm not sure why I'd make a particularly interesting combatant in a battle to the death."

She gazed at Klendel, staring at him speculatively. Something about him set off alarm bells in her head, but she wasn't sure what until she took a good hard look at him for several seconds. "I'm getting sick of seeing your stupid face, so this'll be my last question. Why haven't you blinked, exhaled, inhaled, or taken a drink at any point during this entire conversation?"

Klendel's grin shrunk noticeably and his eyes narrowed. "Clever girl," he said softly. "I haven't done any of those things because Cogs don't need to." He pointed a finger at her. "And let me tell you, was it ever a chore being one of you sacks of meat during the last round! I don't know how you stand it."

Harmon stood up abruptly. "Great, thanks for answering my questions. I'm out of here."

Klendel grabbed her arm. "Wait!"

Harmon tried to shake him off, but found his grip curiously strong. "What? I don't see why I need to sit here and listen to you insult my species."

Klendel's grin grew wider. "You asked the first question. The deal was an answer for an answer. That means I get one more question."

Harmon rolled her eyes and turned back to the Cog. "Fine. Ask away."

Klendel cackled softly. "But you see, I can't think of a question at the moment!" He stared at her with his eerie, unblinking eyes. "So I suppose I'll just have to tag along with you until I think of one."

Harmon's mouth fell open. "You're joking."

He wasn't.

GBCE · 10-26-2011, 06:35 PM

Originally posted on MSPA by fluxus.

Ivan raised an unimpressed eyebrow as the large, hairy man before him began to shout, an unnecessary amount of spittle spraying forth from his mouth with every syllable. Although he towered over the rest of the longboat’s crewmen, his muscular chest well-defined by boiled leather, the barbarian of a man seemed nothing to Ivan if not a showman, flashy and overplaying his role. His beard was washed and elaborately interwoven with coins and beads, and every scar that marred his battle-hardened brow silently promised a tale of victory from days long past. By all accounts he seemed the perfect front man, his mouth splitting into a handsomely rugged and golden-toothed grin. Braegar he was called by his shipmates, and he sported an ego that dwarfed even the oversized bass guitar that hung proudly from his shoulder strap.

The sea spray was already beginning to form a salty crust on Ivan’s skin, the wind whipping off angry waves that were as grey and dismal as his mood. His arrival in this second “round” had been less than ideal; appearing in the lower holds of the ship atop a pile of stacked instrument cases, Ivan had made such a racket when he’d crashed to the ground that it was really no wonder he’d ended up a captive. And to make matters worse, he’d discovered with a sickening twist of his gut that the broken flute in his possession was this universe’s translation of the ridiculously expensive pen he’d stolen from CARET. Thoroughly bruised, traumatized, and forsaking whatever was left of his college fund, Ivan’s fingers twitched with frustrated energy. Still, despite everything that had happened, leaving behind the godforsaken City was something of an improvement.

Braegar pointed a calloused finger in Ivan’s direction as his voice continued to rise, women sighing and fawning over him as he spoke. “By setting foot on this ship you have named yourself an opponent of the clan Thünderwölf,” he cried. “You have but two choices! Surrender yourself now to a life of servitude aboard this vessel and have my word that no physical harm will come to you. Or-” The Viking chuckled as his crew began to hoot and cheer before he could finish. “OR- attempt to win your freedom by besting me in a trial of musical strength. But be warned: should you lose, no mercy will be given.” Ivan sighed and barely refrained from rolling his eyes as he rubbed some of the soreness from his left shoulder. After the night he’d had, a boat full of well-groomed, instrument-toting Vikings seemed less a threat to his person and more a waste of his time.

Braegar unlaced himself from a tangle of women and approached, crouching slightly so that they stood eye to eye. “What say you, little man?” he asked, ridiculous grin never fading. Ivan found it obscenely difficult to resist the urge of punching his teeth in.

“As great as it sounds to be your…er, lifelong slave,” he began after a moment’s hesitation, “I’m not really in the habit of subjugating myself to that kind of captivity. Doesn’t really suit my goals, you know?” Ivan watched in grim and silent amusement as the Viking attempted to work out whether or not he’d just been insulted. “That said… Braegar, is it? I’m gonna have to go with the latter of the two,” Ivan continued calmly. “The, uh. The trial by concert.”

Impervious to the snide comments, Braegar wasted no time. As soon as Ivan had finished speaking, the Viking sprang to his full height, booming voice now louder than ever, straw-colored beard quivering. “You heard him, boys!” he shouted with manly enthusiasm, “Bring forth the arms!” Cheers again erupted from the crewmen, this time with a flurry of activity as the longboat began to prepare for a duel.

At the same time, however, one of the crew‘s women approached Braegar, her yellow eyebrows crinkled in concern. And, to Ivan’s utter astonishment, Braegar gave her his absolute attention.

Her tone quiet and clipped, she said, “This is duel is unwise. He is little more than a boy compared to you and is not familiar with our customs.” She then gestured in Ivan’s general direction, speaking as though he could not hear her. “There will be no honor in his defeat.”

For a moment the Viking allowed his smile to fade, but then laughed a great hearty laugh and clapped the woman on the shoulder. “Nonsense, Hlif,” he said, pointing with the neck of his bass at Ivan. “Do not let his beardless chin fool you! This one has been a man grown for many a year now and chose the challenge himself. Worry not for his safety but for the honor of his intentions.”

Hlif pursed her lips and, for the first time, turned to look at Ivan. “He has no weapon,” she said, indicating his broken flute. “You would truly agree to duel an opponent in such condition?”

“You have a good eye, my Hlif,” the Viking replied. “But rest assured that my opponent here will not be unarmed.”

Then, as if on cue, a large display of instruments was wheeled before Ivan by crewmen who evidently doubled as stagehands. Braegar stood tall and proud. “Choose only one weapon, and choose wisely,” he said. Hlif spoke no more.

Ivan scanned the rack intently, studying the make and style of each instrument. He found another flute hanging next to a dangerous looking guitar, but ultimately set his broken instrument aside for a lightweight keyboard. Though he’d most recently been trained in woodwinds, the vast majority of his technical skill still was in playing the piano. He could only hope that that’d be enough to win him his life.

In the short expanse of time it took Hlif and Braegar to have their discussion, a large black stage, equipped with lights, smoke machines, and other unnecessarily flamboyant effects, had been erected on the ship’s deck. Braegar took his place on one end of the stage, Ivan the other and, after the formalities had been covered and the audience had taken their seats, the duel began.

Braegar had been too quick, Ivan would later recall.

Immediately his fingers began to fly from string to string, weaving a melody that was as powerful and full of life as he was. His bass had a deep, soulful sound to it that Ivan felt run up through his feet and into his chest. The bass line was so mighty that Ivan thought he could almost begin to see it; it took him a moment to realize that he was actually looking at a physical manifestation of the sound.

Unfortunately, in that moment‘s time Ivan found himself flat on his back, the breath knocked from his lungs, as Braegar slowed his fingers and the melody faded. The notion seemed ridiculous but was no less real- sound was being used to conjure something solid, something that was used as a weapon. The audience of Vikings roared in favor of their champion while Ivan climbed to his feet and retook his place at the keyboard.

Their battle proceeded in much the same way until Ivan got the hang of things. Three times Braegar managed to knock him to the ground, and three more times their visible melodies had clashed together in a showering of sparks.

But then Ivan knew what he had to do.

A classic song. Familiar notes seemed to flow from the keyboard of their own accord, a rhythm as fast and frantic as Ivan felt. He’d learned the tune by ear so long ago that he was surprised he still remembered it. So caught up was he in playing that he failed to notice the silence of the audience as his opponent’s own song was drowned out. His melody manifested itself into a force like lightning, and soon Braegar could do nothing but harmonize. For what seemed an eternity they were locked in a state of musical synchronization- until one of Braegar’s strings broke. The great Viking fell to his knees- and with one final chord Ivan assured that he‘d not rise again during their duel.

“You’ve been thunderstruck,” Ivan muttered to his fallen opponent with a small, lopsided smile; a reference to the lyrics of the song he‘d played. AC/DC had never yet let him down, and he did so love the cheese factor. The Viking musician bowed his head, his smile gone.

Whether due to skill, luck, or a combination of the two, Ivan had won the duel.

The hush that enshrouded the longboat then was nearly as visible as their warring melodies had been. Ivan had earned his freedom; the battle was done. And one of the great musicians of the Thünderwölf clan had been defeated by an outsider. Ivan allowed himself another small smile. If all battles were fought with music in this land then he’d be able to adjust rather quickly.

“What is your name?” Braegar still knelt where he’d fallen, but his expression, while still one of shock, had regained much of its former vibrancy.

Ivan held out his hand and helped the Viking to his feet. “Ivan Norst,” he said by way of introduction.

“And you are not from this land?” Braegar looked more curious than angry.

Ivan shook his head. “No.”

“I thought not. You play the instruments of Santa Nada in the fashion of one of us… and I underestimated you.” He nodded. “You have earned your freedom and the name Ivangar.” He gestured to the vast display of instruments. “Any weapon you desire you shall have.”

Ivan smiled wanly and ran his palm across the smooth plastic of his keyboard. “Thank you for your generosity,” he said. And then the audience began to cheer.

The solemn mood dissipated as quickly as it had set in, and, rather than servitude, Ivan was offered a place of honor aboard Braegar’s ship. However, after careful deliberation, he asked instead to be taken as close to Santa Nada as they were willing to go. When they arrived, Braegar, Hlif, and a guard of three others led him ashore.

“You‘re sure you wish to enter Santa Nada? “ Braegar asked as Ivan slung the keyboard across his back with a strap. “That city is cruel and plays the music of cowards.”

Ivan nodded, wincing slightly as he adjusted the instrument where it hung from his badly bruised back. “Yes. There’s someone I need to find.”

Braegar clapped him on the shoulder then, utterly oblivious to Ivan‘s injuries. “Then go now- with the blessings of all the Gods of the Thünderwölf - and know that you will always have a place at my table, young Ivangar.”

After offering his thanks, they parted ways and Ivan set off towards an uncertain goal, a bit in shock at what had just taken place.

What he knew for certain, however, was that the past night had forced him to rearrange his priorities. The deaths of Matic and Merrifield had hit far too close to home. He’d originally viewed being chosen by the Spectator as a means of escape from CARET- but his life was wanted both in his own universe and in this one. In coming here he’d been able to recreate himself, to learn about his skills and limitations. But he’d also left so much behind. The debate had been nagging at him since he’d survived the fall from Matic’s tower but now, as he made his way towards yet another unknown city, the direction he was to take seemed obvious.

He was going to find a way home.

Show Content

Akumu · 10-28-2011, 01:05 AM

Originally posted on MSPA by Akumu.

Harmon slammed an open palm down on the table with a sharp crack. “Is this a game to you? Some battle of wits?” She stared into the so-called Cog’s lantern eyes, but he met her gaze, unblinking and with that condescending smile plastered across his face. “I thought this could be a useful exchange of information, but I guess we’re just waiting to see who drinks the iocaine powder. Well, cheers.” Harmon threw back her drink in one gulp and turned to leave. Klendel rose, in step behind her.

“Don’t worry, Miss Harmon. I’ll make a fine companion until such time as I can come up with the best question to ask you.”

“It’s Doctor Harmon, if you would. I’ve had it up to here with your disrespect. I’m not your tool, I’m not your pawn, I’m not your bird in a cage to be cooed at and doted on.”

As Harmon spoke, her tenor and cadence shifted to a more musical bent. By the time the rhyme had left her lips, it was full on singing, straight from the diaphragm. There was a power behind it, and already there was an electricity in the air that made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.

“Since I was a girl there’ve been people like you, trying to get the most out of what I can do. But I will not be harnessed, and I won’t be corralled. I’m not a horse, I’m a woman and I’m strong and I’m proud.”

Klendel took a step back, then another, his grin beginning to falter. Harmon was strutting and twirling now in time to her own music, sharp hand gestures snapping off licks of green flame. Their fear ebbing, the bar’s patrons spun around on their stools and one by one began to add their voices to a back-up chorus.

“Ah!”

“And I’m proud!”

“Ah!

“And I’m proud!”

“AHHHHHHHH”

“AND I’M PROUUUUAAAAAAAA”

Harmon’s lyrics flowed into a primal scream, as an aura of green flame phased in around her. She raised a finger to they sky, and the flame flowed up her arm and gathered in a sphere around her hand. Klendel was backed to the wall, turning his face from the light with a fanged grimace. Still screaming, Harmon brought her finger down, pulling the ball of musical energy down until it pointed straight at —

woooooooon

The chair next to Harmon blew apart in a spray of wood shards and sawdust. Klendel dove behind their table and the doctor threw her hands over her face, her gathered energy wisping away harmlessly. The backup singers-cum-bargoers scattered, and the bartender stood behind them, residual acoustics drifting out of the end of his didgeridoo.

“Get the hell out of my bar, you freaks.”

They got the hell out of his bar.

- - - - -

Out on the streets of Santa Nada, Melissa Harmon’s hands were shaking. As the adrenaline metabolized away she was left with a nauseous giddiness and had to suppress the urge to laugh.

“You couldn’t do that before.”

Oh. The shadow creature was still there.

“No, I sure as hell couldn’t. I mean, I’ve always liked to karaoke, but that power...” Harmon trailed off, watching her hands tremble like leaves in the autumn wind, about to fall. “I don’t know what came over me. I’m sorry about trying to roast you.”

Klendel nodded sympathetically. After a few moments of silence, Harmon pulled herself upright and smoothed down her shirt. The feel of the remains of her equipment in its pockets calmed her further, reminding her that there was still a chance.

“Well, you wanted to stick with me. Let’s go. Just remember that I could fry you if it came down to it.”

She began to walk, and Klendel fell in step beside her. He decided to keep his objections to himself. For now, it was better to let her think she was in control.

SleepingOrange · 11-13-2011, 02:29 PM

Originally posted on MSPA by SleepingOrange.

Cascala sniffled pathetically and balled herself up tighter in the sand. Anyone trying to peek into her mind would have been met with a swirling tumult of conflicting thoughts, crushing angst, and seething fury. At the same time as she cursed her foolishness and carelessness she railed against the setting itself and its insidious influence; rage at the impudent Ivan mingled with confusion about the latest transition; memories and musings and monologues twisted around each other, all vying for greater mental space and focus and none getting anywhere. Cascala was a mental mess. A lifetime of rigid self-denial and conditioning had found nowhere to go when faced with the pressures of the battle, and something inside her had burst.

That same self-assurance and -control did gradually reassert itself though; even the most radical breakdown could only incapacitate someone like the Grand Magus for so long. She had no idea how long she had wasted wallowing in the brine-soaked sand, nor did she care; there were more pressing things to deal with. Rage and self-pity and doubt were filed away and forgotten, replaced by pragmatism and planning. The pain she couldn't ignore, though. That would have to be the first thing to take care of then. Erase the record of the foolish little man's attack and her own careless behavior, erase the pain. Cascala was no great healer particularly, but inasmuch as her magical domain included destruction of the body it included the reparation of it. It was unwise to leave herself with no recourse should she become injured, so she'd made sure to take advantage of Flow's plethora of restorative arts. Flexing stiff, aching fingers, she reached out.

And screamed.

The tangle of mental static that had afflicted her gone, she noticed that she could feel... Nothing. There was no magic. The taste of mana was completely absent from the world, the reassuring ebb and flow of spell energies nowhere to be found in her mindscape. For the first time in her life, she wasn't suffused with power. It was as though she had awoken and gradually realized there was no air. Even her staff had vanished.

After several moments of frantic panicking, she calmed enough again to realize that all wasn't quite true. There was... Something. But it wasn't right. It was like a faint melody on the edge of her hearing that she could almost identify, not like a comforting, implicit presence that filled her whole being. It was so... Weak. So external. It was unbearable.

Hoping at least to find her staff buried in the sand around her, hoping to feel the mana she had stored in it to stave off the terror of powerlessness for a time, she looked around herself. Nearby, there was something. Portions of it were even made of magesteel and she recognized some of her runes on it, but it was still odd and like nothing she'd ever seen. Nevertheless, it projected an air of familiarity. She reached out and touched the smooth, black surface, and–

The melody that had previously danced at the edge of consciousness surged through her, singing its own glory through every fiber of her being. In an instant, there was understanding. This thing she had never seen before was as mundane as a brick and as familiar as her own hands, and she knew its purpose and methods without question. The tangle of cords and the plastic casing, moments ago baffling artifacts, could suddenly fit together in only one way, and it was obvious.

She cradled the smallest portion of her new instrument to herself and let the music flow through her. Its voice would be hers, and her power its. She would let it sing a melody that was at once war-chant and requiem, and through its song she would see all those in her way fall before her. There was no thought of healing, no thought of hurricanes; those powers were gone, had never existed in this world. But Cascala was far from helpless, and far from harmless. Perhaps there would be no storms brought down to see that every inch of the round was blanketed in freezing death; it wouldn't matter though: her theremin clutched tightly to her and her inner ears open to the song of this world, she knew things could only go one way. Indeed, they were no more capable of going any other than Cascala herself was of defying gravity or becoming a turnip; the world was bound to abide by the song in the way other worlds were bound to physical laws or destiny. Her eyes filled with tears of reverence as the song spoke to her of great battles to come, of heroes and villains and those who transcended both. It spoke to her of a singer who would end the song itself, of those who would hear the last chorus, and of a world without music. It gave no names, gave no details; it was an ode, an epic, and a wordless paean to itself and its singers, but it was no prophecy and no history. The song rang through her, and Cascala wept.

In time, she rose from the sand a final time, gathering the bulky components of her instrument. The amplifier and pedals formed a convenient-if-heavy backpack, from which the box itself hung neatly; the stand she had to carry, but it was light enough and sat like a rod in her hand.

All doubt forgotten, Cascala set off across the beach, salt and sand giving way to stone and civilization. The viking encampments beckoned brashly, and the city whispered its sly charms. Cascala simply closed her eyes, let the song well up through her, and walked where her feet would take her.

Ixcaliber · 12-02-2011, 04:59 PM

Originally posted on MSPA by Ixcalibur.

Her palace was built from marble. One would have expected that an empress would have vibrant rugs brought from distant lands, ornate tapestries festooned across every wall and perfectly sculpted statues arranged throughout her chambers. Her chambers were almost empty. A broken mirror here, a simple chair and table there, a bed and other basic necessities and that was it. If you had not known you would have assumed some very audacious thieves had just cleared the place out. It was still, the full length windows that overlooked the city of Glaive shut closed and curtains perpetually drawn.

A knock disturbed the scene, then silence and a further knock. The doors creaked open and a nervous face peered into the room. The messenger was not sure what to do, any time he had delivered a message to the Empress before she had been waiting for him, door open, a self-satisfied smirk upon her face. Without daring to set a foot inside her chambers proper he glanced around, as though hoping Phere was hiding and she would momentarily reveal herself declaring it to be the prank of the century. He was waiting for the penny to drop, waiting for this situation to make sense. When she was nowhere to be found he wondered perhaps if he had been misinformed. He removed his head from the doorway and asked the on duty guards if they knew where the Empress was.

Within moments they were inside, searching every inch of the Empress’ chambers. After a thorough search they discovered that Phere was nowhere to be found, though to be honest they could tell that after even just a quick glance through her rooms, and there did not seem to be any signs of a struggle. A couple of minutes later the messenger, whose message was now unimportant was making his way out of the city, an urgent message to deliver. Phere saw none of this. At the start of the previous round she had been keen to find out what was happening in the Shining Kingdom in her absence, now she was more concerned about the state of the battle following The Spectator’s disappearance.

Phere’s attention was elsewhere. It was everywhere and nowhere at once. For one cacophonous moment Phere felt as though she could see everything. For one second, maybe less, she saw endless tracts of blackness; a bleak abyss that seemed to pull at her soul, a swirl of motes playing in early morning sunlight, a world held in the palm of a hand, the crumbling ruins of genre city and simultaneously the thriving genreless city it had become, the submerged ruins of an ancient civilization and an awful dark prescence that sent shivers down Phere’s spine. A structure that could not exist; a tower that caved in upon itself and rewrote the laws of physics with a sadistic grin. The sight of such a non-Euclidean nightmare made her eyes feel like they were being ripped out of her head. A pitch shape, almost like that of a man, it might have noticed her presence perhaps. And speaking of eyes, there were eyes and eyes and so many eyes. A tower made of eyes and stone and sacrifices made a long time ago, and under the blistering glare of them all a man, his posture stooped, but his expression carefully unreadable. It was more than just a glimpse here. At some point she must have started screaming. She saw battles that had already been fought and won, she saw things that might have been but never were, she saw things that were to come, and yes, she saw eyes, so many eyes.

It was only a moment but it felt much longer from the inside. She could have been gone for years, lost in that awful mind rending moment. Standing in front of her, a thing. A dull grey shape. She could not identify it. Phere narrowed her non-hollow eye; it looked like lkqjb bcwop nqwknkq oejans s js wjj hsirhs si sjfplns wk.

--------

“Empress.” The voice was familiar. She’d heard it before, and recently. It’s tone was perhaps more humble than it had been at that point in time. Phere opened her eyes and was relieved to only see that which was in front of her. She was on the floor staring up at the canvas roof of the tent. Slowly she sat up and took in the sight that greeted her. The man with four arms in the accountant grey suit who had just brought them to this round was standing there apropos of nothing, as though this kind of thing was normal. In front of him, was the shamaness Vala. The look of confusion upon her face told Phere that she had not foreseen this turn of events, whatever this turn of events would turn out to be. “Thank you shamaness.” The grey suited man said. “You may leave us now; we have important business to discuss.” Vala glanced between the pair for a second.

“Leave us Vala.” Phere said. “I will be with you soon enough.” Vala reluctantly left the tent. There was for a long moment silence. Phere climbed to her feet and sized up the man who stood before her. She supposed he could be here to reprimand her, but she had already been warned once. If he was here to punish her for it, he needn’t have asked Vala to wake her up. There was only one other reason Phere could think of why he would be here.

“So, what do I call you?” she asked, breaking the long silence.

“Crowe.” he said. “There have been unforeseen consequences of something that happened a long way from here, and, well I don’t want to get bogged down in the details, but suffice it to say The Spectator is missing.”

“And you believe I can find her for you.” Phere replied. It was not a question; it was a statement of fact.

“I believe so, yes.” Crowe said. “This is kind of an issue, so I would appreciate it if you would find her, and tell me where she is.”

“What is in it for me?” Phere asked, a grin forming upon her face. Crowe’s expression, what little of it was visible was for a moment visibly surprised. There was a long pause, and finally.

“You are her favourite.” Crowe suggested. Phere laughed.

“That is all you have?” she asked. “If I find The Spectator for you, you and I are allies. Partners if you will. You help me win this battle.” An even longer pause. The expression on Crowe’s face; unreadable.

“Fine.” Crowe replied measuredly. "Where is she?" Phere looked thoughtful for a moment.

"All in good time, Crowe." she said. "For now you can see yourself back to her tower. I have business to deal with in the current round. We will talk again later." And with that she turned, pushed open the flaps of the tent and stepped outside.

Anomaly · 12-03-2011, 03:45 AM

Originally posted on MSPA by Anomaly.

Being throttled through an infinite number of states of consciousness and unconsciousness within a few minutes isn't exactly the best of experiences one can have, even if one happens to be a giant space hydra. The Kryesan found themselves thoroughly confused about the events of the previous round's end, remembering little more than a few vague flashes. In spite of their extreme mental shielding, they had seemingly been affected much more extensively than their fellow contestants.

Nalzaki found themselves sprawled on a cold floor, made of poorly-upkept, cracked stone bricks. Thoroughly nonplussed, they slowly stumbled to Nalyg's feet, attempting to assess their situation: they found themselves behind a rectangular altar, stained a deep red and engraved with a number of odd symbols. The casual observer might have noted that these symbols appeared to be a complex pattern of interweaving musical staves, but this symbology was of course lost on the hydra.

The room around the altar was perfectly circular, not especially large but more than enough to hold a number of people. Around its exterior, 16 pillars were arranged in groups of four, forming the corners of a square engraved on the floor. The only light in the room came from these pillars, each of which emitted a light which slowly changed color, none displaying the same color as the others at any time. A wide variety of strange devices hung from the ceiling, apparently having been used recently. A large set of doors, each containing mirror images of the same pattern - two vertical lines next to a pair of dots - marked the only entrance to the room, at the end of a lighter-colored path leading to the altar.

Looks like it's been used recently, Nalyg mentally intoned. Sacrifices to some sort of god, I'd imagine, although what purpose these sacrifices serve is debatable.

Yeah, that's just wonderful, Razaran replied. We might be in a temple, then. Probably in the city. Let's just get out as fast as possible.

A savage practice, really, continued Nalyg. I wonder if they really think they're accomplishing something with this. Must be a primitive civilization.

You can keep musing when we're not in the death chamber, Nalyg. Razaran directed his attention to Kanpeki, who appeared to be clutching the burn mark that used to be her left eye. Kanpeki, are you alright?

Kanpeki slowly lowered her hand, revealing again the scar on her face. I'll... I'll be fine. It's just an eye. Razaran's right, Nalyg. We should leave as quickly as possible.

Very well. No need to linger here any longer than necessary. With any luck, we'll find our way out without running into the townsfolk. I'd like to avoid any further unnecessary killing, if at all possible.

Nalyg turned and walked to the door, which had no clear means of opening and, frustratingly, gave way to no amount of pushing. Exchanging a knowing glance with Nalyg, Razaran converted his arm into a large hammer-like bludgeon, and swung at the door with all the force he could muster. All the force he could muster, however, was easily resisted - even absorbed - by the apparently-wooden door. Surprised, Razaran took several more swings, each having the exact same (lack of) effect. Sufficiently angered, he took a swing at one of the stone pillars, and once more harmlessly collided with a dull thud.

What the hell?

It seems the weapons restriction for the round can't be bypassed, Nalyg declared. If we're going to get anywhere, we'll have to use music. Supposedly it has destructive effects here. Wherever "here" is.

This is idiotic, Razaran responded. What do you want me to do, sing?

If that's what it takes, then do it.

You and I both know that I'm not going to do that, Nalyg.

As the two continued to squabble, Kanpeki took a moment to further observe the engravings throughout the chamber. The musical staff patterns on the altar continued down each of its sides, twisting and winding with little discernable pattern around the floor and up the walls, a cacophonous score with little organization or reason apparent in its design. The notes within each staff grew more and more frenetic as they climbed the walls, discordant chords growing more and more complex, eventually forming a solid, nearly-unrecognizable mass as they twisted toward the domed ceiling. Kanpeki's eye followed these patterns as they converged on the exact center of the ceiling, surrounding the image of a trio of figures overlooking the room.

On closer inspection, however, this was not merely a mural of a primitive culture's pantheon - the vaguely-draconic trio, in fact, shared a single body, the eyes of each glowing different colors. Kanpeki stared for several moments at what appeared to be the depiction of the Kryesan themselves, long enough to attract the attention of the other two heads, who each stared in stunned silence upon making the connection.

Is... is that us? Razaran finally questioned, extremely confused and quickly growing agitated.

It appears as though it could be, Nalyg replied, making a poor attempt to keep up his air of calm confidence. It was obvious that he was just as disconcerted by the discovery as the other two, in spite of his best attempts. It could just as easily be a coincidence. How would an image of us end up as the depiction of a god in a random temple in another dimension? It doesn't make sense.

I don't know, but when have things made sense in this battle? It can't just be a coincidence, Nalyg. The one on the left is even... Razaran shot a glance at Kanpeki. Well, you can tell.

The Second Kryesan was also missing an eye, Kanpeki somberly replied after several moments of mental silence. I don't think that helps, but they did disappear without explanation. It's possible-

Kanpeki was interupted by a gasp and a clattering of wood from the now-wide-open doors, the source of which the three immediately turned to face. In the doorway stood an unusually tall woman, her face largely obscured by the large robes she wore, which bore a similar representation of the Kryesan along with unusual, vaguely-musical patterns, not unlike those throughout the chamber. On the floor lay a small pan flute, evidently dropped in surprise by the hooded woman.

"...Hello, there," Nalyg began after a pause. "May I ask you where we are right now? Perhaps more importantly, may I ask why your clothing bears a depiction of us?"

The woman immediately dropped to her knees, prostrating herself before the confused triarch. "Great and mighty Sf'rzando, you have returned at last! You humble me with your presence, God of music. But how can you not recognize your own sacrificial chamber?"

"Our what? What's going on?" Razaran immediately demanded, receiving a brief glare from Nalyg, a glare he knew well.

"Great and powerful Sf'rzando, is something the matter? We have made sacrifices with every new moon in hopes of your return! Have you no memory of your time spent ruling here, many generations ago? What has happened?" The woman looked extremely distressed, though she constantly averted her eyes from Nalzaki.

"I don't know what you're-"

"I am afraid we do not, my subject," Kanpeki interrupted. "By the way, may we have your name before we continue?"

"Shira Yarona, priestess of Santa Nada," she answered. "I am sorry to hear you do not remember us, my god. You must come with me to the High Priest at once; he will know what to do. He is wiser than all of us."

"Thank you, Shira. The blessing of Sf'rzando be with you." Nalyg and Razaran briefly gazed at Kanpeki in astonishment, before quickly taking on as commanding a demeanor as possible.

Before you question my decisions, keep in mind that keeping up this ruse will place our "followers" at our command. This could be to our great advantage.

Of course, Kanpeki, Nalyg replied. As long as they don't find out that we aren't who we say we are, we'll be fine.

At Shira's request, Nalzaki slowly stepped out the door, following her through the downtrodden stone halls of the temple. Quietly, each considered the words of the four-armed man - war was imminent, and they could very well have been placing themselves at the forefront of it.

SleepingOrange · 12-10-2011, 12:33 PM

Originally posted on MSPA by SleepingOrange.

Jake smiled slowly as the scent of caramel filled his favorite little coffee shop. The whiff of caramel was soon joined by hazelnut, which was itself supplanted by an acrid yet inviting of rich, dark coffee; the barista whose name he didn't know – he wasn't that kind of regular! – smiled at his smile and passed him a cardboard cup and his change. He sat at a table in the corner and settled in, blowing on his drink as he fished out his laptop. It was a comforting routine, and as he swallowed the still-too-hot melange of sweet and bitter, he was happy.

He wasn't aware of the figure standing behind him until his screen reflected a pair of glasses and a scowl.

Jake nearly spilled coffee all over himself and his computer as he leapt up. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Samuel glowered, which wasn't unusual. "It's happening again."

"No it's... That doesn't even make sense. It can't be happening unless you're making it happen, and I just know you'd better not friggin' be doing that."

Jake sat back down, but Samuel kept hovering; he shook his head, creases in his forehead further deepening. "No, it's happening without us."

"Go to Hell. This isn't funny."

Jake turned his back and made as though to go on browsing the internet as though nothing had happened until a leatherbound book thudded onto the table next to him. Its cover and spine were unmarked, and the leather itself was mottled with blues and purples and greens, but it looked like it was just an ordinary book.

"Open it up to any page."

Hoping to end whatever stupid bit Samuel was doing and get back to his life, Jake snatched the book up and flipped it open.

"It's blank."

Samuel sighed. "Okay, go back to the first twenty or so pages. I guess I should have been specific, but..."

Jake muttered some things that sounded an awful lot like "But that wouldn't have been as portentous" and "Drama queen" and there was a pause as he rifled backwards. Then a longer pause as he absorbed the contents.

"This bit's in my handwriting."

"I know. Well, I guessed as much anyway."

There was another, even longer pause, which was eventually broken by Jake blurting out "Are you gonna explain anything at some point?"

The other man shrugged. "There's not much to explain, not that I know. This thing showed up on my bookcase a few nights ago. I saw the contents, I freaked out, I burned it. I didn't want another Macy on my hands, I didn't want another City on my hands. It was back the next day, and I threw it away, and it came back again."

"Is it all stuff we already wrote?"

Samuel sighed and finally took a seat. "Mostly. There's a few passages that we never did, including stuff that looks and sounds like I wrote it. Pretty standard, inasmuch as there's a standard for later-season transitions I guess."

Jake caught Samuel's expression and narrowed his eyes. "And?"

"And there's a foreword by Jennie. It's really garbled and confusing, like she was high as hell and sleep-deprived when she wrote it, but... I dunno, I think it makes reference to events that happened after, ah, you know, her... You know, suicide."

Jake finally snapped. "I swear to God if this is some kind of fucking joke–"

Half the patrons' eyes were on them at this point, if only because of Jake's voluble outburst, and the barista was doing her best to effect an air of professional detachment. I'm just the help, her turned back said, I certainly don't plan on blogging about the crazy guy I saw at work today. Jake settled back down in his seat and seethed.

Samuel hissed through his teeth "How the hell would I know what your handwriting looked like, even if I was good enough to imitate it? You're being a fucking cliche right now. This is happening, and we have to deal with it, and reenacting the first half-hour of every horror movie ever isn't going to get us anywhere."

Jake pulled a hand down his face. "Why should we deal with anything? We said we'd stop this. No more slaughtering fictional people who turn out to be real. No more fucking metafiction. We're just people now, we don't have to do anything."

"We have to deal with it because we said we'd stop. If it's going to keep on going without us we can at least try to make it happen less... implosively."

There was another pause, one that threatened to swallow the preceding pauses in its gaping silence. Jake took several gulps of his coffee and mulled things over in his head.

"Why'd you come to me? I mean, Norm was the one that kept saying we couldn't stop, that it wouldn't work like that. Seems like he'd be the one I'd talk to first if I found mysterious books full of our characters being written by our dead friend or whatever's going on here."

"You don't know I came to you first."

"I do now."

Samuel waved a hand. "You were the easiest to find. Everyone else tried pretty hard to disappear from each other; I'm not even sure Alexis still lives in the city. It's hard to track someone down after the better part of a decade, but I'd seen you on the street occasionally so you seemed like the best place to start."

"Mmm."

Jake leafed through the more apparently-recently-written pages before muttering "So what are you proposing, exactly?"

Samuel slumped back in his chair and sighed. "I wish I knew."

---

Cascala drifted, dreamlike, through the streets of Santa Nada, unheeding and uncaring of the looks she was afforded. Though her theremin was packed up neatly and her amp was unpowered, she was still doing this world's equivalent of strolling through town with an uzi on her hip, decked in full battle garb and just daring someone to bump into her. She of course didn't consciously or intentionally project a threatening image, and was in fact currently unaware that the world had taken some liberties with the cut and style of her clothing; all she knew was that the song was within her and she would do as it bade.

Whether because she truly was in contact with the very fabric of the reality around her or simply because it was bound to happen if she walked long enough, Cascala soon ran – near literally – into Harmon and Klendel. With a beatific smile that couldn't possibly suit someone in the makeup currently plastered across her face and was even more at odds with the livid flesh of her recently-scarred arm, she breathed "It's going to be you, isn't it? Yes, yes I think it probably is. One way or another, you're important to the song."

Pick Yer Poison · 12-10-2011, 06:38 PM

Originally posted on MSPA by Pick Yer Poison.

Klendel was instantly on guard. The last time he'd tangled with Cascala she had tried to kill him. He hadn't been able to get a good look at her, but she hadn't seemed nearly as zoned out as the individual in front of him. There was no doubt about it - she had to be planning something. He took a moment to choose his words carefully.

Harmon, on the other hand, had no such reservations about speaking, having not met Cascala before. "The hell is the song?" she demanded, folding her arms across her chest. "And why are we important to it?"

Cascala moved forward surprisingly quickly and placed her hands on Harmon's crossed arms, staring at her earnestly. "The song is everything!" she said emphatically. "The past, the present, the future! Everything! You are in it, wise woman beyond her experience."

Harmon pushed her off, taking a step back. "What are you talking about? Get off me!"

Klendel chose now to pipe up. "Cascala, you seem..." he paused visibly. "...different." He paused again as Cascala looked at him vaguely, a slight grin spreading on his face. "Have you done something with your hair?"

Cascala's eyes grew a bit wider - a surprising feat, given how wide they were already - as she saw Klendel. "The shadow from the roof, the one that got away," she said in a hoarse whisper, tilting her head in a way even Klendel found slightly unsettling. "The song speaks of you as well." She giggled in a high-pitched, I've-lost-my-marbles way. "It speaks of all of us."

Klendel decided that whatever this "song" was, it was important to Cascala. Whether or not it was actually relevant to anyone else was something he'd need to know more about it to be able to judge correctly. And with Cascala in her current state, he doubted that line of questioning would go anywhere.

But he couldn't just leave her here. It wasn't that he particularly liked having her around, or that he was worried about her - rather, he didn't like the idea of not knowing what she was up to. He didn't want to get surprised again, and he didn't want her running off and tipping the balance of the conflict. "I believe you, Cascala," he said, resting a shadowy hand on her shoulder. "Why don't you come with us and tell us all about it?"

Harmon glanced at him in irritation, but didn't object. She knew there was something up with Klendel, and she wanted to find out what it was. She was just sighing in grudging agreement when the rhythmic sound of marching footsteps reached her ears. The pedestrians on the street quickly stepped to the side of the path, and Harmon did the same. Klendel followed suit, pulling Cascala along with him and hiding himself behind the two women.

What looked like a particularly grim marching band trotted down the road. A conductor who didn't seem to be conducting at the moment was leading the ensemble. A pair of trombones had taken point, followed by some french horns, with trumpets behind them. A few drums followed, and some tubas took up the rear. Every step they took had military precision, and every face was flat and expressionless.

Harmon, Cascala, and Klendel waited until the marching band had passed before walking back out into the street with the rest of the pedestrians. "What was that all about?" Harmon mused aloud.

Cascala muttered something unintelligible about the song, but Klendel chose to answer her question. "I believe they were soldiers," he said. He didn't mention that the reason he knew was because the entire group had been fearing death; specifically, death in battle.

GBCE · 01-06-2012, 09:05 PM

Originally posted on MSPA by fluxus.

Show Content

GBCE · 01-15-2012, 05:27 PM

Originally posted on MSPA by fluxus.

The walls were lined with computers, the familiar drone of technology thickening the air. A single light burned with a florescent hum from a far corner of the room while the equipment slept, black screened monitors and dormant cameras emitting the occasional whir or blinking light that let Alexis know that, yes, they were all still alive. She sat, knees to her chest, in one of the chewed-up rolling chairs, hundreds of papers stacked in neat piles about her as she worked. Despite the black window shades that permanently censored the outside world, she knew that night had crept into morning.

Rubbing her face with a nail-bitten hand, Alexis turned her attention from the red, palm-sized, and thoroughly battered notebook in which she’d been scribbling. Her own computer had joined its brothers in sleep not long after the last of her coworkers had fled the Cage. That had been at a respectable hour. She sighed, carefully stuffing her night’s work into her pack, and donned her coat. The early hours of the morning guaranteed quiet, that she couldn’t deny, but the desire for sleep was beginning to take its toll.

Smiling wearily into her scarf, Alexis held on to the notebook as she turned out the light.

--

Heaving a sigh of relief, Ivan stared down at the white spires and polished buildings of the city that had to be Santa Nada. He’d been walking for what felt like hours and the soles of his feet, though considerably tougher than they’d once been, were beginning to ache miserably. Once he’d left the company of Braegar, Ivan had set off due east, towards a sun that had still lingered somewhere near the horizon. The morning had left fog along the rocky coast but now, with the sun high overhead, the day was clear, the air thick with humidity.

Perched atop one of the rock formations that littered the moors like the bones of a great beast, Ivan had a fair look at the city in the valley not far below. Though the finer details were lost to him, from this distance he thought Santa Nada stately to behold. The midday sun evened out the stains on its white walls and made them shine like pearl while steel colored waves lapped at a beach of coarse sand. A ring of darker buildings surrounded the city proper and echoed the jagged coastline. It was towards these buildings that Ivan resolved to make his descent.

He followed the skeleton of a well-worn path, weed-grown but marred with the signs of frequent use. He’d told the Vikings that he needed to get to Santa Nada, that he needed to find someone, and it wasn’t far from the truth. Harmon could have appeared anywhere, but Ivan had assumed the city would be a far better place to begin his search for her than the confines of Braegar’s ship.

It was soon that Ivan found himself in the midst of a market crowded with the smells, sounds, and inhabitants of one of Santa Nada’s outlying villages. Each wooden structure he passed was tall and salt-stained, towering high into the air and connected to its neighbors by a network of stairways and ladders above the street. People went about their business on strange airborne trails and Ivan tried his best to not stare openly, squinting in the sun. There were three hundred and fifty two people at the street-bound market, but how many there were above him he couldn’t tell. He ducked into a nearby stall, ignoring the small, toothless merchant, and attempted to peer at the activity above. Figures moved from building to building, the details of their faces and clothing obscured as though through a clouded window. Ivan clenched his jaw; his eyesight was deteriorating rapidly, getting worse with each passing day. The network of ladders this city employed, though intriguing, was too far in the air for him to either map by reading vibrations or to see clearly. It seemed a very long time since he’d last felt so blind.

Brushing past a display of woven rugs, Ivan shrugged his way back into the crowd. A map of the city spread out beneath his feet and at first he thought he was reading it much like he always did. But as he absently, carefully maneuvered himself through the throngs of people he realized that something much different, much deeper was at work. Each individual possessed a unique sort of signature in this universe, a rhythm that varied in strength and tempo from person to person. Many of the shop-keeps and peddlers were but small pulses on a grand scale of sound. He couldn’t call it music, necessarily, but what else to compare it to he didn’t know.

Ivan stopped short as a great, glaring tune punctured the relative calm of what he was reading. The rhythm was larger than anything he’d felt so far and, though rather unstable, it was powerful. He clenched and unclenched his fingers; the sound was familiar, there was no doubt in his mind, but somehow he couldn’t convince himself that Harmon was the source.

Reality drenched Ivan in a Technicolor stupor as he opened his eyes and sidestepped just before a woman could push him out of her way.

“Excuse me, friend,” she said as she barreled past him, her smile charming. Ivan unconsciously made a face at her retreating form as a noise that sounded eerily like a marching band began to grow louder behind him. Ivan turned as he realized what he was listening to but was too slow to avoid the mob of guardsmen that pushed him out of their way, cries of “Stop! Thief!” lingering in their wake.

Pushed to his knees on the side of the cobbled road, Ivan ground his teeth and spat out a slew of unintelligible curses as he realized he’d bloodied his hand. The ugliest goat he’d ever seen, cock-eyed and in possession of only one horn, eyed him with suspicion.

“All right there?” An aproned man of about thirty, round-faced and kindly, pulled Ivan to his feet.

“Fine, I think,” Ivan replied, smiling his thanks. “Though I’ve managed to thoroughly scare your goats.” All but the ugly one were prancing and crying out in dismay in their pen. The man laughed.

“They could use a good scare. And that hand doesn’t look fine to me. If you’d like to clean up, there’s a washroom just inside.” He gestured over his shoulder at a darkened doorway. It was then that Ivan realized he’d stumbled, quite literally, onto a shabby cantina.

Ivan shrugged the keyboard from his back and searched it, one-handed, for any damage. Thankfully, he found nothing but a small scuff. “That’d be great; thanks.”

“I thought as much.” The man turned and, with one foot inside, said, “And be sure to grab a drink on your way out, eh?” Ivan smiled grimly and nodded, not about to share his allergies with a barman who’d just offered to help him. He hesitated before following.

A white horse of considerable size and regal demeanor caught his eye and scoffed at him from beneath its lashes. Hitched to a post near the pen of goats, it snorted and pawed at the ground, raising its head high in protest of the constraints. Brow furrowed, Ivan approached him, thinking his grand regalia and proud white coat somehow familiar.

“Hello there,” Ivan murmured, head cocked in recognition as Horsegark snapped his teeth.

--

A thick fog settled on rooftops and obscured the moon, softening the edges of a sleeping city. Wisps of moisture gave the air a sharp, cold smell as Alexis unlocked the door. She took a moment to breathe- it was far too late for her to be doing this- and stepped inside her apartment, eyes bleary and nose reddened. The warm glow of light that greeted her was a pleasant surprise but not wholly unexpected.

“Jenny,” Alexis said, genuinely glad to see her roommate. “You’re awake.”

Godbot · 01-30-2012, 06:57 AM

Originally posted on MSPA by Godbot.

Sir Cedric set his glass down hard.

“So I’m headin’ to the Archwizard’s tower to rescue Princess Harmony,” Cedric continued loudly to a table of increasingly skittish-looking patrons, “when his coward of a general shows up with this huge ogre.” He spread his arms for emphasis, and everyone flinched away, which definitely meant that he was doing a good job of telling his story.

“So this ogre is swingin’ this tree trunk around, an’ I cut it to pieces – the tree, I mean – so I throw my sword away, so that it’s a fair fight.”

“What’s a sword?” one of the patrons asked nervously.

“Quiet, I’m gettin’ to the best par – what do you mean, what’s a sword? he demanded. “It’s this thing,” he said, pulling Sigrär, his red flame-print Ibanez EGEN18 electric guitar, from the strap on his back.

“What the hell is this,” he said after a pause.

“Sir, please put that away,” the bartender warned, furrowing his brow. He made a move to reach under the table.

“Who took my sword?” roared Cedric, slamming one gauntleted fist on the table and getting up from his seat. He gripped the guitar by its neck with the other hand.

“Put the guitar away,” repeated the bartender, pulling a trumpet out from under his counter and taking aim. The bargoers protested and backed away towards the other side of the room, or ducked behind the table.

“Tha’s just a horn,” Cedric retorted, absently pulling Sigrär’s strap over his shoulder and resting his hand on the strings.

The bartender put his lips to the trumpet and played a single loud, sharp note. Cedric had to shield his face and plant his feet firmly on the ground to keep from getting knocked over by the blast of pure sound. Glassware rocketed past him and shattered against the wall, and barstools clattered to the floor.

“What the hell was that?” he demanded, lowering his arms, but the bartender glared and continued playing, driving Cedric backwards step by step. His hand found his way to a little slip of orange wedged into the strap of his guitar, and he pulled it out. It was a single teardrop-shaped dragon’s scale. Strange, he thought as he curled his fingers around Sigrär’s neck and used the scale to play a single power chord. He didn’t remember picking up a dragon scale.

The air around him resonated in time to the music as his bulky armored fingers danced over Sigrär’s frets, and some invisible force simply shrugged off the blasts of sound from the bartender’s trumpet, sending them ricocheting around the room.

As the bartender paused for air, Cedric lifted his hand from the guitar for a moment and frowned at it. He strummed it a couple of times, and all of the glasses and silverware quietly hummed. He pressed in a few strings at random and played them all at once, and the resulting shockwave knocked over chairs and hurled glasses to the floor.

“Stop playing that song!” the bartender tried to yell while also playing a trumpet. Cedric’s fingers automatically found their way to the right frets, and he dropped down on one knee and played a deafening guitar solo that absorbed the blast of sound entirely in a burning aura that wasn’t quite there if you looked directly at it. The melody he was making up as he went along began to manifest and lash out at everything around him, burning gashes into anything heavy enough that it wasn’t hurled aside by the sheer power of his music.

Several patrons who were too close to Sir Cedric when the music began were hurled backwards, and one who was a bit luckier managed to get an ocarina out of his pocket and drunkenly fire a few notes at Cedric. They whistled and chirped as they zig-zagged through the air and ricocheted off of his musical barrier, striking several other people at random. The man who was closest to him snarled and lunged for an empty bottle. He turned on the ocarina player and started blowing across the lip, playing a low, droning note. The ocarina player cried out and shielded his eyes from the motes of unfocused sound coming off of the top of the bottle. He stumbled backwards and crashed into someone else, who whirled around and started pounding out a rhythm on the table in retaliation. It wasn’t clear who he was aiming at, so everyone joined in, angrily snapping spoons together and playing harmonicas at each other. (One particularly drunken bargoer just clapped his hands and stomped his feet, but that didn’t do anything.)

“What’s going on here?” barked a voice from somewhere behind him. It was clearly the voice of a guard – it had the authority of someone holding a weapon, and the strength of someone who made a career out of yelling at people and playing brass instruments.

Everyone stopped fighting just as quickly as they had started and tried to look busy in a room full of broken glass and upended furniture. Cedric took the silence as an opportunity to start another guitar solo, but he was quickly cut off.

“Drop your weapon!” commanded a guard dressed in a brightly-colored uniform with a badge on his hat and a feather just above it. As Cedric looked over his shoulder, the guard shouldered an assault trombone and sighted down its slide. A saxophonist and another trumpeter flanked him, blocking the doorway. Out of the corner of his eye, the bartender ducked behind the counter, either getting out of the line of fire or trying to avoid letting them see his face. Or both.

This was getting way too weird, decided Cedric as he looked over his shoulder, and this guitar still wasn’t a sword.

He stuck the dragon’s scale back into the guitar’s shoulder strap – he’d meant to just drop it, he vaguely realized – and rushed towards the marchingcops, gripping Sigrär’s neck with both hands and bellowing a warcry.

As the startled guards started belting out an impromptu rendition of Ghost of Steven Foster, Sigrär erupted into flames and Cedric swung it against the oncoming onslaught of music, smacking the wave of pure force off to one side. It crashed through a wall and kept going. Cedric raised Sigrär again and bellowed as he brought it down on the blaring music. The guards started playing faster and began to nervously march in place in time to the song, and Sigrär slowed to a halt in front of them, unable to get any closer. Cedric pushed against the barrier and tried to force it apart, but every moment the loud music drove him backwards another few paces.

Well, if Sigrär couldn’t get past the barrier, then it was up to him, decided Cedric, and he let the guitar drop and caught the surging melody with his hands, gritting his teeth and planting his feet firmly on the ground.

Only a dull, muted version of the song reached the knight’s ears as he dug his fingers into the center of it, stopping the music in its tracks. His hands sparked and then burst into magical flames as he roared and ripped the wall of force in half, sending a cacophonous barrage of built-up music off in either direction. The trombonist had just enough time to lower his instrument and get out a rather unprofessional “What the fu-” before Cedric’s armored fist slammed into his face, knocking him out the door and onto his back. He grabbed the officer’s two cohorts by their faces and hastily shoved them to either side, knocking them over as he bolted out the door.

“What’s going on in there?” cried the man in the apron as Cedric hurried past him. He didn’t remember that man walking into his bar.

“Not now!” said Cedric, grabbing Ivan by the arm and fleeing into the crowded marketplace. Horsegark scowled at the barman and held eye contact as he took the rope around his neck in his teeth and snapped it in two with one sharp jerk.

The marchingcops gathered up their instruments and watched as the Horse with No Name trotted off into the crowd. The leader’s trombone issued a droopy farewell.

“Don’t just stand there!” said the barman, jabbing his broom at the dazed musicians. “Clear out my bar! Do your jobs!”

“Oh, we, um,” mumbled the saxophonist, straightening his hat, and the three of them hurried off in pursuit of Sir Cedric and Ivan without another word.

“Lousy brass,” he muttered, returning to his sweeping.

---

Vala, the shamaness, stood alone on a small rocky outcropping hidden away beneath the black granite cliffs along the coast of Santa Nada, leaning heavily on her staff. She raised an ancient horn carved from bone to the grey-and-gray sky and blew, playing a single low, loud, clear note that echoed off the craggy stone cliff face behind her.

The Iron Maiden, a behemoth of a Viking warship floating off of the coast slowly turned its bow to face her, and drifted towards her for a moment before lowering a tiny speck of a rowboat off of its prow. Numerous similar crafts appeared from the other warships, while other smaller vessels just sailed directly to her.

Decorated Viking warlords climbed from the transport vessels, clad in heavy furs dotted with sequins and weathered leather armor, complete with high-heeled boots. Their long, shiny blonde hair blew perfectly in the salty breeze, but their painted expressions were grim and respectful.

“What news do you bring?” asked Svart Sabbat, the chief of Clan Thünderwölf.

“The prophecy has been averted,” Vala replied, “in part.” When no one replied, she continued. “The ‘raven-haired queen’ has appeared to me – in our very warcamp, in fact – but we have her word that she will not intervene.”

“She may yet betray us,” the warlord reminded her. “To achieve victory by herself amidst a war she is not part of, she is likely a treacherous person. Do not place trust in her words alone.”

“The queen will be accompanied by guards for as long as I see necessary,” Vala agreed. “But that is not what worries me.”

“The prophecy foretells that she has not come alone. Though we know she will not partake in the fighting, any of her accompaniment could be just as dangerous to our people as she is. It is likely that she alone was not to be the destruction of us all.”

“Perhaps we should retreat for now,” offered Sabbat. “If we cannot fight Santa Nada, we cannot wipe each other out.”

“I fear that letting the others go unchecked would be nearly as bad as allowing the queen to proceed with her plans. There is a mysterious power about her, unlike our own – and we do not know how many warriors have appeared with her, or what they are capable of.”

“I fear for our people,” she said darkly. “The only solution may yet be to seek out her companions.”

“And kill them all.”