The Grand Battle II! [Happy End!]

Originally posted on MSPA by Schazer.

---

Rebuilding lost Faceless matter wasn't a particularly convoluted process, despite the fact Vyrm'n barely understood it. Much like the rest of the curious mindless caprices of the void, the more mindful half of the shadow simply figured things out as it went along. A decade of self-awareness dedicated, no, embroiled in the scientific method (compounded with however many years Vyrm had been working in that job before her fated meeting with the Faceless) had helped fill in the gaps after after the creature had observed the effects of Escher's watermill.

Water. A point in existence where conventional physics broke. And emptiness, waiting for matter's distraction at the atom-thin edge, to ambush it, mute it, before conscripting the molecules to their eternity of listening to the screams and song.

Finding that point of broken physics had been the hard part, before the battle - now it seemed one could find it in mills and windows, even in weapons or on the underside of cloaks. In a more peaceable mood, Vyrm'n may have mused over whether the lack of paradoxical pumps had been a quirk in the universe she'd fallen into. At present, a maddeningly unhelpful necroGlere and his chainsaw was causing considerable grievous bodily distraction.

It didn't help Vyrm'n any that she was so inept with moving on these pseudo-pseudopods, in an attempt to minimise exposure to the cacophonous outside, not to mention the Fishbowlkin's concerted efforts to hack them apart with the chainsaw at each stride. A laboured walk, Glere preceding her through a large window overlooking the main pool from the complex's lobby, and Vyrm'n fell in with a splash and crash of breaking glass.

The pool water was not so much filthy, as it was a heavily watered-down cesspit of blood and bloated corpses. A couple of the latter lashed out through the murk with pallid limbs, trying to drag the humanoid down. Trying to ignore the thrashing as void and hammerspace did their thing as best as they could in the churned-up blood-slurry, Vyrm'n didn't notice the desperately scrabbling hand invading the cloak, along with the rush of filthy water.

The ensuing explosion nudged a fresh bunch of waterlogged zombies in the direction of Glere and his passenger, but the Fishbowlkin kept tossing out sticks of dynamite as fast as he could extract them from the drenched mess that was the interior of his cape. Amongst all this carnage, Vyrm'n had only reformed about a bucket of matter before she wove out of Glere's way to let him at the whole box of dynamite. Now mostly submerged, Glere was content to ineffectually bat the box away with one hand while kicking through the scum as the undead swimmers piled upon him in their efforts to seize the foe, marked out as such by the old master of their accursed relife.

A moment later, bits of corpse and pinkish, foamy water were flung skyward as the dynamite detonated. A nasty rip had torn down the cape, between where a particularly heavy-set zombie's concerted bite and Glere's neck had been. As the disembodied cloak fluttered to the grimy pool floor, Vyrm'n was quietly appreciative. The extra seam where reality had warped offered faster regrowth, but she was wondering why the pool had suddenly become shallower.

An inky tendril lashed out to sense for anything different; and the misplaced water was easily found. A waterspout of the turgid, foaming mess snaked overhead, its tail wrapped around the arm of what seemed to be a battered and beaten straw doll.

Its original form may have been human, but the two dragon heads had ripped it clean down the middle, spilling mouldy straw everywhere. The right dragon had its bottom jaw cleaved off, while the other's face was a charred, blackened horror. The twister chasing the craning, crimson neck as it struggled out a gurgling snarl from its half-mouth, Vyrm'n ducked out of the blast as the second neck let loose a stream of fire, flame chasing water and blasting the Faceless with unavoidable blood-soaked steam, hot enough to scald flesh clean off bone had Vyrm'n possessed either. Regardless, this was an unwelcome development, not least because she was running out of water to mill.

The steam dissipating, the shadow struggled far enough out of hiding to take a flying leap out of the pool, dashing for the nearest unemptied pool. As Right gathered water again, Rong lurched forward, dragging the graceless trio after Vyrm'n.

Show Content

SpoilerBears mentioning for my ego that somewhere in this post was my 50,000th word in GBII. Yup.

Originally posted on MSPA by Sruixan.

---

Show Content

SpoilerBears mentioning for my ego that somewhere in this post was my 50,000th word in GBII. Yup.

Show Content

SpoilerI believe it was the word "hard" in the third paragraph. Quite why I wanted to know that I've no idea...

Originally posted on MSPA by SleepingOrange.

---

The sound of a sternum cracking is not a noise many can say they've heard, but even Gestalt with its zest for experience would have been hard-pressed to appreciate the novelty. The same went for the noise of some dozen ribs popping one after another, and for the sight of already-ravaged skin bulging outwards before being pierced by fine needlelike claws. Really, the sight of one rotting woman violently clawing her way out of another was probably more rare a sight than each individual experience separately, but it helps to appreciate the small things.

The schrotgolem, however, was showing a nearly-philistine lack of wonder at the series of strange things happening in front of it. Even as the first woman's spine creaked backwards, viscera flopping out and a second torso that could not possibly have fit inside the first pulled itself out of the tangle of putrefying intestines, Gestalt simply pulled slightly away from its assailant and readied an array of weapons. The boxes were surrounded by a halo of hovering cutlery, the golem going on the simple assumption that any zombie, no matter how resilient or filled with other zombies, would eventually stop moving if liquefied.

The nesting zombie women lunged, Lissa's increasingly-useless torso and remaining arm swinging behind her and Yume's twisted visage gnashing at the air as her arms flailed at the boxes. Knives and blades and sharp pieces of wood pincushioned the shapeshifter, and Gestalt used what vestiges of Karmic power it still had and understood to aid the process of roundly destroying the girls an whatever shapes dragged themselves out of their sundered corpses. They had little recourse but to attempt futilely to stave off the onslaught, weapons and sharp pieces of garbage swooping in and away like vengeful steely insects. Shreds of slimy fat and withered muscle cascaded to the already-soiled floor, the thuds of Gormand's single-minded assault on the gate accentuated by the pinging of bone on cement and wood.

Had Gestalt a face, it would have been one set with bland determination, a face that had ceased thinking and was entirely unperturbed about being up to its elbows in zombie and totally unemotional about the situation at hand. It was a face that had problems to solve and was going about solving them in the most efficient manner possible, saving morals and squeamishness and even speculation for later. A blank face, occasionally spattered with unknowable gore. Lissayume writhed as shethey were torn apart, more hands scrabbling their way out of whatever necrotic mockery of the Souzou remained only to be summarily pureed by the whirring, room-sized blender that was the unthinking golem. Gradually, what had been a grasping abomination of assorted body parts, moaning and bubbling and multiplying succumbed to Gestalt's determined ministrations, and what was by now an extended smear of gore and twitching fingers stilled. Forgetting or ignoring the pulsating monstrosity of flesh that was even now buckling the plates of the door, the schrotgolem returned to its dispassionate and instinctual exploration of the grocery.

Shelves and bins and refrigerators were too large and too bland to arouse interest and few if any intact specimens of food remained. The cash register, dented but intact, provided a momentary diversion and a quickly-secreted spoil, but a being that had already figured out the complex machinery of Rexxcer's laser pointer and the human heart and the endless blackness of the abyss had little left to glean from springs and simple chips. A box of condoms proved inscrutable without accessing some of Samuel's memory, and the golem was in no state at the moment to engage that part of him; the box was stored for later study, several condoms the golem had curiously unrolled left scattered on the floor. In a small closet, there was... A broom. The broom's function was simple, was obvious. The broom was not so big it couldn't be inhabited. And because all of the golem that was Gestalt was balled in on itself and having no contact with the outside world, the broom was taken.

Objects have functions, and a thing with a function should be used. Without higher cognizance to guide it away from this basic instinct, the schrotgolem put the broom to work, used it for what it was made for. It came to pass, therefore, that as the battered shield succumbed to Gormand's noodly onslaught, Gestalt was calmly sweeping the scattered detritus that covered Grocer Delight into a small pile, bruised fruit mingling with rotting flesh and broken glass, smeared and drying blood forming zen-garden-like patterns around the mound of rot and ruin.

Originally posted on MSPA by SleepingOrange.

---

In many ways, intelligence is the greatest gift a being can receive. The ability to plan, the capability for abstract thought, and possibly most of all, the capacity for change all yield great power when used correctly. Throughout the multiverse, billions of fragile and unremarkable species had kicked and bitten and learned and fired and thought their way to the tops of their respective food chains solely through their cognizance. It was a good tool. It worked.

But just the same as everything else that worked in a large variety of situations, there were times when intelligence was a burden. The more complicated the mind, the more ways it could break or hiccup or turn in on itself; humans, balls of neuroses that they are, are excellent examples of this fact. Schrotgolems, with no corporeal brain and a chaotic and slapdash nature, have a mind that unravels more readily than most, to the point of a kind of "racial madness". Doubt, overcuriosity, and hesitation serve any sapient being poorly during stressful or dangerous situations, and the frazzled thing that was Gestalt after several rounds of this battle (and especially after his brush with Samuel) was plagued by all the worst aspects of intelligence. Its stress-induced atavism had come at exactly the right time; reversion to unthinking instinct focused the golem's power and removed its hesitation. Frustration and repetition yielded to clear and primal insight.

Gormand's bulk flowed like a wave of sewage through the door, putrid meat and sodden tentacles bubbling and shrieking; the thing's crumpled eye snapped around the room, looking blindly for its victim. Whatever profane senses it still had locked onto the small pile of boxes and lazily-sweeping broom and it hauled itself towards its intended target, appendages flailing even before they were close to being in range. The golem, for its part, merely sat serenely, broom idly pushing a small pile of fingers into the larger mass of gore. As the meat-beast approached, there was a cracking sound from the ceiling of the store, and flakes of plaster drifted down onto the scene of devastation below; most of the lights flickered and went off as the wiring ripped out of the ceiling and walls, tangling itself in and around Gormand's acrid bulk. Live electricity surged through the colossal zombie, its pasta limbs twitching errantly as it emitted a piercing, bubbling shriek.

Aside from a slight huddling together and the cessation of sweeping, there was still little obvious motion from the taciturn Gestalt. The tangle of wires itself did little to actually hold back the monster, but the current seemed to be doing a fair job of keeping it still; nevertheless, there was no real damage done to the hulking leviathan of rancid flesh. There was some creaking and pinging from the walls, but nothing overtly seemed to be happening. Ordinary zombies began filtering into the room around Gormand, a shambling army of slack- and missing-jawed corpses. They seemed confused as they entered that nothing appeared to be moving, and could sense only the uninteresting dead flesh that once made up Lainey and her other selves. With no real target or direction, the resumed the aimless limping that occupied most of their time.

Several figures were snapped in half by the narrow pipes that sprang out of the walls. Copper tubing curled in like the legs of a dying insect, and the room filled with a soft hissing noise, barely audible over the baleful moans emanating from Gormand and the occasional groan of other zombies. Gestalt and its new broom slid farther back against the far wall from the door, pipes weaving a fence around the boxes. The revenants moved as though to attack the golem, but couldn't push through the copper barricade; with a final adjustment of the tubing, all the tips pointed outwards towards the attacking horde. Several fruit bins slid ponderously across the blood-spattered floor and formed a casing around the crates.

A small, bright-green object slid dispassionately out from the bin-barricade. It was about three inches long, made of translucent plastic, and filled, in two chambers, with a clear fluid. It was topped with a metallic mechanism of some sort, which was itself dominated by a rough wheel and some kind of trigger. Once it was clear of the fence of pipes, device righted itself and hovered several inches into the air. Only one zombie noticed it, and approached the object at its usual stumbling pace.

The lighter flicked itself.

Clara, who was having niggling doubts as to whether she ought to still be calling herself that, maintained the expression of beatific calm she usually wore; inwardly, though, she worried about her companions. The other mage was clearly not a very pleasant sort. Seemed too much like the sort of necromancer you think of whenever someone says Dark Lord Whatshisface, Bane of the Living. The spaceman mostly just seemed dazed and confused, and mostly just tagging along because no other course of action presented itself. Still, Konka Rar was obviously remaining civil for the time being, and Galus was probably just not too bright, bless his soul, but Maxwell...

His expressions bothered the old nun. He was clearly very intelligent, much more than herself, but... The way he carried himself and gestured and had a habit of letting himself detach for moments from the world around him... He seemed like one of those geniuses that was a danger to themselves and everyone around them. Toeing the line of madness, no common sense to speak of, and always ready to build a doomsday device. Not because they wanted doomsday, or because they were evil, but because nobody had every done X, Y, and Z before, and wouldn't it be interesting to see what happened if they did?

Reminded her a lot, a whole lot the more she thought about it, of Sister Marguerite. Poor girl. Found an old copy of the Vere Incredibilis Malum Libri, wasn't it? Summoned an elder being from deep beyond the veil of time and matter just to ask it why it hated life so much. Shoddy abjurations, rushed wards... Took a week to get the monastery back in order.

Still, it was nice to have someone sapient around who had some kind of knowledge of what was going on, even if he did tend to go on a bit. Clara's intuition said he was going to get someone hurt, but what did she know? She was just a silly old woman, and this boy had obviously survived for some time with opponents like that flying black terror around, so he must be more grounded than she gave him credit for. She did wonder, quite a lot, what his plan was, and-

The sound was like nothing she'd ever heard, living or dead. It was less that she heard it, even, so much as a wave of solid noise washed over her and everyone around her. As her eardrums shut down in protest, she spun around, only to see a roiling wall of fire pouring out into the food court from one of the side-shops. Several bodies were pushed along before it, limbs snapping off and bouncing against the stands and walls of the food court. Even after most of the fire receded, leaving only burning tables and smoldering corpses, the ringing in her ears persisted. Much of the main foyer of the mall was in disarray, the force of the blast carrying anything not nailed down with it, and the sheer number of coal-blackened bones the hallway had belched out was staggering.

The impromptu bomb shelter slid open. Rather, the burning splinters and searing metal that remained of it parted. The boxes inside were still there, but many were scorched or smeared with soot, and one had a large crack up its side. The pipes in front of them were still spewing gouts of fire, scorch marks widening on the floor; the golem calmly kinked several of the lower ones and parted its fence, boxes sliding out of their enclosure. It saw no reason to stem the fire still blazing out of many of the higher tubes, so it didn't. Gestalt slid aimlessly down the hall, pushing its broom in front of it, and left the inferno behind without a thought.

A wave of stench flowed out of the hallway to Grocer Delight now that the explosion was gone: spattered across the walls and ceiling were chunks of rotting, burning meat. Several globs of what was probably Gormand but could just as easily have been bits of any other zombie at this point dripped into the schrotgolem's path and were calmly gathered into the unspeakable pile of filth and ash its broom was pushing along.

The gawping group by Splash World were nonplussed when a series of boxes and a broom glide silently out from the source of the explosion. Half of it was, anyway. Maxwell and Galus were only too unsurprised to see their competitor emerging from the hellstorm, but the lich and the nun had no idea what it meant.

Clara herself muttered a few syllables; it was a simple spell that let her temporarily see spirits that were interacting with the material plane. Ordinarily these ghosts showed up in at least a vague semblance of the form they had in life, or if they had never been alive embodied the concepts or places or things they represented, but... The boxes were surrounded by turbulent, vaporous shapes and colors, tendrils of which occasionally reached out to caress or surround a nearby object. Watching it made her eyes water, and she quickly dismissed the spell.

The nun moved as though to say something, but caught Maxwell's and Galus's expression and it clicked. "S... Someone you know?"

Originally posted on MSPA by Sruixan.

---

“That, I think you'll find, is Gestalt. A surprisingly fitting name; I don't believe it was he who first applied it to himself, I must confess…”

The simple act of putting a name to something was enough to unnerve Clara. It wasn't the fact that that disorderly collection of things was a living creature – in her time, she'd come across far more bizarre entities, to the point where the jumble winding its way around the foyer was a reasonably average experience. What disconcerted her so (and, judging by the perpetually persistent scowl of Konka Rar, him as well) was the fact that, with every passing minute, the evidence that could prove a rather disconcerting hypothesis grew ever larger. Putting a name, earlier plucked from the lips of Maxwell, to an entity that was present in the mall, moving towards her; that was worrying.

“An assortment of random objects, bound together by some semblance of a sentient mind. Reasonably grumpy, somewhat sarky and generally a bit of a botherance, but nothing more, really.”

Clara didn't need Maxwell to spell this out for her – there was only one satisfying explanation as to why Gestalt was here. Well, satisfying only in terms of it solving the puzzle before her perfectly, not because of how it made her feel. In fact, her impossibly contented attitude to life and what it threw at her was starting to feel some strain.

“Is… it, one of your competitors?”

”Ah, but of course! What else could he possibly be otherwise? That, to be honest, is quite the thought – what would a bunch of boxes actually do with its life, anyway? I mean, rolling about all the time is all very nice and all, but still; it's a tad lacking in purpose, I'd say…”

Maxwell's musings were somewhat lost on Clara. Instead, her contemplation was down totally different lines; here were four contestants, all in the same battle. She had difficulty pulling the images of her own adversaries out from her mind, let alone putting names to them. The irrefutable fact that none of them, so far, had appeared before her wasn't helping. The truth was there, laid plain before her, daring the nun to question her own place in existence. Or, unfortunately, whether or not she was truly here at all.

She decided, then, to burry herself in the distractions the world before her provided. They, thankfully, were manifold. At the top of the list was the bumbling brain on legs, at that very moment using them to work his way over to Gestalt.

“Hello you. How've you been keeping yourself, then?”

Having adopted the amiable tone one might use to greet an old acquaintance, Maxwell stretched out his hand to the schrotgolem, before thinking better of it. Gazing wistfully to the shambolic wreck of Grocer Delight, he saw fit instead to sigh.

“Dear oh dear, you got yourself into a spot of trouble there, didn't you? Ho hum, I suppose…”

Only now did it appear to dawn on the supposed genius that the lackadaisical motion of the clutter before him was perhaps indicative of something…

“Ah. I see. You're in a little more trouble than I had perhaps realised. You've lost your writing implements, haven't you?”

One of the boxes charged straight into a supporting column, recoiling only slightly. It was notably oblivious to Maxwell's remarks.

“I wouldn't, however, rule out the possibility you've lost a bit more than your glowsticks… although, actually, were you carrying marbles? I do forget these things, I'm afraid…”

The rather pathetic attempt at a joke didn't drive home. Gestalt merely continued to meander onwards, his motives cloudy, if at all existent. Muttering, Maxwell backed away, turning to his companions just as Clara finished whispering something inconsequential to Konka Rar. Galus, a tad miffed by the turn of events, suddenly saw an opportunity.

“Say, Maxwell, since we're kinda close, what would you say to a visit to the Weaponporium? It'll only take a minute or two and might put you at ease a bit; you seem a little frightened right now and I guarantee that the best way to assuage your fears is to feel a nice big gun in those hands of yours…”

Having long since passed, that look of trepidation crept back onto Maxwell's face. An unpleasant fear, forgotten in the heat of the moment, returned to worm its way back into him.

“No.”

A slight echo of the statement persisted, reverberating down the mall. Covering his face with his trilby, Maxwell counted out a couple of seconds before striding away from the blundering bits and bobs that once responded to Gestalt. He forged a path between Konkar Rar and Galus, one so determined that it provoked the pilot to comment in passing:

“Are you really totally sure that everything's alright?”

As Maxwell brushed past, his fellow friend was worryingly certain that, yes, that little glimmer on his neck was indeed a tear.

“Don't tempt me. Put two and two together for once; my, wouldn't that make a nice change…”

His strides lengthening, Maxwell reached the plaza that the water park opened onto. He allowed himself a fleeting glance over his shoulder, to the bemused crew he'd left behind, then up, towards the façade that, judging by the muffled splashes that penetrated its walls, was currently acting as a prison for Vyrm'n. With that, he stormed off towards the Atrium, his forceful steps gradually being lost in the enormity of the mall.

“Hmph. As I suspected. Very typical of his type. I expect he does that a lot, doesn't he?”

The tension was broken by a snarling Konka Rar (to him, there had been no tension at all). Not entirely expecting the interjection, Galus jumped, before regaining what remained of his composure

“Um, what? Pardon?”

“I expect he marches off in a huff rather often, judging by the way he seems to have perfected it… I mean, come on. That look over his shoulder, designed to evoke an emotional response-“

“That was a bit odd, wasn't it? He wasn't exactly looking at us, was he?”

More like through us, mused Clara. More like he could see every little fibre of our soul, every nuance of our being and was disgusted by it. Or maybe…

“Precisely. The guy's an attention-seeker, not to mention a coward. What's he running away from, anyway? His own shadow?”

Galus at least was glad to be rid of his deadweight associate. Standing up straight, he spun round to face down the rows of shops, towards the intersection that was clearly marked by the aftermath of Gestalt's exit from the grocers.

“I think you might have the right idea; I can think of no better place to find technology than a weaponry vendor, even if it is perhaps a tad contrived… I mean, what kind of mall has a shop that sells weapons, anyway?”

In an instant, Clara made up her mind.

“I'm going to follow Maxwell. You know, just to make sure he doesn't get himself into any trouble. You two should be quite capable of surviving anything this place can throw at you, I'm sure, but Maxwell, well…”

The necromancer saw no reason to articulate his response, instead choosing to wave his hand, as if batting the idea away.

“I'll be amazed if he comes to harm. I'm sure he'll run away before he even smells trouble.”

Galus couldn't help but note that the lich was talking to thin air. The nun had shown her initiative, and her allegiances, simply by running off down the concourse, almost skipping between the sludgy swamps of bodily parts. He was, however, wise enough not to comment on it, fearful of stirring up an angrier side to his new partner in crime.

Originally posted on MSPA by Schazer.

---

The cloak bounced and skipped about the complex, its skittering movements seemingly dictated as much by some non-existent, capricious breeze as much as it was by Vyrm'n. In her desperate game of duck and weave, nipping in and out of the shelter of the singed, sodden disgrace of a cape, the Faceless managed by some miracle or another to stay one jet of flame ahead of the ruined war machine. Conscience and the world snarling in her ears, the shadow was finally, begrudgingly convinced; this aberration had to die. By this point, more for the sake of Vyrm'n's sanity than anything else, let alone the fact Right was seizing her precious raw Faceless matter and chasing her about Splash World with it.

Gliding smoothly, if haphazardly, beneath another fireball, the cape plummeted as Vyrm'n came crawling out, extricating the last of the inky pseudomatter with a flick. The shadow rolled, in its semisolid fashion, away from Rong's next assault. Right directed another wave of bile at the Faceless, who barreled straight through it, disregarding, no, chasing the jet of flame which pierced the murk, slamming into the charred remnants of the blue dragon and snuffing out the flames as the darkness engulfed it. The hulking silhouette, embers still dancing across its hide in a mocking memory of the stars that should've been there, collapsed a little as it crushed the dragon's skeleton. Vyrm'n barely felt the screeching acid corroding into her, the rest of the formerly-pure black sullied with the howls of loathsome matter. Pumped full of bullets and dirt and gore and soot and probably even remnant scraps of the spectral audience, that indelible line that split attentive listener from clamouring world was blurring and bleeding. It was, to the Faceless, a sensation whose human equivalent was, perhaps, a phantom limb - knowing that somewhere was the interface, even if fact and stubborn memory refused to agree on the matter.

Right snarled, tearing new slits in Eemp's mutilated body with his spines as he snaked around and sunk his teeth into the black. The shadow twitched, and a lone dark spike erupted square between Right's antlers. The disconnected jaw snapped as the Faceless flooded it, before the war machine was tossed carelessly into the drained swimming pool.

If the Faceless weren't so engrossed with fighting for its life; its curious vision blinkered in a way, that for humans, would be like outlines and details dissolving to static; it may have paused to consider how that seemingly-mindless foe was so masterful with its twin puppets of blaze and bloodied bilgewater. Instead, whatever scattered bits of cognition not drowning in the buzz were reaching the weary, nebulous conclusion that I I can't keep going ggoing like this

Meanwhile, Conscience found the steady fragmentation of Vyrm'n's mind rather tedious to put up with. It just wanted the damnable creature to cease its agonsing and cull some foes. Its own implacable senses, fuelled by atomic vision, searched outward, and deliberated.

Ccccghome fvffvfollhow baackh tghooootheatre

The background noise was horrendous, but Vyrm'n got the message. She cast a meagre flicker of consciousness about Splash World with mute distaste, huddling back into the sullied darkness; before snaking through the exit.

Originally posted on MSPA by Schazer.

---

Fly.

Vyrm'n obeyed the static-soaked voice, twisting upon herself before springing upward, only checking the oncoming ceiling at its command. It was easier to follow orders, when existence stopped being its usual clamouring, boisterous loud self and demanded you understood this instant. Or, before, it had. The shadow was beyond caring, beyond any attempt to try affix it all again in sound mind and sane time. Too much trouble, too many questions to ask.

She could've been forgiven for thinking the round was ending - clouded by the doubled internal onslaught of unwelcome foreign matter, and the soundless deadness of everything that Conscience kept her chained to, the world was melting. Stores, stalls, walls, ceiling, zombies below, the scattered motes of those sentient and still alive in this hell, the fetid air itself, it was all becoming one undifferentiated mess of confusion; the detritus lodged in Vyrm'n also keeping up its awful protests to tear apart its midnight prison. The sonorous sameness of it all was strangely comforting, even as the Faceless acknowledged it was its own power of perception failing and not the voice of the world.

If only the rain would stop pattering away from the inside out, seemingly ricocheting from an unwelcome core to rap a stinging tattoo on her innards. Like stars singing their way away across the empty spaces, warcry bellowing ahead, leaving a stranded Vyrm'n alone in the universe to watch the edge of peace scream off into the distance.

The Faceless did not so much land, as fly into the floor - not even bothering to pick itself up as it crawled into the deserted theatre. In a somewhat anti-climactic fashion, the room was well-lit - one could've been forgiven for thinking the show was over, the crowds on their way home. A lone figure sat on the edge of the stage, his feet dangling, neck cricked back to gaze up into the scaffolding. Arms raised a little at his sides, their position a little stiff as though set in rigor mortis save for his slowly, gracefully moving fingers. Independent of the rest of the man, the hands plucked at the intangible threads of karma streaming off him.

Vyrm'n could barely detect Samuel, much less see what he occupied him. Finally tearing his gaze from the ceiling, the Karmist appraised the Faceless through his lone, lifeless eye. The other half of his face was as good as non-existent; a mangled visage whose constituent bits of bone and eye and flesh had blessedly not survived the crawl from supply closet to stage. Samuel, or what remained of him, stood stiffly, gaunt semi-features jerking a little as an explosion lit up the doorway behind Vyrm'n. Several flaming corpses hurtled by, before the theater stilled again. Conscience nudged her closer, forcing Vyrm'n to leap on stage by Samuel's side, trying to make sense of all the trails of karma which linked this man to the horde.

Somehow, between Conscience and circumstance, Vyrm'n finally came to a decision. Swirling round the Karmist's feet, the shadow paused for only a moment, before rising like a black wave and engulfing him. The darknesss trembled briefly, before encasing Samuel and steeling itself for whatever would happen next.

Vyrm'n opened her atom-deafened mind to the empty shell of a man, Conscience dealing all of the undead the same fate down the leylines of karma that had raised them. Unlike the shadow's melding with Maxwell, this assault had no stately baseline of the pure constant that had been Faceless matter. It howled with all the destructive rage of the walls of the Labyrinth Field; disorder made aural inside and out as it refused to spare the tortured beasts the chaos of their own selves. The Karmist was little more than a conduit to the blinding enlightenment, true to his design, a channel of Vyrm'n's retribution.

Meanwhile, Conscience slipped from its position as the meld between Faceless and Void, and struck off down the karmic links, perversely delighted at the pain of the sentient undead succumbing to the noise. Vyrm'n felt Conscience's departure as clearly as the Void rushing up to meet her tattered scrap of consciousness, and coalesced in the small of Samuel's back before the insidious force returned, and rammed sharply forward, tearing herself out of the karmic net and the eyes of the myriad zombies.

There was a sickening crunch, then a thud and a crack-splash in tandem as the Karmist's midsection fell forward, and an exhausted Vyrm'n finally ducked, relieved, into the darkness. The Faceless lay motionless on the slight stage left; at rest, content despite the coating of blood and grime and undead innards.

Somewhere in that turgid mess, a lone star blinked back into being.

Originally posted on MSPA by Sruixan.

---

Show Content

Spoiler3534. Slorange, why did you say you weren't going to do an interlude post? WHY?

With the ever-helpful benefit of hindsight, Maxwell was starting to wonder whether or not he'd done the right thing. Had he been far too reckless, charging off like that, showing such selfishness and snobbishness? Galus, bless him, was no bright spark and if it had needed one to discern the origin of the undead roaming the mall, maybe it needed one to take that line of thought a step further, to think; if everyone can be reincarnated, why not the person whose death is responsible for it all? The epicentre of the karmic explosion would perhaps have even gained more life than those surrounding him. Whatever, Samuel was dangerous. Galus was, presumably, walking straight towards him.

A far-fetched whim reminded him that Clara and Konka were capable creatures; three on one would be far more likely to ensure Galus's continued existence. But the unshakable truth of the matter was that, before long, somebody had to die. It was the way things worked nowadays. As pessimistic as his perspective was right now, Maxwell didn't like the idea of dying. As the only thing keeping Vyrm'n sane, snuffing it seemed awkwardly irresponsible somehow. Gestalt, being something more than the sum of his constituent parts, was unlikely to perish without some serious effort, despite his current, seemingly fatuous state.

So that left Galus. How many ways could he die? Maxwell didn't like to think about it but, being the scatterbrained soul he was, let a couple trickle into his mind. Most of them involved Samuel and various ineffable tortures, none of which served to ease his worried conscience.

Still, on the flipside, running away, however rash it might have been, gave Maxwell some alone time. There were no distractions now; the corridor connecting the mall to the atrium was silent, with the undead that once occupied it having long since lurched into the more fruitful main concourse, and this relatively tranquil environ was a welcome relief. Admittedly, it made thinking those unsettling thoughts about death and doom far easier; perhaps, Maxwell mused, he would have been better off staying in the thick of it, where distractions were aplenty, all thanks to Samuel's last will and testament…

Maxwell wasn't actually all too bothered about his destination. As long as it was reasonably secluded from the potent wrath of Samuel, he was quite happy. The entrance to the Atrium, though, was far too wide to barricade without some angry mob putting their collective minds to it. “Practically sealed off” was perhaps an understatement, applying only to the apparent lack of any other exits from the cylindrical chamber. There were a couple of mats in front of a suspiciously flat section of concrete, though. They were garnished with the gloopy remnants of greeters, identifiable only by the flyers protruding from the sludge, hints that somebody, naming no names, didn't want anybody leaving the arena by conventional means.

There was a staircase, though. The centrepiece of the chamber, it coiled around an elevator, presumably one that was exceptionally out of order. It looked a tad precarious – the passage of time had tarnished the handrail and crumbled a couple of the steps, but an inquisitive mind is an unstoppable force, especially one wishing to get as far out of the way of things as possible. But first…

-~-~-~-~-~-~

The unhurried pace of Konka Rar was beginning to get on Galus's nerves. The necromancer seemed overly content, untroubled by Maxwell's warnings, having dismissed them as the fabricated excuses for a coward's retreat. The genius's friend didn't share this attitude, however; he knew full well that taking him lightly was probably not the best idea he'd ever had. On the other hand, the prospect of some proper armaments was too good to resist; surely things could only get easier for Maxwell and himself if they were able to retaliate when the zombies attacked?

Or, for that matter, Gestalt or Vyrm'n. Not that that was the real reason for his desire for weaponry at all, obviously.

It was perhaps a tad irksome that the Weaponporium happened to be down the same side-route as Grocer Delight once was. Most of the irks were tiny little trifles; the smell, for example, of the fetid aftermath was easily filtered by Galus's helmet and Konka Rar really didn't mind it (it was reasonable to assume he had some conditioning as a result of previous nefarious exploits, but Galus didn't dare ask). Any fires still burning were doing so in the main body of the store, so their heat from a distance was more than tolerable. The streams of slurry now flowing from the ruins were easily traversable, if one didn't mind sacrificing a little dignity, a bit of their pride and, above all, the continued cleanliness of their clothes. Some curious yellow liquid was now seeping up the pilot's left leg, causing some slight discomfort, but the promise of a reward for his suffering made it bearable.

For a bit, anyway. One problem that was certainly non-trivial was the inescapable fact that the entrance to Galus's idea of heaven was now buried under a insurmountable barricade of fallen rubble and debris.

One of the windows was left uncovered, though, displaying tantalising pieces of engineering perfection; Galus didn't bother to read the labels, but everything just looked amazing. The shop, sealed from the outside world, had kept the copious collection of guns in near-mint condition; every barrel glistened, every bullet gleamed; every trigger was teasing him, daring him to pull them. No repercussions. No unfortunate consequences. No money to be paid.

The window, then, had to be broken. It was, naturally, the only way in. Galus had, by his count, three bullets left in his rifle. Two more than he would need.

Stepping back, oblivious to the snarky articulations Konka Rar was spouting, he took aim and fired.

Had he stopped to think about it for a moment or two, he might not have had to witness a spider-web pattern shimmer across the reinforced glass. He wouldn't have to see his bullet shudder to a halt, embedding itself firmly in the window. The security curtain wouldn't have dropped. The alarm system, weathered by time, would not have let out a feeble drone that gently bumbled down to a mere buzz, then to nothing at all, as if to signify the futility of his endeavour.

“Well done. That was almost inspired.”

Furious, the last two bullets were fired, but they could not fracture metal. Two holes, though present, were not enough to allow anything useful to pass through. Galus could only weep as the wails in the foyer grew louder once more.

-~-~-~-~-~-~

Crazed by the plague of Conscience, Vyrm'n's attack on the resurrected Samuel had something of a side effect; maybe it was unforeseen, maybe not. Across the bridge that spanned the two contrasting minds, a mindset was shared. As a consequence of the connection, Samuel's half-there brain was given a view of the world it had never seen before; Vyrm'n's view, where every atom blared its story to those who cared to listen, where every speck of matter sang their own little tune. Any form of life, however meagre in comparison to the real deal, became to him a brilliant beacon, its clamours unparalleled by anything the world of the inanimate could create.

It blew his mind. Literally.

But of course, unable to process the convoluted cacophony reality had suddenly become, his brain gave in. Having but the ragged remains of his brain to process it, there was no way he could make sense of it all. Total overload occurred.

Not before, however, he passed it on. The karmic link between him and his undead creations was enough of a bond to handle it and, with no conscious caretaker to stop it from flowing, the song at the heart of reality rushed through. Every zombie in the mall with more than half a brain suddenly saw their world transform before them for no apparent reason. To those who still held on to the majority of their grey matter, however loosely, the orchestra of the real world began to play.

-~-~-~-~-~-~

Standing agape, Konka Rar could hardly express how the despicably moronic act he'd witnessed had affected him. This man too was a buffoon; his survival to this advanced stage of the competition must have come luck alone. Or, perhaps, those who died before him were even more brainless than the sobbing mess before him. He wasn't sure that was possible, to be frank, but nothing could surprise him.

The caterwaul from behind him was getting curiously loud. Taking a backwards glance, it became apparent to the necromancer just what sort of situation he'd gotten himself into. A whole horde of zombies, assumedly unsettled by the gunshots, was presently beginning to lurch into action, pushing their way down the corridor. Their numbers were frighteningly impressive; it was almost as if half the mall was coursing towards them, flooding their inconveniently narrow path, so cramped that limbs were becoming entwined as they moved forwards in alarming unison. Many at the front of the rabble seemed to be screaming, jaws unchecked, hands or fingers cradling mouths in desperate attempts to keep their only means of expressing their agony functioning. Others were covering their ears with whatever miscellaneous appendages they happened to have (some not even their own), trying fruitlessly to block out the rising din. They should, Konka Rar noted, take a page out of Galus's book; curled up in an approximate ball, ignorant of the chaos around him. Something had snapped within him, most likely, with his failure to storm the shop before him having been the final straw. The lich found such lack of composition pathetic, but right now he had other things to do, rather than admonishing a broken soul…

His foes were, despite their natural slowness, encroaching fast; hundreds of bodies shoving from behind were pushing their counterparts towards their two targets. In a sickening moment of revelation, Konka Rar realised there were simply too many to fight; dealing with the sheer number of foes in front of him would require some rather advanced magic, spells he wouldn't have the time to form in the moments between now and the deluge reaching him. Backing up wasn't an option; the debris behind him stopped that. Neither, he considered dryly, was fleeing; the blithering idiot he'd attached himself to had led him straight down a cul-de-sac on that fools' errand of his.

A fear-fuelled scan of his surroundings, though, presented one opportunity – a lone doorway, once used by mall staff to access the backs of the stores selling refreshments to theatre patrons. Gestalt's explosion had tactfully removed the door, which would have been otherwise impenetrable behind the mall's security system. A moment's hesitation, though, would seal it off; Konka Rar was going to have to run very fast if he wanted to get through the opening before the brainless blockade surrounded it. Not enough time, he justified to himself, to inform the skulking Galus of his only escape route.

And so, trying his hardest not to show terror out of habit alone, the necromancer fled for his life, leaving the doomed man alone.

-~-~-~-~-~-~

During the competition so far, however you wanted to look at it, Maxwell had done a lot of rather peculiar things. Most of them made sense to him, if not to an outside party, trying to make sense of actions dictated only by the whimsical notions of a capricious mind. There were a lot of other things, though, that even he hadn't really understood. Not because of why he did them, but merely the fact he was doing them at all. Picking through the rancid corpses of shopping mall greeters, hunting for a clue he considered vital to unlocking one of the enigmas this battle to the death had posed to him, was not something he had really ever intended doing under even the most pressing of circumstances.

He found a leaflet, still reasonably readable, advertising Electromagic's extensive catalogue. Not that he was interested in buying, of course, but the prices were grabbing his attention on a regular basis. They made him set one thing in stone; there was indeed a good reason why the silly-looking squiggle, crossed through with a single line, had adorned so many of windows that he'd seen in the arena.

Returning that to the pocket he'd found it in (courtesy in a situation like this, far from being a frivolity, was to Maxwell a necessity), he resumed his search for a very particular thing. He had several hunches concerning quite how all the contestants spoke the same language, how all the signs he'd seen had been comprehendible, and though he had one he was sticking to, it wasn't proving one of them correct that he so desired to see a certain phrase for. Rather, it was merely to confirm to himself that some things, no matter how hard the Observer might have tried, would doubtless remain beyond his power to influence.

There was also the tiny glimmer of a hope that, by some leap of coincidence, it might explain something else that had been nagging him since he'd seen it written in the Cabaret's diary…

“Um…”

Engrossed in his pursuit of proof, Maxwell hadn't noticed Clara sneak up on him. The nun was quite astonished at what she was seeing. Maxwell, previously quite sensitive, was rifling through the possessions of the dead with seemingly no acknowledgement of his actions.

“What are you doing, dear?”

“Oh, don't mind me. I have a rather insatiable desire to know which, as you can see, has led me to grope the bottom of the barrel somewhat. I'd explain, but I doubt we have all day, let alone all week. It's complicated.”

And there, in the locked embrace of a long-dead soul, was a flyer, advertising (ironically, to Maxwell's mind) a local circus troupe. Though the first word of the phrase was last behind a thumb's remains, it was there.

Were this a perfect world, he would've spun right round, explained his findings, received some reward and recognition for his work and gone back to his research. Instead, though, as his eyes left the exclamation mark on the blood-soaked paper, his ears were opened to a disturbing noise:

“…ahahaharharhahaghgahrarghgaahahaharg h…”

Put on edge by the sudden nature of the sound, Maxwell's neck almost snapped as he shot glances round the Atrium. Clara and him were quite obviously alone. Though it made some sense, to say that their innocent conversation had triggered a reaction from a nearby zombie, such a theory made no sense if there were none of the buggers about…

“…this cannot be happening to me!”

Between the mixed bursts of manic laughter and cries of agony, those few words were barely decipherable. Clara patted her tome and browsed the corridor; there were only a couple of zombies at the intersection and all these were heading down towards the theatre.

“…why do you not praise me? You should be my minions, but…”

Maxwell and Clara looked at each other in light bemusement as the effable commentary abruptly gave way to primal screams once more. As Maxwell rolled his eyes, a crescendo in the cries reached its peak and a noticeable bump was whacked into the exposed duct behind him.

“HAIL me! Stop your scrrreaaaaaaaaams! You are all too loud for you master; be SILENT!”

Irritant scratching, bone against metal, screeched in the duo's ears below, before the thrashing died down and the Atrium was silent again. Maxwell seemed rather content, as if he'd merely witnessed a common occurrence with an everyday explanation, whereas Clara continued to quiver noticeably. She didn't dare ask; the afflictions of the truly undead, though perhaps interesting to study for oneself, were right now the last thing she wanted a lecture on.

“Well, that was pretty curious. Makes sense, though. Still, let's leave it to one side; I say we have a staircase to climb…”

Too late did Clara remember what she had really wanted to ask the genius about; the subtle motion she'd seen in the theatre doorway as she'd sought an explanation for his earlier glance that way, shortly before he'd stormed off. Maxwell had bounded off towards the stairs with a spring in his step, one that didn't stop as he reached them, translating into scaling them two at a time.

She remembered her previous considerations of Maxwell's personality and sighed. She reached out for the handrail, gripping it perhaps a tad too tightly…

-~-~-~-~-~-~

Galus's grip on his knees was starting to make them throb gently, but he honestly couldn't care. He could hear a constant drone, the amalgamation of several hundred howls, each one the only output of a broken brain, but this only made him more determined to shun the world around him. He'd always been made aware that the unexpected should be prepared for; combating multitudinous difficulties was an inherent part of a space pilot's work and overcoming them was practically the job's description. Somehow, though, this battle had been beyond the unexpected; the sheer impossibility of the situation he was in has been gnawing at him for some time now, but his streak of resourcefulness had kept it in check.

But now, as the undead legions approached, he'd had enough. As much as he was accustomed to having everybody out to get him, this conflict had been overwhelming. He couldn't count the number of times he'd had a near-lethal run-in; Samuel, Vyrm'n, Gestalt, even Maxwell in his own particular way; all of them had tried to bring about his demise. Even his own brain had gotten in on the act; how stupid had he been, plugging his last bullets into a foolish cause? When one's own mind has turned against you, how do you deal with that? It seemed impossible to come out on top. Now he had incurred the seemingly unstoppable wrath of the mall's zombies, he was screwed.

Still, he could feel his combat knife pressing against his suit, a lump on his side he'd tried to leave unacknowledged. He might be dead to the world in more ways than one, but he could try. Why not?

Trembling violently, he willed himself upright, uncrumpling the body he'd resigned to an unavoidable fate. As he stood there, amidst the dying streams of putrid gore, his arm continued rising. He held his knife in a death-like vice. The helmet he'd been issued long ago was at last removed, every square inch of newly exposed skin dyed red, the consequence of a potent mixture of anger and exhaustion.

As the first wave of zombies reached Galus's perch amongst the rubble, he let his knife fall.

-~-~-~-~-~-~

And then, a world away, a silhouetted figure surveyed his discovery. He stood atop a folly; a tower that served no other purpose than just existing, to make the mall a part of the city skyline. A skyline the man who laid eyes upon it knew he couldn't possibly recognise, but found familiar all the same.

Tainted with the dull red glow of sunset, concrete pinnacles surrounded him, each a testament to their planet's engineers. So what if they were presently crumbling, having been denied their upkeep for years on end? They were there, reaching out to touch the cloudy sky above. Overgrown creepers had wrapped their tendrils around them, spiralling upwards to catch the light. It wasn't quite on par with the desolate scenes movies tended to paint of post-apocalyptic cityscapes, but the link was there, captured forever in the mind of the only living human in the whole of this world.

The cessation of the rhymic tapping of Clara's approach told him that she was similarly affected by the ruination before her. Awestruck, she let the silence continue, as it had seemingly always been and would continue to be when the contestants were spirited away. She didn't like to think about what was going to happen to her.

In the gravity of the moment, she didn't notice Maxwell pull a tattered logbook from his pocket, one of its corners slightly charred, courtesy of the Labyrinth Field, another still damp, courtesy of Destructo World. Cabaret had only ever made two entries into it, in the short time he'd been its keeper. The second one was hardly even an entry at all:

So my plan is:
1: Find that weird guy, Maxwell, and give him my stuff. He's intelligent enough to use my mask, no doubt. He was trying to tell me something earlier in front of a strongman's tent. What on Earth did he mean when he said “who is us”? If I get the time I'll ask him about it
2: Go back to the arcade an

Despite being unfinished (Maxwell could only assume that its untimely ending was a indication of when he'd showed up), it was in fact rather revealing. Coupled with the leaflet below, it allowed him to put a name to the dead world that now filled his vision and, by association, his mind; the world the strongman had been lifting, with its continents in a curious configuration that he hadn't recognised.

Earth.

Show Content

SpoilerIt's not exactly a big reveal now, but I figured I best wrap that whole affair up at some point. Now seemed the time to do it...

Originally posted on MSPA by cyber95.

---

The world dissolved around the remaining three contestants in an instant, leaving them in a world of nothing. Maxwell, Vyrm'n, and Gestalt were all visible from each other's locations through the nothingness. Interestingly enough, Konka Rar and Sister Clara could also be seen through the void.
For a few minutes, nothing happened, until suddenly a voice was heard.
"Ack! Sorry about that folks! Had to get a few thing sorted out somewhere else! Oh, hey, you two. Zombie people. You're cool. You can stay for a bit, I guess. Let me just whip something up for you all quickly."
There were a few more moments of silence, before something started happening, and another world began to materialize around them. The empty space was replaced by worn, brown stone with intricate carvings, narrow corridors leading into maze-like configurations, and booby traps all around.
"Alright, now this is a fun place! You can call it, I don't know, the Doomish Temple. You can't throw a rock without setting off a few traps here! Might be a good strategy, actually. Have fun!"
The voice disappeared once more, leaving the contestants and their guests to their own devices.

Show Content

SpoilerShort transition post is short, but I was being NAGGED.
So this is the Temple of Doom Doomish Temple. Thing Spelunky, Indiana Jones, and everything else like that. This is that kind of place. Traps are all around, special rooms for nefarious purposes can be found, and there are probably at least a few curses on some stuff. Leaving this one open for interpretation.

Originally posted on MSPA by Opirian.

---

Show Content

SpoilerVery well written as usual, I guess I could've written something for this round... but that would have marred what was written, thanks for the well written death... it works.

Originally posted on MSPA by Schazer.

---

It was quiet, but not peaceful. Somehow, the oppressive depth of this silence, the non-sound of knowing miles of rock pressed inexorably down overhead, was worse than the groaning of zombies. Not that Vyrm'n knew much about either. Conscience's act of dragging her out of hiding, despite the pain, was too brutish to allow for the finer points of her atomic vision, like the vibrations of sound, to reach her in the mall.

And now, she was too far away to care. Instead, the other custodian of that star-flecked frame surged beneath the exterior, uncaring as ever. What little motive it had had always been, and would be, a pale flicker of however Vyrm'n had felt. As such, self-preservation was the idle little concept trickling through the implacable entity's mind.

The Faceless slipped, easy and instinctual, into the deeper gloom, wrapping itself around the rubbled of a semi-collapsed hallway and slinking off down a passageway. Its route through the catacombs was unhurried, meandering; if a pit trap, or a door grinding shut halted its advance, it unconcernedly turned and took another, arbitrary route further and further from the exalted congregation of sentience in that first chamber.

One bright mote, however, gave stately, measured chase through the unnatural gloom.

Originally posted on MSPA by SleepingOrange.

---

Clara glanced around the room she was in. It was tiny and carved roughly out of the living rock; approximately circular, it had eight passages leading off from it. There was no real reason to assume it was a central chamber or anything like that, but the old nun couldn't help but feel like the number of corridors was somehow significant, and that this room was if not central then at least important. A long life and longer death had taught her to trust her instincts, so she didn't waste any time trying to rationalize them away or pretend she hadn't had those thoughts.

The first to move was that black... thing... from earlier. Apparently it was more than just a streaky blob of darkness, if it had managed to make it this far, but it was still incredibly unsettling. She watched impassively as it slunk off down one of the corridors, squeezing through gaps and sliding under barriers that Clara herself would have no chance of passing. Seemed antisocial, that one. Between its apparent tendency to sequester itself off from the other contestants and Maxwell's obvious pacifism, she had to wonder what the other people from this game were like to have been beaten by them. For that matter, the most violence she'd seen was from the boxes; even then, it had mostly been implied rather than observed, and the little spirit just seemed so innocuous. Combined with Galus's obvious incompetence, the whole bunch was just incredibly different from the superpowered group that she'd been told to fight.

This whole train of thought rather forced Clara to deal with some things she'd been trying to put off and forget. This was not the Intense Thingamajig she had been forced into. The chipper but distracted voice that had announced their arrival into this doomish temple wasn't the Monitor she had become so accustomed to dreading. She thought the last thing she could remember was being transported out of that vile swamp, but if she concentrated, she could recall a desert and something about Aph and B. If she really strained there was something after that too, but it felt less like memory than like... Watching a movie, she supposed. She was aware of her own surroundings and situations, and at the same time aware of a completely different set of circumstances running concurrently. The bizarre part was that the movie was about her, and she was only vaguely aware of it. It was worrisome, and the entire shift from one battle to another was worrisome, and the sounds echoing out of the corridor the black creature had gone down were worrisome as well.

Clara shook her head and blinked a few times. She was a practical person, and even if she was worried or confused or in the middle of some sort of sick game with the uncanny hunch that she wasn't entirely who she thought she was, she wouldn't let herself get bogged down with unhelpful cogitation or crippling nervousness. There were tasks in front of her and people around her, and fretting would do nobody any good. Straightening up, she decided the first thing to do was get a better feel for the location. Picking a passage at random from the ones that thing hadn't gone down, she poked her head into one of the openings. She saw a dirt road stretching away, lined with houses and a forge and trees. The houses got denser as they got farther away from her, clearly a residential area of some old town. It was odd how few people were about given the midmorning sun and number of dwellings, and the ones that were in evidence wore odd, dark clothes and moved with purpose, ignoring any others they passed. It was a stone hallway that went for about fifteen feet before curving sharply to the right. There were markings on the walls, but it was difficult to make out what they were supposed to be from her current position. Clara blinked again and looked back at the others.

Maxwell was biting a thumbnail and gazing at the walls with the vacant stare of someone whose thoughts were worlds away from whatever planet the Observer has dropped them on this time. Konka Rar was muttering to himself and tapping the walls of the chamber with his skull-topped staff. Gestalt, if Clara remembered the bizarre spirit's name correctly, was as inscrutable as ever, sitting placidly with its broom balanced across its topmost box. It still surprised the woman that such a strange creature would have been chosen for a competition like this one; perhaps this grandmaster had more of a sense of humor than her own had had. The description of this new round certainly bore that theory out, but it was hard to ascribe a trait like humor to an entity that threw sapient beings into a bizarre imitation of gladiatorial combat for its own amusement. She briefly wondered if this one's reasoning or motivations had been different, but before that train of thought could get far, Maxwell made a vaguely interrogative noise and headed into a corridor.

Preferring his company to that of the sneering lich or the disconcerting spirit, Clara followed after him, taking the precaution of unsheathing her swordstick. The fencer's dreamlike expression had hardened, signalling a return to the relatively mundane reality the rest of the world occupied. "What's on your mind, dear?" "Just... Had a thought."

It was difficult for a human to resurface from the depths of catatonia, and schrotgolems don't have the psychological resilience that comes with an organic brain and a lifetime of experience with repression and willful ignorance. Still, the cognitive break had been exactly what Gestalt needed, and a newly-revitalized consciousness emerged from the cloudy depths of mindlessness. Deep parts of the golem's mind had been ticking away in the absence of conscious thought, and a series of goals and ideas and priorities had formed in the void that had previously been filled by Gestalt's animal instincts and reactionary cautiousness.

Samuel was dead. On reflection, it was probably much of the reason that the golem had snapped when it did; the sudden and violent termination of a link that had tenuously held on for as long as it had, coupled with the stress and newness of the entire situation, had doubtless been the final straw. Gestalt's people, if constructs like schrotgolems with no discernible collective identity were could be called people, were fragile at the best of times, and Gestalt was old. It was a wonder it had lasted as long as it had. Samuel was dead, but by the very nature of their link and his powers, some of his humanity and abilities had rubbed off on his partner and they were more powerfully manifested after the backlash from his suicide.

Samuel was dead. Rexxcer was dead too. He'd been a good man, a genius, a philanthropist. He'd been Gestalt's friend, insofar as it was capable. He was dead and it was the fault of the caprices of some ineffable being without the decency to do it with so much as an if-you-please. A world's greatest scientist dropped into a situation he had no hope of escaping purely for the amusement of one giggling god. It was unacceptable. A being whose millennia of existence had been solely to serve the greater good, snuffed out for chuckles. Good men and average men and weak men had all fallen at each other's hands, but the blood was all on the Observer's.

Survival was no longer the only concern. Survival was simply a means to an end. Gestalt's survival would bring about the end of the grandmaster's, and Gestalt's survival intended to bring Maxwell's and Vyrm'n's with it. These two new faces would come along too if the golem had any say; only one death was on the horizon.

This immediately proved difficult, as three of its companions had already disappeared; the only one left, the bony one with the metal enhancements, was paying no attention to Gestalt, preferring to do enigmatic things of his own. He positively reeked of sort of magic that had spawned the schrotgolem and so many others like it, as well as exuding an air of haughty confidence and effortless superiority. Both facts would doubtless prove invaluable to the golem, and it wasted no time in making its move.

you hate him

The lich had ignored the others from the moment the Observer had stopped talking: as soon as the typical paralysis from a new round had ended, Konka Rar's magical and technological sensors had gone wild. From what little data he could gather from where he was, there was some sort of artifact of immense power somewhere in this temple, and he intended to find it. He began assembling spells to aid his search, twisting syllables falling off his tongue as his staff doused for power sources.

His attention was fully occupied by his search; he had little doubt that the other competitors in this joke of a battle would completely fail to attack him. With his senses all tuned to the nuances of magical and electromagnetic emanations, he failed to notice all but the boxes slipping away. He'd expected it, but he didn't see it happen. He similarly didn't notice the burnt piece of wood hover across the room from the only being who hadn't left it; he did notice, however, when it started writing on the wall in front of him, charcoal letters forming across the pitted stone. The message was... confusing.

"Hate whom?", he snapped irritably, concentration lapsing and focus returning to the room.

the observer

the one who dragged you into this and bent you to his will

ostensibly the one who started your own battle as well

Konka Rar's cybernetic eye refocused, the closest he could do to scowling with annoyance. As irritating as the presumptuous thing's implied tone was, it was correct. The powerful sorcerer was nothing if not violently furious at the powers that had seen fit to toss him around like a puppet for their own amusement. He settled for crossing his arms and tapping the ground with the base of his staff. "What of it?"

i assure you that your animosity is mirrored by mine if not surpassed by it

i lack the tools to effectively take my revenge but possess a number of abilities that may aid others in doing so

others like yourself with access to magic i cannot grasp

A clacking grunt escaped from the lich's skull, presumably the necrotic equivalent of a snort. Allying himself with others had proven time and again to be leagues less efficient than simply using his own servants as he was accustomed to; more treacherous lieutenants and double-dealing agents and power-hungry apprentices than he cared to remember had taught him that lesson, and the inept cyborg he'd tried to use against Ekelhaft had hammered the point home. Doing so with as bizarre and apparently-worthless being as Gestalt certainly made no sense. He made as if to turn back to his divinations with a sardonic "You'll forgive he if I don't clap with glee at the prospect of allying myself with a shambling junkheap, thanks all the same."

The writing stick still floating by the wall and the stacks of boxes that formed Gestalt's main body didn't shift. The only thing that betrayed that the golem had anything to do with what happened next was a slight fluctuation in magical potential in the room, a tipoff the lich barely payed heed to and one that wouldn't have afforded him enough time to react if he had.

Konka Rar's wrists slammed against the wall he was next to, and his staff pinwheeled away, landing across the room and rolling into one of the passageways out. His laser cannon made a sad "vweeoop" noise as it disconnected itself from its power source, and his jaw was literally ripped from his face as though to silence him. The input from his mechanical eye flickered and distorted before shutting off entirely. A moment later it rebooted, displaying in glowing green text:

Conn7hhon: St0ble
P23er: 94%
Electrohdsbbinetism Vete7hk: Onliqqqqq
qqqq:Qqq qq

&displaytext: then perhaps we will see if tearing you apart limb from limb and detonating that lovely generator of yours will destroy you and if your death will bring about the end of the round and bring me closer to the observer

i dont want to end you and i am not even sure that i can but i am confident that you neither know how to damage me nor are in any position to do so

i did not want to go the violent route it is quite counter to my goals and indeed it is reminiscent of the tactics employed by our common enemy but

pride goeth before destruction

a haughty spirit before a fall

a less perceptive wizard than yourself taught me that

With no warning, the force that had bound Konka Rar's arms released; his weapon reconnected to its power, and his staff rolled back towards his feet. The charcoal slid along the wall again, elegant writing spelling out another placid message.

please

we cannot do this without each other and if we dont do it then who will

Originally posted on MSPA by Sruixan.

---

oh dear right that’s vyrm’n oh fuck this was bound to happen wasn’t it oh shit oh shit shit shit Galus you fool of course you were the only bugger who was going to get himself killed weren’t you fuck combine that trigger-finger of yours with a wanderlust and a dash of pure stubbornness oh my that was only ever going to end in tears actually fuck why oh why did you wander off damn I didn’t tell him why didn’t I tell him I thought he wouldn’t understand he wouldn’t comprehend how much danger he’d put himself in brush it aside with a simple gesture a cute little comment about the state of the other undead and how they cause no harm fuck no I knew he’d leave regardless he was a fighter and the prospect of a whole armoury fuck what if I’d told him could he possibly still be here breathing heart beating no no no don’t think about that shit no just because I didn’t tell him didn’t mean he’d have lived no no no damn it I will NOT accept responsibility for another death I did NOT kill him wait fuck I didn’t kill Samuel either what was I thinking no I didn’t bloody kill him either that was an accident I am not to blame honest

oh Galus I wonder how you died it was what ten minutes only ten fucking minutes so you might not have reached the theatre especially if you had to drag that bleedin’ skeleton along with you but no fuck you would have gotten to the weaponry I bet shit it was down a dead end that was always going to be fun I mean so what if there were weapons there you were going to bloody well need them to get out once you’d gambolled in there like a fucking fool damn it you didn’t think that far ahead of course you didn’t think that far ahead you were as good a tactician as a fucking horsefly oh hang ten minutes fuck Samuel could have lurched out of his tomb and down the concourse the bloody bastard could have couldn’t he fuck no why am I trying to figure out how you died I’d like to keep the contents of my stomach safely within the confines of my corporeal body oh shit yes dammit I’m the last human fuck I am as well those other two stragglers don’t count shit

where am I now no screw that that’s a stupid question everybody asks that bloody question it’s like what time is it or what’s for tea actually that’s a point what time is it how long has it been since this clusterfuck began I have no fucking clue dammit oh and I didn’t get my cuppa bugger the only place I’m ever likely to get a nice soothing beverage and I go and bloody forget about it stupid stupid stupid why am I scolding myself for not getting tea in a life and death situation that’s fucking crazy oh my I am crazy aren’t I no let’s be frank what’s one up from crazy because I sure as hell am that shit I’m more like several dozen rungs up the crazy ladder from just plain and simple crazy and it is only mildly disconcerting yep my head’s not screwed on straight anymore oh shit

doomish temple oh for fuck’s sake observer try to be more original well actually that name is totally unique because it’s so contrived no-one in their right mind would possibly consider it mind you if he has to come up with a name for it does that not mean that this place does not have a name I mean it’s a temple a place of worship of course it needs a name why would it not have a name why why why I am thinking about that more pressing concerns right now like how am I going to survive I’m fucking doomed aren’t I the last meatbag is gonna snuff it no Vyrm’n can she help where where she’s buggered off why the fuck has she left she should be relieved to see me fuck no wait if she doesn’t want to go anywhere near me she must be in a very bad mood shit yes I have absolutely no idea what she did last round for all I know she could have gotten screwed over manifold damn yes that’s true face it fuck what are the chances no damn don’t think objectively about that it’ll only screw you over too late 1/3 and that’s back to basics not counting the fact you’d lose a fight to a sardine tin let alone the two monstrosities you face here plus one shit Konka Rar you bastard what are you doing here shit

hang on hang on hang on hang on light why the fuck is there light I can see my hand in front of my face oh shit I’m biting my nails again I thought I’d kicked that stupid habit shit no rewind light where there are no torches I can’t see any torches ambient light I see no sources looks like the tunnels go on for a while even light would have difficulty with them no how the heck is there light I will not accept “there just is” as an answer why why not come on battle to the death and you’re worried about the ambience of the arena Maxwell you imbecile stupid stupid stupid no wait actually hang on that’s a point tunnels eight tunnels eight of the buggers what’s so special about eight religious connotations perhaps are there any religions with eight as their sacred number oh no no no no no no there’s another reason no no no coincidence has to be coincidence it isn’t anything but of course it isn’t come on be rational it’s a fleeting chance incarnate

let’s see stone building materials brown it’s all brown no paint no pigmentation so not too advanced a civilisation what type of rock it’s brown that’s about it too hard for clays could be sandstone feels nice and solid if I tap it with my foot tap tap tap oh yeah that feels good for some reason oh fuck someone’s carved an octagon onto the floor shit no don’t think of it like that Maxwell don’t extrapolate that sacred number eight sacred shape octagon it makes perfect sense no worries it’s totally not indicative of a very disturbing idea in any way shape or form oh fuck shut up think about other things like damn yes look the floor it’s a solid block yes wow some craftsmanship at least fuck wait the walls no joints no seams no grooves big chamber huge octagonal chamber with no seams what the fuck they carved this out underground those are literal tunnels we’re in bedrock here that makes sense but a society that can tunnel this effectively would be pretty advanced why not make your temple above ground you morons why where’s the entrance what no exit get it right you’re gonna exit the building yeah you’re going to flee flawlessly like a coward again fuck no no no no dammit Konka Rar you were bloody right as well I’m a quivering wreck and that’s why Galus is dead shit no damn it you did not kill him no way back to the matter at hand please

booby traps implies treasure something worth protecting sacred idol icon item etcetera
so what why does that resonate the lich what’s he looking at that’s it he’s not moving he’s standing there staring at a wall it’s a pretty uninteresting wall really so why he’s squinting oh fuck of course that eye of his bionic augmentation I bet you there’s something in that eye of his what are you looking at is it revealing something about that wall is there something underneath that’s troubling him no solid rock cold hard rock nothing underneath hmm chalk that up under “mysteries” like the lights why is there ambient light underground what’s causing that I want to know I crave that answer I desire it for some ineffable and totally ridiculous reason I have yet to put a label to bar my own curiosity stupid me

find out I should find out I’m not going to find it out in here it’s pretty dull but awkwardly important of course it always is the small unsuspecting thing that’s totally not suspicious in any way shape or form the details the tiny little details and how they are pinholes in the curtain that let you see the bigger picture beyond hand in front of your face indeed now where choice of eight corridors make that seven Vyrm’n’s down one of them no confrontations please please please pick at random that one

very narrow very narrow why so narrow if you have a congregation you could not fit it through here too narrow must be special for priests only or something seems fair enough I suppose frivolity underground is a little silly too wide and it’ll collapse completely wait shit who’s following me oh it’s Clara she’s alright head’s firmly glued on she could be a good sounding board ooooh that’s clever yes it’s getting awfully cramped in here voice those concerns however silly they might be after all lack of communication got Galus killed fuck no not this again

The contorted expression this last thought produced seemed to trigger a response from the nun, presumably in concern for his wellbeing.

"What's on your mind, dear?"

All Maxwell could do was stare at her. How best to describe his every whim, his every little trouble and nagging annoyance. A window onto his world. What could he say?

Nothing much.

"Oh, I just... had a thought."

His new companion could obviously tell that those few words did not encompass his true mindset, but it seemed rude to probe deeper. As the genius began to stride forth once more, she sighed and followed behind.

Originally posted on MSPA by Schazer.

---

The Faceless finally found a dead end, the doorway it had slithered through filling partway with an ominous rumble and a shower of rocks. For a moment, nothing else stirred in the crypt save for the persistent noiseless hum of deep magic. The rough-hewn stone floor Vyrm’n slid over was hatched with the deep gouges of some monstrous machine that had sunk its teeth into the bedrock, at odds with the smoother, worn floors in the less auxiliary caverns the shadow had slunk through. The furrowed stone was curiously devoid of darkened valleys; but the whole surface appeared lit as though basking under a clear, moonless sky, instead of however many miles of stone sealed this temple away from such light.

One ridge rose a little, a craggy dome protruding from the rock. Something that might’ve been a face were it not so featureless emerged, unimpeded, and uttered the tiniest crooning noise as it surveyed the pile of rubble. The discontent little tone could’ve easily stemmed from the stone around it, strangely akin to the creak of one great boulder leaning upon another. Its squat, lumbering form rising fully from the bedrock, the beast shambled silently over to the blockage; the little boulders of its feet didn’t fully protrude from the ground it was so seamlessly one with.

A seam zig-zagged its way into existence along the front of the creature’s head, before splitting into a pair of stony jaws. The lower hung loosely, as if on an invisible pivot, bumping dully against its chest. Nestled within the cavernous maw were, what logic would duly deny and declare, as eyes; they were a pair of blank, pale circles staring out of its own mouth.

The beast took one glance back at the motionless Faceless, before digging its claws into the rubble and raising a sizeable pile of rocks to its face. The chamber echoed dully with the sound of gravel on rock for quite some time, followed by a sharper scraping noise as the whatever-it-was scrabbled about for the last of the fallen pebbles. A final scree-slip sigh indicated the stone thing had completed its task, and it turned to affix Vyrm’n’s pinprick pattern with its misplaced gaze. It raised a claw, then stopped, instead electing to utter a commanding grit-growl to the temple around it. The rock by the shadow shifted, and a smaller duplicate of the first creature rose from the floor, duly placing its sandstone palm upon the gently trembling surface.

With the moan of a boulder keeling over to finally settle at the foot of a valley, the golem fell apart as whatever weak concept of self it had was discarded in favour of staring at the vastness of the universe. The first made a cracking noise and slowly approached the unresponsive Faceless, stooping as it walked to pick up its compatriot’s lower jaw and mutely devour it. Then, a little more thoughtfully (or so the casual observer in the gloom had to assume), one stony slab of a hand drifted just above Vyrm’n’s hide, knowing well enough not to touch it. In turn, from the sleek black surface, dust and blood and a battleload of detritus wormed its way upward, diffusing out of the shadow and collecting in a grimy swirl in the stone beast’s palm. She shifted a little beneath it, the void sloping away from its position of external control as the noise was drawn out.

Vyrm’n struggled her way out, the creature withdrawing its hand and shambling backwards a little as it brought its hand to its face to examine the mess it had collected, before deciding not to ingest it. The Faceless was rising slowly, trying get her bearings - her movements were slower as she came to terms with how much matter of hers had been ripped apart in the fiasco of last round.

A new place. Then... who was killed? She couldn’t remember anything beyond assaulting Samuel’s mind with her power to comprehend the song of existence, but to her considerable relief Conscience was nowhere to be found, within or without-

Vyrm’n froze. Her precursory glance around to locate the others had found something else - a slow, sonorous, yet richly complex tone. It lacked the chattering complexity of life, but something about it seemed constantly threatening to crash against itself into something more chaotic. What’s more, it was all around - the stone sang with it, lighting up the cave in Vyrm’n’s eyes with an unnatural glow, streaked with these shifting instances of something, barely alive, not quite sentient, but tantalisingly close. If pressed, she would’ve found its tone closest to... Gestalt.

The creature was still standing, now bathed in a swirling congregation only Vyrm’n could see. It had the sizable mass of dust and other burrs which had pierced the darkness hovering slightly above its lumpy hand, offered towards the Faceless as though asking for her to take it.

Thank you. The energy permeating the stone didn’t respond in any perceptible way, but the agglom in front of Vyrm’n made a quiet little noise, like a pile of gravel settling.

Originally posted on MSPA by Schazer.

---

What is this place?

Neither golem or cavern answered, instead deciding Vyrm'n wouldn't take back the noisy grime. It rotated smoothly, feet not shifting, and lumbered out the way the two had entered. Nonplussed, the shadow snaked after it, catching up and tapping it on its boulder of a head.

Are you there?

Vyrm'n loomed curiously over the creature, which would've stood just under Maxwell's shoulder. It ignored the Faceless' prodding and trudged over beside a pit trap Vyrm'n had set off; peering into the bed of spikes, it tossed the ball of filth it was carrying into the pit, and with a scooping motion filled the pit from the bottom up. The rock flowed smoothly, the golem kicking at the flawless surface in a rather disconsolate way. It might've been the ominous, glacial creaks, but it didn't seem too happy.

The shadow at its side gave up vying for the creature's attention, and instead decided to just listen again. And again, that effusion of gold illuminated the crypt, leaving Vyrm'n feeling even blacker and sullen and contrary just by virtue of being there. Glancing around for any sort of discrepancy, that... cube of rock which the trap had occupied felt off. Vyrm'n couldn't place it, but judging by the way the golem had reacted, she had to hazard... that wasn't how it was meant to be. This creature, which in the Faceless' mind was analogous to the spirit or core or rudimentary soul of the temple itself, she still couldn't pin down which, never intended to drive away intruders. Perhaps it never expected any.

And yet, it didn't seem alarmed or surprised by Vyrm'n at all. Perversely, it knew just how to restore her. The Faceless would've been all too happy to shrug it off as coincidence, but too many discrepancies screamed out. If it didn't want the traps, why had it not gotten rid of them sooner? Why was it helping her? Why wasn't it speaking? What are we supposed to do here?

We.

Where are the others? Vyrm'n didn't spot the golem's blank stare as it focused upon her. It sighed with a dusty kind of whoomph, lowered its gaze, and stumped over to the doorway where it laboriously picked up the scattered arrowheads. A rocky paw rubbed at the patch of wall, opposite the arrow-trap, which was pockmarked with the missiles; the creature gave a sharp, frustrated crack. Vyrm'n warily approached it, that star-specked mannequin-limb of a hand reaching out and clasping the golem's shoulder.

I need to find the others... I need to find Maxwell.

The beast was motionless. Vyrm'n slipped away, back toward the octagonal chamber. The creature's hand lowered slowly, and the golem descended smoothly into the floor.

-----

Konka Rar chose not to immediately reply to the schrotgolem. With as much of a look of loathing as he could muster in his lone, soulless eye, the lich picked up his staff with a slow deliberation before walking over to retrieve his jaw. There was an unpleasant crack as he shoved it back in place, before he continued icily,

"How do you intend to defeat this... Observer, then?"

The charcoal drifted pensively over the rock for a moment, before scribbling out,

though our means of detection deviate in the end we are both aware in these caverns

there is some considerable force coalesced condensed

i sorely doubt the observer would hand us the tools to end him yet he tantalises us with this

somehow he knows a way he can see if only we knew how that we may turn this against him

"What," snapped Konka, "did you think I was doing? Trying to locate the untold riches of whatever forsaken god whose temple we've been tossed into? I hardly need a walking trash-heap to hand me orders."

there

that antagonism

it is what the observer and his ilk thrive on as they laugh above us

dragged once from your home to fulfil their sick desire dragged again from your battle at their whim when they thought you could serve their need for merriment better

"Enough!"

my intent is not to anger you can you not see that is what i want to avoid i am tired of entertaining these madmen directly or not

The lich, whose staff had been raised in preparation for a violent curse, lowered.

"What do you suggest, th-"

Gestalt's consciousness casually flicked around as Vyrm'n oozed back into the central octagonal chamber, forcing her way through under a partially collapsed doorway; a light brush was all the schrotgolem needed to know the Faceless was back to its more placid self. The necromancer watched with some fascination as the starry mass moved in a way that could only logically equate to standing up, accepting the handle off some tool from the golem, and proceeded to do nothing else for a good minute or so. Konka was about to ask what just happened, when the black dust on the floor leapt up, mashed itself together, and let the schrotgolem write anew.

the faceless describes a beast which it insists - there was a long pause as Gestalt attempted to parse Vyrm'n's thoughts - is the temple

perhaps this warrants investigation

Show Content

SpoilerNot to go hating on Brush Script or anything, Slorange, but it's just so damned hard to read for me. It's miniscule on Firefox; dunno about any other browsers.

Originally posted on MSPA by Sruixan.

---

Progress along the passageway was surprisingly fast; Maxwell’s pace piqued Clara’s curiosity somewhat, as it appears that the man with a passion for the new and unexplained was ignoring the enigmas scrawled on the walls that surrounded him. The walls were packed with carvings, from floor to ceiling, delicately carved so as to convey as much as possible in the space available. They didn’t look too straightforward – on the left hand side, there were at least some stick-people amongst the symbols and squiggles, but to her right, the figures became more and more abstract, with recognisable bodies few and far between.

A particular set of glyphs, she noted, kept popping up amongst the pictures in a variety of permutations. These were presumably the local script, captions etched underneath or to the side of most images to explain, perhaps, or to relate details the otherwise obscure carvings failed to put across. Clara couldn’t help but think that her companion should be pouring over them, trying to decipher them so as to fulfil his desire for knowledge, but instead he kept his head down, taking uncomfortably long strides towards an unknown destination, somewhere at the end of this tunnel…

…without so much as a whisper of a warning, Maxwell froze. As Clara halted herself, he started to chuckle, tapping the floor with his foot in a manner a little too random to be considered rhythmic.

“Take a long step here, I’d say. These two seams” (he pointed then to grooves in the floor that the nun hadn’t previously noted; having been so engrossed in the walls) “are way too close together. In fact, look a little closer and I’d bet you anything they aren’t even seams at all.”

With that warning somewhat lacking, Clara waited as Maxwell attempted to stretch across the slab. Upon realising he wouldn’t quite make it, he mumbled something and withdrew his leg in a hesitant manner. Instead, the floor beyond the groove before him was tentatively poked, each touch provoking the odd frustrated grumble. Finally, he made his decision and took a small step forward, crossing the line with no apparent consequences.

Clara hadn’t the faintest notion of why he was going through such theatrics, but decided she was better safe than sorry. However innocuous the passageway appeared to be, the Observer had made it quite clear that the temple was rife with danger. Such danger could well be hidden in the tiniest of details; like the supposed crisis that was this chunk of rock being just that tiny bit different to all the hundred-plus or so other tiles they’d passed over so far. Still, better safe than sorry…

Spurred on by the apparent lack of repercussions from his step forward, Maxwell began to look around for the first time, focusing now on the ceiling.

“No marks up there… just a pit, then. Has to be. I can’t feasibly see it being anything but… could it just be a feature? No, no, they really are too close, so let’s stick with that, ‘cause that’s pretty brilliant…”

Becoming engrossed in his cogitation once more, he started surveying his surroundings. Wave after wave of surprise, confusion and comprehension passed over him as he glanced around, truly seeing the walls for the first time and seemingly enjoying the experience.

As Maxwell swivelled round to take in the right side of the corridor, a new expression emerged. His face fell, shortly followed by his jaw and then his whole body as his legs gave way through sheer astonishment. The force of his landing was enough to dislodge the precisely balanced slab and Clara could only gasp as that vanished down the pitfall it had been covering. It took Maxwell quite the scramble, fuelled by the surge of adrenalin the affair had instigated, to somehow push himself back onto terra firma, his arms groping for confirmed solid ground and just about latching onto it as the cover gave way. Had he not known the trap was there, it would probably have been his end.

Whilst he sprawled himself out on the ground, shaking and panting a tad too heavily, the nun’s curiosity compelled her to inspect the sight that had shocked the genius so. It was the largest carving she’d seen so far, stretching from ceiling to where the floor had previously been. It appeared to be an L-shape drawn in oblique perspective, with the top of the L bending backwards and tapering to a point far to the left, as it was etched, of the bottom of the letter. Centred about the bottom left corner of the L was a small circle that appeared to extend back into the picture a short way. The most peculiar features of the picture, though, were the embellishments – about a third of the way from the top of the L’s stem, a line emerged from the front, bending once towards the right and then, at its end, splitting into four, maybe five smaller lines. They were a bit tricky to make out, but the whole shape was mirrored at the back of the L, despite the bend being obscured behind the stem. The final odd detail was another one of these lines, starting at the top of the L then disappearing behind it, only to emerge again at its base. This was chiselled as thicker than the other two, but it was still as much of a mystery to her.

Maxwell’s breathing reached something of a crescendo, then for a brief moment he fell silent, composing himself…

“KONKA RAR! COME HERE YOU BASTARD - I'VE... ffff-”

His breath ran out abruptly and the trenchant heaving resumed.

Originally posted on MSPA by SleepingOrange.

---

Show Content

Spoilerfair enough, schazer; I only stopped using Lucida Handwriting because it doesn't show up on my browser anymore and brush script was the closest of the fonts that do. I'll just keep using Lucida and pretend I can see it.

Konka Rar did his best to emote a narrowing of his eyes; it was much easier to discern on his cybernetic eye, but the effect was still subtle. Luckily, the exasperated and condescending tone of his voice made his mood and feelings clear: "What in the seven hells are you talking about?"

i am not certain

vyrmns methods of communication are difficult to translate into words at the best of times and the concepts she is trying to express right now are a bit

muddled

i believe______

The writing implement dragged itself across the floor for a few moments, effecting an air of contemplation and turning words over.

i believe that she has encountered something that she thinks is somehow indelibly linked to the temple and the magic it houses

a creature whose very nature is that of an ambulatory extension of this place itself

a reasonable analogy may be to liken it to myself in much the way that any given object i inhabit is not connected to any other part of me but is still under my control

there are a few flaws in this analogy though

perhaps a more accurate one and one you might be more likely to understand is that of an elemental

the very fabric of the elemental planes coalesces into semisentient beings that carry out its will or work to maintain it and the like

in fact the more i think about it the more apt this metaphor becomes

as you doubtless know an elemental can be summoned from its native plane and made to follow orders of a mage of significant power

the way vyrmn describes the behavior and temperament of these beings indicates to me the likelihood that they are being controlled or coerced into behaving in ways that is contrary to their own nature or goals

"On the one hand, the patronizing metaphor was far more information than I actually cared about, but... I am certainly curious how you know about summoning and elemental planes and the nature of their inhabitants. You don't look like something particularly well-educated, especially in the arcane arts, and I've never seen you show signs of magical abilities. For all that I've been aware of your existence all of an hour, at least."

i am in turn surprised that you are apparently unaware of my nature

i suppose your universe lacks schrotgolems then

we are created as the byproduct of copious magical energy in a single area over long periods of time and are therefore composed of arcane essences

by our very nature we instinctively know some of the workings of arcane practice although most of us lack the self-awareness or interest to articulate it

it is theorized-

The lich raised a hand as Gestalt prepared to launch into an explanation; loathe to admit any ignorance or weakness, he bit back the "I had always assumed you were a ghost" that floated into his mind and settled for simply shifting his weight and clicking his teeth in a thoughtful manner. Vyrm'n, for her part, hadn't ben paying much or perhaps any attention to the conversation, especially its written half; she was shifting awkwardly in her columnar form, stars slowly drifting across the nightscape of her skin. Gestalt turned his attention to her, intending on bringing her into the tenuous alliance he hoped he had formed with Konnka Rar; as he did, a loud shout rang out from one of the corridors. It was difficult to glean through the distortion and echo, but it sounded like Maxwell yelling for the lich.

As soon as she recognized it as Maxwell's voice, the faceless was off, a streamlined bolt of darkness swooping through the labyrinthine tunnels. Gestalt sighed internally and began trundling after her, scrawling a quick shall we on the floor as he went. Konka Rar grudgingly followed; as they proceeded towards the source of the noise, the lich threatened to outpace the schrotgolem. It raised a tattered glove, fingers folded save for the index; the meaning was clear: Gestalt wanted the mage to stay behind it.

Konka Rar huffed slightly, trying to figure out why. He supposed (correctly) that since the golem had powers over objects, it might be scouting ahead of them for the presence of the traps and other hazards that this grandmaster had warned of. His clicking skeletal feet slowed, and the pair worked steadily towards Maxwell and ostensibly Clara; Vyrm'n would doubtless arrive a bit before they did, but even with its focus spread out ahead of them, Gestalt kept its pace fairly swift.

Originally posted on MSPA by Schazer.

---

"Maxwell, dear, what's-"

The nun's consoling words were interrupted by rumbling from the way they'd came, followed by an echoing crash as Vyrm'n's tail-end clumsily flicked into a switch, dropping a slab of stone in the doorway ahead of the pursuing schrotgolem. The Faceless paid no heed, flying as fast as she could; with blatant, crashing disregard for avoiding impact with the walls at each opening. Arcing into the final chamber, Maxwell's (and to an only slightly dimmer extent, Clara) inherent vitality set the confined space ablaze in the Faceless' eyes-


Neither human had time to cry out in surprise or warning, as a mass of rock rose out of the floor, braced itself, and grabbed the hurtling darkness. Its brawny stone fingers dug deep into the black, piercing the shadow's mind with the sonorous tones of its pseudo-consciousness. Time slowed to a honeyed crawl within Vyrm'n as she fled the caustic noise, but the depths seemed too far, or torn apart, and something supposed to be fluid and indivisible was cracking, scattering, melding too smoothly into that hated everything -

The golem bodily tossed Vyrm'n into a corner, stood impassively until it was apparent she wouldn't cause it more work, before shuffling to Maxwell's side and examining the pit trap. As it kept up a constant, seismic grumbling, it ignored the looks of shock its sudden appearance was receiving while it filled in the trap in a similar manner to the one Vyrm'n had set off earlier. Clara glanced toward the man with some trepidation, entertaining the very real possibility this was gonna be the last straw for whatever tenuous grip her charge had on his sanity.

Maxwell, meanwhile, was staring vacantly either at or through the golem as it remolded the floor in front of the main carving. He finally stood on no discernible cue, took one glance at the trembling Faceless in the corner, and marched out, yelling, "RAR, YOU ROTTEN SKELETON! GET OVER HERE-"

His voice faded into the caverns, followed by the muted sound of two frustrated males banging on either side of a stone slab. Clara, with her wits more about her, waited until the implacable beast had finished its task, and melted silently into the bedrock. The nun examined both the ground it had entered and vanished on, as well as the sealed pit, before turning her attention to the Faceless. It was still quietly trembling after the assault, and despite all the chaos the creature had caused last round, the Necropolitan was curious.

"Vyrm'n?"

No response. Hesitant, Clara crouched by the featureless blob and extended a hand, drifting over the starscape for a nervous moment before finally resting upon it.

Black. Rushing. Vertigo. Clara withdrew her hand sharply, only for the starry surface to warp and mold as it in turn extended a cast of a slender, motionless hand. Glancing down the passageways to see if Maxwell had deactivated the trap (she was pretty sure, she thought with mixed feelings, she'd heard Maxwell asking how daft Konka was to suggest blowing the barrier apart), the nun clasped the starry hand. It was as cold and motionless as a mannequin's, but this time Vyrm'n spared her conversant the discomfort, the connection eerily silent as the Faceless used all its concentration to keep her thoughts to herself. If strain had a noise, that was all Clara could hear.

"Vyrm'n?" she repeated, gently.

...

What do you want

Who are you

The Faceless' words, or the formless agglomerate of thoughts that were the best Vyrm'n could offer, surprised the nun. She could see the rest of the shadow's thoughts rushing by, even as it let her glimpse the key one. "I'm Sister Clara Jungfrau. I... was in a battle like yours, Vyrm'n. Now I... I'm afraid I don't know."

Why

"W-well I suppose if you account for Konka and I both being undead, in a locale full of zombies-"

Where

Clara stared at the Faceless, nonplussed. "In the mall? Last round?"

In the right yes. The amount of despondency in those final syllable-thoughts again astounded the Necropolitan, the pair descending into silence. Vyrm'n at any rate had talked as much as she felt was needed, and the black arm disappeared into the greater mass. There was an avalanche of scree in the next rooms over; the golem had reappeared and removed the door trap. Konka Rar dismissed Maxwell's agitated, helping hand over the pile of rubble as he snapped,

"If you'd cease asking me ridiculous questions and just showed me the carving, that - golem wouldn't be tailing us. We still have no idea of its motives and to be frank-"

The whole group, save the golem which was devouring great hunks of the basalt barricade, were silently witnessing Konka's discovery of the offending carving. Making an exemplary effort to pass off his disbelief as mere perplexity, the lich declared in a voice that proved even he didn't believe it,

"Yes. That is my vacuum cleaner."

Originally posted on MSPA by SleepingOrange.

---

Konka Rar was... Well, there was no two ways about it, no mincing of words or saving pride with weaselly synonyms. Konka Rar was flabbergasted. Skeletal fingers traced the clearly-ancient carvings; his cybernetic eye focused and refocused, trying to find some hidden detail that would dispel the increasingly-impossible to deny fact that this dusty stone wall held a rather stylized image of one of the lich's first forays into cybernecromancy. It made no sense; every particle of granite that surrounded him oozed age, and while he had no way of knowing for sure, the carving struck the necromancer as extremely old. But the vacuum was made less than a year ago and had disappeared mere weeks before Konka Rar himself had; where did the carvings come from? What kind of prophecy would be this bizarrely accurate and about something so mundane and unimportant? It was... Flabbergasting.

He took a few steps back and cast a cursory ocular sensors reading over the other carvings that could be seen, storing the video data in case it became important. Now that he had something to work off of, a recognizable image that gave clues to the style and symbols of the carving, it was possible to start piecing the other initially-abstract carvings together. It was, from what he could figure out, some sort of narrative or perhaps a biography; it was extremely difficult for the rather linear-minded sorcerer to follow, but there was some meaning there. It didn't make itself readily apparent, but it was there. And it was intriguing. Despite the still-chiming sensors screaming silently that there was a source of great magical potential or power somewhere nearby, these carvings were extremely tempting.

The lich clicked his teeth together thoughtfully, staring again at the original engraving. Musing internally, he muttered, "Yes, that's definitely Eximo...". He gradually became aware that Maxwell had been attempting to talk to him since he last spoke; the boy had probably been nattering aimlessly since before the air had stilled from 'vacuum cleaner'. Rather peevishly, Konka Rar spat "What?"

The taciturn shard of entropy that was Vyrm'n had reverted once more to standing idly and unmovingly, shutting out the press of matter without and the troublesome thoughts within. While she couldn't be said to be ignoring the happenings around her, she certainly wasn't paying attention to them; her columnar posture was slightly sagging, and for as unanthropomorphized a being as it was possible to be, she was certainly evoking a very sulky air. She was unaware that most of Gestalt's attention was focused on her, rather than the humanoids, and probably wouldn't even have cared if she had noticed. She was content to simply loom quietly, a starry piece of rather disgruntled scenery.

She would have been content to stay so, too, if something the lich said hadn't cut through Maxwell's chatter and snapped her back to attention. A few near-forgotten syllables dredged up a guilty memory; inscrutable urges manifested, and a grey arm reached out of the blob of night, fingers beckoning towards Gestalt. After a moment, the golem passed over a pencil and held up a fresh page in a notebook. Vyrm's emaciated arm began to write.

I REMEMBER. BACK IN THE TWISTED WORLD, THE ONE WHERE THE SUNSET WAS KILLED, THERE WAS A MESSAGE. IT... WAS CONFUSING AT THE TIME. I TOLD HIM BUT THEN HE DIED AND I LEFT IT ALONE AND FORGOT IT, BUT...

The hand hesitated and stopped, as though the faceless was reconsidering passing the message on or wondering why she even felt the urge to bring it up in the first place. The faceless slumped even further, Gestalt said nothing, but the paper beneath Vyrm'n's pencil shuddered for a moment. With a roiling that could have been construed as a kind of sigh, she went on.

THE NAME EXIMO REMINDED ME AND I THINK IT MIGHT BE RELEVANT.

Gestalt waggled the paper in a 'go on' sort of motion; Vyrm'n paused, assembling the exact wording from a memory she'd considered pretty unimportant at the time. After a few moments of silence (save for the sounds of the lich and the fencer talking or arguing about something ), the pencil began to move again.

"TO THE ONE WHO FINDS THIS; I WISH TO DESCRIBE MY STRUGGLES, FOR I BELIEVE THEY MAY BE THE SAME AS THOSE WHO WILL READ MY WORDS IN THE FUTURE. I SPEAK AS AMETHYST, BUT I WISH TO CONVEY THE THOUGHTS OF MY COMRADES; DOKURUMETS, ALCARITH, EMILY, NATHAN, AEON, EXIMO, AND EVEN- I WISH TO BELIEVE- LUTHERION.

WE HAVE ALL BEEN BROUGHT HERE FOR THE SAKE OF SOME DIVINE BEING'S TWISTED SHOW, AND THAT WE SHOULD DESTROY ONE ANOTHER IS HIS DESIRE. THUS FAR, MY EVERY ESCAPE TO ATTEMPT THIS 'GAME' HAS BEEN UNSUCCESSFUL, AND EVEN MET WITH- AS I HAVE INTERPRETED IT- TAUNTING FROM MY CAPTORS. BUT DO NOT BE DISHEARTENED, FOR THERE IS A WORLD BEYOND THIS 'GAME.'

THERE MUST BE, FOR I HAVE SEEN IT. WE HAVE ALL SEEN IT BEFORE OUR TIME HERE. I DO NOT KNOW JUST HOW LONG THAT TIME HERE HAS BEEN- I CANNOT JUDGE IT FROM THIS WORLD- BUT IT CAN'T HAVE BEEN LONG SINCE I STOOD WITHIN A GODLESS WORLD, UNRESTRAINED BY THE WILL OF THE 'GUY RUNNING THE SHOW'

THE SPACIAL TRICKS HE HAS USED HAVE CARVED ME A CAGE OF NONEUCLIDEAN ALLOYS. THOUGH THIS MAY SEEM UNBREAKABLE, IT MEANS THEY MUST NOT BE MADE OF ADAMANTIUM. IF MY WIT ALONE SHALL FAIL ME IN THIS TASK, I ASK YOU WHO FINDS THIS: DO NOT BOTHER WITH LOOPHOLES, DO NOT BOTHER WITH WARPED SPACE. IF MY MAGIC WILL NOT BEND A TUNNER OUT OF THIS BARBED WIRE, THEN YOURS MUST TEAR A HOLE THROUGH IT. WE SHALL ATTACK FROM TWO POINTS, AND FIND THE WEAKNESS OF THE DIRECTOR.

WHETHER THIS IS FOUND IN THE FUTURE, THE PRESENT, OR EVEN- AND IT WOULD NOT SURPRISE ME AT THIS POINT- THE PAST. WE MUST NOT ALLOW THIS BEING TO PROCLAIM HIMSELF GOD. FOR IF MY WORLD IS GODLESS, I WILL RISE UP AS A GODDESS, AND TEAR DOWN THOSE FOOLS WHO HAVE PLACED THEMSELVES UPON PEDESTALS. PLEASE JOIN ME IN MY ASCENSION,

TO FOREVER DESTROY THE GRAND BATTLE."

Gestalt followed the mechanically-precise lettering without outward reaction. Inwardly, it was digesting the message with a combination of interest, curiosity, some amusement, and mild suspicion. It seemed fortuitous that the golem had received this missive immediately after coming to much the same conclusions itself; actually, it seemed a little too fortunate, but there was no reason to believe the message was fake or Vyrm'n was somehow colluding with the Grandmaster (or perhaps Grandmasters, if the letter was to be believed). What would the Observer gain by convincing his players to rise up against him? It certainly wasn't the entertainment he was looking for. It seemed safe to trust that this letter and its writer were genuine, and that whoever this Amethyst was, she was a potential ally in the quest for freedom and the fight against these divine tyrants.

Once Vyrm'n had finished and Gestalt had taken a few moments to digest the message, another pen slid out of a crate and began wiggling across the paper.

and what do you think about the contents of this manifesto

The dark surface of the faceless rippled and her arm didn't move. It was a very clearly noncommittal gesture; Vyrm'n apparently had very little interest in fighting grandmasters. Or much at all, if her apparent mood was to be believed. Still, Gestalt needed all the allies it could muster, and part of him suspected that the only effective weapon against a being as ostensibly-omnipotent as the Observer might be the cold emptiness of the dead universe within Vyrm'n's shadowy frame. By its reasoning, the only thing that could counter everything was nothing. It urged the pen onwards:

because i think that it is essentially at its core exactly correct

the flowery language and stirring prose mask an important truth

there is no longer a point in squabbling amongst ourselves or avoiding each other or simply busying ourselves with whatever pointless challenges the observer throws at us

we must unite against him rather than killing each other

the only one who deserves death is the one who would have us all die

Vyrm'n slid backward slightly, making no obvious response. Her necrotic arm held the pencil limply, but completely failed to produce any words. The golem pondered how to appeal to a creature as alien and unknowable as she; it tried to think back to the times it had felt her mind, to find some lever that would move the entropic bulk. As it thought, a voice that wasn't the animated tones of Maxwell and Konka Rar cut in.

"I... I rather agree, actually."

Both shifted their attention to Clara; they hadn't noticed that she had been hovering, and had no idea how much she had seen or heard. Their attention had been rather focused on each other. The nun cleared her throat and grinned nervously.

"Sorry, I know I shouldn't listen in, but those two were..." She waved a hand vaguely at the other humans. "And really, I think you're right. Um, Gestalt, was it? There's... There's really no excuse for this sort of thing and I'm becoming increasingly convinced that the purpose I was destined for is to assist in the downfall of these cruel gods."

Originally posted on MSPA by Schazer.

---

Gestalt allowed himself a moment of elation at Clara's support, but Vyrm'n's continued obstinate apathy was something the schrotgolem could not afford to ignore. The black hand began its laboured trudge across the paper again.

ARE THEY SAYING EXIMO IS IN THE CARVINGS

yes

WHAT ELSE IS THERE

much and little is useful to us unless the observer or the other grandmasters grace these walls

"That would be more helpful for us, Gestalt, I agree, but Vyrm'n... can't you see this?"

CLAMOROUS She gestured roughly at Gestalt's writing, as Maxwell and Konka left the chamber, heading back toward the main room with eight doors. THIS I CAN CONCENTRATE ON

BUT THE STONE'S SONG TIRES ME

Vyrm'n dropped the pen, the arm liquifying into a tendril which leapt round the nun's hand.

Gestalt I know you can hear me and I don't to write anymore I can't explain it takes too long

So I don't want to help you I don't want to help Amethyst I don't want to destroy the Observer I'm tired of this battle.

I'm tired of fighting and listening and thinking. Killing them letting them live letting them die it all means problems and Gestalt I don't want anything now except for it to stop

Gestalt processed this, before scrawling then destroy me now

A prickling surge of anger through the shadow made Clara try to jerk her hand away, but the Faceless had gripped it tightly.

YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND. I'M DYING.

Vyrm'n recoiled sharply from Clara, crouching in a way that Gestalt recognised as the Faceless preparing for flight. The schotgolem's consciousness reached out tentatively, ready to retreat if Vyrm'n dredged up the Void.

your deaths only assure that the universe I came from is the one that has the final hateful joy of devouring the last of me what kind of prize is that

Clara backed away cautiously as the Faceless broke their connection; faster as a box burst open, several wedges of stone leaping out and hovering about the golem. The bricks didn't strike, but instead snapped into a few smaller pieces which served to bail Vyrm'n into a corner. Faceless and Necropolitan were expecting the stone to tear into the former, but instead a tattered glove motioned, unfilled, to wait a moment, before it reached out and rested its fingertips upon the stars.


You can be killed?

I don't know. I don't want to know. But everything ever burns and scratches at me and where do I hide when it's all been clawed away?

She was still considering making a break for it - Gestalt could tell, but didn't want her to. Under different circumstances, the mortality of a creature like Vyrm'n would've intrigued the schrotgolem. Instead, he pressed onward.

Vyrm'n, we are all dying, and not a single one of us could avoid that by emerging from here victorious. In saying that, there is one we know with the power to extend your lifespan, if that were what he wished to do.

The Observer.

Yes. But he will not help you. He does not care if we live or die, and you are no different. If one of us dies now, the other two are sent to a place of his choosing, far from him, and nothing changes. Perhaps there will be a way to destroy him in that final world. But the risk is too great and so I begin my campaign here and now. If you must insist on perpetuating this selfishness, then realise: if you cannot wrench the Observer's powers from him, you will die, Vyrm'n.

And if your fate, come any circumstance, is to die and you are so resigned to it... then please, at least assist us.

The Faceless was silent. With a certain reluctance, the chunks of jagged stone lowered. Clara muttered a quiet incantation, got enough of the exchange to figure what Gestalt was doing, and ducked into the next room to examine the carvings therein.

I will deceive neither of us; I cannot coerce you to join this fight against your volition through threats or browbeating you into reluctant assistance... But I need you. I believe you alone among us have the force necessary to destroy a Grandmaster, if only you could reach him.


With an unpleasant grating, Gestalt dragged the pieces of the Labyrinth Field walls and packed them away. I don't know how else to convince you, Vyrm'n. It's your choice.


...

I'll help. And if I have to fight the Observer... I'll win.

The glove sprung away with the mental undertones of a nod of grateful acknowledgment. The telepathic exchange had taken only moments, when Clara burst in.

"Gestalt - the next chamber..."


Curious, the schrotgolem followed the nun, with Vyrm'n close behind (if less interested). The trio passed through a narrow corridor, which had an eight-point sun design on one side, the gap for two missing rays conspicuous. On the other was a carving of a man, a woman, and that geometrical arrangement symbolic of Eximo. The hallway opened out to the next chamber, its ancient floor littered with fresh rubble. Even Vyrm'n could see the extent of the damage - some unnatural beast had clawed over every inch of the walls, gouging the carvings and rendering their story unreadable. While Clara could only stare and feel vaguely sad at the willful damage, Vyrm'n tersely asked Gestalt to give her some room. The schrotgolem complied, shuffling to a far corner, while the shadow concentrated intently for a moment.

The dust still hangs in the air... I'm not certain, but I think this happened recently.

Originally posted on MSPA by Sruixan.

---

“I now rather wish that you hadn’t said that.”

Maxwell too was having difficulty comprehending quite how and quite why the visage of Konka’s wayward vacuum cleaner had found its way onto the temple wall; whereas he was sure the lich was probably doing some analytical tomfoolery to settle his uneasy mind, he wasn’t too hung up on the absurdity of the device’s portrayal. Of course it was confounding, but in comparison to having been plucked out of a generally rather sane and unremarkable universe and being plonked down into a fight to the death against seven other hardly rational beings, the highlights of which had so far included a mind-boggling trans-planar trip, a landscape that couldn’t be assed to obey the laws of physics, an actual zombie infestation and an underground temple with an anomaly hidden in every quality it possessed… embarrassingly, having gotten to the end of a list of all the impossible things that he’d experienced today, he’d long since forgotten the original purpose of rattling through such a selection.

He was also reasonably certain he’d been thinking it aloud. Konka Rar didn’t seem to have noticed, preferring to focus on the incongruous carving before him than on the crazed ramblings of an eccentric individual. Fair enough.

“Are you actually listening? I shall admit that it’s been a little dry up to this point but I’m sure it doesn’t take someone like you a whole two minutes to appreciate a wall.”

“What?”

“You have been catapulted across time and space to engage in combat against an assortment of incredible beings at the whim of near-omnipotent entities, shuffled between locales, universes and even battles, sampling a smorgasbord of exotic locations and yet the appearance of a picture of your vacuum cleaner is something of a surprise?”

As gobsmacked as he might have been about discovering Eximo’s visage, Maxwell’s impertinence did little to help the necromancer’s state of mind, partially because, for the second time so far, he was making worrying sense. Not that he’d admit to that, though.

“I can tell you with absolute certainty that this rock is incredibly ancient and, I would wager, these carvings as well. They have been here for longer than Eximo has; they must have been chiselled out before I even came to be – and yet, here it is.”

“Does it have a second name?”

It took a second play-through in his mind for Konka to realise the meaning behind this apparent non sequitur.

“Um. Yes, actually. It’s full name is Eximo Pulvis.”

“Could you spell that out for me?”

”Why must you continue with this persistent questioning? I can’t think of any reason whatsoever to explain why you want my to spell the name of my vacuum cleaner…”

“If you really must know, I’d like to figure out quite how this script works, so as to make some sort of step towards deciphering the content of these walls. There is a hazy notion forming in the back of this poor mind of mine that there may well be information to be gleamed from them…”

The lich was pretty sure Maxwell had used such an unnecessarily long term to spite him, but having dwelled on that for a moment, it suddenly struck him just what the genius was trying to do.

“You don’t really need to worry yourself with that too much. I assure you that I have some processing power which could be put to such a use and I’m sure you’ll concede that cybernetics are far better at pattern recognition that you are.”

“Pffft. Spoilsport.”

Once again, Maxwell was starting to grate on Konka’s nerves. Such a dismissal was surely completely illogical; if the man was as determined to understand the carvings as he implied…

“Let’s be sensible here. If you want to be able to read these messages before you expire, I suggest you let me take over the decryption process.”

“Lift your left leg up for me, please.”

The lich had by now become begrudgingly acceptant of such irrelevant replies and this one seemed innocent enough. There was obviously some immensely important reason why he should raise his limb that was naturally far too trivial to actually articulate. Obviously.

“Ah, excellent. Right then, now for the tricky bit. Well, the trickier bit, technically, but whatever! Tell me, what do you see?”

After a pause, eventually broken by the scraping sound indicative of grating one’s teeth, Konka Rar replied; “My leg.”

The resultant snigger lasted for a fair few seconds longer than was probably wise, but Maxwell couldn’t quite contain himself. “You’re not trying at all hard enough. Had I desired such an answer then I would sadly be forced to presume worrying facts about the current state of my insanity.”

(The lich couldn’t help but note that any normal person would have preferred to use “sanity”, with its far more positive connotations, but then he wasn’t exactly speaking with the epitome of commonplace…)

“The curious thing I’d quite like you to have seen is, well, I would have liked to have thought it obvious, but then it’s something that’s so omnipresent it doesn’t even get taken for granted; it just is.”

“If this is another one of those underhand cracks concerning my skeletal nature then-“

“Shadows.”

“…”

“See, for an underground temple, this place sure is well lit. Such an observation leads pleasingly swiftly to the acknowledgement of there being no areas of shade, an occurrence rendered explicable only if you consider the somewhat bizarre idea of every surface being a light source, thus leading in turn to the weird dilemma of quite how this particular section of otherwise amazingly average strata has somehow been imbued with the power of creating and radiating light. As annoyingly inadequate an explanation as it is, the best I have so far come up with is “by magic”. The one advantage of that particular suggestion is that it does also account for the existence of the golems (and I am quite certain that they are plural, thanks), although the mechanics concerning “how” are very much beyond my grasp.”

There was a momentary lapse in the rambling as Maxwell stopped for breath; the decidedly startled necromancer could force out only the unintelligible beginnings of an interjection before the wall of words resumed.

“You, I can only assume, have already come to the conclusion that there is some “magic” involved in this arena, simply because you are by your very nature a being of magic. You are also, I would believe, not the sort of person who would loiter around staring at featureless walls for no apparent reason, especially with that rather fetching eye of yours. I, on the other hand, have had to think myself down the (comparatively) hard route, an endeavour that, I’m sure you’ll agree, did prove not just possible but eventually rather fruitful indeed.”

This intermission lasted a tad longer than the first, allowing Konka to get out the whole of the word “well” before he made the awful mistake of hesitating over the comma that succeeded it, plunging the “conversation” back into the decidedly inhospitable depths of consciousness at work.

“See, that is what I do, really. I notice, I think, I resolve. Sometimes, just for a change, I get all audacious and mix up the order a bit, but the net result always serves to highlight that about the only bit of me that’s useful for anything at all is the gooey ruddy-pink blob that’s crammed into my skull. If anyone ever figures out how to keep brains in vats, allowing them to survive into the future, mine would probably top the shortlist. The trouble there is that such an endowment alone is not, in my opinion, grounds on which to enter me into a bleedin’ battle to the death. I don’t do “battling”. The best I can do is to vaguely poke someone with a rapier-like stick and ask them (politely, of course) to make a sort of “oh-no-I’m-dying” noise.”

Pausing tactfully to allow the lich to chuckle, Maxwell had a go at composing himself.

“All I’m saying is that I am going to die. I am reasonably resigned to this and I can’t honestly see any way it is not going to be so. I do not, however, see any point in being so submissive to my inevitable demise that I forgo the span between now and then. I am still here, after all. The only problem with that is the unfortunate niggle that I am only human and therefore hard-wired to be just a little bit angsty about the whole imminent-death business. The space in between, therefore, is woefully doomed to be nothing more than a mental breakdown of unfavourable proportions, unless I can keep my mind glued together with something (heck, anything) that happens to be available. I just need something to do, something to concentrate on for a bit, and I guarantee you I’ll be fine.”

A monologue like that, in an ideal world, with every word a window into the troubled soul of the speaker, would resonate so as to merit a heartfelt response from its intended recipient, through which an understanding would somehow be forged, one that would last the rest of the story or movie or book or whatever perfect medium one might happen to be enthralled in.

“Pfft. Anything to stop you from collapsing down to the forsaken level of “quivering wreck” again. You’re ramshackle enough as it is.”

In an ideal albeit fictional world, of course. As heartfelt as Konka’s reply truly was, it had a bitter air about it that no script would dare include, not unless suffering such hostility was later reimbursed, a situation that, considering the parties involved, was decidedly unlikely.

So Maxwell just sighed and dwelled upon other, relatively less irksome things, like sprawling subterranean structures that, for all intents and purposes, suddenly materialised in strata too deep to be reached without near-impossible effort. He could probably just dismiss the matter as a triviality, since he wasn’t exactly going to be able to do anything about it, but it seemed a little silly to build a temple seemingly related to the battles that were being fought across the multiverse (five seconds were spent musing over possibly pluralizing that word) miles underground where it took omnipotence to reach…

…somewhere in the corner of his mind’s eye, he was sure he’d just seen a light bulb flicker into action…

“…oh man that is so, so worryingly awesomely perturbingly terrifyingly mind-bogglingly goodness gracious me…”

“Would you stoop so low as to tell me what it is that’s just struck you?” tutted Konka.

“No. I’ll show you it though; now, if you’d care to follow me.”

Coy as usual, Maxwell spun a revolution or two, and then sort of stumbled towards the debris pile that had formed across the corridor. As he began to scale it, there came from behind him the sound of someone without a throat trying their best at clearing it.

“Dare I be as bold as to point a little something out here?”

Picking his way over a relatively tricky stretch of rubble, Maxwell was somewhat glad that, being in front, the rolling of his eyes was an action kept gratefully private.

“You are, to put it succinctly, fleeing from where all the interaction is taking place to disappear on the basis of some spurious whim, something which, if I am not mistaken, you’ve done before? I can hardly construe this as anything else but another display of cowardice…”

(as much as he didn’t like the fact, Maxwell had to admit there was more than a slight hint of truth in those words. The problem as he saw it was that, if he was to progress further into the temple, he would eventually and inevitably come face to face with Vyrm’n and, really, he just didn’t think he would be up to suffering that. His worries about what she’d become in his absence had been stewing at the back of his head for an uncomfortable while now, curdling into a myriad of dreadful possibilities that he hardly dared to acknowledge in his current, oh-so-weary state…)

“If I didn’t know you better, I’d be forcing you to show a bit more fight right now, but I’ll be amazed if there honestly is any in you at all…”

(…but then, most vexing of all, sadly, was that he couldn’t help but consider that that seemingly inhuman black mass was similarly worried about what he’d turned into since that deplorable slip of the tongue back in the theatre...)

“Just for that, I’m going to change tack. In fact, I expect this shall be much more fun… for me, anyway…”

Originally posted on MSPA by SleepingOrange.

---

Reserved up in here

Originally posted on MSPA by SleepingOrange.

---

Clara was a softhearted and sentimental old woman, and it hurt a part of her to see something so ancient and meaningful destroyed with no apparent remorse; she ran a greying hand across the surface of the recently-marred stone, speculating aboutand mourning for the carving that was. Vyrm'n was much more apathetic and perpetually inscrutable; she showed no outward reaction to the thrashed room, simply hanging back and gingerly feeling the air. Gestalt, by far the most pragmatic of the three, simply slid through to the next room; by this point it had repacked most of its sundry limbs, leaving only the tattered glove out. The false hand motioned towards the next passage, encouraging the ladies to follow. Clara complied after a few moments, heaving a long sigh and sparing one last look at the carnage; it took even longer for Vyrm'n to leave the scene, half-committed and full of ennui as she was.

By the time the two joined Gestalt in the next corridor, the golem had moved a significant distance down it; not as far as one might have expected though, for reasons that soon became clear. It was again using its affinity for complicated objects and unique senses to their fullest potential, searching the trap-riddled corridors for potential hazards and doing its best to disarm the many and varied death devices. Clara was treated to the interesting sight of watching a trapdoor full of rocks drop its payload only to have every stone fall neatly into a pyramidal stack; as the crates slid down the tunnel, several similar events preceded its passage. Darts would launch themselves into the air then abruptly halt, arranging themselves inside a waiting box; there would be a snap as some mechanism suddenly unwound itself and a bladed pendulum would slide sheepishly out of the wall and rest itself on the floor. The group's travel towards the next chamber was slightly surreal, but fairly uneventful, especially as they passed the point where Maxwell's nearly-constant chatter could still be heard. Eventually, the meandering tunnel made a hard right turn, spat forth a not-unexpected spear trap, and opened into another chamber.

It was... smaller than others had been, but covered in an equal, or perhaps greater, density of carvings. The domed chamber, also unusually, had only one way in or out: the corridor through which the trio had just arrived. Gestalt settled himself in the center of the room, giving taciturn sweeps of his consciousness to the confusing walls; Clara took a few steps in and quietly marveled at the further craftsmanship displayed; Vyrm'n sulked in the doorway. A couple of minutes passed in silence, save for the possibly-imagined creak of living stone and the occasional indistinct blat of Maxwell being particularly emphatic on some word or other. Eventually, the golem broke the silence by tapping Rexxcer's laser pointer on the ground; the nun looked toward him and made an interrogative humming noise, but the faceless failed to respond. Gestalt proffered its notepad again, and begin to write.

i dont like to admit it but i can honestly make no sense of any of this

it frustrates me greatly that we have what appears to be some sort of record of the story of each of these fiendish battles and i can do nothing but boggle vacantly at it as though i were trying to make sense of a the trails of a spilled beverage

the sheer amount of information i am utterly powerless to find

Even without an ellipsis, the way the pen trailed off the page conveyed a fairly profound sense of frustrated impotence. Clara, a much more easygoing mind even under stress like this, wasn't as bothered by her ignorance, but identified with the sentiment. She'd recently come, herself, to the conclusion that the grandmasters had to be stopped, and having this sort of tantalizing possible-weapon dangled in front of her was a bit vexing. She moved to a wall and began tracing a random shape with a fingernail, running through divinations in her head and hoping some more mundane inspiration would strike. She talked idly to Gestalt, agreeing with him and asking him to give her a few moments to think, all the while pondering a solution. Tongues only applies to spoken language, and most script translations only apply to words. Some of them don't even work on pictograms very well. Maybe a planar consultation?... Then again, I don't really trust that I'd end up with the right sort of answering party, and this doesn't seem like the sort of thing I'd bother a god with. I... wait.

An odd sort of half-smile, half-grimace floated around the old nun's lips. "I don't know how much either of you knows about magic..."Gestalt rose his pen as if to respond, then realized this was just a preamble."But there's basically, when you get right down to the most basic sense of it, two ways of going about it. There's magic you bring from out of yourself, and magic you bring from outside yourself and just allow yourself to be a conduit. Most people good at magic or knowledgeable about it are the first sort of magic users. Wizards and such who spend their whole life honing their skill and making themselves powerful. People with grimoires and dribbly candles and usually a bit of a hygiene problem. The other sort of people are, aside from the minority who try to harness spirits or otherworldly beings, mostly priests like me whose gods grant them some utilitarian measure of intuitive magical ability, usually commensurate with how "holy" the individual is and how powerful the god. The point is, I don't, in a truly technical sense, cast spells; no divine caster really does. You just learn to be a conduit for something else."

Gestalt had known a bit, although not all, of this, but kept its thoughts to itself. It wasn't an expert on body language or vocal inflections, but time spent in a blended mind with a human had left some cues. Clara seemed to be steeling herself for something rather than simply explaining a concept no-one had asked about, so the golem simply sat quietly and listened, pad unmoving and pencil deferentially laid beside it. It calmly watched as she began pacing and gesticulating more emphatically than the subject matter really warranted.

"So, as you can probably imagine, most such channelers won't be able to compete in terms of raw magical power with magic-users who cultivate and strengthen their own abilities; even a very devout servant of a very powerful god can only use the tiniest fraction of divine power, both because the gods mostly prefer to see their followers do their own work, and because channeling more than the merest iota of divine energy would be very hard on any material body. Saints who move mountains or slay dragons tend not to have particularly long lifespans.

It made enough sense, but still didn't seem to have any relevance to the situation at hand. Still, Gestalt was prepared to wait for as long as the nun was ready to talk if it promised to have some sort of helpful bit at the end; until then, it merely sat in the center of the room with an air of great patience and interest. Or, at least, as much of such an air as a bunch of featureless and unmoving crates could hope to exude.

"There are a few things, of course, that my magic does better than the other sort; anything inherently divine, especially the creation and maintenance of life, comes significantly easier to a holy mage than to an arcane one. Wizards make notoriously poor healers, necromancy is ninety percent the domain of clerics and priests, and knowledge of things unknown is most attainable by those who can part the veils normally only gods can see through. That's not to say wizards simply can't do those things, it just takes a lot more effort and study for less result, and even the best will likely never be able to compete with the best divine magic users."

"There's really only one thing that we can do that they'll never be able to, and... It's something most of us never do, and even those who choose to only do rarely and with great reluctance." Here, Clara swallowed and stopped pacing, tapping her foot and cane on the ground and pulling her face taut. "A divine channeler has to open themselves up to outside forces to use their power, and learns to recognize which forces to tap and how to control how much power they take or let in. That means that there's the potential to let in more, or attempt to use more power than you usually do, or... Or, let something all the way in."

"So, uh, I guess what I'm thinking is this. None of us know anything about these carvings, you two can barely see them, and even those two... Geniuses back there will probably take days or weeks or who-knows-how-long to learn even the barest shred of information from these things. None of my usual divinations are useful here, and I'm not sure I'd be able to get the kind of planar consult I usually can in this sort of situation. So, maybe the best plan is to let me find someone or something who does know what they mean and bring them here to let you guys talk to them. I honestly don't know how it'll work out but... Well, I don't really have any better ideas.

The pad hovered up to eye level and the pencil tapped itself on the spine for a moment before ponderously drawing out a few lines.

if i am to understand the plan and your explanation this involves some not insignificant personal risk to yourself as well as the distinct possibility for failure or worse

i am of course leery of such dangerous actions but

it is true that i am unable to come up with anything better nor can i truly be of much help in terms of gathering and gleaning information

in the end i suppose you are free to do whatever you think is best to further our goals and i am in little position to offer advice about things i know little

i wish you the best of luck insofar as that is possible

The old woman smiled and patted the closest box on its lid. "That's sweet of you to say. One way or another, I figure we'll get something out of this. If you think it's worth trying, I'll get started right away; it might take a bit to find an appropriate intelligence, so I guess you should find something to occupy yourself. Can you even get bored?"

the concept is different for me than i understand it is for more organic beings but your point is noted

i will find something to occupy myself

there is something incongruous and very much interesting to me that i had earlier dismissed as insignificant and suspected i would not get the chance to explore and this delay gives the perfect opportunity to tinker

Clara nodded, and Gestalt moved back to the corridor and a few feet into it, the still-silent pillar of the faceless moving aside to allow him passage. The crates fanned out by one wall and sat there; it was impossible to tell what, if anything, the schrotgolem was doing. The nun, for her part, moved into the center of the room and sat crosslegged on the ground. She pulled out a piece of chalk from her sleeve and drew just two simple sigils on the ground: one in front of her, the other behind. She closed her eyes and began concentrating, her breathing slowing and mind leaving the material world behind.

The experience would be impossible to describe to one who has no personal experience with magic or the multiverse, but it can be approximated visually. Imagine the world fading to black then again to nothingness; like being blind and having no concept of the idea of black, there was simply emptiness around the mental presence of Clara Jungfrau. From that presence extended gossamer threads, growing and winding, splitting and searching, each tasting the aether and looking for a particular faint signature. This web of thought and energy continued branching and spreading, crossing invisible universal barriers and pushing forcefully through more stubborn impediments.

The search was long and for the most part fruitless; most sufficiently-powerful entities appeared to lack the capability for the task at hand. In the end, only thirteen beings that the spell could find were judged acceptable; one by one, these beings were probed and approached, each time being rebuked. Sometimes the threads were simply waved aside, others attacked and broken, still others knotted around themselves and dispelled; it appeared the attempt would be for nothing until... One being originally shied away from the approach, but after a moment returned, curious. It examined the magic, growing more and more interested and amused; it reached out metaphysically, stroking and reading the spell as it thought, then bubbled with silent psychic laughter. It liked what it had found. It wrapped around the thread and let the web wrap around it.

---

The temple was ancient. Pre-prehistory ancient. It had been around, apparently, almost as long as this planet had. Gestalt could feel this instinctively, and his probing of the stones' history confirmed this fact. Everything about this place felt old. Except... It didn't. The stone, and even the carvings themselves, were truly ancient, but there was the taste of the present and even of the future on the surface of the rocks; it was possible for all the golem knew that this was typical for prophecy or time loops or whatever had allowed these carvings to depict things so recent and even yet to come even though they themselves were created eons ago, but... Then there were the traps. They were, simply put, out of place. They didn't have the same elegant melding with the tunnels that the carvings did, to say nothing of the fact that mechanical traps like pressure plates and compressed air and blades would certainly not have weathered this much time and still been functional. It was baffling, but it wasn't exactly vital.

Still, Clara's casting gave Gestalt the time to work on the problem, even if it was just a silly little thing. It moved to one of the most recent traps they had passed, a combination pressure-plate and pit trap that would have taken a considerable effort to install and oughtn't have lasted a decade under the pressure and tectonic drift. It fanned itself out by the wall, and sent its consciousness into the walls and mechanisms. After spending some minutes familiarizing itself with the intricacies of the trap itself, it began looking through the object's history. It was... Astonishingly brief, and extremely uneventful. Unless there was some sort of effect clouding Gestalt's reading, it appeared to have been here for mere hours and was never put[/] here or installed; it simply wasn't here, then suddenly was. The components had no history from before being part of the trap, and no-one had ever put them here. They'd simply arrived. There was–

There was a noise from back in the chamber. Panning its "sight" back around, the golem saw that Clara had fallen over backwards and her chalk symbols were glowing with a fading light. It moved a bit closer to the room, and the nun sat up, looked directly at Gestalt and Vyrm'n, and blinked; after a moment of staring, her eyes rolled back in her head until nothing was visible but the whites. She stood up slowly, and took a few steps towards the chamber entrance, her eyes growing darker the farther she moved; she suddenly cocked her head to the side and furrowed her brow. There was a soft 'hmm', and she clicked her fingers; a purplish fedora appeared on her head (on top of the wimple) and her face brightened up, making the tiny stars dotting the blackness of her eyes more obvious. "Ahh, that's much better."

Clara, whose voice had sounded exactly the same as before but as though she was saying everything in stereo with herself, smiled at the other two. And did nothing else. Just smiled broadly and rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet. After a few awkward moments, Gestalt brought out his notepad and began to write:

i can only assume that you are whatever entity was selected by or perhaps selected our friend clara

i am g–

Clara waved her hand and Gestalt found itself unable to continue writing. <font color="#4000ff">"I promise, I know all about you! And why you searched for me too. No need to go around explaining things all the time, I've got a handle on it. Besides all that..." Here she scowled for a moment. "Reading earthly languages gives me a headache. This should be much more convenient for everyone."

The nun waved her hand and a small device appeared on the lid of one of Gestalt's boxes; it was a speech synthesizer, much like the one The Sunset had used, but more compact. After a few experimental bursts, of static, the golem found it very easy to use and far more reliable than the last one it had used. "I suppose I should thank you. This device will doubtless prove helpful." It also appeared to switch every so often from a sultry feminine voice to a deep, smooth masculine one.

Clara beamed and made a dismissive 'think nothing of it' hand gesture. "Least I could do, and so on. Now then, let's get started; you fellows don't have much time to waste, I think." She moved to an apparently-arbitrary point on the wall and jabbed a bony finger into the carvings. "It starts... [i]here[/]. Well, that is to say, this round starts here but I bet you'd already figured out that each of these rooms represents a different round of a battle much like your own. But yeah, this one starts here. See, what happened is, see this little squiggle? It means..." She broke off again, and began tittering slightly. She clapped twice then brought her hands up to her face, still beaming. "Oh, they are going to be so furious about this. Well, he is at least. Isn't this exciting? I'm really breaking new scheming ground here! All of them furtively whispering to each other, talking behind backs... Well, They just never took the idea to it's logical conclusion! This is so much fun! I wonder how she'll react? Probably–"

Gestalt's new voice purred out "What exactly are you–" before finding it couldn't go on. Clara's face, which had been so suffused with glee for most of the time since the channeling began, turned towards the boxes, expression completely impassive, eyebrows lowered very slightly. Cold, a concept the schrotgolem had understood but never experienced, ripped through Gestalt's being; a sensation like drowning in boiling ice suffused its existence, and it felt itself detach from its material portions before being pinned to a wall. "Don't interrupt.". It hadn't been pitched like a command or threat; it was simply a statement of how things would be. There was neither malice nor anger, just an intense certainty that no more interruptions would follow. Gestalt's spiritual self was released from the metaphysical grip and dropped to the ground. It slowly gathered its corporeal limbs as Clara turned back to the wall, once again all smiles and bubbly commentary.</font>

"Okay so basically what I'm saying is, and I probably shouldn't bother with all the details, isss... Well, so these two, that vacuum you saw earlier, the one with the bones and the knives, and a big guy with a magic weapon that could change form (his friend knew this nun person, by the way, interesting tidbit there), they made it all the way to the last round of their battle. That's this room. Set in a mental world, right? It responded to what they thought and felt and made it real. All their fears and doubts and hopes and all that. Lot of character development there, overcoming their shortcomings and all that. The vacuum got over the limits of being a soulless machine (even though it was full of souls, but you know what I mean), it was really touching and all that. They spend most of their time fighting each other like they're supposed to, but finally they get all touchy-feely and work together to fight The Director. Oh, and the memory of their friend who died in round six is there only she's not a memory, she's a ghost and she's not really a ghost either. Basically she kills herself again to let them go deeper into the mental world to find the Director himself, where he's holed up trying to recover from some damage that memory ghost girl did to him the round she died. He taunts them a bit and they fight, and it's pretty intense! Still, weapon guys makes a dumb mistake on account of all that squishy biology and the Director offs him real quick. Anticlimactic really, but it never could have gone any other way. Vacuum goes home, waits for All-Stars. Everybody laughs at how close Director came to getting his clock cleaned by a vacuum." Clara sniggered a bit at her pun. "Aaand, that's about the size of it in here! I mean yeah there's details and stuff but that would take ages and you got the gist of it. Okay, I can feel you wanting to say something and I guess I'm done. What's on your, uh, box?"

"So you are saying that not only were they able to confront their grandmaster, but that he was vulnerable to attack and was only saved through errors on the part of the attackers?"

Clara's borrowed face looked pensive. "Wellll, yes and no. I mean, yeah, they attacked him (gave him a bit of a beating too), and it was weapon guy's mistake that gave him room to counter, but... Well, I'll be honest I'd have eaten my–" Here there was a word that was not only unpronounceable with one human mouth, but sent lances of pain and fear through all those present; even Vyrm'n's dark surface rippled with discomfort. "–if they'd actually [i]gotten him. I mean, yeah, these guys aren't half the badasses they think they are, but you're still batting against the big leagues here, kiddo."

Gestalt sat quietly. It was at once sobering and elating to hear that another group had attempted a grandmaster coup, even if they had failed. That they had succeeded at least in damaging the tyrant was hope enough, especially given that a robot vacuum and a "weapon guy" had managed to do so apparently without much magic and certainly without Vyrm'n's bottomless supply of nothingness. There was a lot to consider. Clara's voices piped up again with a prodding tone. "You knooow, I just bet there's other rounds and battles you'd like to hear a bit about, right?"

Originally posted on MSPA by Schazer.

---

While the Organizer gave Gestalt a tour of one side of the chamber, Vyrm'n gazed, as far as it was possible for her to, absently at the opposite wall. Gestalt had understandably been more preoccupied, but sensed the Faceless radiating a silent plea for attention and passed the speaker over.

Vyrm'n clutched it in a pseudopod, recalling the last time she'd spoken through one of these. What she'd asked. Whose permission she'd asked for. Vaguely aware that Gestalt still had a hold on the speaker, the shadow shifted on the spot a little.

"Show me your battle." Unlike Gestalt's synthesised, inconsistent voice, Vyrm'n's was flat. Distant, too, and not just in her recent gloomily distracted tones - the source of the voice sounded strained and staticky, like a message from beyond the stars.

Although Gestalt couldn't help but hope Vyrm'n wasn't going to say much more through it, the Grandmaster was not similarly affected. The Organizer cocked Clara's head to one side.

"Did you mean... my conduit's?"

The schrotgolem couldn't fail to immediately see the implication of this query; it took most of its effort to not relieve the inscrutable, hopefully deliberating Vyrm'n of the speaker. There was a long pause, by Gestalt's reckoning anyway, before the silence was broken by a quietly emphatic "no."

Clara grinned, followed by a burst of excited applause as she made for the doorway back to the central chamber.

"I thought you'd never ask! Still, if I do say so myself, my one's far more exciting than the one this lady and weapon guy's friend are in. Right this way, am I right?"

Vyrm'n made some kind of spasmodic twitch which was enough of a nod in the Organizer's eyes. The nun strode off with a spring in her step, a scrap of cloth mentally prodding the Faceless as they trailed behind.

How did you know?

Know what?

Gestalt would've stopped in its tracks at this point, were it human. Instead, it mulled over Vyrm'n's reply, conceding that it seemed genuine.

That whatever... deity Clara is channeling is one of these battles' orchestrators?

This time, Vyrm'n actually stopped in her shuffling tracks, though considering their guide had halted in the narrow passageway, taking in the desecration which was the sixth chamber, it was understandable.

"Did you two do this?"

"No," Gestalt replied, hastily snatching the voice modulator off the still-ruminating Faceless, "though Vyrm'n sensed it occurred after our arrival. Perhaps if we knew what was-"

"already on it," chirped Clara, picking up an indiscriminate chunk of rock and contemplating it, stroking her chin, as it spun slowly in midair. For now, Gestalt was more interested in Vyrm'n, and motioned for her to say whatever was on her mind.

The Faceless was trembling a little with the effort required to keep herself coherent; though Gestalt was vaguely aware of the semisentient energy permeating the temple it couldn't appreciate the pulse and flow of it, which was presently drowning out and making a mess of Vyrm'n's flow of thought.

I guess that makes sense. I didn't think about it then. But 'no' just seemed like the better answer.

With a snap of an ever-listening mind shutting out the world, the schrotgolem was dismissed. It seemed if it wanted Vyrm'n's attention, it wouldn't be for long stretches of time. A quiet chuckle prompted the crates to reorient, and enter the ruined chamber. Clara, surrounded by a veritable shield of floating rubble, dropped it with a clatter at Gestalt's entrance.

"Did you-"

"Oh, yes." Clara looked jubilant. "This is just all kinds of schemery... why, it's almost war! I- I think. But this'd almost certainly upset the Director, if only he knew! Do you think I should tell him?"

"I-"

"Or is it poor scheming to ruin someone else's scheming?" Clara frowned, thinking over the quandary for longer than Gestalt thought strictly necessary, before perking up and fixing the spirit with another smile. "That's hardly your problem, though. Did you want to see my battle?"

"I... certainly," conceded Gestalt.

"Excellent!"

Originally posted on MSPA by slipsicle.

---

Show Content

SpoilerWhy is this on page two? Because it's been crowded out by things that are dumb. Go Grand Battles! WE SHALL OVERCOME

also this one is my favorite