RE: The Grand Cooperative
04-29-2016, 07:56 AM
"-- is without worth!" The halberd of his arm clove the air--
and not only emphasized his nonexistent point to no-one, but crashed hand-long into his toppled companion. Suckling his pinky, silent curses trailing off under the assault to the senses that was The Vocalist, Lucian considered the possibilities:
1) The wizards had cast an illusion.
Improbable. Too elaborate, too convincing, too early. They'd been trying to reason with him (and he with them, folly as either course was sure to turn out), and buying time made little sense if they could simply cast this upon him with as little ceremony as it appeared, or were using a third party to ensorcell him. Further, he was too aware of his own circumstances to be under mental subjugation of this degree. Were they to capture him this way, they'd just put him to sleep. Less effort, less ceremony. Lucian rolled Prometheus over, and heat rolled over his legs as the forge huffed.
2) He was asleep, and dreaming.
Again, improbable. Too aware of events, too aware of his surrounds-- absent all anything, as they were. Nor, to his recollection, had any dreams of his been so, ah... colorful, as this. He wasn't even sure what that thing at the bar was meant to be-- some sort of war machine, perhaps? Not to speak of that which literally defied description. The distant sloshing of overturned slag settled. So much for that new hammerhead.
3) This was actually happening.
Extremely improbable, defying explanation outside some form of divine intervention. He'd long since discounted such things, but, lacking any logical explanation... if all these events were, in truth, his reality... he knew what he had to do.
As the fluorescent child wished them well, Lucian settled on the stool farthest from the war machine.
"Mead, please."
and not only emphasized his nonexistent point to no-one, but crashed hand-long into his toppled companion. Suckling his pinky, silent curses trailing off under the assault to the senses that was The Vocalist, Lucian considered the possibilities:
1) The wizards had cast an illusion.
Improbable. Too elaborate, too convincing, too early. They'd been trying to reason with him (and he with them, folly as either course was sure to turn out), and buying time made little sense if they could simply cast this upon him with as little ceremony as it appeared, or were using a third party to ensorcell him. Further, he was too aware of his own circumstances to be under mental subjugation of this degree. Were they to capture him this way, they'd just put him to sleep. Less effort, less ceremony. Lucian rolled Prometheus over, and heat rolled over his legs as the forge huffed.
2) He was asleep, and dreaming.
Again, improbable. Too aware of events, too aware of his surrounds-- absent all anything, as they were. Nor, to his recollection, had any dreams of his been so, ah... colorful, as this. He wasn't even sure what that thing at the bar was meant to be-- some sort of war machine, perhaps? Not to speak of that which literally defied description. The distant sloshing of overturned slag settled. So much for that new hammerhead.
3) This was actually happening.
Extremely improbable, defying explanation outside some form of divine intervention. He'd long since discounted such things, but, lacking any logical explanation... if all these events were, in truth, his reality... he knew what he had to do.
As the fluorescent child wished them well, Lucian settled on the stool farthest from the war machine.
"Mead, please."