Re: The Grand Battle S2G1! [Round Three: Water...place!]
03-04-2011, 10:44 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by Schazer.
Xadrez.
My lady
The tactician had, as per his mistress' orders, followed the flow of souls to Chartevael. The quicksilver alps of the Mirrorlands below seemed to warp and shiver through the dregs of the Dead Tide; those errant souls who failed to find the Realm's proximity unnerving. It was homesick, warped-in-the-head types like that which made more content souls forsake the place, but Xadrez trusted his mistress.
She arrived, the dead carousing and clamouring around her like they always did. The current shifted wildly around the goddess, unsurprising considering she maintained the entire fluid structure of the Plane of the Dead. The tactician felt small and insignificant and safe beneath Scout's gaze.
I came as you requested, my lady
Yes. My loyal little Xadrez. I have a gift for you. Scout radiated satisfaction as Xadrez examined the dagger.
It is-
Of the finest workmanship, yes. It was made by your old master's hands, no less.
Sabre?
Indeed.
The spirit ran his fingers along the dagger's edge, searching for non-existent flaws as he considered. If his senses were reading this right, there was a good reason the goddess had given him the knife in a place like Chartevael, where the Plane melded a little smoother with the Realm.
It can cut anything
Almost, Xadrez. Sabre himself decreed that knife shall never draw blood.
But it will cut anything else
Save flesh.
Why
Sabre himself decreed, that knife shall never draw blood.
Xadrez sighed. Being a god's favourite was certainly an enviable position, but their insistence on being so vague and riddlesome made them infuriating company. Or, at least, it made Scout, the Lady of the Dead, so - Xadrez hadn't personally met Sabre, Lord of the Living, the Craftsman, the Planesmith, the Architect. The siblings were the two lone gods of this world - though history had proven time and again they would gift mortals with traces of their power on a seeming whim - masters of their respective domains.
There was Origin, Reality Himself, too; but from what Xadrez understood of Scout's stories He had faded away after He split the world into Plane and Realm and bound Sabre and Scout to hold dominion over them both and it was only now that the tactician stared levelly into his goddess' guiltless little smile with something like reproach. She smiled, a little apologetic, having bent his thoughts that way for her strange, capricious reasons.
Why did his Lordship give you this
it is a weapon i suspect unparalleled in the realm
Sabre requested that I hand that tool to a soul of keen mind. One willing to wander the Periphery as they studied his domain from above. A deity of strategy, of fate and war and chance. Do you accept the position, Xadrez?
Xadrez was taken aback by the sudden request, but couldn't refuse. The dagger's ungodly howl tore through time before the aching recollection could be completed. The tactician hissed with frustration as Scout, the Plane, and the spirits scattered before the scream of the knife.
It wasn't Xadrez' place to kill the hydra; it was Her Highness'. The spirit had almost reached this conclusion just as everything shimmered, collapsed in on itself, then exploded back into existence all in a blink of tan. The four remaining heads roared with pain as blood and sewage rained on the ruins of Hydresther.
Oh
there you are
Xadrez coldly appraised the cavernous interior he found himself in. A blast zone of corruptive beige stretched across the muscled floor beneath him like a scar. His knife was silent, sealed in an atoms-thin shell of Ovoid that extended up to the tactician's wrist. He looked around for something inorganic, and failing that, drifted to a nearby wall and touched the tanned dagger's tip to the flesh.
There was the usual, familiar deflection as the knife shied away, when something seemed to grip it and carve a murderous red line across the wall before Xadrez could lower his arm.
The spirit stared at his weapon. It hummed, the blood trembling its way off the beige veneer - underneath it, Xadrez' fingers burned where they met the still-howling knife. He stared into the gloom, hearing for the first time a river's flow in the knifeless silence.
Xadrez deliberated for a little longer, then drifted off to investigate.
Xadrez.
My lady
The tactician had, as per his mistress' orders, followed the flow of souls to Chartevael. The quicksilver alps of the Mirrorlands below seemed to warp and shiver through the dregs of the Dead Tide; those errant souls who failed to find the Realm's proximity unnerving. It was homesick, warped-in-the-head types like that which made more content souls forsake the place, but Xadrez trusted his mistress.
She arrived, the dead carousing and clamouring around her like they always did. The current shifted wildly around the goddess, unsurprising considering she maintained the entire fluid structure of the Plane of the Dead. The tactician felt small and insignificant and safe beneath Scout's gaze.
I came as you requested, my lady
Yes. My loyal little Xadrez. I have a gift for you. Scout radiated satisfaction as Xadrez examined the dagger.
It is-
Of the finest workmanship, yes. It was made by your old master's hands, no less.
Sabre?
Indeed.
The spirit ran his fingers along the dagger's edge, searching for non-existent flaws as he considered. If his senses were reading this right, there was a good reason the goddess had given him the knife in a place like Chartevael, where the Plane melded a little smoother with the Realm.
It can cut anything
Almost, Xadrez. Sabre himself decreed that knife shall never draw blood.
But it will cut anything else
Save flesh.
Why
Sabre himself decreed, that knife shall never draw blood.
Xadrez sighed. Being a god's favourite was certainly an enviable position, but their insistence on being so vague and riddlesome made them infuriating company. Or, at least, it made Scout, the Lady of the Dead, so - Xadrez hadn't personally met Sabre, Lord of the Living, the Craftsman, the Planesmith, the Architect. The siblings were the two lone gods of this world - though history had proven time and again they would gift mortals with traces of their power on a seeming whim - masters of their respective domains.
There was Origin, Reality Himself, too; but from what Xadrez understood of Scout's stories He had faded away after He split the world into Plane and Realm and bound Sabre and Scout to hold dominion over them both and it was only now that the tactician stared levelly into his goddess' guiltless little smile with something like reproach. She smiled, a little apologetic, having bent his thoughts that way for her strange, capricious reasons.
Why did his Lordship give you this
it is a weapon i suspect unparalleled in the realm
Sabre requested that I hand that tool to a soul of keen mind. One willing to wander the Periphery as they studied his domain from above. A deity of strategy, of fate and war and chance. Do you accept the position, Xadrez?
Xadrez was taken aback by the sudden request, but couldn't refuse. The dagger's ungodly howl tore through time before the aching recollection could be completed. The tactician hissed with frustration as Scout, the Plane, and the spirits scattered before the scream of the knife.
It wasn't Xadrez' place to kill the hydra; it was Her Highness'. The spirit had almost reached this conclusion just as everything shimmered, collapsed in on itself, then exploded back into existence all in a blink of tan. The four remaining heads roared with pain as blood and sewage rained on the ruins of Hydresther.
Oh
there you are
Xadrez coldly appraised the cavernous interior he found himself in. A blast zone of corruptive beige stretched across the muscled floor beneath him like a scar. His knife was silent, sealed in an atoms-thin shell of Ovoid that extended up to the tactician's wrist. He looked around for something inorganic, and failing that, drifted to a nearby wall and touched the tanned dagger's tip to the flesh.
There was the usual, familiar deflection as the knife shied away, when something seemed to grip it and carve a murderous red line across the wall before Xadrez could lower his arm.
The spirit stared at his weapon. It hummed, the blood trembling its way off the beige veneer - underneath it, Xadrez' fingers burned where they met the still-howling knife. He stared into the gloom, hearing for the first time a river's flow in the knifeless silence.
Xadrez deliberated for a little longer, then drifted off to investigate.
peace to the unsung peace to the martyrs | i'm johnny rotten appleseed
clouds is shaky love | broke as hell but i got a bunch of ringtones
eyes blood red bruise aubergine | Sue took something now Sue doesn't sleep | saint average, day in the life of
woke up in the noon smelling doom and death | out the house, great outdoors
staying warm in arctic blizzard | that's my battle 'til I get inanimate | still up in the same clothes living like a gameshow
clouds is shaky love | broke as hell but i got a bunch of ringtones
eyes blood red bruise aubergine | Sue took something now Sue doesn't sleep | saint average, day in the life of
woke up in the noon smelling doom and death | out the house, great outdoors
staying warm in arctic blizzard | that's my battle 'til I get inanimate | still up in the same clothes living like a gameshow