12-12-2012, 07:17 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by MrGuy.
The sky high above the city was illuminated by three things. One was the full moon, carrying a slight yellowish tint and peeking through a thin covering of clouds. The second was the expanding collection of explosions centered on the palace gates, and the last the billowing flames a pirate was using to approach the second.
String me up, Ripper thought. Something bad happened. Someone must’ve caught wind of it, or… or some idiot went in early, or… gah, heave it all! She took solace in the fact that she was at least approaching quickly; the jetpack was certainly valuable in that regard. Naturally, her reaction to the blaring klaxon that interrupted this thought was an unpleasant one. She smacked the side of her sputtering jetpack, silencing it. “Avast, y’damned thing! You’ll be dinin’ on rocks before the night’s done.” Grumbling, she slowly descended to the ground, breaking into a run when she reached it.
The sound of the fighting was all but deafening, the explosions sending out thunderous vibrations that rocked the ground beneath her boots and caused her mask to shudder in resonance. Quickly, she pulled out the gun and baton she’d stolen, and scanned the battlefield, her gaze catching on Triumphan; or, rather, the man quickly approaching him from behind. She immediately swung the phaser towards him and fired off three rounds; he collapsed, crying in agony at the burning hole gouged into his shoulder, clawing at the blistered skin and exposed muscle. Triumphan briefly glanced back at him, before turning his attention forward again and clawing open a fellow’s stomach.
If Blackmask thought her heart felt like hell, it was only because she had no idea what was going on in the rest of her cardiovascular system. A heart, certainly, was not enough space for an Organ; but it was wide, at least. As the thick slime spread throughout her blood vessels with each thump, it threatened to burst through the overtaxed capillaries, spilling out and causing God only knows what horrible things. Thankfully, the substance still retained its sentience, even if it wasn’t quite in full effect yet, so it managed to retain enough control to avoid this.
A small group of gargoyles swooped down upon the rebels, slashing at them with both claws and sword; their leader charged a carpenter, who hadn’t even bothered to change out of his sawdust-covered apron, and flung him into the air with his horns. Not to be outdone, the carpenter promptly transformed his hand into a chisel, driving it into the creature’s stone skull as he fell. To the left of the pirate, Triumphan was grappling with a particularly burly one; Ripper, meanwhile, was busy frantically batting another away with her stunstick.
Each breath the pirate took was like torture, made her feel as if she was going to burst. This was not at all aided by the fact that her blood was now more or less entirely replaced with ooze, and what little remained of Miq had begun spilling into her lungs and stomach. She coughed, desperately trying to shake off the sensation of drowning on land as she slammed her boot into a guard’s nether regions; her eyes began tearing up at the burning sensation welling up in her stomach as she ducked under a crossbow bolt, which lodged in the leg of a dwarf. But she continued fighting, half-dazed, rambling about the proletari-whatever and redistribution and sanctity under her breath. Because if she didn’t stop fighting, she told herself, the rebels would lose; and the boundless, barely-directed fear and anger that thought brought on was enough to keep her in the past ten times over.
--------
The workshop was fairly small, and exceptionally dark, lit only by the flames of the forge and the glow of the white-hot lump of metal gradually being transformed into a sword.The bearded man was lost in the familiar rhythm – slam the hammer down, slowly raise it back up, slam, raise, slam, raise, slam, raise. The repeated clangs and bangs of steel against silver spurred him on, the music of his chosen and beloved craft.
This melody was – rather rudely, the smith thought – interrupted by his door slamming open. As he turned his head to face the pale one-eyed man, he found himself mildly perplexed that the door that previously led to the front of his shop now led to some (apparently dead) fellow’s bedroom. The combination of these conditions led the man to give a withering glare to the interloper.
Lutherion, meanwhile, responded to the scowl with an equally-large grin. When this only caused Arkal to scowl even harder, the necromancer burst into laughter. “Someone seems to be in a foul mood, hm?” Strolling over nonchalantly, he pinched the blacksmith’s cheek with his Wightmaw Arm. “Now, then, I’m going to be needing someone to make weapons for my undead army. Won’t you be a dear and go peacefully?”
Arkal tore the arm from his face and pushed the necromancer away. “You’d best get out of my workshop while I’m trying to work.”
Lutherion’s arm began glowing the deep, darkish purple traditionally associated with necromancy or perhaps poison or something, his laughing escalating into a maniacal cackle. “Don’t worry! Once I’ve taken care of things, you can work on the go!” He raised his fist and swung it towards Arkal, who quickly flipped his anvil, sending the still gleaming metal into the necromancer’s eye socket.
The blacksmith spat on the ground and stared Lutherion in the eye. “Your arm seems to be broken, kiddo. Let me fix it for you.” Briefly glancing at the weapons scattered throughout the room, he shook his head and decided to simply grab his anvil. “I’ll use a direct approach. It’ll be better than NEW!” With this, he swung the silver block into the necromancer’s stomach, knocking him to the ground.
Lutherion gasped at the burning sensation brought on by the silver. Growling, he leapt to his feet and launched another punch suffused with necromantic energy, stopping it just short of the anvil, which Arkal had raised as an improvised shield. He repeated this process, circling the blacksmith, until he had reached the wall behind him; at which point he yanked down an iron mace, which he drove into the anvil with all his might, leaving a considerable dent in it.
The craftsman stared at the imperfection in disbelief before letting out a tremendous roar, frantically swinging his weapon left and right. “This anvil… has been my companion for years!” He knocked Lutherion’s mace into the sky; the necromancer responded by grabbing at a spear and lunging for the berserk blacksmith. It was a solid hit to the stomach, and he groaned in pain, but stayed on his feet, fighting.
“I’ll give you this, sir, you certainly are making things interesting!” Lutherion broke out into a giggling fit, at which point Arkal smashed him over the head. Falling to the ground, Lutherion cursed, crawling back as quickly as he could as the blacksmith brought the block of silver down once more; he succeeded, and the impact caused the floorboards to fracture. Quickly, Lutherion scrabbled to his feet, tossing the spear at Arkal before dashing out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
“No you don’t…” Arkal opened the door again, only to find it once more led to his familiar (and currently closed) storefront. Placing his anvil down, he passed through, looking around in bafflement.
What he perhaps should have expected (alas, dying makes hindsight moot) was that, as he turned back to his workshop, scratching his head, Lutherion would slowly and silently creep through the front door. He crept towards the blacksmith, grabbing an intricately-carved knife from a display case and driving it through the poor man’s neck until it came out his throat. Once again, he burst out laughing. “Looks like I win, though I did very much enjoy our little game!”
The necromancer yanked out the knife, whirled to the front of the man, and gleefully stabbed him nine times in the face before finally driving the blade into his heart and leaving it there. At this point, the blacksmith collapsed. Lutherion bent down on one knee, drew a short staff from his robes, and pressed his skeletal palm to the man’s forehead. “Oh, but you can’t quit on me yet… Arkal, is it?” He chuckled softly. “We’re going to have a good deal of fun yet…”
--------
Quantos slumped against the wall of the alleyway, taking a long drag off his cigarette before continuing to speak. “There’s four of them. Well… possibly more from loopholes and such, but I doubt it.” He gestured vaguely with his wrist in between puffs. “Point is. I tell you where they are? You could have damn near anything you want.”
Countess grinned, shuffling closer to him. “I’m sure you’re telling the truth, Mister…”
Quantos glared, his green eye crackling with electricity. “Officer Xodarap to you, grifter.”
The amalgam gave out a nearly perfect fake laugh, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. “Officer, then. As I was saying, you seem trustworthy enough, but I rather require proof before I embark on any frivolous endeavors. Surely you understand?”
Silently, the time traveler nodded, and produced a photograph and a ring. The former showed the two of them shaking hands (albeit while Quantos still wore a scowl) outside the remodeled palace; the latter was a perfect match for one the Countess herself wore. “That good enough for you, Paige?”
The amalgam briefly looked on in surprise, but quickly went back to her mildly disconcerting smile. “Absolutely, Officer. What, precisely, do I need to do in order to get this information I desire?”
He inhaled from his cigarette one last time, before throwing the stub to the ground and stamping it out with his walking stick. “Go to the Red District. Be careful; things are going to be… bad out there, to say the least.” He closed his eyes for a moment before continuing. “I need you to scavenge the streets for bones. Mark them on this map of the city streets for me, and bring them back to this location in five minutes. Then I’ll give you what you want.” Noting the dubious look the Countess was giving him, Xodarap sighed and handed her, along with the map and a pen, a handful of coins. “I know it sounds absurd, but just do it. It’ll be beneficial for the both of us.”
Countess shrugged and smiled, pocketing what he’d given her. “Of course, Officer. I’ll be back as fast as I can.” At this, she began scuttling off to the Red District, scanning the map in order to plan about five different escape routes in advance.
Quantos tapped his walking stick to his right eye three times, and it began to emit a low humming noise. “I’m counting on you, grifter. Don’t let me down.” Briefly, he glanced at his right arm, and winced before vanishing into the night.
--------
The rebels continued their march forward, laughing and singing songs which Ripper didn’t know the words to (though she mouthed along, even though nobody could really see it, to keep in the spirit of the whole thing). They were stopped at the front door of the castle by a single man.
He stood tall, in ruby-red armor; over his shoulder, he carried a sword longer than his arm, with just the slightest curve to it. He raised his free hand to point at the army in front of him, and in a commanding voice, he shouted: “Traitors! Fiends! Leave now, for if you continue, you shall be forced to combat a man who cannot die; and it is with every unstoppable breath that I shall defend the king and queen of this land!” The army mostly quieted, but for a few nervous chuckles in the background. “Very good. Now turn tail, and we shall forgive you of your insolence; if you dare keep this up, you will be slaughtered – if not by me, then by the Sorian Council.”
By now, everyone had gone silent; the only noise was the chill wind rustling the branches of nearby trees. And for a moment, it looked as if the rebel army would have turned away. And surely, if Triumphan had been slain, or if the watchmen had arrived to flank them, they would have. But as it happened, neither of these were the case, so instead, a voice shouted from the middle of the crowd: “Who the hell do you think you are?”
Again, there was a long pause, as nobody really knew what to say to that; it wasn’t especially compelling. But to Triumphan, just barely shaken by the bodies littering the field, it provided the last extra bit of resolve he needed. Slowly, a grin crawled across his face, and he raised his head high. “Friends… show this fool that no man, regardless of his strength, can hold to the might of the God!”
There was, at last, a great cheer; and the army charged into battle once more.
The sky high above the city was illuminated by three things. One was the full moon, carrying a slight yellowish tint and peeking through a thin covering of clouds. The second was the expanding collection of explosions centered on the palace gates, and the last the billowing flames a pirate was using to approach the second.
String me up, Ripper thought. Something bad happened. Someone must’ve caught wind of it, or… or some idiot went in early, or… gah, heave it all! She took solace in the fact that she was at least approaching quickly; the jetpack was certainly valuable in that regard. Naturally, her reaction to the blaring klaxon that interrupted this thought was an unpleasant one. She smacked the side of her sputtering jetpack, silencing it. “Avast, y’damned thing! You’ll be dinin’ on rocks before the night’s done.” Grumbling, she slowly descended to the ground, breaking into a run when she reached it.
The sound of the fighting was all but deafening, the explosions sending out thunderous vibrations that rocked the ground beneath her boots and caused her mask to shudder in resonance. Quickly, she pulled out the gun and baton she’d stolen, and scanned the battlefield, her gaze catching on Triumphan; or, rather, the man quickly approaching him from behind. She immediately swung the phaser towards him and fired off three rounds; he collapsed, crying in agony at the burning hole gouged into his shoulder, clawing at the blistered skin and exposed muscle. Triumphan briefly glanced back at him, before turning his attention forward again and clawing open a fellow’s stomach.
If Blackmask thought her heart felt like hell, it was only because she had no idea what was going on in the rest of her cardiovascular system. A heart, certainly, was not enough space for an Organ; but it was wide, at least. As the thick slime spread throughout her blood vessels with each thump, it threatened to burst through the overtaxed capillaries, spilling out and causing God only knows what horrible things. Thankfully, the substance still retained its sentience, even if it wasn’t quite in full effect yet, so it managed to retain enough control to avoid this.
A small group of gargoyles swooped down upon the rebels, slashing at them with both claws and sword; their leader charged a carpenter, who hadn’t even bothered to change out of his sawdust-covered apron, and flung him into the air with his horns. Not to be outdone, the carpenter promptly transformed his hand into a chisel, driving it into the creature’s stone skull as he fell. To the left of the pirate, Triumphan was grappling with a particularly burly one; Ripper, meanwhile, was busy frantically batting another away with her stunstick.
Each breath the pirate took was like torture, made her feel as if she was going to burst. This was not at all aided by the fact that her blood was now more or less entirely replaced with ooze, and what little remained of Miq had begun spilling into her lungs and stomach. She coughed, desperately trying to shake off the sensation of drowning on land as she slammed her boot into a guard’s nether regions; her eyes began tearing up at the burning sensation welling up in her stomach as she ducked under a crossbow bolt, which lodged in the leg of a dwarf. But she continued fighting, half-dazed, rambling about the proletari-whatever and redistribution and sanctity under her breath. Because if she didn’t stop fighting, she told herself, the rebels would lose; and the boundless, barely-directed fear and anger that thought brought on was enough to keep her in the past ten times over.
--------
The workshop was fairly small, and exceptionally dark, lit only by the flames of the forge and the glow of the white-hot lump of metal gradually being transformed into a sword.The bearded man was lost in the familiar rhythm – slam the hammer down, slowly raise it back up, slam, raise, slam, raise, slam, raise. The repeated clangs and bangs of steel against silver spurred him on, the music of his chosen and beloved craft.
This melody was – rather rudely, the smith thought – interrupted by his door slamming open. As he turned his head to face the pale one-eyed man, he found himself mildly perplexed that the door that previously led to the front of his shop now led to some (apparently dead) fellow’s bedroom. The combination of these conditions led the man to give a withering glare to the interloper.
Lutherion, meanwhile, responded to the scowl with an equally-large grin. When this only caused Arkal to scowl even harder, the necromancer burst into laughter. “Someone seems to be in a foul mood, hm?” Strolling over nonchalantly, he pinched the blacksmith’s cheek with his Wightmaw Arm. “Now, then, I’m going to be needing someone to make weapons for my undead army. Won’t you be a dear and go peacefully?”
Arkal tore the arm from his face and pushed the necromancer away. “You’d best get out of my workshop while I’m trying to work.”
Lutherion’s arm began glowing the deep, darkish purple traditionally associated with necromancy or perhaps poison or something, his laughing escalating into a maniacal cackle. “Don’t worry! Once I’ve taken care of things, you can work on the go!” He raised his fist and swung it towards Arkal, who quickly flipped his anvil, sending the still gleaming metal into the necromancer’s eye socket.
The blacksmith spat on the ground and stared Lutherion in the eye. “Your arm seems to be broken, kiddo. Let me fix it for you.” Briefly glancing at the weapons scattered throughout the room, he shook his head and decided to simply grab his anvil. “I’ll use a direct approach. It’ll be better than NEW!” With this, he swung the silver block into the necromancer’s stomach, knocking him to the ground.
Lutherion gasped at the burning sensation brought on by the silver. Growling, he leapt to his feet and launched another punch suffused with necromantic energy, stopping it just short of the anvil, which Arkal had raised as an improvised shield. He repeated this process, circling the blacksmith, until he had reached the wall behind him; at which point he yanked down an iron mace, which he drove into the anvil with all his might, leaving a considerable dent in it.
The craftsman stared at the imperfection in disbelief before letting out a tremendous roar, frantically swinging his weapon left and right. “This anvil… has been my companion for years!” He knocked Lutherion’s mace into the sky; the necromancer responded by grabbing at a spear and lunging for the berserk blacksmith. It was a solid hit to the stomach, and he groaned in pain, but stayed on his feet, fighting.
“I’ll give you this, sir, you certainly are making things interesting!” Lutherion broke out into a giggling fit, at which point Arkal smashed him over the head. Falling to the ground, Lutherion cursed, crawling back as quickly as he could as the blacksmith brought the block of silver down once more; he succeeded, and the impact caused the floorboards to fracture. Quickly, Lutherion scrabbled to his feet, tossing the spear at Arkal before dashing out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
“No you don’t…” Arkal opened the door again, only to find it once more led to his familiar (and currently closed) storefront. Placing his anvil down, he passed through, looking around in bafflement.
What he perhaps should have expected (alas, dying makes hindsight moot) was that, as he turned back to his workshop, scratching his head, Lutherion would slowly and silently creep through the front door. He crept towards the blacksmith, grabbing an intricately-carved knife from a display case and driving it through the poor man’s neck until it came out his throat. Once again, he burst out laughing. “Looks like I win, though I did very much enjoy our little game!”
The necromancer yanked out the knife, whirled to the front of the man, and gleefully stabbed him nine times in the face before finally driving the blade into his heart and leaving it there. At this point, the blacksmith collapsed. Lutherion bent down on one knee, drew a short staff from his robes, and pressed his skeletal palm to the man’s forehead. “Oh, but you can’t quit on me yet… Arkal, is it?” He chuckled softly. “We’re going to have a good deal of fun yet…”
--------
Quantos slumped against the wall of the alleyway, taking a long drag off his cigarette before continuing to speak. “There’s four of them. Well… possibly more from loopholes and such, but I doubt it.” He gestured vaguely with his wrist in between puffs. “Point is. I tell you where they are? You could have damn near anything you want.”
Countess grinned, shuffling closer to him. “I’m sure you’re telling the truth, Mister…”
Quantos glared, his green eye crackling with electricity. “Officer Xodarap to you, grifter.”
The amalgam gave out a nearly perfect fake laugh, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. “Officer, then. As I was saying, you seem trustworthy enough, but I rather require proof before I embark on any frivolous endeavors. Surely you understand?”
Silently, the time traveler nodded, and produced a photograph and a ring. The former showed the two of them shaking hands (albeit while Quantos still wore a scowl) outside the remodeled palace; the latter was a perfect match for one the Countess herself wore. “That good enough for you, Paige?”
The amalgam briefly looked on in surprise, but quickly went back to her mildly disconcerting smile. “Absolutely, Officer. What, precisely, do I need to do in order to get this information I desire?”
He inhaled from his cigarette one last time, before throwing the stub to the ground and stamping it out with his walking stick. “Go to the Red District. Be careful; things are going to be… bad out there, to say the least.” He closed his eyes for a moment before continuing. “I need you to scavenge the streets for bones. Mark them on this map of the city streets for me, and bring them back to this location in five minutes. Then I’ll give you what you want.” Noting the dubious look the Countess was giving him, Xodarap sighed and handed her, along with the map and a pen, a handful of coins. “I know it sounds absurd, but just do it. It’ll be beneficial for the both of us.”
Countess shrugged and smiled, pocketing what he’d given her. “Of course, Officer. I’ll be back as fast as I can.” At this, she began scuttling off to the Red District, scanning the map in order to plan about five different escape routes in advance.
Quantos tapped his walking stick to his right eye three times, and it began to emit a low humming noise. “I’m counting on you, grifter. Don’t let me down.” Briefly, he glanced at his right arm, and winced before vanishing into the night.
--------
The rebels continued their march forward, laughing and singing songs which Ripper didn’t know the words to (though she mouthed along, even though nobody could really see it, to keep in the spirit of the whole thing). They were stopped at the front door of the castle by a single man.
He stood tall, in ruby-red armor; over his shoulder, he carried a sword longer than his arm, with just the slightest curve to it. He raised his free hand to point at the army in front of him, and in a commanding voice, he shouted: “Traitors! Fiends! Leave now, for if you continue, you shall be forced to combat a man who cannot die; and it is with every unstoppable breath that I shall defend the king and queen of this land!” The army mostly quieted, but for a few nervous chuckles in the background. “Very good. Now turn tail, and we shall forgive you of your insolence; if you dare keep this up, you will be slaughtered – if not by me, then by the Sorian Council.”
By now, everyone had gone silent; the only noise was the chill wind rustling the branches of nearby trees. And for a moment, it looked as if the rebel army would have turned away. And surely, if Triumphan had been slain, or if the watchmen had arrived to flank them, they would have. But as it happened, neither of these were the case, so instead, a voice shouted from the middle of the crowd: “Who the hell do you think you are?”
Again, there was a long pause, as nobody really knew what to say to that; it wasn’t especially compelling. But to Triumphan, just barely shaken by the bodies littering the field, it provided the last extra bit of resolve he needed. Slowly, a grin crawled across his face, and he raised his head high. “Friends… show this fool that no man, regardless of his strength, can hold to the might of the God!”
There was, at last, a great cheer; and the army charged into battle once more.