Re: QUIETUS [S!5] [Round 1: Godsworn Valley]
04-17-2012, 12:19 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by One.
Amidst trampled grass and battered earth lay a titan of rubber and steel. Facedown in the dust, he was unresponsive to everything--from his violent relocation to the distant sounds of war. The sun glinted off of his metal carapace. Only the fields of dead grass surrounding him moved, like a sea of amber.
And then Arokht awakened. One massive, barrel-like arm slammed down on the ground as he forced himself up from the dirt. The towering iceworlder bellowed in rage, a roar that echoed across the plains. Never before in his long life had he felt so much raw hatred for a single being. To be torn away from the cusp of his greatest victory, to be forced in front of an alien and be expected to obey its will, to be thrust onto an unfamiliar world filled with unfamiliar life--insult after insult, injury after injury! The Outsider, that insolent being, would pay for its offenses!
Vengeful, frenzied, Arokht turned his anger outwards, smashing and ripping at the pockmarked ground. He swatted at the grass, but it was too soft, too yielding, and his blows swept through them like empty air. With nothing solid for the enraged iceworlder to tear apart, his fury only grew. He roared again, screaming at the sky, the earth, and everything in between.
Growling, he struggled to control his anger. He had no backup. He had no information. He had no orders. He was on his own now, so what he needed the most was a clear, rational mind, not a mind clouded by emotion.
Arokht scanned his surroundings. The field that he had awakened in was covered in tall, withered grass. Here and there, a sparse, spindly tree poked out of the brush. The dark wood was a sharp contrast against the golden grass. A river, swollen with corpses, wound through the plains. There was a patch of trees in the distance, shaded and inviting, providing relief from the searing sun. He heard, farther away, the sounds of a pitched battle: the rapid pops and clicks of gunfire, the bass roar of cannons and mortars, the faint screams of the fallen. Though he itched to be in combat once more, the soldier reminded himself that he was on his own. Charging into battle without backup was nothing less than suicide, even for an iceworlder.
Then came the matter of the other ‘contestants’. They were aliens, to be exterminated on sight. But if that wretched Outsider expected Arokht to kill for the sake of entertaining it, it was sorely mistaken. His temper flared at the thought of it. He was a soldier, not a puppet. For now, he would tolerate the aliens, if only to spite the being.
There was nothing to find and nothing to do here in the grass. Nor did he have anything to gain from staying. Still fuming, the iceworlder trudged away.
Amidst trampled grass and battered earth lay a titan of rubber and steel. Facedown in the dust, he was unresponsive to everything--from his violent relocation to the distant sounds of war. The sun glinted off of his metal carapace. Only the fields of dead grass surrounding him moved, like a sea of amber.
And then Arokht awakened. One massive, barrel-like arm slammed down on the ground as he forced himself up from the dirt. The towering iceworlder bellowed in rage, a roar that echoed across the plains. Never before in his long life had he felt so much raw hatred for a single being. To be torn away from the cusp of his greatest victory, to be forced in front of an alien and be expected to obey its will, to be thrust onto an unfamiliar world filled with unfamiliar life--insult after insult, injury after injury! The Outsider, that insolent being, would pay for its offenses!
Vengeful, frenzied, Arokht turned his anger outwards, smashing and ripping at the pockmarked ground. He swatted at the grass, but it was too soft, too yielding, and his blows swept through them like empty air. With nothing solid for the enraged iceworlder to tear apart, his fury only grew. He roared again, screaming at the sky, the earth, and everything in between.
Growling, he struggled to control his anger. He had no backup. He had no information. He had no orders. He was on his own now, so what he needed the most was a clear, rational mind, not a mind clouded by emotion.
Arokht scanned his surroundings. The field that he had awakened in was covered in tall, withered grass. Here and there, a sparse, spindly tree poked out of the brush. The dark wood was a sharp contrast against the golden grass. A river, swollen with corpses, wound through the plains. There was a patch of trees in the distance, shaded and inviting, providing relief from the searing sun. He heard, farther away, the sounds of a pitched battle: the rapid pops and clicks of gunfire, the bass roar of cannons and mortars, the faint screams of the fallen. Though he itched to be in combat once more, the soldier reminded himself that he was on his own. Charging into battle without backup was nothing less than suicide, even for an iceworlder.
Then came the matter of the other ‘contestants’. They were aliens, to be exterminated on sight. But if that wretched Outsider expected Arokht to kill for the sake of entertaining it, it was sorely mistaken. His temper flared at the thought of it. He was a soldier, not a puppet. For now, he would tolerate the aliens, if only to spite the being.
There was nothing to find and nothing to do here in the grass. Nor did he have anything to gain from staying. Still fuming, the iceworlder trudged away.