Re: The Battle Royale S2 [Round 2: Prospect Creek]
11-20-2010, 01:07 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by Schazer.
"Hmph. That Eccentric is tenacious, I'll grant it that much."
The wildly flaying assaults on her pocket dimension had stopped a while ago, and the airborne and rather distressed Welshman seemed like the best explanation for the ceasefire. Its presence throttled by a torque's constraints or no, the madgod's influence was still visibly twisting the already (subjectively) warped reality.
The Composer sighed, and watched Sirius for a while instead. Unlike most other unfortunates that ended up being her charges, the goddess felt at least a shred of empathy for this one. Sure, there was a point when a no-nonsense attitude became something pathological, and that empathy wasn't nearly enough to entertain the thought of liberating the angel from his conscription, but... it was enough to hope he'd win. The Observer, disgrace he was, hadn't specifically rallied the Grandmasters to make his own All-Stars official, but she assumed that was his plan. Traipsing blissfully along in the Director's footsteps, as if he were a model Grandmaster!
Her respect for the mist-wreathed, misguided man notwithstanding, like many others, the Composer considered it a mere formality that the Director had to die. The Grandmaster was a laughing stock, and if the seven horrors the other Grandmasters were assembling to disassemble his vacuum cleaner (what kind of self-respecting Grandmaster would consciously choose that as his champion, anyway?) didn't take a sizeable chunk of him as well - well, that'd just be a disappointment.
If the Observer could put in a real effort, just this once, to outdo the Director on this point alone, with or without the Composer's meddling, the goddess conceded with a smirk that she'd forgive the cyclopian. Just this once.
And while the Composer mused and schemed and loathed, Jeremy had encountered an apparition that warranted not being a pathetic drunken dehydrated wreck. He dropped the book and scrabbled to his feet, or at least was pretty sure he did. The prickle of desert grains was still on the door-mage's hands, on his face; leaving abrasive doubt, but the rictus of anger that was Sereno's face was pretty convincing.
The reappearance and intactness of Jeremy's victim wasn't distressingly improbable enough, so Umbra burst from the sand with its feral shriek, clutching a rusted old rail spike. The real man's pleas failed to elicit any mercy from the hallucinatory one. If anything, Jeremy's begging just made Sereno smirk wider as the shadow plunged the rail spike into the door-mage's stomach, only stopping its furious clawing of his face as its master approached the wounded man.
Jeremy couldn't quite catch what Sereno said, over Umbra's howls and the pounding in his own ears. He certainly caught the faceful of sand, however, followed by the mouthful of Sereno's well-aimed boot to the teeth. He fell sprawled on the sand, severed muscles vividly protesting against his efforts to try and stand, or even curl up to ward off the worst of the blows raining on him...
The doormage could taste blood when his eyes snapped open. Rusty, dry blood and grit; but no stab wounds, and no vengeful ghosts.
"Hmph. That Eccentric is tenacious, I'll grant it that much."
The wildly flaying assaults on her pocket dimension had stopped a while ago, and the airborne and rather distressed Welshman seemed like the best explanation for the ceasefire. Its presence throttled by a torque's constraints or no, the madgod's influence was still visibly twisting the already (subjectively) warped reality.
The Composer sighed, and watched Sirius for a while instead. Unlike most other unfortunates that ended up being her charges, the goddess felt at least a shred of empathy for this one. Sure, there was a point when a no-nonsense attitude became something pathological, and that empathy wasn't nearly enough to entertain the thought of liberating the angel from his conscription, but... it was enough to hope he'd win. The Observer, disgrace he was, hadn't specifically rallied the Grandmasters to make his own All-Stars official, but she assumed that was his plan. Traipsing blissfully along in the Director's footsteps, as if he were a model Grandmaster!
Her respect for the mist-wreathed, misguided man notwithstanding, like many others, the Composer considered it a mere formality that the Director had to die. The Grandmaster was a laughing stock, and if the seven horrors the other Grandmasters were assembling to disassemble his vacuum cleaner (what kind of self-respecting Grandmaster would consciously choose that as his champion, anyway?) didn't take a sizeable chunk of him as well - well, that'd just be a disappointment.
If the Observer could put in a real effort, just this once, to outdo the Director on this point alone, with or without the Composer's meddling, the goddess conceded with a smirk that she'd forgive the cyclopian. Just this once.
And while the Composer mused and schemed and loathed, Jeremy had encountered an apparition that warranted not being a pathetic drunken dehydrated wreck. He dropped the book and scrabbled to his feet, or at least was pretty sure he did. The prickle of desert grains was still on the door-mage's hands, on his face; leaving abrasive doubt, but the rictus of anger that was Sereno's face was pretty convincing.
The reappearance and intactness of Jeremy's victim wasn't distressingly improbable enough, so Umbra burst from the sand with its feral shriek, clutching a rusted old rail spike. The real man's pleas failed to elicit any mercy from the hallucinatory one. If anything, Jeremy's begging just made Sereno smirk wider as the shadow plunged the rail spike into the door-mage's stomach, only stopping its furious clawing of his face as its master approached the wounded man.
Jeremy couldn't quite catch what Sereno said, over Umbra's howls and the pounding in his own ears. He certainly caught the faceful of sand, however, followed by the mouthful of Sereno's well-aimed boot to the teeth. He fell sprawled on the sand, severed muscles vividly protesting against his efforts to try and stand, or even curl up to ward off the worst of the blows raining on him...
The doormage could taste blood when his eyes snapped open. Rusty, dry blood and grit; but no stab wounds, and no vengeful ghosts.
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