Re: The Gradual Massacre (GBS2G4) [Round 4: Misty Swamp]
06-30-2011, 02:07 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by Schazer.
Bear and the insufferable little upstart marine waited on the inner outskirts of Holm, a term which made much more sense to the Countess after she'd been given a tour of the place en route to... the inner outskirts.
Holm was a sizeable, sprawling village, which those with a disposition favouring geographical humour might've posited should've been named "Atoll" instead. The settlement was a chain of buildings and raised huts and connecting walkways, which encircled a patch of swamp large enough to harbour a bit of that uppity human's hated fog in it.
The portions of the patchwork town that were built on dry(er) land had been extended outward, with more land raised from the mist through feats of magic or engineering. The citizens weren't fussy, though the Countess had to wonder why construction extended outward, rather than inward. Bear's explanations were less than helpful, and his companions constant pleas for the beast to "shut up for like, one moment, seriously" didn't help either. More boardwalks meandered away from the town like spidery rays, connecting neighbouring settlements with the hub of the Swamp.
Only one ray spidered inward; a narrow, disused strip of rot that made the Countess ask herself if this mist wasn't corrosive somehow. She'd still been denied a chance to clear off the swamp-muck, and felt about as pleasant as her movements were unhampered. She glanced back, was offered only a dismissive wave and an encouraging wave of a paw which was shortly smacked down, then rattled her slow way into Heartholm.
Slow being the operative word. Her coil-cannon was almost certainly deadweight without Ouroborite juice to keep it sparking; and her limbs in general had automatically adjusted to properly carry the weight. Exquisite intricacy for the practicalities of being a metal-eating abomination, and so forth. The Countess paused after what felt like a sufficiently torturous length of uninteresting time trekking down the walkway, then reached around with her unweighted arm and prised the bomb off. It stayed stuck to her hand, the mildly paralysing pulses it sent up the Countess' arm pleasantly reminiscent of something's heart beating.
She would've kept it there, if it weren't for the fact she would've missed the surgically precise movements an unscrambled metal hand could confer. The Countess settled for sticking it to the coils on her shoulder in the vain hope they'd jolt back to life, when the fog uncoiled to reveal a shrine.
It wasn't any ramshackle hut of twigs and mud, either, like the rest of Holm that the Countess had seen.
Please, come in, come in.
The Countess glanced over her shoulder, on some kind of instinct that didn't really illuminate her situation any. Just more dreary swamp. With a trepidation she would've liked to blame on mud jamming her movements, the agent entered.
Hello.
There was some kind of tapeworm, of the disturbingly enormous variety. Pale in the gloom of the windowless little crypt, it snaked out of nowhere and inscribed a graceful, horrifying arc around the Countess. She swiped an ineffectual talon through its eyeless face, but the illusion was polite enough to restrain its laughter in her head. To the disconcertment of the Countess, it still sounded amused.
No more trouble, you hear me, little one? Or I'll put it in your head, here and now, to march into the mad marshes and never come back.
"I mean no harm," the Countess replied, a little too quickly.
And yet, murmured the tapeworm, tracing a sinuous path in the air around the amalgam, you are too distracted by matters elsewhere to celebrate your liberation, are you not?
"It was… a friend of mine."
I see. There was a pause. Were they perhaps initiating some means of escape from your battle?
"… Perhaps. I don't have any wish to discuss it with a stranger."
A fan of glass lenses stared levelly back at the telepath, who eventually swayed in a shrugging kind of way, settling for an apologetic hum.
My kind had no need for names, but others christened me Hitchcock.
"Countess. I still don't understand why I was escorted here-"
I, interrupted Hitchcock, cutting a quick dash around the Countess again, before dipping his head in a little bow, am one of the founders of Holm. The original escapists, if you will. Though most of my fellow contestants deeply mistrusted me – perhaps it is universal, the untouchable sanctity of one's mind and thoughts – one earned my trust, and for him and in his memory alone I continue in the duty he assigned me.
The amalgam just stood, and listened. This was the sort of thing the Controller would've just love to hear about.
His name, little one, was Donavan, and with his foresight he dragged we four survivors of the battle to work together in our escape.
Our attempt was successful, but we were all aware that without concealment, the Grandmasters would hunt us down. And thus, my role that continues today. For I am Chamaelanimus, out of sight, out of mind.
"I'm afraid I don't recognise the name."
Well, of course not! That is our ability – to erase perceptions of ourselves from the minds of others.
"And you've encompassed all of the Swamp's inhabitants with this power of yours?"
Indeed. When Donavan passed away, he recommended a final safeguard – though the Swamp's residents know they are safe and know that attempts to contact beyond endanger us all, there is no need for dangerous specifics.
"Wait." The Countess raised a claw, tittering (or chattering) a little. "You don't mean to say you'll infect me with these ideas of yours, leaving me nodding and smiling over something I haven't a shred of choice over? What about – about my friend? What becomes of him?"
I mean no real malevolence about it, I assure you. Hitchcock shrugged. This is merely my duty, defending the village my oldest friend fought so hard to bring about. There is no need for concern, Countess. The Swamp is a pleasant enough home, and highly cosmopolitan considering its immigrants. If we are fortunate, Countess, we will not have to meet again. Good day.
The Countess was about to protest, but found no good reason to. She simply stood alone in the middle of a dingy, stone cubicle, and outside (and returning to Holm) suddenly seemed like a much better place to be. She wanted to contact the Controller; get out of this backwater. She knew that was a very bad idea.
She eventually crawled her mired way back to the outskirts of Holm, where Bear was waiting.
"Bear, dearest. Do you know what I need now, more than anything?"
"Elucidations?"
"A wash, dear. Desperately."
"Pursuance presenting," smiled the shaggy creature. The Countess proceeded to pursue him, presently.
Bear and the insufferable little upstart marine waited on the inner outskirts of Holm, a term which made much more sense to the Countess after she'd been given a tour of the place en route to... the inner outskirts.
Holm was a sizeable, sprawling village, which those with a disposition favouring geographical humour might've posited should've been named "Atoll" instead. The settlement was a chain of buildings and raised huts and connecting walkways, which encircled a patch of swamp large enough to harbour a bit of that uppity human's hated fog in it.
The portions of the patchwork town that were built on dry(er) land had been extended outward, with more land raised from the mist through feats of magic or engineering. The citizens weren't fussy, though the Countess had to wonder why construction extended outward, rather than inward. Bear's explanations were less than helpful, and his companions constant pleas for the beast to "shut up for like, one moment, seriously" didn't help either. More boardwalks meandered away from the town like spidery rays, connecting neighbouring settlements with the hub of the Swamp.
Only one ray spidered inward; a narrow, disused strip of rot that made the Countess ask herself if this mist wasn't corrosive somehow. She'd still been denied a chance to clear off the swamp-muck, and felt about as pleasant as her movements were unhampered. She glanced back, was offered only a dismissive wave and an encouraging wave of a paw which was shortly smacked down, then rattled her slow way into Heartholm.
Slow being the operative word. Her coil-cannon was almost certainly deadweight without Ouroborite juice to keep it sparking; and her limbs in general had automatically adjusted to properly carry the weight. Exquisite intricacy for the practicalities of being a metal-eating abomination, and so forth. The Countess paused after what felt like a sufficiently torturous length of uninteresting time trekking down the walkway, then reached around with her unweighted arm and prised the bomb off. It stayed stuck to her hand, the mildly paralysing pulses it sent up the Countess' arm pleasantly reminiscent of something's heart beating.
She would've kept it there, if it weren't for the fact she would've missed the surgically precise movements an unscrambled metal hand could confer. The Countess settled for sticking it to the coils on her shoulder in the vain hope they'd jolt back to life, when the fog uncoiled to reveal a shrine.
It wasn't any ramshackle hut of twigs and mud, either, like the rest of Holm that the Countess had seen.
Please, come in, come in.
The Countess glanced over her shoulder, on some kind of instinct that didn't really illuminate her situation any. Just more dreary swamp. With a trepidation she would've liked to blame on mud jamming her movements, the agent entered.
Hello.
There was some kind of tapeworm, of the disturbingly enormous variety. Pale in the gloom of the windowless little crypt, it snaked out of nowhere and inscribed a graceful, horrifying arc around the Countess. She swiped an ineffectual talon through its eyeless face, but the illusion was polite enough to restrain its laughter in her head. To the disconcertment of the Countess, it still sounded amused.
No more trouble, you hear me, little one? Or I'll put it in your head, here and now, to march into the mad marshes and never come back.
"I mean no harm," the Countess replied, a little too quickly.
And yet, murmured the tapeworm, tracing a sinuous path in the air around the amalgam, you are too distracted by matters elsewhere to celebrate your liberation, are you not?
"It was… a friend of mine."
I see. There was a pause. Were they perhaps initiating some means of escape from your battle?
"… Perhaps. I don't have any wish to discuss it with a stranger."
A fan of glass lenses stared levelly back at the telepath, who eventually swayed in a shrugging kind of way, settling for an apologetic hum.
My kind had no need for names, but others christened me Hitchcock.
"Countess. I still don't understand why I was escorted here-"
I, interrupted Hitchcock, cutting a quick dash around the Countess again, before dipping his head in a little bow, am one of the founders of Holm. The original escapists, if you will. Though most of my fellow contestants deeply mistrusted me – perhaps it is universal, the untouchable sanctity of one's mind and thoughts – one earned my trust, and for him and in his memory alone I continue in the duty he assigned me.
The amalgam just stood, and listened. This was the sort of thing the Controller would've just love to hear about.
His name, little one, was Donavan, and with his foresight he dragged we four survivors of the battle to work together in our escape.
Our attempt was successful, but we were all aware that without concealment, the Grandmasters would hunt us down. And thus, my role that continues today. For I am Chamaelanimus, out of sight, out of mind.
"I'm afraid I don't recognise the name."
Well, of course not! That is our ability – to erase perceptions of ourselves from the minds of others.
"And you've encompassed all of the Swamp's inhabitants with this power of yours?"
Indeed. When Donavan passed away, he recommended a final safeguard – though the Swamp's residents know they are safe and know that attempts to contact beyond endanger us all, there is no need for dangerous specifics.
"Wait." The Countess raised a claw, tittering (or chattering) a little. "You don't mean to say you'll infect me with these ideas of yours, leaving me nodding and smiling over something I haven't a shred of choice over? What about – about my friend? What becomes of him?"
I mean no real malevolence about it, I assure you. Hitchcock shrugged. This is merely my duty, defending the village my oldest friend fought so hard to bring about. There is no need for concern, Countess. The Swamp is a pleasant enough home, and highly cosmopolitan considering its immigrants. If we are fortunate, Countess, we will not have to meet again. Good day.
The Countess was about to protest, but found no good reason to. She simply stood alone in the middle of a dingy, stone cubicle, and outside (and returning to Holm) suddenly seemed like a much better place to be. She wanted to contact the Controller; get out of this backwater. She knew that was a very bad idea.
She eventually crawled her mired way back to the outskirts of Holm, where Bear was waiting.
"Bear, dearest. Do you know what I need now, more than anything?"
"Elucidations?"
"A wash, dear. Desperately."
"Pursuance presenting," smiled the shaggy creature. The Countess proceeded to pursue him, presently.
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