Re: The Gradual Massacre (GBS2G4) [Round 4: Misty Swamp]
08-15-2011, 03:53 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by Schazer.
Bear escorted the Countess from the mechanical shower, to a recently abandoned shack on Holm's outskirts. Outer outskirts. Then led her to his own shack, although his looked considerably more lived in. A family of sparrow-faced humanoids waved at the lumbering creature from their second-storey home as Bear led the Countess to the market. Then the other end of the market, seeing as the magicians and artificers appeared to have established a gradient in favour of a full-blown turf war. Then to the residence of Bear's friend - some kind of fish-monkey they met on the street which complimented the Countess' claws, then proceeded to stare nervously at them while entertaining the duo on his verandah. Then a brisk walk round the perimeter to acquaint the Countess with the townships which could be found a day or so's walk down any of the boardwalks. Bear was pleasant, informative, and almost pitiably trusting company - in a floridly sesquipedalian kind of way. He knew the layout of Holm and its satellite villages, and was happy to share it with anyone willing or too polite to avoid pretending to listen.
It was only once Bear had ensured Countess was personally shown where the track to Airstrip Hill was, and he'd confessed in somewhat apologetic terms that an entire afternoon's prattling had exhausted the drearily numerable list of things to see in the Misty Swamp's capital. Countess thanked him for his time, and scuttled off as fast as she could.
The sun had finally slumped in the sky - to the point where it glared bruise-coloured daggers over the swathes of mist - when Countess found her new home amongst the tangle of shacks. She surveyed the few sticks of furniture the probably-legless previous tenant had left behind, ("pursuant camaraderie, Scoresby, prior altercate remedy" was Bear's nigh-incomprehensible explanation) finding no appropriate outlet for her boredom-fuelled desire to do something psychopathic.
Fortunately for the amalgam, Message had been tracing a cursive, oily path after her since she'd gotten shot of Bear. It slithered under the door, splashed a slasher grin of itself across a wall, then began to write.
Dear Countess,
We shall proceed to Airstrip after sundown. My associate will be available to forward any questions while we journey to our destination.
Sincerely,
The Message
Countess couldn't be bothered waiting, and left the shack. A frog-like creature was fluttering on webby wings from lamp to lamp, doling some kind of fluorescent goop from the vat it clamped in its feet. It blinked, and chirruped at the newcomer, waving a luminescing ladle at a sconce by Countess' front door. She frowned.
"No, no thank you."
Ktchak shrugged, hefted his cauldron, and lurched off down the darkening street.
---
Bear was refreshingly absent when Countess found the boardwalk she needed amongst Holm's tangle of rickety streets. The path to Airstrip was lit by perhaps a half dozen or so of the frog-bat's lanterns, before the mist thickened enough to obscure vision further.
After a few minutes measured by the amalgam's ticking and clashing, the mist relinquished a non-descript man.
"Is this your assistant, Message?"
The messenger said nothing, but a Message could be vaguely discerned in his lantern's glow as it slithered into his shadow. He turned, and stalked off after a moment's shoegazing, and stopped only when the Countess got over her incredulity at how rude this man was.
"My employer is Mr. Narus, Message. My irritation at being detained in this festering swamp will pale to his anger if you fail to assist me."
'Bryan' still said nothing, but seemed to be thinking for a long moment before he finally handed Countess an envelope. Its contents:
Dear Countess,
As I promised, I will address your queries. This gentleman is, indeed, my assistant. He answers to whatever you fancy – likelier than not, it will not truly matter.
In regards to your concerns relating to your employer: at the risk of increasing your ire further, may I hazard this unpleasant situation may have arisen through your own actions?
Eagerly awaiting your-
"Now hold on," snickered Countess in her most humourless fashion, brandishing the missive between two pointy fingers, "I've done nothing to earn punishment, and my inability to contact him proves as such."
It might've been nice if 'Bryan' had shrugged or something, or at least pointed at the shifting words so the agent wasn't left standing impatiently on a godforsaken boardwalk between nowhere and another part of nowhere.
Dear Countess,
I apologise if the prospect of your incompetence leading to punishment was an unwelcome prospect for me to raise – please accept my apologies and acknowledge it was merely a suggestion from the limited information available to me.
Of course, the fact of the matter does remain that while you are in this locale, it seems somewhat disingenuous to assume – despite safeguards – that this place is truly beyond your employer's perception.
So I may have a more accurate idea of the circumstances, and to prevent my making a damn fool of myself again, would you kindly detail the orders set for you?
Regards-
'Bryan' almost sighed, pulling out another envelope from his coat pocket as Countess flicked away little scraps of paper. His expressionless look was close enough to imploring that the Countess shrugged.
"He requested my services in a fight to the death. Namely, ensure none of the contestants end up trusting each other."
Countess took the letter, and opened it with trepidation. 'Bryan' strolled off down the boardwalk again, mist lapping at his heels. If he could express the Message's feelings on his own face, he would've worn a satisfied smirk. Of course, he was as expressionless as ever, while Countess read the letter in twitching, increasingly slash-happy hands.
Dear Countess,
I hope this will be the last correspondence which merits such an urgent response; as you may already have come to realise how unwieldy a medium this is through which the two of us may communicate. In this regard, I thank you for your patience.
Now, as sore a topic as it may be, I really would like to establish – for a minimum of future confusion about where we stand – your adherence to your master's orders.
You maintain you have diligently engaged in the task set by your master, but while your lines of communication are down I must wonder…
How do you know where your charges are?
How do you know what they are doing?
How can you be so certain you are performing your job as ordered, Countess?
Best regards,
The Message
Bear escorted the Countess from the mechanical shower, to a recently abandoned shack on Holm's outskirts. Outer outskirts. Then led her to his own shack, although his looked considerably more lived in. A family of sparrow-faced humanoids waved at the lumbering creature from their second-storey home as Bear led the Countess to the market. Then the other end of the market, seeing as the magicians and artificers appeared to have established a gradient in favour of a full-blown turf war. Then to the residence of Bear's friend - some kind of fish-monkey they met on the street which complimented the Countess' claws, then proceeded to stare nervously at them while entertaining the duo on his verandah. Then a brisk walk round the perimeter to acquaint the Countess with the townships which could be found a day or so's walk down any of the boardwalks. Bear was pleasant, informative, and almost pitiably trusting company - in a floridly sesquipedalian kind of way. He knew the layout of Holm and its satellite villages, and was happy to share it with anyone willing or too polite to avoid pretending to listen.
It was only once Bear had ensured Countess was personally shown where the track to Airstrip Hill was, and he'd confessed in somewhat apologetic terms that an entire afternoon's prattling had exhausted the drearily numerable list of things to see in the Misty Swamp's capital. Countess thanked him for his time, and scuttled off as fast as she could.
The sun had finally slumped in the sky - to the point where it glared bruise-coloured daggers over the swathes of mist - when Countess found her new home amongst the tangle of shacks. She surveyed the few sticks of furniture the probably-legless previous tenant had left behind, ("pursuant camaraderie, Scoresby, prior altercate remedy" was Bear's nigh-incomprehensible explanation) finding no appropriate outlet for her boredom-fuelled desire to do something psychopathic.
Fortunately for the amalgam, Message had been tracing a cursive, oily path after her since she'd gotten shot of Bear. It slithered under the door, splashed a slasher grin of itself across a wall, then began to write.
Dear Countess,
We shall proceed to Airstrip after sundown. My associate will be available to forward any questions while we journey to our destination.
Sincerely,
The Message
Countess couldn't be bothered waiting, and left the shack. A frog-like creature was fluttering on webby wings from lamp to lamp, doling some kind of fluorescent goop from the vat it clamped in its feet. It blinked, and chirruped at the newcomer, waving a luminescing ladle at a sconce by Countess' front door. She frowned.
"No, no thank you."
Ktchak shrugged, hefted his cauldron, and lurched off down the darkening street.
---
Bear was refreshingly absent when Countess found the boardwalk she needed amongst Holm's tangle of rickety streets. The path to Airstrip was lit by perhaps a half dozen or so of the frog-bat's lanterns, before the mist thickened enough to obscure vision further.
After a few minutes measured by the amalgam's ticking and clashing, the mist relinquished a non-descript man.
"Is this your assistant, Message?"
The messenger said nothing, but a Message could be vaguely discerned in his lantern's glow as it slithered into his shadow. He turned, and stalked off after a moment's shoegazing, and stopped only when the Countess got over her incredulity at how rude this man was.
"My employer is Mr. Narus, Message. My irritation at being detained in this festering swamp will pale to his anger if you fail to assist me."
'Bryan' still said nothing, but seemed to be thinking for a long moment before he finally handed Countess an envelope. Its contents:
Dear Countess,
As I promised, I will address your queries. This gentleman is, indeed, my assistant. He answers to whatever you fancy – likelier than not, it will not truly matter.
In regards to your concerns relating to your employer: at the risk of increasing your ire further, may I hazard this unpleasant situation may have arisen through your own actions?
Eagerly awaiting your-
"Now hold on," snickered Countess in her most humourless fashion, brandishing the missive between two pointy fingers, "I've done nothing to earn punishment, and my inability to contact him proves as such."
It might've been nice if 'Bryan' had shrugged or something, or at least pointed at the shifting words so the agent wasn't left standing impatiently on a godforsaken boardwalk between nowhere and another part of nowhere.
Dear Countess,
I apologise if the prospect of your incompetence leading to punishment was an unwelcome prospect for me to raise – please accept my apologies and acknowledge it was merely a suggestion from the limited information available to me.
Of course, the fact of the matter does remain that while you are in this locale, it seems somewhat disingenuous to assume – despite safeguards – that this place is truly beyond your employer's perception.
So I may have a more accurate idea of the circumstances, and to prevent my making a damn fool of myself again, would you kindly detail the orders set for you?
Regards-
'Bryan' almost sighed, pulling out another envelope from his coat pocket as Countess flicked away little scraps of paper. His expressionless look was close enough to imploring that the Countess shrugged.
"He requested my services in a fight to the death. Namely, ensure none of the contestants end up trusting each other."
Countess took the letter, and opened it with trepidation. 'Bryan' strolled off down the boardwalk again, mist lapping at his heels. If he could express the Message's feelings on his own face, he would've worn a satisfied smirk. Of course, he was as expressionless as ever, while Countess read the letter in twitching, increasingly slash-happy hands.
Dear Countess,
I hope this will be the last correspondence which merits such an urgent response; as you may already have come to realise how unwieldy a medium this is through which the two of us may communicate. In this regard, I thank you for your patience.
Now, as sore a topic as it may be, I really would like to establish – for a minimum of future confusion about where we stand – your adherence to your master's orders.
You maintain you have diligently engaged in the task set by your master, but while your lines of communication are down I must wonder…
How do you know where your charges are?
How do you know what they are doing?
How can you be so certain you are performing your job as ordered, Countess?
Best regards,
The Message
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