Re: The Gradual Massacre (GBS2G4) [Round 4: Misty Swamp]
01-13-2012, 04:52 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by Schazer.
Dear Countess,
Enough lying around. Get up.
Regards,
The Message
***
Dear Countess,
Get up. An hour's swilling about was quite sufficient for me to get accommodated. Do you intend to complete the Controller's orders by- here, the words scorched black somewhere behind Countess' eyes juddered a bit, as though laughter shook their hand- no, I cannot read minds. I merely languish in lazy ones as I am doing now, if you were interested. I've no need to spread you in front of me like a dossier's contents, Countess; your psychopathy is plain to see. It is in how you walk, how you talk, how you made sure your gin trap face could always manage a sneer when you built it cog by cog
You're unfit for civil company, plain and simple. I doubt the Controller understands how hard it is for a monster like you, else why would he have set you such an impossible task? The most mistrust you can instil is theirs in you, and that only leads to a mob concerned with your swift destruction.
It's simply unfair, is it not? And isn't it nice that you found someone like me to understand?
Eagerly awaiting your reply,
The Message
"You're wrong," chirped the Countess eventually, modulated voice as sing-song as ever. She rose to her feet, with much difficulty and squelching of mud. The dagger-tips struggled for purchase in the mire, and her weight drove them in almost to her chassis again. "You're wrong about him and you're wrong about me." The amalgam pulled her arms clear, at any rate, and began picking mud from her locked-up joints. Exposed moving parts in a wet environment. Definitely not good. "Now tell me the way back to Holm."
A pause. Then:
Dear Countess,
I did not call in a favour from those Airstrip hooligans just so you could enjoy a circuitous meander round Holm. I am doing you an unprecedented favour by doing all of the legwork for your job. Your charges are not in Holm; ergo, you have no business there.
Unless, of course, you found it in your head to kill the Chamaelanimus. But, I sorely doubt that.
Regards-
"The what?"
She was upright, albeit sinking dagger-feet first as fast as she could pull them out one by one. It was progress, both of them separately conceded.
The Message
P.S Again, your reaction reveals all, including little reason to elaborate. For now. Remind me when you've made some progress away from Holm, and we'll try again, shall we?
Countess ignored the Message, to the point where the effort of pretending she was too busy dragging herself up onto the boardwalk to pay attention was messing with her ability to conquer the slimy planks.
***
"Tell me about that... Chameolo-thing."
Dear Countess,
You've barely walked five steps. Keep walking, and perhaps imagine what you would do to me had I a more tangible form. For you, I suspect, it would be a far more pleasant train of thought.
Kind regards,
The Message
***
"You're quiet," the amalgam sulked, after an hour or so's silent trudging. The Countess hated a compulsory trudge; it was impossible to inject any elegance into the motion. Message suspected (rightly) that its new host would resent it - whether incessantly snarky, patronisingly helpful, or stubbornly silent, and said nothing.
"Are we there yet?"
A pause, then:
Dear Countess,
No.
Sincerely-
The Countess jabbed her claws as far as she could get them into her head, screeching like a braking locomotive. An utter lack of consternation on Message's part only made her angrier.
Message might've smiled to the sound of rude blades upon dull steel cogs. Or it might not've.
Dear Countess,
Enough lying around. Get up.
Regards,
The Message
***
Dear Countess,
Get up. An hour's swilling about was quite sufficient for me to get accommodated. Do you intend to complete the Controller's orders by- here, the words scorched black somewhere behind Countess' eyes juddered a bit, as though laughter shook their hand- no, I cannot read minds. I merely languish in lazy ones as I am doing now, if you were interested. I've no need to spread you in front of me like a dossier's contents, Countess; your psychopathy is plain to see. It is in how you walk, how you talk, how you made sure your gin trap face could always manage a sneer when you built it cog by cog
You're unfit for civil company, plain and simple. I doubt the Controller understands how hard it is for a monster like you, else why would he have set you such an impossible task? The most mistrust you can instil is theirs in you, and that only leads to a mob concerned with your swift destruction.
It's simply unfair, is it not? And isn't it nice that you found someone like me to understand?
Eagerly awaiting your reply,
The Message
"You're wrong," chirped the Countess eventually, modulated voice as sing-song as ever. She rose to her feet, with much difficulty and squelching of mud. The dagger-tips struggled for purchase in the mire, and her weight drove them in almost to her chassis again. "You're wrong about him and you're wrong about me." The amalgam pulled her arms clear, at any rate, and began picking mud from her locked-up joints. Exposed moving parts in a wet environment. Definitely not good. "Now tell me the way back to Holm."
A pause. Then:
Dear Countess,
I did not call in a favour from those Airstrip hooligans just so you could enjoy a circuitous meander round Holm. I am doing you an unprecedented favour by doing all of the legwork for your job. Your charges are not in Holm; ergo, you have no business there.
Unless, of course, you found it in your head to kill the Chamaelanimus. But, I sorely doubt that.
Regards-
"The what?"
She was upright, albeit sinking dagger-feet first as fast as she could pull them out one by one. It was progress, both of them separately conceded.
The Message
P.S Again, your reaction reveals all, including little reason to elaborate. For now. Remind me when you've made some progress away from Holm, and we'll try again, shall we?
Countess ignored the Message, to the point where the effort of pretending she was too busy dragging herself up onto the boardwalk to pay attention was messing with her ability to conquer the slimy planks.
***
"Tell me about that... Chameolo-thing."
Dear Countess,
You've barely walked five steps. Keep walking, and perhaps imagine what you would do to me had I a more tangible form. For you, I suspect, it would be a far more pleasant train of thought.
Kind regards,
The Message
***
"You're quiet," the amalgam sulked, after an hour or so's silent trudging. The Countess hated a compulsory trudge; it was impossible to inject any elegance into the motion. Message suspected (rightly) that its new host would resent it - whether incessantly snarky, patronisingly helpful, or stubbornly silent, and said nothing.
"Are we there yet?"
A pause, then:
Dear Countess,
No.
Sincerely-
The Countess jabbed her claws as far as she could get them into her head, screeching like a braking locomotive. An utter lack of consternation on Message's part only made her angrier.
Message might've smiled to the sound of rude blades upon dull steel cogs. Or it might not've.
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