Re: Intense Struggle Season 2! (Round 3: Castle Suterrea)
07-17-2011, 10:30 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by bobthepen.
If you have ever been an elf, you would have found you possessed an innate fondness for many things familiar to your race. You would take pleasure in brisk walks through crisp forests, indulge in the fair sweetness of songbirds’ calls, and revel in the subtle magic whisking through the air around you. However, you would also discover an equal disdain for other things. You would avoid caves, have a much lower tolerance for unpleasant company, and - as Lloyd was finding out - most certainly not enjoy close quarters combat.
At the onslaught of the three mimics, every aspect of Lloyd’s elven sensibilities (and a good part of his human ones) wished to remove himself from the slashing, snarling, shooting brawl as quickly as possible. Being in possession of not a small variety of mystic spells, and having no short experience in manipulating others, Lloyd quickly formed a simple but effective plan.
He hoped Marcus would forgive him.
While dodging clawed blows, Lloyd ducked behind the black-armored mercenary and invoked his incantation. The silent words, undisturbed by the clamor of the fray, rode through the ether towards Marcus’ aura. The words bent and twisted around the firing combatant, enveloping him in a thin, untraceable layer of magic. Lloyds mouth fluttered furiously to complete the spell, feeding it the words and sounds it needed to take effect. At the final moment, another red-fingered claw flew down on the elven caster, and Lloyd, mouth closed, spell complete, nimbly jumped away.
Each combatant noticed the effects of the spell in their own way. Lloyd received that subtle acknowledgement that his incantation completed. Karen was struck with a feeling of nostalgia. Marcus’ thoughts and memories were drowned away by his deafening heartbeat and fiery infuriation. And, the mimic mother felt the none too subtle impact of an armored boot to the face.
Marcus shouted. His battle cry, degraded by rage into a blend of caustic profanities, pierced through the murderous hunger of the mimics. Confronted with the sight of the mercenary’s engorged muscles, throbbing veins, and furious aura, even the flesh-eaters experienced a sudden trepidation. The mother mimic, pinned beneath Marcus’ boot, in indignation ripped her claws into the mercenary’s thigh. Neither wincing nor noticing the pain, but instead seeing the extended arm as a target for his fury, Marcus gripped the wrist of the creature, shattering whatever bones it possessed. In a single jerk, with the mother still pinned, Marcus tore the arm from its sinews and sockets and flung it violently across the room.
The memory-eater, enraged at its mother’s dismemberment, lunged its lithe frame at the berserk Marcus. Spikes, fangs, and dozens of faces from Marcus’ past materialized on the mimic’s midair body. The pleading cries begged Marcus not to attack but the spell and the taunt only fueled his rage. Grabbing the gun holstered on his back, Marcus swung the weapon like a club, bashing the creature into the floor. In the next instant the creature’s form writhed and twisted around the multitude of shrapnel fired again and again from the club-like gun. With each shot blood and bone splattered as the mimic struggled to maintain shape.
Marcus took two forceful steps forward, his anger focused on the mutilated mimic who taunted him with his memories. He completely forgot about the one-armed parent he had subdued moments earlier, and the mimic mother took hold of the opportunity. Dozens of scythe-tipped tendrils sprouted from the creature and darted towards Marcus’ exposed back. Lloyd, however, having gained the proper distance rained fire down on the tentacled mother. Each tendril shriveling back at the fierce heat. Karen, noting her chance, leapt above the flames and drove her sword into the beast.
-----
Meanwhile, the thought-eater, seeing the turn of the fight, feeling the fear of demise present in its family, pressed against the nearest wall and quickly blended in with the stonework. Cowardice overruled rage and hunger, and there was more to fear than death by these invaders. At least, it considered, one goal here had been accomplished.
-----
Marcus approached the memory-eater. The spell was wearing off but his firing did not stop. The creature, beaten beyond consciousness, only stared blankly at Marcus. With each shot, the face the creature wore was distorted and torn. In each lull between blasts, the creature formed another face from the mercenary’s memory. There was no logic or cunning in choosing the identity it projected. It could be a friend, a stranger, a comrade, whatever memory the dying mimic could reach.
The shots slowed as the spell faded away. Gradually, pain and awareness returned to Marcus. Though he continued firing and though he knew the images here were made by this monster, he found himself stunned at the hesitation - or excitement - some personas produced. He shot enemy solders, old relatives, a few celebrities, even a few faces that almost held his fire. Finally he stood, staring, at Sarika.
It may have been that she appeared in his mind, it may have been the form the mimic had grown accustomed to recently, regardless, it was the last form it took. As the burning smell of the skewered mimic mother filled the room, Marcus lowered his gun at the near lifeless face. The creature let out a few small, somber gasps for air. She was wounded and beaten, but he had to be sure.
It was a hollow crack as his boot fell down.
The three stood in silence, panting, for a moment. Then Karen, startled, spoke, “Wait, where’s Lillian?”
----------
It was dark. She thought her eyes were open but she could not tell for sure. Lillian had seen the carnage the others were enduring and had done her best to shut it out. She had shut her eyes tight and clenched her knees and did her very best to think of a place that was not there. Perhaps it had worked?
For a moment she had felt a coldness grip her. It wrapped around her like a chilling slime. Before she could cry out, the coldness engulfed her completely. Suddenly it felt as if she was falling backwards and downwards very quickly. She thought she felt air rushing by but her hair did not flutter in any breeze. The journey ended quickly.
She landed on a chair or perhaps a chair appeared under her? Either way, it was dark, and cold, and she was sitting upright with dangling feet and something hard at her back.
Hello Lillian.
The greeting was more of a thought than a phrase. Though it clearly belong to somebody other than Lillian or the Spirit. And why hadn’t the Spirit warned Lillian that someone was nearby? After all the dangers and movings and creatures and...
Lillian gripped her wrist and the coldness grew far more bitter.
I’m sorry for bringing you here like this. Believe me, it was sudden for myself too. To think that anyone, even one so frail, could enter the castle without coming through the entrance. I had to take the time to talk with you.
“Where’s-” Lillian spoke.
She did not want to come. So I sent her elsewhere. I’m sure you’ll meet her again.
“Who-”
Now now, I know you have many questions, as do I. But first, do you mind if I tell you a story?
If you have ever been an elf, you would have found you possessed an innate fondness for many things familiar to your race. You would take pleasure in brisk walks through crisp forests, indulge in the fair sweetness of songbirds’ calls, and revel in the subtle magic whisking through the air around you. However, you would also discover an equal disdain for other things. You would avoid caves, have a much lower tolerance for unpleasant company, and - as Lloyd was finding out - most certainly not enjoy close quarters combat.
At the onslaught of the three mimics, every aspect of Lloyd’s elven sensibilities (and a good part of his human ones) wished to remove himself from the slashing, snarling, shooting brawl as quickly as possible. Being in possession of not a small variety of mystic spells, and having no short experience in manipulating others, Lloyd quickly formed a simple but effective plan.
He hoped Marcus would forgive him.
While dodging clawed blows, Lloyd ducked behind the black-armored mercenary and invoked his incantation. The silent words, undisturbed by the clamor of the fray, rode through the ether towards Marcus’ aura. The words bent and twisted around the firing combatant, enveloping him in a thin, untraceable layer of magic. Lloyds mouth fluttered furiously to complete the spell, feeding it the words and sounds it needed to take effect. At the final moment, another red-fingered claw flew down on the elven caster, and Lloyd, mouth closed, spell complete, nimbly jumped away.
Each combatant noticed the effects of the spell in their own way. Lloyd received that subtle acknowledgement that his incantation completed. Karen was struck with a feeling of nostalgia. Marcus’ thoughts and memories were drowned away by his deafening heartbeat and fiery infuriation. And, the mimic mother felt the none too subtle impact of an armored boot to the face.
Marcus shouted. His battle cry, degraded by rage into a blend of caustic profanities, pierced through the murderous hunger of the mimics. Confronted with the sight of the mercenary’s engorged muscles, throbbing veins, and furious aura, even the flesh-eaters experienced a sudden trepidation. The mother mimic, pinned beneath Marcus’ boot, in indignation ripped her claws into the mercenary’s thigh. Neither wincing nor noticing the pain, but instead seeing the extended arm as a target for his fury, Marcus gripped the wrist of the creature, shattering whatever bones it possessed. In a single jerk, with the mother still pinned, Marcus tore the arm from its sinews and sockets and flung it violently across the room.
The memory-eater, enraged at its mother’s dismemberment, lunged its lithe frame at the berserk Marcus. Spikes, fangs, and dozens of faces from Marcus’ past materialized on the mimic’s midair body. The pleading cries begged Marcus not to attack but the spell and the taunt only fueled his rage. Grabbing the gun holstered on his back, Marcus swung the weapon like a club, bashing the creature into the floor. In the next instant the creature’s form writhed and twisted around the multitude of shrapnel fired again and again from the club-like gun. With each shot blood and bone splattered as the mimic struggled to maintain shape.
Marcus took two forceful steps forward, his anger focused on the mutilated mimic who taunted him with his memories. He completely forgot about the one-armed parent he had subdued moments earlier, and the mimic mother took hold of the opportunity. Dozens of scythe-tipped tendrils sprouted from the creature and darted towards Marcus’ exposed back. Lloyd, however, having gained the proper distance rained fire down on the tentacled mother. Each tendril shriveling back at the fierce heat. Karen, noting her chance, leapt above the flames and drove her sword into the beast.
-----
Meanwhile, the thought-eater, seeing the turn of the fight, feeling the fear of demise present in its family, pressed against the nearest wall and quickly blended in with the stonework. Cowardice overruled rage and hunger, and there was more to fear than death by these invaders. At least, it considered, one goal here had been accomplished.
-----
Marcus approached the memory-eater. The spell was wearing off but his firing did not stop. The creature, beaten beyond consciousness, only stared blankly at Marcus. With each shot, the face the creature wore was distorted and torn. In each lull between blasts, the creature formed another face from the mercenary’s memory. There was no logic or cunning in choosing the identity it projected. It could be a friend, a stranger, a comrade, whatever memory the dying mimic could reach.
The shots slowed as the spell faded away. Gradually, pain and awareness returned to Marcus. Though he continued firing and though he knew the images here were made by this monster, he found himself stunned at the hesitation - or excitement - some personas produced. He shot enemy solders, old relatives, a few celebrities, even a few faces that almost held his fire. Finally he stood, staring, at Sarika.
It may have been that she appeared in his mind, it may have been the form the mimic had grown accustomed to recently, regardless, it was the last form it took. As the burning smell of the skewered mimic mother filled the room, Marcus lowered his gun at the near lifeless face. The creature let out a few small, somber gasps for air. She was wounded and beaten, but he had to be sure.
It was a hollow crack as his boot fell down.
The three stood in silence, panting, for a moment. Then Karen, startled, spoke, “Wait, where’s Lillian?”
----------
It was dark. She thought her eyes were open but she could not tell for sure. Lillian had seen the carnage the others were enduring and had done her best to shut it out. She had shut her eyes tight and clenched her knees and did her very best to think of a place that was not there. Perhaps it had worked?
For a moment she had felt a coldness grip her. It wrapped around her like a chilling slime. Before she could cry out, the coldness engulfed her completely. Suddenly it felt as if she was falling backwards and downwards very quickly. She thought she felt air rushing by but her hair did not flutter in any breeze. The journey ended quickly.
She landed on a chair or perhaps a chair appeared under her? Either way, it was dark, and cold, and she was sitting upright with dangling feet and something hard at her back.
Hello Lillian.
The greeting was more of a thought than a phrase. Though it clearly belong to somebody other than Lillian or the Spirit. And why hadn’t the Spirit warned Lillian that someone was nearby? After all the dangers and movings and creatures and...
Lillian gripped her wrist and the coldness grew far more bitter.
I’m sorry for bringing you here like this. Believe me, it was sudden for myself too. To think that anyone, even one so frail, could enter the castle without coming through the entrance. I had to take the time to talk with you.
“Where’s-” Lillian spoke.
She did not want to come. So I sent her elsewhere. I’m sure you’ll meet her again.
“Who-”
Now now, I know you have many questions, as do I. But first, do you mind if I tell you a story?