Re: The BATTLE of the CENTURY! [S!7] - Round 1: The New Frontier
10-15-2012, 07:30 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by Snowyowl.
>Madam.
One of the few things that all intelligent magic items have in common is being emotionally... well, the technical term some wizards would use is "emotionally dislocated". Most people use the term "moodier than a werewolf on her period". After all, it's fairly common for magic rings to spend decades, or even centuries, at the bottom of a lake. If they were driven insane by boredom every time that happened, it would be inconvenient for everyone. What tends to happen (such as now) is that when a magic item is bored, it gets very bored, and when something interesting happens to it, it immediately stops being bored. Thus, the aforementioned ring can react immediately when, a hundred years after it is thrown into the lake, it has a ten-second window where a suitably impressionable person passes within its range.
The downside of this is that magic items tend to be moodier than a werewolf who's just heard a misogynistic phrase like "moodier than a werewolf on her period".
>Madam, I know you can see me. Ignoring me is impolite.
>BOAT, PAY ATTENTION TO ME.
The words appeared neatly, letter-by-letter, as though being written by an invisible typewriter. They used the same 12-point Times Very New font that CoFCA had typed the original report in - though they were slightly blurry, owing to the puddle of water that was slowly soaking through the page. Quino was sitting in the corner. The dot at his centre managed to stare angrily at the mast of the Ragazza Ridente, which was the only part he could see from his current position.
He could feel himself on the edge of her perception. Quite faintly, but there. The Ragazza was aware of his presence, she just didn't give a shit.
Someone climbed aboard. Quino couldn't see who, though he could hear the clumsy oaf knocking around. Then he was nearly trodden on.
>Sir. Would you kindly pick up this sheet of paper?
No response. Which in itself was odd. Quino had seen Fletcher glance in his direction once or twice, but he hadn't been seen. If that made sense. Fletcher didn't look like a blind man, after all. How could he look at someone without seeing them?
Quino's page caught fire.
>BOAT, YOU DID THAT ON PURPOSE.
The wood of the deck was old enough that it might as well have fossilized. Even if it weren't for the dark power coursing through it, it probably wouldn't burn if you dunked it in kerosene. Ordinary paper and toner, on the other hand, were the perfect tinder. The damp page might extinguish the fire before it burned anything at all; and then again, it might not. It was down to luck; there was practically nothing Quino could do about it. He HATED being reminded of his physical vulnerability like this.
Still, you could do worse than "practically nothing". Lines of ink traced themselves along the boat's deck. It was slow work, the compatibility wasn't perfect, but Quino had plenty of time, and by the time his page was blazing merrily a new sigil was drawn on the wood. Leaving things down to luck hadn't killed him yet, but that was no reason not to put in the effort.
There was a draft in this cave, blowing in a direction that had to lead somewhere. A few embers and one fragment of paper that hadn't burned completely were suddenly drawn up, out of the fire and away from the Ragazza. Just as the scrap passed out of range, ink materialised on it. Luck was still good for something, apparently.
>Madam.
One of the few things that all intelligent magic items have in common is being emotionally... well, the technical term some wizards would use is "emotionally dislocated". Most people use the term "moodier than a werewolf on her period". After all, it's fairly common for magic rings to spend decades, or even centuries, at the bottom of a lake. If they were driven insane by boredom every time that happened, it would be inconvenient for everyone. What tends to happen (such as now) is that when a magic item is bored, it gets very bored, and when something interesting happens to it, it immediately stops being bored. Thus, the aforementioned ring can react immediately when, a hundred years after it is thrown into the lake, it has a ten-second window where a suitably impressionable person passes within its range.
The downside of this is that magic items tend to be moodier than a werewolf who's just heard a misogynistic phrase like "moodier than a werewolf on her period".
>Madam, I know you can see me. Ignoring me is impolite.
>BOAT, PAY ATTENTION TO ME.
The words appeared neatly, letter-by-letter, as though being written by an invisible typewriter. They used the same 12-point Times Very New font that CoFCA had typed the original report in - though they were slightly blurry, owing to the puddle of water that was slowly soaking through the page. Quino was sitting in the corner. The dot at his centre managed to stare angrily at the mast of the Ragazza Ridente, which was the only part he could see from his current position.
He could feel himself on the edge of her perception. Quite faintly, but there. The Ragazza was aware of his presence, she just didn't give a shit.
Someone climbed aboard. Quino couldn't see who, though he could hear the clumsy oaf knocking around. Then he was nearly trodden on.
>Sir. Would you kindly pick up this sheet of paper?
No response. Which in itself was odd. Quino had seen Fletcher glance in his direction once or twice, but he hadn't been seen. If that made sense. Fletcher didn't look like a blind man, after all. How could he look at someone without seeing them?
Quino's page caught fire.
>BOAT, YOU DID THAT ON PURPOSE.
The wood of the deck was old enough that it might as well have fossilized. Even if it weren't for the dark power coursing through it, it probably wouldn't burn if you dunked it in kerosene. Ordinary paper and toner, on the other hand, were the perfect tinder. The damp page might extinguish the fire before it burned anything at all; and then again, it might not. It was down to luck; there was practically nothing Quino could do about it. He HATED being reminded of his physical vulnerability like this.
Still, you could do worse than "practically nothing". Lines of ink traced themselves along the boat's deck. It was slow work, the compatibility wasn't perfect, but Quino had plenty of time, and by the time his page was blazing merrily a new sigil was drawn on the wood. Leaving things down to luck hadn't killed him yet, but that was no reason not to put in the effort.
There was a draft in this cave, blowing in a direction that had to lead somewhere. A few embers and one fragment of paper that hadn't burned completely were suddenly drawn up, out of the fire and away from the Ragazza. Just as the scrap passed out of range, ink materialised on it. Luck was still good for something, apparently.