Re: The BATTLE of the CENTURY! [S!7] - Round 1: The New Frontier
11-27-2012, 03:03 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by Anthano Zasalla.
The ship rocked slowly at its airborne dock. A metal statue fell over, but no one noticed.
There had, in hours past, been a surge of action all across the vessel. The more sure-footed of the men took the first steps in their new colony. Tethers were tied and bridges were made. Men and women alike hoisted crate and bag and barrel from belowdecks excitedly, furiously, like a legion of ants. For this would be their anthill.
Surrounded by what cargo they could safely transport, the men sat around in giddy exhaustion. Some men had already cracked open the first barrel of ale, and drank merrily amongst themselves. Women chatted animatedly. Children ran about, as if in paradise.
"This'll be a fine day to remember, eh lads?" said one bearded man. There was general agreement. "Now all we have t'do is get off our lazy bums and build houses to live in!" Some laughed, some groaned.
However, the continued narrative of the men and their respective families fails to keep even the narrator's interest. Yet even as the view pans out, eager to observe a more engaging storyline, something catches its eye. It seems to be an exception to this humdrum crew of gruff men and their clan. This exception is wearing tattered pantaloons, long boots of water-stained leather, and a ragged shirt made of fine cloth. It has a hairstyle that suggests a lifetime of affluency, but a week without its benefits. This exception's name is Geralde Tanner.
At the moment there were two questions on his mind: Why the hell did I ever get myself onto that stinky raft? and Where is it? The first question he had already answered to himself countless times. He didn't need to answer it again. The second question was another matter.
Occasionally he stopped some bearded sailor or cheery family that passed him by, asking "Have you seen a small wooden lockbox? Brass hinges, about this size?"
"No," they'd reply. "Sorry. We'd help if we could." Or else they'd say "Keep track o' yer own shit, moneybags."
He didn't mention the hinges were nearly pure gold and the box itself was engraved with golden scroll-work. Even if he dearly needed their help, he didn't trust greed. Hypocritical, he knew, but he always told himself if no one else on this gods-forsaken island was greedy, he'd have to be the exception. The box was important. He needed to find it.
After a while it seemed no one had seen or else no one was willing to help him. Regardless, he was desperate now. Geralde looked frantically through the unloaded luggage. Nothing. He summoned up the courage to cross onto the ship again, despite his fear of heights. He ran all through the ship until his face was red and his legs felt leaden. Still nothing.
For a while he just sat, panting heavily with his head in his hands. Then slowly he stood, making his way back towards the wooden plank that served as a bridge to the island. He didn't feel desperate anymore, just kind of numb.
He froze.
Standing on the deck was a peculiar metal statue. It looked somewhat human, though its limbs were too long and its head oddly-shaped. Its eyes were large and empty and staring straight back at him.
It blinked.
Then it turned its head slowly towards the makeshift dock and walked. It moved as if it were drunk-- or it simply wasn't used to walking? Perhaps it had never walked before. But before Geralde could watch and wonder much longer the moving statue took a wrong step on the plank bridge, teetered on the edge for a second, and fell like a stone. There was a rustle in the trees under the ship, followed by the sound of something sliding through the underbrush. Then, nothing.
After a minute, he finally got himself to move. He dashed to the ship's railing, wide eyed. "Did anyone else see that moving statue?" he yelled into the crowd.
There was a moment of perplexed silence before they all burst into laughter. "Th' man's finally gone off th' deep end!"
Geralde cursed.
The ship rocked slowly at its airborne dock. A metal statue fell over, but no one noticed.
There had, in hours past, been a surge of action all across the vessel. The more sure-footed of the men took the first steps in their new colony. Tethers were tied and bridges were made. Men and women alike hoisted crate and bag and barrel from belowdecks excitedly, furiously, like a legion of ants. For this would be their anthill.
Surrounded by what cargo they could safely transport, the men sat around in giddy exhaustion. Some men had already cracked open the first barrel of ale, and drank merrily amongst themselves. Women chatted animatedly. Children ran about, as if in paradise.
"This'll be a fine day to remember, eh lads?" said one bearded man. There was general agreement. "Now all we have t'do is get off our lazy bums and build houses to live in!" Some laughed, some groaned.
However, the continued narrative of the men and their respective families fails to keep even the narrator's interest. Yet even as the view pans out, eager to observe a more engaging storyline, something catches its eye. It seems to be an exception to this humdrum crew of gruff men and their clan. This exception is wearing tattered pantaloons, long boots of water-stained leather, and a ragged shirt made of fine cloth. It has a hairstyle that suggests a lifetime of affluency, but a week without its benefits. This exception's name is Geralde Tanner.
At the moment there were two questions on his mind: Why the hell did I ever get myself onto that stinky raft? and Where is it? The first question he had already answered to himself countless times. He didn't need to answer it again. The second question was another matter.
Occasionally he stopped some bearded sailor or cheery family that passed him by, asking "Have you seen a small wooden lockbox? Brass hinges, about this size?"
"No," they'd reply. "Sorry. We'd help if we could." Or else they'd say "Keep track o' yer own shit, moneybags."
He didn't mention the hinges were nearly pure gold and the box itself was engraved with golden scroll-work. Even if he dearly needed their help, he didn't trust greed. Hypocritical, he knew, but he always told himself if no one else on this gods-forsaken island was greedy, he'd have to be the exception. The box was important. He needed to find it.
After a while it seemed no one had seen or else no one was willing to help him. Regardless, he was desperate now. Geralde looked frantically through the unloaded luggage. Nothing. He summoned up the courage to cross onto the ship again, despite his fear of heights. He ran all through the ship until his face was red and his legs felt leaden. Still nothing.
For a while he just sat, panting heavily with his head in his hands. Then slowly he stood, making his way back towards the wooden plank that served as a bridge to the island. He didn't feel desperate anymore, just kind of numb.
He froze.
Standing on the deck was a peculiar metal statue. It looked somewhat human, though its limbs were too long and its head oddly-shaped. Its eyes were large and empty and staring straight back at him.
It blinked.
Then it turned its head slowly towards the makeshift dock and walked. It moved as if it were drunk-- or it simply wasn't used to walking? Perhaps it had never walked before. But before Geralde could watch and wonder much longer the moving statue took a wrong step on the plank bridge, teetered on the edge for a second, and fell like a stone. There was a rustle in the trees under the ship, followed by the sound of something sliding through the underbrush. Then, nothing.
After a minute, he finally got himself to move. He dashed to the ship's railing, wide eyed. "Did anyone else see that moving statue?" he yelled into the crowd.
There was a moment of perplexed silence before they all burst into laughter. "Th' man's finally gone off th' deep end!"
Geralde cursed.