Re: The Vivacious Deadlock: S3G6: Round One: Genreshift
05-31-2011, 06:09 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by SleepingOrange.
The High Magus of Flow found herself in a grimy, soot-stained alleyway, littered with garbage and sporting an unconscious (or possibly dead) hobo a few yards from where she'd arrived. It was her first time encountering poverty, and she dealt with it surprisingly well; it was also her first time encountering interplanar travel or battles to the death, but she handled those realities with similar aplomb. She drew herself up to her full height and clutched her staff. This is what you were raised for. The culmination of your life's ambitions and purpose. For the first time, you are truly alive.
Uncertain of where her adversaries may have been lurking, but certain their presence would become obvious in a city where they clearly had no business (especially if they began fighting each other or the citizens), she simply swept along the alley towards the street. As she approached what had appeared to be several large piles of garbage, two of the piles stood up, brandishing knives and leering.
One opened his mouth, intent on making smarmy comments and demanding money in what he surely thought was a roundabout and cheekily-endearing way. He got a few syllables out; Cascala uttered a few less-understandable syllables of her own, and mugger number one's open mouth gagged and retched. After a moment, copious amounts of blood began flowing out of his mouth, eyes, and nose, and he clutched ineffectually at his throat, collapsing to his knees. His companion's face was suffused with an expression of revulsion and horror, and he took a few steps back, apparently having a hard time deciding between lunging and fleeing; with a gesture from the woman, the blood that was rapidly pooling around the first thief's feet rose into the air and flowed eerily towards mugger number two's head, surrounding it with a dark, ichorous sphere. He tried to scream, succeeding only in sending bubbles through the blood, and swatted at the liquid. Cascala hefted her staff and struck him across the shins, eliciting a resounding crack, and he collapsed to the ground with his erstwhile companion.
The pair thrashed for a few more moments, but the mage payed them little heed; she simply stepped over them, carefully gathering her robes to prevent any inconvenient blood from clinging to the hem, and continued moving through the alley towards the street, leaving her would-be attackers to respectively exsanguinate and drown.
As she entered the comparative light of what appeared to be some sort of main thoroughfare, a thought occurred to her. Why, she mused, am I intent on confronting the others directly? Her sandaled feet thumped lightly against the street in counterpoint to the clang of her staff as she walked. I suppose I assumed based off the vague prophecy that the competition would be more... Direct. More localized. Prepared myself for that. She was distracted for a moment by a flickering lightpost before continuing her internal musing. And while a head-on attack has the greatest chance of success with the minimum of collateral damage, what do I care if a city of meaningless ghosts is destroyed?
Coming to a decision, Cascala stopped where she stood and looked around; another nearby alley looked promising. She slipped in, and the moonlight that filtered in through the smog was just enough to confirm what she had hoped. A tarnished brass ladder was attached to the wall to her left, and she began scaling it. A few moments later, she was on the roof, drawing a small pouch of pigment out of a sleeve. A few moments after that, she had several large diagrams, ringed with elegant sigils, traced out on the roof where she was confident no-one would tread and disrupt them.
She grinned to herself and approached the edge of the roof. The spell would take some time to cast and a while after that to take effect, but it would essentially cast itself, and she certainly had time. She muttered a few words to herself and stepped off the roof, feet held up by a cushion of vapor, and began striding across the air. Above, high, dark clouds began slowly forming, roiling in an unseen wind.
The High Magus of Flow found herself in a grimy, soot-stained alleyway, littered with garbage and sporting an unconscious (or possibly dead) hobo a few yards from where she'd arrived. It was her first time encountering poverty, and she dealt with it surprisingly well; it was also her first time encountering interplanar travel or battles to the death, but she handled those realities with similar aplomb. She drew herself up to her full height and clutched her staff. This is what you were raised for. The culmination of your life's ambitions and purpose. For the first time, you are truly alive.
Uncertain of where her adversaries may have been lurking, but certain their presence would become obvious in a city where they clearly had no business (especially if they began fighting each other or the citizens), she simply swept along the alley towards the street. As she approached what had appeared to be several large piles of garbage, two of the piles stood up, brandishing knives and leering.
One opened his mouth, intent on making smarmy comments and demanding money in what he surely thought was a roundabout and cheekily-endearing way. He got a few syllables out; Cascala uttered a few less-understandable syllables of her own, and mugger number one's open mouth gagged and retched. After a moment, copious amounts of blood began flowing out of his mouth, eyes, and nose, and he clutched ineffectually at his throat, collapsing to his knees. His companion's face was suffused with an expression of revulsion and horror, and he took a few steps back, apparently having a hard time deciding between lunging and fleeing; with a gesture from the woman, the blood that was rapidly pooling around the first thief's feet rose into the air and flowed eerily towards mugger number two's head, surrounding it with a dark, ichorous sphere. He tried to scream, succeeding only in sending bubbles through the blood, and swatted at the liquid. Cascala hefted her staff and struck him across the shins, eliciting a resounding crack, and he collapsed to the ground with his erstwhile companion.
The pair thrashed for a few more moments, but the mage payed them little heed; she simply stepped over them, carefully gathering her robes to prevent any inconvenient blood from clinging to the hem, and continued moving through the alley towards the street, leaving her would-be attackers to respectively exsanguinate and drown.
As she entered the comparative light of what appeared to be some sort of main thoroughfare, a thought occurred to her. Why, she mused, am I intent on confronting the others directly? Her sandaled feet thumped lightly against the street in counterpoint to the clang of her staff as she walked. I suppose I assumed based off the vague prophecy that the competition would be more... Direct. More localized. Prepared myself for that. She was distracted for a moment by a flickering lightpost before continuing her internal musing. And while a head-on attack has the greatest chance of success with the minimum of collateral damage, what do I care if a city of meaningless ghosts is destroyed?
Coming to a decision, Cascala stopped where she stood and looked around; another nearby alley looked promising. She slipped in, and the moonlight that filtered in through the smog was just enough to confirm what she had hoped. A tarnished brass ladder was attached to the wall to her left, and she began scaling it. A few moments later, she was on the roof, drawing a small pouch of pigment out of a sleeve. A few moments after that, she had several large diagrams, ringed with elegant sigils, traced out on the roof where she was confident no-one would tread and disrupt them.
She grinned to herself and approached the edge of the roof. The spell would take some time to cast and a while after that to take effect, but it would essentially cast itself, and she certainly had time. She muttered a few words to herself and stepped off the roof, feet held up by a cushion of vapor, and began striding across the air. Above, high, dark clouds began slowly forming, roiling in an unseen wind.