Re: Mini-Grand 5101 [Round 2: Medieval Village]
07-01-2011, 12:19 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by Lankie.
Well that was disappointing.
Deathwing assumed that a man who could constantly revive (he figured it was Bartleby, he did look a mighty bit odder than the others) would prove a little more difficult to kill. Instead he died the same way every other second rate being does when confronted with hot, fiery, explosive, plasma based energy. It wasn’t the fact that he had been killed (he was pretty happy about that really); it was the fact that he was killed so quickly, especially for something that was put in competition with him.
Conveniently, dissatisfaction was replaced by reality warping befuddlement, as Deathwing suddenly found himself in a haystack. A stack which swiftly set on fire as Deathwing’s jets were still turned on. The Cyborg burst out of the flaming pile of dried grass with little grace, wildly patting out any of the flaming debris on him. He took a moment to try and find a line of logic which would explain how he ended up from the Titanic, to a barn, but his admittedly straight forward mind eventually gave up.
“What the ‘ell’s goin on in ‘ere!” An old, bearded fellow crashed through the ramshackle doors, pitchfork in hand, “I swear if it those Harlow twins again I-‘ll-I” The aged farmer trailed off as he saw the demonic visage of Deathwing looming in front of him. The old coot went sickly pale and dropped his makeshift weapon. “F-forgive me, Devil! I-I did not mean –I did not know I-“ He fumbled round his already limited vocabulary in horror, eventually dropping to his knees and praying to the cybernetic man. “Please spare my life, oh mighty Demon! I-I’ll do anything! Please!”
Deathwing sighed loudly. From the basic clothing and Neanderthal level of speech he had gone even further back in time, meaning more terribly basic, no-upgrade, humans to kill again, something that was getting rather old, quite fast. Deathwing raised his Death Cannon at the pathetic excuse of a man, ready to execute him there and then; however he hesitated as he thought of the situation he was in.
If he had been teleported here, then surely the Game Boy and the Bird would be here too. He once again looked at the bearded farmer, now shivering in fear; Deathwing cracked a smile as he formulated a plan. “Anything, you say?”
“Yes, please, just spare me your wrath, Oh mighty fiend!”
“…Could you round up a posse?”
“A-a posse?”
Deathwing smashed his metal fist into some brittle woodwork to punctuate his words. “A group, a gang, an angry mob!”
“Y-yes! I-I-I-I can do that! F-for what?”
The Cyborg’s smile broadened, “I want you to hunt down a man and a bird…”
Well that was disappointing.
Deathwing assumed that a man who could constantly revive (he figured it was Bartleby, he did look a mighty bit odder than the others) would prove a little more difficult to kill. Instead he died the same way every other second rate being does when confronted with hot, fiery, explosive, plasma based energy. It wasn’t the fact that he had been killed (he was pretty happy about that really); it was the fact that he was killed so quickly, especially for something that was put in competition with him.
Conveniently, dissatisfaction was replaced by reality warping befuddlement, as Deathwing suddenly found himself in a haystack. A stack which swiftly set on fire as Deathwing’s jets were still turned on. The Cyborg burst out of the flaming pile of dried grass with little grace, wildly patting out any of the flaming debris on him. He took a moment to try and find a line of logic which would explain how he ended up from the Titanic, to a barn, but his admittedly straight forward mind eventually gave up.
“What the ‘ell’s goin on in ‘ere!” An old, bearded fellow crashed through the ramshackle doors, pitchfork in hand, “I swear if it those Harlow twins again I-‘ll-I” The aged farmer trailed off as he saw the demonic visage of Deathwing looming in front of him. The old coot went sickly pale and dropped his makeshift weapon. “F-forgive me, Devil! I-I did not mean –I did not know I-“ He fumbled round his already limited vocabulary in horror, eventually dropping to his knees and praying to the cybernetic man. “Please spare my life, oh mighty Demon! I-I’ll do anything! Please!”
Deathwing sighed loudly. From the basic clothing and Neanderthal level of speech he had gone even further back in time, meaning more terribly basic, no-upgrade, humans to kill again, something that was getting rather old, quite fast. Deathwing raised his Death Cannon at the pathetic excuse of a man, ready to execute him there and then; however he hesitated as he thought of the situation he was in.
If he had been teleported here, then surely the Game Boy and the Bird would be here too. He once again looked at the bearded farmer, now shivering in fear; Deathwing cracked a smile as he formulated a plan. “Anything, you say?”
“Yes, please, just spare me your wrath, Oh mighty fiend!”
“…Could you round up a posse?”
“A-a posse?”
Deathwing smashed his metal fist into some brittle woodwork to punctuate his words. “A group, a gang, an angry mob!”
“Y-yes! I-I-I-I can do that! F-for what?”
The Cyborg’s smile broadened, “I want you to hunt down a man and a bird…”