Re: The Wretched Rite - Round One - The Rose Ring
09-06-2011, 03:58 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by MrGuy.
M. manicella stared at The Wolf, as much as something lacking eyes can be said to stare. It had never managed to hold down a Walker before, and the feeling was rather satisfying. It had also never seen a Walker perform such a twisted parody of a woodland beast; M was unsure whether to be angered, confused, or approving of the activity.
Poran was equally perplexed, if not moreso. The thoughts running through his mind were phenomenally morbid-- slicing The Wolf's stomach open and filling it with rocks and dropping her to the bottom of a river, boiling her alive, tying her limbs together and tarring and feathering her, and so forth. He nearly proposed one, but caught a glimpse of The Wolf's eyes-- frantic, horrified, pleading. They didn't look particularly menacing at all.
He glanced at Alluvion. "What do you think we should do with her?" The water elemental, despite not having much experience with non-aquatic behavioral patterns, felt the whole thing seemed rather out of the ordinary. "I am unsure. Is she capable of speech?"
The Wolf blinked. "Of course I can speak, you zilly creature. What do you zink I am, mad?"
Poran coughed. "Well, seeing as you were attempting to slaughter someone, presumably letting the crimson juices of their life force drip into your gaping maw--" he made a mental note of this comparison, in case it was ever necessary-- "it seems to me that, erm... that is to say, I doubt you are mad, but in any case..."
Fiorella attempted to squirm away from M., but his grasp remained resolute. "How inzulting of you! It is hardly my fault zat I ended up 'ere, er... doing zis..." It was at this point that Poran realized that the smell of smoke had long since faded, despite the wind blowing in a direction that it seemed should have carried it towards where they were. He did not get more than a split second to consider this, though, before a considerably more lupine Wolf emerged from the brush, clutching his head.
"Anyone mind tellin' me wha'the hell's goin' on 'ere?"
----------------------
The dragon's descent into the village led only to further annoyance and disappointment.
First was the revelation that the place was already mostly on fire. It rather diminished the impressiveness of belching smoke and flame over everything if it was a mere redundancy. What's more, there wasn't any panic in the streets. Nobody pointing and shouting "dragon", nobody fleeing in a pattern that got them nowhere, nothing being toppled over. Come to think of it, nobody seemed to be moving around at all.
As he drew closer to the ground, he grew more and more annoyed. Sleeping! What kind of self-respecting dragon would eat someone sleeping, much less an entire town that was asleep? This simply wasn't how it was done. He was supposed to be asleep, and then The Hero would appear, and either cunningly kill him without waking him up, or wake him up just so the fight would be fair. There was even less challenge here than with those other two. Really, what was the point? He could get more of a fight-- and, for that matter, probably a better dinner-- by simply flying off a few miles and attacking a farm. He was almost positive that cows didn't simply stand there and wait for you to eat them.
How preposterous. Millenia he had waited, and what had he got to show for it? Two heroes he couldn't care less about killing, a town as interesting to hunt as a plank of wood, and no need for the devastating force of his breath. It was an insult to everything he stood for as a tremendous monster. He sighed and halfheartedly pawed at the library, knocking a few bricks out of the second floor.
Inconveniences upon inconveniences.
----------------------
Which, for that matter, also explained the lot of the narrator. As if it weren't enough for these nine fools to come barging in just as she was getting somewhere interesting, now they were ruining the stories she gave them, too. And on top of that, she had a disgustingly ungrateful dragon half-assing the whole thing.
She was beginning to wonder if it was worth the effort herself, at this point, but she was The Narrator, and if she stopped then she might as well not exist. Unlike some crotchety old bastards, she was committed to her role, no matter how inconvenient.
She once again brought pen to paper, and redoubled her efforts.
M. manicella stared at The Wolf, as much as something lacking eyes can be said to stare. It had never managed to hold down a Walker before, and the feeling was rather satisfying. It had also never seen a Walker perform such a twisted parody of a woodland beast; M was unsure whether to be angered, confused, or approving of the activity.
Poran was equally perplexed, if not moreso. The thoughts running through his mind were phenomenally morbid-- slicing The Wolf's stomach open and filling it with rocks and dropping her to the bottom of a river, boiling her alive, tying her limbs together and tarring and feathering her, and so forth. He nearly proposed one, but caught a glimpse of The Wolf's eyes-- frantic, horrified, pleading. They didn't look particularly menacing at all.
He glanced at Alluvion. "What do you think we should do with her?" The water elemental, despite not having much experience with non-aquatic behavioral patterns, felt the whole thing seemed rather out of the ordinary. "I am unsure. Is she capable of speech?"
The Wolf blinked. "Of course I can speak, you zilly creature. What do you zink I am, mad?"
Poran coughed. "Well, seeing as you were attempting to slaughter someone, presumably letting the crimson juices of their life force drip into your gaping maw--" he made a mental note of this comparison, in case it was ever necessary-- "it seems to me that, erm... that is to say, I doubt you are mad, but in any case..."
Fiorella attempted to squirm away from M., but his grasp remained resolute. "How inzulting of you! It is hardly my fault zat I ended up 'ere, er... doing zis..." It was at this point that Poran realized that the smell of smoke had long since faded, despite the wind blowing in a direction that it seemed should have carried it towards where they were. He did not get more than a split second to consider this, though, before a considerably more lupine Wolf emerged from the brush, clutching his head.
"Anyone mind tellin' me wha'the hell's goin' on 'ere?"
----------------------
The dragon's descent into the village led only to further annoyance and disappointment.
First was the revelation that the place was already mostly on fire. It rather diminished the impressiveness of belching smoke and flame over everything if it was a mere redundancy. What's more, there wasn't any panic in the streets. Nobody pointing and shouting "dragon", nobody fleeing in a pattern that got them nowhere, nothing being toppled over. Come to think of it, nobody seemed to be moving around at all.
As he drew closer to the ground, he grew more and more annoyed. Sleeping! What kind of self-respecting dragon would eat someone sleeping, much less an entire town that was asleep? This simply wasn't how it was done. He was supposed to be asleep, and then The Hero would appear, and either cunningly kill him without waking him up, or wake him up just so the fight would be fair. There was even less challenge here than with those other two. Really, what was the point? He could get more of a fight-- and, for that matter, probably a better dinner-- by simply flying off a few miles and attacking a farm. He was almost positive that cows didn't simply stand there and wait for you to eat them.
How preposterous. Millenia he had waited, and what had he got to show for it? Two heroes he couldn't care less about killing, a town as interesting to hunt as a plank of wood, and no need for the devastating force of his breath. It was an insult to everything he stood for as a tremendous monster. He sighed and halfheartedly pawed at the library, knocking a few bricks out of the second floor.
Inconveniences upon inconveniences.
----------------------
Which, for that matter, also explained the lot of the narrator. As if it weren't enough for these nine fools to come barging in just as she was getting somewhere interesting, now they were ruining the stories she gave them, too. And on top of that, she had a disgustingly ungrateful dragon half-assing the whole thing.
She was beginning to wonder if it was worth the effort herself, at this point, but she was The Narrator, and if she stopped then she might as well not exist. Unlike some crotchety old bastards, she was committed to her role, no matter how inconvenient.
She once again brought pen to paper, and redoubled her efforts.