Re: The Grand Battle II! [Round 6:Doomish Temple!]
02-19-2011, 12:23 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by SleepingOrange.
Gestalt had shown in the past a propensity for the dramatic when the mood took it; wooden spiders had scuttled across a haunted field, glass eagles had soared through non-euclidean skies, numberless zombies had been felled by a silent whirling dervish. The fact that it chose not to indulge any such urges as it chased the fleeing Faceless might have been worrying to the pursued, were it not for the fact that Vyrm'n was in no state of mind to notice and Maxwell was unable to look backwards in the position he was in.
---
Anatomy had never been Maxwell's specialty, but he wasn't someone who wore the title of 'genius' lightly. He knew just what was happening in his newly-perforated torso with the stylish crimson gash, and that the best he could possibly hope for at this point involved words like "sepsis", "convalescence", and probably "colostomy". The fact that these were the sort of words he got if he was lucky... Well, it certainly wasn't making his desire for a mercy-killing any less prominent. He shifted uncomfortably in the amorphous grip of his captor-slash-savior, coughed, half-expecting blood to come out come on you know that only happens in the movies, your lungs haven't been punctured, and wheezed out "Vyrm'n, please..."
It immediately occurred to him that it would probably make more sense just to communicate empathically, since Vyrm'n was wrapped around him, but his every attempt to reach out to her mind was met with resistance and obstinacy. Maxwell's mind was shunted aside every time he attempted to approach hers, until he simply gave up and closed his eyes. This wound wouldn't be fatal for some time, but there wasn't a whole lot he could do now, and the pain was excruciating. He sighed and did his best to pass out from the blood loss.
---
Vyrm'n was significantly hampered by her cargo, and thus wasn't the fleeting bolt of night sky she ordinarily would have been. She was comparatively slow and fairly clumsy, and Gestalt was easily able to keep pace; coupled with the fact the dust in the air as well as the emotions permeating the entire cavern effectively blinded the faceless, while her pursuer's senses allowed it to see quite far in every direction at once in a setting like the temple, the chase should have ended quickly.
It didn't, though, primarily because of how thoroughly wrapped around Maxwell she was. Were things more ordinary for this sort of battle, Gestalt could have triggered traps as she passed, dropped rocks on her, turned the battlefield itself into an unstoppable weapon, but as it was, it had to finish off the pathetic fencer without unduly damaging Vyrm'n. It was a frustrating situation, and the golem honestly had next to no idea of how to go about things. For the moment, it simply chased her through the tunnels, harrying her with traps and shifting rock not offensively, but to lead her into a dead end.
Overall, it was quite an undramatic chase to watch. Maxwell was doing his best to pass out, Vyrm'n never made noise at the best of time, and Gestalt simply glided noislessly behind her, firing off the occasional spear-trap if she threatened to take a turn he didn't want. Anyone who could sense emotions or thoughts would have had a coruscating cacophony of conflicting notions, plans, and feelings to watch, but for most observers, it would simply be a dull, silent procession through winding corridors.
Eventually, Gestalt's persistent herding paid off, and the group arrived at the terminal chamber of some battle or other; no-one was paying enough attention to the walls to divine which one or what was happening. As Vyrm'n realized there was nowhere further to run, Gestalt raised a barrier of blades in the door, shards of the labyrinth brick interspersed in it to discourage flight.
"I'm sorry it had to come to this, Vyrm'n, and I hope you realize I did what had to be done when you are free the deleterious effects of this place."
She carefully laid Maxwell behind her, spreading her bulk out to form a wall around him, and waited for Gestalt to make the first move. Move he did, too, sending a volley of bladed weapons and vaguely-sharp knick-knacks her way. Most were swatted out of the air, and several were grasped with shadowy pseudopods; those she gripped were aggressively filled with the hungry void, which clamored and tried to pull the golem in. Gestalt had of course anticipated this, and pulled itself immediately from those weapons that were captured and kept up the assault on less guarded flanks.
This went on for some time, the pair stalemated, showing no signs of the balance tipping one way or another. And then something occurred to Gestalt, and it cursed itself for not thinking of it sooner.
---
Maxwell's breathing was slow and shallow: deep breaths simply hurt too much, and he wasn't trying to maintain consciousness anyway. In fact, as it had been for so much of this battle, continued sapience was nothing but an inconvenient bother. Rather than watch the battle, he simply went over simple mathematics and patterns in his head, hoping the monotony would distract him from the pain and his rotten conscience.
It was as he was counting up from three by adding the square of each number's lowest multiple that he noticed his collar tighten. He put it down to simply not realizing he had shifted position slightly, and thus had caused the fabric to go taut across his throat, but that explanation vanished quickly as his shirt continued constricting his airway. He began to reach a hand up to his neck, and whatever was causing the tightness apparently became aware that he had noticed; rather than continue its gently-increasing pressure, the fabric suddenly squeezed harder than a human hand ever could, completely closing off Maxwell's trachea.
He began to thrash in spite of the pain, opening his wound further, but there was nothing he could do to stop the choking shirt and he couldn't make a sound. He'd wanted to die, but not like this! As the world began fading at the edges of his vision, he wondered why Vyrm'n hadn't noticed his distress; perhaps the fight was simply occupying too much of her attention.
A sense of peace came over him rather suddenly, and for once he wasn't inclined to question whether it was his own mind or just the blood choke that was causing it. He was going to die, and he'd never hurt anyone again.
His last thought was as close to a prayer as he'd ever gotten, a near-wordless expression of hope for Vyrm'n. And Gestalt too, he supposed.
Gestalt had shown in the past a propensity for the dramatic when the mood took it; wooden spiders had scuttled across a haunted field, glass eagles had soared through non-euclidean skies, numberless zombies had been felled by a silent whirling dervish. The fact that it chose not to indulge any such urges as it chased the fleeing Faceless might have been worrying to the pursued, were it not for the fact that Vyrm'n was in no state of mind to notice and Maxwell was unable to look backwards in the position he was in.
---
Anatomy had never been Maxwell's specialty, but he wasn't someone who wore the title of 'genius' lightly. He knew just what was happening in his newly-perforated torso with the stylish crimson gash, and that the best he could possibly hope for at this point involved words like "sepsis", "convalescence", and probably "colostomy". The fact that these were the sort of words he got if he was lucky... Well, it certainly wasn't making his desire for a mercy-killing any less prominent. He shifted uncomfortably in the amorphous grip of his captor-slash-savior, coughed, half-expecting blood to come out come on you know that only happens in the movies, your lungs haven't been punctured, and wheezed out "Vyrm'n, please..."
It immediately occurred to him that it would probably make more sense just to communicate empathically, since Vyrm'n was wrapped around him, but his every attempt to reach out to her mind was met with resistance and obstinacy. Maxwell's mind was shunted aside every time he attempted to approach hers, until he simply gave up and closed his eyes. This wound wouldn't be fatal for some time, but there wasn't a whole lot he could do now, and the pain was excruciating. He sighed and did his best to pass out from the blood loss.
---
Vyrm'n was significantly hampered by her cargo, and thus wasn't the fleeting bolt of night sky she ordinarily would have been. She was comparatively slow and fairly clumsy, and Gestalt was easily able to keep pace; coupled with the fact the dust in the air as well as the emotions permeating the entire cavern effectively blinded the faceless, while her pursuer's senses allowed it to see quite far in every direction at once in a setting like the temple, the chase should have ended quickly.
It didn't, though, primarily because of how thoroughly wrapped around Maxwell she was. Were things more ordinary for this sort of battle, Gestalt could have triggered traps as she passed, dropped rocks on her, turned the battlefield itself into an unstoppable weapon, but as it was, it had to finish off the pathetic fencer without unduly damaging Vyrm'n. It was a frustrating situation, and the golem honestly had next to no idea of how to go about things. For the moment, it simply chased her through the tunnels, harrying her with traps and shifting rock not offensively, but to lead her into a dead end.
Overall, it was quite an undramatic chase to watch. Maxwell was doing his best to pass out, Vyrm'n never made noise at the best of time, and Gestalt simply glided noislessly behind her, firing off the occasional spear-trap if she threatened to take a turn he didn't want. Anyone who could sense emotions or thoughts would have had a coruscating cacophony of conflicting notions, plans, and feelings to watch, but for most observers, it would simply be a dull, silent procession through winding corridors.
Eventually, Gestalt's persistent herding paid off, and the group arrived at the terminal chamber of some battle or other; no-one was paying enough attention to the walls to divine which one or what was happening. As Vyrm'n realized there was nowhere further to run, Gestalt raised a barrier of blades in the door, shards of the labyrinth brick interspersed in it to discourage flight.
"I'm sorry it had to come to this, Vyrm'n, and I hope you realize I did what had to be done when you are free the deleterious effects of this place."
She carefully laid Maxwell behind her, spreading her bulk out to form a wall around him, and waited for Gestalt to make the first move. Move he did, too, sending a volley of bladed weapons and vaguely-sharp knick-knacks her way. Most were swatted out of the air, and several were grasped with shadowy pseudopods; those she gripped were aggressively filled with the hungry void, which clamored and tried to pull the golem in. Gestalt had of course anticipated this, and pulled itself immediately from those weapons that were captured and kept up the assault on less guarded flanks.
This went on for some time, the pair stalemated, showing no signs of the balance tipping one way or another. And then something occurred to Gestalt, and it cursed itself for not thinking of it sooner.
---
Maxwell's breathing was slow and shallow: deep breaths simply hurt too much, and he wasn't trying to maintain consciousness anyway. In fact, as it had been for so much of this battle, continued sapience was nothing but an inconvenient bother. Rather than watch the battle, he simply went over simple mathematics and patterns in his head, hoping the monotony would distract him from the pain and his rotten conscience.
It was as he was counting up from three by adding the square of each number's lowest multiple that he noticed his collar tighten. He put it down to simply not realizing he had shifted position slightly, and thus had caused the fabric to go taut across his throat, but that explanation vanished quickly as his shirt continued constricting his airway. He began to reach a hand up to his neck, and whatever was causing the tightness apparently became aware that he had noticed; rather than continue its gently-increasing pressure, the fabric suddenly squeezed harder than a human hand ever could, completely closing off Maxwell's trachea.
He began to thrash in spite of the pain, opening his wound further, but there was nothing he could do to stop the choking shirt and he couldn't make a sound. He'd wanted to die, but not like this! As the world began fading at the edges of his vision, he wondered why Vyrm'n hadn't noticed his distress; perhaps the fight was simply occupying too much of her attention.
A sense of peace came over him rather suddenly, and for once he wasn't inclined to question whether it was his own mind or just the blood choke that was causing it. He was going to die, and he'd never hurt anyone again.
His last thought was as close to a prayer as he'd ever gotten, a near-wordless expression of hope for Vyrm'n. And Gestalt too, he supposed.