The Grand Battle II! [Happy End!]

Originally posted on MSPA by Schazer.

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The Faceless slither-trudged through the mess of corridors, consistent only in awful, non-euclidian chorus. It took a little longer than Vyrm'n would've admitted to realise the Organizer had lied to her - it was hard to tell with all her senses shutting off, but she was pretty sure Gestalt hadn't come this way.

There was an ornate door - perhaps stolen from a monastery somewhere - and discussion behind it which halted as the speakers sensed the Faceless. Some footsteps and a creak might've been nice, but the denizens of this establishment had no need for such fripperies. There was only the briefest moment where Vyrm'n felt like she was being watched, before it was accompanied (as tradition and expectations dictated) by the presence of someone. Someone now stood in Vyrm'n's path, a humanoid standing less than a metre tall on four stumpy legs. Its head was a featureless sphere nestled between its hunched little shoulders, the whole golem seemingly made of thick, jointless glass. Beneath it, cyan mist slithered over and under itself, like an overstuffed vase of semisolid snakes.

One tendril escaped from the glass hull like a tail, looming over (spherical) head like a scorpion's as a bulb sprouted on the tip of it. Vyrm'n tensed a little as the fog-rose extricated itself from itself, a perfect ring of reality-rending teeth glittering inside its black hole of a mouth.

"You're lost, aren't you, little fragment?"

Vyrm'n just dithered between consciousness and Void in response.

"Hmm. You must be one of the contestants in the boss's competition." The flower addressed the door, after a moment's consideration. "Hurry up and come out here, Paris. She's harmless enough."

The door opened. A man stepped timidly out, dressed from masked head to toe in black. The holeless mask bore only a stylised blue rose that was a little eldritch round the edges, between where one would assume Paris' eyes were. Where his polished black hand rested insecure against the iron doorhandle, a curl of smoke rose as the metal melted.

"Over here," the jar of vines snapped. Paris' head jerked up at the noise, and he stalked uneasily to the creature's side, one hand leaving a trail of blackened wallpaper as he went. A second vine slid out of the glass doll's shoulder, catching the man by the forearm and tearing him from the wall.

"Paris. He constructed this vessel for me. You may call me Jessamine. Paris, this is Vyrm'n. She's here for the Observer's final round."

Neither Vyrm'n nor Paris moved or spoke during these introductions, despite the latter dealing with Jessamine running a tendril over and around his mask. The vine-vessel tolerated the awkward silence for an age belying her impatient tones, before gnashing her teeth at the Faceless with ill-disguised frustration.

"Don't you have a little poltergeist or something to hunt down?"

Vyrm'n radiated a powerful sense of not caring. Jessamine hissed, finally eliciting a reaction from her servant. Paris cringed, one hand reaching out for a wall to cling to.

"This is ridiculous. I've got enough on my plate without babysitting an Entropic shard. Paris." He didn't quite stand to attention, but his head snapped around again at his name. "Take my key and take Vyrm'n somewhere a little more interesting."

The man raised a half-hearted hand in protest, but froze as the rose on his mask glowed white-hot. Jessamine ignored her servant's trembling. "I don't like this vessel. I'll be using the centipede, so tidy this one up."

The creature vanished with a klein-bottle slither. Vyrm'n lacked the energy to form an opinion of Paris, who just stood smoking at the seams for a while before twitching and lifting his head.

The man seemed to stare at the Faceless - if the rose sygil (which was now coiling upon itself into a blue-white briar sunburst) allowed that - before he snapped round and began moulding the discarded glass shell. It melted into a sizable lump under his wordlessly confident hands, each caress working away at the molten mass of red. Paris gripped what remained of it in one hand, then palmed it from sight and glanced at Vyrm'n. Without a clear order from his master, he seemed liable to freeze up again, but tore his debatable gaze away and took a few trepidatious steps for a door.

He opened it. The brass handle dripped from his jet-black fingers, and sizzled as it hit the ground. Vyrm'n deliberated for a minute, then slithered in the opposite direction. She got about ten metres before the man shuffled past her, one hand still glued to the wall, and opened the next door down for her. Music and murmuring trickled out, not that Vyrm'n was in a state to hear either.

Paris gave no impression he was demanding the Faceless be agreeable; save for a vague confidence knowing he had a single manageable task to complete he gave off no impression of anything at all.

Vyrm'n appraised her new companion coldly, then wordlessly entered.