RE: The Fearsome Encounter (GBS3G8) [Round 2: Oh Two Oh]
10-04-2013, 07:57 AM
"Ah, Ms. Samedi," sang a banded pitta. "What a delight to have you join our company!"
The bird flew irritating circles in front of Cepra's goggles. The Lycarid said nothing as she plotted its course, then plucked it from the air with her silver claw, precise enough with her movements to not pierce its delicately-striped breast. As best as she could remember, she couldn't do any real damage to these birds, right? That just meant she'd have to work extra hard to maintain the gaggle's respect. The little bird gasped with shock and fainted, and Cepra pretended not to notice the little monochrome chicken darting between the tables and heading straight for her.
It flew even more awkwardly than it ran, wings crashing through the air and barely sticking the landing on Cepra's thumb. It ripped out its colleague's jugular with an almost-casual sideways kick, and took a bow.
"It's unbecoming, Cepra dear, that I ask a favour of you having barely met, but I beg you forget what that poltroon just said. This," the bantam sighed, "is why you leave scripts to the actors. Yinanyma was supposed to say-" - Monty cleared his throat, or his beak, at least - "-'Lovely of you to join us.'"
"Isn't that, uh, basically what he said?" (Was this bird trying to show her its bedroom eyes?)
Monty Faith looked intensely disappointed, or intensely like a bird trying to pout. One or the other. He leapt off Cepra's hand, and bobbed his way back toward his entourage's table. "I suppose it doesn't matter, no. Phillistine. It's a classic bit of villainous posturing, nothing more. Now come! We are in negotiations, and the more the merrier."
The scene was kind of messy, but that was probably because there were quite a few different-coloured birds and none of them looked to have considered coordinating dress for the proceedings. There was a junglefowl perched on the mannequin's shoulder, whose attention was singly upon the various other birds. A cassowary loomed over the other shoulder, and two falcons stood point on the table and monitored the rest of the bar. The table had a sun conure and a nicobar pigeon sitting on it, the conure in some kind of intense discussion with the Baron. Saturday and the wooden doll itself were dressed in burgundy, and an emperor penguin was rather clumsily trying to pull up a third chair for Cepra.
"Oh, hell no," was Saturday's response, when the conure (Boswell) perched on the negotiating table kindly directed his attention to the giant spider. "So the whole lot of yeh were conspirin' against me, huh?"
"We like the way you think," pre-empted Boswell, trying to get his stride again. "We the Interior would be delighted-"
"The damnable spider dropped that one already, darling, this is why I wanted someone competent to greet her-"
The junglefowl leapt from its perch, stabbed Monty in the eye with its beak, then would've split him open like an overripe fruit with its kick if he were made of proper flesh and not magical mist. "...to arrange terms of an alliance with Ms. Samedi. Please, take a seat." said the conure, as if nothing happened.
Cepra looked at the penguin, who seemed pretty sympathetic to her seating problems. That, or he was just pissed off with hauling soon-to-be-redundant chair without the use of thumbs. "I'd rather stand."
"I'd rather leave," said Saturday.
"No," said the conure, putting an inflection in its voice that didn't suit it in the slightest. "You're leaving this table as our ally, or you're not leaving at all."
"Listen here, you feathery little shit. You and yer friends ain't got anythin' to twist me arm, and listenin' to you squawking on and on about all yer grand plans yeh've got seems like a damn worse use of me time than getting as far as I can from her."
"Rude."
"Yeah, rude, dude," added a bird sitting on his Cepra-ward finger. Saturday swatted it off.
"I'm asking you, Baron-" bullshit this rosy-cheeked little bird was, Saturday thought to himself "-to take our offer slightly more seriously. To take us seriously. The Interior is dissatisfied with our current negotiating position amongst the contestants, and we're willing to prove we're capable of drastic. Action."
Saturday sneered and stood slowly, one hand on the table and one at his hip. "Try sayin' that again with someone who ain't fruit-coloured, then yeah. I'd consider it."
Boswell the conure sighed, and turned his imploring little parrot-gaze on Cepra instead. "Ms. Samedi, would you like to know the information on this man's coin?"
Cepra had just about been ready to leave this asinine argument and find someone who could actually help her negotiate this spaceship, but this actually sounded interesting. She smirked. "What's the catch?"
"You let us kill him, and help us deal with the immediate aftermath. Simple as that."
Saturday backed away sharpish from the table, managing a bark of a laugh. "Yeh've got some nerve, clementine."
"Ms. Samedi?"
Cepra drummed her fingers, then grinned. "Don't know what your deal is, birds, but I'll warn you. He's tricky."
Boswell bobbed his head, even as something big and angry swooped across the table and got its talons into Saturday. "Thank you, Ms. Samedi."
A couple of flintlocks went off, and what was left of the bird caught on fire. Saturday threw it at the mannequin, but the corpse vanished in a shower of silver and mostly ended up in Boswell's eyes. Saturday had just enough time to shift his fingers into shadowy claws, before all fifty kilos of Charles Kittybrewster hurtled through the table and kicked him to the floor. The cassowary made some kind of ugly fucking honking that may or may not have been a British accent right in his face. Saturday snarled, pushed it off, and rolled over, only to see a woodpecker staring down its beak at him.
Cripes. That was a big bird. Some old memory stirred at the glint of its beak, a deadly-beautiful pale like a broken bone sticking out of some foolhardy child's shin.
One of those ivory-bills, thought Bo, not really paying attention to someone nearby hissing "surprise, bitch". He hadn't seen one in years-
It stabbed him in the eye. It stabbed him in the other eye. It cackled like no sane bird should as he swore and clutched his face and struggled to his knees, laughed like no sane man should as Kittybrewster kicked Saturday twice open - once through the stomach, once for spite to split his face into black and white and red.
The bird flew irritating circles in front of Cepra's goggles. The Lycarid said nothing as she plotted its course, then plucked it from the air with her silver claw, precise enough with her movements to not pierce its delicately-striped breast. As best as she could remember, she couldn't do any real damage to these birds, right? That just meant she'd have to work extra hard to maintain the gaggle's respect. The little bird gasped with shock and fainted, and Cepra pretended not to notice the little monochrome chicken darting between the tables and heading straight for her.
It flew even more awkwardly than it ran, wings crashing through the air and barely sticking the landing on Cepra's thumb. It ripped out its colleague's jugular with an almost-casual sideways kick, and took a bow.
"It's unbecoming, Cepra dear, that I ask a favour of you having barely met, but I beg you forget what that poltroon just said. This," the bantam sighed, "is why you leave scripts to the actors. Yinanyma was supposed to say-" - Monty cleared his throat, or his beak, at least - "-'Lovely of you to join us.'"
"Isn't that, uh, basically what he said?" (Was this bird trying to show her its bedroom eyes?)
Monty Faith looked intensely disappointed, or intensely like a bird trying to pout. One or the other. He leapt off Cepra's hand, and bobbed his way back toward his entourage's table. "I suppose it doesn't matter, no. Phillistine. It's a classic bit of villainous posturing, nothing more. Now come! We are in negotiations, and the more the merrier."
The scene was kind of messy, but that was probably because there were quite a few different-coloured birds and none of them looked to have considered coordinating dress for the proceedings. There was a junglefowl perched on the mannequin's shoulder, whose attention was singly upon the various other birds. A cassowary loomed over the other shoulder, and two falcons stood point on the table and monitored the rest of the bar. The table had a sun conure and a nicobar pigeon sitting on it, the conure in some kind of intense discussion with the Baron. Saturday and the wooden doll itself were dressed in burgundy, and an emperor penguin was rather clumsily trying to pull up a third chair for Cepra.
"Oh, hell no," was Saturday's response, when the conure (Boswell) perched on the negotiating table kindly directed his attention to the giant spider. "So the whole lot of yeh were conspirin' against me, huh?"
"We like the way you think," pre-empted Boswell, trying to get his stride again. "We the Interior would be delighted-"
"The damnable spider dropped that one already, darling, this is why I wanted someone competent to greet her-"
The junglefowl leapt from its perch, stabbed Monty in the eye with its beak, then would've split him open like an overripe fruit with its kick if he were made of proper flesh and not magical mist. "...to arrange terms of an alliance with Ms. Samedi. Please, take a seat." said the conure, as if nothing happened.
Cepra looked at the penguin, who seemed pretty sympathetic to her seating problems. That, or he was just pissed off with hauling soon-to-be-redundant chair without the use of thumbs. "I'd rather stand."
"I'd rather leave," said Saturday.
"No," said the conure, putting an inflection in its voice that didn't suit it in the slightest. "You're leaving this table as our ally, or you're not leaving at all."
"Listen here, you feathery little shit. You and yer friends ain't got anythin' to twist me arm, and listenin' to you squawking on and on about all yer grand plans yeh've got seems like a damn worse use of me time than getting as far as I can from her."
"Rude."
"Yeah, rude, dude," added a bird sitting on his Cepra-ward finger. Saturday swatted it off.
"I'm asking you, Baron-" bullshit this rosy-cheeked little bird was, Saturday thought to himself "-to take our offer slightly more seriously. To take us seriously. The Interior is dissatisfied with our current negotiating position amongst the contestants, and we're willing to prove we're capable of drastic. Action."
Saturday sneered and stood slowly, one hand on the table and one at his hip. "Try sayin' that again with someone who ain't fruit-coloured, then yeah. I'd consider it."
Boswell the conure sighed, and turned his imploring little parrot-gaze on Cepra instead. "Ms. Samedi, would you like to know the information on this man's coin?"
Cepra had just about been ready to leave this asinine argument and find someone who could actually help her negotiate this spaceship, but this actually sounded interesting. She smirked. "What's the catch?"
"You let us kill him, and help us deal with the immediate aftermath. Simple as that."
Saturday backed away sharpish from the table, managing a bark of a laugh. "Yeh've got some nerve, clementine."
"Ms. Samedi?"
Cepra drummed her fingers, then grinned. "Don't know what your deal is, birds, but I'll warn you. He's tricky."
Boswell bobbed his head, even as something big and angry swooped across the table and got its talons into Saturday. "Thank you, Ms. Samedi."
A couple of flintlocks went off, and what was left of the bird caught on fire. Saturday threw it at the mannequin, but the corpse vanished in a shower of silver and mostly ended up in Boswell's eyes. Saturday had just enough time to shift his fingers into shadowy claws, before all fifty kilos of Charles Kittybrewster hurtled through the table and kicked him to the floor. The cassowary made some kind of ugly fucking honking that may or may not have been a British accent right in his face. Saturday snarled, pushed it off, and rolled over, only to see a woodpecker staring down its beak at him.
Cripes. That was a big bird. Some old memory stirred at the glint of its beak, a deadly-beautiful pale like a broken bone sticking out of some foolhardy child's shin.
One of those ivory-bills, thought Bo, not really paying attention to someone nearby hissing "surprise, bitch". He hadn't seen one in years-
It stabbed him in the eye. It stabbed him in the other eye. It cackled like no sane bird should as he swore and clutched his face and struggled to his knees, laughed like no sane man should as Kittybrewster kicked Saturday twice open - once through the stomach, once for spite to split his face into black and white and red.
peace to the unsung peace to the martyrs | i'm johnny rotten appleseed
clouds is shaky love | broke as hell but i got a bunch of ringtones
eyes blood red bruise aubergine | Sue took something now Sue doesn't sleep | saint average, day in the life of
woke up in the noon smelling doom and death | out the house, great outdoors
staying warm in arctic blizzard | that's my battle 'til I get inanimate | still up in the same clothes living like a gameshow
clouds is shaky love | broke as hell but i got a bunch of ringtones
eyes blood red bruise aubergine | Sue took something now Sue doesn't sleep | saint average, day in the life of
woke up in the noon smelling doom and death | out the house, great outdoors
staying warm in arctic blizzard | that's my battle 'til I get inanimate | still up in the same clothes living like a gameshow