The Ratings War III: Republic of Heaven (Second Round Finals)
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and here we are!
in a remarkable change, i actually started this a week before the due date! and then left it there, until this morning.... XP
in a remarkable change, i actually started this a week before the due date! and then left it there, until this morning.... XP
Mort and the Fae vs. Emanuel Cazinto
It?s getting rather late, now, isn?t it? Ah well, it?s just as well, for my story is almost finished. Now, I will tell you of my glorious defeat at the hands of a demonic scarecrow.
Yes, defeat. I obviously wasn?t killed, now was I?
Yes. A demonic scarecrow.
Cynic. You swallowed the Bat-man, what?s so hard to believe about a scarecrow?
Oh, well, yes, I suppose demons wouldn?t. It was actually being directed, I believe, by a number of little? but I?m getting ahead of myself. On to the next fight!
Indeed, my friend. Couldn?t have put it better myself. I had just been healed, and was examining a number of lamentable tears in my clothing when my name was called again. It seemed that there would be less waiting between bouts, now that there were fewer of us.
What? Hadn?t I mentioned that yet? Well, the ranks had thinned out by that time ? there were barely half a dozen of us left. And a strange little group we were. I studied the others, telling myself it was to help my chances in the next round, but, truth to tell, I was trying to keep my mind off Jayk and Jyill? Anyway, there was a dark-skinned man (that was about all I could tell, he didn?t seem to be from any nation I know of) who was snapping his fingers and humming, tapping one bare foot. There was a young man, looked like a quick-witted sort, by which I mean he didn?t have any scars yet. There was a pair, a man and a woman. He was studying something in the palm of his had, I didn?t see what. I was trying not to look too closely: the woman was looking around with a? sort of hungry look on her face, and her eyes were a little too dark for my taste. And there was a? man? More like a walking corpse. There are stories about those, but I never thought I?d see one in the flesh, so to speak.
Well of course there was one more. The demonic scarecrow. No, I am not going to tell you about him. Not yet.
Yes, he was male; you?ve caught me out. Now will you let me get on with the story?
All in good time, man, all in good time. If you?d be so kind as to refill my glass? thank you. Where was I? Ah, yes, the announcer called my name, only moments after I had secured myself a glass of that strange misty wine they had there. This stuff?s better, bartender, don?t you worry, but there was something unearthly about the wine in purgatory. I had been intending to drink away any thoughts of my previous fight, but it seemed the fates were not going to let me go into another fight drunk?
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Mort stepped out onto bare, dusty dirt, warily turning from side to side, but there was no sign of an opponent. There were only enormous stone slabs, standing straight into the sky, lost in the distance above. Like an ancient parody of a modern city, they stood in rows like skyscrapers, so tall and numerous there was but a patch of sky overhead. All the light there was was reflected down from that great height, and it seemed as though the place would exist in perpetual twilight.
?Oi! There?s no-one ?ere!?
?What?re we gonna do now??
Gwyn was silent, absorbed in the memory of her sister. She sat listlessly, antennae drooping down onto Mort?s left hand, which he held out flat for her. Sensing somehow that she should be left alone, her brothers instead quarreled amongst themselves. She knew it was their way of dealing with it, that they needed Laea, needed someone, anyone, to tell them to stop, but she couldn?t summon the energy to take her sister?s place.
QUIET. Mort?s thought rang in their heads. The brothers fell silent.
And Gwyn thought, I wasn?t strong enough.
Mort turned around, moving to get a closer look at the nearest of the stone sentinels. It was carven in intricate patterns, with columns along its base, and there were waves. The carving was so lifelike it seemed an ocean had been trapped behind those stone pillars. And in the centre, facing the lone scarecrow, was a trident, fully thrice his height and gracefully curved, with three barbed points sticking up toward the heavens. And now they knew what to look for, they could see that all the towering skyscrapers were carven, in all manner of different designs.
Mort reached the scythe out and tapped the trident lightly. Joed was unimpressed. ?Well, not that this isn?t inter-? The frozen waves came alive for a moment, marble flowing like water, before the storm surge swept over the four, and they were thrown aside by the raging torrent.
Gwyn found herself flying out of reach of the sudden whitewater that thundered between the columns as Mort hurled her skyward. He didn?t need air, but the Fae did. Joed had already fled his post, but Doyle had been pressed to the back of the pumpkin by the first blast of cold foam and was silently choking there. Mort fought, but he was not made for swimming. The currents battered him, spun him, and he could do nothing. In desperation, he reached into his mouth and grabbed the poor bedraggled faerye, closing his fingers like a cage, and thrust his hand upward. Doyle was swept off by a wave, but managed to drag himself out of the water and into the air.
He buzzed anxiously above the wash, coughing up seawater, and followed the wooden man as the surge petered out over the huge distances.
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After stepping through the portal, I found myself standing on hard-packed, dry and cracked dirt, in a wide avenue between monstrous monuments.
I wouldn?t call them monoliths, there were far too many for that. Maybe polyliths. I wandered for a bit, hand on the hilt of my sword. It was a little unnerving. Then I saw something familiar. It was one of the stone pillars, carved with more of those strange figures, but these I recognised. I couldn?t quite put my finger on what it was that was so familiar, though, so I trotted around to another side. There I saw the candlestick, and it all came back to me.
It was a memory long forgotten, back from when I was still living in my father?s house, before I knew the word ?bastard? as any more than a casual insult. My nurse had read me poems and rhymes, sometimes, and I recalled one now of a child-god, who carried a candlestick across the sky. Can?t remember the words, now, but the image stuck in my mind: the Dawnbringer, who sings and dances his way around the world.
It became obvious to me, then, what these were. They were monuments, tributes to the fallen; those great beings of the past we read about in history books, who exist, now, only in folktales and nursery rhymes.
Well of course I had no trouble believing it! I?d just visited a mansion where otherworldly creatures were dancing tangos! I?d been living for it felt like a couple days in what I was assured was one of the afterlives. Be a good chap and let me continue the tale, yes?
Spoken like a gentleman, sir.
My reverie was interrupted as a little wave, not even a foot high, came around the corner and soaked my boots. Reasoning from the previous dusty state of the ground that small surges of seawater were unusual here, I decided that my opponent must lie in that direction. Holding my sword up out of the water, I made my way around, following the flow upstream.
I didn?t get very far, for just around the corner, a glitter of gold and green caught my eye, bobbing over the wash. I was loath to approach it, remembering tales of witch-lights and will-o-wisps that lead travelers astray, but I needn?t have worried. As it approached me, I made out first wings, then arms and legs, and finally a face, and all the while a voice, high-pitched and worried growing louder: ?I?ve lost ?em, I?ve lost ?em, I?ve lost ?em??
Suddenly aware of my existence, it came up short. ?Who?re you?? the little figure demanded, wary. I thought it best to make a good impression.
Well, of course I knew it wasn?t my opponent, I?d already seen him. I?ll describe him when it is to the best narrative advantage.
The little thing was buzzing around on those iridescent wings, so fast I had trouble following it with my eyes. I doffed my hat and bowed, being careful to keep my poor bent feather out of the water. ?before you stands Emanuel Cazinto, swordsman and storyteller.?
?I like stories! Got any good ones?? I was a bit thrown by its enthusiasm, especially as forced as it was.
?uh? who might you be??
??m called Gwyn! You seen my brothers and Mort?? she replied. For she had halted her hurried buzzing, and now I perceived that the little creature was a woman in miniature, albeit with antennae. Of course, at this point I became wary, for I recognised the name of my opponent, Mort.
?I am afraid I do not know the whereabouts of Mort, and your? brothers??
?Darn.? Then, with an effort, she brightened considerably, ?We can look for them together!?
I found myself quite taken with this young lady (for her manner spoke of very few seasons) and agreed that was a good idea. Perhaps she reminded me a bit of my sisters, when they were younger. Or Jyill.
I explained my reasoning for following upstream.
?I din?t think?a that! Yer smart!?
She alighted on my shoulder, and we set of to find Mort.
About whom, yes, I?ll tell you in a minute, impatient wretch that you are!
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Joed gazed up in wonder at the stone carving, all else forgotten. In particular, he inspected the war hammer that hung there. It was carved? interestingly, with many copies of different sizes, hammers within hammers within hammers, as if the sculptor had tried to express not only it?s shape, but some other property, like it was stronger than it looked, or weighed much more than it should have, or could change size.
Joed approached the smallest of the hammers, just the right size for his hand, and reached out to grab it. Maybe he was expecting it to come away in his hand, but any ideas at all were driven out of his head by the flash and crack-boom that followed it. Again and again the lightning struck, heating the air to uncomfortable temperatures, and pounding blackened patches into the ground.
The little red-and-green Faerye fled the thunderous tempest of light and sound, flying willy-nilly, and, when he could think clearly again, counted himself extraordinarily lucky not to have been hit. Although he didn?t think it in quite so many words. He also set about thinking up an excuse for when Laea inevitably demanded an explanation, before remembering that she was gone. It brought him up short.
So he sat on the ground, not crying. Definitely not crying. Only girls cry.
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And I had just finished recounting my acquisition of the red cape when we saw the flash of light in the middle distance, and heard the continuous roar of thunder. I set off at a run, sure that that was the right direction. Though the light and sound faded before we reached the place, we didn?t miss it. It would have been hard ? the ground was scorched all around one of the stones, to a length of about five paces, and as soon as we were within shouting distance Gwyn sped off with a joyful cry of ?Joed!?
When they had finished hugging, and looking embarrassed afterward, Joed recounted to his sister what had caused the lightning, and I heard how touching these stones was enough to ?Make things Happen?. I immediately reconsidered my plan to lean against one while catching my breath, and instead crouched on the blackened dirt.
At this point the scarecrow, Mort appeared, running in a jerky, stilt-legged style that really drew the attention.
Yes, I am going to tell you about him if you?ll JUST LET ME GET ON WITH IT!
Thank you. He was quite tall, taller even than me, but then I?m not sure if I should really be making comparisons between him and a human, even one so handsome as myself. He made an interesting impression, as if he had not been completely grown, but first constructed. Makes sense, I suppose, for a scarecrow. His spine was a sturdy stick of wood, his shoulders were a sturdy stick of wood, his arms and legs were sturdy sticks of wood, and his fingers and toes seemed also to be made of dead pieces of tree. His head was a pumpkin, carven like some all hallows eve decoration, except he had some pieces missing, apart from the obvious mouth and eyes, which were holes all the way through to the hollowed out interior. There was what I would describe as a scar over one eye, though I doubted it affected his sight, if he had any. His chest, visible between the front of the leather coat he wore, was a hessian bag, stuffed with, I assumed, straw. His legs were clad in some sturdy blue material, but that was all for clothing.
Oh, and he had a scythe, . It was made of a single piece wood, which seemed odd, but still looked sharp, and there were tiny little barbs and stings on its edge, like one finds on those terrible stinging plants. He handled it with an easy familiarity, the kind you don?t get just from lots of practice. Like it was part of him, or had been.
Of course, this being a tournament, as soon as he appeared I sprang up off the ground and drew my sword, coming to guard, both legs bent. I wasn?t going to charge in this time. Certainly since he had gathered the Faeryes to himself, and I had seen them flying. I really didn?t know what he could do, and I was remembering Drane.
As an aside, what was with this tournament? So far, I?d fought a religious-insane bat-man, a pair of rather strange and violent children, and now a walking scarecrow with a posse of flying insects. I knew there were humans in purgatory, I?d seen them! So why did I only come up against the supernatural, the freaks? It was bleeding unfair. All I had were my wits and a sword. And my knife, but I don?t use that often. And if you want to get picky, I also had the cape, but I had no intention of trying to use it as a weapon, I?m not a trained bull-taunter. Plus, I expected my opponents to be significantly more intelligent than bulls.
Where was I?
Oh, yes, Mort charged me, and I stood en guard, ready to lunge out when he came in range. And of course, he jumped up in that dramatic fashion so beloved of dim-witted warriors everywhere, scythe back, ready to strike me two-handed.
And he flew. He had no wings, no glow of power, yet he flew. I think it must have been the Faeryes, holding him up ? they were stronger than I had thought.
What? Oh, yes, he flew, but I had been cautious, and remembered Drane, and I simply raised my sword, lunged forward, and plunged it through his breast as he came down.
My sword went straight through the bag of straw and out the other side, pushing the weather beaten leather jacket out into a tent-shape. I thought I felt something other than straw in there, but I could have been mistaken. Withdrawing the sword, I dove under my opponent?s left arm, rolling back to my feet, unfortunately leaving my hat in the dust. I didn?t want to be too close to him. A scythe wont do much at close quarters, true, there?s no room to swing it, but you don?t really want to be inside the reach of something whose sharp edge is on the inside. Indeed, I needn?t have worried, the scarecrow?s leap had overbalanced him, and the scythe plowed a furrow in the dirt.
He turned to face me and moved again, slower this time, and swung again. I stepped back, letting the blade bury itself in the ground, and then stomped on the point where it joined the haft. A dirty trick, but it worked. There was a snap, and the haft peeled away. There was a flurry of conversation from the Fae. If you?ll give me a moment, I shall do my best to impersonate their rather unique voices.
?Oi! He broke my scythe?
?that?s not nice!?
? (there was a pause, then they resumed. From the context, I guess Mort was participating in the conversation, too, though how I am not aware.)
?it?s ok, Mort, we can still hit him with the stick-bit!?
?yeah. I heard somewhere that a quarter staff is really good ?gainst swords.?
?good! Lets do that then!?
I?ll give him this: Mort did know a little about using a quarterstaff. You hold it in both hands, like so, that way you can hit, or block, with either end.
I proceeded to stab Mort through the chest. Repeatedly.
See, the Fae were almost right. A quarterstaff is really good against broadswords, shortswords, the sort of thing Chosen was lugging around. But those swords are just clubs with a sharp bit, not like my rapier here. This is a totally different weapon. It?s fast, it?s agile, and it stabs rather than hacking. I can make it dodge, dance out of the way of a blocking move, disengage from a hold and go slicing into my enemy. It?s faster even than a quarterstaff.
Eventually, though, Mort realised I wasn?t rally hurting him, and stopped trying to block. He just swung willy nilly at me, first one end, then the other, then back to the first, and I was hard-pressed to block them all. I didn?t, really. Received a couple blows to the shoulders, one to the side.
And I was backing up. Every now and then I?d have to dance backwards to avoid a blow, and Mort just kept coming. I knew it couldn?t last, that I needed to move in a different direction, but before I had an opening, my back hit stone.
Yeah. Something happened, but I was facing away. Mort, though, could see it, and he dove sideways.
So did I. When your opponent looks over your shoulder and dives to the side, you dive the same way. No wasting time looking over your shoulder. So I dove, and the Chariot went crashing past.
It was hard to see, shining bright as it was. Must have been some sort of sun god, I swear every second one of those has a chariot. Pretty typical, too: lots of gold, silver, and all of it shining with an inner light. The horses were impressive, too: a pair of the most physically perfect palominos you?ll never see.
Of course, the sun doesn?t really have to turn all that often, so the horses were quite unprepared to appear facing a rock wall. They thundered across the gap, and then some instinct told them to turn aside at the last minute. There was a crunch, and the chariot lost a wheel. The horses halted after dragging a groove in the dust, just as a huge fiend of tentacles erupted from the marble behind them.
You have to wonder about the kind of culture that can worship a fiend like that, even if only ephemerally. The next few seconds were rather unpleasant, and hectic, and it would be pointless to even try to describe them, so I will simply?
I told you, it would be pointless.
No, I will not be drawn into it.
Not even, and this is unusual for me, not even for another glass of that fine wine. Suffice to say, in a few moments Mort and I had each secured one of the horses, that seeming to be the most productive means of removing ourselves from the presence of the terrible horror. Mort was on my right, and we began to fight, trading stroke and counterstroke, sometimes bumping each other with the horses. All while riding at high speed (the divine equines seemed to know no other speed) down an avenue.
I was riding with my left hand on the reins, Mort being on my right, but I was curious how a scarecrow managed to ride a horse, so I looked over. His long legs were wrapped full way around the beast?s girth, his feet interlocked as one does sometimes in wrestling. He wasn?t touching the reins though - a glance at the horse?s head revealed that one of the Fae, a little orange-and-blue fellow, was sitting between it?s ears, and there was a hint of colour around its eyes, as if they were using magic on it. That would fit with current theology regarding the Fae, anyway.
At this point I decided that we were getting nowhere, and slashed, not at Mort, but at his horse?s head. Not that it did much. Must have been some sort of divine protection around them, because all that happened was a glowing slash of light appeared over one eye.
Or so I thought. A moment later, both horses dissolved in ablaze of light. I retained enough presence of mind to land running, and only stumbled a bit, but Mort, feet still interlocked, fell head-over-heels, dropping the staff.
Up until now I?d been having trouble with my attacks having any actual effect. I would stab him in the chest, standard target for fencing, again and again, and he would just keep going. This time I decided to try something a little unconventional.
As the scarecrow hauled himself to his feet, I struck. One slash to the back, and he turned around. Then I stabbed him, not through the chest, but through the wide, grinning hole of a mouth, and out the back of the pumpkin. There was a squeak from inside, I assume from whichever Fae was in there, and I threw my whole weight into it, and Mort went over backwards. The sword plunged into the ground, and he was stuck. I drew my dagger, and proceeded to cut his head off. My knife had very little effect on what passed for his neck, made as it was of woo, so instead I cut around the join, easily going through the pumpkin flesh, until the whole thing popped off, and the body went still.
I stood up, flushed with exertion and adrenaline. I had done it. Surely not even such as Mort could survive without a head?
Yeah, I know, I was pretty stupid. I did say I was defeated this time.
Anyway, about the time I was wondering why the pearly circle hadn?t opened, the Fae got their act together, and I was hit in the face by a pair of flying demons. One, in green and Red, who I recognised as Joed, had a liver of wood, which maybe would have made a decent tent peg, but in his hands was a spear.
Have you ever tried fighting a pair of rabid weasels? It?s really hard. You can?t catch them, they don?t stay still long enough to be hit. Fighting the Fae was like that, except they were intelligent, and could fly.
Yeah. They were all over me.
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Gwyn was distraught. Mort was dead! First Laea, now the scarecrow. How many of her loved ones was this tournament going to take? And that Emanuel Cazinto. He seemed really nice when she was talking to him, but as soon as he saw Mort the conversation had dried up, and it had been all swords since. Still, there was a little she could do for Mort.
She dragged the sword out of the ground, out of the scarecrow?s head, and flung it away.
Its flight caught the eye of Joed, who grinned maliciously.
Oblivious to her brothers? actions, Gwyn was surprised to have a dark tendril creep its way into her mind. She had to strain, but there were words there.
thank you, Gwyn. Now if you could please bring me my body?
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I tell you, when Joed went and got that sword, it was a godsend. He could carry it alright, but he just didn?t have the ability to hold it horizontal. He was reduced to holding it above me and dropping down. Much easier to dodge, especially after I caught his brother with the hand that wasn?t holding my knife. For a moment, I thought I had a chance.
Then I tripped over the quarterstaff, and sprawled on my back in the dust, letting go of the Fae. I looked up to see Joed dropping down, and I closed my eyes.
Then I felt a distinct lack of cold steel piercing my skin, sliding between my ribs, and skewering some interesting important bits of anatomy.
Yes, you heard me right. A distinct lack of death.
I opened my eyes, and saw Mort standing over me, head reattached. He had caught the sword.
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WE HAVE NOT YET KILLED. NOR WILL WE
That kind of thought enters the head like an obsidian monument, and brooks no argument.
?so what do we do now??
?We can?t leave him, we gotta finish the match!?
I WILL RENDER HIM UNCONCIOUS
Mort made a fist, but Emanuel saw the movement and spoke. ?wait, wait. You don?t have to kill me. I just have to surrender. I was kinda roped into this anyway. Not really my cup of tea, you know? Much prefer to fight stupid young nobles, rather than supernatural bugger like yourself.?
SURRENDER? I? WAS NOT AWARE SUCH WAS POSSIBLE
Cazinto?s eyes glazed for a moment, registering the thick black sludge in his head. ?really? Standard practice really, I just have to say, ?I surr-?
?Mista Cazinto!? Gwyn interrupted, buzzing in at high speed. ?you can?t go without this!? and she brandished the now bent and battered hat, with its not-so-very-jaunty-anymore feather. ?Joed, give him back his sword! You got yer knife??
?uh.. yes, thank you young lady.?
?uh, good?? and she blushed, quite a feat for one who?s physiology has more in common with insects than mammals ??was nice meeting you?
Cazinto smiled in spite of himself. ?the pleasure was all mine.? Then he looked out at the battlefield, intending to say something dramatic, something memorable. It was strange, for a storyteller such as himself, to think of what happened next: he couldn?t think of anything. smiling wryly, he replaced his hat, set it at its customary angle, and spoke those last, important words: ?I surrender.?
And the glow surrounded them all, whisking them away. Eventually, time would reduce the broken chariot to dust, the tentacled monster would die of hunger and cease to be, and the water would soak into the dirt, which would then become dry and cracked again. Those tower-tombs that had been depleted of divine energy would begin to recharge.
And who knows, perhaps a certain swordsman-storyteller would remember a certain nursery rhyme, and a certain old god would live again.
It?s getting rather late, now, isn?t it? Ah well, it?s just as well, for my story is almost finished. Now, I will tell you of my glorious defeat at the hands of a demonic scarecrow.
Yes, defeat. I obviously wasn?t killed, now was I?
Yes. A demonic scarecrow.
Cynic. You swallowed the Bat-man, what?s so hard to believe about a scarecrow?
Oh, well, yes, I suppose demons wouldn?t. It was actually being directed, I believe, by a number of little? but I?m getting ahead of myself. On to the next fight!
Indeed, my friend. Couldn?t have put it better myself. I had just been healed, and was examining a number of lamentable tears in my clothing when my name was called again. It seemed that there would be less waiting between bouts, now that there were fewer of us.
What? Hadn?t I mentioned that yet? Well, the ranks had thinned out by that time ? there were barely half a dozen of us left. And a strange little group we were. I studied the others, telling myself it was to help my chances in the next round, but, truth to tell, I was trying to keep my mind off Jayk and Jyill? Anyway, there was a dark-skinned man (that was about all I could tell, he didn?t seem to be from any nation I know of) who was snapping his fingers and humming, tapping one bare foot. There was a young man, looked like a quick-witted sort, by which I mean he didn?t have any scars yet. There was a pair, a man and a woman. He was studying something in the palm of his had, I didn?t see what. I was trying not to look too closely: the woman was looking around with a? sort of hungry look on her face, and her eyes were a little too dark for my taste. And there was a? man? More like a walking corpse. There are stories about those, but I never thought I?d see one in the flesh, so to speak.
Well of course there was one more. The demonic scarecrow. No, I am not going to tell you about him. Not yet.
Yes, he was male; you?ve caught me out. Now will you let me get on with the story?
All in good time, man, all in good time. If you?d be so kind as to refill my glass? thank you. Where was I? Ah, yes, the announcer called my name, only moments after I had secured myself a glass of that strange misty wine they had there. This stuff?s better, bartender, don?t you worry, but there was something unearthly about the wine in purgatory. I had been intending to drink away any thoughts of my previous fight, but it seemed the fates were not going to let me go into another fight drunk?
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Mort stepped out onto bare, dusty dirt, warily turning from side to side, but there was no sign of an opponent. There were only enormous stone slabs, standing straight into the sky, lost in the distance above. Like an ancient parody of a modern city, they stood in rows like skyscrapers, so tall and numerous there was but a patch of sky overhead. All the light there was was reflected down from that great height, and it seemed as though the place would exist in perpetual twilight.
?Oi! There?s no-one ?ere!?
?What?re we gonna do now??
Gwyn was silent, absorbed in the memory of her sister. She sat listlessly, antennae drooping down onto Mort?s left hand, which he held out flat for her. Sensing somehow that she should be left alone, her brothers instead quarreled amongst themselves. She knew it was their way of dealing with it, that they needed Laea, needed someone, anyone, to tell them to stop, but she couldn?t summon the energy to take her sister?s place.
QUIET. Mort?s thought rang in their heads. The brothers fell silent.
And Gwyn thought, I wasn?t strong enough.
Mort turned around, moving to get a closer look at the nearest of the stone sentinels. It was carven in intricate patterns, with columns along its base, and there were waves. The carving was so lifelike it seemed an ocean had been trapped behind those stone pillars. And in the centre, facing the lone scarecrow, was a trident, fully thrice his height and gracefully curved, with three barbed points sticking up toward the heavens. And now they knew what to look for, they could see that all the towering skyscrapers were carven, in all manner of different designs.
Mort reached the scythe out and tapped the trident lightly. Joed was unimpressed. ?Well, not that this isn?t inter-? The frozen waves came alive for a moment, marble flowing like water, before the storm surge swept over the four, and they were thrown aside by the raging torrent.
Gwyn found herself flying out of reach of the sudden whitewater that thundered between the columns as Mort hurled her skyward. He didn?t need air, but the Fae did. Joed had already fled his post, but Doyle had been pressed to the back of the pumpkin by the first blast of cold foam and was silently choking there. Mort fought, but he was not made for swimming. The currents battered him, spun him, and he could do nothing. In desperation, he reached into his mouth and grabbed the poor bedraggled faerye, closing his fingers like a cage, and thrust his hand upward. Doyle was swept off by a wave, but managed to drag himself out of the water and into the air.
He buzzed anxiously above the wash, coughing up seawater, and followed the wooden man as the surge petered out over the huge distances.
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After stepping through the portal, I found myself standing on hard-packed, dry and cracked dirt, in a wide avenue between monstrous monuments.
I wouldn?t call them monoliths, there were far too many for that. Maybe polyliths. I wandered for a bit, hand on the hilt of my sword. It was a little unnerving. Then I saw something familiar. It was one of the stone pillars, carved with more of those strange figures, but these I recognised. I couldn?t quite put my finger on what it was that was so familiar, though, so I trotted around to another side. There I saw the candlestick, and it all came back to me.
It was a memory long forgotten, back from when I was still living in my father?s house, before I knew the word ?bastard? as any more than a casual insult. My nurse had read me poems and rhymes, sometimes, and I recalled one now of a child-god, who carried a candlestick across the sky. Can?t remember the words, now, but the image stuck in my mind: the Dawnbringer, who sings and dances his way around the world.
It became obvious to me, then, what these were. They were monuments, tributes to the fallen; those great beings of the past we read about in history books, who exist, now, only in folktales and nursery rhymes.
Well of course I had no trouble believing it! I?d just visited a mansion where otherworldly creatures were dancing tangos! I?d been living for it felt like a couple days in what I was assured was one of the afterlives. Be a good chap and let me continue the tale, yes?
Spoken like a gentleman, sir.
My reverie was interrupted as a little wave, not even a foot high, came around the corner and soaked my boots. Reasoning from the previous dusty state of the ground that small surges of seawater were unusual here, I decided that my opponent must lie in that direction. Holding my sword up out of the water, I made my way around, following the flow upstream.
I didn?t get very far, for just around the corner, a glitter of gold and green caught my eye, bobbing over the wash. I was loath to approach it, remembering tales of witch-lights and will-o-wisps that lead travelers astray, but I needn?t have worried. As it approached me, I made out first wings, then arms and legs, and finally a face, and all the while a voice, high-pitched and worried growing louder: ?I?ve lost ?em, I?ve lost ?em, I?ve lost ?em??
Suddenly aware of my existence, it came up short. ?Who?re you?? the little figure demanded, wary. I thought it best to make a good impression.
Well, of course I knew it wasn?t my opponent, I?d already seen him. I?ll describe him when it is to the best narrative advantage.
The little thing was buzzing around on those iridescent wings, so fast I had trouble following it with my eyes. I doffed my hat and bowed, being careful to keep my poor bent feather out of the water. ?before you stands Emanuel Cazinto, swordsman and storyteller.?
?I like stories! Got any good ones?? I was a bit thrown by its enthusiasm, especially as forced as it was.
?uh? who might you be??
??m called Gwyn! You seen my brothers and Mort?? she replied. For she had halted her hurried buzzing, and now I perceived that the little creature was a woman in miniature, albeit with antennae. Of course, at this point I became wary, for I recognised the name of my opponent, Mort.
?I am afraid I do not know the whereabouts of Mort, and your? brothers??
?Darn.? Then, with an effort, she brightened considerably, ?We can look for them together!?
I found myself quite taken with this young lady (for her manner spoke of very few seasons) and agreed that was a good idea. Perhaps she reminded me a bit of my sisters, when they were younger. Or Jyill.
I explained my reasoning for following upstream.
?I din?t think?a that! Yer smart!?
She alighted on my shoulder, and we set of to find Mort.
About whom, yes, I?ll tell you in a minute, impatient wretch that you are!
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Joed gazed up in wonder at the stone carving, all else forgotten. In particular, he inspected the war hammer that hung there. It was carved? interestingly, with many copies of different sizes, hammers within hammers within hammers, as if the sculptor had tried to express not only it?s shape, but some other property, like it was stronger than it looked, or weighed much more than it should have, or could change size.
Joed approached the smallest of the hammers, just the right size for his hand, and reached out to grab it. Maybe he was expecting it to come away in his hand, but any ideas at all were driven out of his head by the flash and crack-boom that followed it. Again and again the lightning struck, heating the air to uncomfortable temperatures, and pounding blackened patches into the ground.
The little red-and-green Faerye fled the thunderous tempest of light and sound, flying willy-nilly, and, when he could think clearly again, counted himself extraordinarily lucky not to have been hit. Although he didn?t think it in quite so many words. He also set about thinking up an excuse for when Laea inevitably demanded an explanation, before remembering that she was gone. It brought him up short.
So he sat on the ground, not crying. Definitely not crying. Only girls cry.
WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW
And I had just finished recounting my acquisition of the red cape when we saw the flash of light in the middle distance, and heard the continuous roar of thunder. I set off at a run, sure that that was the right direction. Though the light and sound faded before we reached the place, we didn?t miss it. It would have been hard ? the ground was scorched all around one of the stones, to a length of about five paces, and as soon as we were within shouting distance Gwyn sped off with a joyful cry of ?Joed!?
When they had finished hugging, and looking embarrassed afterward, Joed recounted to his sister what had caused the lightning, and I heard how touching these stones was enough to ?Make things Happen?. I immediately reconsidered my plan to lean against one while catching my breath, and instead crouched on the blackened dirt.
At this point the scarecrow, Mort appeared, running in a jerky, stilt-legged style that really drew the attention.
Yes, I am going to tell you about him if you?ll JUST LET ME GET ON WITH IT!
Thank you. He was quite tall, taller even than me, but then I?m not sure if I should really be making comparisons between him and a human, even one so handsome as myself. He made an interesting impression, as if he had not been completely grown, but first constructed. Makes sense, I suppose, for a scarecrow. His spine was a sturdy stick of wood, his shoulders were a sturdy stick of wood, his arms and legs were sturdy sticks of wood, and his fingers and toes seemed also to be made of dead pieces of tree. His head was a pumpkin, carven like some all hallows eve decoration, except he had some pieces missing, apart from the obvious mouth and eyes, which were holes all the way through to the hollowed out interior. There was what I would describe as a scar over one eye, though I doubted it affected his sight, if he had any. His chest, visible between the front of the leather coat he wore, was a hessian bag, stuffed with, I assumed, straw. His legs were clad in some sturdy blue material, but that was all for clothing.
Oh, and he had a scythe, . It was made of a single piece wood, which seemed odd, but still looked sharp, and there were tiny little barbs and stings on its edge, like one finds on those terrible stinging plants. He handled it with an easy familiarity, the kind you don?t get just from lots of practice. Like it was part of him, or had been.
Of course, this being a tournament, as soon as he appeared I sprang up off the ground and drew my sword, coming to guard, both legs bent. I wasn?t going to charge in this time. Certainly since he had gathered the Faeryes to himself, and I had seen them flying. I really didn?t know what he could do, and I was remembering Drane.
As an aside, what was with this tournament? So far, I?d fought a religious-insane bat-man, a pair of rather strange and violent children, and now a walking scarecrow with a posse of flying insects. I knew there were humans in purgatory, I?d seen them! So why did I only come up against the supernatural, the freaks? It was bleeding unfair. All I had were my wits and a sword. And my knife, but I don?t use that often. And if you want to get picky, I also had the cape, but I had no intention of trying to use it as a weapon, I?m not a trained bull-taunter. Plus, I expected my opponents to be significantly more intelligent than bulls.
Where was I?
Oh, yes, Mort charged me, and I stood en guard, ready to lunge out when he came in range. And of course, he jumped up in that dramatic fashion so beloved of dim-witted warriors everywhere, scythe back, ready to strike me two-handed.
And he flew. He had no wings, no glow of power, yet he flew. I think it must have been the Faeryes, holding him up ? they were stronger than I had thought.
What? Oh, yes, he flew, but I had been cautious, and remembered Drane, and I simply raised my sword, lunged forward, and plunged it through his breast as he came down.
My sword went straight through the bag of straw and out the other side, pushing the weather beaten leather jacket out into a tent-shape. I thought I felt something other than straw in there, but I could have been mistaken. Withdrawing the sword, I dove under my opponent?s left arm, rolling back to my feet, unfortunately leaving my hat in the dust. I didn?t want to be too close to him. A scythe wont do much at close quarters, true, there?s no room to swing it, but you don?t really want to be inside the reach of something whose sharp edge is on the inside. Indeed, I needn?t have worried, the scarecrow?s leap had overbalanced him, and the scythe plowed a furrow in the dirt.
He turned to face me and moved again, slower this time, and swung again. I stepped back, letting the blade bury itself in the ground, and then stomped on the point where it joined the haft. A dirty trick, but it worked. There was a snap, and the haft peeled away. There was a flurry of conversation from the Fae. If you?ll give me a moment, I shall do my best to impersonate their rather unique voices.
?Oi! He broke my scythe?
?that?s not nice!?
? (there was a pause, then they resumed. From the context, I guess Mort was participating in the conversation, too, though how I am not aware.)
?it?s ok, Mort, we can still hit him with the stick-bit!?
?yeah. I heard somewhere that a quarter staff is really good ?gainst swords.?
?good! Lets do that then!?
I?ll give him this: Mort did know a little about using a quarterstaff. You hold it in both hands, like so, that way you can hit, or block, with either end.
I proceeded to stab Mort through the chest. Repeatedly.
See, the Fae were almost right. A quarterstaff is really good against broadswords, shortswords, the sort of thing Chosen was lugging around. But those swords are just clubs with a sharp bit, not like my rapier here. This is a totally different weapon. It?s fast, it?s agile, and it stabs rather than hacking. I can make it dodge, dance out of the way of a blocking move, disengage from a hold and go slicing into my enemy. It?s faster even than a quarterstaff.
Eventually, though, Mort realised I wasn?t rally hurting him, and stopped trying to block. He just swung willy nilly at me, first one end, then the other, then back to the first, and I was hard-pressed to block them all. I didn?t, really. Received a couple blows to the shoulders, one to the side.
And I was backing up. Every now and then I?d have to dance backwards to avoid a blow, and Mort just kept coming. I knew it couldn?t last, that I needed to move in a different direction, but before I had an opening, my back hit stone.
Yeah. Something happened, but I was facing away. Mort, though, could see it, and he dove sideways.
So did I. When your opponent looks over your shoulder and dives to the side, you dive the same way. No wasting time looking over your shoulder. So I dove, and the Chariot went crashing past.
It was hard to see, shining bright as it was. Must have been some sort of sun god, I swear every second one of those has a chariot. Pretty typical, too: lots of gold, silver, and all of it shining with an inner light. The horses were impressive, too: a pair of the most physically perfect palominos you?ll never see.
Of course, the sun doesn?t really have to turn all that often, so the horses were quite unprepared to appear facing a rock wall. They thundered across the gap, and then some instinct told them to turn aside at the last minute. There was a crunch, and the chariot lost a wheel. The horses halted after dragging a groove in the dust, just as a huge fiend of tentacles erupted from the marble behind them.
You have to wonder about the kind of culture that can worship a fiend like that, even if only ephemerally. The next few seconds were rather unpleasant, and hectic, and it would be pointless to even try to describe them, so I will simply?
I told you, it would be pointless.
No, I will not be drawn into it.
Not even, and this is unusual for me, not even for another glass of that fine wine. Suffice to say, in a few moments Mort and I had each secured one of the horses, that seeming to be the most productive means of removing ourselves from the presence of the terrible horror. Mort was on my right, and we began to fight, trading stroke and counterstroke, sometimes bumping each other with the horses. All while riding at high speed (the divine equines seemed to know no other speed) down an avenue.
I was riding with my left hand on the reins, Mort being on my right, but I was curious how a scarecrow managed to ride a horse, so I looked over. His long legs were wrapped full way around the beast?s girth, his feet interlocked as one does sometimes in wrestling. He wasn?t touching the reins though - a glance at the horse?s head revealed that one of the Fae, a little orange-and-blue fellow, was sitting between it?s ears, and there was a hint of colour around its eyes, as if they were using magic on it. That would fit with current theology regarding the Fae, anyway.
At this point I decided that we were getting nowhere, and slashed, not at Mort, but at his horse?s head. Not that it did much. Must have been some sort of divine protection around them, because all that happened was a glowing slash of light appeared over one eye.
Or so I thought. A moment later, both horses dissolved in ablaze of light. I retained enough presence of mind to land running, and only stumbled a bit, but Mort, feet still interlocked, fell head-over-heels, dropping the staff.
Up until now I?d been having trouble with my attacks having any actual effect. I would stab him in the chest, standard target for fencing, again and again, and he would just keep going. This time I decided to try something a little unconventional.
As the scarecrow hauled himself to his feet, I struck. One slash to the back, and he turned around. Then I stabbed him, not through the chest, but through the wide, grinning hole of a mouth, and out the back of the pumpkin. There was a squeak from inside, I assume from whichever Fae was in there, and I threw my whole weight into it, and Mort went over backwards. The sword plunged into the ground, and he was stuck. I drew my dagger, and proceeded to cut his head off. My knife had very little effect on what passed for his neck, made as it was of woo, so instead I cut around the join, easily going through the pumpkin flesh, until the whole thing popped off, and the body went still.
I stood up, flushed with exertion and adrenaline. I had done it. Surely not even such as Mort could survive without a head?
Yeah, I know, I was pretty stupid. I did say I was defeated this time.
Anyway, about the time I was wondering why the pearly circle hadn?t opened, the Fae got their act together, and I was hit in the face by a pair of flying demons. One, in green and Red, who I recognised as Joed, had a liver of wood, which maybe would have made a decent tent peg, but in his hands was a spear.
Have you ever tried fighting a pair of rabid weasels? It?s really hard. You can?t catch them, they don?t stay still long enough to be hit. Fighting the Fae was like that, except they were intelligent, and could fly.
Yeah. They were all over me.
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Gwyn was distraught. Mort was dead! First Laea, now the scarecrow. How many of her loved ones was this tournament going to take? And that Emanuel Cazinto. He seemed really nice when she was talking to him, but as soon as he saw Mort the conversation had dried up, and it had been all swords since. Still, there was a little she could do for Mort.
She dragged the sword out of the ground, out of the scarecrow?s head, and flung it away.
Its flight caught the eye of Joed, who grinned maliciously.
Oblivious to her brothers? actions, Gwyn was surprised to have a dark tendril creep its way into her mind. She had to strain, but there were words there.
thank you, Gwyn. Now if you could please bring me my body?
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I tell you, when Joed went and got that sword, it was a godsend. He could carry it alright, but he just didn?t have the ability to hold it horizontal. He was reduced to holding it above me and dropping down. Much easier to dodge, especially after I caught his brother with the hand that wasn?t holding my knife. For a moment, I thought I had a chance.
Then I tripped over the quarterstaff, and sprawled on my back in the dust, letting go of the Fae. I looked up to see Joed dropping down, and I closed my eyes.
Then I felt a distinct lack of cold steel piercing my skin, sliding between my ribs, and skewering some interesting important bits of anatomy.
Yes, you heard me right. A distinct lack of death.
I opened my eyes, and saw Mort standing over me, head reattached. He had caught the sword.
WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW
WE HAVE NOT YET KILLED. NOR WILL WE
That kind of thought enters the head like an obsidian monument, and brooks no argument.
?so what do we do now??
?We can?t leave him, we gotta finish the match!?
I WILL RENDER HIM UNCONCIOUS
Mort made a fist, but Emanuel saw the movement and spoke. ?wait, wait. You don?t have to kill me. I just have to surrender. I was kinda roped into this anyway. Not really my cup of tea, you know? Much prefer to fight stupid young nobles, rather than supernatural bugger like yourself.?
SURRENDER? I? WAS NOT AWARE SUCH WAS POSSIBLE
Cazinto?s eyes glazed for a moment, registering the thick black sludge in his head. ?really? Standard practice really, I just have to say, ?I surr-?
?Mista Cazinto!? Gwyn interrupted, buzzing in at high speed. ?you can?t go without this!? and she brandished the now bent and battered hat, with its not-so-very-jaunty-anymore feather. ?Joed, give him back his sword! You got yer knife??
?uh.. yes, thank you young lady.?
?uh, good?? and she blushed, quite a feat for one who?s physiology has more in common with insects than mammals ??was nice meeting you?
Cazinto smiled in spite of himself. ?the pleasure was all mine.? Then he looked out at the battlefield, intending to say something dramatic, something memorable. It was strange, for a storyteller such as himself, to think of what happened next: he couldn?t think of anything. smiling wryly, he replaced his hat, set it at its customary angle, and spoke those last, important words: ?I surrender.?
And the glow surrounded them all, whisking them away. Eventually, time would reduce the broken chariot to dust, the tentacled monster would die of hunger and cease to be, and the water would soak into the dirt, which would then become dry and cracked again. Those tower-tombs that had been depleted of divine energy would begin to recharge.
And who knows, perhaps a certain swordsman-storyteller would remember a certain nursery rhyme, and a certain old god would live again.
Call it a failure of creativity on my part, but I can't figure out a proper way to defeat Athena and Axle without killing them, and I'm not going to rickroll my way to victory. (Seriously, dude, what the fuck? You take my DJ out with that?! I should come to your house and kick you in the nuts for that.*)
So I guess Krunk's curse continues because I can't submit the story I wanted to write, and I can't write the story under the rules for the round. I know Krunk had the same limitations, and if he could get over them and I couldn't he deserves to win.
*Joking of course. I only kick guys in the nuts if they ask very politely and call me "Mistress."
So I guess Krunk's curse continues because I can't submit the story I wanted to write, and I can't write the story under the rules for the round. I know Krunk had the same limitations, and if he could get over them and I couldn't he deserves to win.
*Joking of course. I only kick guys in the nuts if they ask very politely and call me "Mistress."
I am awfully sorry for that. I know it was terrible, and I knew so when I wrote it. But like you, due to the limitation, I was out of ideas.mshcherbatskaya said:
If I were able to kill The DJ and vice-versa, it would have turned out much differently.
The irony being that I've defeated every other opponent without destroying them, and the one opponent I would have to destroy to defeat, I'm not allowed to do it.Lord Krunk said:
Oh well, it was fun while it lasted.
EDIT: 1AM in the morning, I have to work, and finally I figure out how I could make it work. Of course I can't write it up now. If I'm too late and get disqualified, that's perfectly fair, but I'll give it a shot until them.
I really think you're capable of it, seriously, I can see plenty of ways for you to succeed. I also thought the DJ was made for this kind of limitation.mshcherbatskaya said:
I find it even more ironic that, while I didn't kill The DJ, I murdered him instead.
If it's okay, Sorrow, can you give msh an extension? I'm fine with it, and although I know I'm securing my own loss, I really want to see Msh's own rendition.
Just so long as everyone's okay with it.
I know that if this happens, I'll have to wait to see the result in 3 weeks, but I'm pretty sure I know who will win anyway.
Zemalac said:
... and then the author directing the scarecrow just contorted and kicked itself in the arse.
damned if that wasn't fun to read.
honestly, half the fun of these is seeing different people's styles of writing, and their interpretations of the battlefields.
the other half being, of course, the feel of your blade going through your opponent's body, though i think i will probably be missing out on that pleasure this round...
i would tip my Pumpkin-head to you, but you appear to have cut it in half.
Yeah...I couldn't think of any way to defeat Mort that didn't involve destroying him. Surrender seems like a cop-out to me, and I'm disappointed that I had to use it with the Fae.rogueshadows said:
Your effort was pretty good, though. I liked all the different gods in their tombs, the flood and the warhammer, and I really liked how you wove Cazinto's style of narration in with your own. That was cool.
Krunk, is it OK if I mess with your characters but leave a trapdoor that would allow you to still play them?Lord Krunk said:
Well, I'm off.
I'll be going on holidays tomorrow, and so it is regretful that I will be unable to view this thread for 3 weeks. In which time msh will have posted her entry and the winner will be decided, but I can wait. After all, I do have this thread bookmarked for a reason.
See you guys, I'll be back with a vengeance. That is, unless I'm disqualified.
I'll be going on holidays tomorrow, and so it is regretful that I will be unable to view this thread for 3 weeks. In which time msh will have posted her entry and the winner will be decided, but I can wait. After all, I do have this thread bookmarked for a reason.
See you guys, I'll be back with a vengeance. That is, unless I'm disqualified.
Finals time already? I'm honestly surprised by how quickly the RW is moving, it's only taken from July to now to get through almost the entire contest.
...
So... how's everything been?
Sargent Toughie? I got beaten in the first round because I didn't put enough thought into my character and ended up honestly not caring what happened to him...everybody said:
somebody in the crowd said:
That's not even physically possible, napalm is a sort of... ooze, right?entire mob said:
...
So... how's everything been?
yeah... that's probably more a problem with the character than with your writing - it's going to be really hard to actually kill mort, short of burning him to ash. the celestial arbiters will probabbly accept complete dismemberment, though... which works out well here, because if you win, and i get the free spot in the semis (not likely, but hope springs eternal) then i can just have mort pull himself together. literally.Zemalac said:
I'm working on the story, I swear. Do you want me to post the first half or just wait until I finish it all?
Axle sat on the ground, cloak pulled across his nose and mouth against the smoke, watching her. She wasn't really the Great Shadow any more, or Lady Athena, she was just Her. She stood watching the fire, a silhouette against the flames. This part of the city had been evacuated and She was hungry. She was always hungry, and she was always bitching about it. She didn't talk about anything else, really. What she wanted to eat, what she was going to eat, how she was going to eat it, how hard it was to have a living thing in front of her and not eat it, that and a constant stream of puns. He didn't really listen to it any more, which was okay because she wasn't really talking to him anyway, not to Axle. She was talking to him the way people talked to dogs. He was her guard dog, he knew that. She ate dogs, she told him once, when she got hungry enough. He'd probably let her do it too, because he loved her. He loved her like a dog loves its master. Or mistress, as the case may be.
The radio in his pocket rotated through snippets of tunes and conversation as though someone was flipping through stations looking for something good.
"Turn that thing off!" she snapped. She got irritable when she was hungry, and she was always hungry. He pushed what he thought might be the power button, but it did nothing.
Suddenly she turned and froze, as though she heard something. "Oh ho," she chuckled to herself. "I wonder if they knew what he really was when they signed him up for this tournament.
---------------------------------
I gotta wonder, did they know what they had sneakin' into th' tournament? Maybe, but I don' think so. She so diminish' even I hardly reco'nize her. That what come a'us bindin' ourselfs to th' tiny life a'th'human bein'. It temptin', t'live so fast an' so hard. It like puttin' y'thumb over a hose, creatin' force outta th'constriction. But it still constriction.
Wha'd' I mean, "us bindin' ourselfs to th' tiny life a'th'human race?" I know y'di'nt think I was human. Bein' what you may a'guessed I am, y'wonder why I gotta come t'heaven by way of a contest. Y'knew I was comin' t'free those I met in the passage of it, but I tell ya now, I could be doin' that regardless, as I think y'know. But there two here, two here amongst t'flames, that I come for. One a music been shattered, th'other a broken silence. And, no, I ain't talkin' 'bout the man sittin' in the shadow a'that Shadow. I intend t'free him too, if I can, but firs' things firs'. I gotta sing into th'silence and restore a orchestra been gut-shot an'throat-cut 'til it only jangle an' crash in th' vacuum. That ain't gonna be a easy tune.
An' y'know, fights wi' family are always th'worst.
--------------------------------
"Come on out!" she yelled into red-lined shadows. "You can't hide from me!" Axle could just barely make out the form of a man, dark against the darkness.
"Ain't hidin'," he said, "an' ain't hurryin'either."
"What are you waiting for then?"
"Jus' observin'. I never thought t'see ya so small, auntie."
Auntie?
Her lips curled in a scornful smile. "Don't underestimate me. You won't the first of us I've come across. He he thought his armor would protect him, but he was wrong."
"It a good thing I'm not wearin' armor then, yeah?" he replied lightly, cocking an eyebrow. Then his tone turned somber. "Nor bound inta flesh 'til I got no sight t'myself 'cept through th'pinhole a'human consciousness, a torn an' tangled one at that. Not like him, not like you neither." He smiled again as her eyes narrowed, but there was no triumph or challege in that smile, just a sad affection. "Nah, I remember better'n you th' greatness o' your true nature." Her smile turned into a scowl as he went on, his voice soft and soothing yet perfectly audible over the roar of the flames, coaxing her to--what?
"What ya doin' here auntie? There a whole city dyin' roun' you, you could be lickin' up the flames as it burn. You could be drinkin' the last light a'dyin' stars, ev'ry graveyard an' battlefield a feast, but instead you here lickin' th' spoons. No wonder you so hungry. How you ever gonna get full, auntie, when ya eatin' wit' so small a'mouth?"
Auntie?
"I'll be feasting soon enough, and all heaven will be my banquet table!"
"Even you," she said.
"Even me," he acknowledged. "In th'end, but this ain't th'end yet."
"Oh, I beg to differ."
She flew at him and caught him in an embrace, clamping her mouth over his lips so fiercely not even a lick of smoky darkness escaped. They stood, bodies pressed together like reunited lovers, until she released him and he fell to the ground limp as an an empty suit.
"Damn him!" she screamed. "Damn him, damn him, damn him!"
----------------------------------
Ya di'n't really think it was gonna be that easy, did ya?
The radio in his pocket rotated through snippets of tunes and conversation as though someone was flipping through stations looking for something good.
"Turn that thing off!" she snapped. She got irritable when she was hungry, and she was always hungry. He pushed what he thought might be the power button, but it did nothing.
Suddenly she turned and froze, as though she heard something. "Oh ho," she chuckled to herself. "I wonder if they knew what he really was when they signed him up for this tournament.
---------------------------------
I gotta wonder, did they know what they had sneakin' into th' tournament? Maybe, but I don' think so. She so diminish' even I hardly reco'nize her. That what come a'us bindin' ourselfs to th' tiny life a'th'human bein'. It temptin', t'live so fast an' so hard. It like puttin' y'thumb over a hose, creatin' force outta th'constriction. But it still constriction.
Wha'd' I mean, "us bindin' ourselfs to th' tiny life a'th'human race?" I know y'di'nt think I was human. Bein' what you may a'guessed I am, y'wonder why I gotta come t'heaven by way of a contest. Y'knew I was comin' t'free those I met in the passage of it, but I tell ya now, I could be doin' that regardless, as I think y'know. But there two here, two here amongst t'flames, that I come for. One a music been shattered, th'other a broken silence. And, no, I ain't talkin' 'bout the man sittin' in the shadow a'that Shadow. I intend t'free him too, if I can, but firs' things firs'. I gotta sing into th'silence and restore a orchestra been gut-shot an'throat-cut 'til it only jangle an' crash in th' vacuum. That ain't gonna be a easy tune.
An' y'know, fights wi' family are always th'worst.
--------------------------------
"Come on out!" she yelled into red-lined shadows. "You can't hide from me!" Axle could just barely make out the form of a man, dark against the darkness.
"Ain't hidin'," he said, "an' ain't hurryin'either."
"What are you waiting for then?"
"Jus' observin'. I never thought t'see ya so small, auntie."
Auntie?
Her lips curled in a scornful smile. "Don't underestimate me. You won't the first of us I've come across. He he thought his armor would protect him, but he was wrong."
"It a good thing I'm not wearin' armor then, yeah?" he replied lightly, cocking an eyebrow. Then his tone turned somber. "Nor bound inta flesh 'til I got no sight t'myself 'cept through th'pinhole a'human consciousness, a torn an' tangled one at that. Not like him, not like you neither." He smiled again as her eyes narrowed, but there was no triumph or challege in that smile, just a sad affection. "Nah, I remember better'n you th' greatness o' your true nature." Her smile turned into a scowl as he went on, his voice soft and soothing yet perfectly audible over the roar of the flames, coaxing her to--what?
"What ya doin' here auntie? There a whole city dyin' roun' you, you could be lickin' up the flames as it burn. You could be drinkin' the last light a'dyin' stars, ev'ry graveyard an' battlefield a feast, but instead you here lickin' th' spoons. No wonder you so hungry. How you ever gonna get full, auntie, when ya eatin' wit' so small a'mouth?"
Auntie?
"I'll be feasting soon enough, and all heaven will be my banquet table!"
"In time you gonna swallow all that anyway. That little body a'yours makin' you think you gotta have ev'rything now, but you got all time t'eat y'fill. More'n any of us, you got ev'rything coming to you in th'end, an' ya got forever t'eat it."
"Even you," she said.
"Even me," he acknowledged. "In th'end, but this ain't th'end yet."
"Oh, I beg to differ."
She flew at him and caught him in an embrace, clamping her mouth over his lips so fiercely not even a lick of smoky darkness escaped. They stood, bodies pressed together like reunited lovers, until she released him and he fell to the ground limp as an an empty suit.
"Damn him!" she screamed. "Damn him, damn him, damn him!"
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Ya di'n't really think it was gonna be that easy, did ya?
Hey, Ron, why is Toughie doing your thing?
Which thing, Jerry?
this [http://www.escapistmagazine.com/forums/read/362.107952?page=19#3385581] thing. With the quotes.
Mmm. It appears he is. Should I do something about it, or is it inconsequential?
I'd do something about it, but I'm sort of a malevolent bastard. Why'd you do that, by the way?
Meh, balances me out, mostly. Plus it would be boring if you were exactly the same as me.
Works for me. So you're not doing anything about it?
They say imitation is the most sincere form of flattery, don't they?
Then can I?
It would be boring if I could control everything you do. So...decision's yours.
Sweet.
I say, Sargent Toughie, I believe that was the all-powerful super computer known as "Jerry" swearing a vendetta against you for besmirching the good name of The Logician.
Wha...wha?
Dear friend, you used the infamous "quote bit" that our mutual friend The Logician tends to use on occasion. While this may not have provoked his ire, being as he is a very well tempered man, and a humanitarian of the highest degree, his companion super-super-super computer, "Jerry", is obviously irate with you, and has decided to exact his vengeance upon you.
Did you just say all that in one sentence?
No sir; I am fairly certain that it was two sentences.
Oh, OK. So what should I do.
I do believe a good prayer is in order; do you believe in a higher power, or are you agnostic?
...yeah, I'm fucked. I thought getting napalm thrown at me was bad, but noooo, now Loggy's trying to kill me. What next, space lasers?
I do believe that Jerry currently has control of a massive starfleet, the result of a cannibalization of an entire galaxy, at his beck and call; space lasers are most certainly not out of the question.
Great job putting my mind at ease, Jermy.
Think nothing of it, my good friend.
Which thing, Jerry?
this [http://www.escapistmagazine.com/forums/read/362.107952?page=19#3385581] thing. With the quotes.
Mmm. It appears he is. Should I do something about it, or is it inconsequential?
I'd do something about it, but I'm sort of a malevolent bastard. Why'd you do that, by the way?
Meh, balances me out, mostly. Plus it would be boring if you were exactly the same as me.
Works for me. So you're not doing anything about it?
They say imitation is the most sincere form of flattery, don't they?
Then can I?
It would be boring if I could control everything you do. So...decision's yours.
Sweet.
Ah! Jermy, what the hell was that?
I say, Sargent Toughie, I believe that was the all-powerful super computer known as "Jerry" swearing a vendetta against you for besmirching the good name of The Logician.
Wha...wha?
Dear friend, you used the infamous "quote bit" that our mutual friend The Logician tends to use on occasion. While this may not have provoked his ire, being as he is a very well tempered man, and a humanitarian of the highest degree, his companion super-super-super computer, "Jerry", is obviously irate with you, and has decided to exact his vengeance upon you.
Did you just say all that in one sentence?
No sir; I am fairly certain that it was two sentences.
Oh, OK. So what should I do.
I do believe a good prayer is in order; do you believe in a higher power, or are you agnostic?
...yeah, I'm fucked. I thought getting napalm thrown at me was bad, but noooo, now Loggy's trying to kill me. What next, space lasers?
I do believe that Jerry currently has control of a massive starfleet, the result of a cannibalization of an entire galaxy, at his beck and call; space lasers are most certainly not out of the question.
Great job putting my mind at ease, Jermy.
Think nothing of it, my good friend.