Title: Vengeancestuck
Rating: T (blood, blackrom, language)
Genres: Adventure, Romance, Suspense, Angst.
Summary: You are a Prospitian warrior and healer. You heal, by mending wounds and performing surgeries. When Jack Noir rampages across Skaia, depleting the entire army to nothing, you fight back.
Pairing: Jack Noir x OC (questionable and Blackrom)
A/N: Hello Homestuck fandom, after getting caught up with the comic all the way to [S] Cascade and looking at some fan-art, reading some fan-fiction, ect, I thought to myself, Why aren't there any stories about Skaian characters? Like Prospitians and Dersites? It's all fan-trolls and humans. Why not make a character that's a resident of Sburb?
This is my first attempt at writing Homestuck style, so please tell me how I'm doing. Oh, and fail title is fail. As for RC's "barely decent skirt," think Warcraft, and think High Inquisitor Whitemane. That kind of barely decent.
Disclaimer: SuperYuuki doesn't own Homestuck (of course not. Even I can't come up with Weird Plot Shit that bizarre). Homestuck belongs to Andrew Hussie. SuperYuuki does own RC, though.
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Vengeancestuck
Chapter One: Scarlet Stains
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You stand high above the battlefield, the blood stained chessboard spreading out for miles in all directions. The wind blows, displacing your already barely decent skirt. You don't mind. It still covered everything that was necessary, and it wasn't like there was anyone around to see it. If the hems of the skirt weren't soaked in blood, and therefore weighed down, then it would be a problem. Your left sleeve had been destroyed, the frayed, blood-stained remains fluttering listlessly in the breeze. The healer's garb you wore left your shoulders exposed, but you never minded. Your long, flowing white hood dances in the wind, the tip stained from accidentally being dipped in a puddle of gore. More blood dripped from the laceration upon your non-dominant forearm. The scrapes on your legs still stung as even more crimson fluid oozed from the crisscrossing cuts, marring your white carapace with imperfections. Your grip tightens around your ornate battle-staff, the cruor dripping down from the spikey, sun-like ornament placed at the top. You whacked many a Dersite with it. Trust you to bludgeon a soldier to death. You had very recently wove a couple long, black feathers into the cloth wrapping near the top. They are a cherished trophy to you.
Absently, you reach up with your injured arm to wipe your face. Blood (there seems to be no shortage of the substance) flowed from the clean cut on your cheek. It, unlike your other wounds, would likely leave a scar. You wonder how you made it this far alive. You'd somehow survived the massacre that followed the Dersite agent Jack Noir's… episode. You seemed to be ridiculous sturdy for a healer, a Resilient Caretaker, if you will.
Sitting down, you set down your staff and grip your already damaged sleeve and tear it off completely. You rip it in half and painstakingly wrap it around your left forearm, binding the wound securely. You pick up your staff once more and rise to your feet, using your weapon for leverage. You take a deep breath and exhale, composing yourself.
Your next task would be figuring out what to do next. It was a task that you had no idea how to go about completing. It is for this reason that the next occurrence would be a welcomed one.
A shadow of a distinct shape passes over you, accompanied by the sound of swooping wings. Not this bozo again. You grip your staff with both hands and assume a defensive pose. You raise your eyes to meet his, a look of defiance painting your features. You've had enough of this guy's antics.
Jack Noir's face twisted in anger at your behavior, his already thin eyes narrowing in rage. He swooped toward you, faltering a bit from the wound on his left wing. You smile a bit at that. He seemed to be missing some primary feathers. Hahaha. Ahahahahahaha.
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Two hours earlier…
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You run to the site of a fallen Prospitian. You remove your pack and hastily sift through the contents until you happen upon the bandages and antiseptic. You look back at the wound and purse your lips. Maybe some sutras as well. You hastily get to work disinfecting the wound. When the soldier doesn't cry out from the sting, you check his pulse, which is fortunately still there, but not very strong. He only has a few minutes unless you do your job well.
You reach for the sutras, and find the scissors first. You slide the scissors into your sash for later use, when a sudden shifting of movement behind you causes to drop the medical supplies and grasp your staff, prepared to aggress or abscond as fit. You spot the disturbance immediately. A little Dersite has somehow made its way through the Prospitian lines. He charges you, regisword in hand, but you implement a skillful dodge and harshly aggrieve the stout little soldier in the back with your pointy, ornate battle staff.
He falls, you kick him to the side and let him bleed out. You cared not for Dersites. Those pitch carapaces disgusted you. The evil Dersites would destroy Skaia if not kept in check or even annihilated. You look him straight in those beady eyes as he finally dies. Good riddance.
You turn back to the wounded Prospitian, only to stop when you no longer notice the rise and fall of the soldier's chest. With frantic haste, you check his pulse once more. Nothing. You shed a tear, but you do not linger. This is your life. You've spent so much time on this checkerboard battlefield that you're beginning to forget the golden streets of Prospit. You don't especially miss it, but you don't exactly want to stay here forever.
A sound began to reach your ears, barely discernable. You weren't sure if it was a few people close by or a lot of people far away. You look in the direction of the sound, swearing you could see the sky slowly changing color. You continue to listen intently as the volume of the noise slowly grew to the point where you could easily recognize it.
Screams. The sky was changing color, leaving a horrible red-ish glow upon the horizon.
A shadow sped over you, accompanied by an intimidating whoosh. You start to shake, your confidence wavering as you realized that the Black Queen must be upon you. You keep a close eye on this shadow, watching with utmost prudence, until it began circling towards you. With honed reflexes, you immediately pull the medical scissors from your belt and fling the sharp device toward the Queen's approximate location. You turn just in time to see the scissors stab the... that was not the Black Queen. Whatever this was,
Unfortunately, this only serves to anger the rampaging Dersite more. He tears the projectile from his wound and launches it right back at you. Fortunately, you are able to deflect it with your weapon, sending it into the ground next to you.
He grips his Regisword and swoops towards you in a rage. He aggrieves, and you just barely avoid a fatal wound, instead gleaning a cut to the cheek. He flies past you, circling around for another assault. It is time for you to start improvising. He speeds towards you, but in the last possible moment, you duck, then spring upward to cling to the back of the Dersite's legs. He shrieks in anger and tries to shake you off, but you have a different idea. You bring your legs up to wrap around his, and, using his own feet as leverage, leap upwards to perch precariously on the Dersite's shoulders.
You hold your Battlestaff at ready, prepared to aggrieve him, when a black tendril wraps around your midsection, wrenching you off of him. In a last move of desperation, you slam your weapon into his wing, the strike removing a handful of feathers. The Dersite shouts profanities as he falters somewhat, bringing the two of you closer to the ground. He rips you from him and throws you tumbling towards the Battlefield.
Luckily enough for you, the altitude he had lost earlier saved your life. You escaped that fall with only a handful of nasty scrapes and bruises. And even more luckily, he seemed to think that the fall had killed you. Haha. Oh boy, was he wrong.
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Present
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He scowls when he notices the feathers on your staff. 'Oh? You want these back?' You challenge with your eyes. 'Well come and get them, bastard.'
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A/N: This is before Bec got prototyped, so that might clear up some confusion.