Jaunty Saucy Mistresses And Sordid Jaundiced Warriors Chapter 1, a misc. games fanfic

JAUNTY SAUCY MISTRESSES AND SORDID JAUNDICED WARRIORS

By Quillon42

In the midst of a domain once deluged with danger and damsels, one under the illustrious appellation of Elrond, a half dozen doughty dames convocated in a copse constipated with branches and bramblings, towering trees and treacherous trails. Despite the apparent hazards of which each handmaiden had heard years ago in her youth, she fretted not and instead sauntered freely as of now, she entirely aware that whatever threat there once was had since been thrashed apart by a knight most noble. For certain, the indomitable armored adventurer called Kuros had conquered every wood of woefulness, every cavern of cravenness, and ultimately that Spire of Iron in which was imprisoned his Princess…and along the way, every one of these hale ladies had been harrowed by the same, cut down from every respective ceiling from which each darling had once dangled.

Now, some decades and a couple of quests later, after which said Sir had returned well in good stead…eventually (exactly how he reverted from being funneled far into the future, as had been conveyed at the "Visions of Power" conclusion, is a telling for another time and such)…the canny Kuros was excited likewise to loaf with this lot of lasses whom he'd saved from an unsavory fate. Indeed, the exalted lord was anxious now to gaze into the gemlike eyes of each girl…

…while she in turn, even on an occasion such as this, had expected naught more than to look upon that same varnished visor which had visited her in the dank depths from which she was rescued.

The peculiar reality of it, in this far-flung fantasy, was that Kuros was a curious sort of creature, when it came to his features…the champion was in fact furiously self-conscious concerning his face, such that nearly no one—not even his sister, nay, not even his very Princess—had ever espied the image of the man's countenance. Even the King's most comely offspring, upon a recent tryst with this titan among thanes, she could not catch a glance nor a glimpse beyond the hoariest of helmets that was always shucked upon his shoulders, even when the man was otherwise in the altogether.

Regardless, each of these elfish angels stood ecstatic now in this spring-serene scene, she unable to wait for that Wizard-winnowing Warrior to alight once again.

…

[DEDDLE-LEDDLE-LIDDLE-LEDDLE-LA!]

Lo, here it was in this moment, the blemishless necks of said babes had shunted in the direction of that joyful jingle that always sounded when one entered through a door in this wood. Surely, Kuros had now emerged from a towering tree, just as Nancy Wheeler had managed in that magnificent narrative involving scientists and/or civilians stumbling upon a supernatural passage through which monsters also manifested…what was it called again…

…ah yes: Stephen King's "The Mist."

…

…No, wait…

…

…ah yes: Konami Tokyo's "Silent Hill."

…

…No, wait…

…

…ah, yes: Clive Barker's "Jericho."

…

…No, wait…

…

…ah, yes: Pony Canyon's "Dr. Chaos."

…

…No, wait…

...ah, yes: the effing-Microsoft-Paint-produced "Timeslaughter" from the 1990s.

…

…No, wait…

…

…OH, yeah…of course: Netflix's "original" series, "Stranger Things."

Whence Kuros joined up with all of his jaunty jonquils herein, all his main maidens indeed, and prepared in that once-evilly enchanted forest for a most epic picnic.

The gallivanting gallant could not even initiate the preparations regarding his Grill of Grandiosity, however, when of a sudden

[SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH]

the vilest of vanilla vines issued forth from everywhere, spindly satiny lines surrounding ladies and gentleman most gruffly, grabbing each abruptly and placing all of these most swanky of seven well up towards the treetops, every one of them to hang by the hands—just as the six misses had so untowardly endured in their crises of captivity…and as the seventh, stalwart soldier here had so dreamily freed them from such.

But now even Kuros himself was bound up in these basest of boughs, the hearty hero apprehensive that he was approaching his end after only so many vaunted virtual ventures. Verily, a quartet of quests was the weakest of medieval sauces indeed, compared to, say, a trillion trudges for the Triforce over in Hyrule, or a pipeline (literally and otherwise) of plays for Peach Toadstool in the realm of Mushroom, or only a fucking googolplex of Calls that were always ever so Dutiful in a faux rendition of the reader's reality.

It was the actuality of it now that the courageous knight was seceding to a dawn of decease. Kuros could hear that accursed theme even now, the song that would sound whenever he had been close to another conniption, another torturous tantrum upon the ground before he gave up the ghost for the infinitest of times…

[DA-DAAA, DAAAAA, DA]

and yet there was something slightly at variance with that doozy of a dirge this time…

[DA-DAAA, DAAAAA, DA (Da-Da Daa-Daa, Da-Da Da, Da-Dun Dun Dun, Daa-Daa…)]

something more upbeat in the background of the tune most treacherous, the melody more…optimistic, even uplifting.

You see, in the year of our Lord in which the maidens were originally taken, that of one thousand nine hundred eighty seven to be precise, it is correct that Kuros had completed his first of four quests, in which said biddies were brashly brought out of their insidious imprisonment. It was in that selfsame year, in fact, that a woman in the reader's reality had released a sizzling single of happenin' jazz, the verse melody (NOT the chorus—this author here is referring to the melody of the verses) of which this author had always thought had been aped to an extent by the death dirge of Kuros's original outing.

And as it turned out, each of the elegant girls whom the knight had nicked from the clutches of corruption…she treasured a particular ladylike talent—and one in particular was so passionate for her singing that she even stretched out into other dimensions for ditties, when she tired of those from her own entrancing universe.

Now was a vivacious verse, now upon the ears of the unconquerable Kuros was a chorus most rousing, that of a veritable Breakout hit, emitted by one Esmeralda, to spur the seasoned soldier to action:

"When siiiiituations never change, [Dow-Dow, Dow, Dow-Dow-Dow]

"Tomorrrrrrow looks-un-suuure [Dowww, Dowww, Dowww, Dow-Dow-Dow]

"Don't leeeeeave your destiny to chance [Dow-Dow, Dow, Dow-Dow-Dow]

"What aaaaarrre…you waiting for [Dow-Dow, Dow, Dow-Dow-Dow]

"The TIIIIIMMME has come to make or break [Dowww, Dowww, Dowww, Dow-Dow-Dow]

"Breakouuut. [Dun-Dun, Dun-Dun, Dun-Dun]

"DON'T STOPPPPPP, TO ASSSSSSKKK…

"Now you found your break to make it lassssssttt…

"You've got to FIND A WAY…say what you want to say…

"Breakouuuuuttt…"

[Da-Da, Da Da Daa-Daa, Da-Da Da Da Da Da DAAAAAAAAA]

Then as the key changed to an even higher and more positive register (in this abridged rendering of the anthem), this lustiest of Lancelots found himself sufficiently liberated within, so that he could free himself and the others without. Even more so did this author himself feel so freed, as he always wanted to get this Wizards And Warriors/Swing Out Sister composition comparison off his chest (and a random ass Youtube comment on either or both tunes would just never have cut it, damn it).

It was then, thus, through the serendipitous confluence of melodies between a synth strain from Earth and a spooky score from Elrond, that strength had been found by the formidable fighter of a knight named Kuros. (And said spookiness in song was always evident in every auditory offering from Rare in those days—whether it suited the subject material perfectly (as it did comfortably with the stately yet creepy eldritch atmosphere of Wizards and Warriors) or really not at all (as it did ever so strangely, in this author's opinion, with other titles like R.C. Pro Am or Wrestlemania)).

At any measure, though, the robust roustabout had by now freed himself, as well as all his ladies-in-wooing, from the blanched bindings which held them all fast to this once-wicked forest. Just as this judicious jouster had believed himself to be at least metaphorically out of the woods, in terms of perniciously troublesome perils and timeless pop tracks, such ordeals were only starting up…

…and the lone man and the welter of women found themselves faced with an alabaster army ahead of them, indeed a seeming battalion of boys with bodies entirely bleached, they all as frighteningly fair in the flesh as their armor was ashen.

These seven most savvy now which faced off against this wan platoon, they never imagined they would face something so fierce, encounter anything so appalling as this. It was a collective entity which could arrive only through the machinations of one magician most malevolent…

So Malkil himself had seen, through his Skull of Scrying now (the foe always had such a fucking fetish for the headbones, as they were omnipresent throughout that first fling Kuros had to Ironspire)…all was on schedule at the moment. The septet of revelers was met by that horrid horde of pallid paladins, indeed that retchworthy regiment of stereotypically acne-attacked, socially-stunted scalawags from the reader's reality who clamped upon keyboards to defend the most attention-seeking of shrews, the most foolish of film-schooled floozies, the grodiest goddesses engorged with GOTIS.

And of course, who better to lead this leery legion than five of the most meretricious of misery-mongers featured effing everywhere on the Tubes of You of yore.

It was the murderous Mal's design that these duennas of death would pilfer that picnic so epic, punish those puckish partygoers with unrelenting assistance from the Pallidins which waited on them and executed these amazons' every waking wish. If they failed, well meh, certainly no one would miss the ivory insipids who constantly stumped for the strumpets…and as for the mockeries of medusas that were the armchair feminists of the Tubes of You, they would either be eliminated entirely from every reality…or they would be captured, in which case, unlike the desirable detainees delivered by Kuros, no one would ever bother to come rescue them anyway.

Kuros surveyed the sea of sallowness, the wooded path permeated with Pallidins before him, and he knew the exact implement to apply. For certain, his comely compatriots would not be able to confront the five freakish fatales before them and live to tell of it, what with all these anemic underlings lurking afoot. Thus

[KLOOK KLOCK-KLOOK KLOCK-KLOOK KLOCK-KLOOK KLOCK-KLOOK KLOCK-KLOOK]

the nimble knight abruptly employed one of his most devious devices—that of the "Cuck…Ew" Clock, designed to stop in their tracks those contumacious creeps who made all real men suddenly feel diffuse with disgust in their pitiful, pixie-begging presence.

Yea, so long as this cacophonously shrill timepiece was cawing on—and this mystical machine could last far longer than the three seconds or so that did its more conventional cousin, back in Kuros's original ordeal—no pale pustule could come anywhere near our heroes as they endeavored to dispose of the worst waste that had ever entered upon Elrond's grounds.

First to feel the fury of Kuros and his quite kinetic cadre was a certain self-styled sexpert upon the tableau of Tubes, a girl whose wreckage of rhetoric could make a guy turn as Green as her surname…even if she was possibly the only feminist ever whom one could faintly fathom to be physically appealing.

As it would turn out, this confrontation with Laciviousa, as she would be known in this notorious faerie frontier, would become the easiest of all affrays this afternoon, as the alleged lady was already entwined in the same ghostly gossamers that had gussied up the handmaids and their hero only minutes previous. Completely unsurprisingly, Laciviousa was given to variegated fetishes, after so many years of copulatory contemplation, and here said sexplorations would lead to a summary defeat by default in a sense, as the winsome wom…err, woelady had already wrapped herself in a trap of her own triggering.

Satisfied that there had not heretofore but much of a sweat broken in these battles, and already one of the churl-girls gone out of commission, Kuros's crew stared at the bound bitch with naught but vindictiveness and contempt. When Penelope, whose talent was weaving (like, yes, her Greek mythological counterpart)—when she had also noted that her hero was at the moment holding his legendary Brightsword with a bit more brittle, upon his laying eyes on Laciviousa and her baleful buxomness, the refugee from the far-end forest of Elrond decided to take things a step further.

Whisking her lithe palm along the shoulders of Sir Knight, Penelope plucked from his person a mysterious mantle which was imperceptible to the ordinary eye. "I've got your unspeakable darkness right here," said the maiden of grace to the maven of gross, referencing Miss Green's Trumpocalypse trash-garbage video as the former covered the latter with that same Cloak which had never enjoyed an instant of usefulness…until now.

With this gesture, Penelope, who was a captive of a sizeable silk-spinning eight-legged entity, then took inspiration from her captor and pulled on another rope nearby, the physics of it all launching Laciviousa well up into the air and upon the same boughs in which the Warrior and his dignified dames were embedded ten minutes back. Now in light of the fact that this physiologically-finest of feminists (really a small feat, as all the others were un-unseeable abominations) was so trussed and topped off with that Cloak which concealed its wearer from view, any threat that Laciviousa might have posed had now passed. Indeed, as this author and other sundry Coitalmaniacs would readily attest, flashing someone with a cloak was supremely sexy…yet, as this episode had demonstrated, obscuring an enchantress with the same kind of clothing could be all the more gratifying. Most titillating, of course, was just the bare fact that, here, the Cloak of Darkness had finally proved practical on a given occasion.

Upon the passing of the pretersexual threat that was that "grrrl" most Green, another had almost instantly taken her place—and to be sure, there was a second babe from the most bombastic bevy of Elrond to meet her challenge. Really, to be fair, it was Galadriel now who took the initiative, she unfurling her ensorcelled Scroll to practice her own folklore-firmament-foisted talent of oration. This most grandiloquent Gal now readied herself to address these most unwashed of "womyn" before her, she excited to utilize that same sort of parchment on which was printed The Map™ (containing an encapsulation of the most enterprising areas of this charmed country, of course) to speak at her emasculating enemies as such:

"Now, Thence: Whereas, it hath been imbued within me to instruct thy craven uncouth menfants with whom I find myself met herein, in addition to, to wit, this motley menagerie of feminions whom said boybies are pledging tribute:

"I find myself behooved to direct said misguided subjects of this declamation to the margins of a demarcation more appropriate to the remedial stratum of taste, class, and station otherwise which is suitable to their rudimentary mentalities and enfeebled constitutions…

"As it shall be, then, these detestable peoplechildren before my own person shall be relegated to naught other than the Third-Wood© of Elrond, a cluster of wilderness which even the basest, most banal forms of evil lifeforms would not encroach upon (as they had so effected upon the First-Wood© and Second-Wood©, as respectively the former captives Lucinda and Penelope can aver…"

Then the unspeakably acrimonious entity known as Chantraggia had most unfortunately chimed in, she of the stringy and artificially fiery scalp locks, she who had boasted a surname too understandably similar to the most loathsome creature to creep afoot in The Phantom Menace. This bothersome banshee, known also as "Big Red" in some insufferable circles, arrived now to put in her two cen…er, two small third-world-country GDPs:

"How could you live with yourself, being part of this…harem with all these other airheads? You just mentioned Lucinda and Penelope being captives…what, did Conan here have to save them from where they were holed up? That is such an oppressive indicator of Rescue Culture! You put the "she" in sheep with the way you back the Knightriarchy!..."

Galadriel then looked away from her Scroll and fixed deadset death-ray eyes upon her flush-follicled foe. A beat later:

"…

"I'm ORATING, Rockface."

Predictably undeterred, Chantraggia raged anew, she attempting to shut down the sultry speakeress, to no avail. Unbeknownst to the feminfamous foe as well, the electrifying elocutionist also had an ace…or rather, an ovum, as it were…up her satiny sleeve.

So after another couple verses from Chanty's chant of abject spite, Gal gathered up an arm…

…then let fly the Exploding Egg, the powerful projectile careening forth and caroming into the frothing maw of the maroon moron opposite her. In actuality, there was no detonation which derived from this turn of events…and yet it surely would be the case that Big Red would be bloated within for a very long spell to come indeed thereafter.

"AAAAANY of the ways!" continued the gladdened Galadriel, as Chants's insides churned so unpleasantly. "I hath not yet concluded my allocution! Not concluded, shutteth the fucketh up…"

So it went as this next damsel, in the coming minutes, completed her address to the enemy which potently put them in their place for the time being.

What would definitively drive the point home would be the performance which Kuros and these magnificent maidens would perpetrate upon these ill-met invaders. You see, it all made so much sense when one translated the name "Kuros of Elrond" from the Anglo-Saxon, and found that said transcribing delivered the identical appellation of a most gifted minstrel and thespian of the reader's reality, one who had been, in ages past, a Goonie, a Lost Boy, one whom others could Stand By, as well as a number of memorable other douchy designations a quarter century into our history. Indeed, that same face could be found underneath the weathered helmet of this haughty hero, which he intended to reveal at last to these ladies upon playing, anon in this confrontation, that same first Angelic number featured on that Show of Today in September of 2016.

It would remain to be seen, though, whether upon the witnessing of Kuros's countenance, his handmaidens would still wish to Go For It.

TO BE CONTINUED

("Breakout" is property of Swing Out Sister as of the year 1987 or so, by the way).