John looked at the shimmering blue bubble floating in the air a few a foot from his face and saw his own reflection looking back at him. His hair was starting to turn dark again at the roots and he hadn't shaved in a while. Combined with his pale, blind eye, it lent him an altogether scruffy and well-used appearance, yet he was wearing richly blue robes and a golden breastplate. Tavros said it made him look like a warrior and told the people that he had suffered with them, and John had learned to follow the troll's advice, though rarely without giving a smart-alecky comment. John turned to look at his people, fourteen of his sixteen knights, and the ever loyal Villein who had refused a title. They were each dressed like him, though far less grandly, and were all heavily armed. Tavros himself was wielding both a heavy lance and a long-bladed spear; presumably the one was for stabbing and the other for slashing.
Domenn Patria looked at him, face full of barely restrained emotion. "It is time majesty," he hesitated. "The winds have had enough of waiting. They're angry." John sighed and his breath was visible. Not his Breath; the air had very suddenly become very cold in the past hour; many in the city would be suffering nosebleeds right now. Even without the Seer, er, Listener's powers that Patria enjoyed, the troll could tell that they couldn't wait any longer. It was time to either take back their city or slink off into the shadows forever. John flashed a smile that he hoped was charismatic and turned back to the bubble. There were thousands like it all over the city, blown by the Sage, and they would relay his message simultaneously to every citizen. "Showtime," he whispered. Out loud, John said, boomed, "attention everyone. This is your king."
Greed has poisoned men's souls, has barricaded the world with hate, has goose-stepped us into misery and bloodshed. We have developed speed, but we have shut ourselves in—
Barely listening, Jade searched desperately for John, and a small part of her was annoyed that the flying witch-girl was being ignored in favor of her brother's voice. Though, to be honest, she never thought he'd been much of a speaker but suddenly here he was (or rather somewhere, certainly not where Jade could see him), being impressive. Everyone, everywhere, had stopped what they were doing and started listening, some scared and confused, many of them considering, and not of few of them angry.
To the people of Prospit, I say do not despair. The misery that is now upon us is but the passing of greed, the bitterness of men who fear the progress of sentient beings. The hate of men will pass, and dictators die, and the power they took—
He sounded hurt, and she wondered if he was in pain. Zooming over the White King's Boulevard, she spotted Sollux standing near the spire of a restaurant, insectile cloak fluttering in the ever-quickening breeze, staff in hand. He was looking down at the crowd and…grinning.
—don't give yourselves to monsters! Men who despise you! Enslave you! Who regiment your lives—tell you what to do, what to think and what to feel! Who drill you, diet you, treat you like cattle, use you as cannon fodder! Don't give yourselves to these unnatural men, iron men with iron minds and iron hearts! You are not iron! You are not cattle! You are men! You have love in your hearts! You don't hate! Only the unloved hate; the unloved and—
She flew down to him. "You need to help me find John!" Jade shouted, alighting clumsily on the rooftop, stumbling on a particularly hideous gargoyle. Sollux caught her with his telekinesis; she didn't like him using it on her. Straightening herself, she broke off from the purplish haze as quickly as she could. "He's going to get himself killed!"
"He's going to take back the city," Sollux smirked. "We need to find him alright, so we can join up with him. Look," he said, pointing into the streets and the stunned, silent crowds. They were all as one now, listening intently. "Do you know how stupid the concept of 'the people' is? Who the fuck are 'the people'? Everyone always says they're thinking about 'the people' but they can't possibly understand what everyone in even a little city like this wants or needs." Jade scoffed at Prospit being called a 'little city', or she would have if Sollux hadn't glared at her to stay quiet. "But your dumbass brother got it right. There isn't a single person in Prospit who isn't completely eating this up right now. Tomorrow they're going to have opinions and be individuals and all kinds of other annoying shit like that, but right now, they're the people." He chuckled at Jade's dumbstruck expression. "Have you even been listening to it?" Jade turned red and didn't answer.
—one man nor a group of men, but in all sentient beings! In you! You, the people have the power, the power to create happiness! You, the people, have the power to make this life free and beautiful, to make this life a wonderful adventure!
Then let us use that power! Let us all unite. In the name of our kingdom, let us fight for a new world; a decent world that will give men a chance to work, that will give youth a future and old age a security. By the promise of these things, you have grown complacent but—
"Who would have thought," Jade muttered to herself, disbelieving, "that the clowny little trickster had it in him?"
"To make a speech?" Sollux said, chuckling.
"To be a king."
John never thought that just talking could be exhausted, but here he was, nearly finished, and he was drained, physically and emotionally. They'd all written the thing together, even the Sage had dropped a few pearls of wisdom, but giving a speech was something altogether different from simply speaking, and John wished someone had told him that. Now it would probably amount to nothing, but dammit he needed to try. John heaved a sigh, and colored slightly once he heard it reverberate all across the city. Dammit. Too late. "By the grace of The Four, the Harmattan will come tonight, as a sign of my rightful rule. Look for me with the coming of the Harmattan."
The bubble dissipated, and John's knights applauded him. He ignored their cries of praise and turned to Tavros. "It's time for phase two," he said.
"We might not need it," Tavros said nervously, rubbing the back of his head, flinching as his lance fell to the floor without his hand to hold it up. "You were really, uh, really good. Probably everyone in the city is more patriotic than Domenn now—"
John clapped him on the shoulder, never mind that he had to reach up to do it; it still served to patronize the big troll. "It was your idea," John insisted. "Why would you even suggest it if you didn't think you could do it?"
Tavros became very brown. "I never said I coul—"
"If you don't," John said reasonably, "then just think of all the people that are going to die."
Tavros was now the color of very good cocoa. He gulped hard and muttered something about trying before snapping off a surprisingly professional-looking salute.
Every winter, the Harmattan blows in from the frozen wastes of Derse, gaining speed as it charges across the desert into the heart of Prospit's territory. Usually it peters out before reaching the city, shrouding the countryside with fine, multicolored dust like a dense fog. In some years, when it fights against the monsoons, the wind stirs up tornadoes that flash and flicker with light and color as the lightning they generate reflects and ignites the Painted Dust, as if God Himself had descended to earth to chastise a particularly unfortunate man in his darkest hour, leaving destruction and extraordinarily beautiful lightning-glass in His wake.
It had never come in the early autumn, roaring across the plains like a hundred shrieking demons. Never before had it seemed so blue, as if the air itself were colored and not merely carrying desert dust. And certainly it had never seemed to form a fist as it slammed into the gates of Prospit with enough force to throw them open, shaking the walls to their foundations and shattering glass in the city center. But this year, it did, and Prospit's gates were breached, for the first time in her storied history, and by a trade wind at that.
Jack Noir was laid out in bed, dying of the plague. The Viceroyalty of Prospit had passed to the Draconian Dignitary, and it was he who sat the golden throne. The hall of the White King was enormous, cyclopean, to suit the needs of the ancient colossus that had once ruled here, its roof sustained by enormous statues of The Four that would have dwarfed even he, second only to the ones at the city gates. The matching statues of The Nobles in the palace of Derse, the Dignitary noted, would gaze down disapprovingly on the king. The king of Derse was not an autocrat but a warrior; the queen's agents had always managed the minutiae of government, and the king's place by divine mandate was always to serve the kingdom on the field against her enemies. But The Four were kindly and smiling, lending their benediction to any decisions made upon the sacred chair of Prospit. To simply sit in this throne, thought the Dignitary, was to hold absolute power, wasn't it? Who was this foreign queen then, to command him? And if the reports were correct, secret reports that only he had seen, kept secret by the sudden and violent execution of their reporters, Derse was gone, devoured at last by the deathly cold at the world's end.
And this little king, John Crocker and his speech. Utter schlock. Did he actually expect the mindless rabble to take up arms against Derse? If he was smart then he was just using it as a distraction, but the Draconian Dignitary had met the kid and knew that the idealistic little punk wasn't.
The Draconian Dignitary. The name didn't suit him anymore; it was time to cast off that old title. He was far beyond a dignitary now. The Draconian Dignitary was a dignitary no more—
The palace shook. A paladin, white shell gleaming under his golden armor, rushed up and offered a hurried bow. The Dignitary sneered; they had such lax discipline here, it sickened him. Of course, that laxity of discipline was what had allowed Derse to infiltrate the city so well. These weren't warriors or spies, but scholars and farmers. The paladin spoke. "My lord Viceroy, the gates have been breached."
"Explosives no doubt," said the Dignitary, thinking quickly. "I heard the blast from here. Seal the breach immediately. What army has Crocker paid off to do this, do you know? The Repub—"
"My lord," the Paladin interrupted and the Dignitary almost beat him to death with his scepter, but restrained himself. He wasn't an animal like Jack. The dignitary absently scratched himself. He was developing a rash on his neck. Damnation but it was itchy, and deep, like it extended far under his shell, down to the bones even. Hadn't…hadn't Jack—
The Dignitary cleared his throat. Clearly, the paladin was more than cowed, and so he gave the warrior his permission to resume speaking. The paladin coughed. "Well, it was not an army, as such. The king and his men—"
"Rebels," The Dignitary snapped. "They have taken up an insurrection against the true king. Me."
"Er," the paladin began, abandoning that train of thought as he saw the blood-crazed look in the man's eye and the hideous grey blotch on his neck. He was beginning to believe that no amount of platinum justified allowing this man to have come into power. "The rebels have infiltrated the armory and have started distributing weapons to the people. Riots are breaking out; they are killing Dersites on the Lunar Chain Street and in the industrial district." That blotch on the Dignitary's neck; well, the paladin's brother had gotten the same before shriveling up inside his shell as if he'd been drained of fluid, just another plague victim.
"The gate was a distraction," growled the Dignitary, jumping down from the throne, wielding his black, iron scepter like a saber. "They wanted us to divert troops there while he stirred up the rabble." He strolled past the paladin and began barking orders to the many awaiting courtiers, members of Dersite military structure and Prospitian sympathizers, petty merchants looking for wealth and classist old aristocrats wanting to 'purify' their city of the last century's innovations. The very people the paladin had hated most before the coup, he realized.
The group strolled out past the palace door and past the gardens with their beautiful golden roses. So many of them had been damaged in the seizure of the palace and the once immaculate lawn had been churned up into mud, stained interesting colors by the blood of multi-racial patriots. Lying on his back once, the paladin had thought the scene looked a bit like an eye, with the white hot orb of the sun for a pupil, the sky an iris, and the jagged skyline of Propsit all around the palace like a golden sclera. The eye was marred by a smudge of fresh smoke now, and the whole thing was dark and blinded, night falling early thanks to the Harmattan haze, come early too, now.
The rabble—the group of officials, he meant, was approaching the great front gates of the palace, opening up like an enormous, insectile mouth, its four leaves like triangular, razor-edged jaws.
If it was a mouth…and his party was leaving it…did that make them vomit?
The rabble though—he didn't feel the need to clarify this time as he glared at his richly robed superiors—were just chatting as they set out, leaving the relative safety to go out and see poor people bash each other's heads in. It occurred to the paladin that while Prospit had seen riots once or twice, it had never had an insurrection. They didn't know how to handle it. He almost warned them, but he didn't. And of course, if he didn't, then neither did any of the other Prospitian knights manning the gates, forming up with the group, leading the way. Maybe…if Crocker got his throne back…he would look favorably upon those knights that captured the insurrectionists, the invaders and collaborators, most of whom were conveniently gathered here just outside the palace…
The White King's Boulevard led down from the palace gate all the way to the cyclopean Eastern Gate. It was wide enough for a hundred men to march down side-by-side and gave a perfect view of The Four in their glory, their eyes scanning the horizon for their Noble siblings across the desert. Right now a strong, icy wind was howling down that street, blasting the party with colored dust in their eyes; many of them broke out into sickly coughs from the traces of desert powder and at least one developed a nosebleed from the sudden temperature change; the Dignitary's nose was gushing like a murder victim, but didn't seem to mind. Instead his eyes were fixed on the gate as if trying to bore holes in it through sheer force of will, and if it were any stronger the paladin was sure it would kill everything on the street.
Speaking of which, the street was empty. Odd. There should at least have been people running away, soldiers heading towards the fighting, and a few more barely visible in the distance trying to get the gates shut—
He finally saw someone; a Dersite soldier, his purple armor standing out against the yellows walls of Prospit. Something big and white was jumping down from the walls, grasping the soldier in its claws. A dozen more followed, and he could make out shapes now; huge animals, looking fierce and angry, eyes inflamed with rage. Most of them were indistinguishable, but after thirty seconds an enormous spider, easily the size of the Great Seer's foot, eyes glowing a sinister cobalt, crawled down the wall, its spear-like legs clicking audibly against the stone even at this distance.
And then two seconds later an angry mob surged onto the boulevard from a side street as if they were a river breaching its levies, shrieking obscenities and the name of John Crocker. The paladin drew his sword; now was his chance, they were all still stunned. He raised the blade to the Dignitary's neck, ready to plunge it right into the weeping, ugly rash—
But the Dignitary was gone. No, he'd simply moved, behind the paladin. The paladin had only a moment before the iron scepter was smashed down against his helmet. Head ringing like a bell, he reeled, completely ignoring the bellowing monster of a man as he smashed the scepter into the paladin's mouth, flooring him. The paladin hit the floor hard, dazed and barely able to move, gagging on teeth and bits of broken shell. Ugh, a blow like that would leave most of his kind with a Gloucester smile. But not him, because the Dignitary, with an animalistic shriek that belied his fencer's grace, rammed it into the paladin's eye, then the other, murdering him with both precision and ultra-violence.
Karkat woke up looking at the deep blue sky, lying on soft grass, with the scent of water and citrus in his nose. He sat up and scratched his head. "Shit I died and went to heaven." He scanned the area and saw a sight that filled him with horror; the siren from the grotto, now in troll form, sitting huddled under a blanket against a palm tree. She smiled and waved. Karkat shrieked. "YOU'RE HERE! THIS MUST BE THE OTHER PLACE!"
"By the Sufferer, Karkat," said Vriska, stepping into view leading both Maplehoof and Fuckslayer, "Do you have to be so melodramatic about everything?" Karkat raised an eyebrow. She was decked out in black and blue armor that vaguely resembled one of her old outfits, but more genuine somehow, as if this were the real thing and the other outfit had been an imitation. She also looked considerably healthier than she had before, taller even, as if she hadn't lived a hard life of malnutrition and disease on the streets; the tiny nicks and cuts on her horns had all disappeared, though they'd been so subtle Karkat didn't notice them until they were gone.
Vriska bit her lip. She had some idea of what her Moirail was thinking and wasn't sure she liked being scrutinized like that. "Get up," she hissed. "Both of you! You need to see this!" Karkat rose shakily to his feet, drawing his sickle and eyeing the sea-dweller warily. She bared her teeth at him. Or smiled. He could never tell with their kind.
The two of them awkwardly shuffled after Vriska and Karkat realized belatedly that they were in the oasis just outside the city; even without its looming pale bulk in the distance Karkat recognized the scent of citrons, which seemed so odd to him, so far from home. The three trolls and two riding-beasts stepped out from the shade and tightly packed earth of the oasis onto the fine dust of the Painted Desert; the difference was so great that the oasis was almost like an island out at sea. Immediately he heard the sound of the sea and the soft wing beats of distant angels. Directly ahead was the City of Wrath, built right up against its huge jagged monolith like a spear raised to the sky, a dozen angels circling its tip like sentinels, glowing white eggs imbedded in the stone at random. Karkat saw something that he hadn't noticed upon entering but seemed obvious now he and Vriska had been inside the city; it was lopsided. The builders must have nuzzled up around the monolith because it was the most solid ground in the area, but it wasn't nearly enough to support the thing and more than half of it was at a noticeable grade. The luminescent rainbow sand hugged right up against the walls and even blew into the city; side-gates here and there were half submerged already, and the beginning of a large crack was forming on the walls from top to bottom. In a matter of centuries, Karkat thought with a grin, decades even, the whole damned place would slide into the sea and the angels and their horrible kingdom would be no more.
"Not." Vriska growled, lifting up an old wooden box; there were a few barnacles growing on the underside. "Fucking." she smashed open the box with the pommel of her new sword; its fine quality made Karkat just a bit jealous. "Fast." she withdrew a handful of gleaming blue gems so bright Karkat's eyes widened; they seemed to glow with inner light. "Enoooooooough!"
Vriska threw them into the sand at her feet. Nothing happened. Karkat wondered if she had finally lost it. "Just wait," the sea-dweller whispered. He yelped and jumped about five feet—
A wave of blue force taller than the city walls rose up from the sand in front of Vriska's gems, parting it like the Ψiioniic parted the North Sea in legend. It surged at the city walls, gathering speed, growing in size and brightness, bringing with it a towering wake of rainbow colored dust that glowed with its reflected light, until the whole thing slammed into the wall, breaking against it like an ocean wave breaking on a rocky shore. And then it happened again, and again, and five more times, each time widening the rift in the walls, each time shaking the city to its foundations, toppling buildings and sending angels skyward in panic until finally, on the eighth blow, the City of Wrath issued a groan. It sounded like a dying man. Slowly, but gaining speed, it began to slide into the ocean.
It took an hour, a time that Karkat felt was too fast and at the same time far too slow, before the whole wretched thing crumbled and rolled into the ocean. Cities were not meant to move and very little of it was recognizable as a structure afterwards. The shrieks of a thousand drowning angels filled his head, and were suddenly silenced. The water churned, not only with the falling stones but heat and light, discharge created as the angels collided with the salt water. At last there was a great scream that Karkat actually physically felt, like standing on a gigantic drum that someone had pounded on once with all their hate, and the remaining angels fell from the sky. Some landed in the soft powder; others splattered themselves across the trail of rubble. One landed right at Karkat's feet; its light was gone. The angel was dead. Karkat kicked its head with disgust; it burst like a rotten melon.
Feferi was jumping with joy. "You guys are awesome," she said, hugging Vriska. She growled. "What are going to do next?" asked Feferi, oblivious.
"You aren't our friend, chick," Karkat said at last, leveling his sickle at her. "I distinctly recall you killing me, and then healing me, so you could kill me again, or something dumb like that. I don't know what you've done to make Vriska trust you but I'm putting a stop to it!" He turned to Vriska, who was busily ignoring him and picking up her gems. "You must be being controlled somehow, because as epic as that was just now, you totally just sank our only chance of winning the stupid challenge."
Karkat are you an idiot," she said at last, not really asking at all, jewels glowing in the palm of her hand. Karkat realized that they were eight-sided dice. "This is the treasure! Magic dice that can give you anything you want! Who cares about all the fucking platinum and pearls and dumb shit like that!?"
Karkat considered for a moment. "Okay, now I know you're being controlled!" With a loud battle-cry, he lifted his sickle over his head and charged at Feferi. Vriska smacked the weapon out of his hand and hugged him so tightly it popped his back. "Just think for once you moron," she said, mumbling. "Our quest is oooooooover. No pap me before I start blubbering." Hand shaking with uncertainty, he gently touched her cheek, and felt her slump against him.
Vriska threw the dice again, demanding to be taken home. The two disappeared in a flash of light, and Feferi turned back to the oasis, stumbling through the dust, ready to taste fresh water for the first time in centuries.
Author's Note: Two more chapters, guys. The next one is going to be extra long, don't worry. All the things are going to go down. All of them. This one is a bit short considering how long I spent working on it but that is simply a matter of my being busy with a variety of things, both dull and not-so-dull. Plot twist; the final boss is DD, who gives a shit?
The OCs of course have their own classes, in case I ever use them in a more standard Homestuck fic (or if anyone wants to rent them out). Domenn Patria is a Seer of Breath and the Breath whispers portents in his ears; Alppis Cohrai is a Knight, Rick Havoc is a Prince, Fang Abata is a Witch (and also the Avatar, master of all Aspects but that's not important at all) and the Sage is a Mage.
The Harmattan is a North African trade wind; this world's geography is loosely based on North Africa if you hadn't noticed (you probably hadn't); the world's end is roughly in the same location as the Red Sea, the North Sea is the Mediterranean and the Painted Desert is the Sahara, although it doesn't extend from coast to coast, as there are forests and marshes west of Prospit. The Beforan Republic is tropical, like equatorial Africa. I'm merely restating things I've already said to help you get the picture.
Before you start praising me about John's speech, know that I lifted it from a Charlie Chaplain movie, The Great Dictator. See it here: watch?v=6FMNFvKEy4c&feature=player_embedded#!, it's good. My reaction was pretty much the same as Jade's; I didn't know the clowny little trickster had it in him.