(Beginning A/N)
TV Tropes has ruined my life! I am in despair! TV Tropes has left me in despair! (and one of these days, I'll get around to seeing the series I just referenced. But I can't, since reading TV Tropes is taking too much of my free time! AGH!)
Non-One Piecers: Sanji's Wanted poster is... a bad rendition, I suppose one could say. Sanji isn't pleased about it.
Non-Overlorders: Yeah, I'm not even bothering to look at Overlord canon at this point. In fact, the last time I did that was when I took note of the titles as they were being listed by the jester.
And I can't decide if it would be hilarious or depressing if 4Kids had dubbed the name as 'Lolonoa'.
(End beginning A/N)
The ship... feels like its moving... there weren't any plans to leave the island, before I took a nap... Nami was still unconscious, so they probably would not have set a course... maybe the ship got loose from the island? Nah, the anchoring lines were checked...
Passing it off as his imagination, the swordsman stopped thinking and returned to his sleep. A few feet away, the Marine that had accidentally awoken him began to breathe again, returning carefully to his task aboard the brig-sloop.
Backpedaling and parrying, the Overlord was fully aware of the fact that he was rapidly losing ground in his efforts to not be touched by the blade. Were it a normal weapon, he would nigh ignore it and let it break against his armor- but, this was no ordinary weapon. He'd figured that out fairly quickly, when a glancing blow left a deep scar in the front of his helm.
For the fourth time in mere seconds of combat, Steve went over the facts. Firstly, the sword can cut through Arcanium. Secondly, that includes both my sword and armor. Duh. Thirdly, it does so distressingly easily. Fourthly, this Marine fellow is annoyingly tenacious.
Steve's standard method of combat (swing swing whack) was pretty much useless; so, for the time being, he was doing his best to parry the other sword by hitting the flat of its blade.
It was not a fun task, to say the least. Because he had to concentrate on the other sword, he couldn't focus enough into mana circulation to raise a shield, for whatever good it would have done.
His opponent was thinking more optimistic thoughts: ah, yes! The stories of this blade are true! Even this JuJu-using man is afraid! It's not just a showy glow stick after all! I might get promoted for this guy's defeat- oooh, maybe I'll get a better duty than what I have now...
Watching another chunk of Arcanium fall away from one of his gauntlets, Steve's thought process went even more into overdrive. Continue like this = pain, likely death. Alternatives: few to none. Scratch that: sane alternatives: few to none. Nigh suicidal alternatives: They exist. Gauntlets: Probably going to need to be replaced. That sword: want. This guy: probably won't surrender it easily. All right, plan: lunge when he's preparing his next wide att- hang on, why am I fighting fair?
Continuing his retreat until he reached a good spot, Steve then forced the Marine backward with a wild, barely controlled swing. Taking advantage of the short break, he dropped to one knee.
Interpreting the move as a loss of balance, Vonvarr stepped forward and raised his own sword for the final blow. Unfortunately, as soon as he stepped forward he got a handful of dirt and pebbles flung into his face, followed by an armored kick to the shin and a gauntlet grabbing onto and twisting his sword arm.
Holding the Arcanium blade against the man's neck, Steve got a closer look at the weapon that could render his armor useless. It was painfully average looking, past the glow; if it weren't for the luminescence, he wouldn't look twice at it- though, there were some very small markings along the blade.
Before he could read the inscription just above the hilt, Steve felt something quite sharp sink into his right thigh.
Falling onto his knee again, the Overlord let out a rumbling grunt- a dagger version of the larger blade, gripped by the free hand of the Marine, had pierced the Arcanium plating. Hoping that nothing important got severed, the Impenetrable One raised his gaze back to the other man.
His eyes still watering from the pebbles, Vonvarr leered. "You fight dirty, I fight dirty."
"Fa-rgh- enough." Shoving the Marine away, Steve then yanked the small weapon out of his leg and threw it to the side.
Swimming in a circle around the island, Sanji sought a place where he could get out of the ocean- but to no avail, as all he could find was the vertical cliff face of the island.
Once he had hit the water, the rage subsided slightly- he still wanted to beat the armored guy into a metallic pulp, but at least he could think somewhat clearer. Only somewhat, though- whenever he thought of Steve, the fury rose again.
Having swum around most of the island, Sanji stared at the cliff face he floated in front of, trying to remember. That looks familiar... I think... yes! The ship was moored... right... here...
After staring at the cliff face for a few seconds, the chef looked higher and saw the severed ropes that had been anchoring the Sunny. Confused, he looked to the other direction- and saw two ships far in the distance, one of which had the familiar color scheme of the vessel he sought- and the familiar logo, on the sails which were being lowered.
Seeing the vague symbol of the Marines on the other ship, Sanji recalled that nobody else was conscious when he left. Fear for his beloveds then drove him to swim at a nearly record-breaking speed towards the two vessels.
Stumbling backward, the Great and Mighty Overlord placed a hand over the damaged portion of his armor, and the gash across his abdomen- it was not a terribly deep wound, but it still hurt.
Their armor and suit ragged, the two duelists breathed heavily- one stood lopsided, a leg unreliable and an injury in his torso, the other having trouble seeing and one arm limply at his side, as blood spread across his suit from the wound near his shoulder.
Forcing himself steady, Steve raised his left arm and pointed it at the Marine, palm out.
"Is... that a... surrender?" Eyes watering and shoulder oozing, Vonvarr glared at his enemy.
"'Fraid not." His already rough voice made gruffer by injury, the Leader of the Fire Starters took the opportunity to concentrate his mana for the first time that fight.
Raising his weapon, the Marine had to squint- though his vision was already blurry, the armored man's slightly wavy aura seemed to be getting... wavier. Getting the indication that what what the JuJu user was doing would be poor for his health, Vonvarr charged forward to try and interrupt his opponent.
Fortunately for Steve, Fireball was quite a quick spell.
Fortunately for Vonvarr, he reflexively raised the sword in a block.
Unfortunately for Steve, the Marine's sword could apparently destroy a Fireball.
Unfortunately for Vonvarr, the Overlord had good reflexes.
Staggering sideways from the force of the armored backhand, the Marine found himself on the defensive as his opponent, now even more wary of the sword, begun hurling nearby rock chunks.
Wincing from the damage to his body, Steve gritted his teeth and continued his barrage of stones, almost all of which were being knocked aside by the luminescent blade.
Hang on... knocked aside?
Curious, he hefted a larger rock, took careful aim, and hurled. The stone soared true, and was parried by the Marine's weapon.
But... that sword cut through Arcanium, yet... rocks are merely struck aside, not cut...
Having an idea, Steve plunged his chipped blade into a nearby rock and hefted it, converting his blade into a makeshift club- sure enough, Vonvarr's eyes widened slightly, and he shifted to a more defensive stance.
"That sword of yours... how well does it cut non-magic?" Bleeding and limping, the Master of Arcanium Weaponry moved towards his opponent.
"I... don't know what y-you're talking about..."
Snarling at the effort of hefting his weightier weapon while weakened, the partially crippled man started another offensive.
"Sergeant! Assignment completed!" Having returned from the pirate ship, the crewman saluted his superior.
"Good. What of the pirates?"
"One of the crew woke briefly, but didn't notice me and went back to sleep. It's possible that it won't take much to awaken him again."
"What of the others aboard the ship?"
"I checked some of the other areas of the vessel, and it doesn't seem that anybody else is conscious; however, I did not see anybody even remotely similar to the picture on Black-Leg's poster there. It's possible he's aboard the ship but in hiding, or is back at the island."
"If he's on the island, then the Captain will likely be able to handle- what are you gawking at?" Turning around, the Sergeant looked back towards the island, where his subordinate's eyes had widened.
Rapidly closing the distance was what looked to be a person swimming at a nearly impossible speed, complete with plumes of water stretching into the air. Guessing that the swimmer's intentions were likely not going to be pleasant, on the basis that nobody in First Squad could move that fast under any condition and therefore was not an ally, the Sergeant commanded Second Squad to prepare for combat.
"The Man-Eating Gingerbread, no... Storm White, no... Ditzy Frumpty, Girl in the Boot, The Lad Who Screeched Dragon, no!" With an aggravated snarl, Gnarl slammed the book back onto the bookshelf, sending the Browns carrying said bookshelf staggering away, as more Browns endeavored to heft other bookshelves up and down the various connecting starwells.
It could be going faster, except the Reds would ignite the books, the Greens would likely smear... stuff on them, and the Blues could get them wet. With only the Browns allowed to touch the bookshelves, their non-delicate procedure of handling things led to several instances of falling back down the stairs and knocking over any groups that were behind their own.
The Forge Master, who had been standing off to the side for most of the chaos, shuffled forward and tapped Gnarl on the shoulder.
"What, Giblet?"
"What you looking for?"
"A book called Old Dark. It's not in any of these, and those blasted Browns can't-" Unseen by Gnarl as the elderly Minion ranted about the clumsiness and overall inability of Browns to coordinate something without an imposing Master nearby, Giblet hurried down the stairs to the Forge.
Clutching a monstrous volume, the Brown hurried back towards the senior Minion, who was glaring murderously at a group that had gotten a shelf as far as the top step before dropping it back down.
"This... what want?"
"Eh? Ooh! Yes indeed, Giblet! Where was it?"
"In... Forge; height... booster... detailing... armor."
"At least it's not among a mess of others, I suppose. Now, where is that..." Flipping through the heavy compilation, Gnarl sought... and sought... and cursed the lack of an index... and searched, and finally found. "A-HA! Found the entry, the sly bugger! Giblet, have you ever gotten the chance to sit in during a reading of this thing?"
"Can't... 'member..." Though mostly unable to speak because he was still holding the book as Gnarl flipped through it, the Minion tried anyway.
"It's one of the oldest Minion books- a rarity among rares, as Minions are exceptionally inarticulate. Predates almost every other book that has been compared to it, and if something the last entry said is true, then it's a relevant thing right now..."
Both fighters struggled, though both were weakened; one from blood loss, pain, and a heavy weapon; the other from a lower degree of blood loss, pain, and blocking the crushing blows of the club-sword that were making his good arm less and less usable.
With the fourth rock having flown off the tip of his sword, Steve took a few steps backward and endeavored to catch his breath while hoping that the regenerative capability of his armor wasn't damaged. Also taking advantage of the lapse, Vonvarr wished the tingling in his arms would fade enough to continue fighting.
"Do... you... surrender?"
"No... do... you... surrender?"
"No... resistance... futile... surrender..."
"Never... how... about... you... surrender... in... face... of... Marines?"
"Fat... chance... yield... or die..."
"Not... in hundred... years..."
Pulling their worn selves back into readiness, one combatant raised his blade and the other stabbed a rock with his own.
Thoroughly wishing he had prepared for a tougher opponent, the Sergeant and a fourth of Second Squad slammed into the railing, as the others were similarly beaten down by "Black-Leg".
At least, they guessed he was Black-Leg. He had the hair, eyebrow, and the suit seemed to match the color scheme shown in the poster. Though, when shown the poster, the man got much more violent before the Marines could ask about his identity.
"D'you think we should... dunno... help the cap'n?"
The Marine to the speaker's right shook his head. "Nah, he didn't give any order about joining in."
"But, he's sort of getting... beaten..." To enforce the point, the club-sword slammed into Vonvarr's foot.
"He'd, um, call for us if he needed us, I'm sure." The captain's sword barely scraped through a pauldron. "See? He's scoring hits, he'll be fine."
"Maybe we should get ready, just in case he does need us?"
Not answering immediately, First Squad's second-in-command continued to watch the fight- they were seeming more and more evenly matched, now that the armored man was sticking rocks on his sword- and an even match was never a good thing. "Uh, yeah, on second thought, help me load this..."
If the darkness had a conscience, it would begin to be wary of that which occurred above; the guns were being loaded with specialty rounds, which could could very well be able to cause structural damage to the island and its internal caverns.
Were it in possession of thought, it would recognize that the man clad in metal was rapidly losing any chance at an upper hand the longer the fight wore on. The darkness would rapidly become aware of the fact that, if it had any, its best interests were not reflected with the intentions of the man in the white (and stained red) suit, and would therefore attempt to assist the man in armor.
However, the darkness is not a conscious entity. It lacks sentience and any sense of self-preservation, and is therefore absolutely incapable of altering any factor in the conflict taking place on top of the structure the darkness eternally stays idle within.
Until a short time ago, I, Pothole, was a member of the Min Legion, previously situated within the Black Fortress, which, prior to unexplained circumstances, sat in the Blood Plains. Now, however, there's talk of renaming that area the Blood Crater, and the local races have been having celebrations nonstop since the disappearance of the Fortress.
Despite repeated raids by the remaining Min Legion (which had been on a long-term harassment assignment at the time of the... disappearance), the races refuse to acknowledge that the absence of the Leader is most probably going to be a temporary thing. In fact, they've been forming allegiances in order to drive the last of the Legion away; it's utterly unnatural, to see the dwarves charging alongside elves, or half-lings among humans.
An abomination though it may be, the combined strengths of these races is truly terrifying- though mostly because a single one of those races would outnumber the remaining Min Legion much more than a few hundred, maybe even some thousand, to one.. Facing such ill odds, I believe I will have no choice but to pull the Mins into hiding until our numbers have replenished enough to build a new Black Bastion.
That's what I was talking about! The Black Fortress! Where it once sat lies naught but a crater; the ground is not torn, but rather... spherical, as though a great ball of land was taken from the area, the Fortress included.
It's a mildly disturbing notion. No more disturbing, however, than the thought of Evil being forced to hide for an extended period of time; it gives me shudders of disgust and anticipation, merely thinking about the Goodness that will flourish and the smoke embracing the skies as it is burned back into the dirt.
My my, sidetracked yet again. I will leave a chest that, among other things, will contain the blueprints for a planned Black Watchtower, to be built when the Mins have reestablished their grasp on the realm. I chose a Black Watchtower, because it's the absolute smallest construction plan I'm aware was ever even drawn- the Leader's advisers have a tendency to think extremely large-scale, which makes it difficult to select a new Black Bastion for the future.
This is the final account of the Age of the Black Horde, ruled by the Leader of the Mins until his (and the Fortress, and almost all of Min-kind's) disappearance. The Age lasted for several years, ever since the Leader was raised by wild Mins as a young'un to the years of his life when his hair turned to lighter shades and the scars began to ache.
This is Pothole, Min Captain and Ink-spreader, entering the last entry into the book Olde Dark, which contains the stories of all the great Min advisers.
"Pothole's... Master just... disappear?"
Nodding grimly, the elderly Minion closed the old tome, which was promptly set on the floor by Giblet. "Yes; it's one of the Great Mysteries of the realm, what happened to the Black Legion- even for the Good races, it's ranked alongside the location of the Gold Water and the validity of the Magenta Crown. All that is known is that the Leader of the Mins was a scourge for all Goodness, a legend among Evil, that disappeared and took his hordes with him. Minus our ancestors, of course."
"So why you want this back out?"
"I wanted to re-read that final entry," Rubbing his chin, Gnarl looked back at the waters of the Tower Heart's pool. "It would seem possible that our Master has found the Bastion of legend, and I could only hope that its contents were not too disturbed..."
As the last Marine hit the deck, the chef had to resist the urge to risk another look at the bounty poster laying on the wood, instead distracting himself from it by severing the lines connecting the caravel to the Thousand Sunny.
Jumping across to the now loose pirate vessel, the chef considered his next course of action; his anger still bubbled on a much lesser level, alongside worry for the navigator and archaeologist and irritation at everyone else for allowing harm to get such a close proximity to them.
Deciding that he'd rather not risk the safety of the two women again, Sanji took hold of the wheel and turned the ship away from the seemingly bare island and the men fighting upon it.
Falling to his knees for what he knew to be the last time that fight, Steve tried but failed to move his left arm; his right held his weapon, and was unavailable to try and withdraw the blade from his chest.
With more of a rustle than a clatter, his opponent also fell, the rock at the end of the Arcanium blade having caused damage to several parts of his shoulder and skull. Blood flowed from, between both fighters, just about every region of their bodies.
While the possibly concussed Marine had mercifully lost consciousness from the severity of his wounds, the Overlord was not as lucky in that regard. Though, this allowed him to see the captain's subordinates move forward in an orderly fashion, swords raised and other weapons leveled at the man who knelt, seemingly defenseless.
Deciding that being captured by lackeys was not the most fulfilling way to go, the Overlord released his weapon and raised his left arm using his right, pointing the hand towards the oncoming group and painfully striking two fingers together.
-Kfwoosh!-
Finally allowing himself to fall over, Steve clung to consciousness only long enough for a certain magical system to activate in his armor.
Much to his blurry dismay, something else activated in its place.
"Due to extreme damage sustained by the Arcanium Armor, all internal systems have been deactivated due to safety reasons. The deactivated systems include: Heating & Cooling. Detector of All Mannerisms of Magic and Interesting Things. Health Regeneration. Minion Management Crystal. EI Minion Radio. Automatic Bookie. Evil Day Planner, and other nonessential systems. Please seek maintenance for your Arcanium armor immediately, as it is has taken extreme damage. Now listing damaged areas: pauldron, left: needs replacement-"
By this time, the wearer of aforementioned damaged armor had already ceased being conscious.
(Begin end A/N)
It's weird, thinking of various tropes as I write them. Very distracting.
Koffkoff newpoll koffkoff
(End end A/N)