"There's somethin' happenin' here. What it is ain't exactly clear. 'Cause there's a man with a gun over there, a tellin' me, I got to beware. Sayin' stop hey, what's that sound everybody look whats going down." -I have no friggin' clue but it's a good song
There is a phenomenon experienced in certain life or death situations which can only be described as a "moment of clarity". It is a mystery that cannot be explained adequately to someone who has not experienced it. What, exactly, causes it is unknown. Some undefinable strength that empowers certain individuals when they need it most? If this is true, it is perhaps the greatest argument for the existence of a higher power. Perhaps the answer is not so mystic. Perhaps after a certain amount of terrifying stimuli, a person's sense of reality simply stands up from its chair, tosses down its headset in disgust, and mutters to itself quietly as it goes off for a mochacchino. The resulting sense of clarity is simply the same detachment one gets while watching a particularly gruesome movie. Whether or not this enlightened awareness is the result of divine intervention or simple hysteria, one thing cannot be argued against. Great things have been accomplished in this state of clarity. Men and women have sawed through their own trapped limbs, bound the resulting stump with duct tape, then driven themselves calmly fifteen or so odd miles to the nearest hospital.
Ash had experienced this particular phenomenon before in his battles with the undead.
This was not one of those times.
***
"Argggh! You dirty mother- ARGH!" Ash wailed incoherently as the deadite sank its teeth deeper into the flesh of his calf. He spun about in a circle as though he were attempting to wrench the zombie loose by centrifugal force, waving his hand and chainsaw about in a manic dance that probably would have caught on quite quickly in a rave.
Another deadite woke up sluggishly and almost tentatively grabbed Ash's other foot. He stomped heavily on its fingers until they resembled a mass of scrambled hotdogs and ketchup.
Well, maybe green ketchup.
Ash stumbled backwards towards Makoto's workbench, tripping over another sluggishly moving deadite and falling to one knee. His left arm swung around from the momentum of his spin, and the chainsaw connected with one of the legs of the workbench. While not on, his chainsaw was still a good thirty pounds of metal, and in addition to the force behind it was enough to snap the leg of the workbench completely in two. The workbench did what any sensible and heavily laden piece of furniture would do when turned into an ungainly tripod and tipped over, dumping about one hundred and fifty pounds of fried microportigenesis device and a plate or two of beef ramen onto Ash's noggin.
Ash was unamused.
Clawing his way out of the debris (Ash had suffered worse head trauma getting out of the shower, so he was largely unaffected. Ash is to head trauma like white is to rice, the two are inseperable, and unless steamed tend to be sticky... er... yeah) Ash cast around with his free hand for something, ANYTHING to get this damned undead bastard off of his leg. He spotted a screwdriver spinning lazily a foot or so out of his reach. Looking up at the two stunned teenagers, he cleared his throat, then snapped his fingers.
"Hey... KID! YEAH YOU... WITH THE BAD PERM JOB.... Mind handing me that god-damned screwdriver?"
The deadite bit down harder and chortled madly and Ash gritted his teeth and hissed.
Makoto blinked. His brain was still having problems with the whole concept of undead people and gaijin crashing into his life from the heavens. This was undoubtedly a byproduct of his experiments with the microportigenesis device, but how did it result in... this?
Nanami's jaw dropped. Bad... perm job? What the... Certain instincts more important then fear kicked in and she scowled at him, putting her hands on her hips.
"How rude! If you wanted a screwdriver, you could at least ask a bit more nicely."
Ash blinked in astonishment. "You gotta be shittin' me."
Nanami turned her nose up. "There's no need for foul language, if you want help, ask nicely."
The deadite seconded her notion by worrying its teeth deeper into his thigh.
"PrettyprettypleasewithsugarontopgivemethefuckingscrewdriveryouAHHHsonofa-!"
It occured to Nanami (who had her own ways of dealing with moments of extreme stress) that perhaps it would not be a good idea to antagonize the crazy gaijin with the powertools and hunting weaponry. She reached down and picked up the screwdriver, tossing it to (read as AT) Ash. Then she did what any sane and rational individual would do at the sight of an extremely crazed gaijin screaming and dancing around with what appeared to be rejects from the first Resident Evil game in the center of what HAD been a rather cute little meeting between her and the (clueless) object of her affections. She took off running towards the nearest exit, with the intention of calling in the castle gaurd to deal with this mess. While this may have seemed like cowardice on her part, Nanami is above all a realist, and when one is faced with extreme danger, it is better to allow the professionals to get kill-.. er to deal with it.
Ash grabbed the screwdriver and jabbed it into the deadite's mouth. Gritting his teeth, he painstakingly levered open the creature's vicelike grip on his leg, cursing softly to himself as he did so. Finally getting his chewed up limb out of the monster's jaws, he slammed the point of the screwdriver through the bottom of the creature's mouth and into the wooden floor of the library. Pounding on it once to insure that the thing wasn't going anywhere, he pulled himself out from under the mass of ruined machinery and blearily took stock of his situation. One of the things still remaining had stumbled to its feet, and was now advancing on the other teenager, who had a look of almost comical confusion on his face. The thing leered at him and started forward, its feet a couple of inches off the ground in a downright vulgar lack of concern for gravity. The teenager in question "eeped" quietly, then eyed his surroundings for something to defend himself with. While not a coward, Makoto was not what one would call a seasoned combat veteran, (the extent of his martial experience being the art of throwing himself in front of city leveling blasts in efforts to save his friends) and judging from the twisted piece of metal he'd picked up from the ruins of his discovery, things were not going to go well for him.
"Can we talk about this?" He asked weakly, his natural reaction towards diplomacy coming to the fore.
"I'LL SWALLOW YOUR SOULLLLLLL!" The thing shrieked at him, raising its arms threateningly.
Makoto paled. "I guess not."
There was a very important sounding click. Makoto blinked. The thing turned in confusion.
"Hey kid..." Ash intoned, levelling the now reloaded shotgun at the creature. "Sorry about the mess."
The shotgun boomed like the voice of God proclaiming the deadite "naughty in his sight" (or at least, in Ash's sights) and a large amount of gore and green blood coated a stunned Makoto Mizuhara. He blinked.
"T-That's alright."
The things legs twitched spasmodically then collapsed to the ground.
***
Cleaning up the rest of the hellspawned mess was relatively easy for a seasoned veteran like Ash. The remaining deadites seemed confused, as though they were going through the metaphysical equivilant of jet lag. Ash calmly dismembered then with the air of one who had been doing this for entirely too long. Makoto lost his lunch somewhere after the second twitching corpse, and perched miserably on the corner of the upset work bench. Ash regarded his handiwork thoughtfully. The deadite stapled to the ground by its lower jaw and a large screwdriver eyed him evily. He frowned.
"Missed one."
"Wet-ted mort skum!" The thing hissed at him, though the horrifying effect was somewhat lessened by the screwdriver induced lisp it stuttered around. "Destwoyer a the necwonomicon! The dead Swall ave ter vengeance!"
"The... that thing is DEAD!" Makoto exclaimed weakly, his eyes goggling in horror.
"Yeah..." Ash grumbled, raising his growling chainsaw. "Not as dead as it's going to be in a minute though..."
"But... but the dead aren't supposed to talk..." Makoto babbled.
"I don't think anyone explained that to these guys." Ash cracked, reasonably.
"The mwaster Sal Swawow Youw Sowl!" The thing lisped, reiterating its company's mission statement.
Ash slapped his forehead. "I KNEW that asshole was gonna pop up. I just knew it." Never one to let a bit of bad news keep him down, Ash grinned fiercely. "Well... he's gonna have to take a rain check." Then he went to work.
***
As usual, seven palace gaurds, Nanami, and Londs arrived approximately five minutes too late to do anything constructive. They burst into the library and were greeted with the unlikely image of a shell shocked, goresplattered Makoto watching in awe as the equally gorespattered stranger consumed what little of the lunch Nanami had prepared for Makoto that hadn't been soaked in gore or splattered all over the floor.
"Don't get me wrong kid," Ash remarked jovially through a gigantic mouthful of ramen, "Nothing wrong with Chinese now and again, but an hour after ya eat it, you just get hungry again." He absently kicked an arm across the room that had been stealthy clawing its way toward his boot.
Nanami scowled. "Hey! Th... that's Makoto's lunch." She pointed an accusing finger at him, as the rest of the observers stared at her in a state of shock. The state of said lunch was not what they expected to weigh most heavily on the situation.
"Relax sister. Your boyfriend didn't look like he wanted any." Ash poked the chop sticks into the mass of noodles and stirred them around, then picked up the resultant mess of noodles and almost got them into his mouth. The mess dropped back down into the container and he scowled. "Friggin' people oughta learn to use forks like the rest of the civilized world."
Nanami, still stunned by the whole "boyfriend" comment, could only stare in outrage. Londs (a professional when it comes to the whole outrage thing) choose that moment to react.
"WHAT IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT'S HOLY HAS TRANSPIRED HERE?!"
Ash blinked. "Who's this asshole?"
"GUARDS!! APPREHEND THIS... THIS RUFFIAN!!"
Ash dropped the container of noodles and scowled, his face full of righteous indignation. "OH NO! I'm not going through THIS again. If you rotten bastards want me yer gonna have to do it over my dead-"
Not one to disobey orders, the nearest Roshtarian gaurd executed a beautiful spinning swipe with the butt of his pike that caught the weary and injured deadite Slayer soundly across the back of the skull. Ash blinked, then turned to regard the gaurd in question.
"Hey... that was a neat trick." He grinned, then his eyes rolled back and he collapsed in a comatose heap.
Londs regarded the snoring ruffian approvingly then turned to Makoto. "Master Makoto! Are you alright? This blackgaurd hasn't injured you I hope?"
Makoto blinked, regarding Ash solemnly. "He's going to be really angry when he wakes up." He said with the air of someone who is not looking forward to said occasion.
Everyone sweatdropped.
***
The Necronomicon Ex Mortis is not a normal book. One can tell this simply by looking at the cursed thing. Bound in human flesh, and inked in human blood, the book is shrouded in legend and mystery. Some argue that it was in fact simply the Nekros-nome-ikon of Sumerian religion, and the existence of several known Sumerian burial rites within its pages supports this arguement.
This is not entirely true, however. While incredibly ancient, the Sumerians were not the first practicioners of the Dark Arts. The book predates Sumeria by several thousand years, suggesting that it was, in fact, not penned by humans at all. Certainly the language contained within is alien to mankind, requiring extreme vocal dexterity to pronounce a vast majority of the hellish text.
Much like modern stereo instructions.
Modern equivilants of it pop up from time to time, but these are simply poor translations of the original book. Even these poorly executed copies hold immense power, such feared books as The Book of Fifty Names, the supposed Book of Nod, The Unausspreleuchen Kulten, Liber Diabolicus, and the famous (perhaps infamous) Necronomicon penned by a certain mad Arab come to mind.
Still, as powerful as these copies are, the translation is somewhat confused, and hence the true evil of the book is greatly diminished.
Again, much like modern stereo instructions.
The true Necronomicon has a mind of its own. It is empowered with the dark energy of alien gods, creatures of night that due to the power of creation find themselves imprisioned and chained within rational, though still monstrous, forms. They CANNOT exist in a physical sense, because their nature defies existence itself. They seek to return the physical to a state of pure chaos, where they can roam freely. Still, they require the intervention of the physical to wreak their vengeance upon the world, and it is for this purpose that the Necronomicon exists.
As much as it would be a pleasant dream, the Necronomicon cannot be destroyed by the simple act of throwing it into a fan.
Even one retailing for seventy-five ninety-five at your local S-Mart (Shop smart... I think you get the picture)
The Book was scattered into several different pieces by Ash's intervention, but these pieces had found their way to El Hazard, and its influence there was beginning to grow. Already, its agents searched for the forbidden pages stealthily, like mold creeping onto a piece of stale bread, their questing tendrils moving through the earth quietly.
The Necronomicon yearned to be complete again, and chance favored the return of the book to its original state.
It also favored the various pieces finding their ways into any number of... interesting hands.
***
Bad Ash was having a Bad Day.
It was interesting how one could be on top of life (or unlife as the case may be) one moment, then on the bottom of a compost pile missing half of one leg the next. Bad Ash clawed his way irritably to the top of the rotting vegitation he'd come to consciousness under, his coat slimed with algae and worse. Bits of decayed matter (some of it not his) matted his hair, and he'd lost his hat somewhere, which was unfortunate, because he'd really been fond of that hat.
Just one more thing to rip out of Ash's twitching hide.
The thought made him smile. He shook his head. Enough day dreaming. Casting about irritably, he located his left hand where it lay apparently stunned in the muck. He threw a rotten, unidentifiable something at it and the hand stirred feebly.
"Wake up you SLUGGARD!" He roared, dragging himself towards it. "We've got to find our damned book!"
The hand made a questioning gesture before crawling towards him like a lopsided spider.
He growled. "I know you idiot. I can feel it, but the feeling is odd. It's probably scattered to the four winds of this place..."
The hand made a gesture as though to say, "Duh", but Bad Ash missed this "remark". To be honest, the hand was the smarter of the two, but since it lacked any real vocal capacity aside from the occasional high pitched mumble (though how the hell it managed even this without vocal cords is a question better left unanswered) it had a tendency to defer to its louder companion.
Bad Ash picked it up, brushed off some muck and replaced it back on his wrist. Looking at his surroundings, he found that he was currently in the middle of what appeared to be some form of marsh. The sounds of insects, the strangely twisted trees, and several creeper vines made this obvious. He whistled (or tried to... it might have just been the sound of wind whistling past his perforated lower jaw) appreciatively.
"Looks like we ain't in Kansas anymore, Toto."
The hand twitched irritably.
Dragging himself painfully over to a nearby tree (or what passed for one in this dismal place) he grabbed one of the lower limbs and, with the monsterous strength born of one who no longer has to worry about muscle damage or exhaustion, ripped the living branch from from the tree. Stripping the twigs and other protruding odds and ends off of it, he jammed it into the oozing end of his damaged leg. It sank in a few inches, making a sickening squelching noise. Gathering his strength, he wobbled to his feet, taking a few experimental steps.
His left hand burbled. He growled. "I know I know... its a pretty crappy substitute, but it'll have to do until something... better wanders along." He grinned in anticipation. It made one feel sorry for whoever wandered across his path first.
He hobbled towards the east, following the incessant and demanding tug that some portion of the book was making on his mind. Evil has a great hunger for the Book...
There are very few as evil as Bad Ash.
***
Moebus, leader of the pitiful remnants of the phantom tribe, pondered the current state of his peoples affairs. Most important to him was their battle readiness, in other words, just how close they were to beginning anew their assault on the Roshtarians, in order to seize the technology they needed to get home.
The words, "not bloody likely" seemed most appropriate.
His people, while long-lived and exceptionally hardy, did not reproduce easily, meaning that while their numbers had steadily dwindled over the years, the humans had multiplied like pests. The unfortunate fact was that after Lord Galus, who had been their last best hope for vengeance, had met his ignoble end at the top of the Eye of God, the plans of the Phantom Tribe had been dashed, probably permenantly. To further sign his people's death warrant, he'd been forced to quell a large number of bloody coup attempts, mostly directed at other members of Galus' faction. When Galus had died, it had removed what had essentially been the keystone to the only alliance among the Phantom Tribe Lords to exist in centuries. Power was something the Phantom people prized above all else, and the resultant power vacuum had threatened to destroy them all.
That is, until Moebus had shown up.
Moebus had been overlooked as a possible enemy by the more powerful Lords, and in the bloody nights of cloak and dagger, his holdings had been largely untouched. Lord after lord had fallen to one another's treachery, and it was then that Moebus had struck.
Moebus had been a minor functionary, barely above the level of peon, but he'd been an important cog in his Lord's war machine. A part of Lord Galus' spy network, he'd simply converted Galus' web of contacts and minions into his own and waited. Once his rivals had bleed themselves dry of resources, he'd calmly stepped up, executed the lot of them, then settled himself into the position of leadership.
There were complaints at first, but when the more vocal members of the resistance to his rule had unfortunate accidents (usually along the lines of tying themselves up, blindfolding themselves, then tossing themselves carelessly back onto several sharp pointy objects, repeated as necessary) the rest simply shut up and acknowledged that though he might not have been a true Lord, he was definitely meaner then any of them.
Moebus was beginning to wish he hadn't bothered.
A group of scouts clustered in, forgot to bow, then stumbled over themselves to show the proper respect. The resultant gagglefuck made Moebus look up irritably and glower.
"Yes yes, what is it?" He snapped irritably.
"Begging... begging your pardon Dread Lord, but we've... found... that is, we've discovered a-"
Moebus shot him a look that could roughly be translated as, "get to the point soon, or I'm going to have to have you killed here rather then elsewhere, which will further irritate me because it will make a mess on the carpet."
"This had better be good."
The group of scouts parted to reveal a misshapen and pitiful creature that might (if one squinted at it and tilted one's head to the left slightly) have once been a Phantom Scout. Clutched in its gnarled deathgrip was a scattering of pages with strange arcane symbols inked in a familiar rust-colored substance. Moebus put on his specticles and frowned.
"What have we here?" He leaned forward, narrowing his eyes.
The creature looked up at him and shuddered. "The... the book... it... it has whispers... it tells me... darkness... power.... death...." It rocked back and forth, crying quietly to itself. The other scouts unconsciously retreated away from it.
Moebus grinned. It was a grin that several of the scouts recognized. It made them wish very much to be elsewhere. Being the recipient of that grin usually meant that one was going to disappear, quite possibly in several different directions.
"Interesting, tell me more..."
***
There is a phenomenon experienced in certain life or death situations which can only be described as a "moment of clarity". It is a mystery that cannot be explained adequately to someone who has not experienced it. What, exactly, causes it is unknown. Some undefinable strength that empowers certain individuals when they need it most? If this is true, it is perhaps the greatest argument for the existence of a higher power. Perhaps the answer is not so mystic. Perhaps after a certain amount of terrifying stimuli, a person's sense of reality simply stands up from its chair, tosses down its headset in disgust, and mutters to itself quietly as it goes off for a mochacchino. The resulting sense of clarity is simply the same detachment one gets while watching a particularly gruesome movie. Whether or not this enlightened awareness is the result of divine intervention or simple hysteria, one thing cannot be argued against. Great things have been accomplished in this state of clarity. Men and women have sawed through their own trapped limbs, bound the resulting stump with duct tape, then driven themselves calmly fifteen or so odd miles to the nearest hospital.
Ash had experienced this particular phenomenon before in his battles with the undead.
This was not one of those times.
***
"Argggh! You dirty mother- ARGH!" Ash wailed incoherently as the deadite sank its teeth deeper into the flesh of his calf. He spun about in a circle as though he were attempting to wrench the zombie loose by centrifugal force, waving his hand and chainsaw about in a manic dance that probably would have caught on quite quickly in a rave.
Another deadite woke up sluggishly and almost tentatively grabbed Ash's other foot. He stomped heavily on its fingers until they resembled a mass of scrambled hotdogs and ketchup.
Well, maybe green ketchup.
Ash stumbled backwards towards Makoto's workbench, tripping over another sluggishly moving deadite and falling to one knee. His left arm swung around from the momentum of his spin, and the chainsaw connected with one of the legs of the workbench. While not on, his chainsaw was still a good thirty pounds of metal, and in addition to the force behind it was enough to snap the leg of the workbench completely in two. The workbench did what any sensible and heavily laden piece of furniture would do when turned into an ungainly tripod and tipped over, dumping about one hundred and fifty pounds of fried microportigenesis device and a plate or two of beef ramen onto Ash's noggin.
Ash was unamused.
Clawing his way out of the debris (Ash had suffered worse head trauma getting out of the shower, so he was largely unaffected. Ash is to head trauma like white is to rice, the two are inseperable, and unless steamed tend to be sticky... er... yeah) Ash cast around with his free hand for something, ANYTHING to get this damned undead bastard off of his leg. He spotted a screwdriver spinning lazily a foot or so out of his reach. Looking up at the two stunned teenagers, he cleared his throat, then snapped his fingers.
"Hey... KID! YEAH YOU... WITH THE BAD PERM JOB.... Mind handing me that god-damned screwdriver?"
The deadite bit down harder and chortled madly and Ash gritted his teeth and hissed.
Makoto blinked. His brain was still having problems with the whole concept of undead people and gaijin crashing into his life from the heavens. This was undoubtedly a byproduct of his experiments with the microportigenesis device, but how did it result in... this?
Nanami's jaw dropped. Bad... perm job? What the... Certain instincts more important then fear kicked in and she scowled at him, putting her hands on her hips.
"How rude! If you wanted a screwdriver, you could at least ask a bit more nicely."
Ash blinked in astonishment. "You gotta be shittin' me."
Nanami turned her nose up. "There's no need for foul language, if you want help, ask nicely."
The deadite seconded her notion by worrying its teeth deeper into his thigh.
"PrettyprettypleasewithsugarontopgivemethefuckingscrewdriveryouAHHHsonofa-!"
It occured to Nanami (who had her own ways of dealing with moments of extreme stress) that perhaps it would not be a good idea to antagonize the crazy gaijin with the powertools and hunting weaponry. She reached down and picked up the screwdriver, tossing it to (read as AT) Ash. Then she did what any sane and rational individual would do at the sight of an extremely crazed gaijin screaming and dancing around with what appeared to be rejects from the first Resident Evil game in the center of what HAD been a rather cute little meeting between her and the (clueless) object of her affections. She took off running towards the nearest exit, with the intention of calling in the castle gaurd to deal with this mess. While this may have seemed like cowardice on her part, Nanami is above all a realist, and when one is faced with extreme danger, it is better to allow the professionals to get kill-.. er to deal with it.
Ash grabbed the screwdriver and jabbed it into the deadite's mouth. Gritting his teeth, he painstakingly levered open the creature's vicelike grip on his leg, cursing softly to himself as he did so. Finally getting his chewed up limb out of the monster's jaws, he slammed the point of the screwdriver through the bottom of the creature's mouth and into the wooden floor of the library. Pounding on it once to insure that the thing wasn't going anywhere, he pulled himself out from under the mass of ruined machinery and blearily took stock of his situation. One of the things still remaining had stumbled to its feet, and was now advancing on the other teenager, who had a look of almost comical confusion on his face. The thing leered at him and started forward, its feet a couple of inches off the ground in a downright vulgar lack of concern for gravity. The teenager in question "eeped" quietly, then eyed his surroundings for something to defend himself with. While not a coward, Makoto was not what one would call a seasoned combat veteran, (the extent of his martial experience being the art of throwing himself in front of city leveling blasts in efforts to save his friends) and judging from the twisted piece of metal he'd picked up from the ruins of his discovery, things were not going to go well for him.
"Can we talk about this?" He asked weakly, his natural reaction towards diplomacy coming to the fore.
"I'LL SWALLOW YOUR SOULLLLLLL!" The thing shrieked at him, raising its arms threateningly.
Makoto paled. "I guess not."
There was a very important sounding click. Makoto blinked. The thing turned in confusion.
"Hey kid..." Ash intoned, levelling the now reloaded shotgun at the creature. "Sorry about the mess."
The shotgun boomed like the voice of God proclaiming the deadite "naughty in his sight" (or at least, in Ash's sights) and a large amount of gore and green blood coated a stunned Makoto Mizuhara. He blinked.
"T-That's alright."
The things legs twitched spasmodically then collapsed to the ground.
***
Cleaning up the rest of the hellspawned mess was relatively easy for a seasoned veteran like Ash. The remaining deadites seemed confused, as though they were going through the metaphysical equivilant of jet lag. Ash calmly dismembered then with the air of one who had been doing this for entirely too long. Makoto lost his lunch somewhere after the second twitching corpse, and perched miserably on the corner of the upset work bench. Ash regarded his handiwork thoughtfully. The deadite stapled to the ground by its lower jaw and a large screwdriver eyed him evily. He frowned.
"Missed one."
"Wet-ted mort skum!" The thing hissed at him, though the horrifying effect was somewhat lessened by the screwdriver induced lisp it stuttered around. "Destwoyer a the necwonomicon! The dead Swall ave ter vengeance!"
"The... that thing is DEAD!" Makoto exclaimed weakly, his eyes goggling in horror.
"Yeah..." Ash grumbled, raising his growling chainsaw. "Not as dead as it's going to be in a minute though..."
"But... but the dead aren't supposed to talk..." Makoto babbled.
"I don't think anyone explained that to these guys." Ash cracked, reasonably.
"The mwaster Sal Swawow Youw Sowl!" The thing lisped, reiterating its company's mission statement.
Ash slapped his forehead. "I KNEW that asshole was gonna pop up. I just knew it." Never one to let a bit of bad news keep him down, Ash grinned fiercely. "Well... he's gonna have to take a rain check." Then he went to work.
***
As usual, seven palace gaurds, Nanami, and Londs arrived approximately five minutes too late to do anything constructive. They burst into the library and were greeted with the unlikely image of a shell shocked, goresplattered Makoto watching in awe as the equally gorespattered stranger consumed what little of the lunch Nanami had prepared for Makoto that hadn't been soaked in gore or splattered all over the floor.
"Don't get me wrong kid," Ash remarked jovially through a gigantic mouthful of ramen, "Nothing wrong with Chinese now and again, but an hour after ya eat it, you just get hungry again." He absently kicked an arm across the room that had been stealthy clawing its way toward his boot.
Nanami scowled. "Hey! Th... that's Makoto's lunch." She pointed an accusing finger at him, as the rest of the observers stared at her in a state of shock. The state of said lunch was not what they expected to weigh most heavily on the situation.
"Relax sister. Your boyfriend didn't look like he wanted any." Ash poked the chop sticks into the mass of noodles and stirred them around, then picked up the resultant mess of noodles and almost got them into his mouth. The mess dropped back down into the container and he scowled. "Friggin' people oughta learn to use forks like the rest of the civilized world."
Nanami, still stunned by the whole "boyfriend" comment, could only stare in outrage. Londs (a professional when it comes to the whole outrage thing) choose that moment to react.
"WHAT IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT'S HOLY HAS TRANSPIRED HERE?!"
Ash blinked. "Who's this asshole?"
"GUARDS!! APPREHEND THIS... THIS RUFFIAN!!"
Ash dropped the container of noodles and scowled, his face full of righteous indignation. "OH NO! I'm not going through THIS again. If you rotten bastards want me yer gonna have to do it over my dead-"
Not one to disobey orders, the nearest Roshtarian gaurd executed a beautiful spinning swipe with the butt of his pike that caught the weary and injured deadite Slayer soundly across the back of the skull. Ash blinked, then turned to regard the gaurd in question.
"Hey... that was a neat trick." He grinned, then his eyes rolled back and he collapsed in a comatose heap.
Londs regarded the snoring ruffian approvingly then turned to Makoto. "Master Makoto! Are you alright? This blackgaurd hasn't injured you I hope?"
Makoto blinked, regarding Ash solemnly. "He's going to be really angry when he wakes up." He said with the air of someone who is not looking forward to said occasion.
Everyone sweatdropped.
***
The Necronomicon Ex Mortis is not a normal book. One can tell this simply by looking at the cursed thing. Bound in human flesh, and inked in human blood, the book is shrouded in legend and mystery. Some argue that it was in fact simply the Nekros-nome-ikon of Sumerian religion, and the existence of several known Sumerian burial rites within its pages supports this arguement.
This is not entirely true, however. While incredibly ancient, the Sumerians were not the first practicioners of the Dark Arts. The book predates Sumeria by several thousand years, suggesting that it was, in fact, not penned by humans at all. Certainly the language contained within is alien to mankind, requiring extreme vocal dexterity to pronounce a vast majority of the hellish text.
Much like modern stereo instructions.
Modern equivilants of it pop up from time to time, but these are simply poor translations of the original book. Even these poorly executed copies hold immense power, such feared books as The Book of Fifty Names, the supposed Book of Nod, The Unausspreleuchen Kulten, Liber Diabolicus, and the famous (perhaps infamous) Necronomicon penned by a certain mad Arab come to mind.
Still, as powerful as these copies are, the translation is somewhat confused, and hence the true evil of the book is greatly diminished.
Again, much like modern stereo instructions.
The true Necronomicon has a mind of its own. It is empowered with the dark energy of alien gods, creatures of night that due to the power of creation find themselves imprisioned and chained within rational, though still monstrous, forms. They CANNOT exist in a physical sense, because their nature defies existence itself. They seek to return the physical to a state of pure chaos, where they can roam freely. Still, they require the intervention of the physical to wreak their vengeance upon the world, and it is for this purpose that the Necronomicon exists.
As much as it would be a pleasant dream, the Necronomicon cannot be destroyed by the simple act of throwing it into a fan.
Even one retailing for seventy-five ninety-five at your local S-Mart (Shop smart... I think you get the picture)
The Book was scattered into several different pieces by Ash's intervention, but these pieces had found their way to El Hazard, and its influence there was beginning to grow. Already, its agents searched for the forbidden pages stealthily, like mold creeping onto a piece of stale bread, their questing tendrils moving through the earth quietly.
The Necronomicon yearned to be complete again, and chance favored the return of the book to its original state.
It also favored the various pieces finding their ways into any number of... interesting hands.
***
Bad Ash was having a Bad Day.
It was interesting how one could be on top of life (or unlife as the case may be) one moment, then on the bottom of a compost pile missing half of one leg the next. Bad Ash clawed his way irritably to the top of the rotting vegitation he'd come to consciousness under, his coat slimed with algae and worse. Bits of decayed matter (some of it not his) matted his hair, and he'd lost his hat somewhere, which was unfortunate, because he'd really been fond of that hat.
Just one more thing to rip out of Ash's twitching hide.
The thought made him smile. He shook his head. Enough day dreaming. Casting about irritably, he located his left hand where it lay apparently stunned in the muck. He threw a rotten, unidentifiable something at it and the hand stirred feebly.
"Wake up you SLUGGARD!" He roared, dragging himself towards it. "We've got to find our damned book!"
The hand made a questioning gesture before crawling towards him like a lopsided spider.
He growled. "I know you idiot. I can feel it, but the feeling is odd. It's probably scattered to the four winds of this place..."
The hand made a gesture as though to say, "Duh", but Bad Ash missed this "remark". To be honest, the hand was the smarter of the two, but since it lacked any real vocal capacity aside from the occasional high pitched mumble (though how the hell it managed even this without vocal cords is a question better left unanswered) it had a tendency to defer to its louder companion.
Bad Ash picked it up, brushed off some muck and replaced it back on his wrist. Looking at his surroundings, he found that he was currently in the middle of what appeared to be some form of marsh. The sounds of insects, the strangely twisted trees, and several creeper vines made this obvious. He whistled (or tried to... it might have just been the sound of wind whistling past his perforated lower jaw) appreciatively.
"Looks like we ain't in Kansas anymore, Toto."
The hand twitched irritably.
Dragging himself painfully over to a nearby tree (or what passed for one in this dismal place) he grabbed one of the lower limbs and, with the monsterous strength born of one who no longer has to worry about muscle damage or exhaustion, ripped the living branch from from the tree. Stripping the twigs and other protruding odds and ends off of it, he jammed it into the oozing end of his damaged leg. It sank in a few inches, making a sickening squelching noise. Gathering his strength, he wobbled to his feet, taking a few experimental steps.
His left hand burbled. He growled. "I know I know... its a pretty crappy substitute, but it'll have to do until something... better wanders along." He grinned in anticipation. It made one feel sorry for whoever wandered across his path first.
He hobbled towards the east, following the incessant and demanding tug that some portion of the book was making on his mind. Evil has a great hunger for the Book...
There are very few as evil as Bad Ash.
***
Moebus, leader of the pitiful remnants of the phantom tribe, pondered the current state of his peoples affairs. Most important to him was their battle readiness, in other words, just how close they were to beginning anew their assault on the Roshtarians, in order to seize the technology they needed to get home.
The words, "not bloody likely" seemed most appropriate.
His people, while long-lived and exceptionally hardy, did not reproduce easily, meaning that while their numbers had steadily dwindled over the years, the humans had multiplied like pests. The unfortunate fact was that after Lord Galus, who had been their last best hope for vengeance, had met his ignoble end at the top of the Eye of God, the plans of the Phantom Tribe had been dashed, probably permenantly. To further sign his people's death warrant, he'd been forced to quell a large number of bloody coup attempts, mostly directed at other members of Galus' faction. When Galus had died, it had removed what had essentially been the keystone to the only alliance among the Phantom Tribe Lords to exist in centuries. Power was something the Phantom people prized above all else, and the resultant power vacuum had threatened to destroy them all.
That is, until Moebus had shown up.
Moebus had been overlooked as a possible enemy by the more powerful Lords, and in the bloody nights of cloak and dagger, his holdings had been largely untouched. Lord after lord had fallen to one another's treachery, and it was then that Moebus had struck.
Moebus had been a minor functionary, barely above the level of peon, but he'd been an important cog in his Lord's war machine. A part of Lord Galus' spy network, he'd simply converted Galus' web of contacts and minions into his own and waited. Once his rivals had bleed themselves dry of resources, he'd calmly stepped up, executed the lot of them, then settled himself into the position of leadership.
There were complaints at first, but when the more vocal members of the resistance to his rule had unfortunate accidents (usually along the lines of tying themselves up, blindfolding themselves, then tossing themselves carelessly back onto several sharp pointy objects, repeated as necessary) the rest simply shut up and acknowledged that though he might not have been a true Lord, he was definitely meaner then any of them.
Moebus was beginning to wish he hadn't bothered.
A group of scouts clustered in, forgot to bow, then stumbled over themselves to show the proper respect. The resultant gagglefuck made Moebus look up irritably and glower.
"Yes yes, what is it?" He snapped irritably.
"Begging... begging your pardon Dread Lord, but we've... found... that is, we've discovered a-"
Moebus shot him a look that could roughly be translated as, "get to the point soon, or I'm going to have to have you killed here rather then elsewhere, which will further irritate me because it will make a mess on the carpet."
"This had better be good."
The group of scouts parted to reveal a misshapen and pitiful creature that might (if one squinted at it and tilted one's head to the left slightly) have once been a Phantom Scout. Clutched in its gnarled deathgrip was a scattering of pages with strange arcane symbols inked in a familiar rust-colored substance. Moebus put on his specticles and frowned.
"What have we here?" He leaned forward, narrowing his eyes.
The creature looked up at him and shuddered. "The... the book... it... it has whispers... it tells me... darkness... power.... death...." It rocked back and forth, crying quietly to itself. The other scouts unconsciously retreated away from it.
Moebus grinned. It was a grin that several of the scouts recognized. It made them wish very much to be elsewhere. Being the recipient of that grin usually meant that one was going to disappear, quite possibly in several different directions.
"Interesting, tell me more..."
***