Slash
As the others in the palace of Magus arose, Slash was already awake. Slash hardly ever slept any more. He was too hyped. At present, he was taking out his energy on a training dummy. Slash's skill was, as always, impeccable. Attack, dodge, riposte, press the advantage, remove left arm, remove right arm, sword in the heart, withdraw and remove head. The same old formula, the same old strokes. Faster maybe, stronger probably, still not in any way interesting. Slash glared at the dismembered dummy. It just wasn't enough somehow. It wasn't the same when they didn't fight back. Slash was still slightly baffled by this. How on earth could the threat of physical pain and the effort of avoiding it be any more fulfilling than violently dismembering somebody? It was never a thought process he had managed to complete, due in the most part to not being very bright, but he still returned to it every so often. It might be, just possibly, because things happened that he didn't expect. Except, he thought, his brow furrowing, it didn't mostly. Because there was almost nothing an enemy could do that he hadn't seen other enemies do before. Slash promptly gave up thinking and spun round, sword ready. The unfortunate minion, come to check that his master hadn't grievously injured himself out of boredom was suddenly relieved of his head. Slash watched disappointedly as the corpse collapsed onto the ground. Things were so boring round here. Especially since nobody knew where he was. When he'd been living outside, it seemed that he could barely move for people with edged weapons trying to kill him and be proclaimed the best sword fighter ever. It had been interesting in those days. Hundreds of enemies, lots of different times and places, much blood, lots of people trying to kill him. Damn, he was back there again. Slash was an uncomplicated person at heart. He had strong tastes, firmly held. He'd made plans with Ozzie, done rituals with Magus, he wasn't quite sure he knew the words for some of the things Flea had talked him into, but he had yet to find anything that quite equalled the pleasure of fighting. Slash knew that he was probably boring when he wasn't killing things. His life seemed to pretty much revolve around attacking inanimate objects and accidentally killing his own minions. It was vaguely depressing. He used to sharpen his swords regularly, until Flea had turned up and given him an in- depth psychological analysis of why men liked large swords. After a while he'd got bored of trying to hammer it into the transvestite mage's head that he liked swords because he could fight with them. It really was that simple. But Flea had kept pestering him, and after that Slash had got bored and hit him. And, for no good reason that he could think of, one thing had led to another. Finally, Slash decided to practise his ultimate combat skill. Closing his eyes, he tensed his muscles (not for any reason, but Flea had said he looked good when he did it) and concentrated on the adrenaline that was at present accounting for a good half of his blood. Slowly, but gracefully, Slash rose off the floor. It wasn't a talent he cared to use often - after all, why should he bother floating unless the enemy was really tall? But he liked to keep his hand in, as Flea had gleefully pointed out. He hadn't really understood why. Slash decided to stay in mid-air for a while. He liked it. Nothing disturbed him up there. After all, what could possibly happen?
At 12:17 am, a party of adventurers led by a read-headed swordsman broke into Magus' castle. By 1:42 am, Ozzie, Flea and Slash were dead.
As the others in the palace of Magus arose, Slash was already awake. Slash hardly ever slept any more. He was too hyped. At present, he was taking out his energy on a training dummy. Slash's skill was, as always, impeccable. Attack, dodge, riposte, press the advantage, remove left arm, remove right arm, sword in the heart, withdraw and remove head. The same old formula, the same old strokes. Faster maybe, stronger probably, still not in any way interesting. Slash glared at the dismembered dummy. It just wasn't enough somehow. It wasn't the same when they didn't fight back. Slash was still slightly baffled by this. How on earth could the threat of physical pain and the effort of avoiding it be any more fulfilling than violently dismembering somebody? It was never a thought process he had managed to complete, due in the most part to not being very bright, but he still returned to it every so often. It might be, just possibly, because things happened that he didn't expect. Except, he thought, his brow furrowing, it didn't mostly. Because there was almost nothing an enemy could do that he hadn't seen other enemies do before. Slash promptly gave up thinking and spun round, sword ready. The unfortunate minion, come to check that his master hadn't grievously injured himself out of boredom was suddenly relieved of his head. Slash watched disappointedly as the corpse collapsed onto the ground. Things were so boring round here. Especially since nobody knew where he was. When he'd been living outside, it seemed that he could barely move for people with edged weapons trying to kill him and be proclaimed the best sword fighter ever. It had been interesting in those days. Hundreds of enemies, lots of different times and places, much blood, lots of people trying to kill him. Damn, he was back there again. Slash was an uncomplicated person at heart. He had strong tastes, firmly held. He'd made plans with Ozzie, done rituals with Magus, he wasn't quite sure he knew the words for some of the things Flea had talked him into, but he had yet to find anything that quite equalled the pleasure of fighting. Slash knew that he was probably boring when he wasn't killing things. His life seemed to pretty much revolve around attacking inanimate objects and accidentally killing his own minions. It was vaguely depressing. He used to sharpen his swords regularly, until Flea had turned up and given him an in- depth psychological analysis of why men liked large swords. After a while he'd got bored of trying to hammer it into the transvestite mage's head that he liked swords because he could fight with them. It really was that simple. But Flea had kept pestering him, and after that Slash had got bored and hit him. And, for no good reason that he could think of, one thing had led to another. Finally, Slash decided to practise his ultimate combat skill. Closing his eyes, he tensed his muscles (not for any reason, but Flea had said he looked good when he did it) and concentrated on the adrenaline that was at present accounting for a good half of his blood. Slowly, but gracefully, Slash rose off the floor. It wasn't a talent he cared to use often - after all, why should he bother floating unless the enemy was really tall? But he liked to keep his hand in, as Flea had gleefully pointed out. He hadn't really understood why. Slash decided to stay in mid-air for a while. He liked it. Nothing disturbed him up there. After all, what could possibly happen?
At 12:17 am, a party of adventurers led by a read-headed swordsman broke into Magus' castle. By 1:42 am, Ozzie, Flea and Slash were dead.