Max wasn't sure what was happening, really. All that ran through his head
was the oft-repeated phrase, "I'm gonna die". While monotonous, he could
not help but think it: after all, a huge, ghoulish, drooling source of
death currently stood a scant few metres away, chomping away on his
Chocobo. It screeched in pain – oh, I'm not gonna look at that anymore,
not gonna look – and a few small flecks of blood managed to escape the
thing's jaws and splatter daintily across the back of Max's cowering head.
Here he was, the great hero in the making, with his face shoved deep into
the grass while his ride met with an untimely fate.
He couldn't have even run: his ankle, twisted from a very bad fall, defied any form of locomotion. Max wasn't prepared mentally to run anyway. He just felt like hiding until either the monster went away, satiated, or came back to pick him off as well. The former would have been nice, of course, but at this point, anything was preferable to listening to such grisly crunching.
What was he thinking, going out on a story? His boss had been right. Donebert had suspected the kid would do something boneheaded like this. Max knew it. Why else would he keep Max back? Max, obviously, sucked at his job. He was no reporter: hell, he probably didn't even cut it as a desk jockey. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Max felt like crying at that moment, lamenting his failures in life, but no tears fell. The sickening slurps and crunches he could hear behind him prevented any soulful actions on his part.
Mercifully, perhaps, he was kept from enduring them any longer, as a single tentacle flew out from behind, ready to snap him up: and, gazing at it but once, Max knew he was about to die, that he was ready to die, that he didn't care anymore if he died or not, he just wanted it to be over, and a part of him was completely surprised at all that, for he had never struck himself as the suicidal type. He'd thought he'd been pretty happy, all things considered.
"Guess not," the youth mumbled, and clenched his eyes firmly tight again, the tentacle whipping towards his chest with a loud crack.
---
Fate, naturally, was not ready for Maximilian Letouchas to enter the Farplane. So it interjected into his situation a new factor, one that would come back to revisit Max time and again before the end of it all.
---
A heavily gauntleted hand – far larger than anything Max had ever seen on a human before, so he figured it could not be a human – grabbed the tip of the tentacle mere seconds before it whipped around Max. Another hand almost casually heaved Max out of the way, sending him sprawling but not seriously hurting the frightened reporter.
Max regained a face-up posture, sitting in the dirt, more than a little stupefied. Shouldn't he have been dead about now? But then, gazing at his saviour, he decided, regardless of how vicious the monster may have looked, that death would have to wait for another day.
He was an absolutely enormous man – at least seven feet tall – and completely built out of muscle. Max doubted if he could have located even the slightest modicum of fat on his body. Not seeming to care about decorum, the man wore no shirt, and Max could see networks of scars running across his considerable chest, both small and large. At his side was slung a curious item: it appeared to be the handle of an enormous, two-handed sword, yet it bore no blade. Max didn't bother to ponder over it. Over his head was draped a long, flowing brown hood, but Max could see his face well enough: a coarse, white beard, no smile to speak of, and mismatched eyes – one was a normal, pale brown, while the other was disfigured and red. It looked as though somebody had passed a sword across it at one point and it had never recovered. The skin around it was swollen and puffy.
That which stood out the most on this already memorable man, however, was his arms. They were thickly built, like the rest of him, and at least one of them bore a tattoo of a Marlboro: however, once one ventured a little further south of the elbow, things changed. Both forearms were covered in gigantic, steel gauntlets, decorated in various opulent jewels and glowing a pale green in the sunlight. They seemed to radiate pure power, and Max knew, even with his lack of field experience, that they probably contained a lot of magic in them.
His hypothesis was about to be verified. The man, giving Max only a cursory glance, took a quick, sweeping tug on the tentacle he held, and it almost immediately gave way. Releasing his grip on the tip of it, the tentacle, given considerable momentum from what seemed to be only a slight motion, went sailing through the air: the man did not seem to care that poison rained down upon him as it passed overhead, though Max himself immediately took cover.
The Fiend squealed – a high-pitched, incredulous noise – and, without stopping to gauge its wound, charged straight at the man. Its remaining tentacles stretched out to embrace him.
What the man did next, however, managed to completely nonplus his opponent, for the creature had never witnessed such behaviour from humans before: he ran directly at it, unarmed, save for his considerable strength. Its steps faltered somewhat, not expecting such a bold move – and before it could do anything, he was upon it.
"Your skull'll make some fine material, moron." These words were called out into the cool breeze only seconds before the man leapt, propelled by mountainous legs up and over the creature's head and onto its back. The fiend hesitated, still confused: and that moment sounded its death knell.
Gripping one of the long, spiralling horns, the man retrieved his sword handle and planted its long, vacant guard against the smooth centre of the monster's skull. A white, blazing light seemed to erupt from the sword, and though max could hardly see it at first, as the man began to withdraw his bladeless sword he saw that it now had a blade: it was as though he had pulled it out from the creature itself, and in this estimation, Max was not far off from the truth. Long, white, and clearly textured, the sword looked rather like the skull of the creature itself, bearing a rather knobbly surface and a viciously curved appearance. The blade managed to fit, at the base, across the entire guard, a guard that looked to Max to be about a foot in length.
Needless to say, when the tip emerged from the creature and the gleaming light abated, the sword was absolutely enormous, and appeared to Max to be utterly impracticable. Nobody could lift a sword that heavy, let alone swing it.
Yet the man seemed to do just that, and with absolutely no difficulty. With a deft back flip had catapulted himself off of the creature's back, mere seconds before its tentacles slid up around its skull in search of a target. Noticing the lack of pressure on its back, it turned, smashing aside weeds and grass, bringing those deadly, thick whips back to bear on its newest threat. The man, distancing himself somewhat from the fiend, readied his weapon, noting grimly that the monster still had smatters of blood and a great deal of golden wings nestled amongst the crevices of its tri-pronged mouth.
"Nasty bastard, this one." His comment was rather nonchalant, but his expression showed that it was anything but. He was ready to take it on in a serious fight.
It had still not occurred to Max that he should help, nor that he might search out an antidote for the man: after all, he was coated in the things' venom. Instead, he remained seated, watching in awe. Who the hell was this guy, that he could lift that sword? It looked like something a machina three times his size might wield.
The monster, now fully outraged, made towards him in a heavy gallop, tendrils extended once again to grasp and crush.
The man only grinned. "Sorry, beautiful, but this time I'm prepared." With a sudden dash he flew amidst the jungle of tentacles, bringing his sword around his huge, sweeping arcs: and after having only suffered three minor grazes, the man had managed to do away with the majority of its weaponry, all of which flopped about in the field, their lingering poison quickly killing off plant life.
The monster stopped caring about losing tentacles. Instead, it intended to utterly crush the life out of this little enemy with its enormous legs. It pounded towards the warrior – who had just finished the last of his sword strokes – vacant eyes lusting for his blood.
It would never get the chance, for two reasons: one, its tentacles had not provided enough of a challenge to hinder the man for long, and two, the creature, despite its size, simply was not fast enough. Even a creature that could track down Chocobos was not enough to take on this man. Without skipping a beat, the man used his last stroke against the still-falling tentacles to spin, pivoting quickly and bringing the blade back to bear on the beast within scant seconds. The sword sliced deeply, cutting into the monster's belly.
It came to a sliding stop – or at least attempted to – and the man, knowing what was to come, simply abandoned his sword and ducked underneath the Fiend, rolling between its buckling legs.
The monster slid for several metres before collapsing completely. Its guts began to pour out in gallons before, mercifully, the whole of it vanished in a gentle swirl, and the unsent that made up its structure scattered off into the sky.
Max was, needless to say, rather aghast. His eyes were caught on the spot it had died, and refused to budge.
Eventually, the man entered his field of vision. He was dripping in green blood and roiling venom. It did not seem to bother him at all. Taking a long breath, he retrieved his curious sword – which, much to Max's confusion, slowly reverted back to a mere guard and pommel, the blade melting away into nothingness – and peered over at Max.
"Hoy!"
This first word did not register with Max.
"I said, hoy!"
These next ones did.
"Uh. . . uh. . . yeah?"
"You okay, kid?"
Max, checking the man over, only nodded mutely.
The man seemed satisfied with that. "Good. Just don't ride a damned Chocobo when you're on this road anymore: it draws these goddamn super- Fiend bastards to you like moths to a flame." He shook his head slowly, almost mournfully. "I was having such a nice nap, too."
Without another word, the man was off.
It was not until Max saw the man's back slowly recede over the next hill when he finally rose from his awkward positioning and took off at a manic pace towards his saviour.
Note: Once you know what you're doing, battles are, like, uber-fun to write. I'd never noticed before. I suggest you all try it.
He couldn't have even run: his ankle, twisted from a very bad fall, defied any form of locomotion. Max wasn't prepared mentally to run anyway. He just felt like hiding until either the monster went away, satiated, or came back to pick him off as well. The former would have been nice, of course, but at this point, anything was preferable to listening to such grisly crunching.
What was he thinking, going out on a story? His boss had been right. Donebert had suspected the kid would do something boneheaded like this. Max knew it. Why else would he keep Max back? Max, obviously, sucked at his job. He was no reporter: hell, he probably didn't even cut it as a desk jockey. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Max felt like crying at that moment, lamenting his failures in life, but no tears fell. The sickening slurps and crunches he could hear behind him prevented any soulful actions on his part.
Mercifully, perhaps, he was kept from enduring them any longer, as a single tentacle flew out from behind, ready to snap him up: and, gazing at it but once, Max knew he was about to die, that he was ready to die, that he didn't care anymore if he died or not, he just wanted it to be over, and a part of him was completely surprised at all that, for he had never struck himself as the suicidal type. He'd thought he'd been pretty happy, all things considered.
"Guess not," the youth mumbled, and clenched his eyes firmly tight again, the tentacle whipping towards his chest with a loud crack.
---
Fate, naturally, was not ready for Maximilian Letouchas to enter the Farplane. So it interjected into his situation a new factor, one that would come back to revisit Max time and again before the end of it all.
---
A heavily gauntleted hand – far larger than anything Max had ever seen on a human before, so he figured it could not be a human – grabbed the tip of the tentacle mere seconds before it whipped around Max. Another hand almost casually heaved Max out of the way, sending him sprawling but not seriously hurting the frightened reporter.
Max regained a face-up posture, sitting in the dirt, more than a little stupefied. Shouldn't he have been dead about now? But then, gazing at his saviour, he decided, regardless of how vicious the monster may have looked, that death would have to wait for another day.
He was an absolutely enormous man – at least seven feet tall – and completely built out of muscle. Max doubted if he could have located even the slightest modicum of fat on his body. Not seeming to care about decorum, the man wore no shirt, and Max could see networks of scars running across his considerable chest, both small and large. At his side was slung a curious item: it appeared to be the handle of an enormous, two-handed sword, yet it bore no blade. Max didn't bother to ponder over it. Over his head was draped a long, flowing brown hood, but Max could see his face well enough: a coarse, white beard, no smile to speak of, and mismatched eyes – one was a normal, pale brown, while the other was disfigured and red. It looked as though somebody had passed a sword across it at one point and it had never recovered. The skin around it was swollen and puffy.
That which stood out the most on this already memorable man, however, was his arms. They were thickly built, like the rest of him, and at least one of them bore a tattoo of a Marlboro: however, once one ventured a little further south of the elbow, things changed. Both forearms were covered in gigantic, steel gauntlets, decorated in various opulent jewels and glowing a pale green in the sunlight. They seemed to radiate pure power, and Max knew, even with his lack of field experience, that they probably contained a lot of magic in them.
His hypothesis was about to be verified. The man, giving Max only a cursory glance, took a quick, sweeping tug on the tentacle he held, and it almost immediately gave way. Releasing his grip on the tip of it, the tentacle, given considerable momentum from what seemed to be only a slight motion, went sailing through the air: the man did not seem to care that poison rained down upon him as it passed overhead, though Max himself immediately took cover.
The Fiend squealed – a high-pitched, incredulous noise – and, without stopping to gauge its wound, charged straight at the man. Its remaining tentacles stretched out to embrace him.
What the man did next, however, managed to completely nonplus his opponent, for the creature had never witnessed such behaviour from humans before: he ran directly at it, unarmed, save for his considerable strength. Its steps faltered somewhat, not expecting such a bold move – and before it could do anything, he was upon it.
"Your skull'll make some fine material, moron." These words were called out into the cool breeze only seconds before the man leapt, propelled by mountainous legs up and over the creature's head and onto its back. The fiend hesitated, still confused: and that moment sounded its death knell.
Gripping one of the long, spiralling horns, the man retrieved his sword handle and planted its long, vacant guard against the smooth centre of the monster's skull. A white, blazing light seemed to erupt from the sword, and though max could hardly see it at first, as the man began to withdraw his bladeless sword he saw that it now had a blade: it was as though he had pulled it out from the creature itself, and in this estimation, Max was not far off from the truth. Long, white, and clearly textured, the sword looked rather like the skull of the creature itself, bearing a rather knobbly surface and a viciously curved appearance. The blade managed to fit, at the base, across the entire guard, a guard that looked to Max to be about a foot in length.
Needless to say, when the tip emerged from the creature and the gleaming light abated, the sword was absolutely enormous, and appeared to Max to be utterly impracticable. Nobody could lift a sword that heavy, let alone swing it.
Yet the man seemed to do just that, and with absolutely no difficulty. With a deft back flip had catapulted himself off of the creature's back, mere seconds before its tentacles slid up around its skull in search of a target. Noticing the lack of pressure on its back, it turned, smashing aside weeds and grass, bringing those deadly, thick whips back to bear on its newest threat. The man, distancing himself somewhat from the fiend, readied his weapon, noting grimly that the monster still had smatters of blood and a great deal of golden wings nestled amongst the crevices of its tri-pronged mouth.
"Nasty bastard, this one." His comment was rather nonchalant, but his expression showed that it was anything but. He was ready to take it on in a serious fight.
It had still not occurred to Max that he should help, nor that he might search out an antidote for the man: after all, he was coated in the things' venom. Instead, he remained seated, watching in awe. Who the hell was this guy, that he could lift that sword? It looked like something a machina three times his size might wield.
The monster, now fully outraged, made towards him in a heavy gallop, tendrils extended once again to grasp and crush.
The man only grinned. "Sorry, beautiful, but this time I'm prepared." With a sudden dash he flew amidst the jungle of tentacles, bringing his sword around his huge, sweeping arcs: and after having only suffered three minor grazes, the man had managed to do away with the majority of its weaponry, all of which flopped about in the field, their lingering poison quickly killing off plant life.
The monster stopped caring about losing tentacles. Instead, it intended to utterly crush the life out of this little enemy with its enormous legs. It pounded towards the warrior – who had just finished the last of his sword strokes – vacant eyes lusting for his blood.
It would never get the chance, for two reasons: one, its tentacles had not provided enough of a challenge to hinder the man for long, and two, the creature, despite its size, simply was not fast enough. Even a creature that could track down Chocobos was not enough to take on this man. Without skipping a beat, the man used his last stroke against the still-falling tentacles to spin, pivoting quickly and bringing the blade back to bear on the beast within scant seconds. The sword sliced deeply, cutting into the monster's belly.
It came to a sliding stop – or at least attempted to – and the man, knowing what was to come, simply abandoned his sword and ducked underneath the Fiend, rolling between its buckling legs.
The monster slid for several metres before collapsing completely. Its guts began to pour out in gallons before, mercifully, the whole of it vanished in a gentle swirl, and the unsent that made up its structure scattered off into the sky.
Max was, needless to say, rather aghast. His eyes were caught on the spot it had died, and refused to budge.
Eventually, the man entered his field of vision. He was dripping in green blood and roiling venom. It did not seem to bother him at all. Taking a long breath, he retrieved his curious sword – which, much to Max's confusion, slowly reverted back to a mere guard and pommel, the blade melting away into nothingness – and peered over at Max.
"Hoy!"
This first word did not register with Max.
"I said, hoy!"
These next ones did.
"Uh. . . uh. . . yeah?"
"You okay, kid?"
Max, checking the man over, only nodded mutely.
The man seemed satisfied with that. "Good. Just don't ride a damned Chocobo when you're on this road anymore: it draws these goddamn super- Fiend bastards to you like moths to a flame." He shook his head slowly, almost mournfully. "I was having such a nice nap, too."
Without another word, the man was off.
It was not until Max saw the man's back slowly recede over the next hill when he finally rose from his awkward positioning and took off at a manic pace towards his saviour.
Note: Once you know what you're doing, battles are, like, uber-fun to write. I'd never noticed before. I suggest you all try it.