Chapter Five: Time Streaming, the Pros and Cons.
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Mortanius thought back to that faithful day when he met Hash'ak'gik at the Necromancers anonymous party. For some strange reason Azimuth had been there, this should have hinted something, she being a Planer and all. At the time Morty was too enraptured with the free cocktail weenies and the grilled cheese to care. The dark forces of Nosgoth had this amazingly apt way of getting to the heart of things, the Gaurdian of Death on the other hand was more concerned with scoring a few freebies along his path of righteousness. You see, Morty had principles, unlike the other members of the Circle of Nine, he believed in serving the land and its people. Therefore his profit margin was rather low, robbing the dead only gets you so far. This noble flaw, as most would see it, made him a pretty handy vessel to inhabit. Before Mortanius could react, a congo line had been formed and the next day he awoke with a bottle of tequila in one hand and a stinging migraine.
Luckily he had somehow managed to make it home, after a long night of partying and trying to avoid Azimuth's drunken lecherous advances. Mortanius casually rose to find a future version of the Time Streamer Moebius leaning against a stone wall in his room, whilst trying to clean a grey slab with his toothbrush. Morty wondered for the life of him what in the seven hells was going on, for there before his bed lay what seemed like an army of socks. These tiny possessed abominations were carrying a green sock towards a guillotine. Moebius and the woolly foot warmers were staunchly unaware of the Guardian of Deaths presence. Mortanius thought it best to close all the red dimensional portals inhabiting his domain. Future visages of Moebius on his hands and knees cleaning the tiles was weirdly comforting, however the socks were quite disturbing. With this little revelation the invaders disappeared leaving Mortanius to his own devices.
The night before had been quite taxing, the archaic reapers nerves were shot and his thudding temples continued down a steady path of annoyance. It was as though a presence was starting to push through, in the hopes of invading the back door of his psyche. Mortanius rolled to one side of the grand overly decorated gothic bed, that had Sebastians ceal of approval and tried to rest his weary head. Suddenly a loud thumping noise interrupted his attempts to enter the land of the dreaming.
Mortanius: Dumah, Rahab! Whatever jackass happens to be on duty, by all that is holy, somebody open that infernal door!
The hallway was silent and whomever was outside the strongholds main entrance continued their assault. Distinctly annoyed and in a rather pissy mood, the Necromancer headed towards the large wooden doorway. Upon opening it, Mortanius noticed a small intimidated boy, holding what appeared to be six bottles filled with a white liquid substance.
Mortanius: Weren't you supposed to be here some time ago, young man?
The Milk boy: Ummm, sir your eyes they're...
Mortanius: They're what?
The Milk boy: ...glowing...
Mortanius: Is that so?
Today Mortanius was not to be triffeled with, the incompetence of the milk industry had snapped their last dead straw. For indeed the Necromancers eyes were glowing, not their usual white soulless stare, but endowed with a light demonic green. An evil smile crept upon Morty's features as he removed his left foots slipper, pulling off a black sock and placing it in the childs free hand.
Mortanius: For failing the circle, with your blatant inability to deliver the milk on time...what's your name?
The Milk boy: er...Timmy
Mortanius: ...Timmy of the milk trade, you are hereby damned! From this day forward the pleasures of the...hmmmm you do seem a little young for that sort of thing, oh well never mind.
With that simple curse, the Necromancer was happy and Timmy was now wrapped around Mortanius's left foot. He kneeled forward and picked up the six bottles of milk, wondering where the other three went. In the distance unnoticed by the gaurdians glare, Rahab and Dumah happily sat under a large willowy tree enjoying their lunch break. Together they toasted the days success, with two mugs filled to the brim containing a white liquid. For drinking mead on the job would be wrong, they must stay alert, if those fiends of the night were to attack during the day.
Mortanius fell back into the warm embrace of his glorified cot and let the screams of his new accessary lull him to sleep. The six bottles sat unattended to, on a lone desk, much to Moebius's dismay the next day. Every Time Streamer knows a good cup of coffee with a dash of milk, is a perfect start to each morning, even if it is sour.
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Faustus was glad that his subtle genius was capable of removing the ever arrogant Sebastian from his proud family owned business. The ever fashion conscious Willendorf man of gypsy heritage (on his Mothers side some four centuries ago, it really explains his hair) was now faced with a new troubling dilemma. Never had he seen so many socks with varying personalities, let alone animation. Now personality to Faustus was not defined by the vocab of an individual, but their stitching. These little beauties were finely tailored, luckily Mortanius liked comfortable fashionable socks with their own individual flaires. The possessed socks were lucky to be unique in their own right. Unluckily for Faustus, a deeply pissed off old man, sporting what appeared to be a snake trying to devour a snow globe attached to a staff, had traveled to the future just to find the Necromancers tailer. Thankfully Moebius was omniscient, otherwise he could of been tracking down any one of Faustus's family members from many a different era.
Moebius: You! (the Time Guardian sneered). Do you have any idea the hellish nightmare I've had to endure at the...hands, of these things!
He grabbed one violently and threw it towards Faustus's general direction, the sock landed on his tunic and lovingly wrapped itself around the tailors arm.
Faustus: Old man, these accursed things are not of my creation!
To this Faustus looked down at the sentient sockling hugging his arm for dear life. There was a tag with the what appeared to be a name, Morty. On the other side was Faustus's signature grin and address to his fashion house. To this the tailor thought, oh crap and hoped to the dear sweet all knowing deity, this man hadn't noticed. Fausty remained ungifted in the art of saving his own keister, as Moebius was painfully aware who originally crafted the pre-possessed designs of those things.
Moebius: Child, these fiendish creations are yours. Signing them with a signature, hints some kind of connection to their creator.
Faustus, being the pretty quick on his feet sort, suddenly had another bright idea.
Faustus: Not I, dear sir, my name is merely the brand. You see, a gifted young gentleman down the street makes them for me.
Moebius: (clearly suspicious) Oh really, where can I find this fellow?
Faustus: Just round the corner, he has taken up residence next to the barbers shop on Hyde Avenue. The fellow also runs a fashion store and lives with the Willendorf army commander.
Moebius kicked himself for not foretelling this possibility. Yet in his arrogance the Streamer assumed that Faustus was the one who created these wooly creatures before their possession.
Moebius: If this is a jest tailor, my return shan't be as heartening.
With this revelation, Faustus bowed politely as the guardian left. The tailor smiled a wicked little grin and looked down at the black entity clinging his arm. Suddenly there was a distinct rattling round back, then a thud. Ah, thought Faustus to himself, Marcus has finally returned. A few days ago, he had sent his egomaniacal secretary on a little errand, to gather the armour and garments off the peasants slaughtered by the legions of the Nemesis. A bald head popped around the corner, curiously seeing if anyone was around.
Faustus: Marcus, my dear fellow, did we gather anything of profitable mention?
Marcus: yes of cour-...
Another thud transpired as Marcus had made the mistake of accidentally brushing past Faustus's arm with the loot. The sockling seemed overprotective of its original master and was happy to snuggle any possible attackers larynx. Faustus sighed and casually walked over Marcus's limp frame to see what the commotion going on outside was all about.
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