Why chap long tho -_-
Armour: Brimflame
Weapon: Winter's Fury, Undine's Retribution, Stormfront Razor
Acc(11/11): The Bee, Celestial cuffs, Mana Flower, Sorcerer Emblem, Cryo Wings, Ankh Shield, Deific Amulet, FrostSpark Boots, Grand Gelatin, Amalgamated Br
ain, Evasion Scarf. (Unlimited Buffs)
Health: (500/500)
*Clatter*
"..."
This is pathetic.
I'm starting to doubt my own ability.
Every single creature on this earth is able to build a home for itself. From the rats which burrow holes in the ground, to the birds to make nests in the trees... even ants build subterranean cities. But me? I've spent last night hiding in the branches of an unfriendly pine whilst the undead horde milled the forest undergrowth. They moaned and groaned far below, disgusting rotting things clambering over each other in an attempt to reach me from my perch. Needless to say, they did not reach me. I was a hundred feet up - but just the idea those horrible aberrations were looking at me -seeking me- made me feel disgusting. Tonight, I must shield myself from them. I must build a home.
Come on... why is this so difficult?
I, who have demolished armies with the flick of my finger - who has been able to learn the deep intricacies of all manner of magicks, who could even survive death... find, to my great dismay, that I'm entirely unable to arrange these sticks and stones into even the humblest of shelters. The birds can make nests, the rats can dig burrows... yet I sit here at the edge of a mountainside lake stacking pebbles and driftwood and wondering if I've lost my mind completely.
ugh... Do I need... nails? Rope? Perhaps an axe to cut logs from trees? hmm...
I sigh and throw myself flat against the bumpy pebble beach to bemoan my predicament. Technically, I don't need to build a home. I don't sleep, I don't eat and I don't need protection from the elements. But something inside me just wants to build. Be it a hovel, a shrine, a homestead or a castle... I must have a place to call my own on this quiet little mountain lake-side. Some innate impulse compels me to do so. It seems as natural to me as breathing or fighting. I know I can survive as a nomad, but the very idea rankled me.
And so began my first pathetic foray into construction. After descending the tree at the break of dawn, I wandered about the forest - observing all the different foliage and creatures in the area. Some of these, I knew from my studies. Deer, foxes, insects, bears: the relatively peaceable animals that stayed out of my way. There were, however, a number of organisms that lack a sense of self-preservation entirely. Slimes of all colour and variety came at me - heedless to the countless bodies of its slain brethren (gel is sweet, but sticks annoyingly to my molars). Strange, self-propagating robots that whirr and tumble about - oftentimes bashing themselves into heaps of smoking rubble as they traverse the terrain in an effort to charge me down. I only observe a few of their innards before I recognize them from diagrams in an encyclopedia.
Pests of shoddy construction, made primarily from iron based organo-metallic ore. John B. Wolfrum, in his efforts to mimic life through mechanics, discovered a method to marry flesh and metal. His robots use a form of acid-based molecular restructuring to transform organic matter into basic mechanical components - a robust programming that allowed them not only to replace their parts, but also self-propogate through subterrain factories...
This is how I burned my afternoon. Hiking in the lush woodlands, tasting whatever piqued my interest (The Archmage had at one time scolded me for 'putting everything in my mouth' but I see no reason why I shouldn't indulge this particular curiosity of mine), and hunting down Wolfrum factories. Now, the sky is darkening, and I still haven't managed to build anything of even passable value.
And it wasn't for lack of trying.
I've gathered for myself a great number of stones. I've pulled fallen logs from the depths of the lake. I've kicked them about and shuffled them around, arranging them in every way imaginable, but the inspiration just wasn't coming to me. I expended my Mana trying to raise lake water into some mimicry of The Archmage's castle (needless to say, the thousands of ice shards slowly melting on the beach are quite indicative of my failure) and now, having failed in my creative endeavors... I lay here, staring at the oncoming dusk and feeling bad for myself.
Should I dig a hole... no. At that point I'd rather just fight zombies all night.
I stretch and flip over so my chin is propped against the cold stones. I toss the pebbles around with my metallic fingertips as I observe the darkening treeline - the pines stretching towards the sky like dark spear heads. There are few creatures in the area - just the occasional slime and chipmunk - so I've opted to remove most of my armour's hard plates and wander about in just undergarments (save my gauntlets, of course. I'm having a terrifically difficult time building callouses and when I bleed, the slickness of blood effects my grip). It's been a long while since I've felt the wind on my bare skin, or the coolness of round stones pressing into my stomach, or the wetness of cold water between my toes... it's soothing in a mindless sort of way. Just sitting here, wasting the whole day away. Watching the clouds pass over the sun. Watching the sun pass across the sky. I shut my eyes and listen to the small waves lapping at the shore.
...
...
...what have I accomplished my whole life?
I'm almost startled by the wayward thought.
Had I not come here with the intention of resting from the mayhem of the recent battles? Yet my mind would not let me rest. I groan as I'm thrown once more into strenuous introspections. What have I accomplished? What have I done at The Resistance? Now that I think carefully about it, I... honestly hadn't a clue. I was hardly given a moment of silence to think, to really understand the layers and layers of motives that led to the commands dispensed to me. The Factions inside The Resistance were unknown to me. The power struggles that must surely have taken place. Each time I took action, whether it be to destroy an army, to rebel against Braelor, or carry The Moon Lord's Corpse... what was the effect of such things? Nobody told me anything - and even if they did provide me explanation, they would most likely have lied to me.
Tch... I'm a destroyer, aren't I?
Every power structure I touch collapses. Why would The Structure of The Resistance trust me? They treated me with a tenuous fear. A last ditch resort, like a monster or a flame that might just as easily consume their enemies as it would themselves. I am the lengths The Resistance would go to in an effort to defeat The Tyrant - and perhaps it was I that led to The Resistance's downfall.
... probably not. What the hell do I know anyways. They didn't tell me anything. Hell, they barely gave me time to think about it.
While in The Resistance, there was always somebody there to blast me with gibberish then tell me what to do. Go here, do this, go there, do that. A million sets of instructions, a million sets of motivations. They cared only for what I could accomplish for them - and considering the circumstances, it was reasonable for them to do so. Guard dogs were for guarding. Cooks were for cooking. But Terrarians? I... wasn't supposed to be a servant. They told me I was a Hero! A legend! Almost a deity - yet I allowed myself to be ordered about like a man under bondage.
Pathetic creature. Nothing but a slave to those that hated you.
I suppose I thought it was normal. I'd just been born. I've never known anything else. I was raised in that noisy pit of snakes - that mess of selfish influences, each eager to expend me for the sakes of their dreams. Perhaps some of those snakes had my welfare in mind, but I'm certain most did not. They were poisonous - all were quite intent on running me ragged to accomplish their goals. These endless tasks and innumerable errands, missions and requests. The moment I finish one, another is thrown in my lap. Learn these spells, attack that army, fetch these from the jungle, bring that monstrosity to The Resistance...
Now...
Now in the end, I look back to my life, and I realize I have not accomplished anything at all. Even with The Archmage's guiding hand, it was all just hectic nonsense. There was hardly a thing that I did by my own volition. Well... there was one, and it landed me naked in the nest of The Crimson worms...
*shiver*
A chill rolls down my spine as I grit my teeth and battle away the intrusive thoughts. Right now, I don't want to think about the things that happened to me in the past. That enormous lump of memories is all toxic to me. Most of it is bad, but even the goodness I experienced there is all overshadowed by the Death of The Archmage. I've cried my eyes dry yesterday. I don't want to think about him anymore.
I'm locking those memories away.
I want to start again.
To start a life where my actions are my own. Where my motivations are my own.
And right now, I want to build hut... and when I'm finished, whatever amalgamation of sticks and stone I manage to create will be more of an accomplishment than the sumtotal of everything I've done until now.
Alright Faze... You're your own hero now. You chose your own name. You can choose your own life. Let's go-
Filled with a renewed sense of purpose, I grunt and scramble to my feet. The small pebbles bounce and clatter as they tumble down into the lake water. Some are slippery and covered in bright green algae (the microscopic plants taste slimy and bad), others are crystalline and contain sparks of micah and quartz. To my left, my pile of driftwood - but I'm certain I saw some large pine boughs deep at the bottom of the lake. Perhaps I can make some sort of teepee when I stack them all in a ring.
Perhaps I can build a fire too? I... can light the driftwood with magical flames.
*plop...plop,plop...plop*
The cold water chills my skin and turns the surface of the flesh a pale blue as I wade in to my knees (I find the range of colours rather interesting, might I be a chameleon?) Just as I'm about to dive in, I'm startled out of my musings by the sound of uneaven footsteps thumping on the ground. Quickly, I whirl and narrow my eyes - scorching the treeline in search of the one that dares to approach me. A thrill of terror. Has somebody found me? The King's Agents, perhaps? Or My Teacher's lackeys?
*crunch...thud*
I'm not going back.
I grit my teeth, I draw my blade - prepared to defend myself against anyone who might once more bring me under bondage.
Th-there! There's somebody there!
He was on the brink of collapse. Everything hurt. His muscles ached and trembled. His body was about to fall apart, and he knew he needed to get rest and medical attention or he was as good as dead. There were zombies in these parts. The Demolitionist could smell the rot in the earth. He knew there were hungry mouths underground, waiting for the cover of dark to burst out and tear into him. Even now, as the last rays of sunlight disappeared over the horizon, he could feel the ground shifting beneath his feet as he cleared the treeline and stepped out into the wide pebble beach.
"H-help! Please! Please help!"
There was a man's silhouette there, cut against the reflection of the sunset. It was tall and sinewy, wearing no armour save ornate claw-like gauntlets that adorned it's hands. From this angle, its face was darkened, but the moment it turned, two glowing eyes focused on him. Even from such a distance, The Demolitionist could see the reptilian slits in those burning pupils.
Ack! He's not a man?! Is he an Agent?
The Dwarf officer froze as a wave of fear washed over him. It wasn't merely a fear of his circumstances, of a dangerous enemy he must contend with... but rather the dread of certain death. As if he had just bumbled into a dragon's lair, or the eye of a great malevolent deity was upon him. He could scarcely gasp out a whisper.
"Y-you-... what are you-"
"Resistance, I see. Are you here to hunt me, Dwarf?"
The man's voice was loud and stern, yet he did not shout. He sounded human enough, but something about the way he carried himself - the fluid movements, the uncanny strength in his stance - said he wasn't. His voice seemed to overlay the surroundings as if he were speaking on an entirely different plane. Behind, the wind whistled. The air was becoming increasingly rancid. The undergrowth began to rustle as the creatures of the night crawled from their shallow graves.
Is he... perhaps a monster brought forth by this cursed moon?
In any other circumstance, The Demolitionist would have turned tail and fled. But today, curse his luck, he had no choice. He was nigh on the brink of collapse. The very thought of travelling further was odious. Whether he liked it or not, he would spend the night in the company of either a horde of zombies (which would definately kill him) or The Blood Moon's Dragon-man (who might). At least The Dragon-man seemed capable of reason... and perhaps pity. Normally, The Demolitionist was above begging, but not today.
"Sir, please. Won'tcha help me? The zombies are comin' and I'm bout ready ta keel over. Yharim's troops chased me. I dun' wanna die yet!"
"Hah?"
Those slitted eyes blinked and observed him for a long while. There was neither pity nor empathy in his eyes, but neither was there malice. Just a dull, almost forlorn apathy.
After a moment, The Dragon man seemed to conclude The Demolitionist was no threat. He vanished his blade and trotted over, his bare feet clattering on the stones, but not displacing them enough for somebody of his weight and build. Indeed, he almost looked as of he were gliding across the ground. How uncanny.
"Help you?... hmm."
The Dragon man stopped to observe him carefully from a reasonable distance, his expression locked up and wooden - and he really seemed to be considering it. The Demolitionist held his wounds and observed him back. He was interesting looking. Rather tall and lanky, but well built. His features were pedestrian, save the eyes that glowed like coals and the dramatic set of eyebrows which crowned them. Aside for that, he had a face you'd swear you've seen before. Somewhere between boyish and handsome, but perhaps a bit too symmetrical for what was natural.
But The Demolitionist was under no impression that this man was 'normal'. He was very pale, his skin nearly white as birch. He had opted to wander about halfway naked in the cold weather, so The Demolitionist could see the many dozens of tattoos faintly glowing all over his skin. Clearly, he was fully grown - but something about him seemed very young. It wasn't that he was immature... no, perhaps it was that token curiosity or the way he twitched his fingers.
"Ah!"
The glowing eyes lit up. A rather proud grin broke the stony expression and spread jarringly across the Dragon Man's face. It was... honestly a bit terrifying. The Demolitionist had never seen a smile cut so deeply into the cheeks. But ultimately, a smile from A Dragon was better than a frown. He began to chatter, as if triumphantly explaining the solution to a recently solved a puzzle.
"Two arrows and two puncture wounds. One through the deltoid and lodged behind the scapula, likely non-dangerous unless it's struck the artery there. The other has gone through the trapezius and down into the lung... or maybe not..."
The Dragon man walked a circle about him, his brow furrowed as he engaged himself fully in this odd pseudo-medical thought exercise. He spoke as if he were reciting excerpts from various textbooks, and as he babbled, The Demolitionist found himself becoming increasingly annoyed. He needed help, and this man was treating him like a museum exhibit.
"Dwarf, did the arrow pierce your lung?" It wasn't a question asked out of concern. "No, I'm betting against it. Dwarvish constitutions are significantly hardier than that of humans. Doctor J.H Harrisson's studies on muscle density of various species concluded the dwarvish musculature is approximately 54% more-"
The Demolitionist's voice came out equal parts exasperated and exhausted. He slumped heavily to one knee, and - despite all his effort - could not get back up again. Shit. It felt like he was dying... he hadn't the patience for this.
"S-sir! Can you hurry and help me to safety!? Do you have a home! or a shelter? For heaven's sake! The dead are raisin'!"
The Dragon-man, having been interrupted, froze and blinked at him as if not expecting him to speak. He didn't seem even a little bit abashed for his flippant attitude towards a gravely injured man and instead appraised him with a cold look in his eyes. From the treeline, moans and groans increased in volume as dusk settled over the mountain lake. Staggering figures began lumbering towards them from all around, yet even as they approached, The Dragon Man paid them no mind.
He spoke. His voice was icy, and perhaps a bit sad.
"Well Dwarf, you were to one that interrupted my building process. Hence-" The Dragon man nodded towards the pile of stones and driftwood. He gazed for a moment as if once more trying to decipher something, before shrugging and quickly changing topics. His expression once more picked up. It was then that The Demolitionist understood it was a facade.
"But the zombies aren't a threat. I will deal with them as they come. I am very strong, you know."
His expression became unspeakably smug, and that flash of bitter sadness vanished in the flow of exaggerated egotism. The Demolitionist grumbled - wondering what grave crime he must have committed that his final moments were in the company of this... brat.
The Dragon Man pointed a finger towards the many undead figures that have stepped onto the beach, and several of the runes painted on his skin glowed faintly as magic pulsed beneath them. Otherwise, there was no fanfare. Just a shockwave - nearly imperceptible as it passed through them at short range, but as it travelled outwards - like ripples in a puddle - it gained strength until it struck the zombies - bursting them like grotesque party poppers.
The Dragon Man watched them explode with scarcely a change in his expression, save the wrinkling of his nose at the suddenly worsening scent. Perhaps it was best he didn't build here after all... the smell of corpses was familiar - but illitcited no fond memories.
...
After a moment, he sighed turned back towards The Demolitionist with the intention of walking another circle about him, but much to his surprise, The Dwarf officer had fallen to the ground, unmoving. The Dragon man's cheerful expression came down, and once more, stony apathy hardened his delicate features. He lifted his gaze to the blood moon and muttered his thoughts to nobody in particular.
"I suppose it did pierce his lung after all... He wasn't kidding when he said he was dying. What will you do now, Hero?"
She needed to get the hell out of here.
Something terrible was going to happen. Indeed, it had already happened.
The Stylist felt it in her blood - something she hadn't felt before. The breaking of something extremely vital. As if the whole world had just been split in two, and good and evil were streaking up from that gash in the earth.
Now, The Stylist had never been the spiritual type. Until she had come to The Monster Knight's compound, she didn't believe in the supernatural at all! She didn't believe in spirits, the legends of The Dryads, the supposed monsters in the dungeons... essentially, all the mystical nonsensical gobbledygook she was once at liberty to dismiss as fantasy was now forced upon her in the most terrifying ways.
So, knowing she was a skeptic, this deep sense of foreboding made her all the more certain that something terrible was happening.
I need to go... little bro is waiting for me. The Guide says he's probably at The Resistance? I need to escape and travel north before anything worse happens.
The pink haired woman took deep breaths as she pressed her back into the sturdy wooden wall-panels. She had sidled up against one of her bedroom's plush curtains to peek out the window. She daren't show her face today. The whole world was... much more dangerous now - somehow. The tree branches looked sharper. The grass looked like a multitude of emerald daggers...
And crouched in the patio - were the two women. The Mechanic and The Party Girl. One - Draedon's assistant. The Other, an Imperial Spy.
They twittered and muttered, as they worked. Chattering excitedly amongst themselves as they fashioned a great number of odd iron boxes wrapped in chains and sturdy padlocks. Each had the shape of an elongated shoebox, and the insides were studded with sharp nails. Miniature iron maidens.
For what purpose had these two created such contraptions?! The Stylist didn't want to know... she knew it was nothing innocent. Her blood was burning. Her flesh crawled. She needed to escape.
Because something terrible had happened.
Someone terrible was on his way here.
This is the second time the Demolitionist got chased into a terrarian by CC agents.
Faze is pretty much a little shit. He's not a nice guy, but he's not evil so eh. That's pretty good for this story.
Also he likes to put everything into his mouth, he's a 1 month old baby. he tastes everything. Idk if you remember, but he was eating snails while exploring the jungle too :)
Slayer is on his way. idk i think he's just chillin by the lava pools. From this point on, you'll hear him be called 'Monster Knight far more often - because only the guide called him Slayer. Everyone else says MK.
