Chapter 14: Stoke the Flames
To simply call it a 'clash' would be to overwhelmingly understate the situation at hand. It was an encounter beyond conceivable thought—a struggle between twin forces of nature, in which one will surely overpower the other.
Karna took the initiative, lunging forward at breakneck speeds and appearing right before his opponent quicker than the human eye can blink. His divine lance, wreathed in radiant flames, became a golden bolt of lighting as the Heroic Spirit thrusted with unparalleled might and nigh impossible speeds.
A firestorm of unbelievable proportions surrounded the combatants, swallowing the two in a swirling cyclone of fire and heat. The air burned with power of two archaic flames contending against one another, snapping and wrestling against their opposites in a contest of authority. The earth scorched under the terrifying powers of the Servant pair, miles of land blackened under the rolling tides of fire that razed the grass into ashen dust.
Isabel parried the first blow by deflecting with her own spear; sending a shower of sparks flying from where the two weapons made contact. A tilt of her head lets her narrowly dodge the second blindingly-fast strike that grazed her face, leaving behind a shallow cut across her cheek. The tip of the third ferocious blow struck against the shaft of the raw iron spear that Isabel hastily maneuvered into a defensive guard, and the great force behind the thrust sent her flying back far.
Neck, head, and heart.
The Hero of Charity had made three consecutive attacks within milliseconds of the battle starting; each aimed precisely at a vital point of the human body. Each strike was done with the intention of cleanly piercing through, to end the clash before it could ever truly begin. This conviction still held true as the demi-god of the Sun rocketed forward in a furious burst of fiery mana, directly onto the position of Wondertainment, refusing to grant her the quick reprieve she desperately needed.
Karna indisputably outmatched her in martial technique, his skill with the divine lance was simply transcendent, immeasurably greater than her own meager expertise with the weapon. To compare the two within the same category was beyond unfair, for the Hero of the Mahabharata knew no equal on the fields of war. Isabel, who was only given the class of Lancer under the most specific of conditions, couldn't hold a candle to the combat prowess of the Servant who ranked amongst the highest of Heroic Spirits.
But that didn't mean she couldn't win.
"O Agni."
Faster than the flight of a supersonic jet, Karna's shining spear thundered onwards with the power of a ballistic missile. The fourth and final blow, it was the strike that shall incinerate her entire being, leaving nothing but ash to which she will return.
Under the roar of inferno, a forgotten melody sang. The golden spear, soaring like the light of the Sun, met nothing but empty air. The echoes of countless twinkling stars being the sole evidence of what was once there.
A deafening explosion took place in the wake of Karna's lance crashing into the blackened earth. The ground quaked under the tremendous might of the attack, and the field was torn asunder with the force of a nuclear detonation. The son of Surya, seeing his missed blow, spun around in surprise; quickly moving his arms into a guard.
Scarlet iron scrapes against the surface of twin golden disks hovering before Karna in a horrific screech of grinding metal. The demented spear howls, a guttural scream tearing from its pulsating form like that of a violent shriek to the heavens. Scarlet ichor flows across the rustic grooves of the unholy weapon, and the air is choked by a malice from beyond the stars.
The chorus of a thousand voices echoed within Isabel's mind; a disorganized harmony of giddy whispers and fantastic thoughts unified under the soul of one. They, who shared her origin. They, who dwelled within her spirit. They, who were her, spoke of the endless possibilities. The path before her, laid bare and awaiting, splintered into a centillion fractures of diverging roads—a kaleidoscopic world of what-ifs and has-nots. The facets of a thousand lives guided her very actions, moving towards the path of 'Wonder'.
Onwards she pressed, cloaked by the veil of wondrous creation, sinful spear digging into the divine armor of her opponent. The surrounding ground withered into fine scarlet dust under the might of the oblivion hanging above it, only to spontaneously regrow into the vigorous grass that once more dots the fertile land, influenced by the song of creation.
The dancing flames around Isabel burned ever so brighter.
White sandstone crumbled into broken rubble under the bestial grip of the blackened claw that once laid rest upon it. A savage growl rises from the throat of the beast as the crushed remnants of the stone armrest slipped through the fingers of his clenched claw in streams of coarse white sand. The spacious hall—in which the throne resided—shakes under the powerful rumbling of the angered being, and the reverberations of a feral engine threatens the entire structure to collapse.
"Oho~? What's the problem, my dear king~?"
A flirtatious moan cuts through bestial growling, the voice being that of silken honey. Luscious pink locks lift from where they once rested on the lap of the tyrant, and amber doe eyes gaze dreamily upon their figure of delight. Sweet lips curl into a soothing smile befitting that of a maiden goddess, and adoration sang from the perfect body that matched it.
"Did a pleasant nightmare startle you from sweet slumber~? Then let me love you into a pleasurable sleep~. Lay with me until the world wastes away into an eternal kingdom~." A gloved hand comes to gently rest on the tattooed cheek of her beloved king, and a lust-ridden gaze accompanies the seductive action.
Gone was the visage of the innocent maiden pure to the world, and in its place was the figure of a regal temptress beckoning her mark. The nubile queen licked her lips in hunger, a burning desire welling up from deep within the core of her body. Rarely has her king ever become this expressive before, and the sight of the uncharacteristic anger stirred up a heat that left her hot and bothered.
"Shut your trap. She's on the move again. I goddamn know it." A pained grunt escapes from the king's snarling maw as his clawed hand comes to grasp at his tattooed chest, ghosting over the ugly scar that marred the beast's torso.
Scorching agony set his entire nervous system alit as the weapon dug into his chest; a tormentous scream ripping free from the jaws of the beast as his blood pooled around the opening of the wound, fleeing in an almost frenzied manner as it eagerly stuck itself to the speartip imbedded in his flesh.
Bared as a jagged incision struck precisely between his pectorals, it was a deeply gouged crevice that ran vertically down his chest—disfiguring the crimson art that designed his body. The bloodied wound festered with a scarlet taint that clung to the exposed raw flesh like a cancerous tumor; leeching away at his very life with every breath taken.
The scar throbbed with a silent rhythm that sang to the beat of an invisible melody. It burned with a cruelty seared into the depths of his spiritual core. The Mad King hissed in pain as the thrumming of his heart pounded furiously in tune to the rising accelerando, as the parasitic curse inflicted upon his form steepened in synchronized tantrum.
The Queen's hand fell to the king's muscled chest in concern, a gloved finger tracing the edges of the wound caked by dried ichor. The flesh beneath her silk fingertip boiled with a heat that was far above the standard, warming her hand like that of an active furnace. A harsh glower of irritated abhorrence makes its way across the royal pinkette's expression as she recalled the visage of the woman who had so suddenly appeared from nowhere, who had thrown the entire war into such disarray.
Her armies had been cut in half, the very ground they marched across having been razed by rapacious fire, leaving all but the soldiers themselves untouched. From the fields of flame swaying akin to overgrown reeds—she had emerged, the tip of her profane spear sunken into the dirt behind her as she listlessly dragged the weapon along, leaving behind a contaminated trail of decaying filth.
Her hand retracted away from the gaped wound as the insidious curse from within extended out of its depths in an effort to consume her digits. Clicking her tongue in irritation, the royal Servant huffs at the malevolent clump of ether that has so far resisted any and all attempts at removing it, even with the power of a grail at hand. If anything the ailment only seemed to worsen as time progressed, incessantly burying itself deeper into the saint graph of the celtic king.
Suppressing the burning pangs of feverish desire that she held for her lover's powerful embrace, the queen took on a more serious demeanor, one fit for the cunning ruler of Connacht. Slowly, the celtic queen traced a sensual finger across the underside of the Mad King's chin, beckoning him closer while she simultaneously leaned in to soothe the irate growling of the berserk beast.
"Do not worry, my dear love. Their blood will pave all roads and become the foundation to which our empire shall flourish upon. Our blood shall spread to all corners of this green Earth and dominate the lands as the lords of the new world."
Amber irises shone with an iridescent gleam as unspoken mystery swelled within the twin pools of her honey colored eyes. Images—fragmented and hazy—circulated past the queen's vision in a flurry of blurred movement; the countless pages of a story being scattered to the howling wind. It did not last long, nary more than the seconds of a heartbeat, but enough had been seen.
Enticing lips twisted into a cruel smirk.
For all the grace and beauty that embodied the fair queen ruling over the eastern lands of this budding nation, there lived a wicked temperament and foxy character of the grand prima donna. Such a character could hardly have been associated with the epics regaling the daring deeds and selfless acts of those hailed as indomable heroes. No, such traits were more befitting of those who thrived upon the other end of the spectrum, having been the very obstacles impeding the path of the warrior; the anti-hero.
Enchantress. Dominator. Nymphomaniac. She's the sovereign of all that she treaded upon. The Eternal Lady who subjugates all the worthy heroes of ancient song. The whimsical goddess of ravishing valor and unending fervor. Her alluring face, her immortal body, her radiant soul—in the opinion of the celtic queen, she was perfect in every way possible. Anything she wanted will be served to her upon a jewel encrusted platter, anything outside of her reach will be seized with unrelenting passion. Land, wealth, or people, the distinction was nonexistent.
As such, even the 'Love' of others was claimed in the form of the many lovers she had collected over the course of her unwinding legend. Adoration, properties, and authorities, all that belonged to them were hers by default. The queen's authority was the conglomeration of all the vast mystics of her era. From her admirers; every gift bestowed was in turn converted in part into the inscription of her renowned legacy, for every great weapon swung would then be wielded in turn within her dominion.
It's amongst these sprawling treasures that one in particular stood out; a gift that had been explicitly sought out ever since the dawn of human reasoning. A skill that stood as the pinnacle of mortal and inhumane vision, the ultimate form of sight that granted one the capability of gazing upon the laws ordained by fate.
The gift of clairvoyance.
Inwardly, the queen was undeniably irked by the fact that she had been strong-armed into this shitty situation, in which the usage of this particular Noble Phantasm had become necessary. While an extraordinary trump card capable of turning the tide of this war whenever utilized, activation of the ability itself had been a pain in the ass and much more difficult than initially thought.
Arrogance and jealousy greater than that of any other, she despises the insufferable man that is the origin of which this future sight she possessed. From lovers to enemies, just the memory of that unbearable king has her almost gnashing teeth in a vengeful fury. It was then only fitting that the one ability she received from him had been tainted by the vindictive resistance of its original user, who once more sought to oppose the queen's whim.
An annoyance no matter when or where she is. However…
There stood the Mad Beast, fearsome and powerful, cloaked in the corpse of a monster that once was. His hands, now weapons of unspeakable slaughter, dripped with the proof of battle—stained by the crimson trails of conquest. A rustic metallic scent, sickeningly sweet and savory, permeated the air like an overwhelming aromatic cloud.
The creature has completed its hunt, its hunger has been fed. The prey—no, the opposing predator—has been gutted, leaving only one to stand at the pinnacle of the chain. The natural order resumes, and now only the scraps of useless meats are left to be butchered, barely a recognizable threat as it stands.
Half-buried into the Earth, the torn emblem of a golden 'W' shines no longer.
Just this once, the queen had no complaints.
A single campfire stutters under the darkening sky, its colors a reflection of the tired Sun that hangs low above the horizon. The frail blaze crackles and roars as another log of lumber is tossed into its gluttonous maw.
Wyatt sat cross-legged on the earthen ground by the fireside, nursing his newly bandaged hand. The other Masters and Servants were also strewn about the makeshift campsite, lingering near the small flame in either a standing or sat position. Despondent silence hung over the tired party, only broken by the low snapping of the campfire.
A sudden jerk to his hand has Wyatt wincing in pain as Gogh applied a new layer of gauze to his injured appendage, to which the Foreigner apologizes with a sheepish expression and an unsteady smile.
He's largely regained function of his previously mangled limb, Mash having provided him with healing mystic codes and medical supplies, drawing them out from the storage space within her shield. The self-inflicted wound had been mostly healed, skin and muscle having partially regrown to cover the bleeding gash. A full recovery will be made given enough time, leaving behind nary a scratch nor scar, so for now he'll just deal with the mild aches and pains coming from the injury.
'Under better circumstances, this could've been called a success; having the main goal of obtaining information being met without any casualties.' Unfortunately, having an endless robotic army and a cell of Servants as hostile enemies is not the trade off he was hoping for. The only thing Wyatt could be thankful for is the fact that his self-inflicted wound is the only serious injury acquired amidst the chaotic withdrawal.
Placing a wide distance between themselves and the now antagonistic American army, they only stopped when they were sure that they were safely outside the President's reach and swiftly scoured the area to ensure that they weren't followed. It was only after an extensive sweep that the decision to camp was made.
They had fled for miles and miles, stampeding across the vast plains in a clamor of hurried hooves. They were retreating when the titanic column of flame grew and raged with unbridled fury, the searing heat felt even by their distant fleeing backs.
Whatever occurred back there could not be described in any short prose of simple words. It was as if a miniature apocalypse had been ignited behind them, only for it to tear itself apart in a rage surpassing that of storms. It was a spiraling maelstrom of suffocating mana and dense energy that bathed the lands into perpetual incandescence. A cataclysmic fallout of inconceivable proportions that most certainly involved one Doctor Wondertainment at its very core.
From which she had yet to return.
Wyatt's eyes idly wandered across the silent camp and the wearied faces of those gathered around the flickering flame, taking note of the various emotional states of those around him. Aside from Gogh, the other Servants stood guard near the campfire; with Tesla thoughtfully mulling over the events of the day and Robin maintaining his ever stoic hard-to-read expression. Geronimo was currently absent from the group, having gone off to send messages via native spirits to the other Servant members of the resistance spread across the Singularity.
Mash and Gudao were huddled nearby on a log seat, while Gudako sat adjacent to them on a small flat boulder. A quick glance of their faces expressed the various feelings of ruminative fatigue and frustrated exhaustion that plagued the two Masters, along with the look of concern Mash sported, no doubt due to the Demi-Servant's worry over the missing presence of Doctor Wondertainment.
Wyatt didn't find it so troubling.
Every iteration of Wondertainment was—and will always be—an absolute pain in the ass to deal with, this Wyatt knew by experience. Their presence always equated to that of an uncountable factor interfering with the situation at hand, descending whatever mess existed into further unfolded chaos. Like wrenches made specifically to be thrown into the cosmic gears of the universe, Wondertainments were unpredictably persistent if not anything else.
No, Isabel Wondertainment will most certainly return. Likely with a bright smile adorned on her face and with a pep in her step if he had to wager on it. Wyatt thought back to the various forms of Wondertainment he's encountered over the vast span of lives, to each of their goofy grins and childlike antics. He reminisced of those who shared the same face and name of the young lady of this moment, of their journeys taken in bounded steps, of the stories they've left in—█A million faces blur into a single hazy moment, lost in the swirl of the Eye█
"Ghgk!"
The pain of a pounding migraine emerged as an agitated hiss slipped out from between fiercely clenched teeth. Memories became distant and muddled as Wyatt tried to recall the details of what he never knew. What filled the empty space that laid between the gaps of burning questions and blank faces? He may never know. Outside the episode of aching thoughts, Wyatt was vaguely aware of Gogh's presence, who had gone from an initial startle of concern at his accidental slip to an unnaturally fascinated study of the hazy film that briefly clouded his eyes.
Before Wyatt could come up with some passable excuse to wave off the piercing stare that his Servant focused him with, he was interrupted by the return of Geronimo, bearing a grim expression that no doubt alluded to further troubling news. Slowly trailing behind the Apache shaman, floated a small spirit of earth and cloth—a ga'an mountain spirit that had aided Geronimo in contacting the others.
"One of our camps is currently in the midst of battle with Celtic forces marching in from the east. They've managed to repel the first wave of warriors, but it won't be long before more pour in and casualties rise." Geronimo's report caught everyone's attention as he spoke with a controlled, but dire tone. "Similarly, our spies from another outpost situated close to the area just relayed intel of separate celtic forces preparing to approach upon their position as well."
From the east—a horde of ceaseless soldiers, birthed to slaughter and conquer. From the west—a technological dystopian kingdom, fitted with an army of steel and circuitry. Sandwiched between the two—a straggling group of resistance that neither possessed adequate manpower nor sufficient advantage.
"Tch, out of the frying pan and straight into the fire," Robin scoffed. Of all the possible scenarios to occur in their current situation, this was among the worst that could happen. For the enemy to immediately mobilize their troops the moment their trip went to shit, it either meant that somehow their adversary had come to acknowledge the new advantage that they held, or that this was the worst stroke of luck imaginable. "So what now? Fight the brutes on the eastern front and hope we don't get shot in the back by a fanatical lion president?"
Compared to the militarian might of the Celtic and Edisonian nations that flanked them, their dinky congregation of fighters barely measured up to a fraction of the armies that the opposition had. Their men weren't that of technological golems nor were they warriors of barbaric strength. They were just ordinary men, the remnants of the Continental Army, tired from a long fought war. If their side were to achieve victory, then it would have to be done through wit and will.
"No, that bumbling fraud won't quest to strike our turned backs as of now. Not when he's so certain of his eventual success." Arrogance is the mark of a genius after all, and Tesla knew that he himself could be faulted of the same. To many magi and self-proclaimed intellectuals alike, such vainglory would eventually lead to their downfall, deluded by the ego of a lowered guard. He had little doubt that Edison was most likely seated upon his gaudy throne with a conceited smirk at this very moment—an imagery that irritated Tesla to no end. Even then, under the surface of rippling annoyance, the inventor couldn't help but worry about the direction the Singularity was moving in.
For as much as it is a glaring weakness, there's commonly a good reason for why arrogance has its place in a hero's pride. The true danger lies within the scenarios in which hubris is not misplaced, but rather persists as a testament to one's assured victory. It was neither the great hero Karna nor the battalions of autonomous infantry that brought concern to Tesla, despite the colossal issues they presented. Instead, it was the promises of man willing to go to any extent just to attain his victorious vision.
If his understanding of the scope of the President's ultimate plan was correct…then in his pursuit of achieving a greater nation, Edison may willfully bring doom to the rest of the Singularity. Should such a situation come to pass—wherein the the toll of dead and the level of wanton destruction shall become immeasurable—the only meaningful action left to be made would be to insure the continued safety of the last protectors of humanity.
Deep in contemplative thought, Tesla tuned out the surrounding discussion of plans for the morrow and turned his gaze to observe the Chaldean Masters.
Tesla found difficulty in scrutinizing the character of Chaldea's enigmatic third Master, unsure of the mysterious circumstances surrounding the man that even Chaldea's other resident genius knew little of. His eyes held an unmistakable wisdom and his actions spoke of untold experience, evidenced by the strange knowledge he possessed of Servants unrecognized by the FATE system. Yet contrastingly his existence at the organization up to until recently can only be described as mundane, with little to no records of any history prior to his career as a technician. Observed by Tesla as a man clad in uncertainty, the inventor found it simpler to turn his thoughts to the other Masters.
Young, valorous, and compassionate. Those are a few of the descriptions that aptly fitted the two teens seated before him. Memories of his encounter with Chaldea in a fog-filled London attested to such, and their performance thus far has only bolstered this fact. From Gudao's resolve in face of the Presi-King to Gudako's righteous fury of the injustices enacted, Tesla found it easy to claim that they were magi worthy of his contract.
Perhaps it's fate that he was brought along into a Singularity led in part by his greatest arch-nemesis. Whatever the case, it's on Tesla's dignity as a gentleman to ensure that the well-being of his Master remain protected and the foes of his ward be defeated. Should they be the holiest of divinity or the most demonic of monsters, it matters not. His lighting shall tear through armies and his intellect shall outshine the celestial bodies if he must. As a pioneer of stars, he will obliterate the notion of the [Impossible] and bring forth victory with the most prideful of arrogance. And should he get the chance of bringing down Edison a couple million pegs along the way…
Well, that'll be a fine bonus.
Helena Blavatsky stood amidst the corroded rubble of what was once the mighty door that guarded the city, idly supervising as one taskforce of automatons hauled away the metallic debris while another began their repairs of the gate. Truthfully, most of her attention was fixated on the flakes of rust that carpeted the ground beneath her like fallen autumn leaves; her expression scrunched up like someone trying to decipher that one puzzle that keeps stumping them.
It wasn't the rust itself that confused her, such a thing was to be expected from magecraft even if Thomas and Sir Anderson had reinforced the steel several times over—enough to take several batterings from a destroyer class warship. What truly confounded Helena is the ease of which the door had fallen apart, almost like whatever destroyed it had done so with little to no resistance, which shouldn't be the case.
Helena herself enchanted the structure with every defensive magecraft known to her via her connection to the Mahatma. Deriving of magic originated from the age of gods all the way to the degraded spells of the modern era, the shielding of the gate had been intricately crafted with a vast variety of spells. As such, for any magus to deconstruct the workings of the structure, they would require a great length of time beforehand to analyze and prepare the proper procedures to do so. Time that the people of Chaldea definitely didn't possess.
Which can only lead to two possible conclusions to draw from. The first being that whatever magecraft that dealt the damage to the door must've been one that slipped through all of her defenses, a spell of foreign origins unrecognized even by the Mahatma. The second option being that whatever magecraft that struck against hers had to be one of enormous mystic weight, possibly something that approached the time of the World's genesis.
One these riled up the inner nerd within Helena and brought forth giddy excitement, while the other gave way to worried apprehension (But also an equal measure of excitement). Before Helena could settle on which variance of excitement she should appropriately feel, she was interrupted by the appearance of a familiar face exiting spirit from in a sudden flash of mana.
The divine lance the demigod possessed was currently absent from his hands, unsummoned and unneeded as of right now. Karna stood before her, his golden armor riddled with tiny nicks and he bore light burn marks upon the visible parts of his pale skin. But more noticeably, the most severe of damages were that of the twin disks hovering beside the Indian hero, both bearing a sizable web of cracks that ran along their surfaces. This was the furthest Helena has ever seen Karna injured to any extent, despite how unlikely the notion of injury for him was in the first place. Nevertheless, Karna still wore his standard aloof expression that's often mistaken for coldness even after returning from the devastating battle that he was in prior.
"Apologies, I've failed to complete the task given to me." The encounter had dragged on for far too long and deprived Karna of his chance to pursue the targets. They had ultimately escaped beyond the hero's sight while he was forced to deal with the opposing Lancer and her treacherous spear. Additionally…
"You held back." Helena stated matter-of-factly—neither in blame nor compliment—aware that the hero of Mahabharata hadn't truly given it his all against the foe.
Don't get her wrong. The skirmish that took place was undeniably calamitous, with clashing spears that upturned the earth and a blazing inferno that swallowed the land whole. However, should Karna have fought to his fullest might in eliminating the enemy, then the magnitude of the fallout would've been much greater to an unfathomable degree. The fact that none of the aftershocks born of the confrontation has managed to reach the perimeter of their city proved this point.
"…"
Karna remained silent, reflecting upon the opponent he had just faced and the peculiarity of the battle that took place. It was strange, for the enemy Servant lacked the martial skill commonly associated with their class, but had an overabundance of raw power. Two hundred forty seven fatal blows were made by Karna over the course of the prolonged fight; yet each one of them were either blocked, parried, or dodged despite the overwhelming advantage he held over her in speed. There was a certain thrill in facing off against a hero as unusual as her, but ultimately it was a tasteless battle. While his pride as a warrior demanded that he must muster all his might in the face of valiant challenge, the circumstances that led up to the event were far from the ideal honor he adhered to and the maimed condition of the adversary before him even less so. Had it been another time and another place, in a world of less extremity, it may have been a fight that the both of them could have enjoyed to the fullest.
'How dare you, pest. Serve and fulfill your duty.'
Bound by oath and contract, Karna fought on.
Author's Note:
A new chapter. Yippeeeeeeeeeee.
If I drop this story, then it's either because I'm dying or dead. So it's a good thing that I'm goddamn immortal. So I hope you enjoyed this chapter and keep them eyes peeled for new ones. (Creativity hits me like a car on the road—I don't know when it'll happen, but it's very likely).
See y'all soon.
Summoning
Lolly: "Hullooooo! The circus has come to town!"
Icky: "Icky and Lolly, clowns extraordinaire! Get your tickets now!"
Dialogue 1
Lolly: "Wow, this place is positively kooky!"
Icky: "Yeah, really reminds you of home, doesn't it?"
Dialogue 2
Lolly: "Ughhhhh, this is getting boring. Oh, I know! What if we turned everything into candy around here?!"
Icky: "Sure darling, but you have to clean up the mess afterwards."
Lolly: "Awww, nevermind."
Dialogue 3 [If you have Mephistopheles]
Lolly: "Icky, there's a weird dude standing over there and cackling to himself."
Icky: "Tch, he's one of those conniving types. Such a disgrace to clowns."
Lolly: "Such a pervert. I wanna bash his face in."
Dialogue 4 [If you have Herman Fuller]
Icky: "Get your hammer, Lolly. We're going to put on an unforgettable show."
Lolly: "Tear his guts out and feed 'em back like gummy worms! Juggle his eyes and bash his balls up into this throat!"
Icky: "A marathon performance! Tonight, all the freaks come out!"
Dialogue 5 [If you have any MC&D]
Icky: "Honey…"
Lolly: "Yeah yeah, I know. Tentative business relations and all that jazz. What a fun killer."
Dialogue 6 [If you have Isabel Wondertainment]
Lolly: "Isabel's here?! Now this just got a hundred times more fun! Let's go play Icky!"
Icky: "Sounds good, sweetie. But maybe less explosions this time? I really don't want to deal with complaints again."
Lolly: "No promises!"
Dialogue 7 [If you have any Serpent's Hand]
Icky: "No means no. We ain't signing up with your merry band anytime soon. Though the show's still open if you ever want to pay a visit."
Lolly: "No discounts."
Dialogue 8 [If you have Anne and Mary]
Lolly: "We make for a better pair don't we, Icky?"
Icky: "Definitely. Though I wouldn't mind if we all got down to clown."
Lolly: "Now who's being overeager?"
Likes
Lolly: "There's nothing in existence that surpasses lollipops, Icky, and fun!"
Icky: "Lolly and the circus will always be the center of my life. As long as I have the freedom of both, then nothing else matters."
Dislikes
Icky: "The circus has always represented a safe haven for those hunted and ostracized by the world and its prejudiced gaze. I despise the people who would rob a child of their innocence just because they're judged to be abnormal from the rest."
Lolly: "And Herman."
Icky: "And also Herman, that sleazy dickbag."
Holy Grail
Lolly: "Ooo, shiny."
Birthday
Lolly: "Happy Birthday!"
Icky: "It's time to celebrate."
Event
Lolly: "Adventure calls, let's go!"
Bond 1
Lolly: "Hey, you're not like one of those control freaks are you? We're kind of tired of that and all the blood to be honest."
Bond 2
Lolly: "Play with us!"
Icky: "Never keep a clown bored."
Bond 3
Lolly: "Hehe, you're a pretty fun Master to have!"
Icky: "A break from being Ringmaster is a nice change in pace."
Bond 4
Lolly: "You should meet the rest of the family! Oh, Manny would love you! You'll fit right in!"
Bond 5
Icky: "Lolly likes you very much, Master. It's not hard to see why with that sweet kindness of yours. Should you ever need a place to call home, the circus will always welcome you. Inform me if you ever want to become a clown and really join the family."
Ascension 1
Lolly: "Hey, I remember when I wore this!"
Icky: "My original costume. How nostalgic."
Ascension 2
Lolly: "Boom! Pow! Wazow!"
Ascension 3
Icky: "Magic flows through the circus."
Ascension 4
Lolly: "My old dress was cute, but this is better."
Icky: "The Ringmaster's hat does look good on me."
