The Bitch is back :)
talk to me in reviews I miss you guys. Happy upcoming holidays btw
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, Permafrost's Concotion, Evasion Scarf. (Unlimited Buffs)
Health: (500/500)
Armour: Aerospec Armour (Ranger)
Weapon: Galeforce (Ichor Arrows); Arkhalis
Acc(11/11): Charm of Myths, Ankh Shield, Terraspark Boots, Luxor's Gift, Deific Amulet, Counter Scarf, Crown Jewel, MOAB, Harpy Ring, Aero Stone, Skyline Wings
Health: (350/400)
He woke to the taste of blood and gravel creaking between his molars. Of sharp stones digging into his cheek, and the rough abrasion of sand rubbing raw the tip of his nose. His throat stung with bile and copper. His limbs were heavy and stiffly protested any movement... but despite the pain, The Dwarf Officer groaned and fought to his way to his elbows.
tch... damn.
He hadn't expected to wake up after last night. He'd fully committed himself into Valhalla's embrace when he finally collapsed midway through The Dragon Man's seemingly endless prattling and the slowly approaching horde. Was this to be a worthy warrior's death? The Demolitionist doubted it. He was in the midst of fleeing the enemy instead of standing his ground and going out with a bang (or, at least, some sort of token defiance). In his last moments, he regretted his cowardice. His final thoughts were filled with apprehension for what might be a dreadful afterlife... so despite feeling far less than stellar, The Demolitionist breathed a sigh of relief when the bright morning light nearly blinded his tired, aching eyes.
I'm alive...
How was he alive? He turned to look about and found he was laying exactly where he'd fallen last night, upon the pebbled shore of a cold mountain lake. How did he get here? Magic, perhaps? This was nowhere near the now-defunct Resistance Headquarters. Indeed, he must be many hundreds of miles away - as the entire northern mountain-range was far north of the treeline.
At least I lost those damn agents...
In any case, The Demolitionst wasn't complaining. He was alive. He was (arguably) safe. He sighed and looked to the sun. He sucked in a deep breath and found the air to be terribly cold, chilling him down to the lungs. It was a wonderful feeling that was cut short by the pungent scent of ...rotting corpses?
Startled, The Demolitionist sat up to cast his gaze towards the treeline where piles of bodies ringed the beach, heaped up in a great mound of decomposing flesh. Flies buzzed as they swarmed overhead. The morning sun seemed merrily oblivious as it cast its rays upon the grotesque scene. Its gentle warmth caused the pile to stink... to stink so badly, it'd woken The Demolitionst from the brink of death. Had The Dragon man killed them all? Probably. Had he done it with the express intention of defending him?
Now... that was an interesting question.
"Ugh... damn disgusting."
The Dwarf climbed gingerly to his feet to appraise the state of his body. Last night, he'd been exhausted and badly hurt - two arrows had been shot into his back and were tickling his organs. Were the wounds deadly? How much damage had they caused? The Demolitionist didn't know. He didn't have time to check. He had scarcely a moment to rest - much less perform medical examinations - during his flight from Yharim's army. Hesitantly, he reached over his shoulder in search of the wooden shafts and was surprised to find nothing there. Had they been yanked out? The Demolitionist looked around and found the arrows tossed in a heap- their shafts broken and the tips covered in blood.
Hm...
Atop the arrows were two cracked bottles whose insides glowled gently with an oily pink film. Initially - The Dwarf thought they might be healing potions (already a scarce commodity, for how difficult they were to brew). But upon closer inspection, he concluded, with no little amazement, they were the far rarer (and eye-wateringly expensive) Restoration potion. Hell! A single restoration potion was a year of his salary! They were crafted through magic and employed the fluids of very powerful creatures in their brewing. Normally one found restoration potions behind lock and key in hospitals - their contents applied frugally with a syringe.
But judging from the pink stickiness on his shirt and the odd lack of pain where the wounds had been - it seemed that two entire vials had been messily dumped into his wounds. What generosity! But The Demolitionist was quite certain The Dragon Man wasn't being generous with him. Perhaps he simply didn't understand the value of the items in his horde? Perhaps he had no need for such potions? The Dwarf Officer ultimately didn't care too much. He was thankful, but he still wasn't intending on sticking around to vocalize his gratefulness. The Dragon Man was clearly very powerful, but inscrutable in his actions. The Demolitionist didn't feel safe around such a fickle monster, even if he had benefitted from his actions.
I should leave. Before 'e decides ta' kill me.
The Demolitionist huffed and stretched the numbness from his limbs. He still felt dirty, disgusting and sore - but took confidence having learned potent healing potions had been dumped into his system. He should get moving. The Dragon Man was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he had sprouted wings to terrorize a local countryside? Maybe he was off counting his money somewhere? In any case, this odd encounter no longer involved him. After The Ancestreal Dwarven Mountains had been flattened about a month ago by Calamitas, the remaining Dwarf-folk had made their new home in the tunnels beneath The Western plains. The Demolitionist packed his bags - or rather, what little he had managed to drag here - and began to prepare for travel. As he shuffled through his few belongings - he came across a few items which, frankly, he should have thrown away a long while ago.
A Copper Pick; A Copper Axe; A Copper Hammer.
The Demolitionist glared at the excess weight and haughtily tossed it aside. They clattered to the ground beside the large pile of stones and driftwood. The Dragon Man had been trying to build a house, was he not? Perhaps he'd find use for these tools.
And with that, The Demolitionist turned and left - casting this chance meeting far from his memory.
Yet within a few months, the very same Demolitionist would boast to all who would hear him that it was his tools that built the high ramparts, the towers, and the castle walls of their new stronghold.
The Dwarf man is gone when I return.
I can't say I really appreciated his presence - but having only ever been alone for short periods of time, I am unused to a solitary existence. Being all alone with nothing but my thoughts... I find it to be as cathartic as it is dangerous. What might I discover about myself here, alone, in the centre of the quiet mountain lake? Shall I find peace and enlightment, or shall I drive myself mad with increasingly wild thoughts?
I wonder how long I can stay like this?
I yawn as I descend out of the sky, my heels striking the surface of the water with a peculiar, blobbing firmness. The elasticity of the water amuses me. I've leapt to great heights bouncing on the lake's surface, and - although flying is far more exhilarating - the trampoline like effect has occupied me for hours last night between bouts of blasting zombies.
Yet even these small diversions quickly become mundane.
People, are far more interesting...
But I've lost my faith in people.
Those poor, fragile mortals. Although their lives might burn bright and cheery, death swallows every one of them. The brighter the light, the deeper the darkness when that light is snuffed out. Men are borne into this world weak in body, yet cunning as serpents and vicious as jackals. Their propensity for good is vast, as is their propensity for harm. Was The Archmage so different than Braelor? Had I been obedient to Braelor, could The Archmage have been my enemy? Perhaps.
Doesn't matter anymore.
I walk to the shore, my armoured soles leaving ripples on the water's calm surface.
The bright sun is beneath my feet.
Heavy clouds, driven by strong winds pass over it, darkening my little lakeside grotto until they pass by. I step onto the pebbled beach and slump messily to lean against my pile of stones and driftwood to watch the drama of the skies. Sticks poke sharply into my back. They aren't sharp or thorny, but nearly everything has the propensity to slice easily into my skin if I fail to wear armour. Warm blood runs in rivets down to the stones, but I don't particularly mind. The cuts are shallow and heal almost instantaneously. They can scarcely be called wounds...
"..."
How odd, that an unseen wound aches so terribly, whereas true cuts and bruises I can simply ignore? Heavens, what I would give to cover the hole in my chest. The Archmage left that hole when he died, and I cannot find anything with which to fill it.
I'm cold. I'm empty.
And anger buds up, cold and wrathful from that field of empty sorrow.
It's been only a few days, and already I find myself daydreaming - longing for the times where I lounged on those icy couches, spouting magical theories as I stared up at the crystalline chandelier. The Archmage would be sitting near the window on his trusty disappearing chair, puffing on that snowflake pipe and humoring whatever I managed to think up. I plumbed the depths of his vast knowledge, bombarding him with question after question - which he patiently answered, each in turn. Compared to the life I had then, this pathetic excuse for survival was scarcely worth living at all.
How dare Yharim take it from me.
He dare he fault me like this.
I'll kill him.
I clench my fists, then release them and exhale hard. Me? Kill Yharim? I release a low, sarcastic chuckle. Perhaps it was possible with The Resistance standing behind me. When I had the resources and manpower of thousands upon thousands, working to strengthen and provide for my whims. If I had taken everything they had to give, then perhaps I could fight Yharim. Given enough time, perhaps I'd even win...
But look at me now? What chance do I have?
I'm alone, without even a shelter to hide beneath. My possessions are pitifully scarce, amounting to nothing more than a few tomes, a handful of magical accessories, the armour on my back and...
I blink as the sunlight glints off a coppery shine. What's that? I cock my head and carefully climb to my feet - ignoring the blood that had dried uncomfortably against my skin. Nearby where I left The Demolitionist last night were tools?
I reach down to pick one up. It's a pickaxe, and a shoddy one at best. It's bulky, heavy and of lackluster construction - but somehow it feels right in my hands. What am I supposed to do with a pick? What might I be able to create? On the ground are two more tools of similar make. An axe and a hammer, and - suddenly full of excitement - I snatch them up.
And I look once more to my great pile of stones and wood and feel a small smile turn the corners of my mouth.
Because with these, perhaps... perhaps I can start to build.
Slowly, steadily - is it possible I can raise myself to the heights of The Tyrant? The very idea seems impossible, merely a fantasy. Facing The Tyrant now would be the same as throwing away my life... but I don't need to think of that. Hurting The King... hurting him the way he hurt me - it will give me nothing more than many many hardships and, hopefully, a grim sense satisfaction (if I am successful). The entire endeavor will not benefit. I may die. I may be captured and tortured and killed... Revenge is foolish indeed. I have read enough novels about it, yet now that it stands before me as my only recourse against the one that so harmed me so grievously, Revenge seems... tempting.
Don't be stupid.
Of course not.
I won't be stupid - at least not right now.
Right now, I'm going to build a house.
He'd come back!
The Monster Knight!
His gait was slow, dark and heavy as he floated slowly over the morning mist. Each of his movements were stern and deliberate - but his form sagged like he was carrying a great weight upon his shoulders. A dark gloom lay heavy on his bowed head, the gloom of hopelessness and defeat. His demeanor was not unlike that of the many freshly born Eidolon experiments she had encountered in The Dungeon, but The Mechanic was not stirred to pity. Rather, she was filled with glee.
He's alone. Easy prey!
Because ultimately, having finally been set free from five years of servitude, she was done looking after other's self interests. She had no more compassion nor sympathy to give, and especially not towards her meal ticket! Her offering! The gift she would bring to Yharim's court after her long period of absence. She would reclaim her previous status as Draedon's Apprentice. She would eat the finest foods in the land.
She... would have her revenge.
The Mechanic's eyes burned with a sick light. She licked her teeth in anticipation. What luck that The Red Knight had freed her from The Cultists mouldy dungeon. What luck she had mysteriously been transported to meet a CC Agent. The minute she returned to The Capitol, she would reveal that snake's traitorous deeds and gleefully watch as his head rolled! How dare he team up with The Resistance to kidnap and imprison her. Ohh, how sweet her revenge would be. It was almost orgasmic thinking about The Cultist's blood splashing on her feet. She would request to bathe in it. She would commandeer custody of The Lunatic Cultist's corpse, and take his eye for the one he had gouged from her.
Mechanic... Mechanic, we're not ready. Don't engage yet. We need time.*
A voice crackled from her earpiece - a shoddily repurposed contraption she had made out of extra wires out of The Party Girl's radio equipment. The Mechanic scoffed. Did this damn agent not understand who she was? She was a genius. Of course she knew their trap was not yet complete. They were still concocting that numbing agent. They were still tinkering out the chains and padlocks.
"Agent, relax. I-I'm simply engaging in friendly contact. We need to put him at ease."
*Mechanic... don't get close. He doesn't look good."
The Mechanic rolled her eyes and climbed carefully to her feet. She was in a far better state than when she'd first stumbled her way out of the dilapidated dungeon, but even with a warm meal in her belly and a fitful night's sleep - the damage had already been done. The Mechanic had endured dreadful hardships during her time in the dungeon, and every lash, every sore, every scar bore testament to that. Although she was never a particularly vain creature (she spent her days studying in a stuffy lab) The Mechanic nearly cried when she first saw herself in a mirror that first night in The Compound. She looked ghastly, and it made her miserable.
And The Party Girl, by no fault of her own, had become the target of The Mechanic's suddenly short temper. Although The Mechanic tried her best to remain professional, some of that jealousy and resentment oozed out in her speech. She would inevitably feel bad about it afterwards, but she was far too bitter to bite her tongue in the heat of the moment. She snapped over the earpiece.
"He doesn't look good? Well nether do you, Agent - but I'm still working with you, aren't I? Know your place. It's embarrassing how far I outrank you."
The Party Girl replied evenly, without a hint of hesitation in her voice. Clearly she was used to dealing with feisty superiors.
*Understood, ma'am."
"Tch."
The Mechanic ripped off her headset and stood from her seat at the picnic table with a huff. The open-air gondola had quickly become her favorite spot on the campus, and she wasted no time in claiming the hearth-heated area as her own - heedless of the true owner of The Compound. With a hint on obnoxiousness in her step, she marched off the patio and into the perfectly trimmed lawn. The Monster Knight had been walking slowly from the front gate towards The Guide's house, but the moment she moved, he swiveled to face her.
"Hey, Monster Knight! Welcome home!"
She puffed out her chest in mock bravado and called out in (what she believed to be) a friendly manner. But evidently, this kindness was lost on The Knight. He regarded her for a long moment, before seeming to come to a decision. Those sad, heavy steps became long menacing strides, strides that carried The Monster Knight in a beeline directly towards her.
She barely had time to stutter.
"H-hold on! What are you doin-"
*thud*
"Run! Mechanic! Hurry! Run!"
Somewhere behind her The Party Girl had thrown open a window to shriek, her voice was shrill and panicked - nothing like the cold professionalism The Mechanic was used to receiving from her. It was true that The Monster Knight was some sort of pseudo-Terrarian, and therefore dangerous - but surely he wouldn't slaughter somebody simply for welcoming them! The Party Girl had lived in this compound for upwards of two weeks, and she had informed her as such. So... so what was happening?! Why was The Party Girl screaming like that?! Why was she jumping out the window and leaping over the retaining wall... was she... fleeing?
"Agent! Agent?! How dare you leave me! Oh fuck!"
The Monster Knight was nearly upon her - and the words froze in her throat.
Time seemed to slow as the silence grew long and uncomfortable, broken only by the soft noise of approaching footsteps. The Mechanic was terrified. Terrified in the same way a rabbit was terrified before a wolf. Her ears pounded with her pulse. Tears trailed down her face. She... she had just escaped The Dungeon! She was supposed to get her life back! Was she really going to die here?! She scrambled backwards as she multiplied her pleas.
"Wh-what are you doing. You won't kill an innocent person, would you? P-please, I c-"
The Knight did not answer as he stepped up onto the patio, his steel boots striking sharply against the red bricks. His armour was warped as if by extreme heat and his drawn sword still dripped of yellow ichor. He stank of burning flesh, of ash and of flame. His blue cloak was charred to almost nothing, yet despite his bedraggled condition, there was a purpose in his gait. A cold, merciless steel. His visor was lowered over his face and slats obscured his pale eyes... eyes as dull, flat and emotionless as an insect's, but there was the glimmer of vicious hysteria there. The brokenness of an unhinged spirit. The moment she saw it, she knew there was no more use in reasoning.
"pleas- KAAUKKK!"
The air hissed as a blade slid through it. It prickled her skin as the world tumbled dizzingly around her, tumbling and tumbling until she landed face up on the lawn. Her body landed a second later with a heavy thud.
And the very last thing Draedon's esteemed apprentice saw was The Monster Knight's retreating back as he began to pursue The Party Girl.
Faze: I'm sad my loved ones died, so I'm going to randomly save people and maybe build a lakehouse. What about you?
Slayer: ... beheading.
F: Excuse me?
:) :)
nobody likes the mechanic anyways. Her wires are too expensive.