Faze is pop-u-lar~
Armour: Molten Armour (Vanity - Familiar clothes)
Weapon: Uzi (High-Velocity Bullets); Molten Bow (Ichor Arrows); Arkhalis
Acc(11/12): Charm of Myths, Ankh Shield, Terraspark Boots, Luxor's Gift, Deific Amulet, Counter Scarf, Crown Jewel, MOAB, Harpy Ring, Aero Stone, Skyline Wings, Warrior Emblem
Health: (400/400)
It was so easy to fall back into the rut of things.
To pretend. To forget. To not look so closely at the bleeding wound in his heart and simply lose himself in the hustle and bustle of the sights and smells. There was so much movement and discovery in The Capitol City, The Terrarian could easily distract himself from the cloying darkness that'd been brooding in his mind for so very long.
Yet in reality, it wasn't very long at all, was it?
The... incident only took place a few days ago, perhaps a week at most, yet rather pathetically, instead of processing, he spent all his time wallowing between bouts of abject misery and a diversity of wild delusions. He simply could not cope. Perhaps it was a mental weakness. Maybe a personality defect. Whatever it was, he just could not accept his loss, and to be frank... the trauma of it had left him quite unwell. He wasn't sure exactly what was wrong in his head, but whatever it was - he possessed neither the skill nor mental fortitude to fix himself.
So...
(Crack... Slice... Crunch)
(Screaming)
So of course, he fell into the rut of things. He forgot, because he wanted to forget. He believed because he was desperate to believe. The Guide... The second Guide was not the original. He was not the same man who raised him. He wasn't the one who taught him how to fight and survive and kill. He wasn't the one who hurled himself into the fiery lake without any remorse or explanation. But...
But he was close.
This Imposter, Guide #2... he wasn't the man The Terrarian had lost. Yet when they'd spent the day together, running around arm-in-arm, buying things, bickering and complaining, The Terrarian had willfully allowed himself to believe everything was as it should be. This Guide was his Guide, and of course, his Guide would never betray him. The Guide would never lead him astray. The Guide would never lie to him or hurt him or do any of the terrible things that happened in the underworld's fiery depths.
The Guide was still alive.
And maybe... he didn't smell like fire and ash anymore. Maybe he smelled like dusty books and magic powder now.
Maybe instead of wearing the rough clothes of a peasant, he'd acquired a taste for fine clothes and designer shoes.
...
This was to be a short lived fantasy.
A temporary relief. A fragile hallucination that would soon shatter and plunge him into an even deeper despair when he was broken out of it. It was the sweetest kind of self-deception. A lie he'd been hesitant to fully indulge in until he heard his old nickname spoken by that very familiar voice.
(*ka-chak*)
(*Ratatatata*... *Ratatatata*)
(Shouting)
Those words, the intonation with which they were spoken. The concern and the worry. It was the push he needed. It was enough to make him abandon reality and throw himself headlong into his own delusion. The promise of relief chafed away at him until he no longer cared what was 'real' and what was 'fake' anymore.
What good did The Truth do for him anyways?
The Guide was already dead. The Guide had killed himself to summon a tremendous monster which had tried to kill him. This was his painful truth. This was the vision that plagued him whenever he shut his eyes too long, or caught the scent of charcoal and burning meat. What was he without his guide? Just a miserable brute swinging his sword blindly at whatever he faced. An almost-man with no knowledge nor experience to speak of, and riddled so full of insecurity and trepidation, he scarcely knew why he lived - except that he feared death.
This was his life.
This was his truth, etched into iron tablets and unable to be changed no matter what he did. No matter what he killed, or if he died, or if he laughed, or if he cried. In this, he was utterly helpless. He could do nothing.
Nothing but lie.
So he would lie to himself.
And through this lie... he would regain everything he'd lost.
"The Resistance Hero?! Here?!"
"Yes Ma'am. We intend to deploy the Sky-Arena soon. Please evacuate."
"Who's fighting him? The King? Perhaps The Witch?"
The CC Agent shuffled his feet and cleared his throat. He spoke with a strained tone in his voice. Given his discomfort, he must have been made in this lab. Even so, he had the guts to quote rules at her.
"I apologize Ma'am, that is military business. I can't disclose that."
"...tch"
Of course she'd be the last to know. Despite she was the figurehead of the Laboratory's RD sector, the sector which pumped out nearly all the technology used in military activities - she remained a civilian, and as such, was never kept up to date on current events.
Now, normally, The Zoologist preferred this. She really couldn't care less if another little pocket of resistance schmucks were flushed from their holes and slaughtered. And to be honest, although she did have zeal for her king and her country, she didn't have a stomach for the more gruesome elements of war. She preferred to be in the dark about these things. The weapons of mass destruction she worked on were just 'projects', and when push came to shove, she willfully stopped herself from making the connection between the deadly biological agents and their dreadful results. Once, early in the morning, she'd been accosted by a group of humans right's activists (the kids of some parliamentary councilmember) wielding cardboard signs and a megaphone. The brats had somehow gotten war photos - images from the aftermath of the weapons she had worked on, and were marching about, blaming her for the hundreds of lives they'd taken. She remembered stomping out onto her porch in her bathrobe, angrily jabbing her coffee cup at the protestors when she caught sight of the images, and vomited right there and then.
Henceforth, she'd been assigned an imperial guard, and The Councilmember had been given a stern talking-to on behalf of his children. She had undergone some hypnotic therapy, and - after a few days - she could hardly remember the images at all. Truly technology was a wonder. If she was unable to purge those images from her mind, then how could she continue working? Her whole life, she had clawed and studied and strained to occupy this lofty position within the scientific community. Sure, it just happened to be weapons manufacturing, but many other amazing discoveries came out of it too, like...
...
Well, in any case. She was a biologist at heart, and her lifelong passion had been in odd species. The Zoologist was not very old, but despite her few years, she had seen and studied the insides of all manner of birds and beasts - of dwarves and lihzards and nymphs and slimes, golems, elementals - you name it - she'd been in its guts. Now, the Empire needed her skills. They were now face to face with an immortal. A living legend. He was shaped like a man, but unlike men - he was built specifically for war. According to varying facts, tales and legends and testimony, The Terrarian simply could not be incapacitated. He bled like a man. His organs could rupture, his bones shatter - but no matter what - he could fight as if unhindered. On the very brink of death, he was just as powerful as when in his prime. Furthermore, he raised from the dead when killed with no memory gap, nor harm to his system. The Terrarian was an engine, a one-man army who did not falter and did not die... and The Zoologist, who a month ago had been tasked with creating something to mimic this being, was desperate to study him.
It wasn't from pure scientific curiosity either... Project Nephelim was going so miserably, she needed this flash of inspiration. The King was pouring resources into the laboratory, but all she had to show for it were hundreds upon hundreds of failed experiments. How many bodies were rotting in compost due to their repeated failures? How many mutagenic reagents have gone to waste? Those experiments that survived were strong, yes, but their systems simply could not bear the strain of so many mutations. They could live up to a week before expiring, but no further. What the zoologist needed was a way to inject robust life into a creature... if only she had access to that, she could create war monsters of the highest caliber.
"Tell whoever's in charge I need a sample!"
"Ma'am?"
She dropped her sheaf of papers on her desk with a hearty thud and rose stiffly from her desk. The Zoologists office, like herself, was sterile and utilitarian. There wasn't a decoration in sight, just papers, reports, things stapled to the walls and small samples in jars. Her office was of one consumed by her work, and frankly - gave her the courage to ask for things nobody in their right mind would.
"Tell The Commander, or Draedon, or whoever's in charge that I must have a blood sample!"
*Fwoooooooo...*
"...Is that so? Surprising. I did not expect that scrap of a Hero to show his face in my Capitol. Has he come for revenge? Or perhaps to challenge me?"
...
"The Twins?... Draedon, a hundred of my best scouts were dismantled and wired into that machine. You know well it is not purposed for battle. You are already draining my coffers with your endlessly failing experiments, do you also wish to destroy my surveillance machinery?"
...
"... very well. Do as you please."
*Fwoooooshhh*
Swaths of blazing fire burst forth from the dragon's maw, searing the writhing scarlet ground into nothing but blackened ash. The ground screams as it's charred to nothing. The flesh and the blood evaporating until The Crimson Border is but a sterile wasteland. Now that The Resistance had been taken care of, The Tyrant could occupy himself with some less pressing activities - that is, ensuring his farmland is not invaded by that odd, rancorous cancer. Burning the ground appears to stymie the progression of The Crimson, but does not halt it. The King expects to send The Jungle Dragon back here periodically until a more permanent solution can be found.
*Fwoooooshhh*
The King is always one to search for permanent solutions. In many ways, there is nothing so secure as the finality of the grave. Is there a secret that must not be known? Let the secret bearer whisper those forbidden words to the worms. Is there a prisoner with flint in his eyes? Let his head be hewn from his shoulders, in order he may not inspire rebellion. The King has built his kingdom upon a mountain of brutal conquests. His footsteps are painted in the blood of his enemies. His rule is solidified by a million corpses. None could stand before him, for opposing The King meant death.
*Fwooooosh!*
But... what of the man to whom death meant nothing?
A Terrarian?
...
The King sighs as he watches from his perch astride his draconic companion. How can he find a permanent solution to that? The Hero was merely a nuisance now, but - as all Terrarians did - he would grow in power and in might until he was the strongest being to walk the continent. Even Yharim knew he would fall against an immortal, infinitely scaling warrior. Initially, he sought to find a method to capture or Kill The Terrarian, but with the power of his mirror there was no prison that could hold him. Could he create an identical Terrarian through magic, or summoning, or... perhaps necromancy? Intelligence was fairly certain The Traitor Cultist had used summoning to draw The Hero into this world, but when Imperial troops raided the dungeon, they found all the documents stolen, and all of The Cultist's subordinates long dead. Until he found The Cultist and extracted his secrets from him, Yharim must rely on Draedon to create a Terrarian.
*rumble*
The low growl of dragon-speak reverberates through the burning air. The stream of torrential fire halts momentarily and the air grows still as The Jungle Dragon spreads its wings and glides to lower altitude. The King uncrosses his arms and leans to look down.
"... Indeed, how odd for there to be a field of sunflowers in such a place. And look - a small series of buildings as well. What do you make of it, my friend?"
*rumble*
"Likely a Resistance holdout?... then, let us burn it to the ground."
Yharim: Who's a good boy! Yes! Yes you are!
Yharon: (dragon-speak) (...This is absolutely undignified!)
Yharim: If you keep complaining, you won't get your belly scratches
Yharon: (I'm sorry my lord)
Haha... somebody complained to me once about short chapters.
This is a pretty short chapter, but I'm not sorry.
Also MonsterKnight picked up a submachinegun lmaoo