:)
Armour: Brimflame (Vanity- CAU Robes)
Weapon: Lashes of Chaos, Undine's Retribution, Stormfront Razor
Acc(11/11): The Bee, Celestial cuffs, Mana Flower, Sorcerer Emblem, Cryo Wings, Ankh Shield, Deific Amulet, TerraSpark Boots, Grand Gelatin, Permafrost's Concotion, Evasion Scarf. (Unlimited Buffs)
Health: (500/500)
The swaying field of wildflowers threw him into conniptions.
It was the influence of The Dreaming God. He was sure of it. The merry sun, and bright blue sky, the wispy clouds that glided from treetop to treetop... it filled him with such discomfort and rage, The Lunatic Cultist wanted nothing more than to sink into the sea and hide in the cold dreary darkness.
For indeed, did not The Cultist consign himself to the cold, horrid depths of the dungeon by his own will? He'd spent years in the bowels of the prison, playing warden and experimental scientist on wretched prisoners and wayward spirits. It was there, in close proximity to his lord's decrepit husk, that he became something... apart from human. His skin took on an odd clammy texture, his pupils melded and became amphibian, webbing began to string between the joint of his fingers and toes. The longer he stayed, the more he loved the cold. He had been changed, and so he loved the dark. He loved the dreadful and the horrid, the ghastly and the malformed ... and this place was neither.
Flowers... tch, cursed things.
But still he remained, passing the time, twiddling his thumbs as he paced about the Tower's ruined interior and felt the warm air slowly dry out his skin until it was chapped and painful beneath his robes. Had he been at liberty to, he would have cast countless spells upon this little tower to make it moist and habitable. He would have flooded the plain with icy water. He would have caused vines and kelp to grow and cover the walls. He would have shrouded the sun and hid its blazing face from him... but alas, he dare not. The King was surely searching for him, and although he was fairly certain Yharim didn't have a method to track him (simply by virtue he hadn't yet been beheaded) - but The Cultist thought it best not to push his luck. He was not so weak willed he couldn't endure a little sunshine.
Little brat... you wretched infant of a Hero... How long will you have me wait?!
It's been a week already. A week of enduring the piercing sunlight against his sensitive eyes. A week of the dry ground against his feet. A week of staring out over the damn field of wildflowers and watching the hated thing sway in the wind and swarm with pollinating bees. Each day was torture, but The Cultist waited it out. There was nothing more he could do. He had no more allies in The Capitol, save, perhaps, his old teacher at the university (he was old and decrepit anyways - no use in a battle). He had no allies at The Resistance, for The Resistance had been scattered beneath Braelor's rule. The Sea King - who had safe custody of The Moon Lord's body - was technically his ally, but The Cultist knew he wasn't welcome to join the R'lyehians lest he lead Yharim to the foot of their god. Speaking of which, The Lunatic Cultist had none to help him, not even his god.
Well...
Well that wasn't technically true.
He had one person - one who likely hated him, but was bound to him in his desperation.
He had The Hero.
His careful creation. His little monster. The young dragon. An infant Terrarian, who by his very nature would cut down and dominate every force that raised itself against him. He was as powerful as he was naïve, and he was certainly naïve. He was a genius mage of enormous power and a penchant for bloodlust - yet this bloodlust was not some abberant undoing of his good nature. No. The Hero was born a war machine. All who faced him would be destroyed. The Hero's very existence was The Tyrant's death knell...
so...
So why hasn't The Tyrant died?
Why wasn't The Empire collapsing?
Why had they lost their battle?!
...
Perhaps there was something 'wrong' with The Hero? The Legendary Terrarians of old had not been summoned. They were not beings which were created by human hands. Rather they emerged out of mysterious means, presumably by the 'will of the world' or 'fate' or 'destiny' or something equally mysterious and asinine. Both of these Old Terrarians had obeyed their calling. They had leveled the world with overwhelming power. Dynasties were crushed and Empires were scattered to the winds, and The Terrarian remained undefeated. Triumphant. Deathless. Victorious.
So was The Hero just young?
Or was he defective.
Maybe he was simply growing into those impossibly large shoes he was born to fill, and given time would eventually do all that the legends had promised. But what if he just didn't. Maybe the fate of a conqueror did not follow a Terrarian of artificial birth? Maybe he was a false hope, a failed savior, a disappointment, a shamef-
*thump*
A noise outside. The sound of leather soles against loamy soil, of timid footsteps treading the short path to The Tower's entrance. Somebody hesitated there before the door tentatively creaked open. Alas, thus arrived The Hero. The Cultist could sense him simply by the smell of disappointment in the air. He sighed before turning to glower at his bedraggled protege. He sounded quite a bit more annoyed than he felt, and each word leaked with well practiced venom.
"Ah, back, I see. And you've gone carousing about The Capitol? I pray you haven't made too many enemies for yourself, although by now I've come to expect such a thing from you. Have you returned with your tail between your legs? A poor hero you are indeed."
For a moment, The Hero looked as if he would open his mouth and reply with some sort of thorny response - but bit back his retort and dropped his gaze. He carefully shut the door behind him and frowned bitterly at the ground. The poor boy looked shaken and exhausted. His hair - while not normally tended to with care - was singed and excessively mussed, as if he'd just walked out of a battle with a wildfire. He was... somehow wearing the student uniform of The Capitol's Magical University, and his face was marred with distress. When he spoke, his voice was low and resigned - as if he'd been hoping for reassurance, and it'd been denied.
"...Hello Teacher."
"..."
Hm...
Perhaps The Cultist was being little bit harsh on him. Despite his past failures, The Hero was, after all, the only person could possibly take on Yharim and usher this continent into a new age. After all, if he wasn't a 'natural terrarian' he certainly behaved like one. His advancement and learning were anything but human. In a few short weeks, he had absorbed what it took mages a lifetime to learn. If nothing, he was a powerful pawn with which The Cultist intended to use to preserve himself. It really was best not to antagonize him much further. Besides, although The Cultist wasn't fully human anymore, he could still feel some modicum of compassion. He cleared his throat and took a seat on one of the rickety chairs scattered about the destroyed tower. He gestured at his dejected student and huffed, dismissive yet feigning interest.
"Well then, Child. You clearly are troubled... so tell me, what troubles you. This tower is dreary as is. I won't have you moping about making it even more dismal."
"..."
The Hero snapped out of his introspection and raised his eyes to stare suspiciously at him, the slits in his dragon-eyes blown wide and his bottom lip trembling as if desperately fighting not to burst into a flood of bitter tears. There was a moment where he, once more, seemed as if he'd speak his mind- but thought better of it. He clenched his jaw and made his gaze like flint. The Cultist had hurt him too many times already. He drew up he defenses and muttered a non-response before turning towards the dangerously rickety staircase and starting up to the second floor.
"Nothing, Teacher. Nothing of importance."
"Oh?"
The Cultist raised his eyebrows from behind his mask and - with the flick of his finger - slammed shut the door to the upper room. He knew once The Hero holed himself up there, The Cultist would be unable to follow - at least without using teleportation and levitation magic. The second floor looked as if it were about to fall to pieces, and the weight of a man would surely collapse it. The Hero though, was no man. His movements, even now, glided and floated gracefully on the air, and although his footsteps made noise, the had a weightless quality to them. Clearly they were weightless in practice as well.
*slam*
The Hero whirled, a snarl curling his lip.
"What now, Cultist?!"
The Cultist mockingly mimicked his cadence as he responded.
"You stink, Hero."
"What?"
"You reek of filthy necromancy. Of death and the blight of the wicked magic. Have you spent your days rubbing yourself with corpses? Have you been bathing in their rancid entrails? Because you certainly smell like it. Are you learning to raise the dead, child? They don't come back the same, believe me. Animating The Archmage's corpse would be the highest dishonor you could inflict upon him. There's the taint of vile brimstone in your aura and-... have you-"
The Cultist cut off his own tirade, then frowned and stood to his feet. He walked to the base of the stairs and observed The Hero carefully, his arms folded over his chest. The Hero returned his gaze in a glare but remained frozen at the top of the stairs. Truth be told, The Cultist was now a little concerned. Brimstone magic and necromancy... there was only one in The Capitol which practiced both of these simultaneously. If The Hero had just decided to play tag with zombies for a few days, it was of no material consequence - but if he'd encountered The Witch, well... that was a different story. Calamitas was as cruel as she was unhinged, young as she was. Indeed, perhaps she was so cruel because she was young. Whereas The Hero could endure even death and rise again untouched, what of that which transcended death? Would a necromancer's curse crush the deathless Terrarian? Could those scarlet runes steal the life from he who possesses life unending?
In that moment, The Lunatic Cultist didn't care to maintain his cruel and unfeeling facade. He frantically jabbed a finger at The Hero and hissed at him.
"Hero! The Witch of Massacre! Has she done anything to you? Have you fought with her or one of her clones? Did she slay you, or did you escape safely? Heavens, you weren't captured, were you? I mus-"
*crack*
The Cultist cursed as he inadvertedly stepped on the staircase's bottom rung and it collapsed, splintering beneath his weight. He snarled at it, then waved The Hero down from the top of the staircase.
"Come down here immediately!"
"..."
"Hero, Don't make me come get you! One."
A warning tone. The rebellion in The Hero's face flared and he set his eyes like stone. Clearly he thought himself far above this degrading infantile speech, and even bared his teeth to show his displeasure. The Cultist continued to count. For as terrifying as The Hero could be, he was still just a bit over a month old.
"Two."
"..."
A long, pregnant silence. The Hero was beginning to look nervous.
"Thr-"
"Okay! okay... I'm coming."
"You had a knife! Why didn't you use it! That damn bastard was unarmed, and you had a fucking knife. How do you lose with a knife!"
The Party Girl was losing her head.
She'd been losing her head pretty often over the duration of her imprisonment, and the fact she was an angry drunk didn't help. Well, this was no surprise. She was a pretty angry person in general and when she drowned her brain in alcohol, her moods generally intensified.
What she wasn't was a violent drunk. For despite her sorry condition and numerous recent failures, The Party Girl was, at her core, a soldier. She had disciplined herself in the use of force despite that she often involved herself in gratuitious violence. A CC Agent was extremely strong. She could crush a man's skull between her palms if she so wished, and if she wasn't careful, she'd leave a slew of innocent bodies in her wake and likely get court martialed for it. Yharim didn't necessarily care about the well being of his people. It just so happened that keeping the populous generally happy, and executing any soldiers that acted out was the easiest way to keep peace and power over his kingdom.
And so, when The Party Girl got into bar fights, she fought the entire bar, and pulled every punch, and even when inebriated never struck a person harder than she intended to. She never lost control.
*Slap*
Which was the reason The Stylist's head didn't fly off her body and splatter against the far wall. To be honest, The Party Girl was in some ways tempted to simply kill the woman - but ultimately decided she was more useful as fodder than as a corpse. And besides, she had a lot of things to say. It would be remiss of to kill her before extracting such important information. The Party Girl hadn't seen everything (Something told her it would be a deadly mistake to run into the open and allow The Monster Knight to identify her) but she had seen enough. She saw The Monster Knight appear out of thin air and fall half a foot, flopping in his place on the patio like a ragdoll- naked, unmoving - seemingly dead. She saw The Stylist rush and make a clumsy mess of his face with her knife. Then she saw The Guide dressed in medical scrubs fullbody tackle The Stylist to the ground, seize The Knight (and his now-detached nose), and lock the both of them in one of the remaining buildings that hadn't been destroyed by The King's attack on The Compound.
Damnit... The Guide again... I'm going to kill him this time.
Who was this Guide? Clearly he was different than the first. The First was some wickedly smart country bumpkin who was cruel and ruthless, but pretended with all his might that he wasn't. This Guide wasn't The Second either - he didn't have that insufferably posh atmosphere about him. Was it another? A Third Guide? How many Guides were there? If she died, would a new 'Party Girl' take her place as well? What about The Merchant? He reappeared thrice, then stopped. Has he respawned elsewhere? or perhap-
"He'd dead! Aaah... he's dead! he's dead!"
The Stylist was a blubbering mess. Being struck across the cheek had loosed her tears and left her cringing on the ground, her face hidden in her bloody hands. She had every reason to cry. The Party Girl simply didn't have any sympathy for her. Apparently the woman had a bit of a fling with that snooty Professor Guide who was going to 'come back and save her' after he escaped The Compound. But of course, he didn't. And of course he was dead. And of course he'd been replaced by a clone who was now (of course) causing them trouble once more. The Party Girl curled her lip into a sneer and backhanded The Stylist against the face once more.
"Get up! Stop crying or I'll give you something to cry about!"
The Party Girl looked disdainfully down upon The Stylist as she seized her by the front of her shirt and dragged her to her feet - drawing her up until they were nose to nose. She scrunched up her features and narrowed her eyes, hissing her words with cold hatred.
"No time to cry. You cry in times of peace. We're in a war. If you don't do this, you'll spend the rest of your miserable life in this miserable place. Here's your knife..."
The Party Girl pressed the knife back into The Stylist's trembling hand. She attempted to smile reassuradly, but it only ended up looking wolfish.
"I'm going to kill The Guide. You go finish the job with The Monster Knight."
"Honorable o' him, dontcha think? I mean, this rescue mission has been pre-paid."
"Aye, The ol Captain be still full o' surprises. Perhaps e' has a soft spot fer romantics."
The Thieves Guild's Annex Warehouse #11 was bustling. Truth be told, it was often bustling, as The King and his authorities did not hold such a tight reign over this portion of the city suburbs, but today it was bustling especially enthusiastically. Annex Warehouses have seen a myriad of strange and exotic 'products'. All manner of drugs were smuggled into the city, strange and untaxed alcohols, venomous animals, firearms of increasingly terrifying proportions, slaves - both human and demi-human. Once, one of Yharon's more successful clones...
"Heave! Ho!"
"Ah! Miss Bandit, are ya' partakin' in this raid?"
"Yes, my crew and I."
But today, they were dragging out an article of antiquity. The Flying Dutchman. A terrifying thing she was, an enormous ship - the last of her fleet. The Pirate Captain kept her as a memorandum of his past life, his life as a marauder and a warlord who sailed amongst the clouds, conquering land after land. He pillaged and looted until men banded about him... and thus, The Thieves Guild was born. As such, even to this day, The Flying Dutchman was a symbol of power amongst The Thieves Guild. And soon enough, under the cover of darkness, it would sail again.
"Load the Cannonballs! How many troops do we have?"
"A hundred men? That's more than enough for a little village of savages."
"Miss Bandit, what are these machines? Are these The Steampunkers'?"
"Yes she wants to test out her traps."
She would sail across the cloudless sky, through the night of sparkling stars.
Not to pillage and raid, but to rescue.
To save a life at the edge of The Crimson Border.
Need skit, gibbe and I will backfill
Faze and his daddy issues can only be rivaled by Mk and *his* daddy issues.
I wonder who has it worse.