I promised to have this out by saturday, and I know it's 6:00 p.m. on Saturday but it's still Saturday.
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: (400/400)
She was stirred awake by the scuttling of a squirrel on her windowsill. It was a beautiful specimen - all tufted ears and bushy tail - a streak of red as it scrambled through the leaves on the awning and landed to peek into her bedroom. Not seeing her, it began to crack open its acorn against the glass and The Stylist, in her annoyance, hurled the closet thing in arm's reach at the glass panel (she was well aware that nothing built in this place ever broke).
*thump*
The sound of heavy leather rang against glass, before the journal fell to the ground with a resounding thud. The Stylist stretched and yawned before batting her eyelids against the encroaching sunlight and slowly maneuvering to her feet. Was it morning already? No- by the position of the sun, it was already early afternoon. She must have fallen asleep whilst picking through the endlessly complex diagrams and notes in The Guide's Journal. The thing was... a true monstrosity. The writing was neat, almost printed for how uniform the characters were, but encrypted in an increasingly difficult cipher that seemed to change whenever it struck The Writer's fancy. The first few hundred pages seemed to have been written by one no older than ten years of age. The code was pig-latin and the diagrams were of boyish things. Bugs, worms, slugs, diagrams for treehouses and slingshots, card tricks and pickpocket techniques. A ten year old Guide wrote of the secrets of his townspeople. Their likes and dislikes, who they were related to, their hidden activities and the odd things they did on certain occasions. There was a great deal written about his older sister, who apparently loved to snog on the stableboy and always bossed him around concerning house chores. There was raving about his mother's bass soup, and the best way to season and fry daybloom stems, the types of mushrooms that could be eaten, and those that would poison you...
And... that was about as far as she got before falling asleep with the journal on her chest. Frankly, on a normal day, The Stylist would never have bothered with old books and the like - but there was no entertainment in The Compound. That's not to say things were boring. There were a litany of horrifically exciting things that could happen at the drop of a hat. Like when The Monster Knight decided to murder an entire army of Goblins and painted the front of her house in their blood (things have since been cleaned, but she still imagined stains on that sparkling windowpane). Or when The Mechanic appeared, so emaciated she was like a walking skeleton, and began to work on The Party Girl's communications equipment. Or when The Guide had tottered out in the middle of the night holding a bowl of blood and meat, only to disappear into the The Strange Lizard-man's house... and what of that horrid hellish smoke that rose from The Lizard man's chimney? It was green. Smoke... smoke didn't turn green, right?
And although The Stylist was curious, by no means did she have any intention of sticking her nose into these people's nefarious business. She was (probably) the only normal person in this entire place. The Party Girl was a fucking imperial spy who could snap an elk over her knee. The Monster Knight probably wasn't even a human at all. Although The Guide wore the face of a gentle farm-boy, The Stylist knew very well that he was a ruthless tactician and wouldn't hesitate to kill her if it suited his needs. Her primary focus was to leave this place and continue her search for her younger brother.
But... She couldn't leave.
The Party Girl had warned her of this already, that there was some odd gravitational curving of space in a perimeter around The Compound. None could leave unless accompanied by The Monster Knight. According to what she had seen, the only way to flee this this horrific sphere of faked paradise was by her own death, The Knight's death, or by discovering something previously unknown to The CC Agent.
And so... since she had no intention to die, nor be slain by the Monster Knight, she would do her best to plunder The Guide's journal for clues about his companion.
Phew...
The Stylist grunted and stood to her feet, threading her fingers together and stretching until she heard her spine pop. Last night she had spent studying, but today she needed to find something to eat. The Party Girl and The Mechanic seemed to be frying apples beneath the gondola, so without thinking very carefully, she snatched up The Guide's journal and sauntered down the steps and out her front door - hardly bothering to change out of her nightgown. After all, she hasn't seen The Guide since that one night he carried meat-soup to The Lizard. Maybe he was asleep? Maybe The Lizard had eaten him? She wasn't sure, and she didn't care to find out.
"A blood sacrifice... yes, I've seen them. To summon the powers of The Cosmos I've seen hundreds slain on the Altar of The Great Dreaming God, La mayyitan ma qadirun yatabaqqa sarmadi fa idha yaji' al-ahudhdhadh fa-l-maut qad yantah-"
"Ma'am, would you like another apple?"
"Oh yes, thank you."
The Mechanic... what an oddity she was. The Stylist had been too afraid to come out and speak to her for fear The Monster Knight might approach her, but even from a distance it was clear there was something very wrong with the woman. For as emaciated and damaged she was, the mental breakage from behind her eyes make her physical condition pale in comparison. It wasn't that she was a blubbering idiot, or had gone completely insane. No, rather, she kept all her faculties about her save that her will seemed to be dominated by an alien malice. She... was dangerous, and she gave The Stylist the heebie-jeebies.
But the pink-haired woman was hungry. She stepped out onto the dewy lawn in her linen slippers and made her way across it. Only when she had approached the gondola halfway did she see that The Guide was sitting with the two women. His head was pressed against the tabletop and he was surrounded by bloody bandages as The Party Girl cleaned a wound on the side of his head. By the time she saw him, he saw her as well.
And more importantly, she saw his eyes widen as he recognized she was holding his Journal. The look on his face wasn't just surprise. There was flint and steel behind his dark gaze, an almost calculating cruelness to the way his brow crinkled.
Fuck.
She froze as she held that piercing look. She probably couldn't move if she tried. The way The Guide was looking at her was the way she looked at a head of hair. How to best shape it to her whim. To mold it and make it do as she wished. This... was the man's very essence. He was a master of manipulation. Sometimes, he appeared weak. Sometimes, so intractably strong, none would dare stand before him. And with the power of The Slayer behind him, who would dare anger The Guide?! Hell, even the fearsome CC Agent was dutifully dressing his wounds.
"... what's that, Stylist?"
He never spoke very loudly, but she was so tightly wound, his words boomed in her ears. 'What is that?' She knew that he knew exactly what it was, and instinctively clutched it more closely to her bosom as if it'd protect her. Momentarily, she considered dropping The Diary to the ground, but figured such disrespect might very quickly get her killed. Instead, she gulped hard and stuttered out a very obvious lie.
"I...I found this journal. I'm...just returning it."
"..."
The Guide was silent as The Party Girl finished bandaging his head. He nodded a curt thanks to her before sitting upright and folding his hands on the tabletop. It was then that The Stylist saw he was ready for travel. Leather boots, a headlamp, thick gloves and a bandanna around his throat. Was he prepared to go underground? His knapsack looked far too small to carry supplies for such ventures, but perhaps The Monster Knight would be fulfilling the function of a pack-mule.
And just as she observed him, he continued to observe her. She could almost see the cogs spinning behind the lenses of his eyes before they suddenly stopped - as if finished their calculations.
"No need to return such a thing. Keep it."
"What?"
The coldness has fallen out of The Guide's voice, only to be replaced with a carefully curated genteelness. Yet despite the convincing performance, The Stylist was well aware it was as fake as could be. He bared his teeth in a soft smile and tapped his chin with the tip of a finger. There was an air of sadness about him, but also a lofty pride.
"I know everything I need for a thousand lifetimes. There isn't a single question I ask myself whose answer I discover I don't already know. If that journal amuses you, keep it. I wish you the best of luck with the ciphers. Perhaps you will find my story worth telling others along your journey."
"..."
The Guide stood from the bench and stretched. He walked out into the center of the patio and gazed about the place, carefully drinking in the scenery as if it were the last time he would to see it.
*creeak*
There was a noise as the front gates cracked open. As if on cue, The Monster Knight, dressed all in burnished steel and spotless hemp stepped through, his footfalls silent on the emerald grass. The sweeping horns of his helmet were dipped low and curved as if prepared to gore whatever he laid his eyes on. There were pale eyes behind the slats in his visor, and The Stylist had only seen them once. She had no desire for them to fix on her again. He stood still at the centre of the doorway, every fibre in him tense as a wire - as if waiting for something tremendous to begin.
The Guide looked at him and sighed. Almost reluctantly, he turned his eyes back upon her. For the first time, The Stylist saw something human in his face.
"Concerning your brother... I suggest you search for him in the Northern Mountains. The Resistance, like The Empire, will often forcefully conscript young orphans to serve as soldiers when troops grow thin. The Imperial Army is not currently conducting any such campaign, but The Resistance is doing so continually. The minds and bodies of the young are more easily manipulated, with magic or otherwise. I suggest you find him quickly, before you can no longer recognize him."
"What?! What did you say?!"
"That's all I have to give you. Best of luck, Stylist."
He turned to leave, but The Stylist wasn't going to let him go with just that! He... did he know where her brother was? How would he know? Where exactly in The Northern Mountains? The Tyrant has been searching for The Resistance headquarters for years, how in the hell was she supposed to get there on her own?! She at least needed a map, or... she needed to know how to escape this compound!
"Where are you going! Get back here! I need to kn-*kugh*"
So, she made the mistake of lunging at him. She seized his arm, but was yanked back violently by the roots of her hair she didn't even register The Monster Knight had moved before she cracked her skull against his metal breastplate. The edge of his humming blade was pressed against her windpipe just hard enough that delicate beads of blood formed along the razor's edge and trickled down her neck. She instinctively glanced up and saw the flashes of pale pupils in the shadows of the helmet. Those were not human eyes, those were the eyes of a predatory insect. It was a blessing that the shock left her far too terrified to even scream, lest she aggravate The Knight any further... then perhaps he really would slit her throat, if only on whim.
"Slayer."
The Guide's voice was stern. His eyes had gone hard and the beginnings of displeasure began to show on his face. That was all it took. Immediately, she was released and tossed aside to scramble in the grass and clutch at her throat. She did her best to calm her breathing and keep from hyperventilating. She regained her bearings just long enough to watch The Guide give orders.
"Enough. It's time we go. Have you prepared the potions I've required of you"
"Yes."
"Very well. Come."
With that... the two men disappeared past the gate.
And soon, only one would return.
Convincing The Terrarian he'd managed to accidentally cut off his own ear by tumbling down the stairs wasn't nearly as difficult as he thought it'd be. Perhaps The Terrarian's run-in with The Brain of Cthulhu had affected his reasoning skills as well as his memory, because he swallowed the obvious lie with shocking ease. Did The Terrarian actually believe a tumble down the stairwell could cut off an appendage with the precision and sharpness of a scalpel? Maybe. Probably not, but he wasn't pushing the issue so The Guide wasn't going to either. The less complications between them, the better. After all, The Guide no longer had any qualms about lying to The Terrarian. Not even guilt would stand in his way.
Guilt...
Had it controlled him in the past? It'd been only a month since his village was destroyed by The Lunatic Cultist, but it felt like a lifetime ago. How much he'd changed! For years, he was sensitive to his conscious - no, a slave to it. It restricted his movements. It filled him with angst. Whenever he did something even slightly amoral, it assaulted him with frenzy and caused him deep distress. Guilt. That... thing inside him made him vacillating and weak. Guilt would rather have him die and languish in misery and squalor than survive a cruel victor in this cruel world.
But he had drowned that guilt.
He'd buried it in the stony soil of his heart.
And he watered it with the blood of his enemies, and from it sprung a dull, cold ruthlessness that had never grown in him before. It was a terrible thing, really. It was objectively, morally wrong. His 'self' in the past would have looked upon his current state in revulsion - but then again, his past self knew nothing of the horrors he had faced. In order to simply survive, he had fought and killed. He had faced down monsters and men. His life had hung in the balance more times than he could count. He had seen the burning expanses of death and hell. He had seen the writhing cosmos whirling in malevolence. He had seen the millions and millions of souls that screamed and cried for relief, and although they knew it not, their only hope was him.
His sacrifice.
Soon... maybe even today, he was going to die.
He'd lived his life. He had spent twenty six long years a kind-hearted soul. He'd lived in peace and poverty. He'd read books and he'd farmed... then, he lost everything. He parented a Terrarian. He'd gained so much wealth, he slept on heaps of silk and his drawers were full of cut diamonds. His knowledge - knowledge that he so coveted - was expanded far and beyond he could even imagine. He had stolen the mind of a god, and the memories and wisdom of millions were his to peruse. He learned to speak lies instead of truth, to the point where every word that proceeded from his mouth was carefully curated to meet his own goals. Even his behavior was a lie, he used trickery to appear as genteel or threatening as he needed. His physical strength remained meagre, but that meant nothing. The Slayer belonged to him. The man would be obedient to the point of death, for he falsely believed The Guide had risked his life to rescue him from the sulfurous shores.
All who dared stand before him would be trodden down.
Even The Wall.
And so...
"Shit!"
The Guide hissed as he stumbled and scraped his injured hand against the craggy stones. Even through his gloves, the exit wound from having his left thumb-bone removed stung something terrible. Luckily, a memory from the magicians The Crimson had consumed allowed him to fashion a replacement stint with the minimal ingredients to be found in the area, but the wound remained, and no matter how much healing potion he downed, the tenderness did not go away. He hadn't time to regrow his ear or his teeth - but such appendages mattered little in the grand scheme of things.
He was dying soon. By the voodoo doll carefully stowed in his pack, he'd be immolating himself. Why bother with aesthetics?
"...Guide-"
"I'm fine, keep moving."
"..."
The Terrarian gazed at him a moment longer before swiveling his head back towards the front and continuing to clear the way, the pickaxe's flashing blade consuming the earth so quickly, the sharp blade was nearly invisible to the naked eye. They were... (he quickly analyzed the striations in the perfectly cut stone) already quite deep underground, perhaps three hundred metres and well within the cavern layer. The air here was musty and old, smelling of salt and grime as the ancient dust was stirred up from the pale lichen. The silence in this place was of the echoey sort, it rang in his ears like the faint drone of a whale's song - grating against his nerves until he flinched and jumped at every falling pebble or off beat footfall.
It's happening. I'm really doing this.
It... wasn't a good feeling. Look at all he'd gained? He was the lord of his small little kingdom. He could spend weeks, months, satisfying every curiosity that came to mind with the memories that now belonged to him. Must he give up this new life so quickly? Why not abandon his mission and go out into the world? Indeed, would he not immediately become one of The King's imperial advisors upon setting foot in The Capitol? He would live in luxury and grandeur fitting of a scholar of his caliber, and would be granted whatever means necessary to continue in the acquisition of knowledge.
With his new mind, perhaps he could even find a way to destroy The Wall without sacrificing himself! Hah, such a thing would be simple before his now incredible intellect! Gods and men would bow before him. He would rule this land and shape it to his whim, he would bring down the cosmic deities and cause all men to gaze upon the great and terrib-
I'm... going mad.
The Guide blinked the shadowy runes from his eyes and sucked in a deep breath. Even with the dryads blessing renewed upon him, the invasive thoughts were growing stronger, and the further he descended, the more powerful The Wall's pull became. The ideas of the Brain of Cthulhu were beginning to seep into his mind, teasing him with delusions of glory and tickling his pride. He must not succumb... he must accomplish this task before he lost himself entirely, lest his family suffer in purgatory forever. I need to hurry. I... I need to do thi-
*umph*
The Guide had hardly realized they've stopped when he walked face first into the back of The Terrarian's cloak. He got a face full of that furred muff before The Terrarian simply... vanished. His automatic apology quickly became panicked.
"Oh sorr-Slayer?! Ahh! Hey!!"
The Terrarian had been standing, peering down a long deep shaft that seemed to tunnel straight into the bowels of the earth, such that the slightest push sent him careening into the abyss. If he screamed, the darkness swallowed it. The Guide fell to his knees and peered into the hole, the rugged stone scratching at him though his pant legs. He held his torch over the hole and called down.
"Slayer? are you alright?"
"..."
Silence, but The Terrarian usually answered this sort of question with silence. The Guide pursed his lips and glared down the shaft. It was unlikely that The Terrarian had died (having wings to control his falls), but if he had, the consequence was just a few more days of waiting. It wasn't... terrible, so long as The Guide could fend off his Madness. Still, it was inconvenient, and he was eager to keep things simple. he listened carefully until he could hear The telltale noise of a clamp latching into stone. At that, The Guide knew The Terrarian had caught himself with his Diamond hook and would shortly scale the shaft.
Phew... okay. Everything is still according to plan.
He finally had everything in place. The Slayer was prepped for battle. He, by all calculations, should be able to take out The Wall with his current skills and equipment. After all, The Wall was powerful, but was never necessarily designed for combat. So long as The Guide could successfully summon it - then his plan would succeed.
I'm sorry buddy... I hope you won't hate me. I hope you'll somehow understand...
When the time came, would he really be able to pull the trigger and cast himself into the flames?
He hoped so.
But that was a question for a future version of him to deal with. From the looks of it, he was kneeling at the entrance of a hellevator. The other end would deposit him where The Wall was sealed, where The Slayer's battle would begin. The gates of death... right in front of him. It was a path he had already determined to walk. A path he must tread for the sakes of those he loved.
But...
But... he didn't want to die today. He wanted one more night. He wanted to eat something tasty. He wanted to have a good night's sleep. He wanted to talk to his slayer... he wanted to laugh, and hug him and squeeze his face, and hold him close...
Because this would be the last opportunity he had to look upon the one he'd come to love as his own. He couldn't tell the truth, even to the bitter end, but at the very least - he could do his best to apologize before he cast himself off this mortal coil.
Before he stole from The Terrarian the only person who ever cared for him.
And... for a brief moment, the sting of guilt revived once more in The Guide's Stony heart.
And it would plague him until his final breath.
Faze: Hey, Bitch. How do you keep an idiot waiting?
Slayer: I don't know. how.
Faze: I'll tell you later.
Slayer: ...Okay.
[three hours later]
Slayer: *walks up to faze* will you tell me now.
Faze: ... *wheeze*
-NAM
F in chat for Stylist. honestly Slayer is just a badly behaved Pitbull.