boop. had a birthday so week was all partying. Sorry for the late chap, but I like this one. i hope you do too.
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: Molten Armour
Weapon: 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)
All in all, I'm having quite the adventure.
Not the dire sort of adventure I've grown used to - those heavy and deep battles filled with rot and death with stakes as high and heavy as mountains. I... I don't dislike war, for my nature is not peaceable. I love the smell of conflict in the air, the clanging of armaments, the cries of battle. I can see clearly now that I'm a 'destroyer'. War the the oil that runs in my veins, so of course I cannot hate it!
But I was not meant to lose.
This war has become arduous. My adversaries are far more vicious and far more powerful than I, and even those I counted as allies have turned against me. What little I've gained in this short life was torn from beneath me; the one I loved dissolved that I might escape. How dreadful, the pain. It hurts terribly, yet I am eager to inflict it on others. I thirst for battle like a parch man thirsts for water, yet the pain of loss clashes against my aberrant desires.
What a wretched man I am! I can scarcely bear the injuries I've inflicted a thousand-fold on others. I am laden with grief, but countless men and women are grief laden because of me. For the longest time, my heart was cold and callous as stone. I bathed in the blood of my enemies without the slightest tinge of guilt to shadow my elementary conscience. But The Archmage taught me grief. And grief taught me the meaning of 'death'.
This blood on my hands... it makes me a hypocrite.
I have murdered thousands.
So I have no right to mourn.
...
Even so, my stony heart has sustained a grave injury. There is pain lodged there like a thorn - and it makes me burn in anger and grief.
...
But today, and perhaps just for a day, I've escaped from beneath that perpetual dark cloud.
Today, I've forgotten everything.
Today I'm in the sun.
Because I've read of Glorious Autumn.
But I've never seen it.
The trees... they're dressed like fire.
Vibrant oranges, reds, yellows and browns - glowing and waving to me against the bright blue sky. Scarlet maple hands and whirling golden leaves toss about me as the eastward breeze rushes over the land. The grass grows pale and tan, crunching beneath my boots - and all about, berries pepper the shrubs like garlands of colour. Red ones that taste tart (and might have been poisonous), blackberries so ripe, they melt on my tongue and dye my teeth. Gooseberries and boysenberries, bright trumpet mushrooms and truffles, walnuts, pecans and all manner of acorns and fallen seeds. If The Archmage had seen me, he would've been angry with the amount of things I've picked up from the ground and eaten - but I have yet to be ill, and I have chocolate to cleanse my palate should I taste anything particularly upsetting.
"You there!"
I hear somebody call in the distance but my foraged feast is far more attractive than dealing with people. I continue cracking open walnuts and pecans between my gauntlets - easing the nutty bitterness with chunks of my rapidly shrinking chocolate stash. The large, flat rock I've found serves well as a both a seat and a picnic table - and I'm quite happy to spend the day eating my fill and watching the squirrels and chipmunks mill about and nibble on my scraps.
So, I ignore the voices and carry on drinking in sublime nature. The wind rustles over me, causing the leaves still attached to their gnarled branches to dance in a frenzy. Cold air chills me lungs, and the air tastes of rich earth and babbling creeks and maple bark. I close my eyes and allow the breeze to tousle my hair. The sun shines down and gently warms my cheeks. I grin at nothing.
"Hey! You! You in the rags!"
"..."
How annoying. My mood immediately drops and I sit up and twist around to find who dares disturb my peace. I don't know anyone in this town. There is no reason for anyone to seek me out except for nefarious purposes. The Arm of The Resistance is long, after all. Who knows if there are Rebels hiding in this town? I stand up and brush berry stems and acorn casings from my lap before casting a glare at the intruders. I curl my lip and snarl.
"What?!"
It's a group of three men, and they flinch as I scorch them with my gaze. Each of them has an odd, hungry look in their eyes - the look of starving beasts that cannot be so easily deterred. Indeed, they look at me the same way I was looking at the slabs of chocolate at The Tavernkeep's shop as I wandered through The Town. I frown as they pause, confer with one another, and continue approaching - fanning out to surround me on three sides.
"What is this?!"
I call out again, but the men don't respond. They simply continue to observe me like one observes a piece of merchandise. One of the three has a large rope slung over his shoulder. The second wields a pitchfork, and the third rests his hand on a firearm as he approaches. There is a wide, unpleasant smile turning the corners of his moustached lips. Behind them, off the nearby road, is a carriage that, like the rest of the town, is washed in lime and bleached snow white. The Two large horses tied to the carriage whinny and toss their heads in distress when I lay eyes on them, but the men show no such perception.
(See those eyes?)
(Yup, that's him all right...)
(Five thousand Platinum, I can hardly wait!)
(Hey! Five thousand split three ways- remember that!)
There's the thrum of excitement and triumph in the air as all three slowly close in on me. I scoff and, with a sinking feeling, make a quick grab for my chocolate bar. As a rule, I don't fear the physical power of men. Their plans and their tactics are fearsome, but their raw strength? It's nigh negligible. I've killed a thousand soldiers far better equipped than these. But although I can likely brush off anything my attackers might throw at me, my chocolate bar cannot. What if they throw a firebomb upon it or... or something equally ruinous?
I cannot let that happen.
Quickly, I stuff the (sizable) remaining chunk of chocolate into my mouth until my face resemble the myriad of chipmunks and squirrels scuttling about my feet. I hear one of the men snicker as I whirl and shout at them.
"Wahbt bithnish do yuh haf wif me?"
The Constable approaches closely in an attempt to intimidate me, but the corner of his mouth keeps twitching in the most infuriating manner. Should I cut off his head? Not while I'm eating. I don't want the stink of blood to taint my senses while I'm enjoying possibly the best thing to ever pass through my lips. I plant my hands on my hips and chew furiously as The Constable whips out his pistol and levels it at me. He does well to hide the joy in his eyes as he issues threats.
"Young man, you had better come with us. You don't want trouble, you hear?"
I roll my eyes and sneer at the threat. What a farce. This was almost insulting, like I was being threatened by ants. Clearly my disguise is excellent, for if these poor bastards knew of my feats, surely they wouldn't dare come at me with a pitchfork and a pistol. With a flash, I summon my blade and launch it. It snicks through the iron firing mechanism, causing the firearm's innards to spill unto the grass, before returning to my hand and vanishing. I put my hands back on my hips to chew furiously.
*shink... thud, thump*
"..."
The reaction is delayed, but eventually I watch each of them pale. One begins to shift his feet. Another grits his teeth. The Constable stumbles back - every lick of triumph gone from those hardened features. These are the signs of fear; these are beginnings of panic. The four of us stand, frozen, there in the autumn clearing for a long while before I finish my chocolate and am finally free to speak. I stride over to The Constable and glare down at him.
"Trouble, huh? I'm not afraid of Trouble... Trouble keeps life entertaining. The only issue is, you only brought three bodies. They won't last very long, you know."
More silence. The only sounds are the whooshing wind and the crisp crackle of dried leaves rustling against each other. I chuckle under my breath and find - to my great dismay, that the taste of chocolate has long since disappeared from my mouth. My mood plummets and I feel a scowl overtake my features. I take my eyes off my adversaries to steal glances at the depressingly empty chocolate wrapper on my picnic rock.
Eventually, somebody speaks. It's the man holding the rope.
"If...If you want more chocolate, you'd better come with us. The Chocolatier is leaving town. You do want more, don't you?"
"-ah...what?"
I blink in surprise. So do the man's companions. His voice wavers as he stutters onwards.
"If you come with us, we'll take you to him. We didn't want any trouble, you see. I'll even buy you another chocolate. Why don't you come?"
"..."
I... frankly I know it's a trap. They have clearly come here to capture me for... some sort of cash reward. But I'm far stronger then they. I can escape at any time. There is no real need for me to fear them, right? Still, I narrow my eyes and punctuate my questions with the jab of a finger.
"You are holding a rope, and you wield a weapon. Why come to me with those if-"
The Rope Man speaks again, he points past me.
"Sir, we are farmers. We've come to bundle hay in the field yonder."
"..."
I doubt him.
But...
"We brought a carriage. Everyone in town knows the white carriage is for bringing bales of hay into town. Do you want to come along?"
"...you're not trying to kidnap me, are you?"
"Of course not. I told you we're here to bundle hay. But we can come back later. The Chocolatier is leaving, but the hay will be here tomorrow. There's no telling when he'll be back, you know. Last time he left, he didn't come back for months."
"Months!?"
"Exactly. Come on then! You can even sit in the front if you like. I'll even buy for you. Did you try the strawberry flavour?"
"...I've never eaten strawberries."
"Then I'll get you some. Climb up here... Good man... Giddiyup!"
"...You come at me with my own sword."
She was terrified. What the hell were they doing?! Didn't she just tell The Guide that The Monster Knight was dangerous? Didn't he hear her when she told him Yharim's CC fled from him with impunity? So why were they here, approaching where that monster lay slumped over beneath the gondola? The Guide... he wasn't supposed to be this stupid, Right? The Old Guide was painfully smart. This new one should be somewhat comparable. He wouldn't decide to walk up in broad daylight and stab the man, would he? That'd get the both of them killed!
Stupid stupid stupid stupid!
Of course, The Stylist didn't vocalize any of these concerns. Although her brain was spinning and whirling with a thousand curses, she barely breathed a word as she stood behind The Guide, her trembling fingers pinched at the hem of his shirt. She squeezed her eyes shut and lifted prayer upon prayer to any god who heard her as she half hid behind him.
*Clack*
The Guide placed the blade on the table with a clatter and climbed in to sit across from The Monster Knight. She stole a glance at him and found his expression to be completely calm and placid, despite she knew he was stressed beyond belief only moments before. What a performer he was - she never doubted he was a lecturer, but how he carried himself now, even under such immense strain, proved his words. When he spoke, it was as smooth and as practiced as honey. Although it was morning, the light from the ever-blazing fireplace flickered over his features.
"I don't use weapons. I'd likely injure myself should I attempt to. I panicked and shouldn't have taken this sword. I'm returning it."
"..."
The Monster Knight was slumped on the table, the crown of his helmet facedown and the slats in his visor all directed into his lap. Those two swooping horns curled up from each side and their sharp points glistened in the light of the fire. How long had he been laying here? As far as The Stylist could tell - he'd been here, unmoving, since last night. There was the thin outline of salt staining the wooden tabletop near his face, evidence of tears shed over hours. The Monster Knight wasn't human, but he sure mourned like one.
And had The Stylist not been terrified of him, she might have pitied him. The Monster Knight wasn't looking at them, yet The Stylist could feel a cold, malevolent attention prickling the small hairs on her arms and crawling on the nape of her neck. She shivered and gulped as she slowly took a seat beside The Guide, clutching that worn monstrosity of a journal to her chest as if her life depended on it. Hell, why did The Guide want her to participate again? Wouldn't everything be better if she wasn't sitting here, sweating bullets and hyperventilating?
*Crunch*
The Monster Knight's movements always seemed smooth and choreographed, even when his actions were quick and brutal. The Knight did not lift his head nor move his torso. Instead, his shoulder contorted in a way unnatural to the joint and he reached out to grasp the blade in his fist. After a moment, the finely crafted weapon was destroyed, dissolving until not even dust remained. The Monster Knight returned to his prior position; he remained silent, not raising his eyes to look at them.
The fire crackled.
The gentle breeze blew through.
The Guide waited...
...
...
"What are you here for."
It seems as if in that silence, some invisible transaction was made between them. The destruction of a weapon. A tenuous pact of peace. The question was stated with some aggressiveness - but such was typical for The Monster Knight. As always, his voice rang against their eardrums from everywhere and nowhere. It was devoid of tone or modulation, but somehow the undercurrent of sadness shone through. The Stylist gulped and stared at the top of his burnished helmet head. The Guide folded his hands and leaned over the table.
"I will be straight with you. I have no intention to use trickery or lies. Something tells me you're quite tired of that."
Silence. A silence of agreement.
"I need you to escort me to The Capitol. It is a tremendous task, and I intend to give something of equal value in exchange."
Silence. A scoff. Dry mirth. The Knight spoke slowly and deliberately.
"What do you imagine I need from you, imposter. Don't insult me. None can replace the one I've lost. I will rend your head from your shoulders for even suggesting it."
The threat was very real. She could feel the tension behind the words, and she was certain The Guide felt it too - but he did not flinch nor did his voice grow fearful. The Knight, likewise, did not lift his head nor summon his weapon. He continued there, talking to them as if his head was too heavy to lift. His pale gaze bore into the ground as if he could not bring himself to look into The Guide's face.
"I wouldn't dare... Stylist, The Journal."
The Guide nodded at her and she placed it with a *thump* upon the table with trembling hands. When The Guide opened it, it had a clear effect on The Monster Knight, for his liquid form became tense and rigid. The scent in it, perhaps? The Stylist was unsure. She watched The Knight carefully despite knowing she'd be unable to escape if he made a move to attack them.
"That night, you had asked me 'why' my predecessor left. Of course, I don't know now - but given enough time, I am certain I can discover it. Both he and I share a great many things, including a love for puzzles and ciphers. See? It's all encoded; a complex encryption, I have to say. I am certain whatever answer you're looking for must be written here."
The Guide tipped the edge of the journal towards The Knight, but the man didn't raise his head to look.
Instead, he spoke. His voice was low and raw.
"What do you think of me, Guide."
...
There was no good answer to that question. Even The Stylist could see that. She glanced at The Guide, and found stress coiling in his features. Behind them, the fire crackled. Above, faraway crows cried at the cloudy sky.
"Am I a lowly and pitiful creature you may manipulate to accomplish your goals?"
There was the groan of heavy armored plates sliding over each other. The Monster Knight sat up, and The Stylist really wished he didn't. She could feel that pale, dead gaze on her skin. There were flashes of white from within the darkness of the visor. The Guide likewise seemed to understand the direness of the situation. His shoulders grew tense, the tendons on his neck grew taut. He made a quick dismissal - but was silenced with the wave of a hand.
"Of course not, I would neve-"
"Stop."
...
...
A deep sigh. The Monster Knight spoke once more, his voice introspective and his tone growing from despairing to increasingly wroth.
"You are The Guide... you claim to have the same mind as My Guide. So answer me this - and tell me a reason."
Tension and silence. The Stylist glanced at him, but The Guide didn't look to her. His expression was so impressively neutral, that it was hard to imagine he was worried at all, yet he was squeezed her hand from beneath the table, clinging to her as if his life depended on it. Was she here for moral support? If she wasn't as scared as she was, it'd be endearing.
The Monster Knight was hunched over the table. She could hear his teeth grinding between his words.
"My Guide... he was my-" The Knight's voice cracked. He paused and composed himself. When he spoke again, his voice was clinical, distant and detached.
"He brought me to The Underworld. We tunneled for days... and when we arrived, he hurled himself into the sea of lava. A creature burst from within him, as tall as the oaks and as wide as the sky, full of countless teeth and tongues and screaming throats - all crying for my blood. What do you think Guide? You have his mind - so tell me his intentions."
"..."
"..."
It was as if a cold blanket had been laid over them. Even such an emotionless recounting of events was like a punch to the gut. To some extent, The Stylist knew how close those two were, and could thereby understand why The Monster Knight had become so unhinged. Yet although she pitied him, he was still her adversary. He was a man who would behead them for any reason - and if The Guide gave the wrong answer, her life might end today.
The Guide was staring intensely at The Knight. She could see the cogs whirling behind his eyes as he thought about how to respond. When he finally did, his voice sounded small and mournful.
"You... imagine he gave his life to try and kill you?"
There was the snick of teeth from behind the full faced helmet. There was a note in The Knight's voice that was far more guttural than what a human throat could produce. A hiss and a snarl, despair and rage. The Knight stood from his seat and planted his palms against the tabletop. He leaned in close.
"He betrayed me, he tried to kill me. Yet I tore the wall asunder."
The eyes flashed behind the visor.
"And I ate it's black heart."
Braelor: Say... what's your greatest weakness.
Faze: *gets lured into a white van with a chocolate bar*
Faze: (monch, monch) I have no weaknesses!
Faze is my darling goofy little existential crisis :)
And Bitch is spreading his sadness everywhere. smhmh