Another Chapter. Setting some stuff up :) Love all u.
I love y'all more. - Co-Writer
Armour: Brimflame (Vanity- Standard)
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)
They're gone...
She felt drunk.
She swore she was as sober as the day she was born, but what the hell had just happened?!
The whole thing was Completely nonsensical! With all the seemingly random things that kept happening in The Compound, she was halfway convinced she was lucid dreaming. But of course, she wasn't... probably.
In any case, The Party Girl had long concluded it was best not to think too hard about the things that happened in this crazy place. She'd have time to sit and think about all the chaos when she was finished surviving. When her life wasn't in danger, she could lounge around and ponder all she wanted, maybe over a cup of coffee in one of The Capitol's excessively large and ornate libraries. She'd even get CC Central involved to research why the hell a band of pirates - pirates led by the famed Blackbeard himself no less - had suddenly appeared over The Monster Knight's compound, killed him, tried to kidnap her, and -without the slightest hint of explanation -fled away like a bat out of hell!
Maybe it was just some elaborate costume roleplay...? No... why did they have real weapons though? Ack.
Well... whe wasn't going to waste time thinking about this nonsense.
Because that's exactly what it was. It was nonsense. Maybe, if she really applied herself and searched for clues- she'd be able to understand it, but exactly what good would that do? She was a Soldier. She was a CC Agent. She was really good at taking commands and following objectives without asking too many questions about what she was doing or why she was doing it.
Besides, she was just exhausted.
She hadn't any more mental energy to spend on this little fiasco. When had she arrived here? Two weeks ago? Three? And she had been on high alert for every single moment since. It was exhausting and it ground her down until she was dull and tired and in dreadful need of a week-long nap. The constant attention - every sound, every flicker in the corner of her eye. The constant stress - the schemes of The Guide, the insanity of The Knight, the utter incompetence of The Stylist. And the constant danger of getting her head separated from her body by the equivalent of an extremely powerful toddler?
Hell, she didn't want to deal with this anymore. She wanted to go to the spa to just stare at a blank wall for five or six hours while sitting in hot water and getting all the callouses on her feet scrubbed off.
And so... she pushed the strange pirate hallucination out of her mind.
And focused on what was important.
*scrape...scrape*
The important thing, what's the important thing?
The important thing was that The Monster Knight had been killed.
And even more importantly - he would shortly revive.
Why did he revive? She didn't think about that. All that she knew was once he did, she could grab the shovel she'd sharpened for this occasion and separate The Knight's limbs from his body. She was aware that the limbs were rather unruly when removed from their host (not that the host was any less unruly himself) but this too she had accounted for. This... right now was her opportunity to capture that incredibly powerful monster.
And this time, she wasn't going to let anyone screw it up.
*Scratch... thud*
The Party Girl released a rather unseemly squeak as the spikes on the bottom of her shoes lost purchase against the tree bark and sent her into a four-foot freefall. It was a harmless fall really... she hadn't been injured save a bruise on her backside and a wound to her pride - but in top shape, she'd never suffer this sort of clumsy mistake! How embarrassing. She... she really was losing her touch. She needed to rest and recover and not have to worry if The Monster Knight was going to bust down her door to kill her or not - and in order to do that, she needed to chop that man into pieces and lock those pieces into boxes.
Stupid Stylist... we could have gotten this done ages ago, but you had to mess it up... I hope those damn pirates kill you.
The Party Girl sighed as she stretched, reaching the tips of her fingers as far outwards as she could to feel the cool blades of grass tickling her scarred knuckles. It was still early afternoon. The sun was high above, shining merrily down upon the chaos. Those soft rays cast themselves through the lush forest canopy, patterning the grass and loamy moss with refractions of green and yellow. There was no sound in the forest... in the past, this place was teeming with life. Now, even the corpses and their flies have all vanished to nothing. It was a forest in which the wind rustled through and the creek babbled, but no songbirds blessed the trees with their utterances, and the frogs sang naught through the night.
"Ugh..."
It was a dead forest, everyone and everything was dead. Even the crimson outside the field of sunflowers had more life than this lush, dead fishbowl! The first and second merchants - both murdered. The Demolitionist, killed by her own hand. The Arms Dealer and The Nurse - fled. The Dryad - slain and burned to ash. All three Guides were gone - and, momentarily at least, The Monster Knight as well! He'd been killed and dissolved to ash by that band of pirates- but The Party Girl knew he'd be back. Perhaps it'd take a few hours... perhaps it'd be a day, but soon he'd appear on that very specific spot on the now-destroyed patio.
And she had to get to him before he regained his strength.
"Okay."
She climbed to her feet and, after shaking the soreness from her muscles, meandered about - picking up all the fallen equipment she had stolen from The Flying Dutchman's cargo hull. She was preparing to walk through The Crimson... a prospect daunting to even the most powerful of CC Agents. Even The Monster Knight hadn't been able to survive there long - but alas, she wasn't thinking too hard about it. After all, there was no other path. There was no other way out. She would either stay here and starve, or she had to walk through The Crimson carrying The dismembered Monster Knight on her back...
I wonder how long I have to walk... Last time I checked, The Crimson cleared the horizon...
It... it was best not to think about that. She just hoped it didn't take more than seven days to get through to civilization, because that was all the rations she'd managed to steal before leaping from The Ship's deck.
Of course, she'd stolen other things too - in the little time she had. Amongst her scarce belongings was a new too-small canteen, a new pair of boots (her old ones were nigh worn through), a new coat, a satchel... but before she could snatch that machete she'd been eying - there was commotion top deck. She'd been spooked. She escaped, donning The Steampunker's jacket and hat - and blending into the crowd until she found an opportunity to quickly leap overboard and into the wooded canopy below. It was a miracle she didn't break an ankle pulling that stunt (Although the ship was parked, it still was quite a high drop) but for her to get home - she'd need far more miracles than just that.
Just do this, then you can go home and sit in a spa... and you never have to drink ale again, we can get some vodka... Hell, I can eat a steak!
And so thusly motivated, The Party Girl tossed The Steampunker's hat into the dirt - hoisted all her equipment onto her back, and began trekking her way back to The Monster Knight's Compound.
"A City."
"... What?"
The Cultist had lost the last of his patience long, long ago. He had never been a patient man to begin with, but The Hero - or 'Faze' as he so strongly insisted on being called - was pushing him near the brink of madness. Curse The Archmage who had given this brat a set of wings! Yesterday was the third time he had leapt to his feet and fled away, and The Cultist was quite finished having his sentences interrupted by a flutter of frozen wings, and another door kicked off its hinges.
So when The Hero returned (where else would he go?) and failed to apologize on his hands and knees, The Cultist was rather miffed. Instead, the little brat not only immediately slapped him with some harebrained schemed, but he carried himself in with the pomp and high-browedness worthy of a scorned prince. He sat with a huff, fixed The Cultist with a look, and began whining.
"A City, Teacher. If I wish to defeat Yharim, I must have a city of my own!"
"Stupid brat! What good will a city do you! You wish to build a city filled with people. People whom you will inevitably become attached to, only for Yharim to immediately threaten and take hostage. How will that even begin to help your cause!?"
"No!"
The Hero crossed his arms across his chest and glared at him, reptilian pupils blown wide. He appeared to have affixed himself on something, and was refusing to budge - as if stubbornness itself was a virtue. The Cultist was well aware The Hero had some irrational fixation on not being 'a weapon' and - to a certain extent - understood why he maintained such a position, but understanding did not spawn compassion. The Lunatic Cultist was as thorny and vindictive as he ever was, and made no attempt to hide his scorn.
"Hero, listen to me. Read these damn books." The Cultist hurled one of the tomes at The Hero's head. It was chopped out of the air by a well timed parry. "Get strong enough to kill Yharim, then when the war is finished, you can build whatever the hell you want to build! I won't stop you! I won't say a peep! I'll even help you move bricks. Now stop being a stupid brat and get to work!"
The Lunatic Cultist was yelling now. Heavens, how many years since he had to raise his voice like this?! For the past twenty years, he'd been followed around by a pack of faithful zealots that nigh worshipped the ground he walked on. They hung on his every word, and The Cultist had become accustomed to being obeyed. To go from that to needing to shout at a incredibly stubborn and incredibly powerful toddler that didn't like him much to begin with was a very unwelcome change. Clearly, The Hero thought so as well - and while being faced with some very valid arguments, proceeded to simply double down on his position.
"I won't do it!"
Now they were both yelling at one another. The Hero was always gesticulated when he got flustered, and leapt from his chair to jab a finger at him. He had bared his teeth and looked quite on the brink of attacking someone. The Cultist rolled his eyes from behind his mask and briefly considered hurling another book at The Hero's face, before deciding it really wasn't worth the trouble. He just hunkered down and The Hero scream at him.
"I won't listen to anyone anymore! All my problem started when I listened to what people wanted from me! I'm only going to do what I want now! And I want to build a city!"
"It's a terrible idea."
The Cultist responded evenly. This appeared to enrage The Hero.
"I don't care if it is."
"You'll be crippling yourself."
"I don't care!"
"Fine then do what you want. I knew you were useless to me. I'd be better off fighting Yharim myself, instead of dragging a boneheaded donkey like you - into battle with me. Well then, Hero. Farewell then."
The Cultist sighed and slowly stood to his feet. With the wave of his hand, all the books that had been scattered about the tower vanished, and he dramatically made his way towards the front door. He could tell The Hero was becoming visibly nervous at the implication he was leaving, but - to be completely honest- The Cultist was fed up with him. Perhaps given enough time and effort he'd be able to summon another Terrarian and enact his plan anew, but clearly this attempt was a failure.
I should have dressed up that dull looking Knight as 'The Hero' and have been done with it. Tch... perhaps he is still alive somewhere. I should search for him.
The Cultist kicked open the door - in the very same way The Hero had done several times over the past week - and began stepped out into the field. Overhead was the afternoon sun, blazing down upon him and causing his skin to crawl... but soon enough he'd teleport off to the abyssal caves and hide there until Yharim's campaign against The Resistance was well and over. He had ample books to read, and-
"Teacher."
The Hero's voice was low and serious, yet forceful and not at all apologetic. When The Cultist simply continued to walk, and didn't turn to look at him - The Hero raised his voice again. He shouted, but there was a dangerous rumble in his voice.
"Teacher, If you go, You will die."
The Cultist scoffed.
"Me? Die? Brat, I'm not you. I'm no fool."
A pause. Then, a sneer.
"Cultist, you will die - because your magical signature is on me... I will ensure Yharim tracks you down the way he tracked The Archmage."
"..."
Silence upon the wildflowers. The eastern wind blew and caused the yellow blossoms to sway in the wind - clearly oblivious of the threat that had been issued over their merry heads. The Cultist turned on his heel to glare at The Hero. He spit his words.
"You dare threaten me, whelp? I gave you breath, yet you seek to betray me?!"
The Hero met his gaze evenly. He spoke clinically, as if he'd rehearsed this a hundred times to an audience of trees and bushes.
"I won't listen to you. You will listen to me. Help me build my city, and I will help you raise The Moon Lord."
The Hero curled his lip in bitterness.
"Or you walk away - and die."
Names.
Names were a privilege in this world.
More than wealth or riches, conquest or great social standing, A Name was above all. Names granted honor and glory to those that bore them, for a name identified a man or woman out of the faceless masses. Now a man is no longer just 'The King' out of the hundred kings that ruled this land throughout the millennia. He is set apart from his title. He is 'The Tyrant, Yharim' - and his story is written upon the scrolls of history to be remembered forevermore.
As such, to receive a name was the greatest honor one could achieve. One earned his name through great strength and great achievement, of monumental intellect or of extreme brutality. When a figure was at the tip of everyone's tongue, when a person was so distinguished, he must be set apart... this was when he received his name. As such, many of the greatest noble families were founded by those with names, the memory of their founders alone granting them respect from from generation to generation. Even to this day, these 'Named Families' held the highest positions of political and social power - even to the point where The Royal Court was easily swayed by them.
One of the noble families - 'The Nostradame Family' specialized in divination and occult fetishes, and all but owned every fortune teller stand in the city. They were often called upon to determine the future for those with as much money as they had anxiety. 'The Ptolemaics' likewise were mathematicians and scholars who - despite spending their time in ivory towers arguing with each other over numbers - really were amazing when it came to modelling for business and banking.
The more foolish of the people oftentimes attributed special abilities to family members, as if their connection to their founder somehow granted them the skills therof. But although there was no supernatural diffusion of skills and knowledge through the bloodlines - the simple fact remained. Because of their training and resources: the best diviners were nearly always from the Nostradame Family. The Best Mathematicians were The Ptolemaics, and the very best fighters, officers, commanders and generals hailed from The house of Gilgal.
"Family Head, have you no sense? You know well that our family is weakened during this era!"
"... Head, you have nigh doomed us! What shall we do?!"
Now, even the family itself had long forgotten exactly who their founder was. There was a great deal of arguing amongst the elders concerning his name, his heritage... or even if he was human at all! Yet despite the seemingly endless debate concerning this historical figure - the general consensus was this: The man was called 'Gilgamesh', or perhaps, 'Gilgameas', or perhaps 'Gilgamikmek' - and whether he was a man or a god or something in between - he was first and foremost a warrior of great might. A powerful military leader, 'The First Hero' and 'The Lord of The Battlefield'.
And with such a lofty heritage - one the House of Gilgal took tremendous pride in, to the point of gloating, really - The Family prospered. From dynasty to dynasty - from empire to empire, The House of Gilgal produced mighty warriors, generals, commanders, officers... Indeed, they were the best warriors in the land. They were the best anyone had to offer. From a young age, the men and women were trained in strategy, in fighting, in the art of the spear and the sword. Indeed, every member of the house of Gilgalk was made fit to step into the role of high general, for those that failed to attain competency in this were weeded out and expelled from its ranks. Famous Warriors and Generals from outside the family were sought after and offered marriage proposal after marriage proposal - and if they would not join, they were compelled, sometimes with great material persuasion, to mix their seed in with The Family's. In this way, The House of Gilgalk remained powerful, in bloodline, in training, in their increasing material wealth and influence. From their land was upon the western cliffs, a jagged region nearly impossible to conquer due to the difficult terrain, they had made themselves the de-facto military academy on this continent. Nearly every King that rose in this land - if they were not members of The Family itself - sought alliances with The House of Gilgal, for to make Gilgal your enemy was a death sentence.
And so... for as far as anyone could remember, The House of Gilgal was the most powerful of The Named Families. There was none who didn't fear their ferocity and their battle prowess. There was none who dared disrespect their name.
That is... until The Tyrant rose to power.
Because Lord Yharim... he wasn't afraid of anyone.
He didn't need a military commander from Gilgal. Yharim didn't need anything at all.
Because The Tyrant was a military all on his own.
He was a man whose power was so great, even the best of strategies fell flat before him. He and The Jungle Dragon conquered the land with ruthlessness and impunity - and with little care for deals and politicks and the like. So while the kings in times past always avoided touching region of The Western Cliffs, reasoning that they soon wished to employ the services of Gilgal to further their grasp of power - Yharim didn't. Yharim subjugated their land and dragged all that survived in chains to The Capitol. The wealth of Gilgal was looted. The Weapons and the books, their resources and strategies... they who had once been the pinnacle of the 'Named Families' were made destitute in a single moment. Only after The King cemented his rule over The Continent did he allow Gilgal the opportunity to serve in his military.
What a fall it was!
To go from a military force even feared by monarchs, to a bunch of mercenaries that lived off the scraps from The King's table? It was monsterous! Their founder would have died of shame! But they were soldiers, trained in warfare and in combat. What was shame to those who slew men and women for their bread? It'd been a hundred years since The King conquered the land, and over the course of a hundred years, The House of Gilgal slowly built itself up. They were foot soldiers first. Then, Captains and Officers. Then, Platoon leaders, military advisors, and finally... finally, The Family Leader was appointed Yharim's High Commander! Finally, the family would begin to regain their former status! Finally, they were no longer in danger of being executed for some sort of perceived treason... They had made it. The glory of Gilgal would soon be restored!
... until-
Until The Family head - The High Commander in whom they had placed their hopes in...
He was dismissed from his post.
...
Nobody was exactly sure why.
Something about arguing with a wizard about 'The Resistance Hero'? It was a small thing of little consequence - but to be dismissed?!
Nonsense.
It was nonsense. Complete and utter nonsense, but there was no use in pursuing it. The King was not one that could be convinced to give second chances for whatever slight he must have percieved. Indeed, pestering Yharim with this sort of request was more likely to draw the king's ire than prove any benefit to them. And so, with little fanfare and a fair bit of confusion the hope of The Gilgal was crushed. The Family Leader returned to The Estate with his head hung in disgrace, and the Family Elders began to mourn their imminent fall into obscurity.
"Dismissed? Head! You have ruined us! What will we do now?!"
"We must beg The King for mercy lest we become obnoxious to him! Cast out the Family Head and perhaps the clan will be spared!"
"Nonsense! The King takes no notice of these things!"
It was a dismal scene inside The Gilgal estate's main hall, all sullen faces and gritted teeth. They were right to be terrified. The King was not known to be a reasonable man. Indeed, his moniker was 'The Tyrant' - and despite that many monarchs would reject the nickname, Yharim had all but embraced it. He was a ruler that had no qualms about using fear to rule his people, and often reinforced the idea with senseless acts of violence against detractors. If The House of Gilgal could not offer something to The King's benefit, then perhaps they-
"Fellow elders... we must take drastic measures. I will not see this noble family be destroyed in my lifetime."
The Second Elder of Gilgal... he was the oldest of them all, and well studied in strategy and warfare. Of all the members of The Familiy, he was by far the most well respected. At his utterance, the arguing calmed to a whimper.
The old man stood to address the members sitting at the long onyx table. When he spoke, it was a command.
"Send a party of our historians to The Castle upon The Western Cliffs... to our ancestral home."
The Old Man sighed heavily.
"And from depths of the great sepulcher, fetch the bones of Gilgamesh."
Lunatic Cultist: "You said the witch won't find us?
Faze: "Yes, of course."
Lunatic Cultist: "I am glad you are not completely incompetent."
Faze: "..."
LC: "..."
Faze: "But let's say you had some last words left for friends and family, what would they be?"
LC: "...What?"
Faze: "Just making sure."
As I (the Co-Writer) am uploading today, I am going to use that opportunity to say that I just used that opportunity.
Thank you very much.