BAM! Stuff happens lmao. Kinna long this one, so buckle in.
Armour: Broken Victide Armour (Ranger)
Weapon: [UNUSABLE]Mandible Bow (Jester Arrows); Arkhalis
Acc(11/11): Band of Regeneration, Amidas Spark, Sailfish Boots, Luxor's Gift, Ocean Crest, Counter Scarf, Crown Jewel, Tsunami in a Bottle, Frog Leg, Aero Stone, Shield of the Ocean
Health: (230/400)
"No, nononoNo! Aaaagsfh-"
The Demolitionist had never seen himself a particularly cruel man. Although he was part of The Resistance force, he wasn't actually in the combat unit - instead specializing in logistics and engineering. As such, he hadn't been professionally trained in 'advanced interrogation' techniques, and his lack of experience was proving arduous for both of them.
"Hmm! Mhummmph!"
"I know ya work fer Draedon, there's no point in hidin' it. Yer gonna give me yer transmission equipment and the passcode, or yer losing another fingernail. Bite yer tongue and I'll shoot ya."
"Mhmmmm!"
The Guide wasn't cooperating, not that The Demolitionist really expected him to. Although The Demolitionist was quite sure he had pushed the man well past the breaking point, he simply wouldn't divulge the crucial information The Demolitionist was looking for. Every one of Yharim's high level operatives carried communications equipment on their person. These were valuable tools that - if jailbroken - could provide tactics information to Resistance Members. Unfortunately simply finding transmission equipment wasn't enough. Every operative had a passcode with which they were to protect with their lives…
This bastard...
And The Guide was clearly doing his utmost to follow his training. In fact, the act he was putting on was so good, The Demolitionist was beginning to question if this man even worked for Yharim at all. The Guide had been wailing and sobbing for the better part of the hour, all the while continuing to insist he had nothing to do with The Tyrant. He appeared to be reacting violently to the pain, and began confessing random facts commonly known about The Tyrant - but otherwise provided nothing of value.
Tch… he must know I'm not a combat unit and is trying to make me give up… I've got to persist. There's no way this place doesn't belong to Yharim's experimental division…
All the facts pointed to that conclusion. It was merely putting two-and-two together. The Demolitionist was absolutely certain he had been chased here by Yharim's Clandestine Corps. He was also absolutely sure this was some sort of prison, as all of his efforts to leave had been thwarted. The fact that this place also housed a superhuman 'fake-terrarian' only strengthened his case. After much thought, The Demolitionist came to this conclusion. This Compound might be a prison for them, but it was primarily a laboratory.
Draedon's making bioweapons…
It was no secret that Yharim's top scientist, Draedon, routinely conducted all sorts of abominable experiments on Yharim's troops. The Demolitionist had heard stories of soldiers who felt no pain, soldiers who boasted superhuman strength, even ones who had been spliced with animal genes to grant them night vision, or a sharp sense of smell. When he'd first heard from Amidas that The Monster Knight was a 'failed Terrarian' he immediately knew what was happening.
A fake Terrarian who can counter our Hero...
Of course, The Guide had denied all of these allegations, earnestly begging and sobbing his way through the entire ordeal. Had The Demolitionist been a lesser man, he might've caved to his emotions and believed The Guide's charade. Instead, he gagged The Guide and continued his difficult and gruesome work.
"Hmmm! Mmmmmm!"
With a sigh, he plucked up a hammer and pin from his 'interrogation kit' and walked over to The Guide. His footsteps were loud and heavy on the hardwood floors, the noise rang through the darkened room. The Guide watched him approach with a mounting terror; the fear in his gaze had long begun to shift into hate. The younger man glared up at him with puffy, terrified eyes. He had cried out all his tears and was now only able to show his displeasure by rattling his bonds and grinding his teeth on his gag. His left hand was a bloodied mess. The Demolitionist had (messily) pulled out his fourth fingernail not ten minutes ago and The Guide had flailed about so violently he nearly toppled the chair he was strapped to.
"Yer a tough brat, eh? Amazing Yharim put you in charge of a secret lab at yer age. Yer clearly very loyal. I'm sure The Tyrant'd be proud… but it's time to give up."
"...!"
The Guide's wrists were tightly bound to the armrests. The Demolitionist pinned down one of his hands and positioned the tip of the large nail on his palm. The Guide's hand shook his head wildly and strained against his bonds.
"Feel like talkin' ya bastard?"
The Demolitionist yanked out the gag. It fell into The Guide's lap covered in foaming, bloodied spittle. The Guide's voice was wild and raw, bordering between a miserable sob and a desperate shout. Somehow he found more crocodile tears to spew forth.
"I don't have what you want! I couldn't give it, even if I wanted to! I have no idea what you're talking about! Are you a sadist? You didn't manage to kill The Slayer, so you're taking it out on me?! What do you even want me to do you fu- mhmm!"
"... Wrong answer."
"Hmmm! Mmuuhhh!"
The Demolitionist shook his head and hardened his heart. He stuffed the gag back into The Guide's mouth and once again positioned the nail on his straining palm. With a deep breath, he set his mouth in a grim line, raised his hammer and-
*Crunch*
"Mmuuuggh!"
...winced at the sound of bone splitting beneath his chisel.
...
There was a scratching at his ear, the scuffing noise of sharp bone carving deep grooves in steel. A warm, rancid draft ruffled his hair and he involuntarily turned away from the offending scent. As he did so, the layers of blood which had long since dried over his face tugged at his cheeks and eyelids. The discomfort was enough to wake him.
…?
He opened his eyes and blinked awake, feeling groggy and heavy and thoroughly confused. Where was he? Why was he lying facedown on the floor like this? Was… that the sun already shining outside? It had been dark only a moment ago… and-
*Scriiitch*
"-?!"
An awful noise and a sudden pressure against the back of his helmet banished the sleepiness from his eyes and the musings from his brain. He jolted and scrambled but found himself unable to sit up; his attacker was pinning his head to the floor. For a short moment his confusion was replaced with an instinctual aggression. He felt blood rushing hot through him as he viciously struck whatever was gnawing on his helmet. It moved away and The Terrarian took advantage of the brief respite to sit up and scramble backwards. He panted - his breath hoarse in his lungs - and took in the situation with wild eyes.
What!
*Skskskiii*
What is that!
He felt his chest seize. A thrill of terror flew through him. A large creature was looming at the other end of the room, seemingly floating on nothing at all. It was a strange thing - a skinless silverfish covered in teeth and eyes and about the height of a man. Its scarlet flesh sagged off its skeleton like a mass of rotting fruit - and like rotting fruit, the smell that emitted from the horrid creature was nearly paralyzing. There were metal filings stuck in its mandibles; it gnashed its teeth at him. In only a few short moments it had managed to gnaw through his helmet, which was now laying uselessly at his feet. Surely - If it got close enough - it could crush his skull as well.
Tch… nonsense.
The solution was simple. He wouldn't allow it to get close. There was no sense in becoming terrified of a creature that would soon lay shot full of holes at his feet. He had never seen anything like this before, it didn't really matter. He had long since learned that piercing anything through with jester bolts tended to kill it. He had slain a great variety of similarly horrid creatures in the underground using inferior flaming arrows. Now that his equipment was better, surely dispatching this creature would prove trivial.
The Terrarian exhaled hard, focused his gaze and calmed himself. He summoned his bow and held it aloft to shoot-
…
He… he was missing an arm.
*Skskskiii*
Why was he missing an arm?! His brain supplied yesterday's memories, but he hadn't the time to sift through them. The bloody silverfish was charging him down. In a few short moments those razor sharp teeth would be burrowing through his armor and stringing out his guts. (At that moment, The Nurse's grinning face inexplicably appeared in his mind's eye and The Terrarian began to hyperventilate rather dangerously.)
With eyes wild and breath coming fast, he shouted and hurled his useless weapon at his attacker. The impact did little to deter the monster, but did buy him a few precious seconds to draw his blade and raise it aloft. He wasn't used to fighting with his sword. He typically used it to clear brush or execute his fallen enemies to search for loot. As such, he hadn't once held it in his non-dominant hand. Still, what choice did he have? With a cry he met the silverfish head on.
*Skskskiii*
*Shunk… pulp…pulp*
He didn't know exactly what happened next. Untrained close combat was sloppy, dirty, painful and confusing. He had hacked away at the encroaching creature with a violence driven by desperation. The creature viciously tore its teeth into him with an equal gusto. The fight didn't last long; his blade sank into the creature's body easily with each thrust of the sword, yet it was clear from the creature's construction that it was not built for defense. It had no sense of self-preservation, and merely wanted to cut him down - and managed to do quite a number on his collarbone before collapsing into a shuddering heap of flesh.
Haah… haah… oh…
He stared down at his fallen foe, not in victory - but with a sense of misery and discouragement. This creature was no stronger than the zombies back at The Compound, yet look how he struggled against it?! Yesterday, he would have merely dismissed this monster as less than a threat - but today, it had nearly killed him. Had he really grown so much weaker? Would his arm ever grow back? What if injury was permanent? If he remained like this, then how was he supposed to fight The Crimson? If he couldn't fight, then surely The Guide would abandon him and look for somebody els-
Stop.
He shut his eyes and gritted his teeth, He wasn't going to paralyze himself with 'worst-case scenarios'. First, survival. Everything else was secondary. The Terrarian clung to his torn shoulder and slowly climbed to his feet to take inventory of his surroundings.
...
It was daytime, he must have slept until early afternoon. The gloomy light filtered in through gaps in the ceiling and left strange patchwork patterns on the pages strewn across the dry wooden floorboards. He was standing on the second floor of a dilapidated building whose staircase he faintly recalled demolishing before falling unconscious. It was a good thing he had the foresight to cut off access to his hiding place, for he could hear the movement of monsters milling about on the floor beneath. The lumber which constituted the walls and the floor had since grown thin and brittle; they were peppered with bloody, lichen-like growths which actively ate away at the building. Perhaps it was the propagation of this mould that allowed the floating silverfish to break in and attack him?
I need to leave… this place isn't safe.
The Terrarian sighed and limped over to a nearby desk, wincing as he collapsed into the chair. He let his head droop over the backrest to stare at the ceiling for a short moment before sitting straight with a grunt. He stared down at himself - a body whose resilience he had taken for granted - and, as he glanced to his right shoulder, he was filled with a sense of dread.
…
Last night, after barely surviving an explosive trap, he had 'recalled' to the center of a magic circle in a destroyed village. He couldn't remember exactly what injuries he had at the time, but faintly remembered dropping tears whilst desperately trying to re-attach his messily amputated and squirming leg. He had never attempted any medical procedures on himself, and certainly nothing like reattaching a limb. His intention was to tend to it throughout the night, but - inexplicably - he must have fallen asleep.
I've never slept before…
Well, at least now his leg - although unstable and twitchy - was once again his own. The Terrarian gingerly removed his greaves to empty another jar of healing potion over the wound, then clumsily bound it with linen. He didn't need to look closely at that mess to know it was healing. He could feel the muscle fibres worming together beneath his skin. In fact, that very same sensation had plagued him all last night until he fell unconscious. It was disgusting and uncomfortable, and it left him feeling like a patchwork doll that had been being badly sewn together.
… tch.
But his leg wasn't the cause of his angst. Once the wound on his stump adhered to the one on his leg, he knew things would heal up sooner or later. His arm however, had gone entirely missing. It had been blown clear in the explosion and The Terrarian was unable to go and search for it. Was it possible it had been eaten by one of these monsters? Or perhaps it had crawled away and burrowed into the ground to be lost forever? Last night, his heart was filled with fear as he watched his shoulder stumped heal over instead of extending and reforming his limb. Even now, several hours later, there was no indication his arm would grow back. It was evident he needed to retrieve his limb and reattach it if he wished to become whole.
I need both arms to fight… if I can't fight, then…
A cold pit began to form in his stomach, that familiar taste of bile and bitter despair. He had a contract with The Guide. That man would remain by his side so long as he killed monsters. The Terrarian valued The Guide very highly. He was a veritable bastion of knowledge. His plans never fell flat, and - frankly - The Terrarian had come to trust him, even with his very life. For all of his physical prowess, The Terrarian only really felt at ease when The Guide was somewhere nearby, and at this moment, The Terrarian desperately wanted to see the only person he would consider a friend.
…
But… would The Guide want to see him? The Terrarian was well aware that his function was to kill monsters. If he couldn't fulfill his function… then why would anyone tolerate him? He had just recently made up his mind to slaughter anyone not serving their purpose… yet look at him now? By his own words, he was standing condemned. He had fallen short of the very standard by which he judged others, and the wages of uselessness was death.
No...
No! I'm not worthless...I just need to find my arm.
He clenched his teeth. Impossible, impossible. He must find it. That arm was his very life. All of his worth, his future, his security. It was all there… Yet how could he find such a thing? Could he… perhaps track his own scent? Would he be able to identify anything through the crimson stink? Anything was worth a try. He mentally braced himself before raising his head to taste the air…
?
Strange. Was he… hallucinating? Was he so homesick he was now imagining The Guide's scent in the middle of this putrid disaster? Pathetic. Still, he glanced around the room to pinpoint where The Guide had supposedly left his trail. The floor was littered in books, white pages covered in all sorts of black markings. Surely there was a meaning to these innumerable scrawlings, but The Terrarian wasn't interested in the contents of those pages. He stood to his feet and hobbled to the other end of the room where bookshelves lined the walls from end to end.
Here?
A rather hefty tome lay atop a pile. It was large, well worn, and absolutely reeking of 'The Guide'. Clearly the man had spent significant time with this bundle of pages… years perhaps.
This village. He lived here. It's been destroyed… and it is also my 'Spawn Point'. What…
What an uncomfortable set of facts. He swallowed hard and shook his head. That train of thought terrified him. Something within forbade him to pursue it, as if it were a cliff - and he was toeing the precipice. When the time came, he would ask The Guide about his origin, but until then he would cast it from his mind.
For time was short. There were enemies all around. Enemies inside the compound, enemies here in the Crimson, and enemies every step in between. The Dwarf and the Dark Skinned Gunman had attacked him, but with The Guide's help he had escaped. Surely, The Guide was suffering their hostility at this very moment.
My arm… and then The Guide.
Yes. First, he would seek his arm. (Perhaps it was still near his 'spawn point'.) And by nightfall, successful or otherwise, he would head back to The Compound to extract his companion.
…
And so, with a blade readied in one hand, and The Giant Eye's 'Counter Scarf' wrapped securely about his throat, The Terrarian hobbled to the wall and pressed an eye against a gap in the wooden planks, staring out over the crawling landscape with disgust. He could see monstrosities approaching from across the horizon, horrid amalgamations seething and dripping in a dangerous smelling yellow fluid. Some looked like men, others like animals, and all were approaching his hiding place supposedly attracted to his scent. The Terrarian took a deep breath and set his heart like stone. The Magic Circle was several paces away… if he found his arm amongst the thorny briars, he could flee The Crimson immediately, but if not…
Well, then he'd return home, broken and worthless.
And that was simply not an option.
The Sea King mused heavily to himself… just what was the pronunciation of that last word in the incantation? He remembered it being a terribly unique sound, one which he always had difficulty with. Truly sleeping in a clam for the past ten years had done his memory no favours…
The dreaming god's spells were not to be trifled with. They were powerful and dangerous hexes that nearly always brought disastrous effects upon those who fell under them. This one would slowly rot away a person's innards. The effect would halt The Slayer's regeneration entirely, should he manage to survive whatever The Demolitionist had in store for him.
H'ee - l'geb f'ai throdog...
The Sea King laid both hands on the sinister artifact, and focused. He chanting the wicked incantation over the iron heart and nodded in approval as a wispy blue light began to weave itself throughout the relic.
K'yarnak phlegethor l'ebumna syha'h n'ghft, Ya hai kadishtu ep r'luh-eeh..
Painkiller-high Slayer: "Got your noooose!"
Nurse: "Got your arm."
Slayer: "... Give."
- RevSaint is the king of Skits :-)
NOTES: So T sorta passed out from blood loss. I was gonna have a section where he wakes up like wtf did I died? but he knows Everyone else sleeps for 8 hours a day and he needs to entertain himself during the night. He probably didn't think too deeply about it anyways. This brat is gonna be playing tag with Crimson monsters for the next 10 hours while looking for his arm. GG ;(. Also RIP Guide. the tides are turning. The Iron heart item gets rid of healing. Amidas channeling that Chuthlu power!
Leave me a note friends! I lvoe u all