What? Happiness? How?!
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
Health: (400/400)
The Constable was used to idling on the job.
Nothing ever happened in this idyllic mountainside town. It was small and peaceful, and although the citizens weren't rich, they always had enough to fill their bellies. Nobody was desperate enough to beg or to steal, but neither were they wealthy enough to meddle and envy and cause trouble. Over the past five years, the singular emergency The Sheriff's office needed to address was when The Grocer's young son climbed too high in a tree and was unable to descend.
"And he walked up and just dropped a handful of golden ingots! Real gold, I tell you! It was raw ore, and very dirty - but real gold!"
The Constable sighed and propped his spurred heels on the old mahogany desk. He twirled his meticulously groomed handlebar moustache and appraised the excited girl nigh bouncing in her seat. Frankly, he had drank too much at the fair, and was feeling too groggy to go chasing some homeless man out of the town. It was the harvest anyways! The season of plenty and of generosity. The Constable didn't want to spend his holiday kicking around some poor, hungry wretch.
"How do you know he was a thief, Ma'am? Did you see him steal something?"
But clearly, The Chocolatier's cashier girl had no regard for the season of giving. She was more interested in stirring up trouble instead, and perhaps profiting off of it. The moment The Festival concluded, she had come charging in, eyes all aglimmer, and began harassing his secretary with reports of suspicious activity. Eventually, she managed to finesse her way into his office (where he was about to doze off) and began pestering him.
"No. I didn't see him steal anything, but how could a beggar like that have that much gold!?" Her eyes were filled with the purest form of greed. "He must have stolen it! I bet he nicked it from some noble in The Capitol. Hurry, check if he is wanted anywhere! Perhaps there's a bounty for him!"
"ugh..."
"Please check, Mr. Constable! Come on! Maybe we'll be rich! He was a tall fellow, as dirty and bedraggled as a soaked rat, but I could tell he had cropped white hair and pale skin. He also had these peculiar reptile eyes. They were bright orange and burned like coals. Perhaps he's a bandit? A robin-hood figure? Or...(etc)"
The Constable rolled his eyes and tried to hold back a groan. He debated with himself for a brief moment before sitting upright with a grunt and pulling out his hefty tome of 'wanted' leaflets. The Capitol sent new memos weekly concerning the most heinous of criminals in the land - and frankly, the Constable was unsure why they bothered wasting paper on their little town. No matter, indulging The Cashier was likely the fastest way to get her to leave - and The Constable was very eager on getting her to leave.
*Thump*
A puff of dust lifted from the old, ragged book as it hit the desk. With a sigh, The Constable opened to the most recent leaflet and-
"..."
And his eyes nearly popped from his head. Because right there, his face plastered in the center of the page was exactly that. A pale man, tall and with striking dragon eyes. Although the newest technology used rudimentary photography for the warrants nowadays - the criminal's appearance was almost artificial for how symmetrical it was. The Poster did not name its subject; it only denotated him as - 'Dangerous Domestic Terrorist'. Special Bounty by order of The King for live capture: 5,000 Platinum. Send Code D94530-JK001 via general comms to open channel 32, Clandestine Corps Central upon sighting.
Of course, The Cashier promptly lost her mind.
She crowed in triumph and jammed her finger repeatedly onto the portrait, all the while babbling so quickly, The Constable could scarcely understand her. He wasn't listening anyways. Five thousand platinum? That was enough to buy a mansion in the most expensive part of the city! One could lavish upon every generation of their family for two hundred years with that kind of wealth - and although The Constable liked to be idle, he'd must rather idle rich than idle poor.
With a wide grin spreading across his face, he pulled out his comms and contacted The Capitol.
When The Guide... The Second Guide got drunk, he became almost as talkative as his predecessor. He'd gone on and on about the history of magic, recounting outrageous tales of the geniuses and idiots in the magical world. One meat-headed battlemage had swelled his own muscles to such a degree, he died from suffocation as his lungs were compressed into paste. Another - a worshipper of The Moon Lord - had managed to turn himself into a tremendous wyrm of god-like power, but completely lost his mind as a result. Legend has it the wyrm still lurks at the bottom of the abyss, happily munching on seaweed and knocking stones about.
But as for being a talkative drunk, The Stylist couldn't say she was any better.
Despite saying she was sick of the ale, she was having such a swell time she decided to drink anyways. The Guide had listened with great intensity as she rambled about the nuances of styling hair. Which dyes worked well with what types of hair, how to treat damaged hair, the components of relaxant and types of gels. The best shampoos and the worst. What brands she loved and the ones she hated...
They talked about innumerable other things. Idle things, mostly. Their favorite places to visit in The Capitol. The best coffee in town (Of course, The Guide took his black. She was partial to Lattes - but both agreed that Arabian beans roasted dark were their preferred flavour). Who had the best baked meats, the best smoked fish. What artists they were wild about, the ones they thought were gaudy and those they found too pompous.
Eventually, The Stylist gave him a haircut. He gave her a kiss. They lost their clothes and... when all was said and done, daybreak found them asleep, curled up together on the plush sofa in front of the roaring fireplace.
And when she woke to the gentle rays of sunlight beaming in through the windows, The Stylist could truly say she felt not a lick of shame nor regret. She wasn't one for one-night stands. She wasn't the promiscuous type at all. Her (old) friends called her a prude. Yesterday, she would never had imagined she'd sleep with somebody after only knowing them for a single day - and she frankly couldn't believe herself...
Hm...
Perhaps the stress had changed her, because something certainly changed. Maybe because she knew The Monster Knight was roaming around outside, and at a moment's notice it could decide stick her head on a pike, that she was more eager to do... anything. Perhaps it was the utter loneliness that plagued her since she first set off from The Capitol in search of her little brother? Alas, so many things had happened. Some things had happened to her. Others, she had borne witness to. She had seen much blood shed that at any given moment, she half expected it'd beher head rolling on that perfectly trimmed lawn. If she might die soon, why not.
She couldn't imagine doing this with The first Guide. He was a brilliant, but horrifically intense man. Powerful in word and speech, but sharp and brutal in his methods. He was so crushingly focused on his goal that if her death would get him one centimetre closer to whatever he was trying to do, he would have her killed without a hint of hesitation.
The Stylist feared him. Indeed, even The Monster Knight feared him - of course she would fear him too.
But The Second Guide?
The man who had wrapped his arms gently roundabout her waist and was snoring softly into the crook of her neck?
Well... he was something different. He reminded her of civility. He reminded her of home. He was a gentleman too, and when they spoke, his eyes were on her. He saw her, and she somehow got the sense that he found whatever she was talking about not only 'interesting' but 'important'. What a breath of fresh air, to be listened to, to be heard. That somebody else cared. The Stylist was glad to give herself wholeheartedly to him. It helped he didn't look half bad either.
The Stylist...
She didn't want him to die.
She wanted him to live, because she wanted him.
"Guide?"
She turned her head slightly to plant a cheek on his forehead. His hair brushed against the tip of her nose, and she immediately identified which brand of conditioner he used. The Guide groaned in response and fluttered his eyelashes groggily. He twitched a finger - as if fighting his way back to consciousness, but ultimately stilled as he succumbed to sleep.
The Stylist chuckled and patted his back. Was he hungover? After only a few pints of ale? The Stylist didn't blame him. There was nothing for her to do in this place but get drunk and work on deciphering The Late Guide's journal. Since arriving in The Compound, her alcohol tolerance had skyrocketed dramatically.
Still... It was already daybreak. The Monster Knight would be here soon. Perhaps he'd murder them on sight; perhaps he'd launder the sheets; perhaps he'd do both. She needed The Guide awake.
"Guide, come on. Wake up."
She spoke into the shell of his ear, and that seemed to rouse the man. He blinked to look at her and appeared momentarily startled, before settling back over her with satisfaction turning the corners of his mouth. He muttered "Good Morning" into her hair.
She tried to adjust him so he looked her in the eye, but the man had become a sandbag and she wasn't strong enough to move him. Eventually she gave up. The weight was nice.
"Guide, Listen to me."
"I'm listening."
His voice was lazy. He was about to fall asleep again. She pinched him until he crawled off her to pout and rub his backside.
"Ack- Okay, Okay, I'm awake! I'm listening."
"The Monster Knight will come soon."
"..."
She might as well have thrown a bucket of ice water over him. Any hint of amusement, bravado or grogginess immediately dropped off The Guide's face. He leaned forward to carefully take in her words. It'd all be very professional had they been adequately dressed and not sharing a woolen blanket.
"Should we barricade the door more securely? Perhaps I'll have to use that blade. I know The Knight is strong, but if he's unarmed, surely I can-"
"Guide, Listen."
He froze and pursed his lips, realizing he'd immediately started rambling. After a moment he nodded and gestured for her to speak. An invitation she was quick to take up. She pointed at The Arkhalis.
"The blade will not help you. You did not take his weapon. Rather, you cannot take it from him. Have you noticed how everything in this place is... eerily identical?"
The Guide nodded.
"The Knight can duplicate things infinitely. Everything in this place is made of thin air. The Journal-" The Stylist pointed to the hefty tome sitting on the kitchen table, "Recounts your predecessor's experiences with him. Every stone, every brick, every golden chandelier, every silken sheet. He commanded The Monster Knight to make everything you now see. Everything is disposable and everything is instantly replaceable. The Blade is no exception."
The Guide swallowed audibly and nodded again. He pressed his fingers against his temples. He shut his eyes tightly. The Stylist continued.
"But even if you did take it, you wouldn't stand a chance. His primary weapon is his bow, but I personally watched him butcher a hundred goblin soldiers. Some he tore asunder with his bare hands. He piled the bodies up against that window, and the wax fastening the panes to the wood still smell like copper."
The Guide paled.
"Okay, fine... so no fighting... ugh." The Guide looked up. His brow was knotted.
"Stylist, Tell me this. How did my 'predecessor' control The Knight? You seemed to mistake me for him just yesterday, so clearly we bear great resemblance to one another. An uncanny coincidence to be sure, but one that might have saved my life. Perhaps if I can do what The Other Guide did, I will gain enough influence over The Knight to escape."
The Stylist shook her head 'No' and took a deep breath as The Guide peered at her. She understood she was about to say something unbelievable and just hoped The Guide wouldn't think she was crazy. She cleared her throat.
"I called him your predecessor because that's exactly what he was. He didn't just look similar to you, he was identical. Even now, I cannot tell the difference between your face and his. Your voice is the same. The way you speak, your mannerisms... everything's the same. You don't bear an uncanny resemblance to him. You're a direct physical copy."
He frowned. Clearly, he was struggling to take it all in. The Stylist simply continued. It was best to get it all out now.
"The Knight outside... he's barely a month old. He's technically and infant, and Your Predecessor raised him from birth. You were The Monster Knight's father, and it loved you like a child loves its parents. As for The Other Guide... The Knight has been mourning for days. I've heard it howling and screaming in the nights and can only conclude he's died and you've arrived to replace him. I don't know what The Monster Knight will do now. Perhaps he will kill you, perhaps he'll try to make you take his place. When his parent was alive, he was far more... sane. But ever since he arrived back here, he's become increasingly unhinged - and in turn, increasingly violent."
"..."
The Guide grimaced and hunkered down the think. The Stylist sidled up to sit next to him and stared forlornly into the roaring fire. She leaned her head against his shoulder.
"Guide. I can't think of a way out, but I want us both to survive this. Whatever path you choose, just... tell me what to do. I will help in every way I can."
He wasn't sure why he bothered anymore.
What was the point of keeping everything pristine?
He didn't know why he did it in the past either. Why put so much effort into keeping this place perfect? He didn't know. It was almost as if he was driven by some wayward neuroticism. He didn't necessarily enjoy it, but at least The Guide used to thank him often.
*slurp... plop*
But why bother now? Well, he had nothing else to do. He walked about searching for cracks and stains and flaws, yet even as he repaired his home, he himself was falling to pieces. He was made of spun glass and there was a vacuum beneath his skin. With each step he took he feared he would simply shatter.
But he'd spent too much time laying in bed, staring at the walls... and too much time in the woods, chopping the undead into mincemeat. The lawn and the hedges were trimmed afresh to the millimetre. The floors were polished and waxed for the third time this evening. He had even picked out every single wayward scale The Witch Doctor had flung at him (some sort of reptilian defense mechanism, he supposed) when he butchered the lizard this morning and caused a mess that he was now in the midst of cleaning.
*scrape...pulp... hissss*
The Terrarian sighed as he fed the second half of The Witch Doctor into the furnace's open mouth. He watched, nearly mesmerized, as the green scales melted and emitted odd herbal odors. The Lizard's blood was green and viscous and stuck to everything like honey, but retained the same copper stink that all blood reeked of.
Why was he doing this?
Why did he do anything?
The Terrarian hadn't a single clue.
His entire framework had been torn from beneath him, and he felt as lost as the day he was born. Was he supposed to 'move on?' Move on to what? There was nothing that could fill the cold hollowness in his gut. He could not live until he escaped its abyssal grasp.
...
He did this to you.
The Guide must have done it to torment him. Surely he would have known the pain that would follow. Surely he understood, because he understood everything. Did he know a copy would replace him? Did he know how much of a scathing mockery it was, so look at the perfect imitation of the traitor and feel his wounds afresh? The Imposter was nothing but a constant reminder for what The Terrarian had not only lost, but also the malice he had been subject to...
Because The Guide had killed himself.
But to what end? To summon that monster?
To kill him?
Did he hate me so much?
...
The more he thought about it, the more it stirred in his brain. And from that confused mess of emotions rose a bubbling rage as black as pitch. The Witch Doctor had turned to ash already, but The Terrarian did not take his eyes from the flame lest he be swallowed by the harrowing darkness that filled his head. With a flick of his wrist, he produced The Doll. He pushed it against his face and drank in the scent, eager to remember times now gone. Trying to pretend The Guide was somewhere in The Compound, reading his dusty book, or cooking rabbits, that none of this had happened at all, that his reality was nothing but a passing nightmare.
...but the scent of The Guide was growing stale.
The coppery ashen stink that permeated the leather voodoo doll was slowly fading away.
Soon, it was disappear completely.
...
With a thud, The Terrarian sat at the picnic table beneath the gondola, in that place The Guide always sat. He fastened his helmet over his cuirass and let his head droop forward until it rested against the tabletop. He clutched The Doll gently to his chest, beneath his cloak and remained there until nightfall, diligently seeking the sweet grip of unconsciousness, but ultimately failing to find it.
Today... The Guide had begun to fade.
Tomorrow, he would wipe away the imposter.
Guide#2: So, what's your favorite type of bread?
Stylist: *bats eyelashes* Your baguette magique~
G#2*chokes*
Stylist is a horndog.
It was probably whatever The Dryad jabbed her with.