Unfortunately I've been playing elden ring and fell in love with the blood cultist jerk who is mega creepy, but at least he calls me pet names while cutting off my finger.
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)
It's their leers.
They way they look at me.
The way they smile. They way their eyes crinkle in the corners and their lips turn too far upwards when they speak. There's a malice in their faces, all of them, a malice I have seen shining red in the eyes of those that seek to exploit and devour. What do these men have in store for me? What could they possibly have planned? My confidence wanes as I watch them. I had come here almost assured nothing they could throw at me would lay a single scratch... but smugly bide their time. They stare at me with greedy, greedy eyes.
And I feel my guts tightening in anticipation.
What will they do?
And despite that I know there might be danger, I don't run. I can easily spread my wings and flee into the night - but one side of me is so terribly excited for it - I desire nothing more than to stay.
Bloodlust. It's a familiar feeling, comforting - like an old friend. It gave me joy when I was at my lowest. I gave me peace when my world was torn from beneath me. The illusion of power. The illusion of control. I want to drown myself in that clanging red mist. The splattering of organs against the ground. The stench of blood in the air. The low whine of victorious slaughter echoing over a stilled battlefield... Oh, how it burns me, how it lights me aflame and makes me lose myself. I want to prance around, cackling like the devil himself to the tune of that maddening flute...
But somehow, that which one gave me joy - gives me joy no longer. When The Archmage died, a great wound was laced upon my innermost being; I was split in two. My desires became contrary to one another. My heart turned upon itself and writhed - flesh against flesh. A battle within.
For something foreign awakened with the death of my mentor. I despise it, but it is me. A pitiful shadow of myself. It aches and it weeps. It reminds me of my sadness, of my abandonment, of all the good and tender things I've received from those wizened old hands.
And the pain.
Oh, the pain of knowing The Archmage died that I might live.
I-Indeed, I am cold and stone-hearted! I was born merciless and violent! I was perfect, flawless. A mindless machine for war. I needed no guilt to shadow my consciousness. The cries of my slain plagued me not - they were merely a passing memory. yet goodness lured me into gentle arms and a cruel death left me desolate.
And thus, I am split in two.
For as much as I loved the clang of violence, I-
... I think I loved The Archmage more.
...
I now know what sort of pain I've inflicted. Such thoughts had never tickled my mind before - but now, when I think of those weeping children clinging to the bodies of those I've felled, how my heart ached. In the past, I merely scoffed at them. Now - I know the feeling well, the visceral pain so deep you could die from it. The stabbing sear that can only be alleviated in unconsciousness. I grit my teeth as that now-familiar choking clutches at my throat. I nearly gag up my chocolate, but - with a snarl, keep it down. Willing my thoughts to still.
Because... I smell violence.
I smell violence and I smell danger... danger on rumbling wheels
Wind pounds on the panes of Sheriff's windows, blustering mountain gales that howl and mourn in the velvet black night. The night is pitch. The Moon nothing but a pale sliver in the night; the clouds obscuring the twinkle of stars in the sky. Blackness all around. Just me and three leering faces, bobbing about me, watching me from the corners of their eyes. Their voices are saccharine. Their words, false and sweet. Slab upon slab of chocolates are piled up on the desk afore me - they are of all colours and flavours, yet the sweetness turns bitter in my guts.
The hairs on my neck stand up.
Goosebumps burst across my skin.
I can smell it.
Peril marches towards me, looming in that black night.
Violence on rumbling wheels.
Truth be told, The Guide was rather shocked they'd made it all the way to the edge of The Compound's perimetre.
He hadn't expected The Monster Knight to be so... pure minded in this regard. Indeed, he was nearly as desperate to believe the lie as The Guide was to feed them to him. For despite all his promises, The Guide had absolutely no intention of deciphering that mess of a diary. He knew from a glance it'd be nigh impossible to decode. There were symbols in those lines, symbols stemming from events, quips, jokes and puns that were far, far too personal to be cracked with a mere cipher. If he were his predecessor's best friend, then perhaps he could break it. Otherwise, he scarcely stood a chance.
And so, The Guide had lied to The Monster Knight.
He lied with a bold face, sternly acting as if he wholeheartedly believed every word that proceeded from his tongue - whilst being well aware his first order of business upon returning to the university was not to sit down and start cracking that code, but rather discovering some way to kill or imprison The Knight.
Perhaps he was just a splendid liar (he was). But he got the sense The Monster Knight was knowingly allowing himself to be deceived. He had his reservations, but had tossed them out in a show of desperate naivety. This alone made him pitiable. He remained a tremendous danger indeed, but what a pitiful existence he led. The poor man was all alone, not even human, yet searching and hoping he might regain his lost parent.
And although it pricked at The Guide's heart to exploit him in such a fashion, he had made his decision already. He would do this for himself and for The Stylist. The Knight was a killer. He deserved no pity. His hands and his blade were drenched in blood, and his grief had driven him halfway feral. He was a mad dog, and it was a mercy to put him down.
I wonder if The Palace Guards could kill him... tch, that CC agent fled from him, so I suppose they'd need a platoon.
The Guide shook his head and adjusted the straps of the bag The Stylist was making him carry. The two of them walked side by side in the wake of The Monster Knight, whose rich blue cloak and swaying white plume they followed at a distance. They had departed early this morning, at the crack of dawn - and trekked through the silent, lush forests as the sun cast tremulous beams through the gently rustling leaves. There was no birdsong in the wood. No chittering of squirrels or deer... just bones and teeming maggots half hid beneath the spring of emerald moss and the bowed heads of delicate white lilies. Death hidden in beauty. It was an apt allegory for This Compound.
"We... we're past the border."
The Stylist was all a'trembling as she walked beside him, her arm threaded through his, her face a mask - yet her eyes betrayed equal parts anxiety and excitement. How long has she been trapped here in this stifling fishbowl? She told him she couldn't remember - having fallen into some sort of coma shortly after arriving. She squeezed his hand and spoke in a very low murmur. A smile teased he corners of her lips.
"I've tried to leave so many times... but I could not. The border I could never cross on my own - we just passed it. It shouldn't be long now."
The Guide nodded and fixed his eyes forward, willing himself not to let his eyes wander to the myriad of dead creatures that framed their path. There was a stench of rot which grew progressively stronger as they walked. Was it a decomposing creature? or perhaps it was The Crimson... And if it's The Crimson... how will we cross?
...
Up ahead, The Monster Knight had climbed a grassy knoll and halted there. His plume swaying slightly in the rancid wind as he stood and looked out. Although he didn't turn to beckon or otherwise signal, it was very clear he was waiting for them to catch up. With a tug, The Guide trotted up to meet him, the far more reluctant Stylist in tow. As he crested the hill, he nearly gagged.
Oh gods...
The smell hit him like a freight train. The scent of a bloody, open wound. Necrotic in places, and most certainly infected. Bile and pus, blood and leaking marrow - The Crimson was far worse than what The Guide could have imagined. Indeed, from the high hill, he stared at the monstrous land with a sort of morbid fascination. A grotesque curiosity. A disgusting exhibit that stretched as far as the eye could see. How far did it go? How much had it spread? The Guide knew of The Crimson from his studies and his textbooks, but never had the displeasure of interacting with it directly. How would they cross? Behind him, The Stylist choked and sputtered. She pressed her face into the back of his shoulder, stifling the smell against his clothing.
Despite his sensitive nose. The Monster Knight seemed unaffected by the dreadful sights and scents. He merely looked at the gray, clouded sky and pondered. After a moment, he pointed at the horizon. His voice was flat, almost bored.
"That is the correct way?"
The Stylist choked an affirmation. The Monster Knight nodded sagely.
"Fine."
Armour clinked at he held out a gauntleted hand to The Guide. The pale eyes stared expectantly at him.
"Climb on my back."
What?
The Guide frowned, a bit incredulous. Was this some sort of trap? He answered carefully.
"I... can walk very well on my own. Thank you."
The Monster Knight merely blinked at him. A spark of amusement lit in that gaze before fizzling away into that deep pool of nothingness. Seemingly unaffected with his rejection, The Monster Knight merely adjusted his cloak so it hung between his shoulder blades. Something... rattled beneath his armour. The tearing of flesh, the grinding of bone. Armour warped and cracked. Then, two great wings burst from The Monster Knight's back, accompanied with a splatter of blood on the grass beneath. The Knight gave the wings a few experimental flaps and shook the last vestiges of scarlet from his feathers before holding out his hand once more. He repeated his statement.
"Climb on my back."
"..."
The Guide did his best to hide his surprise, after all, it wasn't often that one saw a man with wings. He looked like an angel. What irony. He suppressed a wry smirk and gingerly circled around The Monster Knight's back. He grabbed onto his shoulder-cuff and carefully climbed up until his legs were wrapped securely about The Knight's armored waist. How strange it was - The Knight's frame didn't even dip when under the full weight of another grown man. Indeed, he behaved as if The Guide weighed nothing at all. Oddly excited, The Guide huffed and tentatively patted The Knight's chassis.
"Fantastic. You appear more than capable of carrying both of us. I had my doubts, but you've put them to rest. Stylist, come up he-"
The wings flexed and raised to either side of him, stirring the air with a loud *whoosh* and cutting off his line of sight. There was the note of displeasure in Monster Knight's voice as he strode purposefully towards the ledge. He appeared offended; he spoke dismissivley.
"I have no intention of carrying both of you... The woman is useless in this endeavor."
He heard The Stylist make a dismayed noise - but before he could try and reason with The Knight, she shouted at him. Her voice filled with frustration, angry tears leaking from her eyes.
"W-what!? I need to come too! I must go to the Capitol!"
"..."
A long moment of silence. The Monster Knight fixed her in his gaze and considered her. A huff, then-
*thud*
The Stylist recoiled as a sharp blade appeared in The Monster Knight's hand. He tossed it into the grass between them and nodded towards the writhing plain. When he spoke, and there wasn't even the shadow of pity tainting his voice.
"Then... go to The Capitol. Who am I to stop you."
Tears were running freely down her face now. She gritted her teeth and glared at The Knight in wrath, then at The Guide with expectation. Should he... dismount? Let go and fall into the grass? Give up this chance to get out of this place to negotiate for another? The Guide was frozen. He dearly wanted to go home, but The Stylist's big watery eyes were fixed upon him. He stuttered. He opened and closed his mouth. What should he do? Wha-
*fwoosh*
And in an instant, The Compound was far, far beneath them - the wind blinding him, plowing down this throat and up his nose until his head felt like an inflated balloon. With a cry, The Guide clutched The Monster Knight tightly and buried his face into the furred muff, if only to survive through the blustering wind. Below, he could see The Stylist - just a pink dot on a grassy knoll.
And as guilt rose within him, so too excuses.
After all, she's... just a fling.
It wasn't now that he fully understood why all of his colleagues were so loath to take on this assignment.
Upon brief, it seemed simple enough. Just escort the Clone and it's... pieces to a certain location. Hide away - let it wreck its havoc until it ran out of fuel... collect it back and return the monstrosity to its holding container in Draedon's basement.
After all, CC Agents were quite comfortable around monsters. They themselves were considered monsters by much of the population. Many of them - the clandestine department anyways, retained their human shapes - but their comrades in the battlefield division were much more monstrous in nature. Even so... The Clone was just... different.
It was different.
It should be dead.
It should be dead, yet it lived - gasping and wheezing, empty eyes, needle teeth. It leaked a miasma of overwhelming dread that filled him and his pitiable compatriots with such disgust even he, mechanically enhanced as he was had to exert every ounce of his self-control to keep from vomiting all over himself. Many of the foot-soldiers assigned beneath him were not so lucky - but he (who often liked to rib his subordinates while working) could hardly blame them. There was something terribly wrong with The Clone. A mash of flesh. Of mummified bodies preserved in rancid corpse wax - covered in strips of black cloth and protrusions of teeth horns and bone. It was like the vessel of some horrendous, crawling god. Some screaming, mad deity that lumbered its way from star to star. A moon as red as blood. Flames that leaked from wounds. The baleful, black eye. The writhing darkness. The-
The Agent blinked and took a deep shuddering breath, fighting to snap himself out of the now-dangerous recesses of his mind. Quickly, he pulled his custom headpiece from his pack and fastened it over his head - its blue glow provided him some familiar comfort as he roused his troops and drove them onwards. There was a small village they had been instructed to reach with all haste. Which poor fool had angered the king so much, he would send The Clone?
To be honest, The Agent really didn't care.
He just wanted to go home.
The sooner he finished this assignment, the better.
Faze: Whoever took my chocolate, admit it and you'll be forgiven.
Everyone: *silence*
F: Smart, You knew I wouldn't forgive you.
Yharim: Oh, it was me.
F: Oh...
Anyways gimme all your ideas I love them. They effect the story more than you realize.
Ty love kiss kiss