Member
MULTI_MEDIA_MAN
Yankee
Rezod92
Izurich
kapuchu
Elite Minor
Dark Cloud
Tim the Yeti
XandryaAll that lay between the elevator and the generator room were hallways, stairways, and corridors. The occupants of this place before the City of Echoes reached its current state had, evidently, endeavored to keep everything clean and organized for maximum efficiency and professionalism. Only benches, wastebins, doors, overhead lights, and of course the promised signs really interrupted the spick-and-span monotony of Pithy's voyage downward. The farther she descended, however, the greater the feeling of isolation grew. Fewer lights were fully functional, doors were open, and conspicuous cracks appeared in the walls. After a short while the intruder left the more administrative section behind, with its bounty of offices and computers, to enter the maintenance section. The signs directed her through a janitorial complex, which evidently took care of the laundry of the entire citadel, and through a server farm, which to Pithy might seem monolithic or alien. She arrived at the generator room without a hitch, other than a detour past one nonfunctional elevator down an emergency staircase.
An odd noise came from behind the closed door. It resounded through the floor and walls, a violent, clattering whir, rather unlike a typical gasoline, hydroelectric, or even geothermal generator. Someone more familiar with such machines might begin to wonder, but for Pithy, all that remained was to open the door. It gave stubborn resistance, not because it was locked, but because of some kind of physical barrier on the other side. The bottom of the door could move far less than the middle to top, implying that the obstruction was powerful but low to the ground.
As one might expect from an abandoned amusement park, everything was quiet. Around Bonesword, no matter where he went, there was only the desolate shell of a place that had once brought much joy and excitement. Beneath the pier, the steady lap of waves turned into a dull roar, and drops of rain spattered against the metal and plastic surfaces of the various attractions, creating a medley of tinny tapping noises. Given the size and confusing layout of the place, it was a while before the skeleton found his first clown.
His skin was pure white, his nose covered by a giant red ball, his wig a giant poofy afro, and his clothes a set of giant, baggy purple pajamas with multicolored stars. He sported no sign of decomposition, and indeed appeared very lifelike, but there was no mistaking the limp slump with which sprawled in one of the cars of the teacup ride. He lay like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Nothing besides his bizarre appearance stood out about him on first glance, unless Bonesword realized the oddity of having a body in a city whose entire population had vanished without a trace. No amount of probing the clown's heart or his wrists would change that he had no pulse, however. This wasn't some lunatic playing dead. However, it could be assured that there was something more to this freak than met the eye.
The air in the City of Echoes grew thicker, and the skies swelled in preparation for a deluge. Before long, the first few drops began to fall, quite literally raining on Mountain's parade. When the clouds burst, they let forth a torrential downpour. Lightning streaked across the heavens, and the rolling thunder came right on its heels. Any good thunderstorm could drench an unprepared individual and render the streets flooded, but this storm seemed somehow more dire. Far removed from a mere drizzle, the rain fell in ounces and with the speed of bullets. In no time at all, low sections of street without a drainage duct filled up with water, and in the pounding storm trash cans and motorcycles began to wash away. Mountain's brand-new hoverboard, which might have availed him as an ark above the rising water, did not seem technologically advanced enough to ride on top of water; its propulsion needed a solid surface to repel itself from, and thus it would be flooded out sooner or later.
Shelter—any good introvert or escapist treasured it, and in the face of this kind of weather, it stood out as a priority. Virtually every building in the vicinity was locked tight, though to someone packing serious heat, locks without security guards to confront their breakers did not make for much of an obstacle. Through the heavy rain, a keen eye could just barely catch a glimpse of a building unlike the others. Its rough cylinder shape made it look more like a medieval guard tower than anything, though at this distance nothing much more could be discerned. That structure wasn't the only mystery that faced the shooter, however. For a short time now, his keen gamer's senses had been telling him that he was being watched. Who or from where they couldn't say, but the underlying ominous presence remained nonetheless.
For a quiet moment, it looked like Brucie might share Lily's spark of hope, but no longer. That rough, snarlish grumble of a laugh came again. “Nah. Wasn't meant to be. Way I see it, this whole business is called 'the Crucible' 'cause it burns away all the bad stuff. My wish wasn't good enough to win.” His mechanical limbs got to work, flipping him over and then pushing him into a standing position. Once again, he loomed over Lily, though this time his barren eyes held no malintent. “It ain't that bad, though. Y'know, you coulda killed me, but you didn't. I owe you.”
“Are ya gonna 'tank' her? Ooh! Or maybe, give her your 'fangs'?” Oren's drone zoomed into sight, its projection of the man himself just now coming online. He looked especially gleeful. “I was always here, foxie. Watchin' the whole time. What a 'jaw'-some fight! Never though I'd see a game of cat and mouse with a shark and a kitsune. Brucie, my man! Thoughtcha had it in the bag when you used your Shark Tank, butcha had to get zapped in the nose, didn't ya? Well, no problem. Looks like it's the first fight of the evening with two survivors. Good on ya, fluffer—that's the honest 'tooth'.” He furrowed his brow, though without letting up that smile, and scratched his scalp. “Sorry to say though, Brucie's right about the whole 'wasn't meant to be' thing. The College ain't some wish-fulfillment service. Even if they were, I'm basically the mascot to their pro football team, if you catch my drift. Ain't got much of a say in matters.”
The young man's long, slender fingers reached forward to press a button on the console before him with dramatic emphasis. A moment after he did, the grips on the underside of the drone detached, and the box crashed into the floor. The loss of weight rocked the machine and set it flying up into the ceiling, which it hit with an awkward thunk while Oren tried to regain control. “To the winner...” his voice sounded out from the unstable contraption. “...Go the spoils!”
You got:
13. Flask
You look like I could use a drink
Transfigures any liquid poured inside into a golden healing tonic
13. Flask
You look like I could use a drink
Transfigures any liquid poured inside into a golden healing tonic
As Lily rummaged in the prize package, she inquired to Oren about potential lodging. The announcer was only too happy to start talking once again. “Well! This place might not look like much, but it's not awful. Bet there's a nice office somewhere you could hole up in. Not far from here, there's a place called No-man's Land that's a little settlement surrounded a buncha big machines. Isn't it funny that it's a camp for humans, but it's inhabited by robots? I sure think so. It's 'gear'-ing up to rain soon, so if you're going for it, better high-'tail' it while the going's good.”
The drone made as if to depart, but Brucie's churlish rumble reached him once more. “Hey! What'm I s'posed to do?”
Oren steered the surveillance machine back around. He wore an upbeat yet bemused expression, as if the answer should be obvious but it wasn't a problem. “Whatever ya want! Explore the city, grab a bite to eat, team up with Lily...the world is your oyster! Make your way back to the College, or find some of 'em walking around, and you can go back to your own world. Take care of yourself, bud!” With that, like a spirit leaving its possessed body, Oren vanished from the husk of the drone, and all that was left was a floating camera watching the pair in silence.
Except for the rhythmic twirl of his knives, the jester remained still during the staredown, his eyeless slits locked with Tyrant's brutish peepers. Despite having a range advantage with the assumption that those slender daggers were meant for throwing, he did not seem eager to make the first move at all. When the standoff ended as ogre's face broke out into a craggy grin, a thin sigh issued from the jester's unmoving mouth. He ceased his show with the knives and returned to balancing them while Tyrant's convulsive laughter echoed through the cavern. It seemed that there would be no fight after all, though the ogre did make sure that the jester knew that another encounter would be the end of him. The jester did not deign to disagree, and instead executed a low bow as Tyrant passed on his way to the great machine that would serve as his ladder.
With that oaf out of the way, he headed toward the side of the cavern that overlooked the great void. Far below, illuminated by pale lights dim and distant, the unmistakable silhouette of an ancient city loomed.
"It͏ i̧s̀ h̴ęre ̴th͜e͝n. A pr̨ize ́b̴eyon̨d cơmp͏a͢r̷e̸
͞Ńo҉w̷ I n̵eed͝ fi͘nd ͜o̸ǹly ̸t̴h͞at͏ ͠e͟rra̡n͘t ́oo҉z̧e̴
͢A҉n͝d yet ̡I k͜no̢w͏ ͜C͠ar͝re͘ąu̶ ͟a͟w̸ai͞t́s̸ my̢ ̕word͝
I̛ shall͠ ͏de͠p͜ar̵t̛.͠ ̴ O͡ r̵i̴ng̢,̶ 'tis̴ ͏I͠, M̴ar͜ơt͢te̢!͠
All at once, he flung his knives into the air, seized the ring upon his finger, and twisted its face. A white light, giving off projections of feathers, began to build beneath him. One by one, he caught each falling blade on a fingertip, and no sooner had he retrieved the last one than the light burst upward and consumed him in a flash. The next instant, when the light disappeared, so had Marotte.
A few drops of rain, lonely omens of the coming storm, fell down the enormous mineshaft and plopped against Tyrant's skin. Above him, a strange battle raged, and he could already hear the music from here.
Had Motley gotten any closer, the smith would have surely noticed, but as it was the man continued at his work without becoming aware of the new arrival. He completed the runes that ran up the blade's center and experimentally moved the sword through the air in an arc. It left behind a slight but distinguishable trail of azure blue as it slid from side to side, and even in the hands of an obvious amateur swordsman its dance was fluid. After this, the smith set to polishing the blade with a set of oils and cloths in a kit by his foot, still oblivious to the vampire's presence. It was then that the newcomer elected to speak.
The seated metalworker, not startled by the sudden speech, looked up with a collected composure. His hands did not stop moving across the blade, though their work slowed down now that their owner's focus had shifted. First came a compliment, no doubt to break the ice and ease any tension. “Hm.” To the sharp-eyed smith, this guy looked a little like a creep, but he did not give any indication of uneasiness. No matter how strange of an encounter this might be in the dead of night in an abandoned city, he gave off the impression of boredom—or jadedness. His rough features and blank expression seemed to say, you're a weirdo, but nothing bothers me any more. When he was shown Motley's phylactery, no recognition sparked in his eyes. After a few moments, he replied. “Well. I'm not sure about any tournament. I've seen and talked to a few people, but I'm not with anyone. Don't even remember how I got here.” He bundled up the sword and set it aside. “Interesting-looking people are always trouble. Even if I did know, it'd be stupid to trust someone I just met, when he didn't even tell me his name.”
He leaned back. “But whatever. Not a lot of people just walk up and admit they're murderers, and I'm not some uptight puzzle master who loves his secrets, so I'll tell you what I can. I don't know exactly what you've got there, but it kinda looks like a Soul Shell that Regalia uses to hold souls before we make 'em into weapons. They work like reservoirs for coffee machines; just need the right kind of nozzle to get the goods out.” As best he could from his distance -which is to say, getting as close as he could without invading a killer's personal space- the smith pointed at the little compartment window in the phylactery's center. “There's the hole.” His finger traveled to the spike pointing out from the heart's underside. “There's the nozzle.” Like a turtle pulling its extraneous parts into its shell, he retracted his hand and jammed it into a pocket. “That's all I got. Alright?”