Sarpedon

The great pirate era. (Sanquin/Sarpedon)

oh, that's no fun. is your bike okay too?

The great pirate era. (Sanquin/Sarpedon)

*hugs* that sucks. You're okay, right? hope you feel better soon.

Tales of Eyreseum - For the Emperor

The knight groaned as he returned to his work. His fur was a little more ragged than it had been before the fight, thanks to his opponent's daemonically sharp limbs. He'd also sustained a few minor cuts, little more than scrapes really. It was more than enough to be painful, though, and he had to work through the discomfort if he wanted to get anything done. He used the pain as a mechanism of focus, and with that, he increased his motivation. The cleaning went faster, but only a little bit. His lizard returned at some point shortly after the point at which the goat-man would have liked to eat lunch, and the beast brought with it the carcass of a deer. He hopped out of the pool at the sight of it, and quickly got into a stare-down with his steed. The beast was reluctant to share its meal, but eventually with the knowledge that its rider wouldn't short-change it terribly, versus the concept of losing a meal entirely, it backed down.

The satyr happily helped himself to a hearty chunk of still-warm venison as his lunch, devouring it raw, much like his mount. Both the reptile and its master were soon sated, and while the beast went for a short stroll about their surroundings, the cavalier returned to work. He finished slightly ahead of his projected schedule, and finally managed to get dressed. Donning his armour once more was a comforting feeling like no other, and the smell of oil hung thickly around him, another delightful odour he had missed. He got himself put back together, and finally looked like the Knight of Cold Iron he was supposed to be, and not just another psychotic goat-man from the mountains who had come here seeking blood and death. Apparently it was a half-way common occurrence in some places, to have beastmen show up and murder people for fun. He supposed a band of adventurers or angry townsfolk might show up at some point, then, but he supposed he would just have to be prepared to show off his skills, if that were the case.

It used to be, apparently, that daemons would have heads that were good for carrying around after they were slain. He'd yet to find such a thing, and longed for a similar trophy. Something he could hold aloft proudly, rallying his companions. Of course, he didn't have any companions either, so the point was moot. Still, something like a gorgon's head that he could flash around would be nice. He was pretty sure those didn't exist, or were extinct though. Then again, so many things that many claimed were only faerie tales had already died by his hand, so there was hope yet, he supposed.

Finally, the warrior managed to collect himself as he finished strapping his pack down to his lizard's back. While the beast shook violently and settled their cargo, he began planning the retrieval of his lance. It was going to be unpleasant, he decided, but entirely necessary. If he didn't get those cold-iron fittings, he'd be missing out on his greatest weapon. Such a thing was unacceptable, so he sighed, then took a deep breath of fresh air, and strode back into the cesspit that had once been a holy place. He strode back out again a moment later, trailing behind him everything he needed. He had no desire to even think about what had gone on in that place, and he cleansed himself of it once more in the swiftest manner he could find. The rest was easy. He stripped the cold iron from the broken lance, and now he just needed to cut a new one. A look to the sky told him he wouldn't get far if he wasted time making a lance today, however, and he groaned. "I suppose it's time to go." he told his steed, glancing about to see if the man with the halberd was still around...

The great pirate era. (Sanquin/Sarpedon)

((when did I do that?))

Octavius grumbled as the Powder Keg fired arrows at his ship. They were all alight, and obviously looking to set the ship aflame. Thankfully, at least one member of the crew was paying attention, and Ceres put out the flames before they could do anything to harm their vessel. The captain dragged his attention from the woman as he felt the wind shifting around them. They were still turning, attempting to circle the other ship, but they'd be sailing into the wind in a moment, not a great way to keep going forward. Captain Cuttlam stormed over to the guns and pushed his gunners out of the way, sighting each cannon himself and yanking the ripcord personally, firing each of the massive guns on his own, since no one else seemed confident in their aiming abilities. That, or they might have been too weak to set off the charges in the cannons despite how hard they pulled on the rope. His shots weren't perfect, since he couldn't remember the last time he'd fired a cannon, but he managed to glance half his shots off the bow of his target, battering the neat angles of the things construction, and hopefully weakening it enough that the second volley might do the ship in.

"You fucking stupid or what? Get these cannons spun around and loaded. Move." he looked rather disgusted at his gunnery captain as he straightened from firing the last gun. He turned back to the helm, marching over smartly to the man at the wheel. "Swing us around. Keep us going with the wind, and keep us out of range." he demanded of his helmsman. His voice was achieving a kind of zen at this point. A harsh, unyielding zen, but it was better by far, than the violent gravel that normally spilled from his lips. The pirate steering the ship was smart enough to obey his new orders immediately, and the pirate lord moved back to the main deck, where his crew seemed to be struggling with the cannons. They had loaded half of them, and gotten the other half turned around. This was ridiculous. He shook his head and his left arm exploded, spraying the uncoordinated gun crews with gore. Then the massive mouth of his canine alter-ego bit down on the heavy iron cannons and began moving them itself, swinging the guns around and placing them on the starboard side of the ship to be loaded, or aimed, depending on what was necessary.

"If I have to do that again, I'll string up the lot of you." he offered when the sailors turned to go to their new posts. They looked suitably motivated, if upset that their captain was being rather tyrannical. Now was not the time for revolution, however, and if the men didn't like their situation, they would need to do the work they had been assigned if they wished to live long enough to try a mutiny. The Powder Keg was certainly a bigger threat than their captain, at least for the moment, and until their situation changed. The warlord was unafraid in any case. He was confident he could take on a shipload of mutineers, especially considering that those loyal to him included a talented swordsman, a woman more or less in charge of the seas, and the only man capable of saving just about anyone from just about any medical emergency. He ignored such a notion, however, as for now, he had an enemy to deal with, and an old friend to take back...

Tales of Eyreseum - For the Emperor

The beast was full of rage, too angry to think straight, it only ever seemed to move in straight lines, and the daemon slayer took advantage of that, as he launched his assault. The daemon would rush him, and as he leapt out of the way, the warrior sought to poke at the monstrosity, inflicting wounds that would bleed and weaken his enemy. Then, after some manoeuvring and little success, the satyr realized what had to be done. The same pile of rubble he'd started this fight on, would end it. He let his enemy rush him a few more times, dodging more carefully now, until he was lined up. The daemon paid his scheming no heed, however, and continued trying to bury its blades in the increasingly infuriating cavalier. It continued to be met with little success, however. And its next charge would prove more momentous than the others.

This time, the knight has his back to the ruined wall. So when the daemon began its charge once more, he hopped atop it, and then behind it, while his opponent simply rushed the mound of rock, crashing into it with more force than the goat-man had anticipated. His ruminant reflexes saved him, however, and he escaped with only a bruised shin as the whole rock wall came tumbling down before the wrath of the daemon he faced. The beast flailed its bladed limbs as it collapsed with the rubble, but to no avail. Even as it struggled to rise, the daemon slayer was striking with all the fury of a thousand divine suns. He thrust his shashka through the thing's unbladed throat, and tore downward, slicing open its most vital arteries, to let it bleed out. He then realized that daemons probably didn't rely on arteries, and followed that with an upward stroke that severed the head of his enemy. Daemonic blood spurted violently, boiling as it sprayed into the air. Even in death the thing was angry. So mad, was it, in fact, that the thing was still struggling to rise.

The satyr acted quickly, bounding around the abomination's razor-coated limbs, and slicing away at its unprotected underarms, removing any physical ability to control the limbs by hacking the flesh free of the bones. His assault was vicious, and he didn't stop at the head and two limbs. He figured he might as well go all the way, and he soaked the once-holy ground in boiling, corrupted vitality. Where the stuff soaked into the ground, the grass would only ever grow red, but the cavalier was unconcerned with that. He was more concerned with making sure his enemy was dead. He stabbed the limbless torso a few times for good measure, burying his blade to the hilt in the evil flesh.

"Not even dry and I've got to wash again..." he observed with a grimace as he took a step back to check on his handiwork. "I suppose it could be worse..." he added with a shrug. Then he looked around, wondering if his steed had just decided not to join in this fight, or if the lizard was truly occupied. If it didn't come back with something for him to eat, he decided they were going to share strong words. Then, having no time to deal with strangers who would run from a fight whilst armed, and then refuse to rally to the aid of an actual warrior, he returned to the pool to cleanse himself once more. Rinsing fresh blood from him took only a moment, though, and soon he was back to where he'd left off, cleaning his equipment, and then oiling what needed it. He figured he would be done by mid-afternoon, and spend the last of the light getting away from this place. He would make camp somewhere a little less prone to daemonic attacks...

Tales of Eyreseum - For the Emperor

The knight took his time washing, taking advantage of the large volume of clean water to remove all of the dirt and grime that had been on him previously, along with the disgusting brew of shit and daemonic corruption that he'd been soaked in. He took half an hour to himself to wash properly, and sent his steed out to go do its thing once he had declared the lizard clean. From there it was just a matter of cleaning out his gear. He started with his mount's harnessing and such, figuring it would be smart to be able to ride around, if necessary. He wasn't terribly worried about that, though, so he took his time once more. Thankfully, leather didn't soak up disgusting things very well, and it wasn't long before all of his steed's gear was cleaned and nicely oiled.

Then he started on his own things. Unfortunately, he had been going far too slowly. He got his sword and knives clean before he was interrupted. But the cavalier wasn't sure it was going to be enough, considering what was going on. Just down the hill, off the road, was a forest of sorts. But a swath was being mowed through the trees like they were weeds, and not massive evergreens. Suddenly he saw a figure dashing from the trees, and apparently heading straight for him. The commotion was what had gotten his attention, though. The way the trees were being hewn to matchsticks was deafening, even at this distance, and the noise was getting louder. It wasn't long before he realized why. A rage daemon, or something like it, was headed right for him. Or rather, it was running down the poor bastard who had bothered it. The thing was massive, half again as tall as any man, with blades protruding from its back like spines, a veritable forest of edges sprouting along its spine. Its joints were all guarded by more bladed spines, and it seemed to possess a collection of flexible razors, rather than fingers or toes. Even its mouth was filled with daggers, instead of teeth. The goat-man was surprised the beast did not literally stare daggers at its prey, but prepared to fight it all the same.

He held onto his sabre, and selected his bowie knife to accompany it. A monster like this was going to take some slaying. With no lance, and no lizard, it would be a feat. But he'd just completed two thirds of a hattrick, he saw no reason why he couldn't finish the job. Still completely devoid of clothing, with the reason females seemed to so adore his kind swinging freely in the wind, the satyr used the strengths his kin had given him, and he hopped nimbly onto a pile of ruined stone that had once been a wall around the pond. It was probably as tall as he was, give or take, so he felt he might have some advantage at this height. Beasts as large as this probably knew nothing of fighting those taller than it. The knight was entirely unprepared, and the fresh adrenaline pumping through his system had him ready to puke up his lunch. He was pretty sure he had already done that, however, so he fought back the urge, and prepared to do battle. The monster and its prey were approaching more rapidly now, despite the slope, and he sank into a crouch atop the mound of rock. He thought he would try for a leaping strike on the beast. If his blades could hurt the thing, he supposed it would be enough. Rage daemons knew no pain, but he had done his research, and women were the only creatures capable of bleeding for their entire lives, and not dying. With that in mind, he figured he could win this fight if he played the long game. No one could win the short game against something like this.

Determination, and what lifetime he could remember dedicated to slaying creatures such as this strengthened the cavalier as he leapt. He let out no battle cry, indeed, he made no sound at all, simply lifted into the air as the poor unfortunate soul that his quarry was preying upon drew the beast close enough. The rage monster was so focused on its prey, that it didn't even notice the blade slice into its flesh as the goat-man passed over its head. It barely registered that it was bleeding profusely from a wound carved so expertly between the blades on its back. What it did register, though, was the sound of two hoofs crashing into the ground, and it seemed to know that such a noise was only made by prey. It wheeled on the daemon slayer, but the satyr showed no fear. He gnashed his fangs and twirled his sword eagerly, wondering how hurt this thing would have to get before it would die.

In another instant, the daemon launched itself at its new opponent, but the warrior was already leaping away, bounding like the mountain goat that was part of him. He didn't stop there, though. He continued to hop, with violence in mind. He dodged behind his enemy, sweeping below its back-full of blades and slicing at its legs, hacking pieces off of it like the monster was some kind of bloody perversion of a living cake. This thing was certainly not safe to eat, however...

The great pirate era. (Sanquin/Sarpedon)

Octavius was pleased with the way things seemed to be going smoothly. His first mate decided she needed a pipe to do her job, but he didn't argue with her. As long as she kept them from catching fire, the captain wasn't going to complain. While she did that, the warlord watched things that were going on, and monitored the progress of the Powder Keg. It was a quick ship, all things considered, but he knew for a fact that it wouldn't corner well. Cyrus was never one for compromise, which was strange, considering that he would only ever pack twenty-four pound guns. Then again, the pirate wasn't about to question the man. He was still one of the best gunners he'd ever seen. Thankfully, the previous captain of this ship had been kind enough to grace them with half a dozen thirty-six pound guns. It was going to make things a lot easier, with so much firepower. And with the added range the top deck provided, they should have no issue standing off their opponent. The only real problem, was getting to Cyrus. The rest of the Powder Keg could swim with the fishes for all he cared, but his gunnery captain was going to be very necessary if they wanted to survive the most terrifying place on this earth. Then, as he returned to the helm to give some last-minute tips to the helmsman he had appointed, Captain Cuttlam realized they were creeping into twenty-four pounder range. He felt like his head was ready to explode. The pulse pounding in his temples was like a bass drum, and he struggled to remain calm. "If you don't fix this in the next two minutes, sailor, I'm going to skin you alive and wear you like a cape, is that understood?" he growled, a miraculous amount of calm in his voice. The man seemed to understand immediately, and quickly set a new course, setting the Duchess Gambit on a path that would have them ringing their enemy's ship like a gang of twelve-year-olds on bicycles. From there, the warlord returned to his current gunnery captain, who was observing the loading of the last cannon. "Fire at will, gunner. Shoot to sink her, leave the crew alone." he ordered, giving the man a reassuring pat on the back as he moved to stand between the cannons and the bow. It wasn't long before he noticed a few sailors standing around watching. Most of the watchers were prepared to repel boarders, which was commendable, but the captain hadn't ordered such a thing. "What. The. Fuck. Are you standing around for?" he used his loudest, most intimidating voice to call out those not working. "Make this ship go faster, or I'll flay you alive, and hang you up for a sail!" he added in a similar tone. Weapons were abandoned in favour of finding minute lengths of sail that hadn't been entirely stretched out by the wind. The ship didn't speed up by any noticeable amount, but any little bit counted. They were trying to out-run a fire-ship at this point, but it was a fire-ship that remained both manned, and hungry for blood...

Tales of Eyreseum - For the Emperor

The pack on his back was heavy, the knight noted, but not heavy enough to weigh down his spirits. Perfectly seasoned, once-daemonic mashed potatoes had to be the best kind of mashed potatoes. He supposed it helped that he was tired, and hungry, which would improve the taste of just about anything he put in his mouth. That didn't stop him from savouring his makeshift breakfast as much as possible, however. The daemon slayer was thus in a rather good mood as the sun started to peek out over the horizon off to his left. He stopped once the fiery ball had cleared the horizon by a full finger, having finished his bowl of potatoes. He dropped his pack on the roadside and descended carefully to the ditch to rinse out his bowl. The water was clear, and certainly crisp. Whether or not it was clean remained to be seen, but based on what he could see beneath the riffle, the water couldn't possibly be dirty enough to bother him any. Satisfied, he washed his dish and utensil thoroughly, taking his time and making sure everything was perfect. If it was done right the first time, it only ever had to be done once. And being a man of action, he didn't have time to be doing things more than once. With that in mind, just about everything he did, was done quickly, but carefully, and with as much thoroughness as he could afford at the time. In this case, his bowl and spoon were sparkling when he finished. He climbed back up to the road, where he shook off the items he had just cleansed, until they were dry enough to be put away. Once his pack was repacked, the satyr took a moment to stretch and look around. In the light of day, things seemed much kinder. Even the most horrible of things couldn't be so scary when there was a sun shining down on them. That being said, even the bright shining rays of his daily companion couldn't shake the feeling he got when he gazed upon a far-off spire. The rolling hills made it hard to gauge the distance, but he figured it couldn't be more than a couple of hours away, all things considered. He decided that would have to be his next stop. It helped that the building was on his way, but even if it was out of his way, the site would have had to be visited. Anything that gave the goat-man a slight shiver in the base of his spine had to be investigated. Sometimes, very rarely, it was just an unfounded suspicion. Normally, it meant something evil was going on. With that in mind, he paused for another moment more, giving his steed a chance to catch up. And just as he prepared to toss his pack back onto his shoulders, he noticed the lizard rushing across the field. As it drew closer he could see crimson vitality dripping from its jaws, and he smiled. The beast was obviously well-fed, considering that it was soaked from its snout to its nostrils in the blood of whatever it had killed. As his companion hopped the ditch and landed on the road, it hissed pleasantly, and its tail thumped against the ground with a violence that might have convinced most that the monster was angry. "Hey buddy. Full and ready to go?" he asked, the knight patting the lizard affectionately. It cracked open its jaws and let out an almost avian squawk in agreement. "Sounds good." he replied, and the ground was smote once more in glee. "Go wash, you'll get blood everywhere." he ordered, knowing his steed didn't understand every word he said. He just needed to include the keywords in his sentences to get things done. Pointing to the ditch helped, and the giant lizard quickly scurried over and thrashed its head about in the water, returning a good deal less red, though still dripping gore. "Close enough." the warrior laughed, hefting his pack, and strapping it onto the monster once more. The beast wiggled once he had finished tightening down the straps. A pat to its rump had signalled that it might thrash its hindquarters about. This forced everything to settle immediately, making the journey much easier. A quick re-tightening of a couple of straps, and everything was locked in place, ready to go. And it seemed his steed was eager to be off, always a plus. The daemon slayer mounted his scaly steed and the monster set off immediately. Its pace was similar to that of a trotting horse, but its shorter legs and twisting stride made for a smoother ride. It also seemed to cover ground quicker than most equine animals, though he supposed it might be a biased imagining. He'd yet to find a horse more reliable than his lizard, but that didn't mean there wasn't one. And he had to admit, even if there was one, he wasn't sure he wanted it. A warlizard was so much more entertaining to have around than a warhorse. The smoother ride was good for more than just extended journeys, though. In battle it made things like jousting, and aiming his swings so much easier, as he didn't have to worry about bouncing around. There was only the slight, side-to-side sway to worry about, and that hardly got in the way like the up-and-down motion of a horse could, especially considering it was much more subtle. In the end, though, the knight supposed the real advantage was indeed on long journeys, however. With no violent jostling to worry about, he could rest more easily over long distances. Unfortunately, this was not one of those instances, as he had a destination in mind, and it was nearby, relatively speaking. And with his unpleasant feeling only growing stronger as they grew near, rest was not something he was about to be able to get. With that in mind, the knight spent his time preparing instead. As they drew closer, he prepared his weaponry for battle, and adjusted his armour so it sat properly, and more comfortably. There was only so much he could do to prepare, however, and the daemon slayer quickly began to wish they might arrive already, so that he could get to slaying whatever monstrosity he had to face, rather than having to wait around for the two of them to arrive at their destination. Fortunately, there was only so much distance between them and their destination, so arrival was inevitable. With some encouragement, the lizard that carried him picked up the pace, and soon enough the warrior and his steed arrived at their destination. It was a horribly over-grown chapel, once home to a sect worshipping Stendarr. The statue out front, that used to be an homage to the patron saint of charity had been horribly defaced, and even toppled over, however, and the doors had been marked with blood and obviously barricaded. It didn't take much encouragement to get his monster to creep up to the doors, however, and the knight wasted no time in climbing onto its head so he could peek through the shattered window into the desecrated chapel. The first thing he noticed was the smell. The metallic tang of vital fluids underscored the cloying stench of death, and it was all laced through with the reek of unnecessarily expensive perfumes and incense. It seemed to be a strange combination, but it took but an instant of observation to see why. The cult inside was worshipping devils of greed, and to that effect, they had strewn expensive baubles all over the place, all of them soaked in the blood of their comrades. There had clearly been a struggle, and some of the cultists chanting had obviously sustained injuries in their efforts. Clearly these daemons measured their followers by the strength of their greed. Not that any of these men and women would survive the ritual. Their dead fellows littered the room, cast off as soon as they were drained of blood. Blood and gold seemed to be everywhere, every surface gilded first in the more accepted sense of the word, and then again using the more traditional definition. Incense burned in the centre of a badly-drawn pentagram, set alight on a pile of wood soaked in perfumes, all of it ringed by the still-living, psychotic people driven to this madness by some disastrous series of events. Too late the knight returned to his seat. Too late he commanded his lizard to wheel about and prepare to charge. Too late he crashed down the door with the help of his monster. A thing far more terrifying, sent forth from the Nine Hells, had already manifested. Indeed, even as he had turned away to prepare for battle, the beast had heaved forth into reality, a massive, blob-like thing, with clawed stubs that could almost be called feet, but nothing that might be called legs. Its hide bore the palor of a miser that never left his home, with solid gold spines protruding down its back, each one encrusted with massive precious stones, the smallest of them the size of a tangerine. Its arms were not so stubby as its legs, one of them vaguely humanoid, also studded with gold and gems, with a hole in the centre of its palm. The other was more of a solid-gold, articulated scythe, than an arm, with sharpened gemstones forming the edge of the blade. The daemon seemed to lack a head of any kind, as it had been absorbed into the fatty mass of the rest of it. Instead, it had only jewel encrusted eyes above a gem-studded maw that seemed to seek only more valuable things to consume. Even as the door to the chapel was splintered to matchsticks, the knight watched as his opponent finished its twirl. The monster seemed to have fired off foot-long gold spikes from its hollow arm, slaying three of the cultists. The rest of them had been rent in half by a swing of its scythe-arm. Then, because it wasn't terrifying enough as it was, the hell-spawned creature showed off its last, and probably its most terrifying trait. It puked a pool of molten gold in the path of the satyr and his steed. Thankfully, the lizard was more than capable of leaping over this new development, though its rider did lose hold of his lance in this manoeuvre. The goat-man was not terribly worried about that, however. Black lacquer and oak could be replaced, while cold iron could not be broken by anything daemonic, short of a devil focusing its full power on the stuff. So he relinquished the spear without worry, and drew his sword, thinking it would be more effective against the beast. He swayed out of the way of a swing from the thing's scythe, and his steed jumped to bounce off a wall, and send the pair sideways through the air. The greed daemon tried its hand at marksmanship, but a flying lizard was far harder to hit than a terrified and dying cultist. The knight had no trouble striking the stationary monster, however. That didn't mean he was glad of the hit. The beast immediately sprayed molten gold as if the stuff was being pumped through an artery, the liquid metal boiling against the warrior's armour as he continued on his rapid journey past the daemon. He cringed at the heat, and was thankful he was only splashed by a little bit of the stuff. His lizard turned around to watch the beast's wound seal up, however, and the daemon slayer grimaced. This thing was going to be more difficult to slay than the last one. He only wished he had some kind of abject poverty with which to strike it. That would surely end the beast in an instant. Instead, he supposed he would just have to keep trying. There was no sense in giving up after getting sprinkled with gold. But he didn't think that flying through the air would be the best choice for future assaults. Instead he nudged his steed into skittering about laterally around the monster, leaning in to hack at its limbs when the thing made the mistake of holding too still. The greed daemon was an awful shot with its gold spike cannon-arm, but it seemed to be getting better as time passed. Then again, the knight it faced was also moving slower, as he wasn't leaping through the air on the back of a lizard now. Being careful to stay out of range of its scythe-arm was easy enough, and soon enough the monster took to puking around itself, hoping to slow the advance of its enemy. Unfortunately for the beast, that meant that as it tried to advance, it got itself stuck in cooling gold. Having no legs to speak of, the entire bottom of the thing was forced to try and wade through the muck of boiling gold, bogging it down further. After some trying, the warrior found the hell-spawned creature more stuck than he had hoped for, and another wild leap through the air was called for. This time, though, when his steed launched them out into space, it was with blistering speed, just above the ground. They cleared the room in an instant, coming to rest against the far wall, before being forced to duck a volley of gold spikes. One of them sheared into the goat-man's intact horn, but did little besides sear the thing, as the gold was too hot to chop through much of anything, save perhaps people. The results of the charge were now clear, however, as the lizard turned the pair about to witness the strike that the knight had landed on the beast they fought. His sword had sliced neatly through the daemon, cutting from under its scythe-arm, up clear through to its shoulder. Gold spurted viciously from the gaping hole, and the abomination spun, struggling to heal itself from the grievous injury. The daemon slayer and his steed took advantage of this opportunity, and as the monstrosity struggled with its mortality, the cavalier flew through the air once more, this time his sword hacked clean through its cannon-arm, the limb falling heavily to the ground as molten gold continued to spurt from the beast. It flailed about now, barely in control of itself. It was here that the satyr noticed his lance where it had fallen originally, intact and waiting. He tossed his sword to his off-hand, sheathing it as he leaned down from his seat to scoop up the spear. Then he decided it was time for one last charge. The greed daemon wheeled to face his enemy, shrieking as if it sensed an imminent end to its existence. The cavalier gritted his teeth as he felt his lizard's hindquarters bunch, and then they were flying once more. The force of their launch was bone-shaking once again, but the goat-man had been prepared, and his lance struck true. The cold-iron tip was shoved down the daemon's throat, and it ripped right through the other side of the thing, the lance itself shattering even as it tore a massive hole in the beast. The shriek grew louder, and molten gold seemed to burst from the abomination like it was a water balloon, suddenly burst. However, even as the thing was banished back to the Hell from which it was ripped, its death caused all the gold and gems in the room to turn from such perfectly valuable commodities, to nothing but liquid manure of the most rank variety one might ever find. The explosion of gold transformed into a wave of lumpy, liquefied shit in an instant, and the knight and his steed were quite horrified to find themselves coated in the stuff as they crashed to a halt. The warrior was thankful they had been facing away from the stuff, but that didn't stop the air turning a venomous blue around him as he swore as vehemently as any man ever could. He urged his steed out of the chapel with all the haste the beast could muster, and the lizard dashed the two of them around behind the building, hoping to find anything that might relieve them of being so coated in such vile stuff. They were lucky enough to find what looked to be a very large pond, and the lizard hissed its displeasure, as its rider set to stripping it of all the gear it normally wore. That stuff would all need to be washed separately. For the moment, he focused on getting the two of them clean, though, so as his companion rushed the water, eager to no longer be coated in daemonic faeces, the knight had to strip off everything he was wearing before he could join the reptile. He decided he would write off the rest of the day, and think about getting things done the next day. Investing in a crossbow seemed like the first thing that should be on his list, and he placed it there. If he could help it, he would never fight another greed daemon in his life. The gods likely wouldn't allow that, though, so he at least wanted the option of not dealing with it at such close range...

Tales of Eyreseum - For the Emperor

It was late. Or, he supposed, judging by the sky, it was early. Regardless of how one wanted to describe the time, however, it was dark out, and there were stars in the sky. The moon was full, and it lit up the landscape like a distant flare. The person in question was clearly displeased to be up and about at this hour, and his steed shared the opinion. The giant lizard was obviously grumpy, and for a beast that had trouble expressing its emotions, such a state was dangerous for whatever had disturbed the duo. The monstrous lizard crept silently, just below the crest of a hill, while it's rider waited, hunched on its back, a lance clutched tightly in one hand, and his other hand rested on the hilt of his sabre. He was patient as they moved quietly, not relishing the idea of what came next. Of course, he didn't have a choice, so the satyr gritted his teeth, and finally nudged his steed onward, over the crest. The other side of the hill revealed a horrific sight. There was a ring of probably a score of cultists, if not more, and they were all covered in some off-white substance, dancing and chanting like fools. They had broken into a farmer's field, and had torn up the potato plants in the way of their circle. Now they appeared to be trying to summon something. As he rushed quietly toward the insane daemon worshippers, with only the sounds of his armour clanking, and his other equipment rustling to give him away. As he charged, the warrior noticed what appeared to be empty milk cans, destroyed butter churns, and a bag of salt. That last item surprised him slightly, but the goat-man was undeterred. Some daemons might be unbothered by salt, but cold iron had yet to fail him. Unfortunately, he was just a tiny bit too late, as the rift his prey had been trying to open finally tore itself into being. It made his job easier, in a way, as now he only had one thing to slay. At the same time, he now had to watch as the daemon that had been summoned devoured its worshippers. His lizard hissed in warning as the monster ripped into reality. The daemon-slayer was shocked at the sight, but he had been doing this for long enough that he didn't flinch as he rushed toward death or glory. The thing that had just forced itself into reality looked like it might have been a baked potato at some point. The eyes it possessed had grown into long, vine-like tentacles, however, and they seemed capable of acting of their own accord, as each one lashed out and grabbed up a dairy-soaked cultist. The potato-daemon hung there, in the air, flailing its followers about for a brief moment. And then it seemed to realize that someone was intending to do battle with it. The knight continued his rush, and was forced to watch, as the potato-thing split in half, revealing a mashed-potato centre, into which it stuffed the men and women that had brought it into being. Then the thing snapped closed once more, and seemed to roil internally, things moving around visibly beneath its potato-y skin. Finally, his lizard still rushing at its break-neck pace, the knight errant reached his destination. With his lance levelled at the monster, he made contact, his weapon crashing into the beast. Too late, it realized that this man was not just some foolhardy warrior. He was a bona-fide daemon killer, and as his lance ripped right through the massive floating potato, he released the thing, his steed not having to be told to rush past the thing before turning around. When they finally wheeled about, they were treated to the sight of their enemy flagging quickly, its strength fading with the curse of cold iron burning through its heart. In response, the knight drew his sword, and urged his steed to charge once more. As they rushed toward the thing, the satyr stood up in his saddle, and then his mount leapt into the air toward the still-flying tuber-daemon. The knight followed suit, jumping from the back of his lizard to land on top of the thing. While he began slicing up his opponent, his steed was using its claws to tear holes in the potato's skin. With cold iron still touching it, the monster couldn't heal, so the two of them set to work dismantling it as its tentacles flailed in pain. If they could have heard in the potato-spectrum of sound waves, the pair would have been deafened. Thankfully, they could not, and thus, dispatching the daemon was an easy task. In but a pair of moments, they had the thing shredded, and collapsed onto the earth. The lizard screamed in triumph, and the knight errant beside it sighed with relief, rewarding his companion with a hug. "Good work, Zan." he whispered to the lizard. It flicked its tongue in agreement, and the two of them assessed the damage. The warrior found his lance unmarred, save for the mashed potatoes that coated it. Poking through the ridiculous amount of mashed potatoes that now strewed the ground, he discovered a decided lack of bodies. Not that a little blood would have bothered the goat-man. He retrieved a bowl and a fork from his things strapped to his steed, and helped himself to the perfectly-seasoned mashed potatoes. For a bunch of psychotic cultists, they certainly knew how much milk and butter and salt was required to turn a potato daemon into delicious mashed potatoes. He chuckled at that thought, and that turned into laughter as his mount tried some of the dead daemon as well. The look of disgust it managed as it struggled to get the stuff out of its mouth was hilarious, and the knight had to help his lizard before the thing lost its mind. "We'll find you something bloody for breakfast, don't you worry." he assured the beast, patting its head before returning to his snack. "Let's get out of here, eh? No need to get blamed for wrecking things that we didn't." he suggested as he ate, and the pair headed for the nearby road, back over the ridge they'd charged from. It was late, or early, but the both of them were up and about now, so there was no point in trying to make camp. There would be no sleeping while the adrenaline was still pumping through them. And with the darkness still around them, it would be easier to find something for his companion to eat. The knight wasted no time in removing his pack from the monster's back when it indicated that prey had been located. He slung his supplies over his back and continued walking, knowing that his mount would have no trouble finding him when it was done. For the moment, he planned to enjoy his bowl of mashed potatoes, and continue walking, wondering which town was next on this endless road south...

The great pirate era. (Sanquin/Sarpedon)

Octavius remained at the helm when he heard the cry go up for dinner. Questioning looks were met with an irritated wave. The captain wasn't about to leave his ship unsupervised now. He was on the hunt. So while just about everyone else on his crew set to eating, he waited patiently at the wheel, his head on a swivel. Soon enough, his first mate appeared, announcing again, that dinner was ready. He looked to her and nodded. "Eat. You can take the wheel when you're done. Then I'll eat." he spoke quietly, like a man not about to be argued with. Then he turned back to his work. When Ceres was done eating, he'd be more than happy to step away, leaving her in charge while he wolfed down his food. Even now that he was willing to eat her food, he knew the woman wasn't going to be impressed. Captain Cuttlam wasn't one to sit around and savour things while he was hunting, so if she cared to watch, his first mate would get to witness the spectacle of the captain horking back his plateful of food like a starving man, and without ever tasting it, he would return to his post, more concerned about his quarry sneaking up on him, than anything else. Not long after eating, the warlord closed his eyes at the wheel, and took a long, deep breath through his nose. Then he snarled, remembering it didn't work like that. He let his left arm transform, raining blood on the deck next to him, as his alter ego ascended a half-dozen feet or so. He took another deep breath, this time through daemonic lungs, and found what he sought. He shuddered a little, and let his arm shorten, that it might hover more menacingly, he supposed. The thing had a mind of its own sometimes. He was decidedly less concerned by that, though, and more concerned with the smells of fire, powder, and death on the wind. "Go find the best helmsman on the crew and bring him here." he ordered Ceres. He had some complex tasks for whoever that lucky man was, and while he would normally do it himself, or have his first mate do it, both of them would be needed to do battle against the Powder Keg and unless he had lost what was left of his mind in the past few minutes, they were about to see the ship they had been seeking. So when Ceres returned with the man he sought, the pirate started giving orders right away. "You're the best we've got, eh? Good. A ship's going to come into sight in a moment or two. I want you to keep us just barely out of cannon range of it. And I want us always broadside of it. Do you understand?" he knew this needed to be stressed heavily, so he repeated the instructions. "Just out of cannon range. Her cannons, not ours. She's only got twenty-fours. And keep us broadside. Broadside. I swear to all the gods man, if you screw this up, I'm going to devour you alive." he looked like he would do it, too. "Good luck. God speed." he added, before turning to the rest of the deck. "Where's my gunnery captain?" he bellowed, and the man appeared in a hurry. "Here, Captain!" he sounded off, rushing over. Octavius was speaking before he could get anything else out. "I want all the thirty-six pound guns we've got on the top deck. Port side. Go." he stated, and he started to inhale when the man hesitated. Few could have moved faster in that situation. He smiled, and then turned back to Ceres. "You'll be on fire duty. If those bastards manage to catch us on fire, we'll go up faster than a magazine, and I don't intend to die before I'm the king again." this man was clearly prepared. Knowing one's enemy was a great deal of help in any situation, but it seemed he had stacked the deck this time, however he'd done it... ((too much?))