"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
07-10-2016, 09:53 PM (This post was last modified: 07-10-2016, 09:55 PM by Grumblesnakes.)
Alright, pets. Thank you all for playing, and testing out your shiny new powers. This round is being judged based on the badassery (or angst-inducing beauty) of the beasts you faced, the use you made of your powers, and how Grumble feels about trusting you as a potential bodyguard. He called the shots this round. Igni and Fascade, thank you for your amazing work, but the quest ends here for you. I'm so sorry. :\ Grumbly will fix you up and send you home. Feel free to keep any scars you like, and thank you again for participating! Everybody else, welcome to round four.
“Nicely done, my beauty,” Grumblesnakes croons to you, suddenly at your side. He strokes your cheek, rubs your forehead, smiling with a sick sort of affection. “My greatest creation,” he murmurs (and sometimes he even means it). “You're ready, I think. Oh, except here.” With a careless wave of a hand, he patches you up, repairing any injuries you took with almost no effort. “Come along, then, my darling.” With one last touch to your face, he walks away, knowing you'll follow. After all, you are his. Oh, he'd make you fall in line if he had to. But the longer you wear his halter, the more his you become, and after all, he asked so nicely.
He leads you out of the arena and into your new home, his fort. As one of his guardians, you spend a great deal of your time at his side from then on, helping him to beef up the fort's defenses against potential invaders. You no longer return to your stall for meals and rest, but there is food and water available for you whenever you need it, as well as access to an outer courtyard where you can do your business and also patrol for enemies. You sleep in Grumble's room with him, passively protecting him when he's at his most vulnerable. And you help your dear friend brainstorm while he's laying traps and spells and all manner of vicious little surprises so that when the enemy finds the fort, you are ready.
Except there is no preparing for what comes. No practice, no training, could ever get you ready for the fury that rains down one day out of nowhere. Enjoy the time peaceful time you have together, because your post ends with the sky overhead going dark, and the force field surrounding the fort flashing in alarm. They found you. They're coming for your Grumblesnakes, and they're mad as hell.
You have until 10 PM CST on Tuesday to post. Like I said, your post should end with the rather ominous arrival of the enemy you've spent all this time preparing for. No need to go into detail though. We'll cover that in the final round. Also to clarify? Your battle magic is in no way limited to what you used in the previous round. You didn't have to unlock specific abilities, you have battle magic, period. So don't feel like you're stuck with what you've already used if you want to shake things up. There's no battle this round, but you can still use your abilities to help beef up security and entertain your dear friend Grumblesnakes if you're so inclined. You also have relative control over Grumbles and his magic for the duration of the post. As usual, I'll be around cbox or you can reach me by PM or a post on the OOC board if you have questions.
tl;dr: read it anyway. :| But for real, bond with Grumbles and turn this place into a stronghold before the enemies rain death from above.
The sweat on my body makes me shiver and some of the wounds sting and itch. A rather nasty one from the Roc makes me wonder if infection has already set in. The thought has barely formed in my mind before Grumble is there crooning and rubbing my face. I exhale a breath, glad he was safe and glad he was here. My eyes closes on his words and I smile, even as I feel the itching of the healing working its way through and across my body. A few would scar no matter what but they weren't sore or open, they wouldn't be a weak spot in my defense of my Grumble.
"Thank you." I say to him, hoping he understands, touching my lips to his open hand before we are walking again. Walking, I'm so tired. I just want to sleep but I follow him, because he had asked me too and because I would have anyways. I had to make sure Grumble was safe, that was what I was supposed to do.
We leave out of a different door, my eyes roving looking for anything that might be out of place even here deep within this fort that he had created. Of course he had created it, Grumble could do anything. Except, wait, he still didn't even know this tiny little man's name. "What would you want me to call you?" And Grumble only pauses a moment in our steps before we are walking. "Master is fine for now pet." And so I would. He was Master.
That first night I welcome myself to bed, sleeping much longer than I felt like I should have. Magic and fighting had worn me out and I didn't wake up until two days later, the morning. I jerk awake, practically panicking from whatever dream or thoughts that I had already forgotten. I look around for Grumble, glad that he was still asleep for the morning and gather myself up to my legs. I am steady and sure, no signs of weakness or fatigue and even then as I look at my young self I know that I cannot finish protecting him like this.
So I grow myself and it is painful, speed aging me that extra year that it takes to grow more fully into my body. To reach what is considered adulthood. I would grow myself more, age myself more maturely into my body but Master wakes up and I am immediately at his side. "What a nice surprise darling. Did you do that for me?" I can only nod and smile. "Of course, I could not protect you in that smaller body. This way I will be able to protect you to the fullest." And this makes him smile that little smile of his. "Very well, we have things to do." He is up and work begins.
He is brainstorming different ideas to protect the fort more fully. "What if we dig pits in the ground and add a few nasty animals in there for any ground troops? And we can place pockets of electricity in the sky that look like clouds for anything that might be in the air." Grumbles nods and goes about adding deep pits in the ground, filling it with all manner of nasty creatures. One holds no bottom, only a large mouth of a large forgotten worm. Another holds a large scorpion hidden just barely underneath a small layer of dirt. And then in yet another, there is a creature with bat ears and fangs, but hands and scaly skin. It lingers in one of the crevasses that Grumble has put in there for seemingly safe places to hide. Some even hold regular old stakes and other things that would impale or maim.
The clouds in the sky shift and camouflage themselves to match the sky. They match seamlessly so that anything that might fly through them die instantly. I watch as a flock of birds fly into it and fall down into the lake that acts like a giant moat around it. "What about water creatures for the moat?" And then Grumbles is adding creatures, thick sea dragons and large squids. Things that shouldn't coexist peacefully but they are because they are Master's. And then for that day we are done and I'm sleeping lightly in Master's room with him, my senses on high alert for anything that might be coming.
I can feel it, an itch between my shoulder blades that says something is brewing but for now I merely concentrate on fortifying the castle. I will learn to fly today so I might look over the fort better.
I wake early, leaving an unintelligent clone in my place while Master still sleeps. I leave it there to protect, to watch, and to send me a call should anything happen or Master wakes up. I am fairly confident so far that all will be well, that itch hasn't gotten any worse and I'm sure that that instinctual warning system is correct. So I find myself taking small jumps, gathering my wings and gliding my way down. Each one a little higher, until I can flap my wings once, and then twice. Until I'm flapping my wings and I'm not falling. I stay steady as I hover and feel some of my muscles scream in protest but I wing myself higher. It is tough work and I feel the sweat beading itself up across my body. I am careful to stay away from the spots I know the magical electric balls roam. I look over our fort, see a few places that we can make the defenses much better before winging back down to Master.
He was awake, just waking up my clone informs me before I vanish him away. Master eyes me and I explain. "I was learning to fly Master. I did not want to leave you alone and unguarded." I say despite the few other minions he had around that were going to serve as cannon fodder for the Trouble that was brewing.
"The walls, Master, they are weak. They should be reinforced with steel and we should add something to the outside that will make it so that anything that touches them is eaten by the wall. Then all will see their faces carved in horror...." "Bloodthirsty little beast...I rather like that idea." And I smile and watch as tiny beads of steel find their ways into the cracks and crevices of the rock, reinforcing them in no pattern, just whatever chaotic way was possible. There was no time to be straight and narrow, to take down the walls and start all over. Then I add glowing red magic to it. "You, attack the outside of the wall." I say to a small goblin who immediately does as I ask. Perks you see of being Master's favorite. The goblin takes a sword and exits the fort to go and start attacking the wall like he was an enemy. Just like that his hand sticks as he tries to climb first and then he is hacking at it with his sword. Too soon his screams are swallowed up as his body is eaten by the wall. A blurry image of his screaming face is soon seen carved into the rock. "Excellent." I smile.
Another night comes that I spend learning to fly better. I fly with some armor, fly without. I learn to do tricks and all manner of things to make myself more agile, to be better in the air. I must do all I can to keep Master safe.
And then dawn breaks and I can feel the itching between my shoulder blades tighten into an uncomfortable tingling. Soon, they will be here soon. "Master....it's going to happen soon." And he nods. "Ah yes, I imagine so." So another day is preparing the Fort, making it less a Fort and more of a Fortress. We add metal barbs to the top of the walls, making it practically impossible for anyone to climb or get anywhere near the outside of the walls. Inside I add shadow hounds, wickedly impossible beasts to control, that is if you are anyone except for Master who calls them to heel easily. They have their orders to protect and kill any that try to attack. They whimper and whine, but melt back into the shadows and wait...wait. I add minotaurs to the ranks, swelling them with numbers and brawn. Perhaps adjusting their genetic makeup a little bit to include intelligence to it as well.
We add more things to the sky, dragons that lay, ready to attack on each of the five towers. One of each species. A red fire dragon, a blue water dragon, a green earth dragon, a yellow air dragon and then a giant purple-black mind/spirit dragon. A smile curls my lips, imagining the attack power that they alone will possess. And then tiny little sparrow-like birds with tufted cat ears and four legs and a long tail fly around landing here and there. There were swarms of them around that would attack as well and maim.
And that night I sleep but before Master and I settle down in the fort, I do one last fly over, dropping a large dome over us all that add one more layer of protection.
Dawn breaks and I am already awake, that tingle between my shoulder blades painful. "Today." I murmur, and am sure that today will be the day. I am going to wake Master when the roaring of something outside makes me turn and I go, galloping outside. It's a roaring mass of blackness on the horizon and I can feel Master's hand on my shoulder. "They are here."
In one breath, his mother explodes into a hundred million pieces that rain down around him before disappearing into the permeable sands. In the next, Grumbles is there at his side, rubbing and praising him. Healing him. “Nicely done, the man says, his crooked hands at Vidar’s face. Nice, Vidar echoes, the word too short and not enough. He wants more. And though he’d been indignant before (about killing his in-life absent father and his fearless mother) he now understands why he’d had to do it. He realizes that it was for his own good, for Grumbles own good. All of the trials have made him stronger, and deep in the folds of his guts, he knows he will have to be stronger to face what is to come. To protect the one who’s given him so much already.
He’d been a child, and Grumbles had made him a man.
He sees that now. He sees that the way to his future (their future) is paved with hardships that will serve to better him, shape him – forge him into his mother’s iron. The blue stallion feels reborn when the majority of his wounds vanish. His leg knits itself back together. The gash on his face folds back into itself until he has only a thin trail of pink skin accompanying his jagged stripe. Some of the other wounds close, but only barely. Grumbles leaves a few as a lesson – a continuing education, Vidar muses – and he wears them proudly like badges.
It is not the only gift he is given.
The little man leads him away, and a part of him regrets leaving the coliseum. He is not ready; he’s better, but not there yet. Grumbles seems to sense the tension rising in his charge with each footstep away. He pauses, soothes his mane so that it all lies flat on the same side. “The bloodlust builds within you, eh? You’ll have more opportunities, don’t you worry about that.” He gives the horse a conspiratorial wink and moves on. It is easier for Vidar to follow then. He replays that wink in his head over and over, knowing that he’s in the right hands, that they are bonded. Friends, even. The fairy won’t let him down.
They walk to a rising structure that is far more impressive than the fighting arena had been. Vidar doesn’t fail to notice the progression of power at each place he is taken. First the small stall, then the chamber with its starry sky and underwater tank, and finally the wide, bowled dome of the coliseum. Each had been home to him, for a time (and he realizes now that he’d had to grow into them; each last one couldn’t accommodate his personal growth), but this one puts them all to shame. He appreciates that Grumbles trusts him enough to see his greatest show of power, his final masterpiece. And what work must have gone into it!
The outside of the structure is cased in a garish orange and green rubber sort-of-material. “Non-conductive,” Grumbles says, nodding at the wall just ahead of them. Vidar nods, wishing he’d borrowed some for his time in the chamber. The fort’s walls are as crooked as the man, with some of them jutting to great, questionable heights and others leveling off at only a few feet high. The entire structure is dotted with metal disks spaced evenly. It is a strange, impossible building that seems entirely Grumbles creation. And somehow, it all seems to work. It has style, Vidar thinks to himself ironically. But the man turns to him and grins anyway before leading him in.
He is taken on the grand tour of the place and finds that the inside is as strange as the outside, if not more. Grumbles had obviously grown up in a monochrome world (or a world with too many colors) as each wall is painted some new shade of the rainbow the stallion is unfamiliar with. There are alien instruments and things that look like weapons meant to inflict pain stacked neatly in many of the rooms. In one room, an irregular shaped pool stretches away to some distant point the pair can’t see. The water is bright blue and tempting (reminds him of the Amazon river), but Grumbles leads him on. The only commonality between the various rooms is the cleanliness. Grumbles seems, if anything, a stickler for tidiness. His private room is no different. Horse and man enter a bedroom similar to the torture chamber, with rising velvet fabric walls that twist at the ceiling, leaving a decent hole with which to see the sky above. “Not the best defensive move on my part, having a great big hole in my bedroom. But, style,” he says, sparing him a glance before looking back up at the stars. “And I like to look at them. They remind me of home.” Vidar says nothing, though he agrees.
The next few days pass quickly. The stallion learns what his job as a guardian entails, learns where to get food and water (everywhere), and learns where he can stretch his legs. The fort is massive and provides him with plentiful opportunities for exercise. But even with the calming halter, there is some deep instinctual need printed on his DNA to feel the real sun on his back rather than artificial lighting. He makes as many trips as he can to the courtyard while still being an effective guardian. If only Grumbles could live outside as they do. Vidar also learns that he is not the only one charged with protecting the man from his unseen enemies. Grumbles spends time with them, too, and it casts a pall over the horse’s mood each time he does. He wants all the attention for himself, wants to learn from his captor-savior in every spare moment he is allowed.
In those moments alone, Vidar practices with his power. He plays with fire. He melts into the ground as a puddle of poisonous water. He grows his horns and fangs often, butting a crooked tree in the courtyard and sinking his teeth into the always-abundant meat of the carnivorous guardians. As his time without Grumbles grows, he pictures that it is their faces he bites down into. The blood dripping down his throat is like a validation (strange, but it feels right) of change. Whereas this situation had been odd and uncomfortable before, now he knows he is meant to be here. To suffer and learn and grow. To become less prey and more predator, he thinks as the meat slides along his tongue. The opposite side of the coin feels peculiar but it also feels so right.
When he does meet with Grumbles, they discuss his (their) upcoming troubles. Vidar had noticed the stakes encircling the camp, huge metal poles that flashed green lights every few seconds. A force field, he had learned. We’ll know if anyone approaches, he had been assured. But it didn’t seem nearly enough. If the threat that knocked on the door of their futures was as great as it seemed, he knew they needed more. And he needs more praise. So the blue roan follows Grumbles to make adjustments. They venture outside the invisible fence (safely turned off) and put a thick band of sand around the entire fort. He tells Grumbles to water it, and the water seeps down, down below the surface. It weakens the top layer until anyone who walks over it will be pulled under into the weak pockets - quicksand. They fill this layer with all manner of nasty Desert dwellers: the venomous snakes and scorpions with their stinging tails. A monitor lizard scurries over the firmer sand, ready to bite and track its victims. They make another layer even further from the fort. Grumbles grows a jungle in the middle of nowhere, but not without purpose. Banana fronds sway in the breeze, but jaguars prowl beneath them. The fairy paints the trees with poison dart frog secretions that will not fade away. Several man-eating plants burrow and hide in the loamy dirt, waiting for a meal to pass by. Vidar suggests a hybrid creation and Grumbles obliges. A thinner, more athletic hippo patrols along with its family. It yawns and its deadly teeth glint in the sun. An enormous pair of macaw wings lay flush on its back.
Defenses somewhat covered, man and beast return to the fort that night feeling more prepared than ever. Vidar won’t rest easy, but it pleases him to have been so useful. Grumbles invites him into his room that night long before he usually did. They talk (well, Grumbles does the vast majority of the talking) as comrades, allies. Friends. The man starts a fire at the foot of his bed. As the flames crack and spit, the stallion feels himself warming even further. Here, he feels useful. He’s not the prince of a great warrior queen, not a gift to uphold a valuable alliance. Here, he’s not judged for preferring the pursuits of his body over his mind, not being the smartest or wisest. But I’m getting better, he thinks, looking at Grumbles as if for confirmation. But the man isn’t looking back. A small twinkle is in his eye (still laughing from the last joke) as he takes a sip from his chalice. Look at all I thought of today. Look how I helped. But Ursa minor glares at him again, calls him a stupid animal. You’ve thought of home, it seems to say, you’ve nothing original about you.
Vidar tries to drown out the doubts haunting him. He shakes and his anaconda-pattern reappears to the delight of Grumbles. He shakes again and this time it’s an elephant’s leathery skin. Again, and he wears the black and white fur of a lemur. An Amazon parrot, wings and all. A wolf, flashing green eyes and sharp fangs. He doesn’t stop until he’s run out of ideas. Grumbles doesn’t stop laughing, either, and it warms the horse as much as the fire has.
The next day, they wake late. Smoke from the extinguished fire still curls up into the opening above. The sun is nearly filling it, and the stallion opens his eyes at the brightness. Grumbles is curled on his bed in the fetal position, his covers twisted around him. Vidar watches him for a moment, thinking how vulnerable he looks, thinking how easily he could kill him without the man even knowing it. He might have, too, in the beginning. But now, he only walks over and whuffs in his face, waking him. The desire to pound him into a pulp has left, gone with his childish self. He is a man now, and men make plans. Men cope with their struggles and make the best of what they are given.
The pair makes more plans in the early hours of the afternoon.
They fortify the spaces just inside the gates, digging metal spikes into the ground and planting triggers in the ground. Vidar watches as one detonates, feels his heart constrict with the explosion that seems to push at it from all sides. He donates his lightning, pulling it down from the skies and electrifying the spikes so that the energy arcs across them. It feels good in his veins, that power. Grumbles tells him to make the most of it because he will need it. Think, he reminds himself. So he does. The stallion internalizes the lightning, gathers it in his mind until it is a storm cloud fat with its load. He sees a rabbit zig-zagging through the jungle just beyond and focuses on it. With one exhausting thought, the lightning strikes the rabbit, frying its brain. It falls over as if physically struck, immediately dead. Vidar smiles at his captor-savior.
The smile doesn’t last.
A darkness gathers on the horizon just beyond the sweeping banana fronds. At first, Vidar wonders if he’s called a storm to him, somehow, with his lightning. But as it nears, it is like no storm he’s ever seen before. When the green flashing lights change to red on the force field for the first time, he and Grumbles head for the inside of the fort. They pass the spikes and triggers and skirt around a deceivingly crystal clear pool (which if ingested or submerged will pull all the water from the user instead; reverse hydration, Grumbles had joked). They carefully step around big balloons filled with concentrated mercury gas (Vidar had watched the big vats of fish being vaporized; the smell will stay with him forever). He can’t wait to see how they’ll like breathing that in. Once they are through the doorway, he slams it shut with one kick of a hindleg. Grumbles bars it. They share a look that seems to admit, we are the prey but we will have to become predators.
Blood trickles down his sides as sharp pain radiates through him, courtesy of the dragon he had somehow (miraculously) slain. The numbness is creeping back in, threatening to drag him back to that dark abyss on whose brink he had so recently teetered. But then Grumblesnakes is there, murmuring softly to him as he tenderly strokes his cheek. His smile as he gazes at him with fond eyes is so kind, and for a moment, Shan feels he would do anything for him. But then the pain intrudes and reality settles. The small man (his captor, he must remind himself constantly, though it seems to be doing little good) is talking to him, sweet words that have little meaning in this haze of pain and blood. A few heartbeats later however, the agony is gone and he finds himself once again whole.
Magic. So much magic. He had once sworn he hated it, but now… now it seems almost a good thing.
With one last tender touch to his face, Grumblesnakes rises and bids him follow. For a moment, Shan resists, wondering what other hellish things this little creature might have in store for him. But, as with all their previous interactions, it seems resistance is futile. And so, he follows, as docile as a lamb despite the confusion that reigns supreme inside his mind.
He leads him into what Shan can only describe as a fortress, a place meant for defense. At first he doesn’t quite realize what they are walking through, but when understanding sinks in, he is somewhat baffled. What could this little man need a fortress for? What dangers out there seek him?
He never does receive his answers though. Instead he becomes a guardian, a battle horse trained for one thing: protection. He soon finds himself forgetting about the halter more often than not, forgetting that Grumblesnakes is the enemy, forgetting that he should not so willingly offer aid to his captor. Even when the fondness begins to creep into his heart, the desire to protect this man against all threat, he forgets all too easily that it should not be there.
In fact, he finds that he is rather enjoying himself here. He had known since his youth that he is meant for war. The prospect of battle runs hot through his veins, and the planning of defense challenges his mind in ways he finds invigorating. Grumblesnakes keeps him at his side almost constantly, companion and accomplice in a war Shan knows almost nothing about.
But he would fight. That is what he had been born for. And he would protect Grumblesnakes.
For once, it feels as though he has found his purpose in life. As they set out to create a fortress so formidable its very presence would deter invasion, Shan finds an odd, almost comforting sort of happiness in the work.
The bones are already there, a good solid foundation that they could build upon. Shan has to admire the handiwork. It seems Grumblesnakes knows what he is doing. But it is not enough. Not nearly enough. Shan finds (to his amazement) he has abilities beyond those he had already utilized in the coliseum, abilities that aid him in building the defenses of the fortress. Grumblesnakes does the majority of the spellcasting, of course, but Shan helps in what small ways he can.
And so, they build things. Great and terrible things designed to catch magical and mortal foe alike. It takes them weeks – weeks during which Shan spends his nights in Grumblesnakes’ chamber to offer protection and days traveling the keep with his dear friend planting traps and spells. Their first line of defense, beyond the early warning system Grumblesnakes had installed of course, is a massive, invisible force field. It would not halt their magical foe for long, but it would give them enough time to get their other defenses up and running. Still, Grumblesnakes had planted a few nasty surprises in that force field at Shan’s suggestion. Attempting to force entry would trigger first a shower of arrows. Not normal arrows, of course, but magical ones. Ones that, once they had tasted flesh, would seek its target until well and truly sated upon that target’s blood. They had also planted a number pits full of deadly spikes, ones that would open up upon breach of the magical wall. Grumblesnakes had fiddled a bit with gravity over those pits too, ensuring that any poor, unsuspecting soul standing or flying over them would become quite heavy. Much too heavy to avoid falling upon those spears.
That, of course, is only their first line of defense. Though any enemy brave enough to trespass past that point is either incredibly powerful, or incredibly foolish. Unfortunately Shan has a sneaking suspicion that the vast majority of those enemies would be the former.
He would not let that deter him however. He is powerful now too.
Still, better safe than sorry.
Next, they install a moat around the fortress, though true to everything else in this god forsaken place, it is not an ordinary moat. Instead of water, the canal is filled with acid, a thick, viscous substance that clings stubbornly to skin and hair and clothes, refusing to be removed by any normal means. That is, if you even have the time to try to remove it before it eats through flesh and bone. To top it off, the acid emits a sour vapor, one that feels as though claws are raking skin and gouging eyes should you try to pass through it.
To be safe, Shan makes sure that remains well covered until it is needed. He has no desire to accidentally stroll through that mist.
Should they make it past the moat, their enemies will find only a hellish maze. Shan had rather enjoyed planning out their little labyrinth with his dear Grumblesnakes. They had spent hours in the little man’s chamber one night, pouring over a tiny replica of what they wished it to look like before implementing each piece of the intricate puzzle. Grumblesnakes had crafted the corridors of the fortress into a rather convoluted mess, with only one way through. To boot, they then plant a plethora of brilliantly diabolical surprises interspersed throughout the hodgepodge of meandering halls.
To his surprise, Shan rather delights in carefully planting all these beautiful little traps. In one place, the floor will swallow any creature fool enough to step upon it, encasing them for eternity in stone. In another, they will become trapped as the walls slowly close in upon them. In yet another, they will find themselves quickly sliced to ribbons by numerous razor sharp blades that drop to swing unexpectedly from the ceiling. In still another place, lances would burst from floor and ceiling to impale the unwary when passed over by unsuspecting enemies. They had even crafted a spell that would turn any trespassers into rabbits, mostly because they had found it stupidly hilarious. Of course, those rabbits would get rapidly eaten by the wolves that would then be released. One can never be too careful.
Should anyone make it past these defenses, they would find themselves face to face with Shan and Grumblesnakes. Then and only then would the true battle ensue. Of course, they would first have to make it through the wards upon the doors of the large, central chamber they had chosen as their battleground. As with everything else, these are no ordinary wards. Any who touch that ward when activated would instantly burst into flame. Should the flames not be deterrent enough, the force field, when broken, would emit a note so piercing it would render the trespasser instantly deaf. It also comes with the distinct possibility of making one bleed from their eyes, ears, and nose. Thoughtfully, Grumblesnakes has provided Shan with protection against this particular menace, for which Shan is quite grateful.
Grumblesnakes of course would never leave himself without a way out. In truth, were Shan in his right mind, he might have been very suspicious of the rather small trap door the little man had installed in the designated battle chamber. As it is, with that halter still strapped about his face, he can only applaud his cleverness in thinking of every eventuality.
For all their planning and preparation, it does little good in actually preparing Shan for what is to come. Despite weeks of building and engineering, when that first warning alarm sounds, the scarred stallion is far from ready. But he is a warrior, and he will always do what he must. So, as the alarms shriek out their warning, as the sky turns ominously dark with a powerful fury, Shan turns to Grumblesnakes, steeling himself for the battle to come.
Features lit by an uncommon grimness, Shannisoran prepares for war.
I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies
tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife
His screams fill the air in handfuls, until the master tires of it, and suddenly the scream is gone, snatched from his lips. The pain is still there, radiating from his broken leg, but it subsides, and then becomes nothing but a dull itch as the master heals him.
He rises, slowly. The smoldering corpse at his feet turns to ash, and blows away on the wind.
Suddenly, the master is there, beside him, a palm laid flat on his cheek. My greatest creation, he says, and the words send a sick thrill through him – and why shouldn’t they?
It’s not like he hasn’t been remade before.
He follows the master, docile as a lamb. His legs work again, whole, and his mane no longer burns (though it is singed, bits of it falling away, a trail of himself leading away from the battleground).
And so, the days pass.
He sleeps in the master’s room, on hard wood that leaves him aching every morning. But he doesn’t mind, he is used to aching. The magic does not leave, it continues to weave itself amongst his veins and arteries, and he learns to wield it. He becomes the sun, over and over again, shapes himself into gold and silver, a body of light, burning but not burnt.
The master lays hands on him, strokes his crest, tangles fingers in his mane. It feels good.
It feels like love.
They build.
They fortify for something the master does not explain, says only, make us safe, Sleaze. Keep me safe, and that is all that needs to be said, because Sleaze is a good boy, he obeys.
They shape the house – it is a house – into a twisting atrocity that defies nature, defies physics. They build staircases to nowhere, secret rooms behind paneled doors. On every floor, there are panic rooms, voice-activated by a password.
(The password is Pennywise, the master’s own private joke, he laughs when Sleaze chokes on the word.)
The house becomes a maze, full of trick steps and nowhere places, secrets and shadows.
Outside, they build more mazes – hedge mazes that twist and turn every which way. In them, they place monsters – a pack of wolves, a gibbering creature that walks bipedal but whose form never entirely straightens. Overhead, they release a flock of birds – vultures and eagles and hawks, all flying as one, all keeping watch.
They all obey the master.
They build watchtowers, great towering things that let you see out for miles. They build a fence of stone, impassable, top it with razor wire.
They dig a moat, deep, fill it with brackish water. Things swim there, dark shapes in the murkiness. Sleaze does not look at them too closely.
It’s as much a prison as it is a fortress, and Sleaze doubts he could get out even if he tried.
He doesn’t try, though. He sleeps in the master’s room, right by the bed, like a dog. A loyal beast.
They practice, too.
Sleaze is made to return to the battleground over and over again. He fights whatever monsters the master can imagine – fairies with sharp teeth and screeching voices, panthers that move like shadows, a dinosaur with feathered skin and teeth almost as large as he is. We don’t know what form they’ll come in, murmurs the master, so you practice. You practice..
Sleaze fights himself, again and again. He fights everyone he ever loved. Killing them becomes second nature. Killing himself becomes easy as breathing. The magic makes him powerful.
He is the sun.
Sleaze was never meant to be a fighter, but that doesn’t matter to the master. The master makes him a fighter. Through fire and blood and magic, he makes him. Sleaze learns how to turn his body into a fearsome thing, how to make himself strong, filled with great and terrible power.
“You’d do anything to save me, right?” says the master one day, as Sleaze stands victorious over a slain monster.
Sleaze, whose cheeks are stained in blood, nods.
The master slips down from his perch, pulls something from his pocket. A red pill. Out of his other pocket he pulls a small object, puzzling at first, until Sleaze realizes – a fake tooth.
“In war,” says the master, “they used this for agents, gone behind enemy lines, in case they got captured. I may lose you, Sleaze. Or they may take you--”
Sleaze shudders at the thought of being separated.
“And if they do, they might ask you things. What I’ve done to – with – you. Where I might be going. And I know you wouldn’t tell on me, but they have…they have ways, Sleaze. Magic.”
The master holds up the pill, holds up the tooth.
“Cyanide,” he says, twirling the pill for a moment between thumb and forefinger before slipping it inside the fake tooth, while explaining, “one hard bite should do it. Really chomp down.”
The tooth snaps closed. It almost gleams in harsh light of the arena.
“Now, open wide.”
Sleaze does. When the master is finished, there is blood on Sleaze’s lips and his mouth tastes faintly of bitter almonds.
They’re coming.
The thought crashes into his head and he jerks. He had been idle, almost asleep outside, in between the house and the hedge maze. The sky has gone a dark, bruised purple color. They’re coming.
The thought comes, again. It’s the master’s voice, it’s no one’s voice, it’s everyone’s voice. They’re coming.
The master, he must find the master. He turns and runs back inside, heart thudding wildly in his chest, the desire to serve – to protect – overwhelming.
From one of the watchtowers comes a cry that is silenced with an abruptness that turns his stomach. Klaxons begin to blare until the world is a nightmare of sound. They’re coming.
The master lays a hand on his neck. It feels warm. Sleaze leans into it, and thinks, as he has so many times before, this is love.
His mouth still tastes of bitter almonds.
“We’ll see,” says the master, “well see if I’ve done enough. If you’re enough.”
Sleaze hopes he is. He doesn’t want to disappoint.
The sky darkens further still, the bruise-color deepening to a near blackness. The air seems to hum with electricity. The master’s fingers curl tighter in his mane. They’re comi-
The way that he croons gently into his ear and the gentle way he strokes the tense, taut muscles of his jawline cause something to stir deeply within him. Though he is legitimately uncertain as to whether or not it is the same loathing disdain that simmered a mere hour ago, or if it was beginning to stew into something much more convoluted and strange. His nostrils flare with a sharpened intake of air as the crooked fingertips caress his flesh in a tantalizing, satisfying, yet sickening way, and though his mind recoils from the violation, he merely remains still, unable to deny the affection.
His eyes – still darkened their same impenetrable red – observe him dully as he finally grows tired of murmuring sweet nothings to his precious monstrosity, and soon draws away from him. He does not hesitate, as his body involuntarily begins to follow him, pace steady but lacking in vigor as it had in the midst of an adrenaline-fueled battleground. He pauses to gaze behind him, observing the pooling blood as it coagulates along the frigid surface of the cobblestone floor, but before his very eyes, the product of his carnage begins to fade away. A figment of his imagination, as his heart ached and desperately hoped it all would be in the end.
His memory begins to drift away, to distant sights and scents, to old familiar sensory stimuli that soothe this otherwise rampant mind. He often tucks his thoughts away into the dark recesses of his mind, but it is not so easy to do when the light at the end of the tunnel begins to dim and fade away into oblivion. He follows effortlessly, tense muscles rippling beneath his flesh as he lopes slowly behind the smug man, who once again hums a simple, melodious tune. It fades into the background of his own thoughts, which bubble to the surface stubbornly in spite of his every passionate effort to drown them out.
At last, he is brought to the present – dull eyes observing the otherwise paltry fort that lie ahead. For a creature with such intricate magical abilities, it is small, humble and rather peculiar in taste. With misshapen wooden boards lining the walls, which seem to lean too much in one direction versus the other, cracked block stepping stones (Offspring finds himself uncomfortably uneven in his steps, and so he steps to the side to avoid them) and various color trinkets hung all around. Alongside the oddly designed building is a small trough with crystalline water and a thick pile of hay, though the very thought of consuming it turns his stomach.
He can still taste the viscous blood on his tongue.
The strange man pauses at the creaking door, smiling brightly at the obscenely tall, behemoth stallion that looms behind him – his shadow nearly eclipses his own as the sun hovers behind him, illuminating Offspring in its bright light as it shines onto his starkly contrasted pelt. He draws the door back, and for a moment, he is certain it must be in jest – the door is far too short and far too thin for his own thick body to slide through. He eyes the man with obvious doubt and disdain, but he insists with a gentle flick of his wrist, and with a sharp exhalation of air from his rounded nostrils, Offspring irritably complies.
He is met with no resistance – the door seemingly molds around his thick torso, broad shoulders and even grows in height to accommodate his stature. He steps through and finds his weight heavily placed once more onto a thick plating of cobblestone, and his eyes widen incredulously at the sight that lay before him. Though it appeared to be a measly, simple shack on the outside (so small and irresponsibly build that it must belong to a small troll, or perhaps a wayward fairy too inexperienced to create anything more withstanding), it is anything but within.
The ceilings are high, perhaps six or seven times his own size in height, and lines with intricate, finely cut minerals (quartz in various shades of amethyst, rose, yellow and green, among others) that reflect the refracting light of the unique, curious chandeliers that dangle overhead. The walls are lined with many tapestries, some of a rather strange looking individuals (unusual fairies such as Grumblesnakes himself – ancestors, perhaps?) and others of intricately woven landscapes. In between the many tapestries are heavy, wooden doors, no doubt fortified in one manner or another, indicating that the overly simplified shack is much more than meets the eye.
Still disbelieving, his dark crimson eyes meet with Grumblesnakes' gleaming pair, uncertainty expressed along the tension of his jaw. With a loud, bellowing guffaw, Grumblesnakes reaches to gently tangle his fingertips within his tresses, stroking him reassuringly in a way that both soothes and riles the beast that roars irritably from within. ”I had you fooled, didn't I? There is always more than meets the eye, Offspring. Though I have concealed myself well enough, there is danger lurking and I seek protection. You have proven yourself worthy. I need your assistance. I need your guardianship in the days to come. Will you assist me?"
There is something looming within his intricate question; something that suggests he has no other choice. Alas, an obligation arises and simmers within his beating heat. He feels drawn to protect him, to serve him. Wordlessly, he nods with an air of confidence.
Over the following days, he takes his time in observing each and every room, analyzing the many crevices and cracks of cobblestone and scanning the terrain surrounding the malformed fort for weakness. Escape never occurs to him - or if it does, it remains beneath the tight lock and key of an unnerving calm that continues to penetrate the very fibers of his being. Many urges are drawn forth from something that has lain deep within him, provoked by the destruction he encountered within the walls of the coliseum. He harnesses the power that stirs within to fortify walls, to repair what has been damaged. He evokes magma from his own seeping pores, using it to fill the cracks and crevices of the walls and floors before manipulating the atoms with an icy breath to cool it into hard igneous rock, sealing each space.
As time draws on, he finds himself acutely aware of each and every figurative pin drop - even the slow crawl of an arachnid's eight legs can be heard by his ever-twitching, swiveling ears, and though it makes sleep restless (he stands close to the creaking bedside of his master, drifting off on occasion but mostly focused on the heavy sounds of the evenfall). When his heavy eyelids rise with each disturbance, he searching through the cobblestone walls for any heat signatures but finds nothing but the insignificant rustling of rodents skittering through the stone passageways.
He spends much of his time outside, depleting himself of his energy reserve with something much more powerful than he had ever attempted before. Though barriers were nothing new to him (his own, bittersweet ice fortress was guarded by one - oh, how he missed it and ached for those familiar faces once more), something within his soul urged him to reach far beyond his own understanding and to surge force with every piece of himself to erect something unseen but much more powerful than anything he had ever attempted. While the fort itself was already surrounded by a force field forged by Grumblesnakes' own hands, he had an insatiable need to learn the craft for himself. It was exhaustive work, and though he had once flinched away from the wry, cold touch of the other man, he relented to his constant goading for him to drink, to consume sustenance, for his weakness penetrated too much of his being if he failed to.
After three days, a force field is finally erected around the feeble shack, shimmering with an opalescent light beneath both the sun and the moon, doubling its protection. Occasionally, he would amuse both himself (though humor was often too far gone from his wayward soul now) and Grumblesnakes with a show of epic proportions, throwing immense fireball projectiles, ice blasts and even kinetic explosions at the impenetrable force field - all neutralized by it before any massive damage could be made. Grumblesnakes seemed pleased, often cooing sweet nothings to him, and though it did not tug at his own heartstrings, Offspring felt satisfied that in a time of need, he too could erect a force field. Perhaps even around his own master, at will.
It is beneath the setting sun and the rise of twilight that something deeper, darker and more foreboding begins to settle in. As Offspring begins to lose himself once more to his thoughts, drowning in the woe that continually bubbles within his aching chest at the thought of his children, of his Queen, while the strange (and admittedly intoxicated, and not for the first time) man that leans against his massive, scarred body begins to tremble alongside him. His fingers tangle in his matted tresses as he leans against and clings onto his homegrown guardian, who stiffens at the sudden closeness of his captor, master and manipulator. He swivels his massive head, cheek turned towards him with red eyes glaring, before following his gaze. Above them, beyond the flashing red and silver force fields (both Offspring's and Grumblesnakes') that protect them, a glimmering bubble of red envelopes their own as a shadow eclipses the falling sun and shrouds them in darkness befitting a moonless night.
"They're coming; they're here," He whispers urgently, voice cracking beneath his intense quivering. He buried his greasy, grimy face into Offspring's locks of hair, hiding against the nape of his neck. "this is it, Offspring -"
"Let them come," Offspring booms at last, his silence breaking with a festering rage that begins to surge from within. The halter splits at the very seams, incinerating and falling away as ashes from his terse jawline, which clenches in fury. Though no longer bound by innate calm or forced submission, his ferocity grows and envelopes him whole, and pure white fire burns beneath his flesh, his urge to protect now dwelling within his very soul, breaking apart the magic of his halter. Grumblesnakes recoils from the sudden force of heat, drawing away from him and hiding behind his massive body, which is now suddenly engulfed in scorching white hot sapphire-tinted flames. "let them come and see their undoing."
OFFSPRING
the ice king of the tundra
Abilities: Magma manipulation, temperature manipulation, hypersensitive hearing, infrared vision, creation of force field, white fire manipulation
It’s dead but its crushing him, the hefty weight of the manticore pressing Fart into the blood stained sands.The roan stallion still heaves into the dirt, each breath coming as no relief and the agony of his mutilated eye clawing at him without relenting. Soon enough (and thankfully too) Grumble comes to magic the beast away, patting Fart as he lays panting in the dirt. His jaw, his forehead, the length of his nose all receive these touches. My beauty, My greatest creation.. Those words would likely echo in Fart’s mind for the entirety of his existence. Not once has he ever been acknowledged in such a way, matter of fact, he’s barely ever been acknowledged period. Such nice words coming from such a devilish mouth but Fart can no longer see the monster that spoke them. He sees only the man, the kindness, the friend.
It would be fair to say, that even without his fancy halter, Fart would regard the stunted man in this way. Would hold this newfound adoration and succumb to the effects of it. He leans his blood stained head into the touches from crooked fingers, pressing against the warmth in attempts to soak it up, to absorb that feeling forever. He wants to devour this simple exchange, to greedily drink it in, ceaselessly until there is nothing left to take. In return (he imagines), come healing tingles, the abrasions he has so far suffered mending with ease and his eye magically regrowing as if it had never been mutilated in its socket. Fart sighs heavily, rising without question when he is called to do so and following the short man because he wants to. No, he needs to now, the taste of kindness too hard to resist. He would have more of it if he could, he would do what he had to to earn it as well, he would take it if need be.
In just that short amount of time Fart feels like a somebody, he feels wanted, needed even. A sense of respect heats his veins and courage finds his heart for the very first time in his life. To him it is as if they now lean on each other and for Fart that is just fine, it is welcome.
This time when he follows Grumble he doesn’t know where they are going, he doesn’t care either. It is enough to simply be led. Before them is a Fort, a home and Fart stares at it long and hard, taking in each stone with his muddy brown eyes. “I’ll keep you close now my beauty,” Grumbles promises as they enter, and the limey stallion does his best to give him a horsey smile.
Instead of darkness there is light, there is space. Instead of damp and cool, it is warm, but not overly so, and it is dry. Fart has his own place to sleep, right there in Grumbles bedroom, he has cool water to drink and fresh hay and grain to eat. No longer is he led down dark paths, no more do his chocolate eyes strain to see monsters in the shadows, his ears hear no cries and his lips make none. There is a courtyard too, a place to be out in the fresh air, a place to seek the sunshine and feel it beaming down on his roan coat. Here he can stretch his wings, spreading them wide with joy and taking to the skies to properly exercise them. Sometimes he just rests, Grumble at his side and they talk long into the evening about protection and defense.
It isn’t all fun and games though, he trains too, testing his strength against beasts that are conjured up for him. Fart patrols as well, finding the best paths and roosts by which to search for enemies because Grumble knows they are out there, and Fart believes him. They must always be prepared, they must always be vigilant.
He doesn’t mind helping at all, he enjoys it, glad to give and share ideas. Together they fortify their home, using their combined skill sets and minds to conjure up defenses. First and foremost there is an invisible shield, a barrier encasing the whole of the property, it is set to trigger an alarm if breached. Fart’s favorite idea has to be the moat, a great, liquid circle surrounding their home, one filled with sizzling purple acid. Anything steps foot in there and, well, it won't have a foot anymore. The battlements were outfitted with projectiles, cylinders filled with Fart’s very own poison gas. The noxious fumes would easily knock out anything that came into contact with it, anything that inhaled it’s vivid green gases. Another measure of security were the falling floors, sections of halls that would completely drop out from underneath you. Even better, Fart recalled the giant gator quite vividly and Grumble was happy to conjure several to greet the poor souls who fell.
They also decided some stone dragons would do quite nicely. Great, hulking golem like beasts with eyes that burned like coals. Fire erupted from their massive stone jaws and they were ever so patient to wait on their turrets, sometimes taking to the air to circle before landing once more, eyes ever peeled for danger. In the end it was a home fit for any King, the envy of any secret agent or spy and Fart was proud of their handy work. It was everything to him, months of hard work and careful planning. It was their friendship and teamwork embodied and made tangible, it was proof of his worth.
When that darkness came, nothing could have prepared him for it. A sunny afternoon was swallowed up by a thick cloud, one desperate to snuff the light from the very world. He would've sworn he heard thunder just moments before if asked, a tell-tale coming of this proverbial storm. Fart took to wing immediately, hell bent on getting himself to Grumble, it was his priority. Together they watched the shadows roll in, high overhead, pressing far past and into their once force field. It wasn’t thunder that sound, it was nothing against the shrill cries of the barrier being hit, the darkness raging, the dying of the light.
