Continuous CYOA: The Road to Free Roller
- Thread starter Easy
- Start date
Tirin fired three times at the shadows that his opponent had disappeared into, then stopped and waited, listening for any hint at the result.
"I know you tell yourself that Easy disrespected you that night-" the voice came from above and behind him, and he fired wildly at it "-and that you had to teach him a lesson." Suddenly, the voice was behind him again. He turned and fired once, and was rewarded by the sight of his enemy's pistol falling to the ground, discarded. "That.. it was your right." The mystery fighter dropped down from the ceiling in front of him, landing on all four spider legs, and spat the words with a tone of contempt.
Tirin ground his teeth, and slotted his last three rounds into the chamber as the bounty hunter stared accusingly down at him. "It was my right!" He snapped. The bounty hunter dodged just before he pulled the trigger, once, avoiding what surely would have been a bullet through the head. "And my problem, to deal with!" The mystery fighter spun around as Tirin lined up his second shot, and it ricocheted off of a mechanical leg as he fired. The bounty hunter stopped and took up a standing position, robotic legs leaning off to his right, and stared calmly down at him with an air of confidence.
"That doesn't mean..." Tirin aimed precisely at center mass, not intending that his assailant could dodge this time, "that I don't honor him!" He pulled the trigger, launching a burning mass of lead toward his body with more speed than could be properly tracked by the human eye.
So, it took a moment to piece together exactly what had happened later, when the bounty hunter's left-most leg extension reached out, and swatted his bullet out of the air.
Tirin roared with frustration, and grabbed a metal pipe wrench from the shelf nearby.
Time slowed, but did not stop.
A box of nails, knocked loose from the shelf by the wrench's motion, turned gently in midair as it drifted towards the floor. By the time it had fallen half the distance, Tirin had already closed the gap between himself and his target, lining up the first strike as his opponent flinched away.
Unfortunately, the effort of simultaneously swinging the wrench, and dilating the timestream, proved too much for his weakened state, and everything went back to normal as he struck. The box of nails crashed to the ground, the wrench spun around in a cold, black-and-red blur, and a metal arm came up to block it in a flash, throwing up sparks as they clashed together.
For the first time, in that moment, the bounty hunter's face was lit up by the discharge, and Tirin realized how small he was - five foot, maybe? Possibly up to about five and a half? It was hard to be precise, given the way they were standing at that instant.
The hunchback shape from before was gone, probably unfolded into the mechanical leg units sprouting from his back, and dark-colored tactical gear covered most of his body, complete with a helmet, visor, and earpiece over most of his face. Beneath the reflection from the visor, however, there was a hint of smooth yellow-brown skin, slightly darker than most of the forum's pale tones.
So... Druby, or Tolvan.
Well, it didn't really matter which.
Without even the slightest amount of hesitation, Tirin turned with the recoil from the wrench, and feigned a punch with his other hand. As both his opponent's original arms came up to block, along with the nearest mechanical one, he transitioned into a savage low kick, only to meet with the steel of a second blocking arm instead. He pressed the attack for several more seconds, both figures dancing back and forth across the open floor, limbs a blur, sparks flying as his blows were parried again and again.
As the battle drew longer, Tirin started to realize something about the way his opponent fought. For one thing, his movements were fast, very fast - but only on his mechanical arms. And the way he moved seemed somewhat... amateurish. He'd seen experienced fighters before. He'd fought experienced fighters before.
This wasn't one of them. His reaction time was only average at best, and more often than not, he only seemed to flinch away from a strike after one of the arms had blocked it for him. Every now and then, his own, living hands would come up to guard or try to block, but the motions were clumsy and slow, never actually placed correctly for the strike, and his fists would drop down again at the slightest distraction - all the signs of a novice fighter at work.
Nevertheless, between the automated blocking arms and his own, rapidly-increasing fatigue, he was finding it impossible to land a single hit on the combatant's tiny little body. Tirin wasn't exactly known for his physical stamina...
But he was known for his intellect. And his perception. In fact, he had already started to notice that while the robotic arms were fast and precise, each one capable of blocking a strike from one side, and then immediately crossing over to block one from the other side, there was never any point when two of the arms were moving at the same time. Whenever one came front to guard, the others would just hang back uselessly behind, rigid and unbending. And although the bounty hunter occasionally tried swinging back with his feet or his fists, and failing due to his inferior reach, not once did the much longer, much faster mechanical limbs ever move to strike him. Which meant...
Whirling suddenly around as he passed a crate, Tirin spun and came back up with the crowbar he'd snatched up in his other hand. Without giving his opponent any time to think, he raised up both weapons and swung down and inwards, one from each side, aiming to crush his head in between them.
A robotic arm reached out on each side, blocking both strikes at once. Tirin blinked in surprise.
The bounty hunter leaped forward and kicked him directly in the gut, knocking the wind out of him and connecting directly with his still-healing surgical wound.
Tirin gasped, dropped his weapons, and stepped backwards, unable to even scream in pain, as dancing lights flashed and spun across his field of view. The bounty hunter watched, panting slightly, as he backed up all the way to the far wall, and then sank to the ground, struggling to even breathe.
"You think you honor your friend Easy with vodka and bantering?" He demanded coldly, stopping a moment to reach down and pick up the fallen pipe wrench. Then he stepped forward, advancing on Tirin slowly. "Honor resides in one's actions."
"Hah" Tirin gasped, fighting for every breath. "Talk to me... about honor. You..." his vision cleared just a little as the pain faded enough so that he could almost breathe normally again. Something on the ground caught his attention. So did something in the air.
He bared his teeth in anger, and took a deep breath in:
"You are not worthy to say his name!"
With a final, desperate burst of his power, Tirin slowed time again and jumped aside, wrapping both hands around the thing he'd spotted on the floor. He kept the time dilation going as he landed, rolled, and raised the bounty hunter's discarded pistol, firing every round left inside it as the bounty hunter's robotic arms automatically moved to block...
"I know you tell yourself that Easy disrespected you that night-" the voice came from above and behind him, and he fired wildly at it "-and that you had to teach him a lesson." Suddenly, the voice was behind him again. He turned and fired once, and was rewarded by the sight of his enemy's pistol falling to the ground, discarded. "That.. it was your right." The mystery fighter dropped down from the ceiling in front of him, landing on all four spider legs, and spat the words with a tone of contempt.
Tirin ground his teeth, and slotted his last three rounds into the chamber as the bounty hunter stared accusingly down at him. "It was my right!" He snapped. The bounty hunter dodged just before he pulled the trigger, once, avoiding what surely would have been a bullet through the head. "And my problem, to deal with!" The mystery fighter spun around as Tirin lined up his second shot, and it ricocheted off of a mechanical leg as he fired. The bounty hunter stopped and took up a standing position, robotic legs leaning off to his right, and stared calmly down at him with an air of confidence.
"That doesn't mean..." Tirin aimed precisely at center mass, not intending that his assailant could dodge this time, "that I don't honor him!" He pulled the trigger, launching a burning mass of lead toward his body with more speed than could be properly tracked by the human eye.
So, it took a moment to piece together exactly what had happened later, when the bounty hunter's left-most leg extension reached out, and swatted his bullet out of the air.
Tirin roared with frustration, and grabbed a metal pipe wrench from the shelf nearby.
Time slowed, but did not stop.
A box of nails, knocked loose from the shelf by the wrench's motion, turned gently in midair as it drifted towards the floor. By the time it had fallen half the distance, Tirin had already closed the gap between himself and his target, lining up the first strike as his opponent flinched away.
Unfortunately, the effort of simultaneously swinging the wrench, and dilating the timestream, proved too much for his weakened state, and everything went back to normal as he struck. The box of nails crashed to the ground, the wrench spun around in a cold, black-and-red blur, and a metal arm came up to block it in a flash, throwing up sparks as they clashed together.
For the first time, in that moment, the bounty hunter's face was lit up by the discharge, and Tirin realized how small he was - five foot, maybe? Possibly up to about five and a half? It was hard to be precise, given the way they were standing at that instant.
The hunchback shape from before was gone, probably unfolded into the mechanical leg units sprouting from his back, and dark-colored tactical gear covered most of his body, complete with a helmet, visor, and earpiece over most of his face. Beneath the reflection from the visor, however, there was a hint of smooth yellow-brown skin, slightly darker than most of the forum's pale tones.
So... Druby, or Tolvan.
Well, it didn't really matter which.
Without even the slightest amount of hesitation, Tirin turned with the recoil from the wrench, and feigned a punch with his other hand. As both his opponent's original arms came up to block, along with the nearest mechanical one, he transitioned into a savage low kick, only to meet with the steel of a second blocking arm instead. He pressed the attack for several more seconds, both figures dancing back and forth across the open floor, limbs a blur, sparks flying as his blows were parried again and again.
As the battle drew longer, Tirin started to realize something about the way his opponent fought. For one thing, his movements were fast, very fast - but only on his mechanical arms. And the way he moved seemed somewhat... amateurish. He'd seen experienced fighters before. He'd fought experienced fighters before.
This wasn't one of them. His reaction time was only average at best, and more often than not, he only seemed to flinch away from a strike after one of the arms had blocked it for him. Every now and then, his own, living hands would come up to guard or try to block, but the motions were clumsy and slow, never actually placed correctly for the strike, and his fists would drop down again at the slightest distraction - all the signs of a novice fighter at work.
Nevertheless, between the automated blocking arms and his own, rapidly-increasing fatigue, he was finding it impossible to land a single hit on the combatant's tiny little body. Tirin wasn't exactly known for his physical stamina...
But he was known for his intellect. And his perception. In fact, he had already started to notice that while the robotic arms were fast and precise, each one capable of blocking a strike from one side, and then immediately crossing over to block one from the other side, there was never any point when two of the arms were moving at the same time. Whenever one came front to guard, the others would just hang back uselessly behind, rigid and unbending. And although the bounty hunter occasionally tried swinging back with his feet or his fists, and failing due to his inferior reach, not once did the much longer, much faster mechanical limbs ever move to strike him. Which meant...
Whirling suddenly around as he passed a crate, Tirin spun and came back up with the crowbar he'd snatched up in his other hand. Without giving his opponent any time to think, he raised up both weapons and swung down and inwards, one from each side, aiming to crush his head in between them.
A robotic arm reached out on each side, blocking both strikes at once. Tirin blinked in surprise.
The bounty hunter leaped forward and kicked him directly in the gut, knocking the wind out of him and connecting directly with his still-healing surgical wound.
Tirin gasped, dropped his weapons, and stepped backwards, unable to even scream in pain, as dancing lights flashed and spun across his field of view. The bounty hunter watched, panting slightly, as he backed up all the way to the far wall, and then sank to the ground, struggling to even breathe.
"You think you honor your friend Easy with vodka and bantering?" He demanded coldly, stopping a moment to reach down and pick up the fallen pipe wrench. Then he stepped forward, advancing on Tirin slowly. "Honor resides in one's actions."
"Hah" Tirin gasped, fighting for every breath. "Talk to me... about honor. You..." his vision cleared just a little as the pain faded enough so that he could almost breathe normally again. Something on the ground caught his attention. So did something in the air.
He bared his teeth in anger, and took a deep breath in:
"You are not worthy to say his name!"
With a final, desperate burst of his power, Tirin slowed time again and jumped aside, wrapping both hands around the thing he'd spotted on the floor. He kept the time dilation going as he landed, rolled, and raised the bounty hunter's discarded pistol, firing every round left inside it as the bounty hunter's robotic arms automatically moved to block...
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A resounding silence was the aftermath of the last burst of gunfire. Slowly, silently, the metal arms shielding the bounty hunter's figure folded away, moving back to reveal that he was unharmed. "What, every shot?" He asked, puzzled. "You really missed every shot? I didn't even have to block." He seemed confused. And also somewhat... disappointed.
Tirin shakily climbed to his feet, but a wave of nausea forced him back to one knee, and he vomited a mixture of booze, bile, and blood. "H-hit all of them." he answered hoarsely, wiping his mouth off with one sleeve. "But." He looked up at the bounty hunter, grinning nastily. "One was just a graze."
The bounty hunter shook his head. "No," he said firmly. "You didn't hit me at a-" he stopped, uncertain, to the sound of groaning metal from above him.
It had been just over one full month since the night of Easy's demise, and the warehouse was still undergoing repairs for the damage it had taken. Of particular note was the massive hole in the roof, which had simply been covered by a tarp while all the affected supporting and functional beams were replaced throughout the building. The workers - which is to say, Tag Ross and friends - had been accomplishing this by using rapidly constructed, temporary scaffolding to move around by the ceiling's interior, while a large winch-and-pulley system served as a crane to lift up heavy crates of materials and supplies.
The thick, steel chain holding up such a crate now had been Tirin's target, and the warped and twisted metal finally gave way and broke apart. The bounty hunter looked up just in time to raise all four metal arms and scream, as several tons of wood and iron bore down upon him. Then came the crash, and he disappeared beneath a mountain of splintering oak and clashing steel.
When it was over, Tirin stood up with a sigh of relief, and walked over to where the dust was now settling on a motionless pile of debris. The crackling and halting sound of a garbled radio transmission was the only noise audible within.
'Perfect timing', he thought. 'I'm totally gonna act like I meant to do that'. He grabbed one of the steel beams from atop the pile, and hauled it aside. "Man, I timed that like a fucking champ." He said aloud, just in case he was being heard or recorded somehow, as he went on digging through the rubble. "Just nicking it with the last shot, so it'd hold a couple more seconds before breaking - priceless!"
The sound of distant sirens made its appearance shortly afterwards, but he paid them no mind. Might as well find out who he'd beaten. A flickering light down below told him that he was almost there, and the radio transmission was getting consistently clearer. "...sai- ...d? Please respond!" Stoney's voice. He'd know that accent anywhere. "Wha- ...status?"
Without warning, the pile exploded outwards.
Tirin jumped back instinctively, caught by surprise, as four metal, arachnid arms reached out, grabbed the surface, and lifted the battered but still-conscious form of the bounty hunter up and out of the center between them. The figure peeled several broken fragments of the helmet and visor from his face, now connected by nothing more than strips of cloth and fraying wires, and threw them aside, eyes burning angrily as he glared at Tirin. Even with the blood oozing from above, matting his hair down over one side, there was no mistaking that face.
A child's face.
"Coolpool, are you listening mate? You're in the red now!" Stoney's voice came through loud and clear now, from the helmet fragments at Tirin's feet. "I said, please respond!"
Progress Towards Coolpool's Explosion:
...87%
Tirin shakily climbed to his feet, but a wave of nausea forced him back to one knee, and he vomited a mixture of booze, bile, and blood. "H-hit all of them." he answered hoarsely, wiping his mouth off with one sleeve. "But." He looked up at the bounty hunter, grinning nastily. "One was just a graze."
The bounty hunter shook his head. "No," he said firmly. "You didn't hit me at a-" he stopped, uncertain, to the sound of groaning metal from above him.
It had been just over one full month since the night of Easy's demise, and the warehouse was still undergoing repairs for the damage it had taken. Of particular note was the massive hole in the roof, which had simply been covered by a tarp while all the affected supporting and functional beams were replaced throughout the building. The workers - which is to say, Tag Ross and friends - had been accomplishing this by using rapidly constructed, temporary scaffolding to move around by the ceiling's interior, while a large winch-and-pulley system served as a crane to lift up heavy crates of materials and supplies.
The thick, steel chain holding up such a crate now had been Tirin's target, and the warped and twisted metal finally gave way and broke apart. The bounty hunter looked up just in time to raise all four metal arms and scream, as several tons of wood and iron bore down upon him. Then came the crash, and he disappeared beneath a mountain of splintering oak and clashing steel.
When it was over, Tirin stood up with a sigh of relief, and walked over to where the dust was now settling on a motionless pile of debris. The crackling and halting sound of a garbled radio transmission was the only noise audible within.
'Perfect timing', he thought. 'I'm totally gonna act like I meant to do that'. He grabbed one of the steel beams from atop the pile, and hauled it aside. "Man, I timed that like a fucking champ." He said aloud, just in case he was being heard or recorded somehow, as he went on digging through the rubble. "Just nicking it with the last shot, so it'd hold a couple more seconds before breaking - priceless!"
The sound of distant sirens made its appearance shortly afterwards, but he paid them no mind. Might as well find out who he'd beaten. A flickering light down below told him that he was almost there, and the radio transmission was getting consistently clearer. "...sai- ...d? Please respond!" Stoney's voice. He'd know that accent anywhere. "Wha- ...status?"
Without warning, the pile exploded outwards.
Tirin jumped back instinctively, caught by surprise, as four metal, arachnid arms reached out, grabbed the surface, and lifted the battered but still-conscious form of the bounty hunter up and out of the center between them. The figure peeled several broken fragments of the helmet and visor from his face, now connected by nothing more than strips of cloth and fraying wires, and threw them aside, eyes burning angrily as he glared at Tirin. Even with the blood oozing from above, matting his hair down over one side, there was no mistaking that face.
A child's face.
"Coolpool, are you listening mate? You're in the red now!" Stoney's voice came through loud and clear now, from the helmet fragments at Tirin's feet. "I said, please respond!"
Progress Towards Coolpool's Explosion:
...87%
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yesyesyesyesyes
"Coolpool..." Tirin looked back and forth between the boy and his helmet comm, gaping and horrified. "What are you doing? You... you let Stoney do this to you? And you!" He shouted angrily at the comm device, "you sent a kid? You experimented on him, and turned him into... into some kind of freak cyborg, or something? What is wrong with you!?"
He stood for a moment, breathing heavily and staring accusingly into the the silence, and then the comm crackled to life as Stoney's voice came through. "Tirin." He responded, with all the warmth of a proper British greeting. (About equal to the warmth of a standard New Years Eve, in the Martian Poles.) "What have you done with him?"
"I'm fine, Stoney." Coolpool snapped, impatient. "And," he glared at Tirin, "I'm not a cyborg. These arms are on a backpack... and they're not even robotic."
"Coolpool!" The shout from the radio came through relieved, but nonetheless rising in urgency. "Coolpool, listen! You've taken too many hits already, you've got to pull ba-"
"No!" The boy snarled, launching himself at Tirin with incredible speed, propelled from the metal legs holding him up. He spun and turned in midair, transitioning the jump into a drop-kick as he went. Tirin's eyes narrowed angrily, calculating, as he watched the smaller figure close in. He stepped forward and swung his upper body around, one arm extended to swipe his attacker's limbs aside, in a move he'd learned from Easy long ago. Unsurprisingly, one of the metal arms came down to block his own.
So at the last possible instant, he opened up his hand to grab hold of the metal arm itself, and used it to throw the kid along, adding his own strength to Coolpool's momentum and evading his attack at the same time. "Coolpool, enough!" He roared as Coolpool flew headlong into a standing ladder, which collapsed under the impact. "It's over!" Behind him, Stoney screamed repeatedly at the boy to fall back, but he didn't seem to hear.
"Hah... that's it." Coolpool climbed shakily to his feet, evidently more hurt than before. Then he shook his head, seemingly talking more to himself than to either of them. "No... no, it's not. Something like this, it isn't nearly at the same level.
"It's nothing, compared to your past self. To how you used to be."
"What?" Tirin looked back at him, with a mixture of concern and confusion. "Listen, you really need to get to a doctor, man. You're not making an-"
Coolpool interrupted him sharply. "The roleplaying boards." He went on, raising his voice, and forcing the others into silence. "You don't remember, do you? When adventurers and heroes stood above the rest of us in the forums, and the legendary heroes above them all. The threads where they went to enlist in the RP's, and the cold teal voice that smiled and promised death to those who entered."
"What? But I didn'- I wouldn-"
"Moderator Tirin," Coolpool talked right over him, almost shouting now. "To non-adventurers, you were terror incarnate."
He took a step towards Tirin, and then another. As he went, his limp disappeared, his shoulders straightened out, and he looked up with renewed fire in his eyes. Tirin backed up slowly as he approached, wary of another such attack.
To his astonishment, instead, Coolpool's hair began to stand on end and wave, and several discarded nails rose up from the ground to levitate around him. With a flick of the boy's wrist, one suddenly flew right at him, piercing his shoulder as he jumped aside to dodge. He cried out at the pain, and quickly jumped for cover behind a pillar as Coolpool went on.
"Since then, I've unlocked an energy that I'd never even known before was inside me. And after weeks of practice in using it, I've finally become powerful." The boy's voice rang out, among the ping of several more nails crashing into the pillar that shielded him. "I was going to capture you, but... change of plans."
"I'm going to kill you, here and now!"
"Impossible!" Tirin shouted, looking frantically for some other source of cover he could run to, as the footsteps came closer. "Even now, you've got no chance at beating me!"
"Hmph." Coolpool stepped into view from around the corner, and raised a hand. An invisible force took hold of Tirin and lifted him off his feet, slamming his back into the the pillar's surface and pinning him there, struggling in midair, as it began tightening around his throat.
"Moderator Tirin" he said coolly, watching the injured man flail about and gasp for breath. "You are no longer the object of my fears."
Progress Towards Coolpool's Explosion:
...97%
He stood for a moment, breathing heavily and staring accusingly into the the silence, and then the comm crackled to life as Stoney's voice came through. "Tirin." He responded, with all the warmth of a proper British greeting. (About equal to the warmth of a standard New Years Eve, in the Martian Poles.) "What have you done with him?"
"I'm fine, Stoney." Coolpool snapped, impatient. "And," he glared at Tirin, "I'm not a cyborg. These arms are on a backpack... and they're not even robotic."
"Coolpool!" The shout from the radio came through relieved, but nonetheless rising in urgency. "Coolpool, listen! You've taken too many hits already, you've got to pull ba-"
"No!" The boy snarled, launching himself at Tirin with incredible speed, propelled from the metal legs holding him up. He spun and turned in midair, transitioning the jump into a drop-kick as he went. Tirin's eyes narrowed angrily, calculating, as he watched the smaller figure close in. He stepped forward and swung his upper body around, one arm extended to swipe his attacker's limbs aside, in a move he'd learned from Easy long ago. Unsurprisingly, one of the metal arms came down to block his own.
So at the last possible instant, he opened up his hand to grab hold of the metal arm itself, and used it to throw the kid along, adding his own strength to Coolpool's momentum and evading his attack at the same time. "Coolpool, enough!" He roared as Coolpool flew headlong into a standing ladder, which collapsed under the impact. "It's over!" Behind him, Stoney screamed repeatedly at the boy to fall back, but he didn't seem to hear.
"Hah... that's it." Coolpool climbed shakily to his feet, evidently more hurt than before. Then he shook his head, seemingly talking more to himself than to either of them. "No... no, it's not. Something like this, it isn't nearly at the same level.
"It's nothing, compared to your past self. To how you used to be."
"What?" Tirin looked back at him, with a mixture of concern and confusion. "Listen, you really need to get to a doctor, man. You're not making an-"
Coolpool interrupted him sharply. "The roleplaying boards." He went on, raising his voice, and forcing the others into silence. "You don't remember, do you? When adventurers and heroes stood above the rest of us in the forums, and the legendary heroes above them all. The threads where they went to enlist in the RP's, and the cold teal voice that smiled and promised death to those who entered."
"What? But I didn'- I wouldn-"
"Moderator Tirin," Coolpool talked right over him, almost shouting now. "To non-adventurers, you were terror incarnate."
He took a step towards Tirin, and then another. As he went, his limp disappeared, his shoulders straightened out, and he looked up with renewed fire in his eyes. Tirin backed up slowly as he approached, wary of another such attack.
To his astonishment, instead, Coolpool's hair began to stand on end and wave, and several discarded nails rose up from the ground to levitate around him. With a flick of the boy's wrist, one suddenly flew right at him, piercing his shoulder as he jumped aside to dodge. He cried out at the pain, and quickly jumped for cover behind a pillar as Coolpool went on.
"Since then, I've unlocked an energy that I'd never even known before was inside me. And after weeks of practice in using it, I've finally become powerful." The boy's voice rang out, among the ping of several more nails crashing into the pillar that shielded him. "I was going to capture you, but... change of plans."
"I'm going to kill you, here and now!"
"Impossible!" Tirin shouted, looking frantically for some other source of cover he could run to, as the footsteps came closer. "Even now, you've got no chance at beating me!"
"Hmph." Coolpool stepped into view from around the corner, and raised a hand. An invisible force took hold of Tirin and lifted him off his feet, slamming his back into the the pillar's surface and pinning him there, struggling in midair, as it began tightening around his throat.
"Moderator Tirin" he said coolly, watching the injured man flail about and gasp for breath. "You are no longer the object of my fears."
Progress Towards Coolpool's Explosion:
...97%
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OHHH SHIIIT
Also that moment that Coolpool is a mix of Child Emperor and Mob.
Easy, you're supposed to be writing fiction, not fact.
I did chuckle at this bit. It felt like Joseph Joestar from part 2 of Jojo.
"I'd made an entire sheet."
Tirin didn't answer, but continued tearing at the air around his throat. Though his fingers grasped nothing, they nonetheless encountered resistance, and pulling against it corresponded to a lightening of the pressure on his windpipe. It was as if an invisible noose was actually suspending him above the floor against the pillar. With his hands free, he could keep it from choking him until his arms gave out. From the burning sensation going through them now, he probably had less than a minute. Coolpool went on.
"The whole thing. Nation, characters, politics, all of it. You guys always make fun of me for not finishing stuff. I didn't like it, but..."
The sirens were almost upon them, now. If he could hang on until the cops arrived, maybe he could figure something out from there.
"And then when I finally did it all, you went and killed everything. Fantasy Nations isn't taking any more applications until it's worked out how to deal with you and Easy leaving. After all that work!"
Coolpool was grinding his teeth at the last part, and Tirin finally turned to answer him. "What?" He gasped, breathing heavy. "That's it? You're this mad about your sheet getting backburnered?"
Progress Towards Coolpool's Explosion:
...97.5%
"It was the last straw!" Coolpool shouted, slamming him against the pillar again for emphasis. "Day after day of putting up with it, and now this!
"For the first time, I lost my cool. Everything I'd been holding back, it came around again. I couldn't think, I was so angry. I could hardly move or speak. And then..." he trailed off for a moment, looking calmer.
Tirin filled in the silence. "I see," he cut in, as his arms started shaking. "So that's when you..."
"Yes." Coolpool answered, staring somewhere off into the distance. "I crawled out of the jaws of madness, and awakened as a psychic."
The sirens grew to a deafening pitch, and then cut off abruptly. There was some shouting from outside, and then the door burst inward and flew from its hinges. 13thforsworn strode in through the opening, and a stream of officers rushed in after him.
Within seconds, they had arranged themselves in a half-circle around the two combatants, crouching to train their pistols at them. Neither of them seemed to notice. "Forumer Coolpool." 13th's voice boomed throughout the warehouse, steady and firm. "Stand down.
"Moderator Tirin, you are hereby under arrest for vandalism, murder, and conspiring to steal forum property.
"Please slowly put your hands up, and get on the ground. Resist, and we will be forced to open fire."
"Heh. Hands up. 's funny." Tirin grunted, arms giving out.
"I'll stand down in a minute. Soon as he's dead." Coolpool added icily, making no move to comply.
"No. Now!" 13th barked. Coolpool just narrowed his eyes, and didn't answer.
Progress Towards Coolpool's Explosion:
...98%
"Guess I have. No choice." Tirin choked out, breaking the awkward silence, while 13th tried to figure out whether to attack or not. He stopped pulling at his neck, and spread his arms apart. His face immediately went a deep shade of purple.
"The reason you. Can't beat me." He gasped, staring at Coolpool. "Have. A taste."
He closed his eyes.
"Curse Release."
Tirin didn't answer, but continued tearing at the air around his throat. Though his fingers grasped nothing, they nonetheless encountered resistance, and pulling against it corresponded to a lightening of the pressure on his windpipe. It was as if an invisible noose was actually suspending him above the floor against the pillar. With his hands free, he could keep it from choking him until his arms gave out. From the burning sensation going through them now, he probably had less than a minute. Coolpool went on.
"The whole thing. Nation, characters, politics, all of it. You guys always make fun of me for not finishing stuff. I didn't like it, but..."
The sirens were almost upon them, now. If he could hang on until the cops arrived, maybe he could figure something out from there.
"And then when I finally did it all, you went and killed everything. Fantasy Nations isn't taking any more applications until it's worked out how to deal with you and Easy leaving. After all that work!"
Coolpool was grinding his teeth at the last part, and Tirin finally turned to answer him. "What?" He gasped, breathing heavy. "That's it? You're this mad about your sheet getting backburnered?"
Progress Towards Coolpool's Explosion:
...97.5%
"It was the last straw!" Coolpool shouted, slamming him against the pillar again for emphasis. "Day after day of putting up with it, and now this!
"For the first time, I lost my cool. Everything I'd been holding back, it came around again. I couldn't think, I was so angry. I could hardly move or speak. And then..." he trailed off for a moment, looking calmer.
Tirin filled in the silence. "I see," he cut in, as his arms started shaking. "So that's when you..."
"Yes." Coolpool answered, staring somewhere off into the distance. "I crawled out of the jaws of madness, and awakened as a psychic."
The sirens grew to a deafening pitch, and then cut off abruptly. There was some shouting from outside, and then the door burst inward and flew from its hinges. 13thforsworn strode in through the opening, and a stream of officers rushed in after him.
Within seconds, they had arranged themselves in a half-circle around the two combatants, crouching to train their pistols at them. Neither of them seemed to notice. "Forumer Coolpool." 13th's voice boomed throughout the warehouse, steady and firm. "Stand down.
"Moderator Tirin, you are hereby under arrest for vandalism, murder, and conspiring to steal forum property.
"Please slowly put your hands up, and get on the ground. Resist, and we will be forced to open fire."
"Heh. Hands up. 's funny." Tirin grunted, arms giving out.
"I'll stand down in a minute. Soon as he's dead." Coolpool added icily, making no move to comply.
"No. Now!" 13th barked. Coolpool just narrowed his eyes, and didn't answer.
Progress Towards Coolpool's Explosion:
...98%
"Guess I have. No choice." Tirin choked out, breaking the awkward silence, while 13th tried to figure out whether to attack or not. He stopped pulling at his neck, and spread his arms apart. His face immediately went a deep shade of purple.
"The reason you. Can't beat me." He gasped, staring at Coolpool. "Have. A taste."
He closed his eyes.
"Curse Release."
Last edited:
The powers you get from RPing are a hell of a lot better.
"Curse Release."
The first one to notice the effect of this gesture was Coolpool, because he felt what they couldn't see. It felt to him as if Tirin's weight was increasing, massively and consistently. He pushed back harder and harder with his powers, but to no avail. In just a few short seconds, he'd reached his limit, and cried out in pain from the sudden and terrible migraine that came with it. Tirin sank gently to the ground, no longer suffocating, and smiled.
Progress Towards Coolpool's Explosion:
...99.5%
"Stand down!" 13th barked again at them. "I'm warning you!"
"Do you know how the Legendary Heroes became legendary?"
Tirin, if anything, paid him even less attention than he had before, moving calmly towards Coolpool, who stood dazed and half-blinded from the nausea and spots across his field of vision. A faint, blue-green glow shimmered at the surface around him, and slowly, but steadily, intensified.
"Once, there was a great and terrible monster that plagued the denizens of the Internet. Something primal, and vicious. Something as old as the Internet itself. Something furious, and powerful.
"Wherever it went, it spread only destruction and sorrow. It was the very purest force of nature, and the world of men and all their constructs had yet yielded nothing that could answer it." He stepped up to Coolpool, cupped his chin in one hand, and raised it so that his eyes were turned directly to Tirin's own.
"This is your final warning!"
"The wisdom of 0corn found a solution." Tirin went on, as the air spun around him and whipped at his hair and his clothes. "The power of Maelstrom supplied the means. The courage of Tarn brought them to bear. His was the action. Rather than contesting the raw power of that foe, the curse simply redirected it.
"You wouldn't understand the physics, but in layman's terms... they found a way to use the monster's own, awesome energy to forge order out of entropy, out of the chaos that he embodied. They civilized it. The monster lost nearly all of the power it had once held. In exchange, it it gained purpose. Wisdom. Humanity. And a corresponding amount of intelligence."
"Stand down, or we will shoot!"
"They called him... Tirin.
"Care to guess what happens next?"
"Open fire!"
A cacophony of gunshots drowned out all possibility of further conversation for a while.
When it was over, Tirin and Coolpool stood in exactly the same positions as before. Every single shot had missed. Tirin was glowing so brightly now, it hurt the eyes to look directly at him.
"I didn't want to do this," he finished calmly, to Coolpool. "When I get like this, I lose all reason and self-control. I'll be on a rampage for a whole week, destroying everything in my path. I never wanted that to happen. I hope you're proud, that you were able to drive me this far.
"I hope you're not too proud to run, though. I hope you'll be smart enough for that. Tarn's gone. 0corn's gone. The lot of you haven't got a chance at all."
Progress Towards Coolpool's Explosion:
...99.6%
"I- what is this? What is this feeling?" Ibix's voice trembled from behind one of the riot trooper's visors.
He moved tentatively to reload his pistol, but dropped the magazine. In fumbling for it, he lost hold of the gun itself, which clattered to the ground in front of him. He made no move to go after it, but simply stared at his empty hands instead.
"I can't... I can't stop shaking!"
Tirin threw back his head, and laughed aloud. For once, he finally acknowledged the troopers all around him, looking around as he gripped Coolpool by the throat. "That is your instincts warning you," he called to them. He lifted the boy effortlessly into the air, holding him there. "You and I are far too different biologically."
"S-stop" Coolpool choked out, barely able to even focus. "H-hurts."
Progress Towards Coolpool's Explosion:
...99.7%
"Oh, fuck this." 13thforsworn snapped, like a man who'd just surpassed the very limits of his patience. He launched himself at Tirin immediately, without warning, leaping at him with such force and speed that the cement where he'd been standing cracked and broke apart under the strain of bearing it.
One moment, he was a flying blur, en route to smash right through Tirin, and then probably the next several layers of whatever structural material stood behind him.
If anybody had blinked at just the right time, then, they would have missed the instant when Tirin's free hand came up and effortlessly caught his extended fist, stopping him dead in his tracks with no hint of repercussion at all.
"Easy. Stealthy. These men cannot reliably be beaten with force alone, even at my level. My human form is a far better answer. It beats them in power and intellect.
"But you..."
13th's other fist came around in an arc. Tirin easily blocked it with Coolpool's temple, and the boy was knocked out cold from the impact. He jeered cruelly, dropped the unconscious body, and grabbed 13th's other arm by the elbow. The light surrounding him rapidly started to fade.
"You don't have it."
With only moderate effort, he tore the arm off by the shoulder, to the tune of screaming metal and sparkling wires, and then threw the robot overhand across the room. The entire warehouse shook at the impact, and 13th slumped and fell unmoving to the ground.
"None of you have it." The light was gone, and it became visibly obvious that Tirin's skin was drastically changing in color.
"A beauty like this..."
Tirin threw back his head and cackled, revealing a set of fangs where his perfectly-ordinary teeth had once been. Deep, black ooze dripped over them, and the officers stared in trepidation, frozen with fear, as a tentacle suddenly sprouted out of his teal-colored neck and started waving around in the air. Then another burst out of his armpit, and elongated, as the slime-covered digits began appearing all over his body. The awful transformation continued, until only fangs and tentacles remained, standing over eight feet tall. Crimson-colored eyes opened wide and stared at them, and the mouth beneath them spread into a horrific, evil grin.
"The beauty... of overwhelming power!"
End Scene.
Last edited:
I thought they were dicks, not tentacles?
It's hard to imagine that deep-down, Tirin isn't full of dicks.
It's hard to imagine that deep-down, Tirin isn't full of dicks.
That's an awfully roundabout way of saying you'd like to taste my deepest crevices, TC. That how you picked up Nifty? : ^)
- Investigate the Guild of Blacksmiths and Armorers [RISK: +1 / SPIRIT: +1 / PROFIT: +1 / SYNC: +2]
- Sabotage the Designs [RISK: +1 / SPIRIT: +3 / PROFIT: 0 / SYNC: 0]
The sad truth was, nobody had been especially surprised by Tirin's lawlessness and violence over the past couple of weeks. Dismayed, yes. Surprised, no. There was hardly a single forumer left around here that hadn't already known the man for years by now, and that relationship had always been colored with the expectation that one day, he would end up throwing a fit of rage that extended much farther than the usual protestations and rhetoric.
At the same time, TC was busy being a renegade - albeit virtually. And nobody had been expecting that.
___
For a little over a fortnight now, Soren Lorasson had been spending his days at the forge, and his evenings at a variety of busy taverns. The excuse was that in this time, he was collecting trade offers, advice, and even borrowed funds from the assortment of other guild members he met up with. Some of that was true. For example, not a single one of his fellow blacksmiths, so far, had been able, (or, at least, hadn't been willing) to notice and explain the flaw in each of the designs he'd brought forward.
Of course, he'd expected as much. It was a minor flaw, relatively speaking. It wouldn't be readily apparent for quite some time, and would be all too obvious in retrospect.
More and more with every day, the conscription officers had been going around from dwelling to dwelling, enlisting the able-bodied men in residence for training and deployment to the front lines ahead. In return, each was given a single gold mark (or, one-tenth of a Galadonian crown - itself traded at around seven-tenths of an Eximian ducat), up front, as a single month’s advance on pay. This was great wealth, but small comfort, to men who carried loads, or butchered pigs, or baked bread for a living.
It might have been different if the war had been against the Ascendancy alone, or the ignorant Southerners, or perhaps some new civilization from across the sea. It wasn’t. Everyone knew that the Allin Revolts had begun the war. By the time the Vasan child-Emperor had declared for the other side, it was too late to change the enemy from “treacherous, disloyal rebels” to “savage foreign invaders.”
It made a world of difference, to the common folk. It was one thing to give your life to protect your homeland from hostile invaders; these are your people, those are their people. You protect your own; that’s how society works. It’s another thing to kill and be killed by your own country men, all to serve the immortal, inhuman creatures who demand your service and collect your taxes. This lord, that lord - most wouldn’t give a copper farthing to have it either way.
Many deserted, and were caught and hanged or drained by the Vrykal lords. Others cut off a finger or broke an arm, depending on their occupations, to turn away the recruiting officer. The Vrykal responded with twenty lashes with a cat o’ nine tails, in the public square. When this failed to stem the flow of self-mutilations, the count was raised to fifty lashes. Then, a hundred. The first man to receive the full hundred strokes died of the wounds they inflicted upon him, not three days later. No-one jeered at the whipping, or threw rotten vegetables, or spat and called him a coward, a cheat, a traitor. They simply watched him bleed, and heard him scream, and left in silence, thinking worried thoughts of what the future would bring.
[ERROR. STATUS CONFLICT.
[INSUFFICIENT PERMISSION TO ACCESS ELEMENT: VA_P1aa_1000.prog
IDENTIFYING AFFECTED PROCESSES…
REPAIRING…
REINSTANCING…]
For those merchants, artisans, and bankers who could afford it, half a golden ducat per month would buy them a waiver on conscription. Yet, those who could afford such a luxury were scarcely any happier than those who could not. Compulsory “loans” were collected from the merchants and bankers, and the market restrictions on crafted goods, particularly wood, leather, and metalworking, was upheld in full throughout. Worse: the Vrykal only provided the necessary materials for such a service, along with a receipt promising future payment, once the war had been won. Every day, it was announced that another victory had been achieved by the loyalist forces, and that the God-King’s triumph was surely drawing near.
Yet, almost every day, conscription was increased, and the time period between infantry training and deployment became ever-shorter for the new recruits. The guild met together a number of times, agreeing on new prices and policies for the internal trade, trying to figure out how each master armorer of them could put bread on the table, and still have the recruiter’s half-ducat set aside when the time came around. Some were sent to off the front for field work and repair. Some were never recruited at all; they simply complained too loudly at a guild meeting one night, and were dragged from their homes by expressionless soldiers the night after that. No one knew quite what happened to them next, or who’d turned them in, or if they themselves had said too much already, so eventually the meetings just stopped altogether. Perhaps Soren wasn’t the only one keeping a secret, after all.
So the night after he had finished his sentence, and delivered his finished product to the castle, was not exactly a festive one for Soren. He’d scrounged together enough coin for a flask of mead, reluctantly, because he’d felt that it was the thing to do. Despite taking no joy or pleasure from the act, he’d poured a cup for the boy, and drained one along with him before sending him off. Then he sat alone, thoughtful, absently taking sips of the honey wine and considering, rather dismally, his situation.
[ERROR. STATUS CONFLICT.
INSUFFICIENT PERMISSION TO ACCESS ELEMENT: VA_P1aa_1000.prog
IDENTIFYING AFFECTED PROCESSES…
REPAIRING…
REINSTANCING…]
The sound of breaking glass, and a crash from upstairs, jarred Soren into alertness. A flickering candle by his arm provided the only light in the shop, and the sound of running footsteps sounded through from the street outside.
____
Does he...
- Run upstairs [RISK: 0 / SPIRIT: 0 / PROFIT: 0 / SYNC: 0]
- Run outside [RISK: +2 / SPIRIT: +1 / PROFIT: +1 / SYNC: +1]
- ??? [???]
CURRENT STATS:
RISK: 6
SPIRIT: 7
PROFIT: 3
SYNC: 5
- Sabotage the Designs [RISK: +1 / SPIRIT: +3 / PROFIT: 0 / SYNC: 0]
The sad truth was, nobody had been especially surprised by Tirin's lawlessness and violence over the past couple of weeks. Dismayed, yes. Surprised, no. There was hardly a single forumer left around here that hadn't already known the man for years by now, and that relationship had always been colored with the expectation that one day, he would end up throwing a fit of rage that extended much farther than the usual protestations and rhetoric.
At the same time, TC was busy being a renegade - albeit virtually. And nobody had been expecting that.
___
For a little over a fortnight now, Soren Lorasson had been spending his days at the forge, and his evenings at a variety of busy taverns. The excuse was that in this time, he was collecting trade offers, advice, and even borrowed funds from the assortment of other guild members he met up with. Some of that was true. For example, not a single one of his fellow blacksmiths, so far, had been able, (or, at least, hadn't been willing) to notice and explain the flaw in each of the designs he'd brought forward.
Of course, he'd expected as much. It was a minor flaw, relatively speaking. It wouldn't be readily apparent for quite some time, and would be all too obvious in retrospect.
More and more with every day, the conscription officers had been going around from dwelling to dwelling, enlisting the able-bodied men in residence for training and deployment to the front lines ahead. In return, each was given a single gold mark (or, one-tenth of a Galadonian crown - itself traded at around seven-tenths of an Eximian ducat), up front, as a single month’s advance on pay. This was great wealth, but small comfort, to men who carried loads, or butchered pigs, or baked bread for a living.
It might have been different if the war had been against the Ascendancy alone, or the ignorant Southerners, or perhaps some new civilization from across the sea. It wasn’t. Everyone knew that the Allin Revolts had begun the war. By the time the Vasan child-Emperor had declared for the other side, it was too late to change the enemy from “treacherous, disloyal rebels” to “savage foreign invaders.”
It made a world of difference, to the common folk. It was one thing to give your life to protect your homeland from hostile invaders; these are your people, those are their people. You protect your own; that’s how society works. It’s another thing to kill and be killed by your own country men, all to serve the immortal, inhuman creatures who demand your service and collect your taxes. This lord, that lord - most wouldn’t give a copper farthing to have it either way.
Many deserted, and were caught and hanged or drained by the Vrykal lords. Others cut off a finger or broke an arm, depending on their occupations, to turn away the recruiting officer. The Vrykal responded with twenty lashes with a cat o’ nine tails, in the public square. When this failed to stem the flow of self-mutilations, the count was raised to fifty lashes. Then, a hundred. The first man to receive the full hundred strokes died of the wounds they inflicted upon him, not three days later. No-one jeered at the whipping, or threw rotten vegetables, or spat and called him a coward, a cheat, a traitor. They simply watched him bleed, and heard him scream, and left in silence, thinking worried thoughts of what the future would bring.
[ERROR. STATUS CONFLICT.
[INSUFFICIENT PERMISSION TO ACCESS ELEMENT: VA_P1aa_1000.prog
IDENTIFYING AFFECTED PROCESSES…
REPAIRING…
REINSTANCING…]
For those merchants, artisans, and bankers who could afford it, half a golden ducat per month would buy them a waiver on conscription. Yet, those who could afford such a luxury were scarcely any happier than those who could not. Compulsory “loans” were collected from the merchants and bankers, and the market restrictions on crafted goods, particularly wood, leather, and metalworking, was upheld in full throughout. Worse: the Vrykal only provided the necessary materials for such a service, along with a receipt promising future payment, once the war had been won. Every day, it was announced that another victory had been achieved by the loyalist forces, and that the God-King’s triumph was surely drawing near.
Yet, almost every day, conscription was increased, and the time period between infantry training and deployment became ever-shorter for the new recruits. The guild met together a number of times, agreeing on new prices and policies for the internal trade, trying to figure out how each master armorer of them could put bread on the table, and still have the recruiter’s half-ducat set aside when the time came around. Some were sent to off the front for field work and repair. Some were never recruited at all; they simply complained too loudly at a guild meeting one night, and were dragged from their homes by expressionless soldiers the night after that. No one knew quite what happened to them next, or who’d turned them in, or if they themselves had said too much already, so eventually the meetings just stopped altogether. Perhaps Soren wasn’t the only one keeping a secret, after all.
So the night after he had finished his sentence, and delivered his finished product to the castle, was not exactly a festive one for Soren. He’d scrounged together enough coin for a flask of mead, reluctantly, because he’d felt that it was the thing to do. Despite taking no joy or pleasure from the act, he’d poured a cup for the boy, and drained one along with him before sending him off. Then he sat alone, thoughtful, absently taking sips of the honey wine and considering, rather dismally, his situation.
[ERROR. STATUS CONFLICT.
INSUFFICIENT PERMISSION TO ACCESS ELEMENT: VA_P1aa_1000.prog
IDENTIFYING AFFECTED PROCESSES…
REPAIRING…
REINSTANCING…]
The sound of breaking glass, and a crash from upstairs, jarred Soren into alertness. A flickering candle by his arm provided the only light in the shop, and the sound of running footsteps sounded through from the street outside.
____
Does he...
- Run upstairs [RISK: 0 / SPIRIT: 0 / PROFIT: 0 / SYNC: 0]
- Run outside [RISK: +2 / SPIRIT: +1 / PROFIT: +1 / SYNC: +1]
- ??? [???]
CURRENT STATS:
RISK: 6
SPIRIT: 7
PROFIT: 3
SYNC: 5
Last edited: