Post by LACKLAN on Jun 1, 2019 13:17:12 GMT -5
Merovingian the Righteous breathes in deep drafts, her body rising and falling with great movements, as she surveys the battlefield. The generals always talked about the “fog of war” and how there were different effects and means, and now it wasn’t what the layman assumed. It wasn’t about not being able to see at a distance, or not being able to see further than your scouts, but was instead about your inability to see or breath in the heat of battle. Right this moment, her skin was on fire from the exertion and exhilaration, her body heating up to the point of being beyond sweat yet needing to cool in any way. Her was a blur between the dried sweat at the corners of her eyes and the difficulty of seeing through her visor. Her body ached to remove it, to drop her hammer and shield to the ground and just rip it off, to breathe easier, to see easier, to get away from the heat. But her mind fought it. The true villain of the fog of war was being able to think clearly and fight what your body wanted to do.
She turns her head left and right, taking in the bodies around. Some stood. Others lay upon the ground, the Last Embrace of the Father their only rite remaining. She would pray for them, and perhaps even perform their Final Rite for them. After. After she fought. After she won. After she ended this melee.
She growls as something comes across her vision, nothing more than a blur in the fog, and she moves to the left. Her body is heavy in her plate armor, but years of preparing for this moment resulted in legs as strong as the oaks and birch of Lacklanlandia. She pushes away thoughts, wonderful thoughts, of her homeland, of the great city where her order lived in the great cathedral dedicated to the Forgotten God THAC0, the beautiful Cathedral of Light covered in mirrors, and forced herself to stay in the moment. Forced herself to look at the source of the blur. That blur had made a muted THUNK sound as it impacted the dirt below her feet. The weapon, and she knew it WAS a weapon, was heavy. And deadly.
She raises up her leg and plants her foot forward, catching the dark shape she knew would be attached to that blur. A surprised “GAH!” accompanied her forceful front kick, her foot planted deep into what she assumed was the shape’s chest, and pushes it away. The blur at her feet scrapes across the ground, pushing dirt aside and leaving a tread in its wake with a nasty nail at the end of what appeared to be a thick club of wood, as the shape is pushed away from her. She raises her hammer and shield, giving her a moment of protection as she allows her eyes to settle on the shape, and prepares to attack.
I appreciate this, Writer, but…
Yes?
...where is everyone else? Where are my beautiful babies? Where are their friends? Should they not be here by now? The time did not change, did it?
Um…no...just...lets just focus on this one-off first, okay?
As you wish. I attack the miscreant before me with the Knocker.
*the sound of a die rolling*
Seventeen...plus my modifier...which makes twenty-two to hit.
Alrighty. Go ahead and roll damage.
Merovingian growls as she raises her shield in her left hand, the triangular sheet of metal with the clenched fist emblazoned in gilt on the front, and shoves it into the face of her attacker. Her warhammer, named the Knocker for reasons of intimacy which she has always held close, swings up and over from behind her body and comes crashing down on the shapes shoulder. Her attacker screams, and then drops to its knees and whirls away from her, dragging the spiked club with it. She resets her feet, her shield in place before her, as her attacker returns to his feet, his left arm dangling uselessly at its side.
“...demon…”
The word escapes the paladin’s lips as the fog dissipates enough to take in the form of a man she knew well. Yama-san was a barbarian, though not of the Cottonlane tribe, as her friend bb…
...former friend…
Merovingian shakes off the bitter memory of bb, the golden-skinned woman in wolf’s clothing she had fought alongside, just in time to catch the sudden rush of Yama-san. In the time she had known the half man, half demon, she had never heard him speak more than a few intelligible words, and it was no surprise to her when he attacked with a wordless growl. His spiked club slammed into her raised shield, the sound of the spike scratching across the raised fist like a mandrake’s scream in her ears. She grunts and pushes him away, giving her the distance she needs to swing with the Knocker again, though this time he was ready for her and danced back a few steps to allow the hammer to slam into the dirt.
Merovingian had made many mistakes in her lifetime, and the majority of those had been like trusting Crushbone. The barrel-chested dwarf had run a pub of the highest quality, at least in his own words, and had made assurances to her and her traveling companions that there was no finer establishment in all of the Nine Realms. But as they searched for their quarry during a particular mission, this one with the purpose of rooting out a black market of illegal arms and slaves, Crushbone had shown himself to be a prominent member of the villains they were sent to unseat. His pub but a front for an underground arena for unsanctioned pit fights, the demon in front of her was his champion.
Apparently, the demon had not forgiven her for when she had bashed in Crushbone’s head.
Another wordless scream as Yama-san lunges at her with the club. That was the problem with the demon: He was too predictable. Crushbone was born with a silver tongue, and could convince both a crowd of ne’er-do-wells and an audience of high born Men to go along with his schemes, but Yama-san was nothing without it. Vicious, yes. Powerful, yes. But without the yolk of his master around his neck to guide him, he was uncontrolled and unfocused. And in the arena of life and death, when dealing with a Paladin of the Forgotten God THAC0, mistakes lead to death.
Mistakes like falling for the feint of “missing” a strike.
As Yama-san screams and comes down with the club, Merovingian turns on her heel, spinning her entire body, and slamming the edge of her shield into the man’s neck as he over commits to his strike, his balance off. She follows the spin with a swing of the Knocker, the intended kill strike after the stunning blow of the shield, and Yama-san's eyes didn’t even get to widen in shock before the hammer swung sideways and bashed into his head, forcing it to bend at an unnatural angle. In a spatter of blood and brain material, the demon slumped to the ground, finally defeated.
Merovingian throws up her visor in order to dismiss some of that fog...it was so hot...and looks over the battlefield again. The expanse was massive and blood watered the ground. Not far from here stood a creature she recognized, one she had seen written about in the missives sent by her liege. With flaming red hair heavy with mud, the Siren was a hag of immeasurable ugliness, with a face filled with warts and covered in dirt. She wore rags which hung loosely to the ground, but the hands which ended in hooked nails were no joke. And as the paladin squared her feet to face her, the Siren proved the power of its claws as it ripped into the throat of Salvatore. It was a shame that this melee forced everyone to fight for their lives, even the squash saleswoman, but the paladin offered a quick prayer for her senseless death.
“Your ship will be wrecked next!” screeched the Siren as the woman fell from her grasp and she pointed at Merovingian. Confidence steeled the creature’s body as it strove forward, but the paladin remained strong, her faith in her deity and her cause giving her immunity to the fear-inducing visage of the ugly creature. She had faced worse than this, worse than a creature known to appear present and aware one moment, and then aloof and forgetful the next. In fact, just as Merovingian changes her grip on the Knocker, just as she prepares to meet the oncoming creature, the Siren suddenly stops what it was doing. Its eyes glaze over, as if lost in a daze, as if no longer in the here and now.
Merovingian doesn’t hesitate. With a cry, she swings the Knocker back and thrusts forward, releasing the handle as her shoulder comes around, and lets the hammer fly. End over end it travels, catching the suddenly dazed creature in the side of the head, the warhammer again spraying the ground with blood and brain matter, the body of the Siren slumping to the ground, a victim of its own historical flaw of lack of concentration and forgetfulness.
Merovingian turns suddenly as a scream to her right comes to her. A man, a warrior she knew, was rushing at her. Bald pate shining in the dull sunlight, his long beard unkept, Rydell the Resolute had his sword clutched in both hands above his head, running at the suddenly unarmed paladin. He was opportunistic, that one, always looking for a chance to win a fight before it began. He had his moments, Merovingian knew, particularly when he was conscripted to her former traveling companions. His greatest monetary success had been when he became some kind of henchman to Belgiana…
...she missed Belgiana…
Merovingian raises her shield to meet the downward slash of the man’s greatsword, and his eyes go wide as he suddenly finds his sword grazing metal and slicing into the ground. A swish of her legs had sent Merovingian a step to the side, angling the shield so that his strike slide off its side. And Rydell proved his problem, proved why he could never rise above his station as a middling sellsword, when he fell for the false visual of a weaponless paladin. Never one to bother trying to upgrade or improve his own tactics, the enchantment added to the Knocker, one of Returning, was beyond his comprehension. With a sparkle of the arcane magic embedded into her hammer, the Knocker returned to the grasp of Merovingian, and an arcing swing sent the head of the hammer into the back of Rydell’s skull, finally sending him to the Last Embrace of the Father.
Even before she could recover from the blow she used to finish the henchman, Merovingian’s ears were filled with an odd music. But not JUST music. Not JUST notes. There was something...heavy...to them. Something which seemed to make them more. Something which added weight. She felt sluggish as she pulled up the Knocker, the sickening sound of the hammer’s head pulling from what remained of Rydell’s skull not evening registering in her ears due to the music. It felt as if her entire body was slowing. That she was moving through sludge. And that sleep would be wonderful right now. A sleep full of dreams. A sleep full of-
No, not sleep.
Sleep
She shakes her head, trying to wave away the music in her ears, and throws her mind toward the ring on her finger. She Ring of Shielding obeyed her, sending out its magic to aid her, and pushed away the spell. Her eyes clearing, she sees two figures in the distance looking at her, both with shocked looks on their face. Her adrenaline had spiked when she first realized the magical effect of the music in her ears, an adrenaline of finally facing the reason why she was even on this bloody field, but the bards in front of her were not her true quarry, though she DID know them.
Dressed in a ridiculous hat and a masquerade mask, MainStream’s eyes were full of a mixture of shock and fear as he realized that his bardic spell had failed. Next to him stood a man as ridiculously dressed, with the pompous fluffy shoulders of a Court Bard for House Mathis, Chaunciferous the Sweaty, whose eyes were also wide with that mixture of shock and fear. Merovingian sets her feet to face them, and out of her own control, her left arm raises to the level of her eyes and a loud THWIP fills the air. She looks down to see an arrow on the ground, automatically blocked by the Missile Catching magical property of her shield, and then looks up again to where the two bards stood, their knees shaking. Just below them, hiding in a copse of rocks, was the angular face and pointed beard of Sir Cyndrifficalous the Ranger, the greatest archer in all the Nine Realms. Merovingian offers him a rare smile and motions with her shield, to which the ranger scowls in return. Above him, the twin bards look at the impenetrable defenses of the paladin, look at one another, and run.
Cyndrifficalous shrugs his shoulders, tips his hat to the paladin, and follows.
Merovingian can only shrug her own shoulders in return and take her gaze elsewhere.
You sure letting them go is a smart idea? That could end up biting you in the ass.
Oh please, Writer. MainStream has done naught but to prove how ineffective he is in every aspect of battle, from an ability to win anything significant to not even bothering to show up at times. And while talented, the combination of Ranger and Bard in Cyndrifficalous and Chaunciferous is only worthwhile in small doses.
I see. How are you on hit points?
I am ever eternal, Writer. I am a bastion of all that is good. And even should I take damage, should these fledglings find some way past my armor, I have a full well of Lay on Hands.
That’s good for you.
...why do you sound so sly…?
Make a perception check.
...shit.
*the sound of a die rolling*
...12?
...heh...
“Ah!”
Merovingian slumps forward as she feels a jab of pain in her side. The spot of pain heated up, even hotter than the fog already made her body feel, and she could feel the seed of poison trying to push into her. She drops her shield and grabs at the pain, finding the hilt of a dagger, and rips it free. She feels blood gush from the wound, dripping down her body under her armor, slicking the plain white slips she wore underneath. She turns...a movement which makes her head spin...and finds a sneering face before her.
The sneering face of the Man of Many Names.
It was hard for Merovingian to gather her thoughts as the poison from the dagger’s blade made its way into her, but her hatred of the snake before her helped. A double agent for a rival kingdom the snake had befriended her and her former companions. He spoke with honeyed words about change and equality, about righteousness and goodness, but now she knew better. The entirety of the Nine Realms did. It turned out that the snake was merely working toward influence and power, merely looking to help his liege take over her beautiful Lacklandia. The deceit, subterfuge, and outright villainy, he has gained a foothold with the Great and Powerful Wizard CAPTAIN, and much of his nature had become known.
“Foolish. So foolish.”
Even his VOICE sounded like that of a snake to her ears. He moved before her, his body seeming to slither like his true nature, and she tried to focus. They had known him as Grapple McGrapplestein, but they knew he had other names in his life of villainy, a different name for every place he went, a different identity to fit his schemes. He had been a rat scurrying at the feet of beggars to feed off dropped crumbs, he had been the top of the industry world as an unstoppable juggernaut. And now, he was a man who had stabbed her with a poisoned blade with such efficiency as to find a place between her mithril plates to find purchase.
He swiped at her with his hands, both wielding more daggers, and her attempts to avoid him were sluggish. The poison coursed within her, setting her at a stark disadvantage against such a quick foe. Thankfully, without the advantage of stealth, his strikes only found her breastplate and her armored elbows, the blows landing harmlessly. She growled at him and drove a shoulder into him, pushing him away. He swiped at her as he fell back a step, and her eyes went wide before she slammed down the face guard. His dagger rebounded off the plate just in time, her eyes saved, likely death avoided.
The paladin throws her mind back through time. Thinks of the man’s battles which she has seen. What was he? WHO was he? Self-righteous...but not for a cause of Good, like he. Self-important. Self-assured. Always thought he was the smartest man in the room. Every single one of his plans SHOULD work, they SHOULD be successful, and if they were NOT, then it was someone else’s fault. His plan was misunderstood by the people involved. It was ALWAYS someone else’s fault.
Including the time SHE unraveled one of his plans.
“...how DID that bagel taste, worm? Bitter?”
His eyes widen and blaze at her taunt. She was good at that, though it annoyed people. Anything dealing with influencing people was something she was good at, much to the pleasure of the Forgotten God THAC0. And just like the fool he was, the snake leaped at her over the reminder of the time she unraveled his plans, of the time she BEAT him. She rushed forward, catching him by surprise, and catching him in mid leap, and she caught him in her arms. He was a thin man, not one accustomed to the true rigors of battle, and she used his momentum to turn and slam him into the ground. A great “OOF!” came from him as two hundred pounds of plate-wearing paladin slammed down on him, and she once again mentally thanked THAC0 for inspiring her to learn the art of grappling.
Now on her feet, the snake stunned and flat on his back, Merovingian does what she SHOULD have done when they first fought: Taking the Knocker in both hands, she swings the hammer back until the head touches her calves, and as she brings it up and forward, she channels the divine power that was the connection to her god. Her green eyes turn to points of light, and the hammer shines with a glow, as she brings the full wrath of radiance down upon the head of the villain.
Yeesh. That additional 3d6 damage from Branding Smite is sick.
It is what the infidel deserves. Nothing less. Damnit...where ARE those girls?!
………..
What is it, Writer?
Um….
Do you know something I do not? SPEAK PLAIN!
…………..they aren’t coming, Ava.
That is NOT my name! And what do you MEAN they are not coming! We do this EVERY week!
Not any more.
What is this-
You don’t have any friends any more, Ava. No family. This is what doing what you have become means.
……………….
You want to lead the compound? You want to lead the church? You want to fulfill God’s “great plan?” Then that means being alone. That means pushing away everyone you love, and everyone who MIGHT love you. It means-
You were my husband’s friend!
No. I was Lena’s friend. Ol’ Japles? All that service? I was nothing more THAN a servant to him. And the decisions you’ve made? What you’ve done to Kenzi? To Fangs? And what you are GOING to keep doing? It means that you have nothing, Ava.
THAT IS NOT MY NAME.
…..I know. C’mon...lets just finish this….
Merovingian stepped on what was left of the snake and kneeled down, trying to catch her breath. The poison was still stinging her from within, so she took the time to pray to THAC0, to feel his energy, and place her hands upon the dagger’s wound. Divine energy flowed through her, as she was a conduit for THAC0’s wants in the Nine Realms, and the poison was pushed out of her system and her energy restored. She knew she had more energy left, more of the “pool” of her god’s blessing for later, and was glad for it. She might well need it.
Surveying the field, she sees that most bodies were down. This melee was exhausting and taxing, was taking everything from her, but it would be worth it. Once she found her target. Once she found her NEED. Once she found-
“This will be the FINAL battle, nemesis!”
Merovingian turns to find two bodies moving around one another, and she was filled with dismay. Both were known to her, both had an air of familiarity, and while one brought warmth, the other brought worry.
The Oracle, Deimosious, was a friend. Shrouded in ever-present darkness by way of some strange displacing spell she did not understand, he was a tall man, at least taller than her, and old beyond time. He was the one who has pushed her and a team toward a land of swamps and pain, towards the lair of the dreaded dryder, Edenossa. She had her team...what survived of them...had ripped the heart of the foul creature, both to as take away a supporter of Necronium the Long-Winded, but to also play a part in his downfall. The Oracle’s advice and guidance had helped her ultimately take the head of the dragon and end the terror of Clan Blowhard, and she had never forgotten his aid.
The man he fought, unfortunately, was far different. A beast as much as he was man, with long hair and muscles bulging like a statue, the half-orc Zanerus was a Centurian General of the Plains of Emor, and his kingdom had battled with Lacklandia for generations. And as his short blade came down atop of Deimosious’ staff hard enough to drive his knees into the ground, she knew that it was too late to save her old mentor.
“No!”
Too late. Zanerus’ heavy foot pushed into Deimosious’ chest, knocking him to the ground, and the old wizard could do nothing to stop the short blade in his hand from entering his chest. Merovingian ran toward the duo, tears streaming from her eyes, the Knocker raised into the air with both hands, and the Centurion was there to meet her. Her downward strike was warded off by the small blade, the arms behind it filled with an unnatural strength, and pushed her away. With a grunt, she came to a halt and turned to face him, just as he set his feet to face her.
“This is YOUR final battle, Centurion! You will NOT leave this field alive!”
The half-orc laughed at her, the tiny tusks sticking out of his mouth shining with saliva, as he charged at her in response.
Back and forth the two fought, short blade looking for purchase behind impossible strength, the Knocker trying to catch him even one time. While the two had rarely seen one another before, the last few months had seen increasing skirmishes between their nations. And because of that, they had personally led several fights against one another, pitting both their brawn and their brains in combat. Merovingian, ever a stickler for note-taking and learning from both her mistakes and successes, knew that the two of them had fought, in some form or fashion, six times since the ice storms of the winter had passed, with a strong concentration on when the snows had begun to melt. He had struck the first victory, even giving her one of the scars that she carried on her face, but her return salvo had been dominant. Still, the two fought with their armies, fought in politics, fought in this war.
But this WOULD be the last fight.
She hissed as one of his blows got through, a slice against the chain on her arm that was able to get through the metal and to her skin. He cackled as his blade bit into her, the heat in her arm from more than just the wound. Indeed, his blade glowed the red of a forge, his Firebrand forcing her to spin away before the flames ripped through her. But she had her own tricks, of course, weapons given to her by her devotion to THAC0. Focusing on the holy symbol etched into the bottom of the handle of her Knocker, she becomes a true beacon of light, the entire weapon beginning to glow again. She swings the hammer at the half-orc, but the creature is able to leap back and dodge the attack. Just barely seen through his armor, the flesh of his chest is mottled, having been burned by that very same attack in some battle. Ten times they had fought in the last year, ten times facing against one another either in solo combat like this or at the head of their armies, looking to out maneuver one another, and all of the battles blended together. She was not sure when she gave him that brand, was not sure when this battle became personal, but it WOULD be the final one.
The creature screams at her, his body seeming to grow in size as he runs towards her, and an unnatural fear tries to overwhelm her. But years of study, years of training, years of bending knee to the Forgotten God THAC0, allow her to shrug off the fear and prepare for his attack. The Firebrand comes down on her from his great height, but she is able to hold the Knocker in two hands, the flaming edge stopping on the long hilt, holding it in place. He leers down at her, green spittle dripping from his lips and onto her visor.
“...when I win this melee...when I become KING of your lands...I will hand it over to MY liege. To PROVE how a TRUE champion acts! But throwing his wins IN THE TRASH!”
He heaves with seemingly all his might, pushing her backward, and she cannot help but slide across the ground. She nearly slips in a bit of mud, dirt turned wet and red from the flow of blood spilled at some point during the melee, and the Centurion rushes at her, looking to take advantage of her position. Off balance, Merovingian can only act with desperation, again appealing her to god’s favor for a shield of faith. But she is too late, the Firebrand coming down on her shoulder right before the shimmer of force can coalesce before her. The pain in her shoulder, searing and slashing all at the same time, with the general’s weight behind it, breaks her hopeful divine shield, and she falls to one knee from the strike. A well-placed boot from the Centurion knocks away her hammer, the sword bone-deep in her shoulder weakening her too greatly.
“Now you DIE!”
The general rips his short sword free from Merovingian’s shoulder, causing her blood to splatter to the ground, and holds the blade up high into the air with both hands, prepared to put everything he had into the killing blow. But then the Paladin reaches into her boot and pulls out a dagger, a tiny yet intricate lute carved into the handle, and reaches out to THAC0 a final time. The dagger pulses with divine energy and she slams it upward, piercing a section of the general’s abdomen which was exposed due to his all-or-nothing attack. Shock fills the Zanerus’ eyes as his Firebrand falls to the ground behind him with a dull thud, the fire extinguished. His hands to go his belly and try to keep in the lifeblood pouring out, but even he knows that the attempt is futile.
Zanerus falls to his knees, his mouth agape, as Merovingian stands up. She stretches out her hand and the Knocker returns to her in a flash. She places the hammerhead on the Centurion's chin and leans in close to him.
“This IS the end, general. You will find no upward movement in THIS failure.”
She stands up, pulls the Knocker back with both hands, and swings as hard as she can. One final time, the Knocker’s head bursts into a brilliant white light as it slams into the half-orc’s head and leaves naught but a ruined mass as his body crumbles to the ground. The paladin falls to one knee, her breaths coming in labored gasps.
“You used the dagger I gave you? REALLY?!”
Merovingian’s blood turns cold. She swivels her head to the sound of the voice, and even though this massive field of a bloody and deadly melee, the last of its kind, was empty of life except for hers, there now stood before her what she truly wished for, what she truly sought.
Her former companions.
With long black braids filled with bells, Thespina stood tall, her robes flailing in the wind. Sun-skinned bb stood next to her, her great club over her shoulder, with Belgiana on her other side. But most important was what stood in the middle of the trio, the thing which had broken what remained of The Adventurous Six:
Ambrosia.
“BETRAYER!”
Merovingian roared as she got to her feet, the Knocker flaring to life in the presence of the vampire half-elf. The pirate shrunk behind the dark-skinned bard as best she could, but her moonlight skin might as well have sparkled on that battlefield.
“No! YOU are the betrayer, Mero! YOU betrayed US!”
This fight again. This position again. When the half-elf pirate had been turned into one of the undead, they SHOULD have rallied behind the paladin. They SHOULD have HELPED her SMITE the abomination. Instead, they refused! They chose the disgusting mockery of life over the forces of GOOD.
“YOU betrayed GOD, Thespie. And now...now...we finish this.”
Belgiana raised her staff, her skin already turning into bark. bb hoisted her club and began entering the battle rage of her people. Thespina’s form began to change, to turn into the wolf. And Ambrosia smiled, fangs pushing out to shine against her pale lips. Nearly out of spells, fully out of divine favor for the day, Merovingian the Righteous did the only thing she could:
She healed herself with the last of her pool of divine healing, raised the Knocker into the sky, and charged.
It is time, Madam.
………….
………….
…..why don’t they love me, Writer?
…..this path you are taking? There is no love.
Madam?
………………
………………
Laisse tomber le marteau.
Prenn had been working for the House of Lacklan since she was a young girl, learning the business of dressing and serving from the age of twelve. Several years older than the Blood Princess, she had somewhat seen the girl as a younger sister, if one that was the brattiest one there had ever been. And while she had initially had difficulty with the Princess’ life choices as an adult, which included the radical ideas of reformation for the Church, no doubt spurred by her shocking admission that she had been in a relationship with a black girl, of all things, Lord Lacklan’s acceptance of his daughter and who she was was a rock Prenn could always hold onto. She had enjoyed her assignment to be with the girl as she traveled the world, had grown to love Kenzi as much as she ever did Sarah, and felt blessed to be a part of their lives. She was genuinely saddened when the Queen had called her back, her and the rest of the retinue on assignment for the Princess and Duchess, but she understood her place.
Thus it was with great surprise when she received a note from a fellow member of the staff with the Queen’s sigil, that of a dragon blowing fire, which read but a few lines:
There is no turning back. Only to embrace and accept.
Take those who are loyal to my beautiful daughters. Go to them. Be with them. Serve and watch over them. Keep them warm and fed.
And embrace the Light.
The Queen’s writing was unmistakable, though the note made little sense to her. That was until the Queen walked by, anyway. And then it all made sense. She dipped into the deepest curtsy she could and fled, ready to take whoever would go with her at first light.
krrrrSHK
Eyes were wide as the woman in black walked to the dias. There had been whispers about change all throughout the compound. Whispers about new things to understand. But what they saw before them exceeded their own thoughts and ideas, blew away the expectations of those wondering what the change would be.
krrrrSHK
This was no Queen of Red.
krrrrSHK
The woman’s stark white hair was pulled back into a single braid, tight and firm, and slung over one shoulder. On her face rested a white mask, the lights sharp and angular, seemingly almost demonic in the light, and filled with scratches and cracks which told of many battles. She wore a sleeveless black dress which fit her form smoothly and fell to the floor, a line a purple along the hem for a relief of color; the cut of the dress allowed her arms to be shown fully, both arms full of tiny scars, one side straight and precise, as if done with the doctor’s scalpel, while the lines on the other were jagged and chaotic, as if run through by the dull blade of a forgotten box cutter.
krrrrSHK
Her hands were at her sides as she walked, the UGWC Chaos Championship in one, being held by the one leather strap, the other strap being dragged carelessly across the ground. In the other hand, she clasped the handle of a long hammer, not the Knocker of legend, but one fashion after it, though smaller.
krrrrSHK
The sound of the hammer on the floor of the dais was loud as she dragged the two items behind her until she finally stood at the microphone. The masked face looked left and right over the crowd, the expression featureless due to the hellish white mask.
“The time has come, dear minions, to finish what was begun.”
Murmurs from the crowd below as men and women looked at one another. They had not been called “minions” in quite some time, not since the Blood Princess took over the “marketing” of the compound and changed the title to “denizen.”
“Years ago, my husband received a vision from God. A vision for a world united under one universal champion. A vision for a world which understood its place under the boot of my dear Jean-Paul. And he fought...and fought...and FOUGHT a world full of careless, thoughtless children, performing a thankless duty until God called him home to his side. And now...now...we finish what he started.”
She pauses as she looks over the crowd.
“A world filled with nothing but what God wishes. Think of it, minions! Think of the glory! Of HIS glory! To EMBRACE the Light! To FULFILL God’s plan! That is our mission. That is MY mission. To pick up my husband’s hammer and FINISH THIS FIGHT.”
She hoists up the hammer in her left hand. Somewhat smaller than the hammer wielded by her husband, a man filled with the strength of a lifetime of dedication to wrestling and lifting weights, it seemed no less deadly in her hands.
“And as such, it is time for me to cast away false idols. It is time for me to strip away false identities. It is time for ME to fully embrace who I am.”
She lowers the hammer and raises the title in its place.
“I proved...PROVED...God’s might over the last year and more. I took every bit of chaos in the world, became its QUEEN and CHAMPION, and wove God’s order out of it. And while I AM still the Chaos Champion...I am NOT the Champion of Chaos. Let the idols...let the identities...fall away to what is truly important.”
She drops the Chaos title at her feet and stares down at it for many moments.
“What I have done...cannot be undone. It can NEVER be undone! No matter WHAT happens in this world, there will be NOTHING that anyone can do to remove my name from this championship, to overcome my accomplishments. And it is time for me to do the same for what truly matters. It is time for me to fulfill my husband’s vision.”
She looks up from the Chaos championship and back over the crowd.
“In but a few hours, I will be returning to the Massive Melee. And this time, there is no Harvester to stop me; no, he has been vanquished. There is not Dynamo to get lucky. There are no surprise entrants freshly out of injury, or ugly gargoyles to steal the attention of the announcers. This time...this year...there is only me. And while our World Champion devalues her championship by not defending it during this cycle, while she fights the Cotton girl who similarly devalues HER championship by her weekly shame of a performance against the dregs of this business, I will bring HONOR to what I touch. I will bring GRACE to what I win. And I WILL win the Melee because, dear minions, only I posses the goal...the drive...to give the world what it needs. What it wants. What it CRAVES:
“The World Champion that it deserves.”
She looks down at the championship title at her feet again.
“I am no longer the Champion of Chaos.”
She looks back up to the crowd.
“I am no longer Le Bord de Dieu, the blade and edge, the in between.”
She shakes her head, the white mask gleaming for a moment as it catches a spot of light.
“I…”
She pauses.
“If you will allow me...one last time...to borrow from my friend, the Good Doctor.”
She raises the hammer again up high above her head.
“Please allow me to introduce myself. My name...my ONLY name...is LACKLAN.
She slams the hammer and crushes the dais before her.
She turns her head left and right, taking in the bodies around. Some stood. Others lay upon the ground, the Last Embrace of the Father their only rite remaining. She would pray for them, and perhaps even perform their Final Rite for them. After. After she fought. After she won. After she ended this melee.
She growls as something comes across her vision, nothing more than a blur in the fog, and she moves to the left. Her body is heavy in her plate armor, but years of preparing for this moment resulted in legs as strong as the oaks and birch of Lacklanlandia. She pushes away thoughts, wonderful thoughts, of her homeland, of the great city where her order lived in the great cathedral dedicated to the Forgotten God THAC0, the beautiful Cathedral of Light covered in mirrors, and forced herself to stay in the moment. Forced herself to look at the source of the blur. That blur had made a muted THUNK sound as it impacted the dirt below her feet. The weapon, and she knew it WAS a weapon, was heavy. And deadly.
She raises up her leg and plants her foot forward, catching the dark shape she knew would be attached to that blur. A surprised “GAH!” accompanied her forceful front kick, her foot planted deep into what she assumed was the shape’s chest, and pushes it away. The blur at her feet scrapes across the ground, pushing dirt aside and leaving a tread in its wake with a nasty nail at the end of what appeared to be a thick club of wood, as the shape is pushed away from her. She raises her hammer and shield, giving her a moment of protection as she allows her eyes to settle on the shape, and prepares to attack.
I appreciate this, Writer, but…
Yes?
...where is everyone else? Where are my beautiful babies? Where are their friends? Should they not be here by now? The time did not change, did it?
Um…no...just...lets just focus on this one-off first, okay?
As you wish. I attack the miscreant before me with the Knocker.
*the sound of a die rolling*
Seventeen...plus my modifier...which makes twenty-two to hit.
Alrighty. Go ahead and roll damage.
Merovingian growls as she raises her shield in her left hand, the triangular sheet of metal with the clenched fist emblazoned in gilt on the front, and shoves it into the face of her attacker. Her warhammer, named the Knocker for reasons of intimacy which she has always held close, swings up and over from behind her body and comes crashing down on the shapes shoulder. Her attacker screams, and then drops to its knees and whirls away from her, dragging the spiked club with it. She resets her feet, her shield in place before her, as her attacker returns to his feet, his left arm dangling uselessly at its side.
“...demon…”
The word escapes the paladin’s lips as the fog dissipates enough to take in the form of a man she knew well. Yama-san was a barbarian, though not of the Cottonlane tribe, as her friend bb…
...former friend…
Merovingian shakes off the bitter memory of bb, the golden-skinned woman in wolf’s clothing she had fought alongside, just in time to catch the sudden rush of Yama-san. In the time she had known the half man, half demon, she had never heard him speak more than a few intelligible words, and it was no surprise to her when he attacked with a wordless growl. His spiked club slammed into her raised shield, the sound of the spike scratching across the raised fist like a mandrake’s scream in her ears. She grunts and pushes him away, giving her the distance she needs to swing with the Knocker again, though this time he was ready for her and danced back a few steps to allow the hammer to slam into the dirt.
Merovingian had made many mistakes in her lifetime, and the majority of those had been like trusting Crushbone. The barrel-chested dwarf had run a pub of the highest quality, at least in his own words, and had made assurances to her and her traveling companions that there was no finer establishment in all of the Nine Realms. But as they searched for their quarry during a particular mission, this one with the purpose of rooting out a black market of illegal arms and slaves, Crushbone had shown himself to be a prominent member of the villains they were sent to unseat. His pub but a front for an underground arena for unsanctioned pit fights, the demon in front of her was his champion.
Apparently, the demon had not forgiven her for when she had bashed in Crushbone’s head.
Another wordless scream as Yama-san lunges at her with the club. That was the problem with the demon: He was too predictable. Crushbone was born with a silver tongue, and could convince both a crowd of ne’er-do-wells and an audience of high born Men to go along with his schemes, but Yama-san was nothing without it. Vicious, yes. Powerful, yes. But without the yolk of his master around his neck to guide him, he was uncontrolled and unfocused. And in the arena of life and death, when dealing with a Paladin of the Forgotten God THAC0, mistakes lead to death.
Mistakes like falling for the feint of “missing” a strike.
As Yama-san screams and comes down with the club, Merovingian turns on her heel, spinning her entire body, and slamming the edge of her shield into the man’s neck as he over commits to his strike, his balance off. She follows the spin with a swing of the Knocker, the intended kill strike after the stunning blow of the shield, and Yama-san's eyes didn’t even get to widen in shock before the hammer swung sideways and bashed into his head, forcing it to bend at an unnatural angle. In a spatter of blood and brain material, the demon slumped to the ground, finally defeated.
Merovingian throws up her visor in order to dismiss some of that fog...it was so hot...and looks over the battlefield again. The expanse was massive and blood watered the ground. Not far from here stood a creature she recognized, one she had seen written about in the missives sent by her liege. With flaming red hair heavy with mud, the Siren was a hag of immeasurable ugliness, with a face filled with warts and covered in dirt. She wore rags which hung loosely to the ground, but the hands which ended in hooked nails were no joke. And as the paladin squared her feet to face her, the Siren proved the power of its claws as it ripped into the throat of Salvatore. It was a shame that this melee forced everyone to fight for their lives, even the squash saleswoman, but the paladin offered a quick prayer for her senseless death.
“Your ship will be wrecked next!” screeched the Siren as the woman fell from her grasp and she pointed at Merovingian. Confidence steeled the creature’s body as it strove forward, but the paladin remained strong, her faith in her deity and her cause giving her immunity to the fear-inducing visage of the ugly creature. She had faced worse than this, worse than a creature known to appear present and aware one moment, and then aloof and forgetful the next. In fact, just as Merovingian changes her grip on the Knocker, just as she prepares to meet the oncoming creature, the Siren suddenly stops what it was doing. Its eyes glaze over, as if lost in a daze, as if no longer in the here and now.
Merovingian doesn’t hesitate. With a cry, she swings the Knocker back and thrusts forward, releasing the handle as her shoulder comes around, and lets the hammer fly. End over end it travels, catching the suddenly dazed creature in the side of the head, the warhammer again spraying the ground with blood and brain matter, the body of the Siren slumping to the ground, a victim of its own historical flaw of lack of concentration and forgetfulness.
Merovingian turns suddenly as a scream to her right comes to her. A man, a warrior she knew, was rushing at her. Bald pate shining in the dull sunlight, his long beard unkept, Rydell the Resolute had his sword clutched in both hands above his head, running at the suddenly unarmed paladin. He was opportunistic, that one, always looking for a chance to win a fight before it began. He had his moments, Merovingian knew, particularly when he was conscripted to her former traveling companions. His greatest monetary success had been when he became some kind of henchman to Belgiana…
...she missed Belgiana…
Merovingian raises her shield to meet the downward slash of the man’s greatsword, and his eyes go wide as he suddenly finds his sword grazing metal and slicing into the ground. A swish of her legs had sent Merovingian a step to the side, angling the shield so that his strike slide off its side. And Rydell proved his problem, proved why he could never rise above his station as a middling sellsword, when he fell for the false visual of a weaponless paladin. Never one to bother trying to upgrade or improve his own tactics, the enchantment added to the Knocker, one of Returning, was beyond his comprehension. With a sparkle of the arcane magic embedded into her hammer, the Knocker returned to the grasp of Merovingian, and an arcing swing sent the head of the hammer into the back of Rydell’s skull, finally sending him to the Last Embrace of the Father.
Even before she could recover from the blow she used to finish the henchman, Merovingian’s ears were filled with an odd music. But not JUST music. Not JUST notes. There was something...heavy...to them. Something which seemed to make them more. Something which added weight. She felt sluggish as she pulled up the Knocker, the sickening sound of the hammer’s head pulling from what remained of Rydell’s skull not evening registering in her ears due to the music. It felt as if her entire body was slowing. That she was moving through sludge. And that sleep would be wonderful right now. A sleep full of dreams. A sleep full of-
No, not sleep.
Sleep
She shakes her head, trying to wave away the music in her ears, and throws her mind toward the ring on her finger. She Ring of Shielding obeyed her, sending out its magic to aid her, and pushed away the spell. Her eyes clearing, she sees two figures in the distance looking at her, both with shocked looks on their face. Her adrenaline had spiked when she first realized the magical effect of the music in her ears, an adrenaline of finally facing the reason why she was even on this bloody field, but the bards in front of her were not her true quarry, though she DID know them.
Dressed in a ridiculous hat and a masquerade mask, MainStream’s eyes were full of a mixture of shock and fear as he realized that his bardic spell had failed. Next to him stood a man as ridiculously dressed, with the pompous fluffy shoulders of a Court Bard for House Mathis, Chaunciferous the Sweaty, whose eyes were also wide with that mixture of shock and fear. Merovingian sets her feet to face them, and out of her own control, her left arm raises to the level of her eyes and a loud THWIP fills the air. She looks down to see an arrow on the ground, automatically blocked by the Missile Catching magical property of her shield, and then looks up again to where the two bards stood, their knees shaking. Just below them, hiding in a copse of rocks, was the angular face and pointed beard of Sir Cyndrifficalous the Ranger, the greatest archer in all the Nine Realms. Merovingian offers him a rare smile and motions with her shield, to which the ranger scowls in return. Above him, the twin bards look at the impenetrable defenses of the paladin, look at one another, and run.
Cyndrifficalous shrugs his shoulders, tips his hat to the paladin, and follows.
Merovingian can only shrug her own shoulders in return and take her gaze elsewhere.
You sure letting them go is a smart idea? That could end up biting you in the ass.
Oh please, Writer. MainStream has done naught but to prove how ineffective he is in every aspect of battle, from an ability to win anything significant to not even bothering to show up at times. And while talented, the combination of Ranger and Bard in Cyndrifficalous and Chaunciferous is only worthwhile in small doses.
I see. How are you on hit points?
I am ever eternal, Writer. I am a bastion of all that is good. And even should I take damage, should these fledglings find some way past my armor, I have a full well of Lay on Hands.
That’s good for you.
...why do you sound so sly…?
Make a perception check.
...shit.
*the sound of a die rolling*
...12?
...heh...
“Ah!”
Merovingian slumps forward as she feels a jab of pain in her side. The spot of pain heated up, even hotter than the fog already made her body feel, and she could feel the seed of poison trying to push into her. She drops her shield and grabs at the pain, finding the hilt of a dagger, and rips it free. She feels blood gush from the wound, dripping down her body under her armor, slicking the plain white slips she wore underneath. She turns...a movement which makes her head spin...and finds a sneering face before her.
The sneering face of the Man of Many Names.
It was hard for Merovingian to gather her thoughts as the poison from the dagger’s blade made its way into her, but her hatred of the snake before her helped. A double agent for a rival kingdom the snake had befriended her and her former companions. He spoke with honeyed words about change and equality, about righteousness and goodness, but now she knew better. The entirety of the Nine Realms did. It turned out that the snake was merely working toward influence and power, merely looking to help his liege take over her beautiful Lacklandia. The deceit, subterfuge, and outright villainy, he has gained a foothold with the Great and Powerful Wizard CAPTAIN, and much of his nature had become known.
“Foolish. So foolish.”
Even his VOICE sounded like that of a snake to her ears. He moved before her, his body seeming to slither like his true nature, and she tried to focus. They had known him as Grapple McGrapplestein, but they knew he had other names in his life of villainy, a different name for every place he went, a different identity to fit his schemes. He had been a rat scurrying at the feet of beggars to feed off dropped crumbs, he had been the top of the industry world as an unstoppable juggernaut. And now, he was a man who had stabbed her with a poisoned blade with such efficiency as to find a place between her mithril plates to find purchase.
He swiped at her with his hands, both wielding more daggers, and her attempts to avoid him were sluggish. The poison coursed within her, setting her at a stark disadvantage against such a quick foe. Thankfully, without the advantage of stealth, his strikes only found her breastplate and her armored elbows, the blows landing harmlessly. She growled at him and drove a shoulder into him, pushing him away. He swiped at her as he fell back a step, and her eyes went wide before she slammed down the face guard. His dagger rebounded off the plate just in time, her eyes saved, likely death avoided.
The paladin throws her mind back through time. Thinks of the man’s battles which she has seen. What was he? WHO was he? Self-righteous...but not for a cause of Good, like he. Self-important. Self-assured. Always thought he was the smartest man in the room. Every single one of his plans SHOULD work, they SHOULD be successful, and if they were NOT, then it was someone else’s fault. His plan was misunderstood by the people involved. It was ALWAYS someone else’s fault.
Including the time SHE unraveled one of his plans.
“...how DID that bagel taste, worm? Bitter?”
His eyes widen and blaze at her taunt. She was good at that, though it annoyed people. Anything dealing with influencing people was something she was good at, much to the pleasure of the Forgotten God THAC0. And just like the fool he was, the snake leaped at her over the reminder of the time she unraveled his plans, of the time she BEAT him. She rushed forward, catching him by surprise, and catching him in mid leap, and she caught him in her arms. He was a thin man, not one accustomed to the true rigors of battle, and she used his momentum to turn and slam him into the ground. A great “OOF!” came from him as two hundred pounds of plate-wearing paladin slammed down on him, and she once again mentally thanked THAC0 for inspiring her to learn the art of grappling.
Now on her feet, the snake stunned and flat on his back, Merovingian does what she SHOULD have done when they first fought: Taking the Knocker in both hands, she swings the hammer back until the head touches her calves, and as she brings it up and forward, she channels the divine power that was the connection to her god. Her green eyes turn to points of light, and the hammer shines with a glow, as she brings the full wrath of radiance down upon the head of the villain.
Yeesh. That additional 3d6 damage from Branding Smite is sick.
It is what the infidel deserves. Nothing less. Damnit...where ARE those girls?!
………..
What is it, Writer?
Um….
Do you know something I do not? SPEAK PLAIN!
…………..they aren’t coming, Ava.
That is NOT my name! And what do you MEAN they are not coming! We do this EVERY week!
Not any more.
What is this-
You don’t have any friends any more, Ava. No family. This is what doing what you have become means.
……………….
You want to lead the compound? You want to lead the church? You want to fulfill God’s “great plan?” Then that means being alone. That means pushing away everyone you love, and everyone who MIGHT love you. It means-
You were my husband’s friend!
No. I was Lena’s friend. Ol’ Japles? All that service? I was nothing more THAN a servant to him. And the decisions you’ve made? What you’ve done to Kenzi? To Fangs? And what you are GOING to keep doing? It means that you have nothing, Ava.
THAT IS NOT MY NAME.
…..I know. C’mon...lets just finish this….
Merovingian stepped on what was left of the snake and kneeled down, trying to catch her breath. The poison was still stinging her from within, so she took the time to pray to THAC0, to feel his energy, and place her hands upon the dagger’s wound. Divine energy flowed through her, as she was a conduit for THAC0’s wants in the Nine Realms, and the poison was pushed out of her system and her energy restored. She knew she had more energy left, more of the “pool” of her god’s blessing for later, and was glad for it. She might well need it.
Surveying the field, she sees that most bodies were down. This melee was exhausting and taxing, was taking everything from her, but it would be worth it. Once she found her target. Once she found her NEED. Once she found-
“This will be the FINAL battle, nemesis!”
Merovingian turns to find two bodies moving around one another, and she was filled with dismay. Both were known to her, both had an air of familiarity, and while one brought warmth, the other brought worry.
The Oracle, Deimosious, was a friend. Shrouded in ever-present darkness by way of some strange displacing spell she did not understand, he was a tall man, at least taller than her, and old beyond time. He was the one who has pushed her and a team toward a land of swamps and pain, towards the lair of the dreaded dryder, Edenossa. She had her team...what survived of them...had ripped the heart of the foul creature, both to as take away a supporter of Necronium the Long-Winded, but to also play a part in his downfall. The Oracle’s advice and guidance had helped her ultimately take the head of the dragon and end the terror of Clan Blowhard, and she had never forgotten his aid.
The man he fought, unfortunately, was far different. A beast as much as he was man, with long hair and muscles bulging like a statue, the half-orc Zanerus was a Centurian General of the Plains of Emor, and his kingdom had battled with Lacklandia for generations. And as his short blade came down atop of Deimosious’ staff hard enough to drive his knees into the ground, she knew that it was too late to save her old mentor.
“No!”
Too late. Zanerus’ heavy foot pushed into Deimosious’ chest, knocking him to the ground, and the old wizard could do nothing to stop the short blade in his hand from entering his chest. Merovingian ran toward the duo, tears streaming from her eyes, the Knocker raised into the air with both hands, and the Centurion was there to meet her. Her downward strike was warded off by the small blade, the arms behind it filled with an unnatural strength, and pushed her away. With a grunt, she came to a halt and turned to face him, just as he set his feet to face her.
“This is YOUR final battle, Centurion! You will NOT leave this field alive!”
The half-orc laughed at her, the tiny tusks sticking out of his mouth shining with saliva, as he charged at her in response.
Back and forth the two fought, short blade looking for purchase behind impossible strength, the Knocker trying to catch him even one time. While the two had rarely seen one another before, the last few months had seen increasing skirmishes between their nations. And because of that, they had personally led several fights against one another, pitting both their brawn and their brains in combat. Merovingian, ever a stickler for note-taking and learning from both her mistakes and successes, knew that the two of them had fought, in some form or fashion, six times since the ice storms of the winter had passed, with a strong concentration on when the snows had begun to melt. He had struck the first victory, even giving her one of the scars that she carried on her face, but her return salvo had been dominant. Still, the two fought with their armies, fought in politics, fought in this war.
But this WOULD be the last fight.
She hissed as one of his blows got through, a slice against the chain on her arm that was able to get through the metal and to her skin. He cackled as his blade bit into her, the heat in her arm from more than just the wound. Indeed, his blade glowed the red of a forge, his Firebrand forcing her to spin away before the flames ripped through her. But she had her own tricks, of course, weapons given to her by her devotion to THAC0. Focusing on the holy symbol etched into the bottom of the handle of her Knocker, she becomes a true beacon of light, the entire weapon beginning to glow again. She swings the hammer at the half-orc, but the creature is able to leap back and dodge the attack. Just barely seen through his armor, the flesh of his chest is mottled, having been burned by that very same attack in some battle. Ten times they had fought in the last year, ten times facing against one another either in solo combat like this or at the head of their armies, looking to out maneuver one another, and all of the battles blended together. She was not sure when she gave him that brand, was not sure when this battle became personal, but it WOULD be the final one.
The creature screams at her, his body seeming to grow in size as he runs towards her, and an unnatural fear tries to overwhelm her. But years of study, years of training, years of bending knee to the Forgotten God THAC0, allow her to shrug off the fear and prepare for his attack. The Firebrand comes down on her from his great height, but she is able to hold the Knocker in two hands, the flaming edge stopping on the long hilt, holding it in place. He leers down at her, green spittle dripping from his lips and onto her visor.
“...when I win this melee...when I become KING of your lands...I will hand it over to MY liege. To PROVE how a TRUE champion acts! But throwing his wins IN THE TRASH!”
He heaves with seemingly all his might, pushing her backward, and she cannot help but slide across the ground. She nearly slips in a bit of mud, dirt turned wet and red from the flow of blood spilled at some point during the melee, and the Centurion rushes at her, looking to take advantage of her position. Off balance, Merovingian can only act with desperation, again appealing her to god’s favor for a shield of faith. But she is too late, the Firebrand coming down on her shoulder right before the shimmer of force can coalesce before her. The pain in her shoulder, searing and slashing all at the same time, with the general’s weight behind it, breaks her hopeful divine shield, and she falls to one knee from the strike. A well-placed boot from the Centurion knocks away her hammer, the sword bone-deep in her shoulder weakening her too greatly.
“Now you DIE!”
The general rips his short sword free from Merovingian’s shoulder, causing her blood to splatter to the ground, and holds the blade up high into the air with both hands, prepared to put everything he had into the killing blow. But then the Paladin reaches into her boot and pulls out a dagger, a tiny yet intricate lute carved into the handle, and reaches out to THAC0 a final time. The dagger pulses with divine energy and she slams it upward, piercing a section of the general’s abdomen which was exposed due to his all-or-nothing attack. Shock fills the Zanerus’ eyes as his Firebrand falls to the ground behind him with a dull thud, the fire extinguished. His hands to go his belly and try to keep in the lifeblood pouring out, but even he knows that the attempt is futile.
Zanerus falls to his knees, his mouth agape, as Merovingian stands up. She stretches out her hand and the Knocker returns to her in a flash. She places the hammerhead on the Centurion's chin and leans in close to him.
“This IS the end, general. You will find no upward movement in THIS failure.”
She stands up, pulls the Knocker back with both hands, and swings as hard as she can. One final time, the Knocker’s head bursts into a brilliant white light as it slams into the half-orc’s head and leaves naught but a ruined mass as his body crumbles to the ground. The paladin falls to one knee, her breaths coming in labored gasps.
“You used the dagger I gave you? REALLY?!”
Merovingian’s blood turns cold. She swivels her head to the sound of the voice, and even though this massive field of a bloody and deadly melee, the last of its kind, was empty of life except for hers, there now stood before her what she truly wished for, what she truly sought.
Her former companions.
With long black braids filled with bells, Thespina stood tall, her robes flailing in the wind. Sun-skinned bb stood next to her, her great club over her shoulder, with Belgiana on her other side. But most important was what stood in the middle of the trio, the thing which had broken what remained of The Adventurous Six:
Ambrosia.
“BETRAYER!”
Merovingian roared as she got to her feet, the Knocker flaring to life in the presence of the vampire half-elf. The pirate shrunk behind the dark-skinned bard as best she could, but her moonlight skin might as well have sparkled on that battlefield.
“No! YOU are the betrayer, Mero! YOU betrayed US!”
This fight again. This position again. When the half-elf pirate had been turned into one of the undead, they SHOULD have rallied behind the paladin. They SHOULD have HELPED her SMITE the abomination. Instead, they refused! They chose the disgusting mockery of life over the forces of GOOD.
“YOU betrayed GOD, Thespie. And now...now...we finish this.”
Belgiana raised her staff, her skin already turning into bark. bb hoisted her club and began entering the battle rage of her people. Thespina’s form began to change, to turn into the wolf. And Ambrosia smiled, fangs pushing out to shine against her pale lips. Nearly out of spells, fully out of divine favor for the day, Merovingian the Righteous did the only thing she could:
She healed herself with the last of her pool of divine healing, raised the Knocker into the sky, and charged.
It is time, Madam.
………….
………….
…..why don’t they love me, Writer?
…..this path you are taking? There is no love.
Madam?
………………
………………
Laisse tomber le marteau.
* * * * * * * * * *
Prenn had been working for the House of Lacklan since she was a young girl, learning the business of dressing and serving from the age of twelve. Several years older than the Blood Princess, she had somewhat seen the girl as a younger sister, if one that was the brattiest one there had ever been. And while she had initially had difficulty with the Princess’ life choices as an adult, which included the radical ideas of reformation for the Church, no doubt spurred by her shocking admission that she had been in a relationship with a black girl, of all things, Lord Lacklan’s acceptance of his daughter and who she was was a rock Prenn could always hold onto. She had enjoyed her assignment to be with the girl as she traveled the world, had grown to love Kenzi as much as she ever did Sarah, and felt blessed to be a part of their lives. She was genuinely saddened when the Queen had called her back, her and the rest of the retinue on assignment for the Princess and Duchess, but she understood her place.
Thus it was with great surprise when she received a note from a fellow member of the staff with the Queen’s sigil, that of a dragon blowing fire, which read but a few lines:
There is no turning back. Only to embrace and accept.
Take those who are loyal to my beautiful daughters. Go to them. Be with them. Serve and watch over them. Keep them warm and fed.
And embrace the Light.
The Queen’s writing was unmistakable, though the note made little sense to her. That was until the Queen walked by, anyway. And then it all made sense. She dipped into the deepest curtsy she could and fled, ready to take whoever would go with her at first light.
* * * * * * * * * *
krrrrSHK
Eyes were wide as the woman in black walked to the dias. There had been whispers about change all throughout the compound. Whispers about new things to understand. But what they saw before them exceeded their own thoughts and ideas, blew away the expectations of those wondering what the change would be.
krrrrSHK
This was no Queen of Red.
krrrrSHK
The woman’s stark white hair was pulled back into a single braid, tight and firm, and slung over one shoulder. On her face rested a white mask, the lights sharp and angular, seemingly almost demonic in the light, and filled with scratches and cracks which told of many battles. She wore a sleeveless black dress which fit her form smoothly and fell to the floor, a line a purple along the hem for a relief of color; the cut of the dress allowed her arms to be shown fully, both arms full of tiny scars, one side straight and precise, as if done with the doctor’s scalpel, while the lines on the other were jagged and chaotic, as if run through by the dull blade of a forgotten box cutter.
krrrrSHK
Her hands were at her sides as she walked, the UGWC Chaos Championship in one, being held by the one leather strap, the other strap being dragged carelessly across the ground. In the other hand, she clasped the handle of a long hammer, not the Knocker of legend, but one fashion after it, though smaller.
krrrrSHK
The sound of the hammer on the floor of the dais was loud as she dragged the two items behind her until she finally stood at the microphone. The masked face looked left and right over the crowd, the expression featureless due to the hellish white mask.
“The time has come, dear minions, to finish what was begun.”
Murmurs from the crowd below as men and women looked at one another. They had not been called “minions” in quite some time, not since the Blood Princess took over the “marketing” of the compound and changed the title to “denizen.”
“Years ago, my husband received a vision from God. A vision for a world united under one universal champion. A vision for a world which understood its place under the boot of my dear Jean-Paul. And he fought...and fought...and FOUGHT a world full of careless, thoughtless children, performing a thankless duty until God called him home to his side. And now...now...we finish what he started.”
She pauses as she looks over the crowd.
“A world filled with nothing but what God wishes. Think of it, minions! Think of the glory! Of HIS glory! To EMBRACE the Light! To FULFILL God’s plan! That is our mission. That is MY mission. To pick up my husband’s hammer and FINISH THIS FIGHT.”
She hoists up the hammer in her left hand. Somewhat smaller than the hammer wielded by her husband, a man filled with the strength of a lifetime of dedication to wrestling and lifting weights, it seemed no less deadly in her hands.
“And as such, it is time for me to cast away false idols. It is time for me to strip away false identities. It is time for ME to fully embrace who I am.”
She lowers the hammer and raises the title in its place.
“I proved...PROVED...God’s might over the last year and more. I took every bit of chaos in the world, became its QUEEN and CHAMPION, and wove God’s order out of it. And while I AM still the Chaos Champion...I am NOT the Champion of Chaos. Let the idols...let the identities...fall away to what is truly important.”
She drops the Chaos title at her feet and stares down at it for many moments.
“What I have done...cannot be undone. It can NEVER be undone! No matter WHAT happens in this world, there will be NOTHING that anyone can do to remove my name from this championship, to overcome my accomplishments. And it is time for me to do the same for what truly matters. It is time for me to fulfill my husband’s vision.”
She looks up from the Chaos championship and back over the crowd.
“In but a few hours, I will be returning to the Massive Melee. And this time, there is no Harvester to stop me; no, he has been vanquished. There is not Dynamo to get lucky. There are no surprise entrants freshly out of injury, or ugly gargoyles to steal the attention of the announcers. This time...this year...there is only me. And while our World Champion devalues her championship by not defending it during this cycle, while she fights the Cotton girl who similarly devalues HER championship by her weekly shame of a performance against the dregs of this business, I will bring HONOR to what I touch. I will bring GRACE to what I win. And I WILL win the Melee because, dear minions, only I posses the goal...the drive...to give the world what it needs. What it wants. What it CRAVES:
“The World Champion that it deserves.”
She looks down at the championship title at her feet again.
“I am no longer the Champion of Chaos.”
She looks back up to the crowd.
“I am no longer Le Bord de Dieu, the blade and edge, the in between.”
She shakes her head, the white mask gleaming for a moment as it catches a spot of light.
“I…”
She pauses.
“If you will allow me...one last time...to borrow from my friend, the Good Doctor.”
She raises the hammer again up high above her head.
“Please allow me to introduce myself. My name...my ONLY name...is LACKLAN.
She slams the hammer and crushes the dais before her.
x2
