12-24-2017, 03:44 PM
(This post was last modified: 12-28-2017, 12:34 PM by King Ghidorah.)
I jolt awake, terrified beyond reason, but whatever phantasm is responsible has already slipped beyond my grasp leaving only confusion in its wake.
Where am I?
I'm in my hominid form, lying at the bottom of a shallow, irregular pit, surrounded by wooden debris, bits of canvas and pulverized corpses - men in armor I don't recognize. There's a dull brown haze in the air, enough to limit visibility, and a vague scent of scorched soil. My chest feels wet and hot, itching unbearably, and when I touch it my claws come away dripping with golden blood. Sitting up brings a wave of vertigo, a worrying pulse of moist warmth from my wound, and a symphony of internal pain. Things are shifting inside of me, broken and jagged, that aren't supposed to move.
It all comes rushing back: Mothra's unexpected potency, our battle, my humiliating defeat! This desolate hole in the ground must be the crater my falling body left when she blasted me out of the sky, and its other occupants the remains of whomever I landed on. The sheer impossible outrage of it - King Ghidorah, beaten by one of her kind! - burns worse than my injuries, and it can't be allowed to go unanswered; Killing that overbearing insect was supposed to be an entertaining distraction, but now its a matter of pride.
I'll have to retreat for the time being, of course. Leaving aside what I suspect are incapacitating wounds, my energies are sorely depleted. Even against the likes of Brock Coxley at the moment I couldn't do better than an embarrassing death - but I'll return. I'll bide my time, cultivate my power, and the next time Mothra and I meet the result will be very, very different.
I try to stand, but simply kneeling blots out my vision with black starbursts rimmed in red; My injuries are too severe. It seems that I'm stuck in this place for now, at least until I can affect some basic level of healing. Unfortunately, I don't get the opportunity.
There's a brief impression of diaphanous silk as a heavy blow strikes me alongside the face, knocking me to the ground. When my vision clears, I find myself staring up past scorched robes and feminine curves into a pair of multifaceted rainbow eyes.
No.
"It's over, Ghidorah," Mothra says: the first words I've heard her speak aloud. Her voice is surprisingly low, but very bright, suggestive of a song. "For almost any other Prime, I would simply kill them - but your'e too dangerous, too cunning and too destructive. I can't allow you to come back."
She pulls a circular metal knicknack from among her robes; it gleams strangely, catching the light in spite of the haze. I don't know what it is, but I'm struck by a strange, instinctive bone-deep terror, even more threatening than the prospect of my imminent demise. Fighting to remain conscious, I push myself up on one rippling golden arm.
"What," I gasp, tasting blood, "are you talking about?"
She gazes impassively down at me as I draw desperately on my astral wellspring. Power sparks within my throat, but I can't focus it, can't make it do what I want.
"You really don't know," she says, just a hint of surprise coloring her tone.
Gingerly, I roll over onto all fours, grinding my teeth and biting back the humiliation of kneeling before my enemy. Mothra is right in front of me! If I can just manage one blast...
"Know what, you arrogant bug?"
"Primes are immortal. We can't die, not permanently-
I sneer, interrupting her with a brief fit of coughing which leaves flecks of golden blood steaming in the dirt. "Of course I know that - I've been here for months, doing nothing but gathering information and killing people. I'd have to be stupid, not to know."
I neglect to tell her how long it took me to figure it out - but in my defense the fact of Prime immortality is so utterly revolting, so anathema (which is a word possessing truly delightful shades of loathing) to everything I value and desire that I couldn't help but avoid it for as long as possible. My own indestructibility was easy to accept, but other Primes? The very thought that Dawnika Snow might have recovered from what I did to her... I dismissed the idea as the ignorant rambling of peasants until I heard it from Chatterly himself during one of our weekly check-in, and even then I took some convincing; it entirely spoiled my afternoon.
"...But we can," Mothra continues, "be sent away."
She raises the metal circlet in front of her - and a volley of small crossbow bolts erupts from the haze, cutting the air with a subtle triple-hiss, perforating her arm, grazing her side, tearing her sleeve and knocking the menacing trinket from her hand.
Where am I?
I'm in my hominid form, lying at the bottom of a shallow, irregular pit, surrounded by wooden debris, bits of canvas and pulverized corpses - men in armor I don't recognize. There's a dull brown haze in the air, enough to limit visibility, and a vague scent of scorched soil. My chest feels wet and hot, itching unbearably, and when I touch it my claws come away dripping with golden blood. Sitting up brings a wave of vertigo, a worrying pulse of moist warmth from my wound, and a symphony of internal pain. Things are shifting inside of me, broken and jagged, that aren't supposed to move.
It all comes rushing back: Mothra's unexpected potency, our battle, my humiliating defeat! This desolate hole in the ground must be the crater my falling body left when she blasted me out of the sky, and its other occupants the remains of whomever I landed on. The sheer impossible outrage of it - King Ghidorah, beaten by one of her kind! - burns worse than my injuries, and it can't be allowed to go unanswered; Killing that overbearing insect was supposed to be an entertaining distraction, but now its a matter of pride.
I'll have to retreat for the time being, of course. Leaving aside what I suspect are incapacitating wounds, my energies are sorely depleted. Even against the likes of Brock Coxley at the moment I couldn't do better than an embarrassing death - but I'll return. I'll bide my time, cultivate my power, and the next time Mothra and I meet the result will be very, very different.
I try to stand, but simply kneeling blots out my vision with black starbursts rimmed in red; My injuries are too severe. It seems that I'm stuck in this place for now, at least until I can affect some basic level of healing. Unfortunately, I don't get the opportunity.
There's a brief impression of diaphanous silk as a heavy blow strikes me alongside the face, knocking me to the ground. When my vision clears, I find myself staring up past scorched robes and feminine curves into a pair of multifaceted rainbow eyes.
No.
"It's over, Ghidorah," Mothra says: the first words I've heard her speak aloud. Her voice is surprisingly low, but very bright, suggestive of a song. "For almost any other Prime, I would simply kill them - but your'e too dangerous, too cunning and too destructive. I can't allow you to come back."
She pulls a circular metal knicknack from among her robes; it gleams strangely, catching the light in spite of the haze. I don't know what it is, but I'm struck by a strange, instinctive bone-deep terror, even more threatening than the prospect of my imminent demise. Fighting to remain conscious, I push myself up on one rippling golden arm.
"What," I gasp, tasting blood, "are you talking about?"
She gazes impassively down at me as I draw desperately on my astral wellspring. Power sparks within my throat, but I can't focus it, can't make it do what I want.
"You really don't know," she says, just a hint of surprise coloring her tone.
Gingerly, I roll over onto all fours, grinding my teeth and biting back the humiliation of kneeling before my enemy. Mothra is right in front of me! If I can just manage one blast...
"Know what, you arrogant bug?"
"Primes are immortal. We can't die, not permanently-
I sneer, interrupting her with a brief fit of coughing which leaves flecks of golden blood steaming in the dirt. "Of course I know that - I've been here for months, doing nothing but gathering information and killing people. I'd have to be stupid, not to know."
I neglect to tell her how long it took me to figure it out - but in my defense the fact of Prime immortality is so utterly revolting, so anathema (which is a word possessing truly delightful shades of loathing) to everything I value and desire that I couldn't help but avoid it for as long as possible. My own indestructibility was easy to accept, but other Primes? The very thought that Dawnika Snow might have recovered from what I did to her... I dismissed the idea as the ignorant rambling of peasants until I heard it from Chatterly himself during one of our weekly check-in, and even then I took some convincing; it entirely spoiled my afternoon.
"...But we can," Mothra continues, "be sent away."
She raises the metal circlet in front of her - and a volley of small crossbow bolts erupts from the haze, cutting the air with a subtle triple-hiss, perforating her arm, grazing her side, tearing her sleeve and knocking the menacing trinket from her hand.