12-25-2017, 03:51 PM
Chatterly fades silently out of the haze beside a heap of shattered timbers, shadows and impressions resolving themselves into the shape of a man. How long he was standing there I have no idea, but somehow neither I nor Mothra noticed him; He's clad all in leather armor and travelers clothes, mottled shades of green and brown smeared with mud and charcoal. His customary cloak is absent, and his hood is pulled low over his face. He wears his sword at his side, a bandoleer of leather pouches across his chest, and he has an intricate, strange little crossbow strapped to one arm. I only recognize him because from my low vantage point I can see the thin sharpness of his face, which he's covered in a dull green paste, and just a hint of his slick gray hair. He bows his head to Mothra by just the slightest fraction of an inch.
"It would be in the best interests of both of us, madame, if you were to step away from the banishment circle and allow the gentleman an opportunity to catch his breath."
I bristle at being called a gentleman; I've met gentlemen. They're fascinating, but also weak and useless. It's a grave enough insult that I forget myself and attempt to rise, to strike him for such insolence - only to be driven immediately back to my knees by a wave of overpowering vertigo. It occurs to me that the golden puddle I'm leaving on the impact-ravaged soil is getting quite large; I put a handful of soil to my chest, attempting to stop the flow.
Mothra's eyes are wide, her mouth open, a mask of incredulous shock. Her feathery antennae quiver with agitation, clutching her wounded arm. Bright blue blood is soaking through her sleeve. "You don't understand what you're doing," she says. "There's never going to be a better opportunity than this - he'll be prepared next time, don't you see? I didn't think it was possible, but I've been watching him - Ghidorah is learning. He won't underestimate his next opponent, and he's getting more powerful! He has to be banished now!"
I growl at the implied insult to my intelligence, but there's little feeling behind it; I'm too satisfied to see Mothra losing her composure. Even now she's afraid of me, and that takes a small part - a very small part - of the sting out of this blasphemous defeat.
Chatterly shakes his head and raises his wrist-bow, pointing it at my nemesis, and puts his free hand on his sword. Dust motes and dirt-particles dance in the air between them. "Nevertheless: I must insist."
Mothra regards him with caution, releasing her injured arm and facing him squarely. Her glittering jewel-like eyes narrow. "I'll fight you if I have to. But I am not letting him go. This is too important."
"Hm," says Chatterly, sounding vaguely disappointed. "If that's what you think, I invite you to consider the following: One, you are doubtless very tired. You may have thrashed our golden friend here quite soundly, but it has a cost, doesn't it? Two: Even if you could manage to transform again, these hills are riddled with caves, which I have thoroughly mapped. This sink-hole intrudes on no less than four of them; We'd escape you easily. And three - you wouldn't just be fighting me."
A single black-fletched arrow streaks from somewhere above us and lands quivering between the three of us.
"I have this pit surrounded," the spymaster explains, his avuncular tone at odds with his words. "You are outnumbered, tired, and hurt. My men have been specifically trained and equipped to deal with your kind, and not to put too fine a point on it, but there is a banishment circle lying right over there."
Mothra stares at him, her face slowly settling back into its customary infuriating impassivity as the tension leaks from her body - but there's a new element present, a vague downward caste to her mouth that makes me wish I had the strength to laugh; She's sad.
"You're going to look back on this one day and wish you'd acted differently," she says. "This is a terrible mistake."
Chatterly acknowledges this with a sideways nod. "Possibly. That is, however, a risk I am prepared to accept."
My nemesis is silent for moment, then she nods and turns away, rising into the dusty air. The haze swirls around her, and her torn, stained robes flutter as she departs. For the first time I notice that each of her flowing sleeves has a large red circle upon it, similar to the markings on the wings of her true self. Leaving us behind in this pit, I hear her voice in my mind:
"I know you're not capable of gratitude, Ghidorah, but please think hard about what just happened here. Appreciate what these men have done for you, because the next time we meet, things will be very different."
I manage to bark out a single, contemptuous laugh, but even that small exertion proves to be too much; red and black swirl in from the edges, and everything goes dark.
"It would be in the best interests of both of us, madame, if you were to step away from the banishment circle and allow the gentleman an opportunity to catch his breath."
I bristle at being called a gentleman; I've met gentlemen. They're fascinating, but also weak and useless. It's a grave enough insult that I forget myself and attempt to rise, to strike him for such insolence - only to be driven immediately back to my knees by a wave of overpowering vertigo. It occurs to me that the golden puddle I'm leaving on the impact-ravaged soil is getting quite large; I put a handful of soil to my chest, attempting to stop the flow.
Mothra's eyes are wide, her mouth open, a mask of incredulous shock. Her feathery antennae quiver with agitation, clutching her wounded arm. Bright blue blood is soaking through her sleeve. "You don't understand what you're doing," she says. "There's never going to be a better opportunity than this - he'll be prepared next time, don't you see? I didn't think it was possible, but I've been watching him - Ghidorah is learning. He won't underestimate his next opponent, and he's getting more powerful! He has to be banished now!"
I growl at the implied insult to my intelligence, but there's little feeling behind it; I'm too satisfied to see Mothra losing her composure. Even now she's afraid of me, and that takes a small part - a very small part - of the sting out of this blasphemous defeat.
Chatterly shakes his head and raises his wrist-bow, pointing it at my nemesis, and puts his free hand on his sword. Dust motes and dirt-particles dance in the air between them. "Nevertheless: I must insist."
Mothra regards him with caution, releasing her injured arm and facing him squarely. Her glittering jewel-like eyes narrow. "I'll fight you if I have to. But I am not letting him go. This is too important."
"Hm," says Chatterly, sounding vaguely disappointed. "If that's what you think, I invite you to consider the following: One, you are doubtless very tired. You may have thrashed our golden friend here quite soundly, but it has a cost, doesn't it? Two: Even if you could manage to transform again, these hills are riddled with caves, which I have thoroughly mapped. This sink-hole intrudes on no less than four of them; We'd escape you easily. And three - you wouldn't just be fighting me."
A single black-fletched arrow streaks from somewhere above us and lands quivering between the three of us.
"I have this pit surrounded," the spymaster explains, his avuncular tone at odds with his words. "You are outnumbered, tired, and hurt. My men have been specifically trained and equipped to deal with your kind, and not to put too fine a point on it, but there is a banishment circle lying right over there."
Mothra stares at him, her face slowly settling back into its customary infuriating impassivity as the tension leaks from her body - but there's a new element present, a vague downward caste to her mouth that makes me wish I had the strength to laugh; She's sad.
"You're going to look back on this one day and wish you'd acted differently," she says. "This is a terrible mistake."
Chatterly acknowledges this with a sideways nod. "Possibly. That is, however, a risk I am prepared to accept."
My nemesis is silent for moment, then she nods and turns away, rising into the dusty air. The haze swirls around her, and her torn, stained robes flutter as she departs. For the first time I notice that each of her flowing sleeves has a large red circle upon it, similar to the markings on the wings of her true self. Leaving us behind in this pit, I hear her voice in my mind:
"I know you're not capable of gratitude, Ghidorah, but please think hard about what just happened here. Appreciate what these men have done for you, because the next time we meet, things will be very different."
I manage to bark out a single, contemptuous laugh, but even that small exertion proves to be too much; red and black swirl in from the edges, and everything goes dark.