02-07-2018, 03:46 AM
(This post was last modified: 02-08-2018, 01:00 AM by King Ghidorah.
Edit Reason: Next-morning cleanup.
)
Even so, I am not willing to simply go along with this insipid farce.
"You should hope you have something with which to mitigate this outrage besides an insolent invitation and a cryptic threat, Chatterly. Just because I've been willing to kill for him doesn't mean I recognize your Duke's authority over me, and I refuse to be held in such contempt!"
I raise my hands and glower thunderously, making fists in order to better illustrate my point, reveling in their implied promise; Horrified as I once was by my fingers, my list of reasons to appreciate them continues to grow.
Chatterly rests his elbows on the burgundy arms of his chair and steeples his fingers in front of his chest. The lamplight flickers off his oily grey hair. "It's not contempt, dear fellow. The Duke is holding you to a standard: An agreement was made, you broke it, and so there are consequences; I assure you, for literally anyone else they would be far more severe."
I gaze into his slate-grey eyes, watching my own golden reflection shining in his pupils, and point my hand at the naked doorway with the sincere intention of sending a blast of cosmic lightning blazing out into the hall.
Chatterly is faster. Before I can entirely parse what's happened the agent has risen from his chair and driven me face-first into a corner with one arm twisted viciously behind my back. Pain flares inside my shoulder as bone grinds against bone. The sheer speed of it is so stunning that I'm completely unable to resist.
"There is, however, a limit to the Duke's indulgence. And, for that matter, to mine. You will not kill any more of his Grace's subjects."
He's extremely strong, for a human - at least as strong as Mothra, which comes as a rude shock - but even so I can't help but smile. His body is pressed closely against mine, one hand locking my arm in place, the other holding what I have to guess is a woefully inadequate knife against the scales of my back. At this range, it doesn't matter how fast he is - with the difference in our heights, his face must be mere inches from my hand.
I've wanted to do this for weeks.
Astral charge explodes from the palm of my painfully torqued appendage, lighting the room in shades of gold. I can feel the flare of heat as the lightning connects with his body, hear the crackle and smell the savory tang of burning flesh. The pressure on my shoulder disappears; There's a loud smack followed swiftly by a heavy, complicated wooden thump: presumably the sounds of Chatterly's burning body impacting his recently-vacated chair, knocking it to the ground.
I turn away from the wall, laughter already rising in my throat, preparing to rip my hated enemy limb from limb - and am shocked and dismayed by what I find.
Chatterly is alive, for one thing. Burned, yes, down on one knee behind his toppled chair, yes, but far less dead than I'd expected. His shirt has been blasted to ashes, revealing a ruined leather breastplate and a strange metal charm, hanging on a silver chain around his neck. The latter is glowing red-hot, and the former has a scorched, jagged hole in it the size of my fist, exposing a bright red patch of blistered flesh over his heart. He has a long, wickedly curved dagger in each hand. The serrated blades possess a faint corona, a hint of moonlight-silver largely obscured by the orange glow of the oil-lamp on the wall.
Almost as astonishing as his survival is the fact that several of the patrons from the tavern's tap-room, wealthy merchants, shopkeeps and travelers, are now arrayed in the hallway outside our private booth. All of them are wearing similar expressions of professional attentiveness, watching me with their hands folded in front of their belts.
None of them are armed. Confusingly, I find that concerning.
Chatterly stands, adopting a strangely relaxed stance I've never seen before, with one knife held near his chin and the other in a reverse-grip in front of his abdomen.
"We could," he says, adopting an infuriatingly conversational inflection, "continue this if you like. However, I expect the outcome would be dreadfully disappointing for both of us. I came here prepared for this fight, King Ghidorah, whatever form it might take - but I'd rather offer incentives. As always, there will be rewards for your co-operation."
For the first time in my eons-long existence, I regret being right about something; Chatterly's jibe about form is not lost on me.
I stare at him, trying to figure out why he still has a face. It's true that my golden lightning can be unpredictable, arcing wildly off-course, but he was right there. I could feel his breath on my scales!
"What sort of... incentives," I hiss, once again shaking with rage. I can feel an opportunity slipping away, fueling the growing certainty that I'm not going to kill the despised spymaster today after all. Here and now, pursuing this conflict might be unwise: if there's one thing I've learned in this accursed valley it's that unless I am certain my power is overwhelmingly superior I must tread carefully.
Chatterly smiles, but doesn't lower his knives. The floorboards creak beneath his shiny black boots as he shifts his weight.
"If you go to the upcoming gala, and you restrain yourself from killing or maiming anybody - including the servants - you will have the opportunity not only to familiarize yourself will all sorts of new, interesting people, but to meet the Lady Isolda. I seem to recall you displayed a marked curiosity where she was concerned, and I have it on good authority that she is planning to attend."
"You should hope you have something with which to mitigate this outrage besides an insolent invitation and a cryptic threat, Chatterly. Just because I've been willing to kill for him doesn't mean I recognize your Duke's authority over me, and I refuse to be held in such contempt!"
I raise my hands and glower thunderously, making fists in order to better illustrate my point, reveling in their implied promise; Horrified as I once was by my fingers, my list of reasons to appreciate them continues to grow.
Chatterly rests his elbows on the burgundy arms of his chair and steeples his fingers in front of his chest. The lamplight flickers off his oily grey hair. "It's not contempt, dear fellow. The Duke is holding you to a standard: An agreement was made, you broke it, and so there are consequences; I assure you, for literally anyone else they would be far more severe."
I gaze into his slate-grey eyes, watching my own golden reflection shining in his pupils, and point my hand at the naked doorway with the sincere intention of sending a blast of cosmic lightning blazing out into the hall.
Chatterly is faster. Before I can entirely parse what's happened the agent has risen from his chair and driven me face-first into a corner with one arm twisted viciously behind my back. Pain flares inside my shoulder as bone grinds against bone. The sheer speed of it is so stunning that I'm completely unable to resist.
"There is, however, a limit to the Duke's indulgence. And, for that matter, to mine. You will not kill any more of his Grace's subjects."
He's extremely strong, for a human - at least as strong as Mothra, which comes as a rude shock - but even so I can't help but smile. His body is pressed closely against mine, one hand locking my arm in place, the other holding what I have to guess is a woefully inadequate knife against the scales of my back. At this range, it doesn't matter how fast he is - with the difference in our heights, his face must be mere inches from my hand.
I've wanted to do this for weeks.
Astral charge explodes from the palm of my painfully torqued appendage, lighting the room in shades of gold. I can feel the flare of heat as the lightning connects with his body, hear the crackle and smell the savory tang of burning flesh. The pressure on my shoulder disappears; There's a loud smack followed swiftly by a heavy, complicated wooden thump: presumably the sounds of Chatterly's burning body impacting his recently-vacated chair, knocking it to the ground.
I turn away from the wall, laughter already rising in my throat, preparing to rip my hated enemy limb from limb - and am shocked and dismayed by what I find.
Chatterly is alive, for one thing. Burned, yes, down on one knee behind his toppled chair, yes, but far less dead than I'd expected. His shirt has been blasted to ashes, revealing a ruined leather breastplate and a strange metal charm, hanging on a silver chain around his neck. The latter is glowing red-hot, and the former has a scorched, jagged hole in it the size of my fist, exposing a bright red patch of blistered flesh over his heart. He has a long, wickedly curved dagger in each hand. The serrated blades possess a faint corona, a hint of moonlight-silver largely obscured by the orange glow of the oil-lamp on the wall.
Almost as astonishing as his survival is the fact that several of the patrons from the tavern's tap-room, wealthy merchants, shopkeeps and travelers, are now arrayed in the hallway outside our private booth. All of them are wearing similar expressions of professional attentiveness, watching me with their hands folded in front of their belts.
None of them are armed. Confusingly, I find that concerning.
Chatterly stands, adopting a strangely relaxed stance I've never seen before, with one knife held near his chin and the other in a reverse-grip in front of his abdomen.
"We could," he says, adopting an infuriatingly conversational inflection, "continue this if you like. However, I expect the outcome would be dreadfully disappointing for both of us. I came here prepared for this fight, King Ghidorah, whatever form it might take - but I'd rather offer incentives. As always, there will be rewards for your co-operation."
For the first time in my eons-long existence, I regret being right about something; Chatterly's jibe about form is not lost on me.
I stare at him, trying to figure out why he still has a face. It's true that my golden lightning can be unpredictable, arcing wildly off-course, but he was right there. I could feel his breath on my scales!
"What sort of... incentives," I hiss, once again shaking with rage. I can feel an opportunity slipping away, fueling the growing certainty that I'm not going to kill the despised spymaster today after all. Here and now, pursuing this conflict might be unwise: if there's one thing I've learned in this accursed valley it's that unless I am certain my power is overwhelmingly superior I must tread carefully.
Chatterly smiles, but doesn't lower his knives. The floorboards creak beneath his shiny black boots as he shifts his weight.
"If you go to the upcoming gala, and you restrain yourself from killing or maiming anybody - including the servants - you will have the opportunity not only to familiarize yourself will all sorts of new, interesting people, but to meet the Lady Isolda. I seem to recall you displayed a marked curiosity where she was concerned, and I have it on good authority that she is planning to attend."