05-20-2018, 11:57 AM
“... Worth it.” I manage to croak after spitting out a mouthful of sand.
Despite my stubborn attitude, though, I have to admit to myself that if I’m to have any hope of actually serving my king well—as opposed to merely loyally throwing my life away for almost no actual gain—then I’m really gonna need to work on not stopping to gawk at his beautiful body at every. Possible. Opportunity.
In my defence, I had no way of knowing he was going to be stripping, so I never had the chance to mentally prepare myself for that occurrence.
Still, totally reasonable and understandable and not-my-fault though it may have been, my... prolonged observations... did directly result in me failing to notice an oncoming cart until it was practically on top of me.
Thankfully, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t moving at top speed at the time, so despite being rammed hard enough to get sent careening into a nearby dune—then roll over a several times, filling my mouth and nose with sand as I tried to gasp for air after having the breath knocked right out of me—I don’t feel as if anything has been broken when I tentatively flex my limbs to check.
I’ll be bruised as fuck, of course, but nothing serious is the matter, it seems, so that’s a relief. Groaning, I push myself back onto my feet, spotting the vehicle that bowled me over turning and beginning another approach, presumably with the intention of repeating the act. They will pay for stopping me from ogling Gilgamesh’s chiseled abs.
Wait, no. Dammit. I mean for attacking the city. Yeah, that’s what it is they’re paying for.
This one seems a lot more crowded than the previous cart, and though a few of those inside wield the same odd-looking ranged weapons, none of them are firing upon me. All they do is stand up in their roofless contraption as it rockets along, clinging on tight to avoid being throw off whilst laughing and joking with each other. Probably betting on how far this time their driver can knock the stupid bitch standing still, staring off into the distance, in the middle of a battlefield.
I grind my teeth in irritation, waving my right hand through the air just in time to snatch a newly-summoned javelin as it appears beside me. These filthy outlaws must learn not to underestimate the followers of the Golden King.
… Not even those of us who are maybe a tiny bit too quick to lose our focus when presented with the opportunity to gaze upon his divine form. I glance over at him again for an instant—noting that the he is managing to hold that enormous gladiator pressed face-first into the sand with only one hand, and making it look easy, whilst with his other hand, which clutches a sword, he gestures towards three more of the two-wheeled vehicles, causing half a dozen portals open above them, which send six silver spears speeding straight down at the riders—before begrudgingly wrenching my gaze back to my own opponents.
No matter how little they may think of me, I’m not dumb enough to let myself get run over twice in as many minutes.
I leap skyward, at the same moment launching my javelin forwards. Piercing straight through the sheet of glass at the front of the cart, it embeds itself almost in the dead centre of the driver’s chest, causing her contemptuous grin to be instantly replaced by an expression of shocked disbelief. Their vehicle passes beneath me and I turn in mid-air in time to see the passengers—a solid dozen of them—piling out haphazardly at almost the exact moment that the cart crests the dune and flies off, soaring through the air for a few metres before crashing down on its front and then flipping over to slam, upside-down, onto the sand.
Even if the spear through the heart somehow didn’t kill her, being crushed under all that scrap metal surely would have finished the job. I land, sinking into a crouch then rising immediately, as gracefully as I can manage, catching one of my javelins in each hand as they form at my sides. I grin at my scattered foes, expecting to see rage on their faces… but am instead surprised to notice no such thing; they still seem just as upbeat as before. I guess none of them were particularly fond of that chick?
They have the high ground, so manage to close in much faster than if they’d been forced to run up one of these sandy mounds to reach me, rather than down. I only manage to make one more throw—which hits a big guy in the arm, but falls out immediately, apparently not having penetrated the bone—before they’re upon me.
Those with the ranged weapons manage to shoot me a few times on their approach—doing little more than giving me a few tiny cuts—but much less quickly than those on the first cart… it would seem that these objects are more like sidearms than their primary weapons, as they’re all quickly stowed away in favour of armaments I’m much more familiar with: wicked-looking knives, short swords, and hatchets, for the most part... though one large woman with a beer gut and enough muscle on her bones to put a bullock to shame hefts a huge, black iron mace in either hand, each of which probably weighs more than I do.
I manage to stab the first of them—a skinny guy with long, dirty blond hair and a short beard—in the belly as he charges me, with such force that a good couple feet of my spear’s shaft actually end up punching straight out of his back, and take a weak swipe of his knife to my face in repayment. It does nothing, of course. The golden fires of my Protections are more than up to the task of warding off such feeble blows.
He falls to the side, though, as he dies, dragging my javelin with it. Unable to take the time to yank it free, I instead simply attempt to summon another. Even that is apparently asking too much, though, for the rest of them are upon me before it has fully formed, and the flames dissipate into nothingness as one dude chops savagely at my shoulder with an axe. It still doesn’t break my skin, though the burst of flame that wards it off this time is noticeably larger; a sign that I’m pushing my luck asking my magic to hold off attacks like that… not that I need such a reminder; the wince-inducing shot of pain by itself would have done the trick.
I lash out, a fist connecting with his jaw, sending him stumbling back a pace. Though there are plenty of others to take his place. In moments I find myself bowled over, all manner of blades raining down upon me as I lash out with fists, feet, elbows and knees in an entertaining but largely futile effort at holding off my foes. I find myself grinning just as broadly as my psychotic killers-to-be, reminded of the good old days of wading into whole crowds of enemies and just taking them apart piece by piece until they finally realised that they just could not harm me, no matter what they did, and fled in terror.
Of course, here, I can be harmed easily enough. I can feel every blow, in fact, and I’m keenly aware that they’re no longer all being warded of, as I've now accumulated more than a few cuts of my own. Oddly, though, I don’t really mind too much… or perhaps I should say ‘worryingly, though, I don’t really mind too much’. Why is it that the idea of being brutally hacked to pieces seems so much less terrible a fate to me when done in the service of the god-king?
My attention is dragged away from contemplating my own potentially deteriorating mental state by the arrival of an ear in my field of vision. By this point, they’re basically all over me, stabbing and slashing and punching and trying to pin me down, and this one guy is doing something or other—I can’t even tell whose weapons and fists belong to who any more—when someone knocks him over in their haste to get a piece of the action and he falls down on top of me… his left ear just an inch or two from my mouth.
Whatever else may be going on in my head right now, I’m still me. And so, naturally, I’m not gonna be passing up any of the rare few opportunities to cause suffering that I can actually get away with… Nippurian citizens may be out of bounds, but bandits are aaaall good. So I grab his ear in my jaws and tear the fucker right off.
He screams. A lot. The others just laugh, though, and after spitting out the ear, I join in.
“Huh huh huh,” rumbles the giant of a woman, as the rest of the little band parts to allow her to close in on me… though I can’t help but notice that they’ve kept a grip on each of my limbs, effectively immobilising me, “you got a decent sense o’ humour, bunnygirl. You evah wanna be a bandit, just hit us up some time… aftah you get done bein’ dead, that is. No hard feelin’s.”
My smile vanishes quickly as I struggle impotently against my captors and the hulking brute raises her twin mauls above her head for a blow that I know will undoubtedly cave in my ribcage. She laughs again upon seeing my mood souring... though she doesn’t really have a clue what it is that I’m thinking.
On one hand, I’m perversely tempted to take the hit… proving my loyalty by meaninglessly throwing away my life. Ugh! I don’t know what it is that’s wrong with me—why it is that merely being near Gilgamesh for such a short time could have had such an effect on me—but I do know for a fact that I’d be only too happy to give my life if that was what he wanted... or, failing that, to simply to get back to kneeling and grovelling in his presence just as soon as I can return to him… especially if he still isn’t wearing a shirt.
Just thinking about caressing his bare skin brings a flush to my cheeks... imagining our bare flesh touching, our bodies pressed up against one another as he-
No! No! Bad thought! Bad thought!
I’m no expert on religion, but it seems pretty likely to me that daydreaming about yourself literally fucking god is probably seriously heretical… so I guess I should, like, probably not do that.
Instead, I bring my thoughts back around to the matter at hand; I really should avoid dying here. Not only because it means I get to spend more time in his vicinity, but also to prove myself a greater asset to him. Yes, living is smart... it’s also effort, though.
After all this fighting—along with the copious amounts of injuries I’ve received so far—I’m not really at all sure that I can actually even manage to repeat my earlier trick with that Restorations spell. As the outlaw swings downwards with her maces, though, I don’t really have any other choice but to give it a shot.
Gritting my teeth, I strain to call up another roaring conflagration of gold. For an instant, I fear it isn’t working, but then, slower and a lot more begrudgingly than I’d like, the roiling inferno spills outwards from my body, and shrieks of agony pierce my ears like white hot knives as the bandits are consumed, though they’re thankfully cut short pretty quick. My wounds heal somewhat, though much more torpidly than with my previous use of the spell, and as I’m only able to keep the fires manifested for several seconds this time, and when they vanish I’m left still with a few cuts and many more bruises.
Ash and the charred remains of my attackers are strewn all about me, and plenty of the stuff has gotten into my remaining wounds. I groan between laboured breaths and just lie there for a few moments, contemplating the daunting challenge of standing up.
I may have beaten that lot, but only by once again relying on my most powerful spell… my Protections and my weak, human body alike are letting me down. I’m not going to give up and just lay here waiting to die… but I know that at this point, I won’t be able to use my Restorations again. I don’t have the energy left for it. I’m done. Any more injuries I get from this point on won’t be going anywhere in a hurry, and the next time any of them manage to pin me down, I won’t have any more cheap tricks I can use to get rid of them.
Reaching up with both hands, I summon a javelin, which I use as a crutch to lean on as I haul my aching body back up onto its feet. Wiping sweat from my brow with one shaking hand, I look out across the sands in time to see my king—still topless—land a boot in the chest of the murmillo-masked madman, interrupting the brute’s attempt at tackling him to the ground.
I have no clue how or when that thug managed to escape Gilgamesh’s grasp, though judging from the number of dead outlaws in their vicinity, I’d venture a guess that his allies dived in to help him free himself, and were punished severely for their temerity; dying in droves as a result.
Still, it’s plenty clear from the way that the big bandit is sent flying by the kick that the god-king is in little danger from such a person, free or not. Alas, though, even Gilgamesh is not omnipotent. Not here, in Omni’s world. Although those magical, glowing, red tattoos of his still burn bright and strong, I can see even from as far away as I am that his breathing is much heavier than normal, and that his skin is covered by a fine sheen of sweat.
The surviving bandits seem to be hanging back for the time being; content to let their leader do the heavy lifting while they either drive around aimlessly or sit still in their crude conveyances. No doubt the sight of so many of their fellows cut down like blades of grass has left them more than a little hesitant to approach the god-king… I’m sure they wouldn’t have expected a mere two Primes to be capable of causing such devastation to their mighty band of raiders… especially with such advanced weapons as they have on their side.
They’ve paid a high price for thinking so lightly of my king.
I wish I could say that the sight of him spurred me on to fight ever harder, gave me a second wind, lit a fire within me… or some other such poetic sentiment. But that would be a lie. All I feel is guilt. I am supposed to be one of his subjects—no, more than that, one of his Primes, his elites—and yet not only have I failed to keep these filthy outlaws from touching him, I’ve even been relying on Gilgamesh to take out the majority of them, since I can't even protect myself, never mind him... from the way he fights, it is clear that he prefers to fire at his foes from a distance... if I was a better subordinate, I would have never left his side. I shouldn't have been trying feebly to show off; I should have remained nearby to shield him from harm with my own body.
So though I don’t feel in any way refreshed or ready for this, but more like I could collapse in a heap and fall asleep at any moment, I drop my golden spear—which will only weigh me down—and break into a loping, bounding run. I head straight for him, each of my leaping steps taking me much further than a normal human’s possibly could, as I push my tired muscles to their limits… it’s a struggle to keep my legs from giving out under me with every step, and all my remaining, semi-healed cuts are soon torn wide open once more, eliciting a noise somewhere between a groan and a whimper from my throat.
I carry on, though, despite my pain and exhaustion, ignoring the fresh blood running down my skin and once more soaking into clothes still blackened with ash and soot from when my last batch of flames burnt away all the spilt blood covering me, along with those who had spilt it. Even if I’m barely fit to stand by the time I reach him, much less fight by his side, I need to get back there… I can’t leave him undefended any longer than I already have... even if all I manage to achieve is to to stand in front of him and get slain by a shot that may have just grazed him, spilling a tiny bit of his divine blood, that will still be something, at least.
Despite my stubborn attitude, though, I have to admit to myself that if I’m to have any hope of actually serving my king well—as opposed to merely loyally throwing my life away for almost no actual gain—then I’m really gonna need to work on not stopping to gawk at his beautiful body at every. Possible. Opportunity.
In my defence, I had no way of knowing he was going to be stripping, so I never had the chance to mentally prepare myself for that occurrence.
Still, totally reasonable and understandable and not-my-fault though it may have been, my... prolonged observations... did directly result in me failing to notice an oncoming cart until it was practically on top of me.
Thankfully, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t moving at top speed at the time, so despite being rammed hard enough to get sent careening into a nearby dune—then roll over a several times, filling my mouth and nose with sand as I tried to gasp for air after having the breath knocked right out of me—I don’t feel as if anything has been broken when I tentatively flex my limbs to check.
I’ll be bruised as fuck, of course, but nothing serious is the matter, it seems, so that’s a relief. Groaning, I push myself back onto my feet, spotting the vehicle that bowled me over turning and beginning another approach, presumably with the intention of repeating the act. They will pay for stopping me from ogling Gilgamesh’s chiseled abs.
Wait, no. Dammit. I mean for attacking the city. Yeah, that’s what it is they’re paying for.
This one seems a lot more crowded than the previous cart, and though a few of those inside wield the same odd-looking ranged weapons, none of them are firing upon me. All they do is stand up in their roofless contraption as it rockets along, clinging on tight to avoid being throw off whilst laughing and joking with each other. Probably betting on how far this time their driver can knock the stupid bitch standing still, staring off into the distance, in the middle of a battlefield.
I grind my teeth in irritation, waving my right hand through the air just in time to snatch a newly-summoned javelin as it appears beside me. These filthy outlaws must learn not to underestimate the followers of the Golden King.
… Not even those of us who are maybe a tiny bit too quick to lose our focus when presented with the opportunity to gaze upon his divine form. I glance over at him again for an instant—noting that the he is managing to hold that enormous gladiator pressed face-first into the sand with only one hand, and making it look easy, whilst with his other hand, which clutches a sword, he gestures towards three more of the two-wheeled vehicles, causing half a dozen portals open above them, which send six silver spears speeding straight down at the riders—before begrudgingly wrenching my gaze back to my own opponents.
No matter how little they may think of me, I’m not dumb enough to let myself get run over twice in as many minutes.
I leap skyward, at the same moment launching my javelin forwards. Piercing straight through the sheet of glass at the front of the cart, it embeds itself almost in the dead centre of the driver’s chest, causing her contemptuous grin to be instantly replaced by an expression of shocked disbelief. Their vehicle passes beneath me and I turn in mid-air in time to see the passengers—a solid dozen of them—piling out haphazardly at almost the exact moment that the cart crests the dune and flies off, soaring through the air for a few metres before crashing down on its front and then flipping over to slam, upside-down, onto the sand.
Even if the spear through the heart somehow didn’t kill her, being crushed under all that scrap metal surely would have finished the job. I land, sinking into a crouch then rising immediately, as gracefully as I can manage, catching one of my javelins in each hand as they form at my sides. I grin at my scattered foes, expecting to see rage on their faces… but am instead surprised to notice no such thing; they still seem just as upbeat as before. I guess none of them were particularly fond of that chick?
They have the high ground, so manage to close in much faster than if they’d been forced to run up one of these sandy mounds to reach me, rather than down. I only manage to make one more throw—which hits a big guy in the arm, but falls out immediately, apparently not having penetrated the bone—before they’re upon me.
Those with the ranged weapons manage to shoot me a few times on their approach—doing little more than giving me a few tiny cuts—but much less quickly than those on the first cart… it would seem that these objects are more like sidearms than their primary weapons, as they’re all quickly stowed away in favour of armaments I’m much more familiar with: wicked-looking knives, short swords, and hatchets, for the most part... though one large woman with a beer gut and enough muscle on her bones to put a bullock to shame hefts a huge, black iron mace in either hand, each of which probably weighs more than I do.
I manage to stab the first of them—a skinny guy with long, dirty blond hair and a short beard—in the belly as he charges me, with such force that a good couple feet of my spear’s shaft actually end up punching straight out of his back, and take a weak swipe of his knife to my face in repayment. It does nothing, of course. The golden fires of my Protections are more than up to the task of warding off such feeble blows.
He falls to the side, though, as he dies, dragging my javelin with it. Unable to take the time to yank it free, I instead simply attempt to summon another. Even that is apparently asking too much, though, for the rest of them are upon me before it has fully formed, and the flames dissipate into nothingness as one dude chops savagely at my shoulder with an axe. It still doesn’t break my skin, though the burst of flame that wards it off this time is noticeably larger; a sign that I’m pushing my luck asking my magic to hold off attacks like that… not that I need such a reminder; the wince-inducing shot of pain by itself would have done the trick.
I lash out, a fist connecting with his jaw, sending him stumbling back a pace. Though there are plenty of others to take his place. In moments I find myself bowled over, all manner of blades raining down upon me as I lash out with fists, feet, elbows and knees in an entertaining but largely futile effort at holding off my foes. I find myself grinning just as broadly as my psychotic killers-to-be, reminded of the good old days of wading into whole crowds of enemies and just taking them apart piece by piece until they finally realised that they just could not harm me, no matter what they did, and fled in terror.
Of course, here, I can be harmed easily enough. I can feel every blow, in fact, and I’m keenly aware that they’re no longer all being warded of, as I've now accumulated more than a few cuts of my own. Oddly, though, I don’t really mind too much… or perhaps I should say ‘worryingly, though, I don’t really mind too much’. Why is it that the idea of being brutally hacked to pieces seems so much less terrible a fate to me when done in the service of the god-king?
My attention is dragged away from contemplating my own potentially deteriorating mental state by the arrival of an ear in my field of vision. By this point, they’re basically all over me, stabbing and slashing and punching and trying to pin me down, and this one guy is doing something or other—I can’t even tell whose weapons and fists belong to who any more—when someone knocks him over in their haste to get a piece of the action and he falls down on top of me… his left ear just an inch or two from my mouth.
Whatever else may be going on in my head right now, I’m still me. And so, naturally, I’m not gonna be passing up any of the rare few opportunities to cause suffering that I can actually get away with… Nippurian citizens may be out of bounds, but bandits are aaaall good. So I grab his ear in my jaws and tear the fucker right off.
He screams. A lot. The others just laugh, though, and after spitting out the ear, I join in.
“Huh huh huh,” rumbles the giant of a woman, as the rest of the little band parts to allow her to close in on me… though I can’t help but notice that they’ve kept a grip on each of my limbs, effectively immobilising me, “you got a decent sense o’ humour, bunnygirl. You evah wanna be a bandit, just hit us up some time… aftah you get done bein’ dead, that is. No hard feelin’s.”
My smile vanishes quickly as I struggle impotently against my captors and the hulking brute raises her twin mauls above her head for a blow that I know will undoubtedly cave in my ribcage. She laughs again upon seeing my mood souring... though she doesn’t really have a clue what it is that I’m thinking.
On one hand, I’m perversely tempted to take the hit… proving my loyalty by meaninglessly throwing away my life. Ugh! I don’t know what it is that’s wrong with me—why it is that merely being near Gilgamesh for such a short time could have had such an effect on me—but I do know for a fact that I’d be only too happy to give my life if that was what he wanted... or, failing that, to simply to get back to kneeling and grovelling in his presence just as soon as I can return to him… especially if he still isn’t wearing a shirt.
Just thinking about caressing his bare skin brings a flush to my cheeks... imagining our bare flesh touching, our bodies pressed up against one another as he-
No! No! Bad thought! Bad thought!
I’m no expert on religion, but it seems pretty likely to me that daydreaming about yourself literally fucking god is probably seriously heretical… so I guess I should, like, probably not do that.
Instead, I bring my thoughts back around to the matter at hand; I really should avoid dying here. Not only because it means I get to spend more time in his vicinity, but also to prove myself a greater asset to him. Yes, living is smart... it’s also effort, though.
After all this fighting—along with the copious amounts of injuries I’ve received so far—I’m not really at all sure that I can actually even manage to repeat my earlier trick with that Restorations spell. As the outlaw swings downwards with her maces, though, I don’t really have any other choice but to give it a shot.
Gritting my teeth, I strain to call up another roaring conflagration of gold. For an instant, I fear it isn’t working, but then, slower and a lot more begrudgingly than I’d like, the roiling inferno spills outwards from my body, and shrieks of agony pierce my ears like white hot knives as the bandits are consumed, though they’re thankfully cut short pretty quick. My wounds heal somewhat, though much more torpidly than with my previous use of the spell, and as I’m only able to keep the fires manifested for several seconds this time, and when they vanish I’m left still with a few cuts and many more bruises.
Ash and the charred remains of my attackers are strewn all about me, and plenty of the stuff has gotten into my remaining wounds. I groan between laboured breaths and just lie there for a few moments, contemplating the daunting challenge of standing up.
I may have beaten that lot, but only by once again relying on my most powerful spell… my Protections and my weak, human body alike are letting me down. I’m not going to give up and just lay here waiting to die… but I know that at this point, I won’t be able to use my Restorations again. I don’t have the energy left for it. I’m done. Any more injuries I get from this point on won’t be going anywhere in a hurry, and the next time any of them manage to pin me down, I won’t have any more cheap tricks I can use to get rid of them.
Reaching up with both hands, I summon a javelin, which I use as a crutch to lean on as I haul my aching body back up onto its feet. Wiping sweat from my brow with one shaking hand, I look out across the sands in time to see my king—still topless—land a boot in the chest of the murmillo-masked madman, interrupting the brute’s attempt at tackling him to the ground.
I have no clue how or when that thug managed to escape Gilgamesh’s grasp, though judging from the number of dead outlaws in their vicinity, I’d venture a guess that his allies dived in to help him free himself, and were punished severely for their temerity; dying in droves as a result.
Still, it’s plenty clear from the way that the big bandit is sent flying by the kick that the god-king is in little danger from such a person, free or not. Alas, though, even Gilgamesh is not omnipotent. Not here, in Omni’s world. Although those magical, glowing, red tattoos of his still burn bright and strong, I can see even from as far away as I am that his breathing is much heavier than normal, and that his skin is covered by a fine sheen of sweat.
The surviving bandits seem to be hanging back for the time being; content to let their leader do the heavy lifting while they either drive around aimlessly or sit still in their crude conveyances. No doubt the sight of so many of their fellows cut down like blades of grass has left them more than a little hesitant to approach the god-king… I’m sure they wouldn’t have expected a mere two Primes to be capable of causing such devastation to their mighty band of raiders… especially with such advanced weapons as they have on their side.
They’ve paid a high price for thinking so lightly of my king.
I wish I could say that the sight of him spurred me on to fight ever harder, gave me a second wind, lit a fire within me… or some other such poetic sentiment. But that would be a lie. All I feel is guilt. I am supposed to be one of his subjects—no, more than that, one of his Primes, his elites—and yet not only have I failed to keep these filthy outlaws from touching him, I’ve even been relying on Gilgamesh to take out the majority of them, since I can't even protect myself, never mind him... from the way he fights, it is clear that he prefers to fire at his foes from a distance... if I was a better subordinate, I would have never left his side. I shouldn't have been trying feebly to show off; I should have remained nearby to shield him from harm with my own body.
So though I don’t feel in any way refreshed or ready for this, but more like I could collapse in a heap and fall asleep at any moment, I drop my golden spear—which will only weigh me down—and break into a loping, bounding run. I head straight for him, each of my leaping steps taking me much further than a normal human’s possibly could, as I push my tired muscles to their limits… it’s a struggle to keep my legs from giving out under me with every step, and all my remaining, semi-healed cuts are soon torn wide open once more, eliciting a noise somewhere between a groan and a whimper from my throat.
I carry on, though, despite my pain and exhaustion, ignoring the fresh blood running down my skin and once more soaking into clothes still blackened with ash and soot from when my last batch of flames burnt away all the spilt blood covering me, along with those who had spilt it. Even if I’m barely fit to stand by the time I reach him, much less fight by his side, I need to get back there… I can’t leave him undefended any longer than I already have... even if all I manage to achieve is to to stand in front of him and get slain by a shot that may have just grazed him, spilling a tiny bit of his divine blood, that will still be something, at least.
Quote:Ahana used Advanced Regeneration in both this post and the one before it.
Remaining SP: 0/3
![[Image: Ahana_Sig_V3.png]](https://image.ibb.co/bAZXiJ/Ahana_Sig_V3.png)