06-12-2015, 02:24 PM
The odd pair snaked through the side streets of Minas Tirith. Gradually, the pristine white marble buildings shining in the light of the sun gave way to darker alleys, lit only by torchlight. After a while, Mickey began to miss his shadow.
The door to Thrall’s chambers rose several feet above Mickey’s head. Patchwork planks of wood loosely glued together separated the mouse from the orc chieftain. His guide wrapped his fat, green fingers around the wrought-iron handle and pulled, almost jerking the door off its hinges. Mickey stared inside, but could see nothing but flickering firelight across the threshold.
“This is where I stop,” the orc informed the mouse, “Thrall is waiting inside.”
Mickey peered inside, trying to catch a glimpse of the orc chieftain. Still nothing. With an anxious gulp, he headed into the office, the door slamming shut behind him.
Darkness blanketed the room. Sections of it glowed orange, lit by the torches along the walls, but even those were sparse. Thrall, it seemed, cared little for the sunny disposition of the rest of Minas Tirith.
Shelves and shelves of books and other important-looking scrolls and documents filled the wall to Mickey’s left. To his right, the chamber’s single window took up residence. Maroon curtains were drawn completely over it, leaving just a sliver of natural sunlight peeking into the room. A few yards in front of him, the King could see a shabbily built desk with various papers splayed out across it. For all intents and purposes, however, the room seemed to be devoid of any signs of life. Mickey might as well have been the only person in here.
Out of the shadows at the back of the room, a hulking figure lurched forward, slamming his hands down on the desk. His fingers were knobby, the same green color as the orc who had guided the mouse here; long fingernails traced the lines in the wood of the escritoire. A low hum—perhaps a growl?—elicited from a mouth too small for the teeth it housed. Thrall’s lips curled into something like a scowl.
“Mickey Mouse,” the low voice grumbled.
Even on the murder-island, the mouse didn’t know if he had ever been so afraid in his entire life. “…uhm, that’s me,” he nodded, hesitantly stepping forward.
Thrall reached into the shadows, dragging a tribal-looking chair to the desk and sitting down in it. With no matching seat on the other side, Mickey remained standing. Thrall’s long fingernails clicked on the desk for a few seconds as he skimmed over the pieces of parchment laying haphazardly before him.
“I must say,” the orc chieftain leaned back in his seat, “for such a small creature, you carry an impressive talent, mouse.”
Mickey scoffed a bit. He preferred Sir Mouse.
“You foolishly entered this tournament amongst a slew of primes whose abilities greatly outmatch your own,” he continued. Mickey wasn’t sure if he was supposed to be insulted or not. “And yet… and yet,” he trailed off.
“And yet?” the mouse pressed. He knew the others’ power far exceeded his own; of course they did. He had lived in this Omniverse for, what? A week? How could anyone expect him to match up to someone like Samus, or that green monster, or the golden-armored king? Even a cretin such as Deadpool probably outmatched him. The mouse struggled to see where the orc chieftain’s point lay in this.
“And yet you still somehow managed to outlast most of them,” he noted, “and keep your honor while doing so.”
The mouse’s eyes fell to the floor. Yes, he had done so. He had kept his promise to not participate in the game’s murderous style, slipping up only once—and on accident that time, to boot. But why did this interest the people of Camelot so much?
“I… admire that quality, Mickey Mouse. I admire that you, above all, stayed true to your convictions. Even when you succumbed to the draw of that demonic entity, you did not let it overtake you. You used it for its power, but you never let it control you.” Mickey’s mind drifted back to the Orgosynth, and the same slimy feeling crept up his spine as had overtaken him when he had used the creature in the final battle. It was not a feeling he looked to experience again, no matter whether or not he thought he could fight the demon back. But that mattered little—the creature was gone now, out of his possession, and thank gosh for that.
The chieftain laced his fingers together in front of him. “Tell me, mouse,” he leaned forward, “what did Mr. Jak reward you with?”
Mickey swallowed nervously. Why did Thrall want to know about his reward? Did this huge man mean to take it from him? Certainly he could—not only did he physically tower over him, but the mouse had a feeling Thrall’s power greatly outmatched his own. How else could he have gotten such a position in the hierarchy of Camelot, and being a non-human at that?
Hesistantly, the mouse’s four-fingered hand slipped into his pocket and clasped the earrings. He pulled them out, and held out his hand so that Thrall could see them. The big guy stood from his chair and lumbered over to the mouse, kneeling down and picking up one of the earrings.
“Hmph,” he grunted, “I know these.”
“What do they do?” the mouse asked, one of the few things he had said since this conversation had begun. His curiosity outweighed his shyness.
“They are called the Potara Earrings,” Thrall informed him, placing the jewelry back in Mickey’s palm and closing the mouse’s fingers around them. “They allow you to become one with another prime. One body, one mind, one soul.”
Mickey’s eyes widened. What did that even mean?
“You put one on,” Thrall explained, “and your friend—whomever—puts the other on. The magic of the earrings pulls you together, combines your energies to form one even more powerful prime.”
Mickey looked at the earrings and all of suddenly, he feared them greatly. “…but couldn’t that end up really awful? Like, what if I… uh… combined with some really bad guy or something?” He could only imagine if somehow Deadpool managed to get his hands on the other earring. He could barely coexist with the merc-with-a-mouth as it is; how would he handle living in the same body as the guy?
“Your mind must remain strong,” Thrall nodded, “lest you be subjected to the will of the person you have fused with. But I have faith in you, little mouse.”
Mickey couldn’t help but smile a bit.
“Now,” Thrall’s voice growled low, “I have something to show you. Close your eyes.”
The orc chieftain reached out and placed a hand on Mickey’s forehead. The mouse obeyed Thrall’s command, and shut his eyes.
And with a whoosh, the low-lit chamber was gone.
The door to Thrall’s chambers rose several feet above Mickey’s head. Patchwork planks of wood loosely glued together separated the mouse from the orc chieftain. His guide wrapped his fat, green fingers around the wrought-iron handle and pulled, almost jerking the door off its hinges. Mickey stared inside, but could see nothing but flickering firelight across the threshold.
“This is where I stop,” the orc informed the mouse, “Thrall is waiting inside.”
Mickey peered inside, trying to catch a glimpse of the orc chieftain. Still nothing. With an anxious gulp, he headed into the office, the door slamming shut behind him.
Darkness blanketed the room. Sections of it glowed orange, lit by the torches along the walls, but even those were sparse. Thrall, it seemed, cared little for the sunny disposition of the rest of Minas Tirith.
Shelves and shelves of books and other important-looking scrolls and documents filled the wall to Mickey’s left. To his right, the chamber’s single window took up residence. Maroon curtains were drawn completely over it, leaving just a sliver of natural sunlight peeking into the room. A few yards in front of him, the King could see a shabbily built desk with various papers splayed out across it. For all intents and purposes, however, the room seemed to be devoid of any signs of life. Mickey might as well have been the only person in here.
Out of the shadows at the back of the room, a hulking figure lurched forward, slamming his hands down on the desk. His fingers were knobby, the same green color as the orc who had guided the mouse here; long fingernails traced the lines in the wood of the escritoire. A low hum—perhaps a growl?—elicited from a mouth too small for the teeth it housed. Thrall’s lips curled into something like a scowl.
“Mickey Mouse,” the low voice grumbled.
Even on the murder-island, the mouse didn’t know if he had ever been so afraid in his entire life. “…uhm, that’s me,” he nodded, hesitantly stepping forward.
Thrall reached into the shadows, dragging a tribal-looking chair to the desk and sitting down in it. With no matching seat on the other side, Mickey remained standing. Thrall’s long fingernails clicked on the desk for a few seconds as he skimmed over the pieces of parchment laying haphazardly before him.
“I must say,” the orc chieftain leaned back in his seat, “for such a small creature, you carry an impressive talent, mouse.”
Mickey scoffed a bit. He preferred Sir Mouse.
“You foolishly entered this tournament amongst a slew of primes whose abilities greatly outmatch your own,” he continued. Mickey wasn’t sure if he was supposed to be insulted or not. “And yet… and yet,” he trailed off.
“And yet?” the mouse pressed. He knew the others’ power far exceeded his own; of course they did. He had lived in this Omniverse for, what? A week? How could anyone expect him to match up to someone like Samus, or that green monster, or the golden-armored king? Even a cretin such as Deadpool probably outmatched him. The mouse struggled to see where the orc chieftain’s point lay in this.
“And yet you still somehow managed to outlast most of them,” he noted, “and keep your honor while doing so.”
The mouse’s eyes fell to the floor. Yes, he had done so. He had kept his promise to not participate in the game’s murderous style, slipping up only once—and on accident that time, to boot. But why did this interest the people of Camelot so much?
“I… admire that quality, Mickey Mouse. I admire that you, above all, stayed true to your convictions. Even when you succumbed to the draw of that demonic entity, you did not let it overtake you. You used it for its power, but you never let it control you.” Mickey’s mind drifted back to the Orgosynth, and the same slimy feeling crept up his spine as had overtaken him when he had used the creature in the final battle. It was not a feeling he looked to experience again, no matter whether or not he thought he could fight the demon back. But that mattered little—the creature was gone now, out of his possession, and thank gosh for that.
The chieftain laced his fingers together in front of him. “Tell me, mouse,” he leaned forward, “what did Mr. Jak reward you with?”
Mickey swallowed nervously. Why did Thrall want to know about his reward? Did this huge man mean to take it from him? Certainly he could—not only did he physically tower over him, but the mouse had a feeling Thrall’s power greatly outmatched his own. How else could he have gotten such a position in the hierarchy of Camelot, and being a non-human at that?
Hesistantly, the mouse’s four-fingered hand slipped into his pocket and clasped the earrings. He pulled them out, and held out his hand so that Thrall could see them. The big guy stood from his chair and lumbered over to the mouse, kneeling down and picking up one of the earrings.
“Hmph,” he grunted, “I know these.”
“What do they do?” the mouse asked, one of the few things he had said since this conversation had begun. His curiosity outweighed his shyness.
“They are called the Potara Earrings,” Thrall informed him, placing the jewelry back in Mickey’s palm and closing the mouse’s fingers around them. “They allow you to become one with another prime. One body, one mind, one soul.”
Mickey’s eyes widened. What did that even mean?
“You put one on,” Thrall explained, “and your friend—whomever—puts the other on. The magic of the earrings pulls you together, combines your energies to form one even more powerful prime.”
Mickey looked at the earrings and all of suddenly, he feared them greatly. “…but couldn’t that end up really awful? Like, what if I… uh… combined with some really bad guy or something?” He could only imagine if somehow Deadpool managed to get his hands on the other earring. He could barely coexist with the merc-with-a-mouth as it is; how would he handle living in the same body as the guy?
“Your mind must remain strong,” Thrall nodded, “lest you be subjected to the will of the person you have fused with. But I have faith in you, little mouse.”
Mickey couldn’t help but smile a bit.
“Now,” Thrall’s voice growled low, “I have something to show you. Close your eyes.”
The orc chieftain reached out and placed a hand on Mickey’s forehead. The mouse obeyed Thrall’s command, and shut his eyes.
And with a whoosh, the low-lit chamber was gone.
Quote:Continued in The Astral Realm.
![[Image: 2agonyw.png]](http://i68.tinypic.com/2agonyw.png)