08-29-2015, 03:52 AM
Tartaros skid along the floor of the portal's platform, diving across the steel plates and rivets as the pile of scrap that once resembled a hovercar went crashing into a nearby building. He had to keep moving... With a final burst of adrenaline, the marine tossed himself forward, leaping through the gate, with the laughing puppet in tow.
The Luna Wolf pulled himself to his feet, scraping sand, blood and chipped paint off of his knees. What did Okor say again? Something about a "far-off from Nahrgûl"? No matter... Grabbing the panting and somewhat singed Mr. T up of the floor and idly tossing him onto his shoulder, he set out following Okor's trail of mildew and muck through the sun-soaked, strangely empty cobble road through the town, and into the back alleys. The little stunt in Coruscant should keep a proper search away from them, at least for a short while...
"The sun... It's... beautiful, is it not?", the rotting giant pondered as the group hid behind an old and dilapidated shanty house. "Yes, yes...", the Luna Wolf muttered as he scanned the sky, a small tone of impatience in his voice. "It's only early morning, and it looks like we've lost the guards. If we're careful we should be able to slip out of this place before anyone's any the wiser. Now, follow me.". With what seemed to resemble a smile stretching across Okor's face of blackened sinew and cracked bone, he nodded, hobbling into the the winding shanty town alleys after Tartaros, careful to keep away from gaps in the walls and the sirens in the streets.
As they passed a pair of feral, finned beasts sifting through the local rubbish heap, Mr T finally spoke up. "Y'know... I never asked you two crazies what the hell you actually are... Well, as this fool already knows...", the puppet gently smacks its hand over the back of Tartaros' helmet, "I'm Tureaud, Lawrence Tureaud. I don't know why I'm called that really, it's just what's on my tag, same with this here "do not dry-clean" message... Anyway, you are?"
With Okor still deep in his own thoughts as he walked, Tartaros answered. "The name's Tartaros. Tartaros... ehm... uhh... Bugger it, it doesn't really matter...", Mr. T tried to muffle what seemed to be a chuckle before it spoke, "We got a dementia patient here, eh?"
The Luna Wolf glared at the denim-clad puppet, "Dementia? What are you talking about?... Some sort of disease? No matter. Anyway, the big 'un is Okor."
The mention of his name seemed to rouse the plague marine from his thoughts, "Uh... oh, yes. Okor. Okor Paleblood. Now, this place seems to be an archipelago. If we find a dock on this island we should be able to escape to... greener pastures.". Tartaros glanced out of one of the many broken ruins of the shanty town, and back to the rotting giant next to him. "Alright. But this time, I'm driving."
The group continued through the alleyways, slums and sandy fields of Costa del Sol, the rising orange sun beating down on their armour and skin. Finally, they reached the harbour. Though the area was rather sparsely populated, with guards handling odd, dog-like amphibious creatures and local fishermen still went around their daily routines.
The group slunk behind a crate of fish carcasses, the smell of salt and rot fortunately masking Okor's corpse-like fetor. As they lay there, Tartaros monitoring the guard patrols, Okor pondered the Smiling One's words... summoning... simply picture what you desire. It surely would not be possible, would it? Well, there was only one way to find out...
The rotting giant pulled out a coloured, eternally shifting orb from under his tabard, gripping it tightly and focusing his mind. What they needed... were disguises. They were too recognizable, too easy to catch... perhaps a flaw of their plan in general, though it was far, far too late to change that. With the plague-bringer keeping a focused and calm mind, the orb began to shift and change, its ever-shifting colour eventually settling into a pure white, with the shape twitching and fluctuating, before finally consuming itself, leaving a pair of heavy burlap robes in its place. As Okor draped a set of the robes over his armour, he turned to the Luna Wolf, "Get dressed, we have some work to do."
Tartaros nodded, throwing on the remaining sackcloth garment and removing the tattered remains of his helmet, clipping it to his belt as the puppet hid in the deep pockets of the robe.
The two slowly crept out from the the side of the crate, bowing their heads and shuffling across the harbour and down towards the main dock, being careful to avoid the careful eyesight of the guarding fish-dogs and their handlers. Eventually reaching a wharf built on a stoney outcrop, with a simple fishing seiner tied up by one of the posts.
As Tartaros quickly set about vaulting the boat's guard rail and prying open the way to the engine room, Okor set about freeing the vessel, drawing his rusted blade and slicing through the thick rope holding it in place, while scanning the dock for any approaching guards. Fortunately, the sharp, serrated edge of the lade, combined with the plaguelord's brute strength, made freeing the vessel a simple task. After a few swift chops, the rope was severed, and Okor carefully clambered over the rail and onto the gunwale.
Hearing the growl of the engine deep in the core of the boat was a relief, it mattered little if the guards had found them at this point, they were almost free...
The Luna Wolf pulled himself to his feet, scraping sand, blood and chipped paint off of his knees. What did Okor say again? Something about a "far-off from Nahrgûl"? No matter... Grabbing the panting and somewhat singed Mr. T up of the floor and idly tossing him onto his shoulder, he set out following Okor's trail of mildew and muck through the sun-soaked, strangely empty cobble road through the town, and into the back alleys. The little stunt in Coruscant should keep a proper search away from them, at least for a short while...
"The sun... It's... beautiful, is it not?", the rotting giant pondered as the group hid behind an old and dilapidated shanty house. "Yes, yes...", the Luna Wolf muttered as he scanned the sky, a small tone of impatience in his voice. "It's only early morning, and it looks like we've lost the guards. If we're careful we should be able to slip out of this place before anyone's any the wiser. Now, follow me.". With what seemed to resemble a smile stretching across Okor's face of blackened sinew and cracked bone, he nodded, hobbling into the the winding shanty town alleys after Tartaros, careful to keep away from gaps in the walls and the sirens in the streets.
As they passed a pair of feral, finned beasts sifting through the local rubbish heap, Mr T finally spoke up. "Y'know... I never asked you two crazies what the hell you actually are... Well, as this fool already knows...", the puppet gently smacks its hand over the back of Tartaros' helmet, "I'm Tureaud, Lawrence Tureaud. I don't know why I'm called that really, it's just what's on my tag, same with this here "do not dry-clean" message... Anyway, you are?"
With Okor still deep in his own thoughts as he walked, Tartaros answered. "The name's Tartaros. Tartaros... ehm... uhh... Bugger it, it doesn't really matter...", Mr. T tried to muffle what seemed to be a chuckle before it spoke, "We got a dementia patient here, eh?"
The Luna Wolf glared at the denim-clad puppet, "Dementia? What are you talking about?... Some sort of disease? No matter. Anyway, the big 'un is Okor."
The mention of his name seemed to rouse the plague marine from his thoughts, "Uh... oh, yes. Okor. Okor Paleblood. Now, this place seems to be an archipelago. If we find a dock on this island we should be able to escape to... greener pastures.". Tartaros glanced out of one of the many broken ruins of the shanty town, and back to the rotting giant next to him. "Alright. But this time, I'm driving."
The group continued through the alleyways, slums and sandy fields of Costa del Sol, the rising orange sun beating down on their armour and skin. Finally, they reached the harbour. Though the area was rather sparsely populated, with guards handling odd, dog-like amphibious creatures and local fishermen still went around their daily routines.
The group slunk behind a crate of fish carcasses, the smell of salt and rot fortunately masking Okor's corpse-like fetor. As they lay there, Tartaros monitoring the guard patrols, Okor pondered the Smiling One's words... summoning... simply picture what you desire. It surely would not be possible, would it? Well, there was only one way to find out...
The rotting giant pulled out a coloured, eternally shifting orb from under his tabard, gripping it tightly and focusing his mind. What they needed... were disguises. They were too recognizable, too easy to catch... perhaps a flaw of their plan in general, though it was far, far too late to change that. With the plague-bringer keeping a focused and calm mind, the orb began to shift and change, its ever-shifting colour eventually settling into a pure white, with the shape twitching and fluctuating, before finally consuming itself, leaving a pair of heavy burlap robes in its place. As Okor draped a set of the robes over his armour, he turned to the Luna Wolf, "Get dressed, we have some work to do."
Tartaros nodded, throwing on the remaining sackcloth garment and removing the tattered remains of his helmet, clipping it to his belt as the puppet hid in the deep pockets of the robe.
The two slowly crept out from the the side of the crate, bowing their heads and shuffling across the harbour and down towards the main dock, being careful to avoid the careful eyesight of the guarding fish-dogs and their handlers. Eventually reaching a wharf built on a stoney outcrop, with a simple fishing seiner tied up by one of the posts.
As Tartaros quickly set about vaulting the boat's guard rail and prying open the way to the engine room, Okor set about freeing the vessel, drawing his rusted blade and slicing through the thick rope holding it in place, while scanning the dock for any approaching guards. Fortunately, the sharp, serrated edge of the lade, combined with the plaguelord's brute strength, made freeing the vessel a simple task. After a few swift chops, the rope was severed, and Okor carefully clambered over the rail and onto the gunwale.
Hearing the growl of the engine deep in the core of the boat was a relief, it mattered little if the guards had found them at this point, they were almost free...