09-06-2015, 06:35 PM
The trials of the Swamp of Sadness shrunk the group of secondaries dramatically. They’d lost people before, true—but as the surviving members of the party dwelled just beyond the borders of the mist, it became clear that these losses greatly outnumbered any that had come before.
One by one, the survivors stalked out of the fog. Some of them had sweat dripping from their faces, exhausted by the confrontation with their inner demons. Others broke into a sprint upon seeing familiar, friendly faces, sharing in warm embraces. Still others acknowledged their friends less enthusiastically, peripherally aware of the dangers that still awaited them as they finally reached what must’ve been the final legs of their journey to Omni.
Mr. Clayton emerged from the fog brimming with bloodlust.
In his scuffle with the imaginary apes, his clothes had been ripped and torn, but he had suffered no further wounds. After all, the creatures had been figments of his imagination brought to life by the intoxicating air within the Swamp, and Clayton had been quick to recognize their triviality. They had underestimated him, plain and simple. They had expected him to break upon seeing images of his battered sister once more. They had expected him to collapse under the weight of his failure to bring her murderer to hell. They had been very, very wrong, though, because all the images had done was lit a fire inside the hunter.
When he appeared once more upon the group’s ranks, he very clearly looked nothing like the gentleman the other secondaries had come to know during the past few months. No, on the contrary, he had adopted a very rugged appearance, no longer caring for meaningless gestures like the state of his formerly-perfect hair, or if his buttons were all perfectly aligned. Dark circles ringed his eyes, spawned from the strain of never looking away from his goal. No longer did peripheral issues matter; he focused forward, on the goal.
Kill that pearly son of a bitch.
Everyone else looked as changed as he. He observed their faces with a certain glee lying just beneath his features—stepping stones on his staircase to greatness.
General Klaud Nine. The woman who buzzed in the back of his mind like an annoying bumblebee had, unfortunately, survived the fog’s debilitating effects. He supposed that he shouldn’t be surprised—despite being a constant source of irritation, the general certainly had managed to hold her own in this journey. Not much longer, though, if Clayton had his way.
Across the circle, another little group had a heartfelt reunion. Top Man, Lyra, Raw Onion, and Pinocchio huddled together, exuding genuine relief that the others had survived. Clayton would admit their presence caught him a bit off-guard; they had never seemed the sturdy types.
One of them acknowledged the big elephant in the room: Grobdum, who had left their party so unceremoniously after his tribe had their asses handed to them by the motley crew of secondaries, had reappeared. A match of opportunity lit in Mr. Clayton’s brain. His eyes narrowed, catching the glance of the orc for just a moment. Renewed by his newfound confidence and the overwhelming sensation of victory already washing over his shoulders, the hunter offered the orc a smirk.
In Mr. Clayton’s mind, he had already won this game.
Few others populated the circle of survivors. The doctor—Richtoffen—and the pirate Crow were amongst the survivors, along with Abner, who Clayton knew a little bit better thanks to their countless patrols during the preceding months. Making eye contact with the man, he offered him a curt head nod, an acknowledgement that he was, as it were, “happy to see him.” A false gesture, of course—Clayton would not be happy until they all lied in bloody heaps in front of Omni’s throne, the false god’s own glowing white form amongst the pile. He extended the same false courtesy to Isaac, who he would admit he liked; perhaps in another time and another place, he would have made a friend of the soldier and the old man. As it were, though, they had met him on the wrong day, and simply become pawns in the greatest plan he would ever execute.
Still, he felt a slight twinge of relief when he saw that Christa, too, had made it out of the fog alive. Certainly their last few hours together had been tense, but the Swamp of Sadness had made the hunter very singularly focused; all that awful mess behind them, the girl still would be the key to getting to the god. And then, perhaps, when they had finally made it to Omni’s realm, he’d give her the last death. Let her keep her dignity.
For now, though, the group remained huddled in one spot, mingling around with each other while they waited to see if anyone else’s mangled form might, by chance, limp out of the mist. Occasionally, someone would step away, collecting their own thoughts. Isaac and Christa separated for a moment, and then she returned alone; meanwhile, the hunter did not let the group out of his sights, fingers still tightly around the grip of his shotgun.
After a while of sitting by himself on the ground, leaned up against a rather large boulder, a feminine hand touched the top of his weapon’s barrel and pushed it aside.
“Careful where you point that thing,” Klaud warned him, her tone as biting and distrustful as usual. Clayton’s lips curled into a deadly smile.
“General,” he replied with a not-very-convincing faux enthusiasm. He stood, meeting her glance. His finger remained on the trigger of his weapon. “Glad to see you made it out of the scary swamp,” he hissed, “I’ll admit I was worried.” Klaud’s cheeks flushed red with frustration. The hunter brushed past her, approaching the spot where most of the group had congregated.
“We’ve waited long enough,” he said to them all, glancing over at Abner and giving him a sorrowful frown, “I completely agreed with Abner that we should see who we’ve got, but at this point if they’re not here, I’m afraid they won’t be here at all.”
His eyes met Christa’s. She agreed, but would not speak up yet.
So Clayton continued. “We must go,” the hunter urged. “Danger already lurks within our very ranks, so I’d rather not invite it in from out there.”
Across the clearing, Grobdum’s demeanor visibly changed, but Clayton paid him no mind and instead prepared to launch further into his diatribe. Ruining his fun as always, Klaud stepped in and interrupted him. “Too few of us have returned so far,” she countered, “There must be others. We can’t just leave them here.”
“But we can’t remain sitting ducks forever,” Christa piped up, finally speaking.
“I’m right, you’re wrong, General,” the hunter shrugged, turning to face Klaud Nine. “You’ve already allowed this little traitor asylum in our troupe—” he gestured off-handedly at the orc “—and I won’t allow you to lead us all to death by being stupid.”
Klaud scowled once again. “But… Jan isn’t back yet,” she stammered, betraying her underlying motivations, “Or Grave. Or IRIS. Or any of those people.”
“Then perhaps they’ve fallen victim to the swamp’s terrible machinations,” Clayton bit back. “I’m sorry, General—your friend’s dead, probably. Best to accept it and move on unless you’d like us all to die here, when we’ve come so far. Is that what you’d like? You’d rather all of us sit here and get slaughter by the perils of the forest while you hold on to hope that maybe your friend might come skulking out of that fog? Give it up, General. He’s dead.”
“Clayton…” the sound of Isaac’s voice breaking through the air halted his speech. The old man had returned from his little excursion sometime during Clayton’s plea. The hunter looked around at the group. His fingers itched on the trigger of his weapon, but he knew that he had to play the friend a little while longer. He met the old man’s gaze.
“I’m trying to keep us alive, Isaac,” he muttered, desperation filling his features.
Inside, though, he laughed. Keep you alive long enough so that I can kill you myself.
One by one, the survivors stalked out of the fog. Some of them had sweat dripping from their faces, exhausted by the confrontation with their inner demons. Others broke into a sprint upon seeing familiar, friendly faces, sharing in warm embraces. Still others acknowledged their friends less enthusiastically, peripherally aware of the dangers that still awaited them as they finally reached what must’ve been the final legs of their journey to Omni.
Mr. Clayton emerged from the fog brimming with bloodlust.
In his scuffle with the imaginary apes, his clothes had been ripped and torn, but he had suffered no further wounds. After all, the creatures had been figments of his imagination brought to life by the intoxicating air within the Swamp, and Clayton had been quick to recognize their triviality. They had underestimated him, plain and simple. They had expected him to break upon seeing images of his battered sister once more. They had expected him to collapse under the weight of his failure to bring her murderer to hell. They had been very, very wrong, though, because all the images had done was lit a fire inside the hunter.
When he appeared once more upon the group’s ranks, he very clearly looked nothing like the gentleman the other secondaries had come to know during the past few months. No, on the contrary, he had adopted a very rugged appearance, no longer caring for meaningless gestures like the state of his formerly-perfect hair, or if his buttons were all perfectly aligned. Dark circles ringed his eyes, spawned from the strain of never looking away from his goal. No longer did peripheral issues matter; he focused forward, on the goal.
Kill that pearly son of a bitch.
Everyone else looked as changed as he. He observed their faces with a certain glee lying just beneath his features—stepping stones on his staircase to greatness.
General Klaud Nine. The woman who buzzed in the back of his mind like an annoying bumblebee had, unfortunately, survived the fog’s debilitating effects. He supposed that he shouldn’t be surprised—despite being a constant source of irritation, the general certainly had managed to hold her own in this journey. Not much longer, though, if Clayton had his way.
Across the circle, another little group had a heartfelt reunion. Top Man, Lyra, Raw Onion, and Pinocchio huddled together, exuding genuine relief that the others had survived. Clayton would admit their presence caught him a bit off-guard; they had never seemed the sturdy types.
One of them acknowledged the big elephant in the room: Grobdum, who had left their party so unceremoniously after his tribe had their asses handed to them by the motley crew of secondaries, had reappeared. A match of opportunity lit in Mr. Clayton’s brain. His eyes narrowed, catching the glance of the orc for just a moment. Renewed by his newfound confidence and the overwhelming sensation of victory already washing over his shoulders, the hunter offered the orc a smirk.
In Mr. Clayton’s mind, he had already won this game.
Few others populated the circle of survivors. The doctor—Richtoffen—and the pirate Crow were amongst the survivors, along with Abner, who Clayton knew a little bit better thanks to their countless patrols during the preceding months. Making eye contact with the man, he offered him a curt head nod, an acknowledgement that he was, as it were, “happy to see him.” A false gesture, of course—Clayton would not be happy until they all lied in bloody heaps in front of Omni’s throne, the false god’s own glowing white form amongst the pile. He extended the same false courtesy to Isaac, who he would admit he liked; perhaps in another time and another place, he would have made a friend of the soldier and the old man. As it were, though, they had met him on the wrong day, and simply become pawns in the greatest plan he would ever execute.
Still, he felt a slight twinge of relief when he saw that Christa, too, had made it out of the fog alive. Certainly their last few hours together had been tense, but the Swamp of Sadness had made the hunter very singularly focused; all that awful mess behind them, the girl still would be the key to getting to the god. And then, perhaps, when they had finally made it to Omni’s realm, he’d give her the last death. Let her keep her dignity.
For now, though, the group remained huddled in one spot, mingling around with each other while they waited to see if anyone else’s mangled form might, by chance, limp out of the mist. Occasionally, someone would step away, collecting their own thoughts. Isaac and Christa separated for a moment, and then she returned alone; meanwhile, the hunter did not let the group out of his sights, fingers still tightly around the grip of his shotgun.
After a while of sitting by himself on the ground, leaned up against a rather large boulder, a feminine hand touched the top of his weapon’s barrel and pushed it aside.
“Careful where you point that thing,” Klaud warned him, her tone as biting and distrustful as usual. Clayton’s lips curled into a deadly smile.
“General,” he replied with a not-very-convincing faux enthusiasm. He stood, meeting her glance. His finger remained on the trigger of his weapon. “Glad to see you made it out of the scary swamp,” he hissed, “I’ll admit I was worried.” Klaud’s cheeks flushed red with frustration. The hunter brushed past her, approaching the spot where most of the group had congregated.
“We’ve waited long enough,” he said to them all, glancing over at Abner and giving him a sorrowful frown, “I completely agreed with Abner that we should see who we’ve got, but at this point if they’re not here, I’m afraid they won’t be here at all.”
His eyes met Christa’s. She agreed, but would not speak up yet.
So Clayton continued. “We must go,” the hunter urged. “Danger already lurks within our very ranks, so I’d rather not invite it in from out there.”
Across the clearing, Grobdum’s demeanor visibly changed, but Clayton paid him no mind and instead prepared to launch further into his diatribe. Ruining his fun as always, Klaud stepped in and interrupted him. “Too few of us have returned so far,” she countered, “There must be others. We can’t just leave them here.”
“But we can’t remain sitting ducks forever,” Christa piped up, finally speaking.
“I’m right, you’re wrong, General,” the hunter shrugged, turning to face Klaud Nine. “You’ve already allowed this little traitor asylum in our troupe—” he gestured off-handedly at the orc “—and I won’t allow you to lead us all to death by being stupid.”
Klaud scowled once again. “But… Jan isn’t back yet,” she stammered, betraying her underlying motivations, “Or Grave. Or IRIS. Or any of those people.”
“Then perhaps they’ve fallen victim to the swamp’s terrible machinations,” Clayton bit back. “I’m sorry, General—your friend’s dead, probably. Best to accept it and move on unless you’d like us all to die here, when we’ve come so far. Is that what you’d like? You’d rather all of us sit here and get slaughter by the perils of the forest while you hold on to hope that maybe your friend might come skulking out of that fog? Give it up, General. He’s dead.”
“Clayton…” the sound of Isaac’s voice breaking through the air halted his speech. The old man had returned from his little excursion sometime during Clayton’s plea. The hunter looked around at the group. His fingers itched on the trigger of his weapon, but he knew that he had to play the friend a little while longer. He met the old man’s gaze.
“I’m trying to keep us alive, Isaac,” he muttered, desperation filling his features.
Inside, though, he laughed. Keep you alive long enough so that I can kill you myself.
![[Image: 2agonyw.png]](http://i68.tinypic.com/2agonyw.png)