02-05-2017, 01:05 AM
This is only a little more than slightly very annoying. Or at least it would be, that is, if Gamzee ever got annoyed by anything.
Man, this motherfucker really does know how to play it cool. Throughout the last series of exchanges and blows, the troll was mainly just trying to keep his head on straight. Keeping track of oh-so-many cool kid clones at one time proved to be a bit of a headache. He’s not really surprised the sly motherfucker outplayed him a couple times. The wound on his torso stings like a bitch, attesting to the keen edge of the kid’s broken blade. Violet ichor flows slowly over his pallid skin like magma. This’ll be about the four hundred and twentieth time he’s had to replace this shirt.
Without warning, the Bard of Rage falls into a baseball slide, just in time for the boy to react and for the tip of Caledscratch to give him a little off the top. As the wicked troll slides through his opponent’s legs, he is vaguely reminded of a vital weak point that he’s pretty positive all humans share.
*boink*
The fool throws a light jab, right between the poor guy’s legs. He crumples instantly, almost dropping his sword in the process.
“Just passing through,” he says with a grin. As he rises and the boy falls to his knees, Gamzee can’t help but feel like he’s seen this motherfucker somewhere before.
“Oh my fuck you just did that. You really just did that,” the loser laying on the ground murmurs through a shaky breath.
Man... Even the way this guy talks is hella reminiscent of a guy he knew once upon a long time ago, in a galaxy far away. Gamzee pulls his Deuce Clubs into existence in a pretty shower of rainbow miracle sparkles. If he wasn’t in the middle of a super serious battle, he might stop and ponder the existence of these beautiful little miracles. He does indeed love a good motherfuckin’ pondering. Now just simply isn’t the time.
Lightning flickers and dances across his form. By now the prick he was assigned to distract has regained his footing, but he hasn’t regained his cool. Gamzee gets the odd feeling that this guy isn’t used to losing his cool in such a way.
The corners of Dave’s lips curl ever so slightly into a sneer, shaded eyes staring at the clownish asshole before him. He vaguely wonders how long it will take to trigger the juggalo this time.
“Let’s get on with it then, you juggalo trash,” he says coolly.
This, Dave Strider would find, was a poor choice of words. The term “juggalo” sets off a chain reaction of memories in Gamzee’s mind, all of them leading to one place, one very blasphemous place.
It’s THAT motherfucker.
His name is Dave Strider, a human he trolled ever so long ago. The one that changed his life forever. The one that exposed Gamzee to the horrors of a blasphemous group of humans known as The Insane Clown Posse.
Gamzee groans and takes a few steps back, reaching into his bottomless pockets to pull out an ice cold bottle of delicious Faygo. Don’t ask him how it manages to stay so frosty in the middle of a heated battle. He won’t have an answer for you. The juggalo will just blame it on the miracles.
“You mind if I crack this bad boy open and take a couple swigs? I’ll even sha-are,” Gamzee says, putting on a sing songy voice just for the word ‘share.’ Dave stares at his foe with a stupefied expression on his face, but does not answer.
“Sure, sure. More for me then!” Makara says with a shrug and a slight grin, not bothering to wait for an answer. Without hesitation, he pops the cap and slams the wicked elixir, chugging its contents in a matter of seconds. Then, very carefully, he kneels down and sets the empty bottle into the hand of a dead Darkshire guard. Slowly, the Fool rises and wipes his soda stained mouth with the back of his wrist.
“Everyone deserves to die with a cold one in their hand.”
Gamzee mutters something akin to a prayer, and contorts his hand in a sort of arcane juggalo gang sign.
“Yaknow, brother, I’m kinda startin’ to all up and recall who in the motherfuckin’ hell you happen to be, my pinkest of motherfuckin’ star monkeys,” he begins with a slight catch in his voice, a slight twitch in his features. He mutters something to himself, something Dave doesn’t quite catch. The clown then cackles, the sickening sound managing to somehow fit melodically into the sonorous symphony of battle.
“Dave Strider!”
A flash of violet cracks the smoky sky of the battlefield, and then another, and another. Gamzee Makara has begun to whimsically wave his arms slowly through the air, as if pushing them through molasses.
“Heretic!”
The troll’s arms shoot up, hands splayed to the heavens. Arrows of lightning begin to shoot from his palms like roman candles, filling the air high above Strider’s head with shining purple orbs. The luminous effect they have on the smoke-filled backdrop is ghostly, ethereal even.
With every inch of zealous, mirthful energy he can muster, he shouts, “Blasphemer!” and lets his hands fall to the ground.
The ensuing chaos is synonymous to an orchestra crescendoing as arrows of lightning rain down onto the battlefield like a meteor shower, lighting the place up like the Fourth of July. The bolts pierce friend and foe alike, igniting upon contact. The air smells of acrid plasma as Gamzee walks forward into the brunt of his own devastating storm, a growl tearing his throat and a grimace on his normally jovial features. He ignores the burning sensation of being caught in this finale, this beginning of the end. When he speaks, his voice is a roar, a declaration.
“Experience my miracles, motherfucker!”
Man, this motherfucker really does know how to play it cool. Throughout the last series of exchanges and blows, the troll was mainly just trying to keep his head on straight. Keeping track of oh-so-many cool kid clones at one time proved to be a bit of a headache. He’s not really surprised the sly motherfucker outplayed him a couple times. The wound on his torso stings like a bitch, attesting to the keen edge of the kid’s broken blade. Violet ichor flows slowly over his pallid skin like magma. This’ll be about the four hundred and twentieth time he’s had to replace this shirt.
Without warning, the Bard of Rage falls into a baseball slide, just in time for the boy to react and for the tip of Caledscratch to give him a little off the top. As the wicked troll slides through his opponent’s legs, he is vaguely reminded of a vital weak point that he’s pretty positive all humans share.
*boink*
The fool throws a light jab, right between the poor guy’s legs. He crumples instantly, almost dropping his sword in the process.
“Just passing through,” he says with a grin. As he rises and the boy falls to his knees, Gamzee can’t help but feel like he’s seen this motherfucker somewhere before.
“Oh my fuck you just did that. You really just did that,” the loser laying on the ground murmurs through a shaky breath.
Man... Even the way this guy talks is hella reminiscent of a guy he knew once upon a long time ago, in a galaxy far away. Gamzee pulls his Deuce Clubs into existence in a pretty shower of rainbow miracle sparkles. If he wasn’t in the middle of a super serious battle, he might stop and ponder the existence of these beautiful little miracles. He does indeed love a good motherfuckin’ pondering. Now just simply isn’t the time.
Lightning flickers and dances across his form. By now the prick he was assigned to distract has regained his footing, but he hasn’t regained his cool. Gamzee gets the odd feeling that this guy isn’t used to losing his cool in such a way.
The corners of Dave’s lips curl ever so slightly into a sneer, shaded eyes staring at the clownish asshole before him. He vaguely wonders how long it will take to trigger the juggalo this time.
“Let’s get on with it then, you juggalo trash,” he says coolly.
This, Dave Strider would find, was a poor choice of words. The term “juggalo” sets off a chain reaction of memories in Gamzee’s mind, all of them leading to one place, one very blasphemous place.
It’s THAT motherfucker.
His name is Dave Strider, a human he trolled ever so long ago. The one that changed his life forever. The one that exposed Gamzee to the horrors of a blasphemous group of humans known as The Insane Clown Posse.
Gamzee groans and takes a few steps back, reaching into his bottomless pockets to pull out an ice cold bottle of delicious Faygo. Don’t ask him how it manages to stay so frosty in the middle of a heated battle. He won’t have an answer for you. The juggalo will just blame it on the miracles.
“You mind if I crack this bad boy open and take a couple swigs? I’ll even sha-are,” Gamzee says, putting on a sing songy voice just for the word ‘share.’ Dave stares at his foe with a stupefied expression on his face, but does not answer.
“Sure, sure. More for me then!” Makara says with a shrug and a slight grin, not bothering to wait for an answer. Without hesitation, he pops the cap and slams the wicked elixir, chugging its contents in a matter of seconds. Then, very carefully, he kneels down and sets the empty bottle into the hand of a dead Darkshire guard. Slowly, the Fool rises and wipes his soda stained mouth with the back of his wrist.
“Everyone deserves to die with a cold one in their hand.”
Gamzee mutters something akin to a prayer, and contorts his hand in a sort of arcane juggalo gang sign.
“Yaknow, brother, I’m kinda startin’ to all up and recall who in the motherfuckin’ hell you happen to be, my pinkest of motherfuckin’ star monkeys,” he begins with a slight catch in his voice, a slight twitch in his features. He mutters something to himself, something Dave doesn’t quite catch. The clown then cackles, the sickening sound managing to somehow fit melodically into the sonorous symphony of battle.
“Dave Strider!”
A flash of violet cracks the smoky sky of the battlefield, and then another, and another. Gamzee Makara has begun to whimsically wave his arms slowly through the air, as if pushing them through molasses.
“Heretic!”
The troll’s arms shoot up, hands splayed to the heavens. Arrows of lightning begin to shoot from his palms like roman candles, filling the air high above Strider’s head with shining purple orbs. The luminous effect they have on the smoke-filled backdrop is ghostly, ethereal even.
With every inch of zealous, mirthful energy he can muster, he shouts, “Blasphemer!” and lets his hands fall to the ground.
The ensuing chaos is synonymous to an orchestra crescendoing as arrows of lightning rain down onto the battlefield like a meteor shower, lighting the place up like the Fourth of July. The bolts pierce friend and foe alike, igniting upon contact. The air smells of acrid plasma as Gamzee walks forward into the brunt of his own devastating storm, a growl tearing his throat and a grimace on his normally jovial features. He ignores the burning sensation of being caught in this finale, this beginning of the end. When he speaks, his voice is a roar, a declaration.
“Experience my miracles, motherfucker!”
Quote:994 words according to word counter.
Used Tier 2 Supermove: The End Times
SP - 2/4
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![[Image: dlpaou6b73f.gif]](http://www.auplod.com/u/dlpaou6b73f.gif)
-by Jade Harley
Never Falter in the Face of Infinity.
-Tearan Wover
-by Jade Harley
Never Falter in the Face of Infinity.
-Tearan Wover