03-11-2016, 03:52 PM
The guards at the gates to Coruscant are, for the second time that week, stunned as a vehicle comes barrelling past them, belching smoke and steam, sounding clicking gears and stampeding hooves.
It had come from behind them, with no warning, while one of them was trying to demonstrate to the other how to dance in the spirit of the Starship Festival (which was going on in the city they'd been so curtly left out of), and was lucky to have pirouetted out of the way when he did.
The driver of the clockwork wagon peers back at them through a hood, flashing a mischievous smile at their wide-eyed fallen forms, and cracks the reigns to urge the gear-driven horses to hurry faster through the white expanse.
A gang of about five or so fellows, garbed in equally suspicious hoods and robes, sits in the loud wagon behind them, bouncing on piles of secrets and tricks wrapped so neatly under layers of blankets and tarps.
The fountain lay ahead, approaching fast, its proximity surrounded by a gathering, growing crowd of strangers.
The driver frowns.
How could it have expected less?
It had thought that maybe by now the crowd would be gone and it'd have a chance to stop for a rest there, think about where to head next.
But no, apparently it's a thing for others to want to gather around there.
Probably for another fight, no less.
It sighs, and turns to beckon at one of the passengers.
"I'm gonna lift off," it says, as licks of liquid seep out of its cloak, sticks to its shoulders and spine and begins to glow and pass through auroras and rainbows.
It hands the reigns to the passenger, hops over their head to the back and helps them up front.
"Where you gonna go?" the new driver asks, grimacing as the wagon begins to rock and sway and veer.
The former driver leans forward, taking a few minutes to show them how to control the pair of mechanical horses.
It continues to sway, but no less remain on a somewhat straight path towards the gang's own goal, the gate opposite from Coruscant's -- Camelot.
It shrugs, the liquid over its back coalescing and dimming into some sort of backpack...with rockets.
"Wherever I end up," it shouts, wrapping its wings around two control-sticks.
This should be fun....
"B--" but the blast of jet fuel and a faux sonic boom cuts it off, as its clothes go flying off (tossed in the face of one of the passengers) and it rockets straight up into the sky.
There is a scream, then whooping, and finally silence.
It hadn't expected to hit a solid wall with its head.
There's a noticeable CRACK, drowned out by the jetpack's noise, its controller's neck bending uncomfortably backwards; its body jitters, throws out static and a quick image of something somewhat larger than itself; the jetpack slips away, goes flying off in a chaotic spiral somewhere else, and the tall bird drops out of the sky, too dazed to catch itself.
Luckily, there's something coming up fast -- someone who maybemight be able to break its fall*....
*That is to say, ya might get more than one broken back out of this.
Score!
It had come from behind them, with no warning, while one of them was trying to demonstrate to the other how to dance in the spirit of the Starship Festival (which was going on in the city they'd been so curtly left out of), and was lucky to have pirouetted out of the way when he did.
The driver of the clockwork wagon peers back at them through a hood, flashing a mischievous smile at their wide-eyed fallen forms, and cracks the reigns to urge the gear-driven horses to hurry faster through the white expanse.
A gang of about five or so fellows, garbed in equally suspicious hoods and robes, sits in the loud wagon behind them, bouncing on piles of secrets and tricks wrapped so neatly under layers of blankets and tarps.
The fountain lay ahead, approaching fast, its proximity surrounded by a gathering, growing crowd of strangers.
The driver frowns.
How could it have expected less?
It had thought that maybe by now the crowd would be gone and it'd have a chance to stop for a rest there, think about where to head next.
But no, apparently it's a thing for others to want to gather around there.
Probably for another fight, no less.
It sighs, and turns to beckon at one of the passengers.
"I'm gonna lift off," it says, as licks of liquid seep out of its cloak, sticks to its shoulders and spine and begins to glow and pass through auroras and rainbows.
It hands the reigns to the passenger, hops over their head to the back and helps them up front.
"Where you gonna go?" the new driver asks, grimacing as the wagon begins to rock and sway and veer.
The former driver leans forward, taking a few minutes to show them how to control the pair of mechanical horses.
It continues to sway, but no less remain on a somewhat straight path towards the gang's own goal, the gate opposite from Coruscant's -- Camelot.
It shrugs, the liquid over its back coalescing and dimming into some sort of backpack...with rockets.
"Wherever I end up," it shouts, wrapping its wings around two control-sticks.
This should be fun....
"B--" but the blast of jet fuel and a faux sonic boom cuts it off, as its clothes go flying off (tossed in the face of one of the passengers) and it rockets straight up into the sky.
There is a scream, then whooping, and finally silence.
It hadn't expected to hit a solid wall with its head.
There's a noticeable CRACK, drowned out by the jetpack's noise, its controller's neck bending uncomfortably backwards; its body jitters, throws out static and a quick image of something somewhat larger than itself; the jetpack slips away, goes flying off in a chaotic spiral somewhere else, and the tall bird drops out of the sky, too dazed to catch itself.
Luckily, there's something coming up fast -- someone who maybemight be able to break its fall*....
*That is to say, ya might get more than one broken back out of this.
Score!