02-08-2016, 06:43 PM
With a grunt, the withering spirit got up from his seat. His sights steadily shifted around the temple, making brief eye contact with every individual he had brought to serve him—what a great number of Heroes he had collected. It brought a smile to his face.
“Heroes, I shall no longer delay you,” he announced, followed by words regarding weaponry.
Trunks glanced back over at Teucer and furrowed his brow. Delay us from your intentions, you mean. he thought.
With the agility of a man a quarter of his age, the old spirit outstretched his arms, directing his open hands towards his collection of Heroes. “Now go!” Teucer exclaimed; the exertion from his diaphragm heaped rasp into his voice.
The person closest to the swordsman—a large man who had the traits of a Kai, but with a hairline that contested even his father's—disappeared, poofing into a thick cloud of black vapors. Trunks flinched, and jolted backwards with a stunted quiver, caught off-guard by what he had witnessed. The others that Teucer gathered followed suit, all disappearing with an exhaust of dark smoke.
Trunks whipped his head back around to the old spirit, and gritted his teeth; he was next to poof.
Tuecer simply continued smiling, directing his palms over towards the swordsman. “Go,” he said.
When his eyes opened, the swordsman found himself laying in a bed of dandelions. Tree branches above him had long wingspans, blotching out majority of the sunlight. They wrapped over and under neighboring branches like loose threading patterns. The leaves were green, but also a slight glint of mustard yellow as they swayed in the breeze.
“How the hell?” Trunks mussitated while pushed himself off of the weeds.
The last few hours (assuming that time elapsed in this Omniverse) had been filled with how the hells—awkward physics, the mysticism of Teucer; not to mention the orb of rainbow light inserted into him, which he ignored to the brink of nearly forgetting about it —and the possibilities built from them were enough to construct a skyscraper in his mind. But they were better cast aside, at least for the moment; toggling through answers would be futile at the moment, and only drift his mind from the task at hand.
As he arose, the blue blanket between his feet caught his eye. It nestled next to a rock that poked out of the bed of dandelions like the top of a glacier. Trunks recalled Teucer speaking of weapons, maybe this was it. He reached down and pulled away the bottom of the blanket, flipping it over the rock, and exposing the object underneath.
“Interesting,” he said, crouching down to uncover the rest of the weapon. “Though he could have just returned the sword that the water-guy pried from me.”
He looked for more supplies, but none were there—no map, no rations, no thank you note. Trunks sighed through his nostrils; a radar would have been nice.
The swordsman undid the belt to his sheathe and leaned it against his knee as he rolled the blanket up, stuffing it into the sheathe afterwards. The weapon, he unbuckled his coat for. He tucked it next to his arm, and redid his buckle.
“Greetings!” Tuecer's voice projected over the forest.
This guy.
The spirit proceeded to give additional information, mostly regarding Guardians and Relics. Near the tail-end of it, his voice became shallow and fragile; the island's sea-level was set to rise soon.
Trunks couldn't smell the scent of salt nearby, nor the sound of crashing waves, so he ignored the message. Returning to his feet, he threw his sheathe around his back and snapped his buckle shut.
He looked ahead at the scenery of forest, wondering how far it stretched.
“Heroes, I shall no longer delay you,” he announced, followed by words regarding weaponry.
Trunks glanced back over at Teucer and furrowed his brow. Delay us from your intentions, you mean. he thought.
With the agility of a man a quarter of his age, the old spirit outstretched his arms, directing his open hands towards his collection of Heroes. “Now go!” Teucer exclaimed; the exertion from his diaphragm heaped rasp into his voice.
The person closest to the swordsman—a large man who had the traits of a Kai, but with a hairline that contested even his father's—disappeared, poofing into a thick cloud of black vapors. Trunks flinched, and jolted backwards with a stunted quiver, caught off-guard by what he had witnessed. The others that Teucer gathered followed suit, all disappearing with an exhaust of dark smoke.
Trunks whipped his head back around to the old spirit, and gritted his teeth; he was next to poof.
Tuecer simply continued smiling, directing his palms over towards the swordsman. “Go,” he said.
* * *
When his eyes opened, the swordsman found himself laying in a bed of dandelions. Tree branches above him had long wingspans, blotching out majority of the sunlight. They wrapped over and under neighboring branches like loose threading patterns. The leaves were green, but also a slight glint of mustard yellow as they swayed in the breeze.
“How the hell?” Trunks mussitated while pushed himself off of the weeds.
The last few hours (assuming that time elapsed in this Omniverse) had been filled with how the hells—awkward physics, the mysticism of Teucer; not to mention the orb of rainbow light inserted into him, which he ignored to the brink of nearly forgetting about it —and the possibilities built from them were enough to construct a skyscraper in his mind. But they were better cast aside, at least for the moment; toggling through answers would be futile at the moment, and only drift his mind from the task at hand.
As he arose, the blue blanket between his feet caught his eye. It nestled next to a rock that poked out of the bed of dandelions like the top of a glacier. Trunks recalled Teucer speaking of weapons, maybe this was it. He reached down and pulled away the bottom of the blanket, flipping it over the rock, and exposing the object underneath.
“Interesting,” he said, crouching down to uncover the rest of the weapon. “Though he could have just returned the sword that the water-guy pried from me.”
He looked for more supplies, but none were there—no map, no rations, no thank you note. Trunks sighed through his nostrils; a radar would have been nice.
The swordsman undid the belt to his sheathe and leaned it against his knee as he rolled the blanket up, stuffing it into the sheathe afterwards. The weapon, he unbuckled his coat for. He tucked it next to his arm, and redid his buckle.
“Greetings!” Tuecer's voice projected over the forest.
This guy.
The spirit proceeded to give additional information, mostly regarding Guardians and Relics. Near the tail-end of it, his voice became shallow and fragile; the island's sea-level was set to rise soon.
Trunks couldn't smell the scent of salt nearby, nor the sound of crashing waves, so he ignored the message. Returning to his feet, he threw his sheathe around his back and snapped his buckle shut.
He looked ahead at the scenery of forest, wondering how far it stretched.