05-13-2016, 11:42 PM
*Ka-THUNK!*
*Ka-THUNK!*
*Ka-THUNKKa-THUNKTHUNKTHUNKTHUNKTHUNK*
The barrage of blows from a different timeline come in a never ending assault, one that Gamzee struggles to keep up with; Gotta admit, motherfucker’s got some moves. A snip here, a slice on his cheek. Little nicks break through the clown’s sloppy defenses, but that’s all they are; little pinches to remind him he is alive.
Alive.
The sword pattern this clone uses is actually quite simple. The only thing mucking up the troll’s March on the Heretics is the sheer speed employed by the defunct timeline. Eventually, however, a flaw is found. A horizontal slash is halted by a single club, leaving the other free to crash into the Dave’s midsection. The fake rasps for the lost air escaping his lungs, and Gamzee can’t help but giggle as his foe falls to his knees before disappearing in a red shimmer, assumedly back to his own timeline.
No more distractions. Only purple haze and acid rain drops. Jovially, the clown puts on a small little act, juggling his ivory weapons high into the air as he advances towards his goal. Their arc wavers as he walks, the sound of rolling and hissing ash at his footsteps. His eyes never leave their mark. After a few cycles, the juggalo deftly catches his tools of mirth.
“Fancy tricks, brother. The warm-up is all kinds of obliged,” he begins with a forced smile. “But now, it’s time for the show to start. The greatest show on earth!”
Hysteria creeps into the clown’s voice. His entire being starts to shake, brimming with righteous and holy fury. Death and decay, that’s all that fills this place. Why should he not assist the universe in the degrading of this horrid place?
Bursting into action, Gamzee closes the distance between him and his prey. Clubs out stretched for the kill, the smack, the wonderful crack of breaking bones-
Wh-
The juggalo freezes, face inches apart from Dave’s. However, his eyes are no longer focused on the righteous killing at hand. Instead, they are frozen, held in place by some mystical force, staring, glaring, raring to go. The two gems of sickly amethyst will not leave the puppet.
The puppet.
The puppet.
The High-blood’s mouth quavers, wavers agape. Lips tremble, cheeks twitch. Gamzee almost loses grip on one of his clubs, then subsequently stumbles back, only barely able to catch himself from falling.
That thing.
So, so many images and scenes flashed through his broken mind at once. So, so many voices fill his ears, his head, his entire being, threatening to burst and break his skull wide open. The voices; they want out. They want things done, but they can’t do them. Not on their own. They’re just voices, trapped in a body.
But the body- the body can do things. The body can do a lot of things. Everything else is so insignificant now. All that there is is that puppet, the blasted, motherfucking puppet.
And it wants to be freed.
Slowly, very very slowly, the tortured soul lets his eyes drift upward to meet the gleam of triangular, super cool shades.
The battle, the various feuds going on between these specific three stop for a moment, only a moment. There is silence between them. The younger Strider looks between the two that were presently locked in a stare off, more confused than he’s ever been.
“You two gonna kiss? Because that’s fucking disg-”
A strange, raspier iteration of Gamzee’s voice cuts Dave’s quip off rather abruptly.
“I’m going to have to ask you a humongulous motherfucking favor, motherfucker,” He blurts out at the elder Strider, sweat visible on his brow. The agitated troll begins again after a slight pause, stressing every single word separately. It was as if the vocables themselves would begin killing each other if they were uttered too closely one after the other.
“Give me the Puppet.”
The demand was met with silence and a cold, beshaded stare.
“Give me the Puppet!” The alien screeches with a voice of imperial authority, eyes threatening to boil over in a brilliant shade of orange.
This time, the order is met with the steel sheen of a katana.
The clown drops the club in his left hand as lightning begins to snake its virulent way across his form. Planting his free hand on Dave’s face and shoving it out of the way, the murder-clown practically leaps at the tall, pale brother. All the while, a primal, inhuman war cry resonated through the ashen field like a siren warning a military camp of an impending incursion.
*Ka-THUNK!*
*Ka-THUNKKa-THUNKTHUNKTHUNKTHUNKTHUNK*
The barrage of blows from a different timeline come in a never ending assault, one that Gamzee struggles to keep up with; Gotta admit, motherfucker’s got some moves. A snip here, a slice on his cheek. Little nicks break through the clown’s sloppy defenses, but that’s all they are; little pinches to remind him he is alive.
Alive.
The sword pattern this clone uses is actually quite simple. The only thing mucking up the troll’s March on the Heretics is the sheer speed employed by the defunct timeline. Eventually, however, a flaw is found. A horizontal slash is halted by a single club, leaving the other free to crash into the Dave’s midsection. The fake rasps for the lost air escaping his lungs, and Gamzee can’t help but giggle as his foe falls to his knees before disappearing in a red shimmer, assumedly back to his own timeline.
No more distractions. Only purple haze and acid rain drops. Jovially, the clown puts on a small little act, juggling his ivory weapons high into the air as he advances towards his goal. Their arc wavers as he walks, the sound of rolling and hissing ash at his footsteps. His eyes never leave their mark. After a few cycles, the juggalo deftly catches his tools of mirth.
“Fancy tricks, brother. The warm-up is all kinds of obliged,” he begins with a forced smile. “But now, it’s time for the show to start. The greatest show on earth!”
Hysteria creeps into the clown’s voice. His entire being starts to shake, brimming with righteous and holy fury. Death and decay, that’s all that fills this place. Why should he not assist the universe in the degrading of this horrid place?
Bursting into action, Gamzee closes the distance between him and his prey. Clubs out stretched for the kill, the smack, the wonderful crack of breaking bones-
Wh-
The juggalo freezes, face inches apart from Dave’s. However, his eyes are no longer focused on the righteous killing at hand. Instead, they are frozen, held in place by some mystical force, staring, glaring, raring to go. The two gems of sickly amethyst will not leave the puppet.
The puppet.
The puppet.
The High-blood’s mouth quavers, wavers agape. Lips tremble, cheeks twitch. Gamzee almost loses grip on one of his clubs, then subsequently stumbles back, only barely able to catch himself from falling.
That thing.
So, so many images and scenes flashed through his broken mind at once. So, so many voices fill his ears, his head, his entire being, threatening to burst and break his skull wide open. The voices; they want out. They want things done, but they can’t do them. Not on their own. They’re just voices, trapped in a body.
But the body- the body can do things. The body can do a lot of things. Everything else is so insignificant now. All that there is is that puppet, the blasted, motherfucking puppet.
And it wants to be freed.
Slowly, very very slowly, the tortured soul lets his eyes drift upward to meet the gleam of triangular, super cool shades.
The battle, the various feuds going on between these specific three stop for a moment, only a moment. There is silence between them. The younger Strider looks between the two that were presently locked in a stare off, more confused than he’s ever been.
“You two gonna kiss? Because that’s fucking disg-”
A strange, raspier iteration of Gamzee’s voice cuts Dave’s quip off rather abruptly.
“I’m going to have to ask you a humongulous motherfucking favor, motherfucker,” He blurts out at the elder Strider, sweat visible on his brow. The agitated troll begins again after a slight pause, stressing every single word separately. It was as if the vocables themselves would begin killing each other if they were uttered too closely one after the other.
“Give me the Puppet.”
The demand was met with silence and a cold, beshaded stare.
“Give me the Puppet!” The alien screeches with a voice of imperial authority, eyes threatening to boil over in a brilliant shade of orange.
This time, the order is met with the steel sheen of a katana.
The clown drops the club in his left hand as lightning begins to snake its virulent way across his form. Planting his free hand on Dave’s face and shoving it out of the way, the murder-clown practically leaps at the tall, pale brother. All the while, a primal, inhuman war cry resonated through the ashen field like a siren warning a military camp of an impending incursion.
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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