09-27-2016, 06:18 PM
The survivors of the massive onslaught caused by Chara, Ascension, and Scarecrow continued retreating into the caverns. The trolls may have been bloodthirsty, even to the point of impulsiveness and overconfidence, but even they knew better than to attempt to best a group that had proven to be their superior. Hence, they ran. Ran until they were at the other side of the cave system before, once they were certain of their safety from the group of Primes, proceeding to make camp.
The glacial cave they were inhabiting was massive, which explained how a machine as tall as the Reaper had managed to fit in it. Every surface was covered and composed of a blue, almost glowing sheet of ice; thankfully, the trolls had grown used to the slippery nature of the floors and had adapted to it accordingly. Small, man-sized holes fit for sleeping and laying down were strewn towards the back of the entrance, which at least one troll had decided to take advantage of. Stalactites of ice loomed above the group, water dripping down onto them. As if that wasn't enough, large cracks were scattered across the walls of the cave, as if housing some kind of evil inside that threatened to burst out at any moment. Whatever was the cause was something that M'olnir could not guess at.
The troll leader walked towards the entrance to the cave, passing by his shivering and resting brethren as they tried to keep warm without the advantages of a fire. Some were busy digging into the few scraps of food they had left, while others suckled on the tips of their water flasks. The one remaining medic tended to the injured, ensuring their wounds were healed, or at least make sure they did not suffer. Their leader placed his old, withered hands along the edge of the entrance, staring out into the white abyss. The ice storm had not let up, or at least not on this side of the mountain. How long had it been going on? It had felt like days, but who knew? The Omniverse was not known for being consistent.
He brought his hand to his purple, shrub-like beard; he stroked it as he glanced down towards the earth, a sigh escaping his lips. They had been trapped in the accursed glacier caves for who knew how long, and he could sense the desperation in his soldiers-in-arms. In himself, even. Why else had he ordered his squad of a dozen to assail the sewn-up humanoid and his giant machine partner with so little thought? Granted, he had no idea that the small child would appear. The one with the cleaver, the glowing, demonic eyes, and the massive, wide grin... just thinking about it made him want to hurl. What man could possibly be so cruel? So sadistic?
Oh, what was he thinking? That question had been answered plenty of times in history. Man had proven, time and time again, that when it came down to it, they were animals. When they weren't fighting trolls or orcs, they were fighting each other. Slaughtering each other; if he didn't know any better, he would think it was almost like a game to them. As if they enjoyed it.
He spat into the snow. And they had the nerve to call themselves "civilized."
"Sir?" a soldier said. M'Olnir turned around, seeing the soldier with his hands in the salute motion. He acknowledged him as the trooper lowered his hand.
"How are ah' fella troopa's doin'?" he said, scanning what remained of their party. Everything looked so empty all of a sudden. Had they really lost that much trollkind?
"Well, mon... good news is dat, wit' a good chunk o' ah' people dead, we don' have a big supply problem anymo'..." the warrior said. He chuckled, a smile on his face before it sagged away into a solemn expression.
"Bad news, dou', is pretty much da same ting. We lost so many back der'... we can't afford anytin' like dat again.."
"Shush, soldier.." he replied. He placed his palm on the warrior's shoulder; he patted it in the most consoling manner possible.
"What happened was not yo' fault, no' anyone elses. It was only mine and mine alone. I promise I'll get da rest o' us dru' this, do', if it means layin' down ma life for da rest o' us to get out."
He opened his mouth to speak again. Just then, though, he saw the expression on the fighter's face turn from that of sorrow, to that of curiosity, to that of fear. Before he could respond, the troll pointed towards something in the abyss, with the leader whirling around to see what it was.
---------------------------
The deafening winds of the outside blizzard could do nothing to drown out the thunderous stomps as they drew closer and closer to the cave they were camping in. A cold chill unlike anything the troll had ever felt ran down his spine as he stared into the storm. He squinted, sighting a massive shape of darkness; it grew larger and larger with each boom. He could not give it a defining shape; the snow was far too thick to be able to truly see what it was. Whatever it was, though, it was walking towards them.
Without a moment to spare, M'olnir ordered his warriors out of sight. They all managed to find a successful hiding place just as the gargantuan shadow passed into the cave, the ground rumbling with each footstep it made.
--------------------------
The giant, green-furred mammoth blared its trunk, blowing out a patch of snow that had found itself nestled around its nostrils. Its rider, a red-scarfed, green-clothed humanoid, set his hand on top of the tuft of hair growing on the elephant's head. His mount stomped its feet. The cave shook. The humanoid pulled back on the reigns, calming the troubled beast enough to prevent it from causing a literal cave-in.
They had been traversing the Fields for well over an hour, fighting off the deadly maelstrom of a blizzard throughout. The man's clothes and his Trunkert's fur were coated in a thin layer of snow, and they were both visibly shivering from the blistering cold. Despite the intensity of the snowstorm, however, the gunsmith could not say that they were comparable to the storms of home. Back home, the winds were cutting enough to flay off the skin of anyone stupid enough to venture out unprotected; the air was often so thick, so filled with snow, that not even the naturally honed eyes of his people could properly see through them at times. It was definitely a good thing he had remembered to summon up a mount as sturdy as a Trunkert for travel through the Fields. Although the Trunkert might have been able to last a bit longer outside, the gunner was not going to chance his mount keeling over dead in the middle of a blizzard. Not while he still had to reach Dwarfholm.
Not while he still had to execute his plan.
Sliding down the side of the Trunkert, he stepped into the center of the entrance. He glanced around, studying every minute detail it offered. To his left spawned a shadowy figure, one that looked just like him. It matched his movements, its eyes as white as the snow outside.
I must deliberate. What is the cause for the fissures in this cavity? it said, its words running through the gunsmith's head and out his mouth.
His elephant mount tooted, watching its master talk to himself for the fourth time during their trip. His master's eyes switched from yellow to white as he spoke.
"I don't think I want to know," he said, "frankly, it doesn't really give me wonders as to the structural integrity of this cave."
Agreed.
The shade turned its head towards the other side of the cave. It fixated on a large tunnel, the inside as black as the maw of giant worm. It was partially hidden by several sets of ice columns, or at least what remained of them. Ice chunks littered the floor in front of the tunnel, as if something had forced its way through.
Something gigantic.
Ballad bit his lip. He wiped a cool sweat off of his forehead.
I am cognizant of your perturbation, Ballad, but logic dictates that forward is our solitary recourse.
"Yeah, yeah..." he said.
The shade dissipated into the air as the new recruit moved towards the tunnel. His palm slid to the holster of his gun.
Just then, he saw a glint of purple peak out from one of the holes in the ground. Before he could get a good look, it had ducked down again.
His hand grasped the handle of his revolver. The gun was halfway out of his holster when he paused, looking up towards the roof of the cave. He put his weapon back into his holster before reaching down towards his pickaxe. He removed his melee weapon from his belt, raising it upwards.
"Whoever is spying on me, reveal yourself," he said, calling out towards the hole, "if you refuse, I will interpret it as an assay to ambuscade me. If I am accurate, then allow me to elaborate on a singular truth: you will not triumph."
Before another word could be uttered, he heard the soft whizz of an arrow shooting past him. He ducked downwards, avoiding another by a mere inch. He glanced around, seeing a quadro of trolls, two of which were crouched down in the holes in the ground, crossbows aimed at him. Another was rushing him with a club laden with spikes, while the last was nowhere in sight, though judging from the echoes of the orders he barked, he could only assume he was laying in one of the holes, where he could be safe.
As cowardly as it likely was, it was a smart decision to make. He could actually escape the slaughter.
Do what you do best, o inventor.
-------------------------------
The gunsmith's eyes flared a solid white as he charged towards the club-wielder, pickaxe in hand. Their weapons collided mid-swing, locking them together. A frenzied snarl shot out of his opponent's lips as he pushed back against the pick blade. The gunner responded with a swift hook to the troll's face, knocking him back.
Another arrow sailed towards him, cutting across his arm. Blood flew from his arm and onto the ground; a buzz shot up his limb. Anywhere else and he would have replied with a swift gunshot from his revolver, but he had learned his lesson the first time he did that. As much as he disliked the circumstance, he would have to settle for an old-fashioned melee.
Growling, he swung his pickaxe forward, catching his opponent in the torso. One arrow shot towards him, only to embed itself into the club-wielder's back. As he wailed, the gunsmith formulated a quick ploy in his head.
Thinking at a mile a minute, he pushed forward, rushing towards the first hole he saw with a troll in it. The clubber, a skinny one from lack of food, could only place his hand on the sharpshooter's shoulder in a vain attempt to not turn him into a makeshift battering ram. Unfortunately for him, this was not to be.
The two of them rammed into the crossbowman, all three of them falling into the hole. With his improvised ram on the ground, Ballad immediately began to hack away at the warrior, blood spurting out from his head. He then turned towards the bowman, whom had already gotten up and was busy trying to load in another bolt. He was just able to ready another shot when the gunner clicked a button on the handle of his military pick, a sound like that of clockwork sputtering out from his weapon as it increased in length. He then leaped forward, the sharp end of the pick digging itself into the troll's neck. The bowman gurgled, his hands moving to his neck out of sheer instinct.
The green inventor sprawled himself on the ground, wiping his torso and face to remove the blood that had accumulated on it. He took a momentary look over the edge of the hole, seeing the tunnel only a few paces away. Taking a deep breath, he grabbed the loaded crossbow and raced towards it. As he did so, he fired the one bolt behind him, a squeak following up shortly afterwards as he descended into the caves.
The glacial cave they were inhabiting was massive, which explained how a machine as tall as the Reaper had managed to fit in it. Every surface was covered and composed of a blue, almost glowing sheet of ice; thankfully, the trolls had grown used to the slippery nature of the floors and had adapted to it accordingly. Small, man-sized holes fit for sleeping and laying down were strewn towards the back of the entrance, which at least one troll had decided to take advantage of. Stalactites of ice loomed above the group, water dripping down onto them. As if that wasn't enough, large cracks were scattered across the walls of the cave, as if housing some kind of evil inside that threatened to burst out at any moment. Whatever was the cause was something that M'olnir could not guess at.
The troll leader walked towards the entrance to the cave, passing by his shivering and resting brethren as they tried to keep warm without the advantages of a fire. Some were busy digging into the few scraps of food they had left, while others suckled on the tips of their water flasks. The one remaining medic tended to the injured, ensuring their wounds were healed, or at least make sure they did not suffer. Their leader placed his old, withered hands along the edge of the entrance, staring out into the white abyss. The ice storm had not let up, or at least not on this side of the mountain. How long had it been going on? It had felt like days, but who knew? The Omniverse was not known for being consistent.
He brought his hand to his purple, shrub-like beard; he stroked it as he glanced down towards the earth, a sigh escaping his lips. They had been trapped in the accursed glacier caves for who knew how long, and he could sense the desperation in his soldiers-in-arms. In himself, even. Why else had he ordered his squad of a dozen to assail the sewn-up humanoid and his giant machine partner with so little thought? Granted, he had no idea that the small child would appear. The one with the cleaver, the glowing, demonic eyes, and the massive, wide grin... just thinking about it made him want to hurl. What man could possibly be so cruel? So sadistic?
Oh, what was he thinking? That question had been answered plenty of times in history. Man had proven, time and time again, that when it came down to it, they were animals. When they weren't fighting trolls or orcs, they were fighting each other. Slaughtering each other; if he didn't know any better, he would think it was almost like a game to them. As if they enjoyed it.
He spat into the snow. And they had the nerve to call themselves "civilized."
"Sir?" a soldier said. M'Olnir turned around, seeing the soldier with his hands in the salute motion. He acknowledged him as the trooper lowered his hand.
"How are ah' fella troopa's doin'?" he said, scanning what remained of their party. Everything looked so empty all of a sudden. Had they really lost that much trollkind?
"Well, mon... good news is dat, wit' a good chunk o' ah' people dead, we don' have a big supply problem anymo'..." the warrior said. He chuckled, a smile on his face before it sagged away into a solemn expression.
"Bad news, dou', is pretty much da same ting. We lost so many back der'... we can't afford anytin' like dat again.."
"Shush, soldier.." he replied. He placed his palm on the warrior's shoulder; he patted it in the most consoling manner possible.
"What happened was not yo' fault, no' anyone elses. It was only mine and mine alone. I promise I'll get da rest o' us dru' this, do', if it means layin' down ma life for da rest o' us to get out."
He opened his mouth to speak again. Just then, though, he saw the expression on the fighter's face turn from that of sorrow, to that of curiosity, to that of fear. Before he could respond, the troll pointed towards something in the abyss, with the leader whirling around to see what it was.
---------------------------
The deafening winds of the outside blizzard could do nothing to drown out the thunderous stomps as they drew closer and closer to the cave they were camping in. A cold chill unlike anything the troll had ever felt ran down his spine as he stared into the storm. He squinted, sighting a massive shape of darkness; it grew larger and larger with each boom. He could not give it a defining shape; the snow was far too thick to be able to truly see what it was. Whatever it was, though, it was walking towards them.
Without a moment to spare, M'olnir ordered his warriors out of sight. They all managed to find a successful hiding place just as the gargantuan shadow passed into the cave, the ground rumbling with each footstep it made.
--------------------------
The giant, green-furred mammoth blared its trunk, blowing out a patch of snow that had found itself nestled around its nostrils. Its rider, a red-scarfed, green-clothed humanoid, set his hand on top of the tuft of hair growing on the elephant's head. His mount stomped its feet. The cave shook. The humanoid pulled back on the reigns, calming the troubled beast enough to prevent it from causing a literal cave-in.
They had been traversing the Fields for well over an hour, fighting off the deadly maelstrom of a blizzard throughout. The man's clothes and his Trunkert's fur were coated in a thin layer of snow, and they were both visibly shivering from the blistering cold. Despite the intensity of the snowstorm, however, the gunsmith could not say that they were comparable to the storms of home. Back home, the winds were cutting enough to flay off the skin of anyone stupid enough to venture out unprotected; the air was often so thick, so filled with snow, that not even the naturally honed eyes of his people could properly see through them at times. It was definitely a good thing he had remembered to summon up a mount as sturdy as a Trunkert for travel through the Fields. Although the Trunkert might have been able to last a bit longer outside, the gunner was not going to chance his mount keeling over dead in the middle of a blizzard. Not while he still had to reach Dwarfholm.
Not while he still had to execute his plan.
Sliding down the side of the Trunkert, he stepped into the center of the entrance. He glanced around, studying every minute detail it offered. To his left spawned a shadowy figure, one that looked just like him. It matched his movements, its eyes as white as the snow outside.
I must deliberate. What is the cause for the fissures in this cavity? it said, its words running through the gunsmith's head and out his mouth.
His elephant mount tooted, watching its master talk to himself for the fourth time during their trip. His master's eyes switched from yellow to white as he spoke.
"I don't think I want to know," he said, "frankly, it doesn't really give me wonders as to the structural integrity of this cave."
Agreed.
The shade turned its head towards the other side of the cave. It fixated on a large tunnel, the inside as black as the maw of giant worm. It was partially hidden by several sets of ice columns, or at least what remained of them. Ice chunks littered the floor in front of the tunnel, as if something had forced its way through.
Something gigantic.
Ballad bit his lip. He wiped a cool sweat off of his forehead.
I am cognizant of your perturbation, Ballad, but logic dictates that forward is our solitary recourse.
"Yeah, yeah..." he said.
The shade dissipated into the air as the new recruit moved towards the tunnel. His palm slid to the holster of his gun.
Just then, he saw a glint of purple peak out from one of the holes in the ground. Before he could get a good look, it had ducked down again.
His hand grasped the handle of his revolver. The gun was halfway out of his holster when he paused, looking up towards the roof of the cave. He put his weapon back into his holster before reaching down towards his pickaxe. He removed his melee weapon from his belt, raising it upwards.
"Whoever is spying on me, reveal yourself," he said, calling out towards the hole, "if you refuse, I will interpret it as an assay to ambuscade me. If I am accurate, then allow me to elaborate on a singular truth: you will not triumph."
Before another word could be uttered, he heard the soft whizz of an arrow shooting past him. He ducked downwards, avoiding another by a mere inch. He glanced around, seeing a quadro of trolls, two of which were crouched down in the holes in the ground, crossbows aimed at him. Another was rushing him with a club laden with spikes, while the last was nowhere in sight, though judging from the echoes of the orders he barked, he could only assume he was laying in one of the holes, where he could be safe.
As cowardly as it likely was, it was a smart decision to make. He could actually escape the slaughter.
Do what you do best, o inventor.
-------------------------------
The gunsmith's eyes flared a solid white as he charged towards the club-wielder, pickaxe in hand. Their weapons collided mid-swing, locking them together. A frenzied snarl shot out of his opponent's lips as he pushed back against the pick blade. The gunner responded with a swift hook to the troll's face, knocking him back.
Another arrow sailed towards him, cutting across his arm. Blood flew from his arm and onto the ground; a buzz shot up his limb. Anywhere else and he would have replied with a swift gunshot from his revolver, but he had learned his lesson the first time he did that. As much as he disliked the circumstance, he would have to settle for an old-fashioned melee.
Growling, he swung his pickaxe forward, catching his opponent in the torso. One arrow shot towards him, only to embed itself into the club-wielder's back. As he wailed, the gunsmith formulated a quick ploy in his head.
Thinking at a mile a minute, he pushed forward, rushing towards the first hole he saw with a troll in it. The clubber, a skinny one from lack of food, could only place his hand on the sharpshooter's shoulder in a vain attempt to not turn him into a makeshift battering ram. Unfortunately for him, this was not to be.
The two of them rammed into the crossbowman, all three of them falling into the hole. With his improvised ram on the ground, Ballad immediately began to hack away at the warrior, blood spurting out from his head. He then turned towards the bowman, whom had already gotten up and was busy trying to load in another bolt. He was just able to ready another shot when the gunner clicked a button on the handle of his military pick, a sound like that of clockwork sputtering out from his weapon as it increased in length. He then leaped forward, the sharp end of the pick digging itself into the troll's neck. The bowman gurgled, his hands moving to his neck out of sheer instinct.
The green inventor sprawled himself on the ground, wiping his torso and face to remove the blood that had accumulated on it. He took a momentary look over the edge of the hole, seeing the tunnel only a few paces away. Taking a deep breath, he grabbed the loaded crossbow and raced towards it. As he did so, he fired the one bolt behind him, a squeak following up shortly afterwards as he descended into the caves.
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