11-16-2016, 06:42 PM
Darkness enveloped his form as he slid down, down into the abyss of the caves. His pick left a long trail of cracked ice as he descended into the depths below the battle above.
He must have reached the end of the precipice at some point, though. A sharp crackling sound, like splintered wood or broken glass, followed by his pickaxe slipping out from the cliff face as pieces of ice fell away. A few moments later, he collided with the ground, ice chunks splattering next to him. Pain racked his body. He let out a groan as he stood back up, finding himself in a familiar situation.
Of all things, his mind went back to when he first arrived in the Omniverse. A realm of eternal blackness, where the laws of reality, of up and down, of sky and earth, were alien to everyone who came across it. It was inhabited only by Omni, the one who had summoned him in the first place. He remembered being glued to the ground, blood cascading from his shoulder from the bullet that had lodged itself into him. He could not move no matter how hard he tried; one might have thought the whole thing was an unsubtle attempt at a torture chamber for the pleasure of some disgusting hell being. Then, he was blinded by a series of flashing lights, then by a huge, almost psychotic-looking grin plastered on a porcelain figure, pale as the snow itself.
Perhaps it was a feeling of helplessness, of realizing that his ploy had left him in the most precarious spot imaginable since he had arrived, that caused him to think back to that. He had escaped from the mob of bounty hunters, only to instead trap himself in a massive hole where no one could possibly find him or hope to find him.
He took a deep breath. All odds were against him, he knew this, but like hell he was going to let that stop him. He had a mission to do, and being lost in some cave in the middle of nowhere was the LAST thing that would make him draw the line in the snow.
He fished for his pack, pulling out a lump of wick the size of his fist. He flicked his thumb against it. A reddish flame burst from the hunk.
Above came the reverberations of grating, scraping metal. He glanced upward.
A moment later, he was on the floor, the wick flying a few feet to his side as he held his hands up, staying the two sets of blades from impaling his chest.
He struggled, his fists clasped around the tips of the blades. His assailant pressed his foot down on his stomach. Ballad tried to lift his legs up to kick. He could vaguely hear a “Ssshhh..” noise slither through the lips of the man as the gunsmith wrestled underneath him.
A sword steadily pushed through his fingers. It sank into his torso. With a rapturing bellow, he shot his leg up to his attacker’s chest. He kicked forward.
The man sailed off of him, his blade bursting out of the gunsmith’s torso with a squelchy pop. He fell into the shadows. The only indication he had landed were the sounds of broken glass that rapidly filled the room, echoing all around them both.
The gunsmith dashed forward, grabbing his precious wick. The crimson tint of the light that surrounded him barely hid the blood drizzling from his wound. He reached for his hand-pick, shivering.
He whirled around, his heart thumping a mile a minute as he concentrated on the area around him. He held his pick high in a threatening manner, as if to dare the one who had attacked him to come out again and face him like a man.
Footsteps.
He turned around, tilting his head to the right. A sharpened knife of a weapon, the tip glistening red with blood, zipped past him. On the end, roughly a foot from his face, was a bulging muscle of an arm from which the blade jutted out from the skin. The skin was wrapped around it with a tiny hole for the thing to shoot out of, a process far too painful to imagine, let alone experience themselves for anyone other than-
Any doubt of who had assailed him disappeared.
He leaned back as the greaser spun around, cutting for his neck. He slammed his pick down. The demon blocked, dancing out of the way. His wick flame illuminated the psychopath’s face. It was dark red; it only barely collaborated with the incandescence of the fire the gunner held in his hand. He was taller, with him standing a fair foot above the green man himself. He had somehow grown stronger too, now looking positively like a seasoned champion of a prestigious gladiator arena, with massive muscles visible even below his wife-beater shirt and 70s shades. What was most apparent to the gunner, however, was his smile. A toothy, cocky smile that could give anyone the urge to punch the dude’s face in and see if they can’t REMOVE said smile.
The first words of the brawl were spoken by Kuzuru, or, perhaps more accurately, a part of him. As he opened his mouth, his eyes caught aflame, his voice replaced with that of the pickaxeman’s most familiar foe.
“Don’t think you can win THIS time, greenie!” said Agern, slashing his blades against the ground, water surging forth from the incisions crafted from his hacks, “I have an ACTUAL demon on my side! One who won’t turn TRAITOR at the last moment.”
It was small, but he could sense a fierce tug at the back of his mind. Before he could ask what his enemy implied, SPB had already seized control away from him.
“My troth was never to you, Agern, you dullard of a Scotsman,” he said, just barely keeping it above a growl, “I’m committed only to my research, which you have demonstrated time and time again to be a significant trammel to.”
The gunsmith’s golden eyes brightened as SPB continued. “And if you dare collate me to this radge forwards of me, I will determine how best to deliver the eternal punishment you delivered to so many others prior.”
“Oh, shut the hell up already and fight!” shouted Kuzuru, having finally regained control of his form.
The greaser charged forward, his blades squeezing out of his arms to morph into curved scimitars. He leapt into the air, did a flip, and plummeted towards the gunsmith.
The sharpshooter jabbed a switch on his pick. The shaft elongated just as his opponent’s blades met his pickaxe. He stumbled back, the swords embedding in the rod of his weapon. He lifted his foot to smack it into his opponent.
The demon wasted little time. He rebuffed Ballad’s foot with his own, a spasm of pain shooting up the gunner’s leg. Before he could recover, Kuzuru pushed, whirled around, and sliced across his legs. As the gunsmith fell, he kicked him in the stomach, sending him tumbling backwards.
When he stopped, he slowly pushed himself up, bloodied and battered.
“Wha-..how?”
He must have reached the end of the precipice at some point, though. A sharp crackling sound, like splintered wood or broken glass, followed by his pickaxe slipping out from the cliff face as pieces of ice fell away. A few moments later, he collided with the ground, ice chunks splattering next to him. Pain racked his body. He let out a groan as he stood back up, finding himself in a familiar situation.
Of all things, his mind went back to when he first arrived in the Omniverse. A realm of eternal blackness, where the laws of reality, of up and down, of sky and earth, were alien to everyone who came across it. It was inhabited only by Omni, the one who had summoned him in the first place. He remembered being glued to the ground, blood cascading from his shoulder from the bullet that had lodged itself into him. He could not move no matter how hard he tried; one might have thought the whole thing was an unsubtle attempt at a torture chamber for the pleasure of some disgusting hell being. Then, he was blinded by a series of flashing lights, then by a huge, almost psychotic-looking grin plastered on a porcelain figure, pale as the snow itself.
Perhaps it was a feeling of helplessness, of realizing that his ploy had left him in the most precarious spot imaginable since he had arrived, that caused him to think back to that. He had escaped from the mob of bounty hunters, only to instead trap himself in a massive hole where no one could possibly find him or hope to find him.
He took a deep breath. All odds were against him, he knew this, but like hell he was going to let that stop him. He had a mission to do, and being lost in some cave in the middle of nowhere was the LAST thing that would make him draw the line in the snow.
He fished for his pack, pulling out a lump of wick the size of his fist. He flicked his thumb against it. A reddish flame burst from the hunk.
Above came the reverberations of grating, scraping metal. He glanced upward.
A moment later, he was on the floor, the wick flying a few feet to his side as he held his hands up, staying the two sets of blades from impaling his chest.
He struggled, his fists clasped around the tips of the blades. His assailant pressed his foot down on his stomach. Ballad tried to lift his legs up to kick. He could vaguely hear a “Ssshhh..” noise slither through the lips of the man as the gunsmith wrestled underneath him.
A sword steadily pushed through his fingers. It sank into his torso. With a rapturing bellow, he shot his leg up to his attacker’s chest. He kicked forward.
The man sailed off of him, his blade bursting out of the gunsmith’s torso with a squelchy pop. He fell into the shadows. The only indication he had landed were the sounds of broken glass that rapidly filled the room, echoing all around them both.
The gunsmith dashed forward, grabbing his precious wick. The crimson tint of the light that surrounded him barely hid the blood drizzling from his wound. He reached for his hand-pick, shivering.
He whirled around, his heart thumping a mile a minute as he concentrated on the area around him. He held his pick high in a threatening manner, as if to dare the one who had attacked him to come out again and face him like a man.
Footsteps.
He turned around, tilting his head to the right. A sharpened knife of a weapon, the tip glistening red with blood, zipped past him. On the end, roughly a foot from his face, was a bulging muscle of an arm from which the blade jutted out from the skin. The skin was wrapped around it with a tiny hole for the thing to shoot out of, a process far too painful to imagine, let alone experience themselves for anyone other than-
Any doubt of who had assailed him disappeared.
He leaned back as the greaser spun around, cutting for his neck. He slammed his pick down. The demon blocked, dancing out of the way. His wick flame illuminated the psychopath’s face. It was dark red; it only barely collaborated with the incandescence of the fire the gunner held in his hand. He was taller, with him standing a fair foot above the green man himself. He had somehow grown stronger too, now looking positively like a seasoned champion of a prestigious gladiator arena, with massive muscles visible even below his wife-beater shirt and 70s shades. What was most apparent to the gunner, however, was his smile. A toothy, cocky smile that could give anyone the urge to punch the dude’s face in and see if they can’t REMOVE said smile.
The first words of the brawl were spoken by Kuzuru, or, perhaps more accurately, a part of him. As he opened his mouth, his eyes caught aflame, his voice replaced with that of the pickaxeman’s most familiar foe.
“Don’t think you can win THIS time, greenie!” said Agern, slashing his blades against the ground, water surging forth from the incisions crafted from his hacks, “I have an ACTUAL demon on my side! One who won’t turn TRAITOR at the last moment.”
It was small, but he could sense a fierce tug at the back of his mind. Before he could ask what his enemy implied, SPB had already seized control away from him.
“My troth was never to you, Agern, you dullard of a Scotsman,” he said, just barely keeping it above a growl, “I’m committed only to my research, which you have demonstrated time and time again to be a significant trammel to.”
The gunsmith’s golden eyes brightened as SPB continued. “And if you dare collate me to this radge forwards of me, I will determine how best to deliver the eternal punishment you delivered to so many others prior.”
“Oh, shut the hell up already and fight!” shouted Kuzuru, having finally regained control of his form.
The greaser charged forward, his blades squeezing out of his arms to morph into curved scimitars. He leapt into the air, did a flip, and plummeted towards the gunsmith.
The sharpshooter jabbed a switch on his pick. The shaft elongated just as his opponent’s blades met his pickaxe. He stumbled back, the swords embedding in the rod of his weapon. He lifted his foot to smack it into his opponent.
The demon wasted little time. He rebuffed Ballad’s foot with his own, a spasm of pain shooting up the gunner’s leg. Before he could recover, Kuzuru pushed, whirled around, and sliced across his legs. As the gunsmith fell, he kicked him in the stomach, sending him tumbling backwards.
When he stopped, he slowly pushed himself up, bloodied and battered.
“Wha-..how?”
C&C Thread
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New to OV? Need a question answered? Want a C&C of your work? Send a PM to me!
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