03-31-2017, 03:17 PM
Quote:And now, the thrilling conclusion.
We stalk thunderously among the billowing pillars of black smoke which rise from the burning meadows and ruined caravan, our three serpentine necks undulating in an arrhythmic pattern as we examine our handiwork. The soft glow of the morning sun competes with the more severe light of the fires on the wagons, reflecting off the tarnished luster of our adolescent form's immature scales, flickering upon the golden expanse of our wings. Embers drift on the breeze, and the heady scent of cooked flesh, oxidized metal and burning wood rises high on the wind.
The smoke whirls as we flex our wings, and a manic warble rises in our throats. The destruction we've wrought here was simple, but the composition of it lends a beauty beyond its obvious merits. In particular, its suddenness deserves further consideration. The wagoneers and their outriders were taken completely unawares, obliterated in a scant handful of moments by a force they barely had time to recognize, let alone understand. Their confusion, their uncomprehending horror, added a poignant note of discord to their already-chaotic demise.
Then, of course, we must examine what affect the destruction of the caravan is going to have on the places and people that relied on its services...
Our musings are interrupted by a sudden wave of vertigo. Our vision dims and we shudder, tremors rattling throughout our three-headed frame. The astral furnace inside us is sputtering, choking on tangled knots of power within this imperfect form. One of us falls abruptly comatose, then another. They dangle open-mouthed at the ends of long, limp necks. I am no longer us, but once again only me, and I can no longer sustain this shape.
My world explodes once again into whiteness and flame, but this time I'm falling, tumbling downward as the blaze of cosmic fire lessens, until all that's left is the miniature, man-like shape to which I'm becoming infuriatingly accustomed. Even the cursed pants have returned.
For a moment I'm outraged, but then I open my eyes.
Everything looks so different! The roar of flames, the smell, the heat, all of it is so deafening at this size, so immediate! The smoke and the steam, appearing as mere rising columns in my ascended state, now eclipse the newly-risen sun. The burning grasses have left a layer of ash and cinder on the riven ground, too thin to notice before.
I take a step forward and nearly stumble into a massive pit. It's partially obscured by the smoke of a smoldering buggy, so I realize only belatedly that I'm looking at one of my own ascended form's footprints.
This is fascinating - more than that, its giving me a whole new appreciation for my own unstoppable majesty. I stride across the carpet of ashes and glowing embers, circling around the hairless, steaming bodies of a team of horses. In the shadow of one fallen beast lies a man with no skin, sheathed in melted armor. A little way beyond that the corpse of a wagon looms, a pile of ashes and scorched metal, incinerated instantaneously by a direct hit from my golden lightning. A set of blackened human bones is seated near the front, grinning at nothing. A smaller skeleton sits beside it, hand on its shoulder, looking equally cheerful.
The wind blows a swirl of cinders between us. I return their grin. Somewhere in the middle distance, the sound of the fires grows louder as the blaze spreads across the fast-burning meadows, and something within my soul rises in kind.
***
When I return to the village of Holmwood I'm surprised to discover that the people actually seem happy I've returned. As I move through the shade-shrouded streets the villagers pause in their menial tasks to smile at me. Some of them even wave.
Nothing like this has ever happened before. Pushing down the urge to burn the entire village and the land that it stands on I choose a villager at random, a stout man with very little hair, and pull him aside.
"Why," I demand, staring into his eyes "Are you all so happy to see me?"
The man smiles nervously.
"Well, uh... we all heard, is the thing. About you getting rid of the bandits in the woods? And stopping that crazy Prime up on the slopes? And then we tried to run you out of town - its no wonder you acted the way you did. So, uh, excepting Peter and those other hot-blooded fellows you roughed up... I guess we're all just glad you came back."
I stare at him uncomprehendingly, shining in the shade, my arms hanging limply at my sides. He must be talking about Brock Coxley and Dawnika Snow - but how could he possibly know about them?
After several moments of ponderous silence, it comes to me: Chatterly. I don't know how, but it must be Chatterly! He said he'd convince the villagers I 'wasn't a bad person', and he's done it, twisting my destructive exploits to suit some bizarre, altruistic narrative.
My mind roils. On the one hand, the very idea that I would do anything for these people is maddening. It's so demeaning that its practically slander (which is a slithering, spiteful word, well chosen for its usage). On the other hand, if they believe I'm on their side, not only will they be more likely to talk to me, but it will add an element to their eventual ruin that I've never before had the opportunity to employ: across millions of years and tens of thousands of civilized worlds, not once have I been called a betrayer.
The idea opens up whole new emotional vistas. I dare say it may change the flavor of the experience entirely! The insult to my already-battered dignity pales beside the promise of a new and heretofore unique twist on the act of annihilation.
Grinning madly, I brush the villager aside and stalk off towards the inn.
***
Chatterly isn't there. Instead, I'm met by Violent Angus. The lesser of Chatterly's henchmen is waiting for me on the boardwalk out front, leaning against the red stone walls.
"Where," I ask him, half-growling, "Is your master?"
Violent Angus grunts. "Mister Chatterly ain't here. 'e says good job, an' that you should go to Harnburg Castle an' ask for 'im by name if you want to talk more. 'e says 'e'll answer your questions there, and that 'e's got another job for you - one that's a little more suited to a person what has your talents."
"And what about my payment?" I hiss, not happy in the least.
The scar-faced ape reaches into his cloak, and hands me a heavy leather bag. It rings with the clink of metal rubbing against metal. I probe through the internal lens of my Omnilium reserves, determining what this sack of shiny coins is actually worth, and find it to be roughly one Brock Coxley.
"Very well," I tell the servant grudgingly, actively deciding - in the name of weaving a greater tapestry of destruction - not to murder him immediately. Rainbow light rises as I begin to unmake the leather bag and its golden contents. "Consider me intrigued."