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| Where brave souls are written off/absorbed; Stealing the Senzu Quest | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Apr 15 2009, 06:08 PM (51 Views) | |
| falstaff | Apr 15 2009, 06:08 PM Post #1 |
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A burly man in the same jumpsuit as all of the other members of the Terracotta Ribbon Army came at Falstaff from behind. A piss poor judge of character, the Big Guy knew when to place a strike that had the best chance of success. He waited, lying under the body of Hna the Bug Man, as the Temple began tearing itself apart, bound monks attacking the TR Army members only to be quickly dispatched of. What they didn’t see coming, the Army, that is, were the grenades being used against them. A human that had the explosive device placed in his mouth was told not to let go for fear of losing his head. When Hna attacked Tao, Ha had lost his cool, let go, and in the process, blown himself and the two other humans from Falstaff’s group away. He did not survive, and there weren’t enough pieces of his corpse left over after the explosion to send back to his family. There was, however, a nice spray of gore and chunks of organs that covered the area just outside the blast radius. Kyu and Ren laid motionless, one human face up, clearly still conscious for the sheer fact that he wasn’t joining Ha in the Afterlife just yet. Quiljin fell without putting up much of a fight at all, and the Big Guy tackled the majin from behind, aiming a chop block to the back of one of Falstaff’s knees and taking him to the ground. The move was sloppy and uncoordinated, leaving him unable to use it to his advantage in the slightest “This is all your fault, demon!” “You don’t know the half of it, putz.” The hume wasn’t as quick to his feet as Falstaff, who was up in a heartbeat, no need to even reform his body this time as he was often apt to do. He drove his left knee into the man’s forehead, sending him sprawling out onto his back. Big Guy wasted no time in dishing out a kick of his own, aimed for the ankles of the gum figure standing above him. Falstaff jumped up into the air to avoid it, though he slammed into a piece of the ceiling that had been knocked apart in the mayhem, falling ungracefully back to the stone floor. “You killed him.” Now that he had plenty of time to get up, the Big Guy wasted none of it, talking while he worked. A fist connected with Falstaff’s face, not quite jolting enough to keep him from moving. Before he got up, another punch actually dented the side of his head. The battle wound was left reforming as the Big Guy began going to work with a set of steel toed boots, dancing a fine jig of the majin’s chest and abdomen. “You killed the great Mercenary Tao!” “Technically, I didn’t kill him.” The Big Guy silenced the blasphemy with a well delivered energy blast, leaving the bottom of the majin’s jaw hanging from a fine thread of bubble gum skin, obliterated to the point that there was nothing left. “You killed him!” “No,” a voice came from behind the Big Guy, who spun to face the source without another blow to the majin. “Hna killed him. Check your facts and get them straight.” “Shut up!” The Big Guy fell at Han, arm drawn back, a fist thrown toward the alien’s chest. The blow glanced off of Han’s forearm, and Han stood unflinching as the next strike came. “Just shut up!” He blocked that one with both arms over his chest in the shape of an ‘X’, then pushed his weight forward, sending the big human TR member back a pace. The hume wasn’t done, clearly evident by the tuck, dive, and roll to the side of one of his fallen compatriot’s bodies. From the dead man’s arm he stole the laser, and with control of the weapon, began opening fire on Han, who scrambled back for some sort of cover. “You are just as guilty, you filthy, wretched, AHH!!” Whatever was left of the insult was screamed inarticulately, half drained out by the sound of the laser whirring to keep up with the frantic burst pattern Big Guy was dishing out at a fallen pillar Han had chosen for cover. “You aliens don’t deserve the right to live!” “Who rolled over, died, and gave you the authority to make that decision?” Whirling around to blow Falstaff away, for that is who the voice was coming from now, Big Guy was met with the heel of one ashen gray palm to the bridge of his nose. The breaking of the bone was punctuated with a guttural moan. As Falstaff’s jaw reworked itself back into a suitable position for speaking, and as the Big Guy was so kindly distracted by the perfect timing of Han, the majin had shifted the shape of his left hand, creating lengthening it, thinning the tip, folding back his fingers to fashion a sort of bubble gum pike that he forced to become as hard as if it had been a weapon forged from steel. When the Big Guy turned, Falstaff had slipped the makeshift weapon between his ribs, moving in an upwards fashion to come in under the human’s arm that was still holding the rapidly overheating wrist mounted laser. Once his arm was inside of the Big Guy’s torso, Falstaff let it start to take the shape of a hand again, grabbing at anything and everything in the chest cavity and playing havoc with the man’s internal organs. “N-no,” he gasped, dropping his blaster and making a play to grab the offending limb skewering him. “You . . . you can’t.” Blood oozed from between his lips, complexion already going whiter and whiter. “Already did,” Falstaff told him, a playful grin on his lipless face. It went without saying that the Big Guy keeled over in a matter of a few short minutes. “Falstaff?” Han again. For the first time looking around the pond room of the temple, he saw that Ren was sitting upright, though his head was sagging, making it quite clear he had lost consciousness at some point during the last skirmish. Kyu was on his knees beside his friend, a hand working around one sore wrist where the ties had cut of circulation. Han must have freed them before coming to his aid. “Is that you? What happened?” Confused, he turned his coal black gaze to the alien, head canting to one side. What happened? He had taken care of things, that’s what happened. “You’re . . . you look so different.” “You look like you lost some weight,” Kyu called over. “Oh?” Running the tip of one finger down his chest, stopping when it reached the stylized M of the black and gold belt around his waist, the new and improved Falstaff turned so that he could view both men. “I like it.” “Looks good on you, Falstaff.” “But you look kind of wicked.” “Strike fear into the hearts of your enemies kind of wicked. Glad to have you on our side, man. Wait until Valandra sees this.” The majin lowered his head, closed his eyes, and listened to the speak as though his input wasn’t needed for the conversation to continue. So used to the old Falstaff were they that they didn’t even stop and question the fact that he was stringing together sentences – well put together sentences in some cases – fine now. No longer was his brain the size of a half-eaten jelly bean. He could, for the first time in a long time, think freely and on his own. Did they see that? Of course not, no. They saw him for the better fighter he was, one that they would no doubt try and take advantage of. The Big Guy from the Terracotta Ribbon Army had it wrong. Aliens weren’t the only ones with attitude problems. They galaxy was crawling with hanger-ons, those that were always looking to reap the benefits of another man’s gain. “You should do that in your match.” “Insta-win.” “Right?” “I bet you could even get into clubs now if you really wanted.” “Figures that’s what would be on your mind, Kyu.” “Shut your mouths.” The words silenced them, leaving them staring at the darkened majin before their eyes. “Falstaff?” Kyu asked, brow knitting in worry. “You okay?” The majin’s eyes remained dark, oblong holes for no more than another moment. A dull pink flame ignited there, guttering. One arm lifted slowly, casually, and he waved his hand in a nonchalant fashion of someone encouraging a person onward. Confused as to what was happening, Han stood there for a moment before his eyes went cross and the flames that had lit in Falstaff’s eyes surrounded him, setting his clothes ablaze. Kyu smacked Ren on the shoulder before launching himself at Han, tearing off his monk’s garb from the waist up and trying to smother the fires dancing their way across the alien’s trashing body. “What are you doing, Falstaff!? Make it stop! Quit it!” Ren simply sat motionless. He looked on with a mask of confusion at the happenings, still quite out of it from the concussive force of the grenade explosion. But h began cursing as Falstaff repeated the process done to Han on Ren from afar. The shout that tore itself from his throat ended all too quickly as the magical flame turned him into a rather large piece of chocolate candy; its outer coating caught and reflected the few small fires burning around the room. By the time Kyu had noticed, Han was a gingerbread man, and it looked as though the human had just shit a rather sizable brick into his pants. Cold laughter from the gray figure stole over the room like an icy drizzle. --- Meanwhile, out in the sands of the Diablo Desert, a cat stood and surveyed the scene, looking through a small digital scope that gave a readout of the distance in meters. Too bad he didn’t know how many meters were in a foot – oh yeah, I went there – and that, all his life, he’d been taught the idiot American way. Pounds in stead of kilograms, miles instead of kilometers, Fahrenheit instead of Celsius. His schooling had blown in a major way. It’s like he had been set up to fail from day one. “What is that, George?” “Turtle, I don’t know why you followed me all the way out here, but really, I can do this one my own. It’s just one stupid thief and one stupid cat holding one stupid crab hostage.” “Crab isn’t stupid.” “Well, he isn’t exactly winning any awards for being out here.” “I wish I could win awards.” “. . .” “What’s the matter, George?” “I was waiting for you to give this place a name. The Tomb. The Kame House.” “How does the middle of nowhere sound?” “East Bumblefuck works better.” “That’s a swear word. Crab doesn’t like when I use swear words. You know that. Besides, this place already has a name.” “Oh yeah?” “The Diablo Desert.” “That’s a stupid name, anyway. Give it a good one.” “I think it’s fitting.” “Of course you do.” “Desert. A water-less, desolate area of land with little or no vegetation, typically covered with sand. Desert.” “You don’t get out much, do you, Mirriam-Webster?” “I’m don’t know who that is. Would they like turtle?” “They’d hate turtle. Just like me.” The horribly out of place turtle rubbed one fin along the gentle slope of his neck. If he could have shrugged, he probably would have. “Turtle is nice. Eventually, everyone likes him.” “I still hate you.” “You hardly even count.” First smart thing that guy had ever said to him. Aside from his acerbic wit, the turtle was an excellent swimmer. Bumblebwy had gotten halfway across the ocean when he realized how piss poor an idea it had been to fly the entire way by himself. Normally he had Falstaff carrying him most of the way wherever they were. Turtle had taken it upon himself to pack a cooler full of sandwiches with the crusts cut off, then joined him, swimming alone until he caught up to the cat. Bwy would never tell him this, but he was actually a half-decent friend. Made a mean damn club sandwich, too. --- Perusing the temple in his transformed state, dragging the unconscious body of Master Quiljin behind him with one hand, and the kicking, screaming, struggling form of Valandra with the other, Falstaff made his way back to the library of sorts. Every so often when passing a particularly large statue or a mural on the wall that struck his fancy, he brought one arm up, usually dropping the monk for fear that Val would run from him if given the chance, and with that arm began to deface the art. Channeling energy down the length of the ashen gray limb, gathering it in his palm, then forcing it into his finger tips, he struck out with the barbed energy claws, leaving three jagged marks on just about everything in his wake. Those that crumbled under the stress, so be it. The doors to the athenaeum had been left open when members of the Terracotta Ribbon Army had invaded, the monks foolish enough to believe themselves and their scriptures safe from invasion. Once they made it through the main gates, they had nothing else to worry about, not until they came upon the majin and what was left of his former group of friends. They had left walls smashed, shelves over turned, set parchment on fire, blew others away with grenades or live ammunition, scorched even more with laser fire. What had once been a repository for knowledge was now nothing more than a graveyard for it instead. Fitting, given the fate of most of the Shaolin monks. Valandra's protests and both ceaseless and pointless questions of, “Where are you taking me?” and “Why are you doing this? while combined with, “Falstaff, stop,” and “This isn't you, Falstaff ” had been ignored for the most part, but upon entering the library, all of her thrashing had ceased. “W-what have they done? This place . . . it used to be beautiful.” Though lacking what one would consider to be lips, a twisted look of pleasure marred his emaciated countenance. “Now its beauty is in perfection.” With a handful of her gi, Falstaff threw Valandra across the stone floor, letting her slide dangerously close to one of the burning stacks of bound volumes and anthologies on once lost martial arts techniques, now lost again. “Just like yours,” he told her, picking up Quiljin and giving the old man one solid shake. Val pushed herself away from the blazing literature, shifting to her knees. “Don't move.” She didn't listen, and began finding her feet. He had dropped the monk and traversed a stack of wood that was on fire so quickly she never saw him move, already aiming and landing a kick to Valandra's mid-section that picked her up, launched her across the room, and slammed her body through what was left of a wooden book shelf before she could bat a long, pretty lash. “Women,” the majin sighed, exasperated. “You are not the man we allowed into our temple . . .” The monk was using a piece of debris to keep him on his feet, no longer as spry as he had once been with that Sky Dance Technique. A few broken bones here and there would do that to a person. “Hate to break it to you, but I'm not exactly a man, Master Quicksand. Men don't start their lives off in buckets; they aren't created to fight against the changeling freaks for a group of fucking ne'er-do-well mages to hide behind ” Falstaff looked to his char colored hands, at where the defensive wounds would have been on a normal person after the battle moments before, then sneered and curled the digits in to form fists. Quick steps carried him to Quiljin, who was cupping the beginnings of an energy orb behind his back and unable to stop the one-two punch combination that lifted him off of the floor a few inches, one hand almost pushing through his body and coming out of the other side. Needless to say, the ki blast vanished before it was given enough time to finish. “You'll pay ” “What are you going to do, old timer, cough blood on me?” Soft footfalls coming from the entrance to the theater-like room caught the attention of the majin. Two men stood, another leaned against the frame of the stone doorway, wounded from the assault from the TR. One of those standing had strung a small horse-bow made of a silver-blond wood, and had nocked an arrow with a wide razored broad head that had been washed in silver. The other carried with him a small pouch, something similar to a fanny-pack, and from it, drew several tiny objects that appeared from a distance to be throwing stars. “Ooh, leftovers.” He wound up, nearly threw his arm out in the toss, and hurled at the transformed menace. Letting his chest cavity open, creating a hole for the star to pass harmlessly through, Falstaff grinned. “This is how I like it.” He rolled his shoulders and craned his neck to either side, though no bones cracked. “All right, I'm ready. What say we get started?” A sizzling sound from his six o'clock caught his attention, that, as well as the scent of something burning. He half shifted to see, and where the star had hit the hard cover of a thick text, it was leaking some kind of acidic fluid that ate through the front and the paper inside. Another sound broke the lull, and he narrowly avoid that nasty arrow and two more of the blade stars, flipping sideways, one hand casually gracing the floor as he did. When he landed, Falstaff gunned his arm forward, firing a blast of energy at the door. It traveled in an invisible state, making not one whisper of a sound as it crossed the distance between attacker and the three targets, but when the two in the front rolled further inside the room to avoid what they couldn't see, the torrent of ki ripped through the doorway and the man leaning against it, a spray of arterial fluid adding another coat of gore to the hallway already stained with enough loss of life. One more death really did not make that much difference in the carnage. |
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| falstaff | Apr 16 2009, 01:28 PM Post #2 |
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The next arrow arced through the air with such grace and beauty that it almost seemed a shame to cut it down. Falstaff wasn’t one for admiring things of such nature – not even those deadly enough to the normal person – but even he had to admit the gentle curve in the haft as it reached its apex and began turning back toward the earth, razor sharp tip pointed at his chest, was vaguely intriguing. The archer had honed his craft. It was worthy of commendation at the very least. It was a clean shot; the arrow’s head had pierced clean through Falstaff’s chest and was protruding out of his back at the angle it had fallen, left in place for more important, more pressing matters. More of those damned stars were being hurled his way. Bending over backwards, the majin pressed both palms firmly against the stone floor and lifted his legs up, dodging the first of many projectiles. Lowering as one would for a push up, the gaunt figure instead used all of the strength in his forearms and triceps to springboard off of the ground, flipping less gracefully than the arrow had flown, but doing so effectively put him out of the range of the last few blade stars. They had some type of poison within the grooves, something that could no doubt cause a problem if it connected. With one hand, he reached up and pulled the offending arrow out of his chest, snapping the wooden shaft from the pressure of one thumb placed against its direct center. “You two,” he tutted, thin face moving from side to side in the universal show for disapproval. “You need to learn to focus your attacks. You’re monks, for Chri—” Words ended abruptly when a mist of dark green colored energy surrounded him from the rear. “We’re monks,” Valandra corrected, rubbed the back of her fist against her mouth. Poison Mist, while highly effective in combat, left a terrible taste on a person’s pallet. There was never a bottle of mouth wash handy when you needed it, that was for sure. “You were, too. What happened?” Falstaff backed away so as to better view both sets of attackers, the two near the door that had shown up to save Valandra and Quiljin in the first place, and the old monk who was kneeling in a crumpled mess with the newly bald Kurokonwaku user standing sentinel over him, blocking any further attempts made on the old man’s life by the majin demon. After coughing the foul wind out of his lungs, he pressed one gray finger against his chin and tapped it there thoughtfully. “What happened? Hm, what happened . . . ah, yes, I think I know this one. What happened, Valandra,” he tensed up so as to be ready to avoid the next attacks from the armed Shaolin monks. “Is that I ate your friend Ren. Made that idiot Kyu watch, too, which could very well be the best part of the entire ordeal. Then I ate Han. Too dry for my liking, but nonetheless filling. Do you know what Kyu did after that, hm?” Bukujutsu powered him to the top of a stack of books on the very top of a shelf, most of which fell and tipped over the edges as the majin landed. In a crouch, gray as he was like the color of stone, he appeared to be a gargoyle standing watch over the destruction of the library. “Shut up! You’re not Falstaff. Falstaff would never have done this to his friends!” “He cried. He got down on his hands and knees like a dog and he begged for me not to turn him into a piece of marshmallow. A pathetic attempt at saving his own hide. Did he beg for me to spare his ‘best friend’ Ren, or to save Han’s life? Did he try and stop me before I could continue on to you or Master Quiljin?” Briefly, he wondered what the monk would transform into. Chocolate, cookie, marshmallow, all of the other people had turned into something suited for their personality. Han became dryer than he was as a living, breathing person. Ren, already dark, became something even more so. Kyu was a piece of malleable fluff in life and in the reformed life he had shortly before Falstaff ate him whole. “Heh, sorry, but if you guessed Door Number Two, you’re sadly mistaken! Play again. Better luck next time! What’s the consolation prize?” A stream of projectiles had him leaping across the room to another stack, this one already precariously balanced and half destroyed. The wood gave out under his minimal weight, but before he fell to the floor, Falstaff would jump again, landing on the remains of a wooden table low to the ground, sending a shower of splinters up as he did so. Like before, another arrow was nocked, and the archer took quick aim before pulling the string taut and releasing it, firing off another gum-seeking, ancient missile. The shaft sped toward its intended target and then, when only a few short feet from where the heart would be in a normal person, slowed. It almost seemed to Valandra that it had been shot into water, or possibly something even more viscous, as it hung in midair, its flight halted. Reaching up, Falstaff plucked it from the air and snapped this arrow, too, like a twig. Or like Reina snapped bones. It’s funny ‘cause it is true. Letting the bottom half drop, the wood on stone impact quite loud given the relative silence between the room’s occupants, Falstaff kept the side with the razor arrowhead. Two short jumps carried him the distance to one of the two monks. As the human began to pull another arrow from the quiver with its top tied to his belt and another strap running around his thigh to keep it in place, the arrow slipped between his ribs. With a twist, Falstaff removed it slowly, grabbing the collar of the man’s gi and keeping him on his feet for the extra second it took the second monk to fire off another batch of his deadly throwing stars. Shifting to use the human as his shield, Falstaff slipped one arm under Arrow’s shoulder, between his own arm and his chest, and fired a torrent of light-pink energy at Blade Star from the relative safety of his new best friend’s shadow. When that was finished, he tossed one lifeless body onto the other burnt corpse, clapping one hand against the other to brush off the hard work, then clasped them over his belt. Slaughter was never an easy task. “Have to say, though they were ill-prepared and under equipped for the task at hand, they did their best with what they were up against. You shall forever be remembered . . . Juan and . . . Tu.” A shoulder rolled in a half-assed shrug, figuring the numbers worked well enough with what he called them. “Hard to remember those that choose to remain nameless.” With his thumbs hooked over his belt, Falstaff took a tentative step forward, bending slightly at the waist and leaning in toward them, leering at the two that he really wanted to play with. “Where were we?” Valandra took an uneasy step backward, fists clenched at hip level. Quiljin paled considerably. — “I feel the need for a change in setting,” Bwy told his traveling partner as they headed down the second to last dune before reaching the thief’s hideout. An odd set of tracks showed their travels across the sand, with turtles fin reaching out wide, and the bottom of his shell dragging along in one even press of a line. Bwy’s tracks were tiny, and most of the sand poured back into the little paw marks upon him lifting his foot. The sun was up, making it quite hot, and turtle wasn’t going nearly fast enough for this to work effectively. How could one look the part of badass crab saving hero if he swooped in on the shell of a frigging turtle? Things just didn’t work like that. Plus, it was too warm for unnecessary use of magic. Hovering was out of the question. “I thought you were going to say a need for speed.” “That, too. Can you speed this up?” “Slow and steady.” “ Slow and steady may very well win the race in those story books idiots write to make fat kids feel better about themselves, but for all we know, they could be seasoning your pal in there with Old Bay and a couple of cans of cheap beer. Warm beer. Do you want that? No one deserves that.” “I used to have a weight problem when I was younger. It was bad. Very bad.” “Don’t know why I ever bother.” “Kids can be so cruel.” Springing up onto turtle’s back, then waiting to feel out the slow pace of his crawl, Bwy stood and looked over the top of the last hill as they came to it, ignoring the questions of if he saw anyone. That wasn’t his concern. Closing his eyes and wetting his lips with his tongue, the mage conjured up a picturesque storybook image of a winter scene, something from the North Pole, with three large balls of the stuff rolled and dressed appropriately to form a Snow Man outside of Yamcha’s cave, to the little mismatched snow angels in what used to be a large pile of dust and sand. “WOW, it got cold.” Folding his arms over his chest, Bumblebwy waited for turtle to crest the top of the last hill, then couldn’t help but grin when the pair slid the rest of the way down, using turtle’s chest as a sleigh. “What’s this guys name?” “Crab?” “No, the other one. The one that took crab.” “Yamcha something or other.” “Hey, Andre Three-thousand, get your ass out of that cave right now.” “I said Yamcha, not Andre.” The thief in question with the obnoxiously difficult name to recall poked his spikey-haired head out of the entrance to the cave, a tiny purple and tan cat sitting on his shoulder. Bwy’s heart softened at the sight, immediately feeling a pang of sadness. He missed Falstaff. The fat bastard was near and dear to his heart, whether he wanted to admit it or not. The cat couldn’t help but wonder what his old pal had gotten himself into on Earth. Had he gone far in the tournament? Was he having fun? Most importantly, did he miss Bwy yet? --- Falstaff sat on Master Quiljin’s chest, effectively pinning the monk to the floor. With one of his gray fingers shaped like a corkscrew, the majin cackled madly as he began a procedure of unneeded plastic surgery on the old man’s face to remove the sagging jowls, the wrinkles of his forehead, and the unsightly crow’s feet by the man’s eyes. “You know,” he paused in removing Quiljin’s check, sitting back and allowing his full weight to press into the human’s chest. “You remind me of a cat I used to know.” The flames that made up his eyes sparked mischievously as he started back to his gruesome task, paying no heed to the screams begging for him to cease and desist. --- The white snow contrasted sharply with the tanned skin of the thief decked out in an attire with colors that were suitable for thievery in the desert, not in the frozen tundra of a climate like Antarctica. A plume of steam rose as he shivered, clutching one hand over each of his bare arms and rubbing madly, trying to stay warm. “What’s going on? Who are you?” Bumblebwy floated at him, landing a dropkick and everything, one that was effective only in making Yamcha take a step back. “I’m George the Cat,” he said, and by way of further introduction, used a spell to conjure up a northerly wind to blow Puar back into the rock home. “This here is Chuckles the Turtle. We’ve come for our pal . . . line?” “Crab,” said turtle helpfully. “Carl the Crab. Give him to us or suffer the consequences.” “What the hell?” The cat hung his head sadly, then shook it from side to side. “Wrong answer. That’ll cost ya.” Bwy shivered. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Brushing them down and ignoring the tingling feeling, figuring it was from the cold anyway, he gave Yamcha one more chance to ‘fess up to the crabnapping. “Last chance, Skippy. Tell me what you did to our friend and I’ll let you go. If not . . .” “We’ll skin the cat.” Turtle slid forward and pointed a fin accusingly. “Hey, hey, whoa there, big guy. Let’s not be hasty. Why don’t we skin the human first?” “Hey! No one is skinning anyone! I don’t have crabs! I don’t know who told you that, but I’ve been practicing abstinence since I was eighteen! I’m saving myself for marriage.” “. . .” “. . . George,” Turtle began. “Don’t ask me what abstinence is, turtle. Just don’t.” “But George.” “Please.” Turtle sighed, then backed up a few paces. “Oh, all right.” Bwy was overcome with that strange feeling again, though this time, it was his entire body that went rigid. Smoothing the fur down, he glanced around, trying to see if there was anything around them that could be causing the strange sensation. “You guys feel that?” Yamcha had no idea what was happening anymore, too cold to even think straight. Thinking had always been a problem for this particular thief, evident by the fact that he lived out on the corner of No and Where and thought it was a swell place to set up robberies. Whether he couldn’t survive in the big city or if he was too dumb to realize the desert was a bad market to corner was too difficult to discern with one meeting. “Cold? Yes, I feel cold. Look, I don’t know what you two are here for, and I don’t know what you’re talking about, so I’m just going to go back inside.” “Yamcha, can I come out now?” “No, Puar! Stay inside!” “Asshole.” “Seriously, turtle, you don’t feel that?” “Nuh-uh.” “I’m going to go check it out.” “You’re leaving?” “You can find your way back,” he called, giving turtle a thumb’s up as he blasted over the snowy terrain. After a few short kilometer things, maybe feet, who knew? The rocks that were covered with frost changed back into rocks that were covered in sand. His spell only affected a small portion of the landscape, and it would only last for another twenty minutes before things would start to take their original form again. Bwy was long gone before that happened, turning this up a notch and kicking it into high gear, along with a bunch of other cliche phrases that meant he was going as fast as pussily possible. --- “Oh, sorry about that one. I think I broke one of your ribs in another spot.” Taking one leg of his pants between the index fingers and thumbs of each hand, Falstaff hiked them up slightly as he crouched down beside Quiljin. The monk had been trying to crawl away, even going so far as to make it out of the library and into the dojo. The majin was not making things any easier. “Does this hurt?” He prodded the human in the side, unflinching when it made him scream. “How about this?” Another poke. “This one hurts, too? Mmhm. Yeah, no, it’s broken. Definitely broken.” He nodded, rising to stand again as Quiljin began clawing at a brick in the floor, digging his already bleeding nails against the series of cracks where one stone met several others. When the door to the room crashed open, Falstaff had already half turned to view the intruder, one arm lifted, fingers pointing at the spot where he would unleash a burst of invisible chi. The being in the door, slowly rising from its feet into the air, was not at all who he had expected. Lowering his limb and forgetting about the dying monk for a moment, the majin crossed the room and stood before the newest of the newcomers. Without exchanging a word, his wrapped his ashen gray fingers around the cat’s throat and pulled the floating Bumblebwy closer to his face. “I thought I left you on Frieza.” “F-falstaff?” Bwy sputtered, taken aback by the new appearance. His paws smacked at the back of Falstaff’s hand. “Put me down.” “‘Put me down.’ Really? Do you think that’s going to work?” Spin move, ki blast, loud scream. Quiljin was no longer a man, more a smoldering pile of stone, human body parts, and cinder lazily floating back toward the floor. “That was the last guy that told me to put him down. Want to maybe rephrase what you said there?” He gave Bwy a shake for emphasis. “You’re going to put me down or else. That better, Mr. Grumpy Pants?” The cat’s eyes shifted colors, matching those of the creature choking him in a death grip without even trying hard. “You’re going to put me down, and then we’re going to go find the clown. After that, the three of us are going to bring your pal Vega back from the world of the dead and, if you’re lucky and play your cards right for the next few hours, careful to be extra nice to the guy that made you, maybe, just MAYBE, I’ll forgive you and forget this little scene ever happened.” Lowering his head, Falstaff’s response came not in more threats, not even in more words, but rather, it came in the form of the fire in his eyes shifting its hue, back to the off-white color that used to comprise the majin’s aura. Where his forehead had once been bare, a glowing letter signified Bumblebwy’s control over him, though, unlike the short leash the cat kept him on, the mark of Falstaff’s skin disappeared after a few moments, sinking back into his flesh. “Atta’boy. I like the new look, by the way. Very chic. Ver now. It’s nice.” Pulling himself from the grip of the Evil Form majin, the cut smoothed out his fur and nodded for the entrance to the temple. “Let’s blow this popsicle stand and find that robot before he brings the wrong monkey back. |
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| Biito | Apr 17 2009, 05:04 PM Post #3 |
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7% Good. 93% Bad Ass.
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Falstaff [ Stealing the Senzu: Complete ] [ + 400 EXP // + 100 Zenni ] Reward: Senzu Bean |
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2:28 PM Jul 11
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Summorien by Zeus00.
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2:28 PM Jul 11