BrokenPromise
Alucroas
Sky Blue
Tetsue
Fetzen
Divorarel
amorphical
Carlyle
Spider PickleTHE WORLD IS INSUFFICIENT
Homos. Homo Sapiens Sapiens to be exact — bipedal tetrapods with a curved spine and a bulbous head. Often they came with accoutrements: Large ears, tails, wings. Sometimes their faces were elongated, resembling those of other animals within their phylum. Sometimes they came in the form of great quadrupedal reptiles, a veritable rainbow of colours and accoutrements. They could act and pretend that they were not human, but ultimately they were; they all thought in the same way, died in the same way: With whatever passes for blood spluttering from their mouths, and with terror in their eyes.
The pycnofibers upon Krü’s body rose first, bristling in response to motions ahead. Plans within plans within plans were forged, prepared, poised to be unleashed the moment Beramode made a wrong move. It was only the casual raising of a tri-fingered hand that halted them, dismissing them with the minute motion of his wrist.
“Indeed,” Krü replied. He held good confidence that victory would be his — should they come to blows — but this branch would invariably be undone with such a conflict. His plans needed this branch intact to proceed, and though Krü was infamous for his wrath and his hatred, he stayed his hand.
Patience pays.
“We did.” Krü spoke, and his voice boomed with alien sounds, an alien language. “Games with cards, games with pieces carved from matter of earth and life. Games whose price earned them the nickname ‘plastic crack’.” Without so much as a gesture, Krü’s body rose into the air, swivelling to face Beramode while all six limbs hung beneath him. The Tapestry of Fate rose in kind, unfurling part of its unending length to bridge the gap between the two. A twitch of a finger later and the great cloth sunk, the scintillating fabric forming an arena within its depths.
Krü clutched his deck. His body lowered to rest upon the fabric formation, his head rising to look down at the metaphorical arena, the reflection of a moment where their pawns came together in coincidence, pieces already upon this board of war. His hands weaved the cards within themselves, shuffling his deck before he placed it face-down within the allotted grove.
Krü drew five cards.
“Your move.”
The figure — Agent 21745-2-Bravo-168, David — gave an impassive stare as the lights flashed forth and the firefight began. He was only there to attain the asset, and if they fell then another would take their place. But Hector did not fall, and Hector’s hand scribbled the name upon the paper.
David smiled.
“I am glad you agree,” he told Hector. Swift fingers unlocked the suitcase with a rapid series of clicks, opening up to present an item thrumming with power. He tosses it to the infamous Narco Lich, who can catch it and immediately feel its immense presence, an alien presence.
“Welcome to The Cultivators, Brother. We will sort out your initiation in earnest after dealing with—” David looks up to Rodrigo. “— this.”
A gesture from David’s hands, and the men who had fallen began to rise once again. Energy coursed through their lifeless bodies, puppets re-animated to bring their guns to bear and open fire upon Rodrigo and his goons. It was their turn to feel the heat, as the reanimated fired suppressive round after suppressive round.
It gave the time the two needed.
“We work best in shadow,” Hector enunciated with his electronic monotone. David gazed up, looking to the source of the light. His right hand formed a two-finger gun, aiming towards the lights themselves — unleashing a bolt of magenta to shatter the glass and plunge the entire area into darkness once again.
The pycnofibers upon Krü’s body rose first, bristling in response to motions ahead. Plans within plans within plans were forged, prepared, poised to be unleashed the moment Beramode made a wrong move. It was only the casual raising of a tri-fingered hand that halted them, dismissing them with the minute motion of his wrist.
“Indeed,” Krü replied. He held good confidence that victory would be his — should they come to blows — but this branch would invariably be undone with such a conflict. His plans needed this branch intact to proceed, and though Krü was infamous for his wrath and his hatred, he stayed his hand.
Patience pays.
“We did.” Krü spoke, and his voice boomed with alien sounds, an alien language. “Games with cards, games with pieces carved from matter of earth and life. Games whose price earned them the nickname ‘plastic crack’.” Without so much as a gesture, Krü’s body rose into the air, swivelling to face Beramode while all six limbs hung beneath him. The Tapestry of Fate rose in kind, unfurling part of its unending length to bridge the gap between the two. A twitch of a finger later and the great cloth sunk, the scintillating fabric forming an arena within its depths.
Krü clutched his deck. His body lowered to rest upon the fabric formation, his head rising to look down at the metaphorical arena, the reflection of a moment where their pawns came together in coincidence, pieces already upon this board of war. His hands weaved the cards within themselves, shuffling his deck before he placed it face-down within the allotted grove.
Krü drew five cards.
“Your move.”
INSATIABLE
The figure — Agent 21745-2-Bravo-168, David — gave an impassive stare as the lights flashed forth and the firefight began. He was only there to attain the asset, and if they fell then another would take their place. But Hector did not fall, and Hector’s hand scribbled the name upon the paper.
David smiled.
“I am glad you agree,” he told Hector. Swift fingers unlocked the suitcase with a rapid series of clicks, opening up to present an item thrumming with power. He tosses it to the infamous Narco Lich, who can catch it and immediately feel its immense presence, an alien presence.
“Welcome to The Cultivators, Brother. We will sort out your initiation in earnest after dealing with—” David looks up to Rodrigo. “— this.”
A gesture from David’s hands, and the men who had fallen began to rise once again. Energy coursed through their lifeless bodies, puppets re-animated to bring their guns to bear and open fire upon Rodrigo and his goons. It was their turn to feel the heat, as the reanimated fired suppressive round after suppressive round.
It gave the time the two needed.
“We work best in shadow,” Hector enunciated with his electronic monotone. David gazed up, looking to the source of the light. His right hand formed a two-finger gun, aiming towards the lights themselves — unleashing a bolt of magenta to shatter the glass and plunge the entire area into darkness once again.
A SLAVE TO CRAVING
