Mirala "Mira" CerilMira's fears were realized when the Cartographer simply stepped in front of the cup, followed by Zinnith kicking it into the crowd like the petty inconvenience it was. The wyrmling followed it up by breathing fire, very effectively clearing the area in front of her as people scrambled out of the way of the fire. Cursing internally, Mira backed up with the rest, staying behind the front row of the crowd, and considered once again just fucking off and leaving. Nobody's worth this much fuss and trouble, no matter the bounty or other myths attached to them! Just leave already!
Just then, a barstool flew toward her face with alarming speed. She stepped sharply sideways, tightening her grip on her knife, unwavering smile frozen on her face, and turned to see where the stool was going so urgently. Her eyes fell on the rapidly assembling carriage. The half-elf who had set off the tavern flew through the air, attached to a table leg, and wound up hanging off the side of it, and once the carriage was more-or-less fully formed, it began to roll toward the cluster of people at the bar. As she watched it move forward, an idea began to tickle the back of her head, and she shook her head ever so slightly in response.
No. Absolutely not. That's a fucking terrible idea. Yet already she was calculating its trajectory and moving forward to intercept it, flipping the knife around in her hand. It's not worth it! You'd be better off just heading outside and waiting there!
But what if you lose him, Mira? What then?
Shit. A couple feet from the side of the carriage, at the edge of the crowd, she leaped forward, pulling herself up onto the back with strength and agility befitting of her elven heritage. She wrapped one arm around the nearest bit of sticking-out wood and dug her dagger into the back of the carriage with the other, hanging on for dear life. Even as she shoved her dagger into the carriage, she shifted her appearance, adjusting the colors of her skin, hair, and clothing to better blend with the wood of the carriage.
A moment later, the carriage rammed into something, and she tightened her grip as the carriage shook. It kept moving despite the impact. As she began to ease her grip again, she heard Bludger's angry swearing, and her grip tightened again as she cursed under her breath. "Fucking hell." Her thoughts continued on, though she didn't dare speak again.
Oh, I just had to hop on the back of the carriage, did I?? Now I'm stuck with fucking Bludger! Fan-fucking-tastic! Curses and reprimands directed at herself filled her mind even as the smile stayed frozen on her face. If she let it go, she would be recognized, she would be seen, so she kept it up, keeping herself pressed close to the carriage. After a moment, her storm of thoughts calmed, and one single thought dominated her mind.
This whole damn business better fucking pay off. Otherwise I'll throw that bastard to whoever'll pay me the most and let them deal with him. Hell, I might even kill him myself.
The spry little pixie read no further than "My repugnant cesspool-dwelling friend" before choking out a strangled hiss. "Repugnant? Friend?" Glowering darkly enough to drown the sun itself in blackness, her eyes bored relentlessly into the torso of Lieutenant Domina, for even with her head held high and nose aimed pointedly into the air, little Yllis could see no higher without pinching a muscle.
"I beg your pardon, little miss snippet!" With a haughty harrumph, she crushed the contract into a minuscule, compact ball and with a dramatic gesture of her arm, chucked it over the side of the boat and into the odorous liquid surrounding them.
"Little deary," she said, her voice dripping with sickly sweetness as she addressed Domina, fists balled tightly on her scrawny hips, "I'm not your friend, I'm your elder, I am not repugnant, and," here, her voice rose to a tremendous volume for a person of her size, doubtless carrying far beyond the small area of their little craft, and out over the water for all to hear, "MY HOME IS NO CESSPOOL, BUT IF THERE WERE ANY INNARDS IN THAT PITHY SKULL OF YOURS, THAT'S WHAT A FATHER FLOGGING CESSPOOL WOULD BE!"
"Ahem." She coughed delicately, all traces of rage evaporating from her expression in the space of an instant. "Kindly, ma'am, if you wish to lay claim to even the tiniest shred of good sense, you'll know that such a signature is hardly guarantee of such vagrants behaving in a discrete manner." Her eyes landed pointedly on Sabah before concluding her lecture with a half-hearted shrug. "I, however, will…. try, I suppose. If you insist."
Uni flips the edges of her cloak once again, wiping away a stray piece of grime that had rudely settled upon her shoulder. She stamps her feet on the rickety dock boards, rather petulantly, while waiting for some response. Muffled screaming still bursts forth every few seconds, in a different location now and again. At her side, suddenly, the high-pitched voice of a particular pipsqueak of a pixie could be heard: "I'd like to go up, please and thank you!"
The elf girl shifts her gaze as a vulture would, if anybody alive could know what a vulture was apart from her. Drawings in her scrapbook of ancient surface fauna depicted them well. She was not quite able to match the uncanniness of the animal, unfortunately, as her stare belied the curiosity behind her eyes. For certain, the pixie was a rare sight, especially in the Soup Bowl. And, she was giving Uni a huge smile, along with an unmistakeable hand signal.
Uni didn't need to squint to know who this was. Yllis, an... 'acquaintance' of sorts. In a fluid motion, Uni again flips her cloak, brushing off dust and returning a similar signal to the pixie, one of acknowledgement. But in another moment, the way is cleared, and the group ascends as one, with no further chance to communicate.
Some minutes later, as Uni sits near the bow of the vessel, the distasteful, sickeningly old features of the Inferian Lieutenant make themselves uncomfortably known. Perhaps she was only of middle age, but her personality was that of a crone. Uni takes a fleeting glance at the paper the lieutenant holds forth, as the pixie suddenly springs into eye- and earshot as before. Uni listens vaguely to the tirade from the now-opened floodgates, surprised in spite of herself at the amount of attitude in such a tiny package.
"Too many words." The elf girl interjects this after Yllis' polite response, and turns around to face the forward waters again. "That'll be a no from me, dog."
The Palace, Somewhere... [Optional Reading] It is said that King Merigold Morbid Bulbous was of mixed race, a human that could trace his bloodline and count out oozes, slimes and gelatinous cubes. While the science of it was never quite congruent, his storied appetite was said to be a derivative of his lineage, the walls of his stomach ever shifting to accommodate his gluttony. First Attendant herself found that watching the man lent credence to the rumor. His adipose flesh was pulled taut over his sizable frame, his porcelain-white complexion seemingly a result of blood and coloration being wrung out like water from a towel - it gave him a glow reminiscent of a slime's sheen. His indolence too, befitting one with the initiative of an ooze resting in the cavernous dark.
"Report!" Merigold snorted, as a matter less of humor and more related to the breathing logistics of a man gorging. His stubby, manicured finger tore into the flesh of the golden swill-fish, allowing its violet contents to trickle into his mouth from above, "- r-report on whereabout. Sta-stay-tus. Ag-ugh-ain. Again."
His initiative had changed, it seemed. First Attendant stood over Merigold's sizable shoulder as he sat… sunk… into his seat at the round table. The patriarchs and matriarchs of Houses Bulbous, Furia, Lothario, Gekko, Acedia, Vainglory, Invidia, Modes, Casita, Gratia, Ira and Gola completed the circle, eyes fixed upon the King's mass.
"Incidentally dead, I'd imagine." Lord Invidia mused - his face, complexion like brown, crackling clay, regarding King Bulbous with utter contempt. His twenty… thirty hands pulled idly at his elephantine earlobes, or picked at the chasms beneath his elongated nails, "You placed an unthinkably large bounty on a child, even if the price was for her still living."
Another swill-fish met its end, eviscerated; half of its contents even made it down Merigold's gullet, such was the anxious quaking of his powdered hands. "... b-bad idea… to let the common rabble handle… the Guard, even... sh-should've dep-deployed the… the twelve."
First Attendant trembled to behold the thought.
"an-and the revolution-shun-ary?"
A moment of stilted silence.
"... don't have him yet." Lili Lothario offered, the dark skin of the elf's countenance settling into an uneasy smile. "I'm, uh, told it's complicated."
"H-how? Your s-spies all told me he was an id-idiot?"
"... it's all… very relative, your, um, your grace."
Flusterer, the adipose King began on his third swill-fish, his indulging accompanied by wails that sounded barely pubescent in their tone and pitch. His cries were mostly unintelligible to all save for First Attendant, who was fluent in his babyings. 'I just want to eat… this is so stressful… I hope I never have to eat and talk at the same time ever again… even eating and thinking, really, never again... life is hard - oh, delicious swill-fish - doing things is such pain…
After his third swill-fish, Merigold Morbid Bulbous suffered a stroke.
The Elevator. [ @Starlighter@Eru@Kiririn] Lieutenant Domina was a whole spectacle, visage contorting as if her entire persona was a singular nostril, and the sight of her contracts being profaned, and her spells failing one after the other was a particularly excessive bit of flatulence.
Tomas Bisque had taken to using the papyrus to dab at his face, clearing off some of the excess powder that caked it - in the end, the papyrus was ruined by the white, yet Tomas' countenance appeared unchanged. Bouilla takes to churning through the strands of his moustache with Domina's quill, picking out Soup Bowl insects with startling accuracy. The Angler and Noodle alike betray little as they read through the contents of the contract. By the end, they simply allow the vitriol-laced papyrus to drift slowly unto the ship deck.
As Gazpa Cho's fingers trace through the contract, the head upon her shoulder screams like a cat forced through a straw. It is sated and silenced when, at last finished, Gazpa balls up the note and gently prods it into its open mouth.
Domina is silent as the vessel enters the glassy spire. She glowers at her new passengers as the lift - the pane of glass submerged beneath them - rises to catch them. Her expression is thoughtful and hateful in equal measure, as if deciding which of the profaners should take on her wrath. It takes until the entrance of the In-Between - jagged, shattered remnants of the glass docking platform before an innocuous hole in the cavern - for the Lieutenant to make up her mind.
"Little miss snippet? Dog?"
Her expression quite literally darkens, her bitterness so palpable it seems to cast a shade over the vessel.
"I am the Superintendent's favorite, you classless illiterates, and you will show me the respect I--."
An onrush of black overtakes the vessel, drowning out Domina's words, as well as the upper half of her body. Her bitterness, it turns out, hadn't cast the shade after all. When the black, like a crashing torrent, subsided, only the stumps of Domina's lower half remained, welling darkness where viscera and blood should have been. A portion of the Guardsmen had suffered the same fate, while their remaining compatriots remain still, expressions vague in their confusion.
The vessel once again fell under shadow, as the blackness congealed into a shape that peered down towards them.
"To cover, you fools!" Tomas roars, blade drawn, his voice carrying the weight of cold command - reminiscent of Inferian Guard leaders.
The shadow-beast's arm lowers as the vessel's occupants scatter, making for the late Lieutenant's cabin, or below-deck through a series of steps. If one takes the time to gaze into their darkened periphery, one can see a stem, a rope of shadow that trails from the entrance of the In-Between, that grows and expands into the beast before them.
As the bedlam ensues, the sound of three bells reverberates throughout the shaft of the Elevator. The King was dead.
Ding dong, the Lieutenant's dead.
You'll likely want to ask me some questions regarding like... "what happens if I do this" etcetc. Feel free to keep a constant line with me. If you want, you can try and spring for a collab amongst yourselves, or with me, but those probably take a bit of spare time and co-ordinating, and probably aren't viable.
For a better envisioning of what I mean when I say the shattered docking-panel of the In-between, I mean that there used to be a glass floor in front of the cavern entrance. It's now separated into little slivers that need to be precariously balanced upon to navigate.
Hirava's obscenities are choked out by the unforgiving rush of impetus. At this juncture, however, his curses are almost perfunctory, fear and anger secondary to his surging excitement. What lies before him - aside from the dwarf's particularly unpleasant visage and the prospect of being rendered flat - is the sport of chaos. Hirava detests sport, save for when it is salvaged, elevated by one particular quality.
His being at the center of it.
The lone panel of wooden flooring beneath Hirava propels itself upward like the loosed arm of a catapult, rocketing against the fellow's back heel. He flies, above the flames, and just barely clearing Bludger's stone grimace. His face, its various whiskers thoroughly disheveled, plants upon what remains of the vehicle's top most portions, nearabouts Saree and Mirala alike.
And the chariot, it does as full-throttled vehicles in tightly enclosed spaces are prone to doing. It breaks through the far wall of the Inn, threatening to send Cairn the Deader hurtling dangerously from his disintegrating perch.
Meanwhile…
From the heights of the Ringed City buildings, figures of questionable couture survey the flaming calamity of the Cheapest (formerly an) Inn. They are garbed in what appears to be a sheet of white fibres, perfect rectangles, edges extending past the shoulders and waist. A mustachioed one regards the going-ons with contempt and the twirling of facial hair, while the bookish lass that serves as his second opts for dispassion.
"What utter chaos and hooliganry, I say; the type of scene us lawful sort ought to…" He pauses, "put our stamp on."
"Yes."
"But, really, if we were the responsible sort, perhaps it'd best if we just… write a strongly worded letter."
"Yes."
"After all, it is critically important that we… practice good, legible handwriting."
"Yes... Sir: why are you talking like this? Those last two failed to qualify as plays on words, I'm afraid."
"Take the revolutionary. Kill off the competition where necessary." The man of the up-twirled moustache waddled towards the edge of the building as he spoke, hand retrieving the oversized paper knife strung about his back. He waited, allowing his second and his myriad underlings to follow suit, before flashing a smile of papyrus-yellow. "And, my dear second, I am speaking like this for practice. After all, we are the Mail Division of the Inferian Guard, and for us… it's all in the delivery."
They leapt from their perches, gliding rectangle-men-and-women hurtling towards the flaming chariot.
"The postal service is theft," Hirava sneered to himself, dividing his attentions between the preposterously skilled (and flying) mail-people and the occupants of his smoldering carriage. His attentions found themselves stretched further by the medley of Inferian Guardsmen that began pouring through the subtle cracks of the Ringed City.
The Noise Complaint division, the heads of their members compressed by headbands ending in flamboyantly coloured cushions of fur, approach with a silent menace, foregoing words and communicating their advance through sign. The Sewer Division emerged, leaping from gaps and maws that opened in the ground - the work of Spines that left nary a trace when they eventually closed. They were a somber, bitter division, and they trudged forth in a dejected feeling of sloth, weighed down by viscous pools of gunk and matter best undescribed.
The three divisions of the Guard enclosed upon straggled of the ruined Inn, and upon the center of the bedlam. The center of the bedlam, for his part, gazed upon the numbers, his dwindling odds, and thought quickly.
And, as it happened, yelled loudly from atop his quickly degrading vehicle.
"I AM HIRAVA, CHANGER OF WORLDS, SPEAKER OF INFLAMMATORY PROSE, ROUSER OF THE MOST RABBLES!" He coughed, hit by a particularly bad whiff of burning wood, "None of you no-namers is worthy of claiming my freedom; this chariot, which glows with the fury and flame of the oppressed, will melt through the chains of the Ringed City, and descend the Elevator to spread MY legend!
You want me?
Come and try, come and die, scumsuckers."
The masses, now thoroughly riled, charged forth. Amidst their roars (or furious signings), the sound of three bells could be heard ringing and reverberating through the Elevator, amplified throughout the Ringed City.
Three bells; the King was dead.
===
A few notes:
Q: Hey Shiz, in your first post you said that the Ringed City was windless; how are these mail division chucklefucks gliding?
A: FUCK YOU. (rule of cool.)
Q: Hey Shiz, why do these divisions with specialties that shouldn't be typically associated with… fighting people… seem so militant?
A: FUCK YOU. (rule of cool.)
Q: Hey Shiz, how exactly does the sewage system in the Ringed City work?
A: FUCK YOU. (very archaic-style sewers, more a storage system before Spines magic that shit away. Has a habit of leaking into the lower levels.)
Q: Did you just introduce the possibility of it literally raining poop in the Soup Bowl?
A: FUCK YOU. (fuck you.)
Post synopsis is basically: everyone swarming the flaming, inevitably doomed chariot, with the revelation that the King is dead in the background (mostly to set up future events). I intend to enter into a lull/diminuendo after this sequence - ideally, in these closing moments, discuss amongst yourselves (it may be prudent to post them in #rp-discuss and work with eachother's ideas) and with me if you've any big bold moves you wanna make (be brave if you wanna).
What happens to these various Guard NPCs is not specifically material to me, just write cool shit. To help in sort of unifying their depiction, I'll give very vague descriptions of how they behave in combat:
Mail Division - gliding warriors that sort of act like those tactically proficient ace pilots, flying in formation and saying shit like "FORMATION ALPHA-ALPHA-DELTA" (but not that last part).
Sewer Division - smelly peeps, aided by Spines that make rifts/portals to allow them to go in and out of the ground.
Noise Complaint Division - neenja. Particularly lawful, and thus also likely to target those troublemakers not named Hirava or not currently near him on the fun-wagon (ie. Zinn)
Fantasy and SciFi are the two genres I most enjoy. I absolutely adore Dark Fantasy/Dark SciFi, and I quite enjoy RPs with at least a facet of comedy in them too.
Caser walked away from the rapidly ensuing chaos. Either Hirava would be captured by one of the many physically-gifted swarming the shitstorm, or he would escape. In the former situation, a small goblin stood no chance at acquiring the prize. In the latter situation...well, he had every reason to profit. Either way, his participation in that scene would reap him no further rewards. Occasionally on his walk he hunkered down into the many layers of fabrics that swaddled him, hiding his flesh to allow him to check through the eyes of his critter. Satisfied that it remained in place within Hirava's wacky wagon, he continued along, looking for all the world like a Soup Bowl child on their way home.
Thinking himself to be away from the chaos, it was understandably a pretty brutal shock to reach the lift only to find the few guards still there staring down in horror at a SURFACE-DAMNED SHADOW DEMON currently in the process of mauling the lift. Caser pinched his nose in irritation. Today was turning out involve far more unexpected events than he was usually willing to tolerate in one day, especially since he was at risk of being caught up in them. And yet, he couldn't help but be drawn to this new discovery. A thin thread of shadow spooled from the entrance to the In-between, unravelling into the demonic form that now menaced the lift. The lift was apparently in no danger of continuing to rise, and the demon seemed to be fully occupied, so...
Ahhhh, what the hell. Dunno what's got into me today, but may as well make the most of it.
Checking one last time that the guards weren't paying attention, Caser unwound one of the many lengths of fabric that hid his flesh, gripping each end tight. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he ran and jumped off the edge, the large sheet of fabric slowing his fall as he attempted to land within the opening of the In-Between. After all, if this is how I die, there are more boring ways to go.
Cairn couldn't be sure what was going on below, but he certainly didn't like the sound of it. He was aware of yelling, lots of that, but also a sort of...quaking? For one horrific moment, Cairn could only think that the disturbance at the inn had somehow triggered a partial collapse of the Ringed City. A second later, however, he realized that the building itself was exploding outward. While this offered no immediate relief, the realization got him moving.
Everything was happening so quickly, however, that Cairn could scarcely process the unfolding events. The carriage seemed to have burst through the wall, causing the end of the building to collapse, and he had, at best, two seconds to make a decision before he was dropped into the flaming splinters of the inn.
So he jumped.
Boots pressed against a crumbling rafter threw the Deader forward and away from the collapsing building. In the limited time he had to consider, the carriage seemed to be the best option for not breaking a limb on the way down. Only after he was in the air did he realize that the carriage too was on fire. Unable to change his trajectory in his moment of realization, his jump carried him far enough to land on the back of the smouldering vehicle, very nearly smashing into a camouflaged someone. He hadn't exactly the time to consider who or what. Rather, he was contemplating how badly injured he would be if he threw himself off the speeding contraption.
His attention was drawn from his contemplations by a pair of legs swinging near the wheels, and he followed them up to find the half-elf still attached to a protruding chair leg, dangling from the side of the carriage. Why the man hadn't pulled himself up yet, Cairn could only guess, but some unconscious drive spurred him into action again. Withdrawing a dagger and driving it into a thick piece of wood that was once likely a table, Cairn braced himself with it. With his free hand, he withdrew his other dagger, reaching around to slam it into the wood above the carriage wheels. That, at least, might give the fellow something to stand on.
"Here!" he called, his low voice scarcely audible above the ensuing din as he reached a gloved hand toward the dangling stranger.
Zinnith Margraves growled, befitting of a proper dragon who had their precious treasure stolen. Then, Zinnith Margraves cursed, revealing her lack of even a shred of decency or intentions to be let off the hook in the after life. Lastly, Zinnith Margraves' fist found an unsuspecting brawler, who would most likely not return to his scolding wife tonight.
As she ran the soft flesh of her palm over the second's hand's back, figuratively licking her wounds, her eyes flickered through the inn something reptilian, simulating the paths available. The permanent smell of burnt wood and glimmering stonedwarf consoled her, comforted her, yes, even turned her o- Zinnith Margraves wagered her options, befitting of the successful "entrepreneur" she was. The bewitched carriage escaped her immediate reach, and the Wyrmling already felt the dread of having lost her prey well inside of her. As such, she did what any rational person would do in pursuit of a debtor.
"I'll get him, and I'll kill him, and I'll personally see to it that his head is sold do that closeted prince!"
Zinnith Margraves quickly regret spewing such knowledge in a crowded inn in the Ringed City.
Dismissive of the ominous bells sounding through the city, Zin began to sprint after the forsaken chariot, pushing, hissing, and punching her path through the rowdy crowd, as the triangular shadows announcing the arrival of the Mail Division enveloped (get it) her. Amidst the crowd of teeth-losing, rib-breaking and curse-flinging simpletons, the draconian focused, really focused, for once, feeling herself glide off the floor, upwards, to one especially unlucky son. With continuously increasing momentum, the tailed-woman came faster and faster, crashing into the duty-bound mook mid-air, who plummeted to the ground like a wet sack of beans.
With a triumphant roar, Zin landed - claws-first - on the rattling carriage, burst of grey smoke steaming out of her nostrils, as she drilled herself into the brittle wood, giving it her best effort not to slide off the frenzied garbage wagon.
There was a reason why Saree had decided to isolate himself. Mingling with the crowd and encounters just spelled bad luck for the male. The fact that he was now stuck on a wayward vehicle, with the inn on fire, his legs soaring through the air for a lack of grip and a painful throb in his back it all just supported his decision that solitude was the way to go.
Of all nights to go out he, Saree Nett, of course had to choose the one night he would most likely walk in on trouble. Grand timing. Great grand timing.
"Let. Go."
Kicking a hijacker in the face Saree groaned at the sudden pull of his legs. Of course some would think that pulling at his limbs would help them get on the contraption, or stop it even. Either thought was stupid and unappreciated as the ache in his lower back was not helped. It was by no surprise that the half elf was startled by the hand extended towards him. Initially thinking that it was another attack to his being the male had half the mind to take a bite out of the limb, but held himself back at the vague phrase 'here' barely audible over all the noise. Relief washed over him as his eyes turned over to the cloaked figure that had offered him help. He didn't appreciate the taste of leather anyway.
Right hand still stuck the male awkwardly grabbed hold with his left, immediately shifting his weight to the other arm as he pulled himself up, legs awkwardly sprawling over woods and splinters, climbing up as he tried not to accidentally kick off his saviour from the vehicle or into the fire.
"Thanks," he breathed hard as his feet finally met the roof of his ride. He couldn't relax, still. With the cabin still moving at full speed and on fire there was still his hand stuck and his body in an awkward angle so that he wouldn't turn his own arm out of its joints.
Tracing the outline of his dominant hand Saree finally released himself. Rolling his shoulder the man turned himself in a more comfortable angle and allowing the other their room. Once that was done Saree placed his finger against the wood once more. Wasting no time to put a stop to the nonsense the half elf was determined to succeed in his magic as he drew the rune floating up in his minds eye:
