Off The Edge [o]

[The Summoner]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=cellpadding,0px,true][atrb=style, background-image: url(http://i62.photobucket.com/albums/h99/houndoomXdelta/de.png); width: 500px; -moz-border-radius: 20px 20px 20px 20px; border-radius: 20px 20px 20px 20px; border: 1px dashed #000000] bLEW dOWN tHE dOORS tO lET mE iN sHATTERED wINDOWS aND tHE sOUNDS oF dRUMS pEOPLE cOULDN’T bELIEVE wHAT i’D bECOME ♙words : 1336; ♙tags: Open; be my mirror, my sword and shield It was always a bit unnerving, the shuffling, the heavy breathing, the distinct yowls of the recently re-animated. Definitely something that screamed ‘wrong’ to ever sense, it was offensive, unnatural, and provided exactly the spark of danger that one Summoner Longhorn occasionally craved. Foolish perhaps, to find fun in the wake of a near-apocalypse, and more than definitely childish and morbid, but there was a certain air of fun that came with flying out of reach of a ravenous horde, especially a horde that did not possess any sort of long-rage weaponry. Sure, the fight against the Grand Highblood and the entire hemospectrum tyranny generally provided him with his daily dose of ‘adrenaline rush from doing stupid things’, but in lieu of the recent quiet on the revolutionary front, he had found that baiting zombies had made a nice substitute. Not all of it was for fun and games, however, because there was work to be done in the desolate wastes of the former city. Supplies were running low back home, and so Longhorn had taken it upon himself to travel west, towards the ruins of civilization, in order to pick through what had been abandoned and left behind. After all, it wasn’t technically stealing if it had been left behind, and medicine and canned goods weren’t doing the zombies any good whatsoever. He had made a habit of going through the empty human hives when he had the chance, mostly due to the fact that they tended to contain the best haul. Of course, they were also almost always overrun with the living dead, but he had since taught himself how to scout which hives would perhaps be the least infested. After one close call that had left him fleeing by the skin of his teeth, he was not eager to repeat the process any time soon. An adrenaline rush was one thing, getting his wings gnawed off by blunt human teeth was another. Deft hands picked through what had probably once been a nutrition storage closet at some point, sorting spoiled food from what could possibly be still good. There were much more slim pickings this time around, and for a moment he wondered why until a stray thought finally connected. Ah, alright, so there had been some activity since he had last made the journey, that was somewhat surprising. Generally the hordes of undead that roamed the city made an effective deterrent to any sort of soul adventurous enough to stray outside the main safe haven, but apparently this time around there had been someone before him who had gotten to some of the better spoils. Annoying, very much so, but there was nothing that he could do to stop it. After all, it was an abandoned city, what was he going to do, stick a flag in some pile of rubble and declare it his property? The mental image brought a smile to his lips, and for a moment he was tempted, but a loud crash off in the distance reminded him that he was on a mission. It would be time for brownblood conquests later, for now, the cavalreaper encampment needed supplies, and he was all too happy to scout for them. Filling a few of the packs around his shoulders to the brim, he carefully made his way back out, allowing himself to catch the breeze and float up to the top of the communal hive building that he had been scavenging in. Finding the things was the easy part, getting them back on the other hand.... A hint of foreign consciousness slipped around his mind, thoughts and emotions that could never be translated into any sort of trollish equivalent spilling across his own like oil on water. A mental shove at the offending party, and he found himself clear headed again, save for a slight tingling sensation down the back of his neck that heralded a successful connection. Good, there were still featherbeasts in his range, that was at least something positive. Long ago, before the virus that had wiped out the world had even been a twinkle in some highblood’s visual perception orb, he had taken it upon himself to try to tame some of the larger, predatory featherbeasts that he had found roosting in the outlands that he had fled to. It had not been successful, for they were wild and free and their wills could not be broken, but there had been at least a connection, and since then he had relied on them to serve as messengers and couriers in exchange for a portion of the fresh kills that he and his men brought back from their hunts. Such a symbiotic relationship was perfect for his current purposes though, and so with a tug at the featherbeast’s mind, he brought it down from the sky to land on an outcropping of rubble nearby. There was a brief spike of what probably was some sort of annoyance, perhaps anger, but he soothed it away, releasing most of his hold over the beast, which seemed to placate it for a bit. He quickly slipped the satchels over its neck, running a hand through its feathers as a sign of comraderie, partnership. It was never a master-slave relationship, he made sure of that, and the creatures he commanded knew that, or at least he hoped so. Another mental nudge and it was off, soaring off into the sky and back to the encampment that he protected. A half-day’s flight at the most, so he wasn’t quite worried about his aid not arriving. With his task complete, he took to the air again amid the low moans and ravenous growls of the creatures that had been attracted. Fighting wasn’t his purpose for coming to the hazardous area, definitely not, but now that the required supplies had been sent on their way, there was no reason why he couldn’t indulge himself a bit. Yellow eyes narrowed in concentration as he sought to pick out a very specific public hive. Stumbling across it the first time had been an accident, he had been lost and almost entirely unable to read the strange human runes that were so boldly painted across the buildings, but his folly had revealed a wealth of treasures unlike anything that he could have hoped for. Alright, so the dusty remains of old tomes may not have seemed like must to most other trolls, expecially not when they were written in the crude language of an alien species, and certainly he was not interested in the books that had page after page of nigh incomprehensible lines of text, but there was a small area that he had once taken shelter in that had contained a plethora of books that had had few words, but instead the pages were filled with colours, drawings of fantastical things. While the characters were indeed always human (though he had once or twice spotted the word ‘troll’ along with some horribly inaccurate sketches), the stories they told were just lovely. Perhaps it was odd for a troll his age, or for a troll in general, to enjoy such seemingly simplistic things, but that had never stopped him before. Grey fingers brushed over the spines of a row of books, stopping at random to pluck out a few. He couldn’t read the titles, but that didn’t matter, just so long as they had the fantastic illustrations that he was so enamored with. A quick look around confirmed that there were no wandering corpses to deal with, and so with a full fledged grin, he plopped himself down in the middle of the stacks, pulling a handful of books into his lap. Zombies made noise, right? It would be easy enough to tell if they were coming, and he had earned a break, after all. Especially if that break consisted of leafing through an entire shelf of children’s books. my missionaries in a foreign field ♙notes: One day I will write serious posts; credit to gREY of OTE

[Orphaner Dualscar]

For pride wwill surely swwell
But nothing's unforgivven in hell- - -

It had all started as a simple treasure hunt for him; though realistically, most of the stories of Dualscar’s life could be started with the same sentiment, and all tended to end up in some unexpectedly convoluted way.

It was only going to be a simple ransacking; nothing terribly impressive, and certainly nothing he would need to struggle over. A nice gaggle of those groaning beasts to tear through to get to the building, a few to deal with on the inside, and all of the goodies left behind were his. Really, it was hardly even pirating when no one else was getting any use of it…why not call it a liberation, instead? He had set out with that thought in mind and a smirk on his scarred lips when he took to the crowded city the streets.

The tumultuous moaning hit him before he could even see the skyscrapers through the canopy of trees overhead. But finally he broke the clearing, his fins flicking in anticipation at the sight that beheld him. Standing at the edge of a cliff overhanging a human warehouse on the outskirts of the city, he looked out. The monsters were thinner in number here—thinner, he knew, than what he could expect to see within the heart of the city. And that was where he was headed; right into the thick of it all, where the apartments would be unmolested from the hands of greedy scavengers. Where the biggest buildings sat, with their luxurious rooms and endless possibility—that’s where he was headed.

As he made his way through the city—or rather, blasted his way through—he laughed at the thought of the other pitiful trolls sitting within the encampment, the filthy leeches that they were. What did the majority of them do, besides waste more than they produced? He could only hope that he would be robbing…liberating some of their goods in the process.

He finally found an apartment building ritzy enough of his attention some ways in—the moment he took to examine it nearly cost him his life, as another pack of the creatures set upon him. With a deft sprint to the glass doors and a kick to send the zombie in front of the pack tumbling back down the stairs and bowling over the others, the sea-troll finally began his conquest of the rooms.

With deft fingers he picked the locks of the rooms as he ascended. With even craftier fingers and an eye for worth of the human trinkets, he plucked the things with any real value. Jewelry, ornaments, and finally, whiskey. Six square bottles of liquid gold, sitting upon the dining room table as he entered. “Wwell, someone wwas prepared to handle the infestation in style.” He joked with himself. He had taken the first bottle in hand when a rattling in the corner caught his attention. Not quite alone as he has assumed, apparently, the human zombie had been bifurcated. Following a trail of blood caked into the carpet, he found where the woman’s legs had been severed, useless and crumpled in the corner. Her top half still persisted in living, a stump gnashing its teeth and gurgling in the corner. A soft ‘tsk’ noise escaped his lips as he paced forward. Her excitement increased, the noises she made raising in desperation. “Noww, wwho’s a good undead monster?” He said, his raspy voice attempting a hollow mimicry of affection. Placing the tip of the bottle in her mouth, he used his other hand to force her mouth shut against it. With a quick snap of his wrist, he used the half-rotten teeth the crack open the bottle of alcohol he had acquired. She continued to moan as a stream of coagulated blood dribbled from the craters her new missing teeth had provided. With two bottles in one hand and his crosshair in the other, Dualscar made his way up the long flight of stairs onto the roof—it was time to have some real fun.

The wind was a welcome companion after the stifling stench of the rooms. He breathed it in, eyes closing as he savored the smell—some odd mixture of distant rotting flesh, and burning wood. His unwavering preference of the sea aside, there was something about a calm, warm day that made senseless killing all the more intoxicating. Taking a seat on the corner of the building, he set the two bottles beside him, and pulled his rifle before him. After fixating the scope on top, he searched the streets around him. Zombies in most directions, where did he even start?

One particular street caught his eyes, if only for its plethora of troll zombies. And really, they were the most fun in the game he had made for himself.

With his rifle loaded, he brought the scope to his eye. Squeezing the other shut, he lined up his first target and pulled the trigger. The silenced gun made little noise at the shot—the only real evidence of its success came in the visual he was granted. The troll’s head exploded before him, shards of brain material and the shattered skull splattering upon its neighbor. He scowled. A yellow blood. Those were only worth two points. He took aim again, reloading the gun with practiced ease. He picked a troll with larger horns this time, shooting it in the neck. A vibrant blue spray erupted as the monstrosity fell to its knees. Ten points for that, and certainly worthy of a shot of whiskey that he took with a certain degree of self-accomplishment.

He whistled a sea ditty to himself as he continued with his game, eventually losing track of the points he had managed. It was an animalistic pride he took in their slaughter—perhaps even a step worse than that. They were not like the beasts or lusi of the land. They, at the very least, fled when a companion fell beside them. These zombies…they didn’t even notice. Either that, or they didn’t care. How did something even survive in such a way?

After his street was nearly depleted, he removed the scope from his eye to take a well-deserved break. Now, who said he wasn’t helping with the zombie problem? It was in this moment that something finally caught his eyes; after realizing that the winged creature in the distance was not an alcohol induced-hallucination, he understood who it was. With nary a moment to consider his course of action, the sea-dweller stood on uncertain legs. All thought of his previous game eradicated, he paused only long enough to dust his clothes off (because really, what self-respecting sea troll would do anything malicious without their attire in proper order) before setting after the figure in the distance.

In a state of clearer mind, he might have taken the jumps with some precision. As it was not with a fully clear mind that he gave chase, his leaps were urgent and sloppy, often sending him skidding precariously close to the far edges of the roofs as he hopped lower and closer. His heart raced in his chest at the excitement of it all—questions exploding through his mind. What was the lowblood doing here? Was this where their silly revolution held meetings? Something was going on, and he was damn well going to find out what.

His boots crunched to a stop when he reached the building he had initially seen the Summoner near. Rifle still clutched in his hands, he crept to the edge of the roof in time to watch the other disappear into the strange, squat building. One eyebrow quirked, he attempted to follow the others’ movements through the windows. Forced to jump another few buildings to watch, he eventually observed the brown-blood taking a seat in one of the rows. Dualscar waited a time, expecting him to pull a lever and enter into a secret corridor behind him.

But he just sat there and read. Read, with a stupid, wriggleresque grin on his face.

He watched silently for a time, hoping that the Summoner would prove him wrong, and do something half-interesting.

When he did not, Dualscar laughed to himself. Was it always up to him to make the poor lowblood’s life interesting? Yes. Yes it was.

He pulled his rifle to his chest and took careful aim. With his tongue jutting from his lips and a soft hum of a song on his lips, he took careful aim, factoring in the shattering of the glass and how the other might react. His scope hovered carefully on the book, angled in such a way as to offer no potential harm to the troll reading it. ”Wway hey, up she rises….” He sung, low and dark--if there was one thing he enjoyed about the humans, it was their music. His finger gripped the trigger, shooting through the glass and the book in the lowblood’s hand.

He chuckled, reloaded his gun, and shot at the bookcase in front of him. “Dance for me, lowwblood!” He shouted, a hoarse laugh resonating within the gap between them.

TEMPLATE BY VIKA OF CAUTION.

[The Summoner]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=cellpadding,0px,true][atrb=style, background-image: url(http://i62.photobucket.com/albums/h99/houndoomXdelta/de.png); width: 500px; -moz-border-radius: 20px 20px 20px 20px; border-radius: 20px 20px 20px 20px; border: 1px dashed #000000] bLEW dOWN tHE dOORS tO lET mE iN sHATTERED wINDOWS aND tHE sOUNDS oF dRUMS pEOPLE cOULDN’T bELIEVE wHAT i’D bECOME ♙words : 1273; ♙tags: Douchefins; be my mirror, my sword and shield “T...tr...troll.” It was at least one word that he had learned to recognize, and for that he was proud of himself. It wasn’t as if there had been any need to learn human language, and certainly there had been no chance to be exposed to it, what with the fact that he had never possessed more than just the bare minimum for survival in boondollars. it was almost exotic, he had to think, these tomes in his hands, though certainly the one that he was flipping through now was doing a piss poor job of showcasing what trolls actually appeared like. What was that lumpy brown thing with the giant nose? That was supposed to be a troll? And what were the little cloven foot hornbeasts doing? What was the point of there being a bridge? Did humans really think that all trolls lived like vagabonds? A small flicker of indignation passed through him at the thought. Perhaps the tome had been written by a human with vaugely highblood sympathies. After all, the villain, it seemed, was an ugly, brown (blooded?) ‘troll’ that was dispatched by little hornbeasts. His lips twitched slightly as a skeptical frown graced his face. Nope, he still couldn’t figure out what was quite going on, and staring at the page wasn’t helping. There were more crashes far off, and that was somewhat worrying. He would have to leave soon if there was this much undead activity, which was a shame, but having to abscond in order to return another day was much preferable to being eaten alive. Still, there would always be a part of him that would be aggravated at the infected populous for disrupting everything that he tried to do. If it wasn’t putting his entire revolution on hold, it was interrupting his free time and other unforgiveable things, it seemed. Of course, the thought that the book would have exploded within his hands hadn’t been something that he had ever considered happening. Ice shot through his veins as he all but clawed his way back over one of the piles he had made, his vascular sac throbbing like it was going to explode. For a moment he was far to shocked at the development to process anything, but when his thinkpan finally snapped out of the stupor, a foul, throaty voice had caught his ear. It took another half second to connect the voice to anything remotely recognizable, but when that final thought clicked into place, he was absolutely livid. It was as if the world had suddenly gone red, and while the explosion of the bookcase next to him once again rocked him, there were far mor pressing matters to deal with, such as a. getting the hell out of the hivebuilding, and b. tearing that idiotic, arrogant, nooksucking, highblood limb from limb. Well, perhaps the latter would have to wait until he wasn’t in immediate danger of being shot, but that was still a definite part of his half-formed plan. Of course, self-preservation took precidence over that now, however, and he swore as he darted around the stacks, tearing through the building looking for an alternate exit. The collapse roof segment where he had entered was probably not a safe or viable option at that point, considering that it was probably most logical that his assailant had at least some sort of high ground advantage over him, and he wasn’t stupid enough to think that he could maneuver himself well enough to avoid shots while trying to make his way though such a small area. Wrigglerish, maybe, but not stupid. Ah, there! A section of wall had crumbled, leading back out to the streets, which were ironically free of the undead menace that he had previously been worried about. The question was, though, would his unseen harasser still be able to see him if he managed to make it outside? Perhaps something to take his attention away....ah, yes. A quick pulse of psychic energy gave light to nothing more than an expansive network of feral chitterbeasts living in the surrounding rubble, and he cursed sharply under his breath. He was not one to enjoy sending creatures on such dangerous tasks, but it could not be helped this time. They were there, and with a lack of any better option, he would utilize them. A second pulse, and he was suddenly bombarded by alien emotions from hundreds of sources, the sheer intensity of which stopped his breath in his throat for a scant moment. It was still a bit jarring, to be splintered into so many forms, not to mention uncomfortable, but he dragged himself up from the quagmire of confusion and basic instincts, flooding everything with one simple command: bite. Not half a moment later a black flood rose from the streets, gangly black forms swarming over rocks and debris like rushing water towards a building off in the distance. Good, maybe one or two or a half hundred of them were diseased, that would show the other. Longhorn couldn’t help but grin at the thought, but thoughts of a plague-ridden sea troll were pushed aside in favour of scrambling out of the communal hive and into the street, trying to find cover somewhere. The rotted out husk of another hive provided at least a temporary place to catch his breath as he slid down behind a wall. What he wouldn’t have gave for his his hoofbeast steed at that point, because at least that meant that he could strife in earnest. It was a strange feeling to be using his own legs, to be running instead of riding, and it left him feeling somewhat half-completed. Whatever, he hadn’t been expecting to be ambushed, and there was no time for regrets. The chitterbeasts were not any sort of solution to his problem, merely a desperate act to buy time to get the hell out of there. He loathed having to abscond, but what was there to do unless he could somehow divest the other of that damnedable rifle. A quick mental check through his strife portfolio reminded him of the rather inconvenient truth: three weapons, and absolutely none of them could even be considered closed to ranged in this situation. Really, one day he was going to have to look into something in order to deal with things like this, because at the current moment, it was awfully frustrating to have to run about like a cluckbeast with its head chopped off. Not that he had been expecting any sort of strife to occur in the first place, of course, but it would have been nice to have a decent sort of response to being shot. Instead, there he was, running about and attempting to hide (a task he had never been quite good at) like some sort of skittish purrbeast. Sharp fangs bit into his lower lip as he repressed the roar back at the other troll, to scream out all of his frustration and rage, but no, now wasn’t the time for that. He hadn’t risen to his position by being rash, and the instincts that had been instilled within him during his training had not left. Stay quiet, figure out the next action, and figure out where the other was exactly. The little creatures swarming had given him an idea, but until he could pinpoint things, there was no use in scrambling about just waiting to be shot. my missionaries in a foreign field ♙notes: <3<~; credit to gREY of OTE

[Orphaner Dualscar]

For pride wwill surely swwell
But nothing's unforgivven in hell- - -

Was there anything quite so rewarding in watching a lowblood scramble for his life?

Dualscar couldn’t imagine what it was, watching Summoner flee as he did. His composure calm and aim steady, he fired a few more selects shots around the fleeing male. He continued to him to himself as the other faded from view—how positively cowardly of him! Though, he couldn’t say he was expecting anything else from one of such stature. What was there to do when so massively over-powered, besides turn tail and run? “Cluckbeast!” he shouted, one hand cupped around his mouth.

He sneered to himself walking along the side of the building and looking for any sign of the other. Really, what was the point of hiding? He’d be dead now if Dualscar had really wanted such; now he was just being rude, ruining his fun like that.

So, he wanted to play purrbeast and chitterbeast, did he? Well, if that was the game he wanted to play, who was he to deny him? Surely even a lowblood deserved one rousing game to make their worthless lives contain a brief window of excitement? Dualscar thought this all with a grin, sincerely wishing one of his fellow pirate might have been by his side to jest with in such a way. He didn’t think the lowblood would appreciate his jokes in the same way a sea-dweller would.

It was during the process of ascending the building he had come from when he first heard the incriminating noises. With one hand extended and grasping onto the concrete, his nearly lost his footing when he realized what was causing the tremors rattling his hold on ashen building. Chitterbeasts. All of the chitterbeasts that had been lying in wait beneath the city, feasting off of the rotting, infested corpses of the dead. Copulating and reproducing beside the death and the filth. The utter epitome of filth, and this was what the Summoner was turning to for aide? “Figures.” he said with a low scoff, vaulting up the remaining two stories of the building. What had been an attempt to gain higher ground to spot his prey had become a dash for survival.

He scowled, bearing down on the streets and watching the thick, undulating wave stampede closer. His hair, unkempt from the effort of climbing, whisked about his face, marring his vision until he could push it back into place. Yellow eyes danced across the city streets, searching for any sign of the brown blood. It couldn’t have been easy for him to hide, and surely he would have to come out to check on the progress of his minions at some point…

…but ah, the minions. He would have to deal with the puppetmaster later; there was the matter of mass-extermination to deal with first.

Feet set firmly against the edge, he unsheathed his rifle once more. A lovely device, really, even if it was only a replica of the one he had once owned. To think how someone might have created a weapon capable of firing light energy! Never the matter, it had ended up in his hands, and would be buried with him if he had anything to say about it. The depraved squealing grew louder; they would surely be at the foot of his building soon, grimy claws pulling against the base of the structure. Could they climb?, he wondered as turned one of the slick black knobs at the side of his gun. Again he shrugged to himself; he wasn’t willing to find out.

Careful aim no longer an imperative, Dualscar pointed the shaft of his rifle in the direction of the incoming hoard and fired. He never enjoyed using the broader functions of his gun—how loathsome a thing, to discard proper precision for brute range! The rifle fired again; missing the sharp, silent shot it had composed of earlier. Instead, the blast exploded in a wide burst from his rifle, carving a hole in the descending vermin. The empty spot lasted but a moment, before the creatures filled it in and continued along.

Perhaps the creatures were not so different from the zombies after all—or perhaps their indifference only stemmed from the string tugging at their minds. He laughed aloud, certain that the Summoner could hear him. A cluckbeast, yes, but he have the gall to simply dash away. “Is this the best you havve, Summoner? He called out, blowing another hole into the swarm of creatures. “You’vve alwways been a pathetic fighter, but to send such useless beings after me?” He shot again, chuckling when the chitterbeasts he hit burst into a flurry of flesh and blood against the dumpster beside them. “Do you mean to insult me wwith such underhanded tactics? Is this a vveritable glovve to the face, that you refuse to face me yourself?” He called out, his finger quicke to pull the trigger as the creatures made it to the edge of his building.

He hadn’t been sure what he had been expecting when they finally reached him—confusion, probably—but it certainly was not what he witnessed. The creatures could not ascend the flat wall at such an angle…but they could certainly crawl on top of each other. With undisguised disgust, he watched as the creatures clambered on top of each other without a moment’s thought. He observed as they slowly grew higher, their piercing screams of rage tearing at his mind. He could see them closer, now. Their dank, matted coats, those hollow red eyes.

No matter how safe he felt up there, certain that no number of them would ever reach him, there was something terribly offsetting about them; harbingers of death, a thousand soulless bodies staring up at him. The thought of those beasts following him out of the city…well, it was certainly beyond question. “Enough! Call off your beasts, I'm not here to cull you.” He shouted again, shooting down the building at the growing tower, “You wwould be dead already if I had truly wwished it." he said, suddenly aware of the sweat forming against his palm. His line of duty called for precise, accurate blows; chaos such as this had never suited him

TEMPLATE BY VIKA OF CAUTION.
Written while half-asleep. Do forgive
the derping, Bulldouche <3<

[The Summoner]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=cellpadding,0px,true][atrb=style, background-image: url(http://i62.photobucket.com/albums/h99/houndoomXdelta/de.png); width: 500px; -moz-border-radius: 20px 20px 20px 20px; border-radius: 20px 20px 20px 20px; border: 1px dashed #000000] bLEW dOWN tHE dOORS tO lET mE iN sHATTERED wINDOWS aND tHE sOUNDS oF dRUMS pEOPLE cOULDN’T bELIEVE wHAT i’D bECOME ♙words : 893; ♙tags: Douchefins; be my mirror, my sword and shield Alright, so that had effectively stalled the other, at least for the time being, now it was just a point of figuring out how in the world to make it out relatively intact. Goddamn that rifle and goddamn the sea troll himself, who in their right mind showed up during the middle of a so-called apocalypse and took shots at other survivors? ...alright so perhaps he had just answered his own question. Still, it seemed that most trolls, when faced with danger of such magnitude, had managed to coalesce into a semi-cohesive society, ready to tone down the mindless culling and savagery for just a little while. Overly pompous sea trolls? Of course not, apparently common decency was too mainstream and beneath them. Ah, sometimes he hated Dualscar more than he thought was ever possible. All of that did not help the fact that he was still stuck behind the rubble of a half-destroyed building, just waiting to be found by either the purpleblood or a flock of hungry zombies, whichever ended up noticing him first. Frankly, he would have probably preferred the zombies, because at least their lack of manners could be attributed to the fact that their brains were technically rotting out, the other troll didn’t really have an excuse. There was probably some deep moral to be gained from everything, but frankly, all Longhorn wanted was to not be shot at for a while. Close combat he could handle just fine, the cavalreapers had taught him well and it had been ground into his mind until it was nigh second nature. Gun fights? The though of something leaving giant, gaping holes in his body didn’t sit right, especially the nagging thought that it could be one of his wings. That in itself was a legitimate cause for worry. As he attempted to sort through his racing thoughts, seperate them from the mass of chitterbeasts and come up with a somewhat acceptable way to abscond from the situation, that hoarse voice rang out again. Insults again? He huffed under his breath, lips curled in an angry grimace at the taunting, but he bit his tongue. Oh how he wanted to sling back the fact that oh, it was a perfect show of strength to attack an unarmed foe, how manly and strong that was, but no, better to be quiet, to not give his place away until the other either ran out of shots or lost interest. It hurt his pride, gnashed it to ribbons, but it was better than getting shot. Had they been on equal footing, he would have gladly ripped the stupid smirk that the other probably sporting right off. Wait, wait, what was that? In his bitter musings, he had nearly missed the second offhand comment that was slung his way. A disconcerting thought that he could have been so easily slain before....but it seemed that the high and might Orphaner Dualscar wasn’t keen on being mobbed. The thought brought a smile to the brownblood’s lips, and for a moment his eyes shut again, fingers straying to the sides of his head. It was a relief to let some of the cacophony in his mind slip away, a bit of the turbulent foreign emotional tide easing up. There was a shift in the massive herd of chitterbeasts, as if some of the ilk had awakened, and a great number of them fell to the ground, scampering off back into the recesses of all of the filth and ruin. For a fleeting moment he wished them well in their small, short lives, but in the next second he was back within the sea of minds of their remaining breathren. It took a bit of mental wrestling, but his dominance was established again, this time with the simple command of stay, watch. It wouldn’t do to just let the other off the hook right away, of course. Still, there was the issue of how to deal with the delicate situation....oh! What was that word that kept popping up in all of the trashy glorious pirate books that he would occasionally pick up? Something with a...a P? He wracked his mind for the proper terminology, all the while aware that the other troll was simply standing there, watching, waiting for a chance to- “pARLEY!” Oh yeah, that was cool, just like all the real human pirates that he had read (stumbled through) about in books. He could just see it now, the glorious ship that he would captain, sailing the high seas, rescuing troll maidens, battling evil pirates....that would be the best thing ever. Unfortunately, the reality of it was troll pirates were significantly less awesome than the fictional human pirates, so perhaps his train of thought wasn’t as awesome as he had previously imagined. Still, his intent was clear, but that didn’t mean that the other would honor it. Longhorn shifted, preparing himself to abscond from his hiding place as quick as possible, if any sign of treachery was to be shown. He wouldn’t have put it past the sea troll at all, but at least he had made an attempt at being civil. That was certainly more than they usually came to. my missionaries in a foreign field ♙notes: Short post is short; credit to gREY of OTE

[Orphaner Dualscar]

For pride wwill surely swwell
But nothing's unforgivven in hell- - -

Parlay?

Parlay. The lowblood had shouted parlay at him. An archaic, human term with vague relation to an equally out-dated troll word that held no function in the modern age of piracy. If one wished to talk to the captain of the ship, one simple word would hold no sway. The captain knew who deserved their audience, who deserved to board their ship—that anyone would be smug enough to think they could bypass his decision and judgment based on their will was positively absurd.

No, what the pirate code really would have dictated he do in such a situation would be to either enslave or cull him for his insubordination. As the first was quite out of the question—as useful as he might have been, breaking a will as steadfast as the others’ was not an overnight process—and the second was even less desirable. Still, it wouldn’t do to let the other off without some form of repercussion. How was he supposed to learn without a gentle shove onto his face?

Dualscar walked to the edge of the building, watching as a number of the rats receded back into their holes in the ground, and the others ceased their relentless scramble to ascend over one another. He looped his thumbs into the notches of his belt. Which only left a matter of finding a way down…

Ah. That would do. As he made his way to the side of the building, an old, half-rusted fire-escape exiting into an alley-way provided his means.

Perhaps it was only the slight inebriation clouding his better judgment, but he could only chuckle at how delightfully endearing, if not insulting, the lowblood’s ignorance was. Alright then, Summoner. Let’s play this your way, he thought to himself, beginning his descent down the first flight of stairs on the fire-escape. His ran his fingertips against the railing as he moved, picking away flecks of loose beige paint from the old structure. He held his head high, turned in the direction the voice had come from. Still hiding away, was he? Dualscar chuckled low, his boots clacking against the metal grating. The fear was certainly gratifying, but the continuance of it was entirely nonsensical. Surely he had known the lowblood long enough for the other to understand that there wasn’t a being on this planet with better aim than he? That it would have been a simple feat to kill him in at least twenty different ways by now? That above all else, it would hardly suit him to kill his kismesis? Ah, the ignorance of lowbloods! Equal parts entertainment and pathetic.

Or, so he liked to think.

He stopped at the lowest landing of the fire escape, one foot propped against the railing. How was he to play his part, then? What was Summoner expecting in this stereotyped version of piracy? Human piracy, at that. He had been roped into watching one of the humans’ awful pirate movies during one of their weekly viewings (a choice he would instantly come to regret), and from what he could gather, they weren’t anything like real pirates. And they apparently all turned into skeletons in the moonlight.

From the sound of things, this was what Summoner was anticipating. His lips tilted into a half-grin. Well, if that was the part he was expected to play, who was he to disappoint? “Parlay, you say?” He asked, a hoarse laugh filling the void between them. He stretched out his arms, “Then you need look no further. Captain Dualscar, at your servvice.” He announced, giving a mock-bow. “Though I do hope you understand the implications of wwhat you’vve said. Typically the party evvoking parlay has something to barter with to beg for their livves.” He smirked, leaning against the side of the stairs behind him. “Wwhat do you havve that wwould be wworthwhile enough for the mighty Captain Dualscar to spare your life ovver? Hopefully more than silly human books.” He said, lips cracked in a full smile now. There was something unbearably cathartic at teasing the younger troll. Ah, to knock the wind from someone so stubbornly sure of themselves! How he relished such moments!

TEMPLATE BY VIKA OF CAUTION.

[The Summoner]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=cellpadding,0px,true][atrb=style, background-image: url(http://i62.photobucket.com/albums/h99/houndoomXdelta/de.png); width: 500px; -moz-border-radius: 20px 20px 20px 20px; border-radius: 20px 20px 20px 20px; border: 1px dashed #000000] bLEW dOWN tHE dOORS tO lET mE iN sHATTERED wINDOWS aND tHE sOUNDS oF dRUMS pEOPLE cOULDN’T bELIEVE wHAT i’D bECOME ♙words : 861; ♙tags: Douchefins; be my mirror, my sword and shield Alright, so that worked....kind of. Longhorn would take it though, because frankly having to deal with verbal logic puzzles put forth by the other troll was most definitely preferable to having to worry about acquiring any new holes in his body. Words he could deal with, and he could even find it in his vascular pump to ignore the condescending way that he was being spoken at. One had to, if they were going to ever speak to sea trolls, after all, because from his limited contact with them, they all seemed to just love talking down to anything and everything, regardless if the situation called for it or not. He had dismissed the habit a long time ago as some sort of metaphorical bulge stroking by his kismesis, because certainly he seemed to take far too much enjoyment out of it than would normal. Whatever sort of verbal self-foreplay his assailant was engaging in didn’t concern him though, because unfortunately he found himself in a bit of a predicament. While yes, it did appear that the other was at least open to the idea of negotiations, the terms set forth were, of course, an obvious double edged sword. This was the great (of course he used the term in the utmost sense of loathing and sarcasm) Orphaner Dualscar that was approaching, of course he would turn this into some sort of power play. It was worth of an eye roll, Longhorn decided, that he would respond with such bravado. Then again, he was a tremendous bulge, so perhaps it shouldn’t have been too surprising. The audacity the other had though, to imply that he was in a position to have the brownblood beg him for anything. Fine, if Dualscar wanted to play that type of game, then it was a game he would get. Though Longhorn would be the first to admit that he had no idea how pirates behaved, aside from the one before him, who was, of course, always a bulge, there was still a shard of him that remembered how to behave properly, borne of nearly a sweep of commanding a batallion of other trolls. A wrench, and his mind was his own again, all of the chitterbeasts dispersing back to their respective dens, like a dark tide. How fitting, given the game that Dualscar had set forth, but there was no need to dwell on that fact for the time being. Instead, he reached again, this time to his strife portfolio, tugging at the standard issue sword within and grinning as he felt it settle into reality as he stood. The familiar weight of the blade at his hip was a comfort, even if it was not his favored weapon. Without his steed, there was no use in bringing forth the lance that he adored so, it would be useless should Dualscar prove treacherous, which of course knowing the sea troll would probably happen at some point. No, if it was to be a face to face meeting, then let his harasser know that he wasn’t some unarmed thing to shoot at for sport. There were zombies around, for god’s sake, it would have been suicide to travel without some sort of protection. And that in itself raised another question: why hadn’t the horde followed all of the noise? Certainly his kismesis had been making enough noise to incite a riot by now. What luck, that the one time the undead would have been useful, they were milling about somewhere else. Ah well, he would just deal with the situation on his own then. Head up, wings flat down to the back, minimize risk, maximize presence. Simple, a lesson learned in beatings and blood, something that would never leave him, no matter what the world threw at him. There was always a place for wonder, for intrigue, for fantasy, but not now. Now it was time for the long suppressed commander to take the reigns. There was a swagger to his walk, an air of nearly undeserved confidence as he deftly leaped over the rubble, coming to rest upon one of the larger piles, hips cocked and lips twisted into a sarcastic smirk. Show no fear, stand tall, do not let the aggressor know that he is still technically in control of the situation. He wracked his brain, trying to think of an appropriate response, because in all reality, he had not actually taken time to think of how he was going to actually deal with the Orphaner, aside from the fact that he was a bit tired of running. Think, think. All those films, all those books, what do pirates do...? “sO tHE gREAT cAPTAIN dUALSCAR iS sO wRIGGLER sPINED tHAT hE hAS tO rESORT tO nOT eVEN mEETING oTHER tROLLS iN pERSON, hE hAS tO yELL aT tHEM aCROSS hALF a cITY?” A hint of fangs in his grin and a narrowing of eyes was all that he cared to give the other. “fOR a mOMENT i tHOUGHT i hAD tO wORRY. i sUPPOSE i wAS qUITE wRONG.” my missionaries in a foreign field ♙notes: Sorry about the delay; credit to gREY of OTE

[Orphaner Dualscar]

For pride wwill surely swwell
But nothing's unforgivven in hell- - -

Dualscar could have laughed when the other came forward, wielding a sword of all things.

In fact, he did laugh. A reserved laugh, deep and raspy within his throat. He shook his head at the spectacle, utterly at ease in the situation. He had thinned the zombie horde near enough to assure that they had sufficient time before the lumbering beasts would begin to investigate their tumultuous noise, and a lowblood with a sword some distance from him hardly provided much more than a good laugh.

To emphasize this, he took a seat on the bottom-most landing of the fire-escape, legs crossed and dangling over the side. Ah, how endearing Summoner was, strutting as he did, as if he had any sort of upper-hand in this negotiation! Even with his rifle sitting idle at his side and loosely gripped in his hands as it currently was, he would have ample time to lodge a quick shot through the others’ head before he could even begin to charge.

But ah, how handsome he was too, in his confident gait! He was reminded of the houndbeast shows he often attended, watching those beautiful creatures strut around with their heads held high in the air, never once stopping to think that their masters behind them had full control of their lives. But what sort of a comparison was that? It hardly did justice to the houndbeasts, so beautifully groomed and noble a being as they were.

Which he might have chuckled at, were the other not so…captivating to watch. What he did have a quick chuckle at, was the wonderful irony he was experiencing at the others’ expense. Summoner was attempting to appear confident, to be certain—to incite fear in his superior, to make Dualscar wonder if he had somehow miscalculated, and had lost the upper-hand. A quaint tactic, had it been utilized on someone who hadn’t faced hundreds of opponents who had done the same. He would have liked to tell Summoner that he wasn’t being quite crafty enough with it. Why not boldly pronounce that he had rigged the entire building he was sitting on with explosives? That he had sent the chitterbeasts back underground, and were currently festering in the basement, just waiting for the command to scurry up the first level of stairs and hurl their full weight at him? No, he certainly wasn’t feeling the fear the other was striving for—quite the opposite, really. In all reality, he couldn’t help but feel wildly excited over the entire situation.

He stood from his spot on the fire-escape, vaulting over the railing and landing deftly to the ground below. “Bold wwords, for someone wwho wwas scurrying for their livves only moments ago.” He retorted, voice calm despite the bristling he felt at the others’ insults. Reactive though he was, he was well aware of how crucial it was to give an air of indifference to the Summoner’s show of confidence.

Storing his rifle back into his specibus, he began scanning for what he needed. He stopped at the second bottle of whiskey he had pilfered, retrieving it out. Not he was looking for, but a welcome distraction all the same. He pulled the cork out with his teeth and spit it to the side. “I don’t think you wwould be standing there as you are noww if you had been on my end of the scope.” He sauntered closer, taking a long swig of his drink, “That look of terrific horror on your face!” He chuckled, stopping when still a fair-ways from the land-dweller. He again stored the whiskey, cycling through his deck until he came upon what he was truly looking for—the Captain’s Schiavona. Swordplay was far from his expertise, but something all pirate’s had a necessity to learn; and his sword had certainly gored its fair-share of trolls. He placed his hand into the golden basket-hilt, slicing the air in front of him a few times in a quick test. Once satisfied, he angled the blade before him in a prepared stance, one hand behind his back.

“You shout for parlay—a civvil discussion—and come forth baring a wweapon?” He continued making his way toward the other, head held high and posture immaculate. He was the Great Captain Dualscar, after all. Even if his enemy, in all technicality, didn’t deserve a moment of such civil banter, he would make an exception for their little game. Let the lowblood think he was worthy for a while—why not? It was more fun for him this way. “You wwould make a terrible pirate. Anyone else wwould havve shot you on the spot for such an offense.” He chimed in again, now close enough to truly inspect the others’ face. Ooh, smoldering now, were we? Of course, the other probably wasn’t attempting such an appearance, but the effect was all the same.

“Since you seem so…familiar wwith the terms of piracy, perhaps you wwill know this one as wwell.” He lifted his sword before the other and held it in place. “En Garde!

TEMPLATE BY VIKA OF CAUTION.

[The Summoner]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=cellpadding,0px,true][atrb=style, background-image: url(http://i62.photobucket.com/albums/h99/houndoomXdelta/de.png); width: 500px; -moz-border-radius: 20px 20px 20px 20px; border-radius: 20px 20px 20px 20px; border: 1px dashed #000000] bLEW dOWN tHE dOORS tO lET mE iN sHATTERED wINDOWS aND tHE sOUNDS oF dRUMS pEOPLE cOULDN’T bELIEVE wHAT i’D bECOME ♙words : 841; ♙tags: Douchefins; be my mirror, my sword and shield Oh of course Dualscar was always a bulge about everything, that was a consistent that never changed. The brownblood could scarcely remember a time when the other troll wasn’t flaunting about, as if he had no care in the world other to insult and crow with laughter. Even now, charged with drink (and still drinking, how insulting) and in the middle of a godforsaken waste, he still had the audacity to lord superiority. The thought alone was enough to set Summoner’s blood afire, and he barely repressed a snarl as the figure before him advanced. Oh how he would have just loved to have ripped that overconfidence away, to crush it beneath his heel and laugh. The thought was pleasing enough, and it would do the other troll a monumentous amount of good to have the high hoofbeast ripped from under him. The fire from before was racing, and he merely shifted his weight, providing the best nonchalant posture he could as the other began to advance. Let him come, let him see what he was so obviously keen on missing, let him be proven wrong. He could nearly taste the blood on his tongue, when, like always, the other had to go and ruin it for him. No, of course he couldn’t be perfectly content with his own fantasies, each and every time the sea troll had to rip them away and laugh in his face. A copper-orange flush of indignation graced his cheeks, hot and quickly dispelled in lieu of the best impartial sneer that he could muster. Of course he had been panicked before, who wouldn’t have been, faced with the situation! Now that they were on somewhat equal ground though...now it was time to repay the sea troll for every shot, every insult slung his way. The comments on his manner were shrugged off, and who gave more than a excretion about the intricacies of how Dualscar expected him to behave. Hadn’t the other learned by now that no matter what codes he would spout, what claims to class and elegance, they all meant nothing to the land troll? Besides, the other had drawn steel first, and that was enough to constitute a challenge. A challenge that would of course, result in blood spilled. He wouldn’t have had it any other way. Oh, and what steel it was. Gilded, fanciful, gaudy; the resemblance of weapon to wielder was striking. How ironic; he could only roll his eyes at the thought. Leave it to the other to produce something for show, rather than actual use. Pirate time was over, it had been fun, but now it was time for things that were not a complete waste of time. Flatting his ears down and snorting at the other’s insults, this time not even bothering to pay attention to what the actual words were, he let his hand stray to the hilt at his side. There was a hiss of steel being drawn, and he could not help the smile that played across his lips. Levatine, he had named her, and she hadn’t failed him yet. A cold metal matesprit, she was, and he wasn’t about to disappoint her, especially not when the stakes for his pride were so high. Fine, let the other laugh, let him swagger, let him spout words that made no sense, in the end it wasn’t the houndbeast that barked the loudest that won the fight. Posturing made for a dead man, but apparently that concept was lost on the other, and that of course, would be something that Summoner was more than happy to capitalize on. Of course, death wasn’t the ultimate goal, but it was much more fun to imagine the stakes were so high. Perhaps just a missing hand, or maybe he could clip off one of those fins, just to teach the other a lesson in overestimating his own abilities. Either way, there was absolutely no way he was letting the other leave without some sort of reminder as to why A slight sift in his weight was all that he gave the other troll before he sprang forwards, catching the other blade with his own and wrenching it to the side to give him room to advance. Never give up the offensive, he had been taught, never allow for an opponent to have enough time to think of a countermeasure. Kill or be killed, that was the name of the game, and though the venom had been taken out of the fight, he was still playing to win. A shifting of muscle, the crackle of dirt beneath his boots, and he was whirling, the blunt edge of his blade swinging down towards the juncture between shoulder and arm. Perhaps a broken collar would serve well enough to remind the sea dweller that it was foolish indeed to doubt the danger of any land troll. And perhaps that would just be for a start. my missionaries in a foreign field ♙notes: ; credit to gREY of OTE

[Orphaner Dualscar]

For pride wwill surely swwell
But nothing's unforgivven in hell- - -

Of the many problems Dualscar was faced in the challenge of swordfighting, his first probably came from the fact that he had learned from his lusus how to fight underwater, and almost exclusively did fight underwater. There was, on occasion, the necessary battle upon another pirate’s boat, but Dualscar was rarely one for ‘fair’ battles out of the water. He could parry well enough when a land duel was required, but that was usually as a distraction for someone else to take out his target from behind. To gain renown such as he had as a pirate, one certainly had to live through their fights. He was alone now--and more than that, the weight of a sword was different when suspended in water--along with the movement allowed. Ah land, how bland! Back and forth, walking in a straight line--superiority of blood aside, the greater breadth of movement was certainly one more thing the dwellers had to be jealous of. Still, it hardly changed the fact that Dualscar was wildly out of the place in the setting. The blade was different in his hand--heavier, slower to move and requiring more energy on his part. When the other lunged forward, it was all he could do to move his blade in time to avoid a terrific wound. He tried to remember his training as he reflected the attacks; Whatever you do, never let your opponent know what you're thinking; relinquish control of your movements, never let them guess your next move. With that thought, he moved--dropping the eloquent posture and fully immersing himself into the fight.

Of course, being a figurative fish out of water was only the tip of the iceberg to his problems in the fight. Inebriation added yet another damning swipe to his credibility, as well his underestimation of the other. He had gone in without a plan, his judgement and vision both cloudy at best. Only during brief moments could he take the offensive--and only after a quick sidestep or maneuver--not through sheer force. Added to the fact that the other was accustomed to short-range, and he was only truly proficient at long-range, he had signed himself up for a battle he had little hope of winning.

All of which were certainly enough to condemn him as they were, but they were mere trifles in comparison to his real problem. Of all of the distractions, all of the things that made his fighting sloppy and subject to attack by the other's sword, the other troll was by far the worst.

It couldn't be helped. What was he supposed to do, look away? Formulate a plan? Focus on something other the others' poise, the look of fierce determination with every slash, the way his body moved in such fine rhythm, the sweat gleaning off of those exposed muscles?

Really, that was the most unfair thing of all. His eyes remained glued to the other, only half-focused on moving himself out of harms way when the other was coming at him with everything he had. Whether it was the drink within him, or the fact that he still wasn't taking a single moment of this seriously, he stopped attempting to take the offensive. No, as he moved, he began striking in such a way as to attempt knocking the blade from the other troll's hand. That was the plan. Knock the blade away, push the other to the ground, ram their lips together, and take him in the middle of that filthy road.

He realized, a moment too late, the reasinings for the others' sudden rearing of the blunt end of the sword. With a widening of eyes, and a final realization of what he had gotten himself into, he attempted to move out of the way. Too little too late, he clutched his eyes shut as the sword impacted against his collarbone. A sickening crunch of the bone snapping was his only indication of the damage done--that and the splintering pain, of course. Gasping at the sudden injury, he stumbled back a few paces, his free hand placed over the injured area. He stopped when his back hit a wall...a wall that moved at the pressure he placed upon it. Regaining his composure and balance, he swiveled on his feet. No wall, then--only an infected now lumbering towards him again. One eye still shut at the slowly-numbing pain, he lifted his arm as high as it would go and slashed the thing's neck. The creature's head tilted back, revealing the inside of its neck before completely snapping off.

As Dualscar turned to again face his kismesis, his expression went from one of discomfort to shock.

He couldn't beleive he hadn't expected it, after all of the noise they had made. He had foolishly assumed that the number of zombies he had thinned would give him ample time to have whatever fun they would. But the thundering horde of rats, the shots, the shouting and clash of steel...it had all been too much to expect they might get away with it in such a densly infected area.

He looked around them, one eyebrow quirked as he attempted to take inventory. At least twenty surrounding them, and dozens more to shortly follow if they were any indication. "Damned!" He said under his breath, clutching his broken collarbone. Using his crosshairs was out of the question in his state--the sword a possibility, if not a meager one. He mulled over in his mind the best course of action--Summoner would simply fly away at any time he preferred, whilst he would have to fight or run. The thought of either caused his lip to curl in disgust. Fight for his life, or run like a cluckbeast.

That was of course, assuming Summoner didn't finish the job and leave him there as zombie fodder.

TEMPLATE BY VIKA OF CAUTION.
BRO, I AM MAYBE NOT COMPLETELY SOBER
SO THIS WILL PROBABLY NOT BE
COMPLETELY SENSICAL

[The Summoner]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=cellpadding,0px,true][atrb=style, background-image: url(http://i62.photobucket.com/albums/h99/houndoomXdelta/de.png); width: 500px; -moz-border-radius: 20px 20px 20px 20px; border-radius: 20px 20px 20px 20px; border: 1px dashed #000000] bLEW dOWN tHE dOORS tO lET mE iN sHATTERED wINDOWS aND tHE sOUNDS oF dRUMS pEOPLE cOULDN’T bELIEVE wHAT i’D bECOME ♙words : 1046; ♙tags: Dualscar; be my mirror, my sword and shield This was his art, his science, and oh god did it feel good to get back to something other than running and hiding from the undead and highbloods alike. Though it hadn’t been his choice, he had grown into the role thrust upon him, became a cavalreaper of high regard, and he never would have thought that he would have missed those days. Certainly rebellion had unimaginable perks to it, being a free troll was just the most obvious, but since the outbreak, there had been precious few times to use the full extent of the skills that he had been taught. The walking dead rarely did anything other that shriek, run, and overwhelm, after all, and so it was nearly euphoric to face someone who could actually parry and attack back. It was as intricate as any of the fancy ballroom dances that the highblood always boasted about, requiring just as much skill and art as any silly sea troll pastime. This was his element, and a toothy grin edged its way into his expression. This was fun. The tang of sweat in the air, the noise of steel against steel, it was his element, and for once it was looking like he actually had the upper hand in something. There were so many times that he had been beaten down by the other troll, both verbally and physically, and so it was nothing short of exhilarating to know that for once, he was the one in control of their little strife. There was a sharp crunching noise as steel met flesh, and his heart was in his throat. Yes, yes, that was what he had wanted. Revenge for the previous bruising of his ego, revenge for the assumed superiority, this was what he had wanted. To be an equal, to prove that he wasn’t something to be shoved around and manipulated like a wriggler’s plaything. To ask for respect was pushing boundries, for while there may have been professional admiration between the both of them (certainly he did have to begrudgingly admit that the sea troll was the best shot he had encountered....not that he would have ever said such aloud), personal respect? Never. What would it do to let one’s kismesis’ ego inflate any further after all. He whirled on the ball of his foot, bringing the heavy blade back to stance after a moment’s hesitation. Months of disuse had left him a bit unbalanced and shaky with it, not to mention the fact that he far preferred his lance for matters of combat, but apparently what his body remembered was enough to deal with one intoxicated sea troll. As he snapped out of his recovery stance, there was a scuffle to the side of him, from the approximate place he had left the other troll cluching himself like a wounded wriggler. A quick flick of his gaze over, and his cocky grin dissolved into a look of surprise and confusion. Oh of course the minute he started enjoying himself there would be an interruption. It was far to inconvinent for the undead to arrive when he needed them, needed their distraction, but they just had to show themselves when he was getting ready to, well- Well enough of that. There were shambling corpses to deal with, and they were apparently not going to wait, his own black feelings be damned. How terribly trollish, pun not intended, and he could have sworn, had it not been more important to deal with the walking dead first. Whether it was luck or fate or some other intangible force, they had managed to attract a rather sizeable force with their bickering. The only real question was why hadn’t the creatures been alerted sooner, what with how unsubtle the two trolls had been. Such was their way though, and it was time to bury the metaphorical hatchet for the time being; there would be plenty of time to wrench it from the ground later. Throwing a haphazard slash out at one decomposing form that had strayed to close, he was rewarded with a spray of green blood and the distinct sound of the thing crumpling to the ground. One down, how many tens more did that leave? Certainly it wasn’t too much to imagine that the sounds of battle, the scent of spilled troll blood, would have every single creature in the city on the two of them if they didn’t abscond within a timely manner, and while the brief strife had been exhilarating yes, certainly Summoner wasn’t in the mood to have to fight his way out of an insistent, slavering horde. He wasn’t equipped to deal with it, he wasn’t prepared at all, and frankly it was far easier to just rise up and out of the reach of the bony hands that tried to grab him. That wasn’t an option for his kismesis though, he thought with a fleeting smirk. Advantage his, once again. Still, it would have been a rather lackluster end to his black quadrant, to just let the other perish like that. It put him in an interesting situation: leave an injured quadrant to be ripped apart by mindless horrors or use the situation to his advantage and place the other in debt to him? While the first option was occasionally considered, that was a quadrant, damnit, and there was fierce sense of protection that clawed at his chest at the thought of loosing such a rival, even if said rival was the most sanctimonious, pretentious, bulge of a troll that he had ever laid eyes upon. ...well, perhaps that was half the reason he was such a fitting kismesis. And for that, the brownblood swallowed his pride and lowered his blade, shooting a look over to the other troll. The sword tip came to rest on the ground, even as the shambling monstrosities closed in, and fingers unwrapped itself from the hilt. Though he couldn’t help rolling his eyes, he quirked a brow and extending his hand over. “eNOUGH oF a tRUCE fOR nOW tO tRUST mE tO gET uS tHE hELL oUT oF hERE?” my missionaries in a foreign field ♙notes: -; credit to gREY of OTE