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Post by Veliky on Feb 16, 2023 17:36:29 GMT -5
Cold of the tundric north, and the frigid breeze gliding upon the waves of the Luna Sea below the afternoon sky: this is what one would see by looking out from the Frozen Docks of the majestic Pale City. Here, the people who call this frozen place home would gather aboard ships to set off for warmer climates, while outlanders arrive on their exotic vessels to see the city's splendour. And as above, so below; in the Pale City and, indeed, all of Frost Gale, blizzards are as commonplace as rain is elsewhere. For those who would endeavour to protect their vessels from such storms, there are ports sheltered from the sky - ports such as the cavern of Ránfugl, whose maw hangs open to the southwest horizon.
The Pale City, home of the dark elves, is a place that exists as much beneath the earth as it does upon it, and Ránfugl is only one of many subterranean docks. And while there is no tempest afoot, these docks yet teem with emigrant and immigrant alike. But, today, Ránfugl is no tourist's gateway. It is dominated, almost in entirety, by a single monstrous ship. This galleon, whose architecture is unlike anything else upon the seas, looms and stretches. Its deck is like an open field, its masts tower like the spires of Maazeric. Its hull of dark planks is lined with hundreds of tiny windows, unlit and ominous, some of which house cannons of deadly proportion. The water at its base is calm and steady[1], as if fearful of provoking the vessel's wrath.
But by far the ship's strangest, most ominous feature is its crew. At a glance, there doesn't appear to be a single beating heart among them. They are not men or women, nor living beings at all. They are constructs of tin and steel, whose eyes are lenses of luminescent crimson that pierce the afternoon monotony. Their movements lack any modicum of that fluidity of convoluted life; every one is measured, precise yet clumsy as they load dozens upon dozens of crates onto the ship. To find a precise word to describe them would be a challenge: they are beyond any construct or golem, and 'machine' seems a near-comical understatement.
But perhaps one doesn't need to find a name for them. Because one already exists. These entities - these servants of artifice - are mentioned in rumours, stories that defy logic and boasts that spite explanation - mentioned with the moniker of 'Blixtbot™' (yes, trademark included). And these tellings are surround a singular organization: Platinum Corp. And simply hearing this name would be a warrant for words such as "Oh, that explains it," as Platinum Corp is the subject of infinite bizarre rumours: employees of pure engineering (proven); dubious motivations (likely); a ship that could sink a fleet (apparently true); a machine that could create eternal life (unproven); and a leader who is, as absurd as it may sound, no larger than a cat (simply ridiculous). They are an urban fairytale, come true. And an extremely worthy foe.
Having dropped its anchor, the ship is parked beside a dockside warehouse that it nearly dwarfs. As organized and efficient as a well-oiled machine, those Blixtbots™ funnel in and out of the warehouse; carrying untold cargo, contained in crates that are decorated with Platinum Corp's emblem: a cog above a feather and sword. By the look of things, they're almost ready to leave. That means that time is of the essence.
Four entrances. The loading doors stand open, and a wagon[2] sits half-inside. As well, grid-latticed windows line the upper level, and the roof is also lined with panes of glass that peer therein. Finally, the seaward loading doors also stand open, but the vessel outside is far too significant to use them. Instead, cargo is being loaded by constructs that walk the length of a long bridge outside the warehouse, which eventually leads onto a steep ramp that climbs onto the vessel. Fortunately, this makes their process slow. Still, the ship itself is too great a target; attacking it would be suicide.
But the warehouse? For someone truly bold, it may just be achievable.
1. Sea Caller 2. (Wagon) Type-XVIII "Rolling Stone" Land Transport
Bringing Minions Bishop-12 (Warlord) Knight-04 (Warlord) Rook-13 (Warlord)
Bringing Pets BF-02 (The Goodest Boy) {Sleigh Bell} Lag Switch-06 (Ashlands Jackal) Vampire-04 (Vampire Bat)
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Post by Delaela Fenastra-Asiliari on Feb 17, 2023 3:28:13 GMT -5
When Del had learned, whispered in the quiet places of the Pale City, of the plans for Expansion into the Arid Mesa, she did not take this as a call to action. Not at first. Exploration was a natural means of charting out the land, though, after what she had seen in the Marsh Flats not that long ago, it did send up a red flag. To be fair, so did a lot of things.
Still, ever vigilant, she had kept her ear out. A couple of days of this had coalesced into learning about the sheer scope of the venture and what was being brought in as cargo-- legions of automatons, Blixtbots as they had been named-- to assist in the Expansion, being loaded onto a ship this very day.
This was no mere exploration of land uncharted; this was a full-scale colonialist effort to brute force their way into securing a foothold in the Arid Mesa. Worse yet, she was nearly out of time to intervene. Feeling an indignant anger fueling her stride, it doesn't take long for Del to locate the Ránfugl gate. How could he miss it, with the behemoth prising the mouth of this thing wide open?
Staying dark and low[1], Del moves through the shadows, silent as the grave[2]. There was but one of her and so many... many Blixtbots. She watche the Blixtbots move crates onto the ship-- perhaps she had misheard, and the Blixtbot themselves were not part of the venture? But even then, that didn't quite fit with what Del had learned about Platinum Corp in the past couple days, nor the CEO (whatever that was), whom Del had determined almost nothing about, save for to be wary of them.
In the meantime, she looks over the scene. The bridge needed to come down. It was also her only way on it-- not that taking the ship was her plan by any means, that would take an army, one she decidedly did not have, nor have time to gather. That left, for the moment, the warehouse itself. Del has a bit of time before it starts cutting it close, but not much. Not enough by half.
Without any further delay, Del gets moving, a silent sliver of darkness among the imposing shade cast by the large ship in the harbour. Figuring there was a better way in above, Del climbs quickly[3] to the roof, tucks herself over the ledge, and stays low, out of view. Once there, she spotted a maintenance access hatch, likely to allow dock employees up to clear off any accumulated snow and ice if the weather from the ocean was too harsh. It might be locked from the inside, but the hinges were, very helpfully, on the exterior. Quickly, the dark-haired wood elf skillfully prises the pins from the hinge with her pliers and a couple of light, well-timed taps with her hammer. Satisfied now that the door opens entirely the wrong way, Del and slips in through the roof access hatch.
Descending with slow care onto the catwalk above the scene below, Del drops to a crouch again. While the darkness concealed her, she was no fool and put caution before comfort. Very carefully leaning near the side of the rails, Del peers through her relative darkness[4] to get a better look at her surroundings, both below and around her.
[1] One With the Shadows [2] Pass Without Trace [3] Surface Scaling [3] Shadow Sight
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Post by Veliky on Feb 17, 2023 20:21:05 GMT -5
One might hope that the climate within the warehouse might be more comfortable than the frozen city outside. But no, that frigid breeze that blows in from the cavern maw is no less prevalent here. It whistles through the open sea-bay, through through a channel that's cut into the warehouse floor, possibly able to fit a brigantine for cargo to be loaded. But the channel now sits empty, and bridges of perforated metal span it. Across these bridges, dozens of Blixtbots™ march back and forth, to and fro, engaged in a dizzying - and restless - process of loading with flatbeds and barrows. Fortunately, most of them are unarmed, seemingly no more threatening than a flesh-and-blood dockworker; but some, patrolling with spears or peculiarly sleek bludgeons, make up a sizeable defense of some ten or eleven (some funnel in and out of the warehouse; this number is only an average) within another two crossbow-bearing bots watching from above, on the grated metal of the catwalk.
There are no lights in this room; the natural, silvery light that spills in through the windows and open doors is more than enough to illuminate the bulk of the warehouse, glinting upon the constructs' tin exteriors. But there are shadows, and there are places that one might go unseen. The catwalk upon which Del now crouches is only one such spot. Many crates, some of them nearly as large as a person, still have yet to be carried away.
What is strange is that not all of these crates are completely sealed; some of them are lidless, containing bottles of various fluids. Strange things, these bottles are, ranging in colour from vibrant pinks to sesame-blacks. And the emblem that's painted on these crates, a cog encircling a stylized lightning bolt, looks strangely familiar. Isn't that Blixt™? Many adventurers drink it like water, swearing by its near-supernatural ability to ward off exhaustion. Rumour has it that certain varieties (or certain 'flavours') of Blixt™ have other properties that some might find... peculiar.
There's one such crate beside Del, sitting atop another, though it's largely empty. Perhaps it was for a more personal use. Two of the six bottles remain, each containing a dark-brown fluid that occasionally crackles and fizzes. Upon each is also a label of paper that's stylized to resemble parchment. It reads "Blixt™ Pirate's Rum." And on each bottle is also... a warning?
"WARNING: Flammable"[1]
1. (Black Flask) Blixt™ Pirate's Rum
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Post by Delaela Fenastra-Asiliari on Feb 18, 2023 14:47:39 GMT -5
Del goes down the list of observations in her mind with a rapid, almost mechanical assessment; the greatest and most immediate threats would be the priority. Right now, the sheer number of the bots, armed or no, would be daunting if she did not find some way to remove many of them at once. Her eyes turn to focus on the crate beside her. ...She had heard of these drinks-- Blixt. She'd never had them herself, but Del rarely ever visited taverns for anything other than a shot of whiskey and a room for a night, but she had seen people on the road and in caravans drinking things like this. And she was thankful for it, Del noted quietly to herself as she read the label on the near empty box: Flammable. ...she could work with that. The two Blixtbots on the catwalk with her, armed with crossbows, are the priority at the moment. Below, there's an almost clockwork precision of the bots below, and she would only be able to accomplish her task easily if the bots above were removed from play. She takes the two bottles and slips them into the loops of her tool belt, before moving through the shadows towards the first bot.[1] They weren't very tall, these Blixtbots. That made Del all the more grateful for the shadows that allowed her to move silent and unseen, as she had to go lower to remain below their sight line. Even so, she knew she would need to emerge for her attack. The bots were facing one another, cross-bows held and ready to aim. She knew the moment one disappeared into the shadow, it would alert the other. Better to simply trigger the firing response than it would be to have an immediate alarm raised. At least, so she hoped. She waits for a heart beat or two, lurking in the shadow behind one of the cross-bow armed Blixtbots, to find her moment. As something large is shifted below, her arms piston out, pulling herself toward the Blixtbot from behind as she hooks one hand around it's firing arm in a locked armbar, the other pushing the Blixtbot's head in the opposite direction, knee pressed into the bot's back to add to the leverage. It sputters sparks and creaks, the opposing forces of her hands being resisted by the construct, before it finally gives, bent in half around her knee as Del lowers it to the catwalk. In those valuable seconds, the Blixtbot across from Del had noticed the intrusion, taking aim and loosing its bolt. She shifts, snatching the bolt out of the air, pivoting her heel to continue the momentum, and fires it back at the Blixtbot.[2] It burrows itself into its chassis, a shower of sparks guttering out of the hole. Before it can load again, it drops to its knees and lies still. She tucks back into the shadow immediately and moves back along the catwalk towards a different crate, hiding once again. Priority one achieved. Now for the second. It won't be long before one of the other sentry Bots discovers the sudden lack of their two guards, she rationalizes-- Del does not of the Blixtbots as constructs, but as a tight unit of individuals who have specific duties and orders. It stood to reason that this level of organization had a procedure, and as Del was not one who underestimated her opponents, figured that there were measures and checks in place to ensure the maximum efficency of the operation at hand. With that in mind, her second priority was to disrupt that as much as possible. Her tools again come in handy as she moves through the shadows, undoing key bolts in load bearing places from where the catwalk attached to the ceiling, and loosening them in others; the structure shifts and wobbles, but holds, for now. She removes the long sash at her waist and throws it up over her head to loop around one of the beams of the warehouse. Now that the trap for maximum disruption was set, Del waited-- but she couldn't wait long. The Blixtbots had a routine and pattern to their labour, but there were times when these patterns began to overlap, when each flatbed was done being loaded and were moved to one side, all in unison, to be carted off by the bots moving back and forth. Right below the catwalk. Meanwhile, the absence of the crossbow sentries had not gone unnoticed for long. A few bots were making their way up to investigate where they might have gone, or, perhaps, to simply replace them as was needed. With the added weight of the one or two new bots coming up the catwalk, and the pattern of the Blixtbots below starting the movement process of the flatbeds of crates, Del wrapped the dangling sash around her forearm in the dark, and pulled out the centre bolt that held the catwalk aloft, pushing down hard on the catwalk for an extra bit of oomph as she hauled herself into the air. [3] Without that final piece, the catwalk groaned threateningly, and, with the weight of the additional crates and the investigating Blixtbots all converging on a deeply unstable structure, the rails snapped, sending the whole upper structure crashing down onto the Blixtbots, flatbeds and crates below with a cataclysmic sound of rending metal. The bots above, having the floor taken out from under them, plummeted down, raining down with rapid punctuation on top of the disaster on the ground floor.
[1] One With the Shadows, Pass Without Trace, Shadow Sight all active [2] Bare Hands : Deflective Rune - An unarmed item enchanted with a deflective rune makes it exceptionally good at disarming other attacks. They can be used to catch ranged or thrown physical attacks, such as arrows or spears. If caught the ranged item can be thrown back and used for its own offense.[3] Surface Scaling
Notes: Del has picked up two bottles of (Black Flask) Blixt™ Pirate's Rum
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Post by Veliky on Feb 19, 2023 19:49:27 GMT -5
There's a chaos of metal destruction: crashing, clattering, crushing and crunching. The great walkways of metal rain down upon the constructs below, and more than one is unfortunate enough to be caught directly beneath. And those that'd been atop are left flailing or flopping down, down to an unceremonious end on the stone floor.
Do they feel pain? Can such a sensation be replicated in mechanism? Perhaps it's better not to know.
The decrescendo of the last collapsing pane doesn't mark any end to the chaos, as what's left is an incomprehensible emotion of unnatural noise: chirping, whirring, beeping, buzzing; all forming words of some artificial language that the Blixtbots™ share. In some mechanical equivalent of panic, they are scrambling, gathering themselves into a more defensive formation; corralled by those constructs that are armed; while others make futile attempts to scrounge their brethren - sometimes in pieces - from the wreckage. Most of them, at one point or another, turns their eyes to the ceiling; but not one of them perceives the shade-cloaked saboteur.
A pair of Blixtbots™ urgently jogs into the building, carrying halberds and carefully stepping over bits of stray metal.
Accompanying these is another pair of Blixtbots™, but highly unusual in their design. They aren't shaped like men, but like canines: one is as large as a bulky retriever[1], while the other seems more akin to a willowy jackal[2]. Each of them presses their metal noses to the ground and begins to scour, apparently as capable of olfactory sensation as their flesh-and-blood muse. The jackal-golem, focused to a fault, follows whatever scent it has caught, but it seems that it will quickly bump into a piece of wreckage in its inattentiveness. Only... it doesn't. Where there should be a bump (or perhaps a 'clang' would be more accurate), there's nothing at all, as the construct simply passes through the protruding metal and appears on the other side as if nothing had happened. Then it freezes - not like a deer in the eyes of a predator, but truly still, like a painting. And then it vanishes, appearing several feet away and continuing its search (again, as if nothing happened). This... shall we call it 'inconsistency'... makes its movements difficult to follow, and it's quickly lost.
But the other canine possesses no such erraticity. It is, for its part, the image of a seeking bloodhound. It steps on and over the bits of metal from the collapsed walkway, sniffing fervorously... until it finds something. It perks up and dashes to one of the bodies that had fallen with the catwalk. Its crossbow is lying just beneath it, still unloaded.
The hound looks back to its master, with its wire-like tail swishing to and fro, and emits a sort of buzz. That halberd-wielding bot approaches, kneels down, and rolls the body onto its back. And that's when they see it; the bolt - its own bolt - is still embedded in its chest.
The hound emits another buzz, louder this time, and followed by a series of clicks that must convey its findings. And, at its droning voice, there's a shift in the room's commotion. Where weapons had been held in defense, they are now pointed threateningly and disparately; where the Blixtbots™ eyes had been to the floor, they now scan about and toward; and the dying are heartlessly left to their fate. This is no longer an investigation. It has become a hunt.
Unfortunately for them, their quarry is a formidable one.
1. (The Goodest Boy) BF-02 2. (Ashlands Jackal) Lag Switch-04
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Post by Delaela Fenastra-Asiliari on Feb 20, 2023 18:51:43 GMT -5
Del watches, observing from on high as she dangles among the rafters, hidden in shadow, at the measures the Blixtbots below take. This is as important as her direct action, moving too soon would expose her and give her less of an advantage once she could see what the response was to the disaster she had enacted upon the warehouse. The sheer chaos she had created fills her with a sense of grim satisfaction; Del is not particularly proud of her method, cruel and callous, if efficent... but she has accomplished her goal. She was but one person and potentially the survival of the indigenous population who called the Arid Mesa home relied on her survival in this moment.
Her patience is rewarded as the halberd armed... bots? Enter. It is hard to tell that they are bots. They are different than the others, not only in terms of their weaponry, but in how they moved, their alertness. They come in with two bots that appear to bear a likeness to a dog, and Del watches with fascination as they sniff around for clues. One even seems to be slipping in and out of reality, for all intents and purposes. An ambush predator, that one. It's hard not to anthropomorphize them; the bots themselves do seem to have some intelligence, though that is perhaps from their programming. That's a concept beyond Del-- she was not an artificer, but a smith-- and so she marvels at the intricacy of their creation. Truly, whoever created these bots was a genius.
And that was dangerous. Del makes a note to move carefully.
That is quickly put to the test as one of the hound Blixtbots alerts the halberd bearing one to one of the crossbow bots she had taken out earlier. It was fascinating. They all spring into action, no longer concerned with rescuing comrades, but with seeking out the intruder.
Currently, she still has the high ground, and advantage she was loathe to give up, but she couldn't stay there forever. Carefully, Del pulls herself up onto the rafter, moving along it with a sure footed speed as she finds a way to best position herself above the bots below.
The two halberd ones with their hounds are the higher priority now. They seem to be able to change the rhythm of the bots, to give orders and make them go on offense instead of defense. In order to not get swarmed, she would need to use their skills and their weaponry against them. Destroying all of them completely would be foolhardy; she needed to disable them, and slow them down.
Del takes a breath and lets go of one end of her sash. Dropping straight down, knees under her, Del suddenly kicks out right as she lands on top of one of the halberd carrying Blixtbots, the one with the non-disappearing hound. Her feet drive hard into the back of where it's neck would be, sending it to the ground with a crash and sprawling. Using the momenetum of her spring loaded kick off the halberd-bearing Blixtbot's back, Del tucks into a twist as she descends again, landing a kick with the front of her shin on one of the loaded crates the bot stood beside, launching it wholesale at the hound-bot that the halberd-bot was working with.
She's at a dead run by the time her feet hit the ground, weaving between crates and fallen debris to create more confusion. The bots that are less prepared, as she hopes, running between them, lingers just long enough to hopefully get the bots to stab at one another, and cause chaos by creating a poor line of sight for her enemy. Del clears crates and slides through and under narrow passages with ease[2], creating a bottle-neck and general chaos for those with the orders to pursue.
With the bottleneck created over the rough terrain and crates Del seemingly had no problem getting over, she moves just slow enough to allow her sash to dangle against a spark from one of the bots destroyed by her sabotage. Ripping one of the bottles of Black Pirate Rum[2] off her belt, Del tears the lid off with her teeth, stuffs the smouldering sash inside. The bottle gets a quick tip-- to allow the fluid to saturate the sash-- and she heaves it into the bottleneck of Blixtbots.
[1] Cat's Grace [2] Blixt Pirate Rum 1/2 Used
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Post by Veliky on Feb 21, 2023 16:26:33 GMT -5
There's a sound of shattering glass, followed swiftly by the roar of fire. Smoke rises above the crates, and a telling glow shines through the gaps - at least it would be telling, if the drone-screams of a half-dozen bots didn't do the job. In only a few seconds, that stack of boxes has transformed into a pyre in memorial of the constructs that now sputter and collapse. They have no clothes or hair, certainly nothing flammable. And yet, as one endeavours from behind the crates, using its halberd to support itself, it seems to be... choking? Its movements are sluggish, and it draws in air through raspy heaves despite lacking a mouth or nose. It appears that they do need air, to fuel some vital mechanism - vital enough that that crimson glow fades from its eyes, and it crashes to the stone floor.
As the panicked buzzes die down, the room warehouse suddenly seems much less crowded. The constructs that lack weapons are keeping their distance and fleeing from the room in batches. Little by little, their mechanical commotion becomes less prevalent, and the fire's growing crackle reigns.
Of course, the smell of smoke is also becoming more forefront. Normally such a foul stench; but now, the mark of success. The burning smell of a victory, albeit even a small one. Alas, it won't be the last trial.
On the other side of one of the bridges, something rounds the corner. Skidding across the stone with its iron claws, sending sparks, is that jackal-golem she'd lost sight of! Its crimson-glass eyes are dead upon her, and it wastes no time in charging toward her!
Only, it nearly reaches the bridge, and then it stops. But it doesn't truly stop; it's still running, still making all of those motions, but it's no longer moving forward: a fact that it doesn't seem very bothered by... It's as if it's trying to run on a cloud. Is it broken? If it's somehow malfunctioning, that should be to Del's benefit, right?
Wrong. Because, although it appeared to have stopped making progress, its image suddenly shifts! In an instant, it's directly before her, leaping with wide jaws and steel teeth for her throat!
As the creature falls on Del, suddenly in her space with teeth out, there is a deep ache in her bones. The scar across the bridge of her nose glimmers faintly, with gold, as if glowing from beneath.
When the teeth latch onto her arm, there is a horrible rending sound as the Lag Switch finds its teeth do not close around no flesh, but on metal. The metal is flimsy and poor quality; it seeps up from Del's skin, from her bones, hard bubbles of slag that adhere to her skin like armor on her arms and legs. It tears like paper in the Blixtbot's mouth, but it saves her from the teeth, if only just[1].
The jackal-construct jerks back and forth, but tears only that stony residue away. Now with all four of the hound's feet on the ground, its jaw creaks open and that half-metal spills out, though its teeth remain stained with the dust. And then, with head low in a predatory glare, it slowly circles around her. Though its teeth are always bared and its ears are rigid afixments, its aggression - if a construct can display such things - is clear, even as its image jerks and twitches unnaturally. It transposes about, sometimes several feet at a time. Where is it really...?
There are many splashes, large and small, as the flame-weakened crates break and dump their contents into the channel. The firelight glints on the hound's tin exterior and steel fangs. It's a small creature, but a ghastly one. A single bite could spell a grim end...
It's stopped. Frozen again. Does this mean it's attacking? It must. But how to tell when, or where it's coming from?
Del's heart hammers in her chest as she looks down at her arms, then back at the creature as it attacks-- and again seems to halt again, frozen. This creature, whatever it is, is infuriating, not behaving or telegraphing movement to make it easy to defend against. But she has observed it a second time now, and she knows how it moves.
She does not know where the creature will be, but she knows where it isn't.
Believing it will leap again for her, Del hits the ground in a tight slide out of the way and to the side, where the after-image of the Blixtbot remains stationary, to see where the hound will reappear.
Behind her, there's a loud clank as something unseen hits the floor. It had leapt for her, landing just behind where she stood. And even then, it takes a moment before its image jerks back into place. But this time, there's no lull or lull or relent; it's still charging toward her, feet clanking furiously on the floor!
Far from where Del and the metal hound are at odds, there's a shift in the wreckage. From underneath the shattered crate that Del had launched, that other canine drags itself out, iron claws scraping on the floor. With great effort and groaning of steel, it frees itself from beneath the wood and rises. It's limping with one of its forelegs... but it appears that this won't stop it, as it lowers its head to the damaged limb and opens its mouth, extending something like a tongue made of rubber. That rubber begins to glow a bright white as it licks twice at its paw.
Some seconds pass after the hound retracts its tongue. And then, with only slight hesitation, it presses that foot against the ground... and begins to run, inexplicably cured[2].
She's ready.
When it lunges, Del's pivots from her slide, using the remainder of her momentum to bring her weight up onto her hands as her knees come in towards her chest. Coiled tight like a spring, before kicking with piston like strength straight out and into the Blixtbot's face with a clang, trying to kick out its bottom jaw. The thrust from the kick allows Del to get back on her feet as the canine's sent stumbling and reeling back, shifting from place to place even as it paws at its snout.
It's open. Elusive though it might be, now is the perfect time to finish it off - or so it seems. But then there's a pounding of metal against wood, and a larger shape leaps over crate tower that Del now stands beside! It's the other hound, returning strangely unscathed.
It comes to a grinding halt in front of its smaller companion, poised like a guard-dog. And just when success had seemed so close, the jackal snaps its jaw twice, affirming its relentless will to fight. It steps forward, not a lone wolf any longer, as the two now stand side-by-side to face against Del.
1. Art of the Iron Fist (Del) 2. Minor Healing (BF-02)
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Post by Delaela Fenastra-Asiliari on Feb 22, 2023 23:41:33 GMT -5
The arrival of the second, earlier hound, isn't terribly surprising, as she had been going for incapacitation, not outright destruction (though if that had happened, that would have been a perfectly acceptable outcome), but to see it undamaged... that was interesting. It was also troubling. Now, instead of one-on-one, there were two metallic hounds, and soon, there would be gods knew how many other Blixtbots, if she wasn't careful.
As her fist clenches, there's a crunch. Her gaze drops back to the metal covering her arm and legs, confused. It had hurt, felt like it had ripped out from inside her as the... this dross--
Something snaps into place. A voice she does not know, a memory whispering in her mind, echoing the word for this metal as if activated by some sort of hidden signal, this frail substrate that had sprang from her bones.
'--child of dross--'
And then, that is all. Del is back in her mind, facing these two hounds with a resolute glower. The words, the voice-- later. Driven by that future 'later' and the answer to an unasked question that had sprung unbidden to her mind, her focus zeroed in on the task in front of her.
By now, she knows the movements of the jackal dog, has started to adapt to them, but the dynamic with the second, larger dog is new. Testing the waters, Del rips a crate out of a stack, flinging it at the pair to see how they would engage.
The force of its flight alone can be felt in the warping air. But it only shatters against the ground, spilling a hundred iron cogs onto the floor; the hounds had dashed to either side, with the jackal to her left and the hound to her right, and their metal paws now clank violently against the floor as they converge toward her!
Perhaps unintuitively, Del moves towards the Jackal, allowing its jaws to grab at her arm[1]. As it latches on to her dross armour, she grabs the back of the jackal's head, keeping it in place, and lets herself fall back, pushed by the Jackal's momentum. As she does, Del draws her knees to her chest, feet up and poised around the bot's belly and she kicks up and backward in a roll, launching the jackal up and over her head just as she released her grip towards the second, larger bot as it closed ranks with her.
The hound lowers its hind and skids to a halt, but it's too late; the body of its companion CRASHES into it, and they're both sent sliding on the ground. With them in a heap, it's difficult to tell which metallic limb begins to which, like some amalgamation of mechanics.
As one, they collide into the base of a huge tower of crates. As combatants, they're devasted; but it may not be so lucrative as hoped, as that tower begins to teeter and fall - directly toward Del!
Ah, hells.
Having let the momentum of her throw carry Del back to her feet, she's very quickly running again-- the confined space makes it hard to choose an advantageous direction, as there are any number of ways these crates can knock into others as they fall, and cause a domino effect that would force Del to escape from. So, perhaps not very intuitively, Del's feet immediately carry her towards the collapsing tower of crates.
Sometimes, the best way to get around something was to meet it head on.
[2] Kicking off the ground as the crates tumble , Del uses the plummeting boxes as her footholds, running across and up each of the falling crates until she is on the other side of where the tower stood, rolling out of her run and sliding to her feet once more. The spot she left is a crush of crates, creating a further cascade of destruction among the inventory.
Del leaves behind her a trail of ruin: splinters from wooden crates; mechanical components that assuredly would've gone to the construction of additional Blixtbots™; and, assuredly, the scrapped remains of a pair of canine constructs, somewhere in the heap of it all.
The fire continues to spread. One should be thankful that the ceiling to this building is so high, or else the smoke would be a treacherous thing by now. But now, so long as one avoids the fires proper - and gives themself room to breathe - it is relatively safe. At one's leisure, they can watch as the fire slowly crawls through the room, over the ruins of crates and broken Blixtbot™ bodies, and as it crawls toward a set of nearby barrels. They bear a symbol, like many of the other crates in this room: a cog encircling a bolt of lightning. And they're even labelled.
"Blixt™ Pirate's Rum[3]"
Oh no.
'Run' is the immediate instinct. 'Run' is the obvious solution. But, as if the threat of explosive doom weren't pressing enough, something shifts in the detritus. It leaps forth, the greater of the canines! Its hull has dented and scorched, and its singular eye-lens is cracked down the centre. But its iron fangs, aimed directly for Del's jugular, are untarnished.
Torn between a maw full of steel fangs or an impending explosion, a split second decision forces Del to act; she grabs the metal hound by its open jaws, cutting her fingers on its teeth. She whips it up and over her head, smashing it into the floor. Del puts her foot on the hound's neck, still holding it by the jaws, and wrenches it to the side, ripping the still gnashing head off the metal body, and throws it unceremoniously towards the spreading fire.
Now, she runs, and though Del is fast, she can feel the heat and pressure of the explosion swelling behind her and knows this, probably, will not feel good. Del dives behind crates-- crates that are hopefully not also loaded with Blixt Pirate's Rum-- as the barrels ignite.
It's thunderous. The whole of the docks ring out with the explosion as it shatters the windows of the warehouse, the other crates, and anything flimsy enough to be vaporized in the shockwave. Del feels the scorching heat around her as the fireball passes overhead, singeing the ends of her hair and blistering her skin. Debris rains down in front of her, hot pieces of wood and melting metal from the bots.
When things stop falling around her, Del gets up, hurriedly moving away from the fire as it starts to consume the crates she had used for shelter. Now her time limit was even shorter; it wouldn't be long before the guard showed up, after an incident like that.
[1] Art of the Iron Fist - 2/4 Hit prevention used [2] Cat's Grace [3] (Explosive Barrels) Barrels of Blixt™ Pirate's Rum - Veliky
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Post by Veliky on Feb 23, 2023 1:58:20 GMT -5
When, precisely, is the moment that something can be considered 'destroyed?' How much damage must be inflicted upon something before it transforms from what it was into rubble? It's a strange question to ponder. But it bears no relevance here, as the state in which Del has left the warehouse lies somewhere very beyond that point. It can be told by the debris-strewn floor, the disassembled bodies of nearly a dozen Blixtbots™, and the flames that rise nearly as high as the ceiling. This place is finished, and Del has more than satisfied her mission. Anyone who took even a glance at this picture and used the word 'sabotage' would be making a tremendous understatement.
And yet, in spite of it all, that symbol remains untouched above the loading bay door (Del's escape). A cog above a feather and a sword: the emblem of Platinum Corp. Fittingly, its paint shines with a platinum sheen, gleaming in the firelight. It appears almost... condescending. As if the destruction before it is little more than an annoyance.
This same bearing is worn by the woman that now walks into the warehouse, through those loading bay doors.
To her left, a bot[1] carries a menacing arbalest. To her right, another bot[2] wields a wall of a shield along with a punishing whip. These constructs are not the stock and store that Del just destroyed. They are more polished, sleeker, a refined instrument of unbending order. Though the eyes of the other constructs were inhuman, those of the new arrivals push even further; each gazes with only a singular eye, a lateral pane of crimson glass shaped like the chasm in a knight's helm. They march dutifully beside their mistress, the dreaded leader of Platinum Corp, the mysterious 'CEO' whose eyes pierce like the northern wind and whose name is surrounded by the most grim of...
...She's tiny. Utterly so. She isn't small in the way that a 5'2"-tall human is small, but more in the way that a human infant is small. She's so minuscule that she doesn't just march between her escorts, but below them; she hardly reaches their mechanical knees. Of course, it would be entirely unfair to judge someone on height and width alone, but... well, her features don't aid her. She's like a little cherub, yet marching with all the authority of military general, and with the attire to match. Her curly, flaxen hair is tied back in a professional-looking ponytail, allowing her pointed ears - a symptom of mixed blood - to jut out.
To her credit, her posture is straight and her stance is dignified; she has all the demeanour of royalty, if none of its appearance. Still, the ludicry of the sight begs some degree of doubt, but that doubt is seemingly negated by a name-tag[3] that glows upon her lapel. It reads, in an undeniable font, "Veliky": the name most associated with Platinum Corp's enigmatic leader.
She comes to a rhythmic stop in her march, and her escorts do so in unison. Her irises, of ice-like blue, look down upon Del (as if such a thing is possible). And as if the juxtaposition between her attire and appearance weren't mind-boggling enough, the entire image is utterly offset by the voice that fills the room as she speaks: clear, mature, calm, intelligent, authoritative and utterly unwavering.
And what she says is simply unnerving.
"Delaela Asiliari[3]."
Del's full name.
The CEO scans the room, with a pointed but unaffected gaze, surveying the destruction wrought before they fall back on its perpetrator.
"Do I even bother to ask why you've decided to terrorize my property?" There's a cynical layer to her words, as if she's asked this question far too many times before.
1. Bishop-12 2. Knight-04 3. Name on the List
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Post by Delaela Fenastra-Asiliari on Feb 24, 2023 16:34:39 GMT -5
She turns back to look at the state of the fire, the carnage. Massive in scale. Part of her was sort of impressed that she had done that on her own, but the fact that it had been necessary at all... that irritation supercedes any pride she might have felt. These Blixtbots could have been used for something other than being used to help colonize the Arid Mesa. They were masterworks of engineering, they were fascinating. To have them used for this was a waste.
Still. Her work here is done. She can fume about it later. All that remains is to take out the gangplank to prevent any further unloading of the ship, and then leave. As Del turns to do this, two figures stride into the loading bay, blocking her exit. No, not two. Three.
The only flesh-and-bone person she has see in this whole warehouse, a crisp military-esque uniform worn with all the authority the person wearing it commanded by the sheer force of their presence. While small she may have been-- and it does bewilder Del for a moment, to see someone so tiny-- their countenance is what settles Del's resolve firmly in her stomach. Though this person was not taller than her knee, Del could tell that they were formiddable indeed.
The bots at either side only add to her authority; they are better crafted, better armed, than any others she had seen yet, including a large shield.
Then the unimaginably tiny woman says her name-- her full name-- and the hairs on the back of Del's neck stand up.
She frowns, silent as the CEO looks around the room and returns her disapproval back to Del. Leaving her eyes locked on the CEO and her entourage, Del shifts slightly towards the left, only a couple of paces, her posture one of readiness. "Does it matter?" She replies in a low, grave voice. "Or do you actually care about the way you and your constructs impact the world?"
"Tch." The little tyrantess clicks her tongue at the slight. "If I didn't care, I wouldn't have gone through the trouble to get them created in the first place. Mercenaries would've been a hell of a lot cheaper."
Del's eyes narrow. If that were true, then why bother at all? If they were simply being sent off to be decimated, then why not send mercenaries? Unless this was for a different reason beyond sending expendable bodies.
For a strange moment, she looks past Del, to a section of the warehouse that's mostly untouched by the destruction. Though this seems like it will change quickly, as flames are encroaching toward it. Del catches Veliky's gaze shift, but keeps her eyes vigilantly forward. However, she does turn her body at a slight angle, so she is not totally blind to what might be behind her. This CEO might know her name, somehow, but did she know who Del was beyond that? So far it did not seem so.
"...Given that you're asking that question at all, I'm guessing this isn't about money. Let me guess: you heard on the grapevine about some overworked employees in the Mesa, and decided to take matters into your own hands. Or maybe you were brought in by one of those terrorist cells that heard the same. Which is it?"
'Terrorist cell.' It's a far-from-affectionate descriptor that the rich and powerful - people like her - have applied to efforts made against the Arid Mesa expansion. So, there were other dissenters who protested the expansion into the Arid Mesa. That was good to know. Ultimately, Del would not answer that question; it didn't matter, and the less her opponent knew, the better.
"Big talk coming from a colonist sending an army of constructs and supplies to occupy a place that has made it clear that they oppose the occupation. This 'terror'?" She sweeps a hand behind her, taking that split second to check over her shoulder at what Veliky had been looking at, before her gaze is back on her and her entourage, "pales in comparison to yours."
"Yes, as I'm sure you've heard." Calm and stoic though her expression remains, the little woman's tone is one of thinly veiled frustration. "That is definitely what someone would see if they looked at this whole situation from the outside, from one angle. Unfortunately, the world isn't so simple."
Veliky turns to the side, and paces in front of her constructs, those soulless bodyguards that stand as still as statues. Del continues forward, towards the left, maintaining her visual to Veliky, her constructs, and what was behind her-- a box, far too large for anyone to properly carry. She lets Veliky talk, as she carefully edges closer. The fire behind them is hot, now, building rapidly.
"In fact, yes, just about everything you've heard is probably true. Working conditions there are absolute kahn, and some of those labourers won't be coming back. It's a mess." She turns and begins the slow return to her original spot. "But if you only look at the bad things that something does, then everything is a shitshow. If you get bit by a dog, do you kill the damned thing? The Ashlands is a hellscape; should that place be wiped out?!"
There's a growing anger, and it seems her will to hide it is ebbing away. She stamps her foot on the ground to end her march, straight in posture and eyes shimmering with rime. Hearing Veliky thought of the Arid Mesa expansion as a mess gives Del a moment of pause; so even the industrialist thought so. Again, then; why?
"You heard a few rumours - one tiny fraction of the picture. Is that your excuse for what you've done today?"
"I've seen for myself what you're sending and how much you are sending," Del replies, her voice low, a simmering anger in her own words. "This is bigger than a dog-bite. The Ashlands can change. This-- this is a preventable tragedy. The good your constructs might do, your genius, is tied to devastation. What good is 'progress' at the expense of the people?"
Del stands, resolute. The raging fire behind her casts shadows at her back, and she stands in stark contrast to the inferno she created. "I make no excuse or justification. What angle, what illumination do you have, that excuses this?" She gestures a hand toward the imposing silhouette of the ship.
She wants to know. That pause, that admittance things were not well, gave Del an insight into perhaps, this woman's own misgivings.
The little woman wipes a gloved hand across her face, a livid expression beneath leather.
Then, with that same hand, she makes a swipe through the air. And despite the meagreness of the motion, the strength of her will is conveyed.
"This is wartime, vandal!" Her voice has risen to a shout. "You might not be able to see it clearly, because they've done a damn good job of keeping it quiet, but this isn't an era of luxury."
Veliky gestures over her shoulder with a thumb, as if pointing toward the Arid Mesa itself.
"New territory could be the foundation of treaties, trades, concessions - things that keep bloodshed at bay, that keep civilization from crumbling! There we could find new resources, establish trades and dependencies. The people - those people - might suffer now, but it's tomorrow's people that benefit in dividends."
She allows her words to hang and flutter in the air, falling to soak into the stone floor. Heavy words - and certain words, by her tone. An honest conviction.
It's hard to tell if the honesty is less or more worrisome.
Eventually, as her breath slows, she reassumes a more proper stance.
"And this?" She gestures at the destruction before her. "This is a short-sighted solution to a problem you can't even begin to understand."
Del remains silent through the CEO's reaction, unmoved, sentinel still. Watching. It's clear that Veliky believes what she says. That this is for the greater good. Perhaps it is; it is utilitarian, to harvest the organs of one unwilling to save the lives of many, but Del understands her logic. And she does not, at all, agree.
"So destruction is wrong unless it is sanctioned? That is a double standard that will get people killed," Del says flatly, "It already has. No amount of potential good will outweigh the blood spilled getting what you think you want-- a future of treaties that isn't even guaranteed. Maybe this is shortsighted. Ineffectual. But it matters much more to those who call the Arid Mesa home than your legion will. The only one you'd benefit is the Crown."
She takes another couple of steps toward the CEO, but her arms are lowered. Veliky can be reached. She can see a seed of doubt, but it needs to be able to grow. "War is a fools errand. All it does is take, from workers, from bright minds, from children, from the present and the future. It might be inevitable, but I assure you, there is no dividends to be had in a battlefield. You will lose, and suffer, as much as they will."
That is neither threat nor promise; it is a prophecy, intoned with a gravitas of certainty. A warning of things to come. There was a future, a very realistic one, where Del could see herself on a field opposite Veliky herself. That thought filled her with sadness; the CEO was a genius, if entrenched in things like economics and projections, but a mind that the world would miss. Even so, Del would act, if she must.
"I am leaving through those doors," she tips her head toward the bay doors, "--one way or another. I am going to take your gangplank off the ship and let it fall into the sea. You can choose to move or be moved. Because I am not going to stop."
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Post by Veliky on Feb 25, 2023 0:10:52 GMT -5
A declaration as certain and vindicant as the flames at Del's back. Her words are a grim warning: futility and death beyond scope, an atrocity in destined failure, hubris at the cost that could never be repaid. And the destruction that the fighter has shown her seems like an omen, evidence to her claims. But would this rime-eyed woman of business see things that way?
...
No. At least, not that it would appear. Because those icy eyes, glinting in the firelight that they seem so impartial to, do not shift or stir. They simply glow like beacons against the open doorway behind her.
She shakes her head. "No." she plainly utters. "Again, you make an assumption when you know so little of the real story. And this time, it's going to put you in a world of hurt."
She looks past Del again, to that same corner of the room. The flames have reached that massive crate...
"Our time's up." A flat and disaffectionate beginning to a farewell. "Don't try to follow me. It won't end well for you."
With a straight stance and raised chin, she bellows out with a clear, righteous commandment. "Eden-02, activate in combat routine. Authorization code: Manifest Destiny."
Somewhere in the back of the warehouse, there's a distorted chirp, like the sound of a bird whistle's call. And then...
CRAASSHHHH! That massive crate detonates into splinters. The sound is like the shattering of an entire frozen lake in one, violent burst of force - force enough that even the crates nearby are dispersed and flung, some shattering against the floor beside Del! But these projectiles are not nearly so terrible, nor so tremendous as the steel monstrosity that now stands where the crate was.
It's great, fabric wings are unfurled and outspread several meters to either side. Its body, like a crocodile's, is low to the ground, and its four legs creak like the doors of a dwarven stronghold as it rises. And as it does, it lifts a serpentine neck - and then another, and another, and another, until six heads have risen above the detritus around it. Each neck is marked with a streak of different paint: red[1], orange[2], blue[3], cyan[4], green[5] and yellow[6]. And within each steel-fanged maw burns a differing element, like primordial spittle. It pays no heed to the raging fires around it, nor to the smoke that rises past its crimson eyes; it only turns every draconic visage, with clockwork imprecision, toward Delaela.
"Cutting-edge technology. Top of the line." The voice draws attention back to the tyrantess, who now stands at the other side of the doors. Her constructs march with her. "If you survive, I hope you consider this sufficiently discouraging."
And then, with a mere wave of her hand, the loading doors slide closed[7], leaving Del trapped with the abomination of clockwork.
1. Fire Breath (Eden-02) 2. Earth Breath (Eden-02) 3. Water Breath (Eden-02) 4. Ice Breath (Eden-02) 5. Wind Breath (Eden-02) 6. Lightning Breath (Eden-02) 7. Minor Trickery
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Post by Delaela Fenastra-Asiliari on Feb 26, 2023 17:01:42 GMT -5
Del's face transforms into a look of disappointment as the CEO dismisses her words with a cold turn of her heel. So be it. Del takes a step forward to advance as Veliky issues a command, when theres a strange chirp, followed by a horrible noise behind her.
She jumps back, arms up defensively as shattered wood flies apart from the gigantic crate she had seen Veliky looking at earlier. Her eyes widen-- it's a monstrosity of a construct, with wings, a massive reptilian body low to the ground, with several heads rearing up one after the other. Hydra is the word that immediately leaps to Del's mind. She scowls; it was terrible in the artistry of its construction; she might have admired it, if not for the fact it was a weapon of pure destruction.
Del does not respond to the words from the CEO as the doors close behind her, trapping her within a burning warehouse with a giant of a construct that did not seem to mind either the smoke or the flames. Dammit. Del's eyes narrow as she steps back into the veil of darkness created by the smoke, to watch it for a few seconds from the shadows.[1][2]
Regardless of how she dealt with this, this would not be the last time Del and Veliky would interact, of that, Del was certain.
This situation a remarkably bad one, and Del has to act fast. Staying low and quiet, Del manuveres over fallen stacks of crates, feeling the hot coals of what's underneath burning underneath. Still at her hip is the last remaining bottle of Black Pirate Rum, and a monolithic clockwork construct before her. She can make those things work, but not without first seeing what this thing can do. As the smoke swells around her, she smothers a cough into the corner of her mouth.
She has to hurry.
Launching from her place of hiding, Del enacts her ambush, trying to get behind Eden-02 to deliver a blow to its back, where the necks of the many heads connect to the body. She kicks down hard at the metal with both feet, and then leaps back and away, prepared to bolt-- she needed to see how it attacked before she could dismantle it. Perhaps she could use its own bulk against it.
[1] Shadow Hiding [2] Heart Stopper - Observation 1/3 [3] Pass Without Trace
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Post by Veliky on Feb 28, 2023 15:57:40 GMT -5
As Del leaps back, all six heads lurch forward and SNAP like vipers' jaws, gears clicking and fixments clanging together. They catch nothing between their metal jaws, as Del has already retreated into the precious obscurity of smoke and shadow, but this is not the end of their assault. The jaw of the yellow-streaked head creaks open again, and from its tubelike throat hisses a cone of cloudlike gas that crackles with static. It fills the space before the machine, surging around boxes and displacing the smoke, but doing no harm - not until that head jitters, and a spark from its jaws electrifies the entire area that the gas pervades! Bolts of lightning dance between the crates for but an instant, in a blinding flash, like a lightning[1] storm contained within a quarter of a second! Yet more crates are ignited, and the walls are scorched.
But the machine doesn't care for the crates or the walls. With many a grind and POP, it drags its metal carcass across the stone floor, six crimson oculi scanning for any remains of their target. But as they sift through rubble and flame, they find nothing alive or dead - not even ashes. And as all six crimson oculi look forward, sifting and scanning, they are blind to what lurks behind them.
CLANG! The metallic cry rings out, of Del's boots against the machine's back, right between its wings! This metal it's made from... it isn't steel. It's harder, lighter; it doesn't dent under the force of her strike, but the sounds of jostling mechanisms can be heard from beneath the hull[2]. The machine's response is slow - perhaps fortunately slow - as Del leaps away. Without the boon of the instinct of pain, its understanding of injury is a purely cerebral ordeal.
But, realizing that it's been flanked, it flares its wings with enough for to send its surroundings aflight! And then, with that same force, it beats its wings and lifts itself into the air, stirring clouds of dust beneath itself!
Metal creaks, and a steel skeleton groans. The creature must weigh literal tons. To see it take flight... It's hard to tell if such a sight is majestic or abominable. But it matters not; because, like the dusk, it has come.
Everything in the warehouse - rubble, wreckage, crates, and even the flames - is scattered by the buffeting winds of the machine's flight as it takes to one of the walls and latches on with steel claws[3]. The warehouse's supports buckle and whinge under its burden. With every movement the machine makes, at least one of its eyes remains unwaveringly on Del, a stoic watcher. But one of the heads, blue-streaked, has a mission of its own; water leaks from between its teeth before shorting out in a pressurized, beam-like blast[4]! It sweeps its head about the warehouse, spraying everything with enough force and water not only to extinguish the flames, but to leave deep gouges in the floor! Such destructive power - and in its effort to conquer the room, that beam begins to sweep directly toward Del.
1. Lightning Breath (Eden-02) 2. Strike Prevention (2 remaining) 3. Surface Scaling (Eden-02) 4. Water Breath (Eden-02)
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Post by Delaela Fenastra-Asiliari on Mar 1, 2023 21:28:30 GMT -5
There's a curse under Del's breath as she sees her attack does not have all that much effect The wings unexpectedly sweep, spreading wide as they unfurl with imposing threat. It takes it to the air and Del has to dig her feet into the warehouse floor, pushed back a few feet from the sheer force of its wingbeats. Pelted with embers, ash, flecks of wood and metal from the destroyed Blixtbots. It's even more massive than before, somehow; how it's able to fly at all has to be some sort of miracle of engineering, but Del has little time to think on that.
The wind has a way of kicking up the flames around her into a veritable firestorm, filling the confined space with a tonne of sucking oxygen that the fire is all to happy to consume. Its sweltering, unbearable; she can feel the heat searing her lungs. She has to hold fast; running now would be a hazard, easily blown off her feet from the buffeting winds.
It ends, though, as with a horrible screech of rending metal, the giant mechanical hydra sinks its talons into the wall. It tears into the wall as though it were paper, held aloft only by the sheer size of the warehouse itself-- and turns one of its large heads towards her.
Del's already running. [1] Stuffing a piece of wood from the ground into the last bottle of Black Pirate Rum she carried at her hip. Due to the fire consuming the room, she runs along the length of flaming wreckage to dip the wood into fire so it would light on the end. This more dense wick will give her more time holding the bottle than the cloth of her sash, but that was just what she needed. Time, to hide, to get into position.
The sheer pressure of the water carves out the stone like her whittling knife through wood. That sends a unique spear of panic through Del's heart-- the fire and heat would abate, which would help her in the long run, but the idea of that water, so cold and brutal, piercing and relentless, makes her bones ache in a way that reminded her of how shattered she had once been.
At a T intersection, Del dives into shadow-- the path of the water is relentless, chasing her down at her last known location. Once in the shadows of the crates, Del swerves, heading down the small crook of the T-intersection to allow the water jet to pass her by. Once it passes, she doubles back down the path she came through, staying in the shadows-- just enough to get close.
Watching this creature is proving tricky,[2] but what she needs right now is to wear it down, best as she can. From the darkess, she hurls the lit improvised grenade up at the creature as hard as she can-- but no, not at them. Below. At the damaged wall that groans under the creatures weight, trying to force it to either let go and fall, or cause the wall itself to give, bringing the creature to the ground and to endure the damage from that. If it even can-- the carapace is so big, so heavy, that Del is not sure it can.
There's so much steam and smoke in the room that Del is starting to find herself a little light headed. Hopefully the hole in the wall from the construct will help to abate some of that, leaking into the frigid air of The Pale City.
[1] Cat's grace [2] Observation for Heart Stopper 2/3
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Post by Veliky on Mar 3, 2023 20:20:24 GMT -5
The shattering of glass, and then the flare of a blaze; flame ignites and splatters upon the wall. The mechanical beast retracts one of its claws, like it had touched a heated pot, crawling upwards and away from the fire.
But the building's supports groan, and the wall itself keens in pain! Where one of the machine's forelimbs clutches the wall, a beam snaps! The machine lurches downward; and scrambles to find a new perch with that claw, but it's too late. Another grasp is lost, and the whole amalgam of metal begins to plummet into the flames and smoke. Those claws that'd still held true, only serve to pull and tear the wall down with it! As newfound sunlight pours through the fissure, and as smoke and steam escape out, the behemoth CRASHES into the floor. The sound it makes is a truly unique song; akin to if a giant were to pick up an entire armoury, and then drop it. Beneath its massive weight, several crates are crushed into shards; and above it, the wall and ceiling continue to crumble, raining bolts and beams that hadn't already been loosed in Del's sabotage. It is a sight that defines destruction.
It was exactly what Del both wanted to happen and did not want to happen. Now caught in the splash zone, Del takes off to leap behind whatever miniscule cover is left, taking refuge behind a pile of half-burned crates and Blixtbots to weather out the catastrophe behind her.
...And then, once the bent-metal walls have ceased their screaming and the flames have died, there is silence. Is it dead? Del isn't taking the risk. Once the shape of the warehouse changes-- cold air pouring in from the gaping hole in the warehouse-- she darts back into the shadow. She knew better than to assume her victory. Better to wait and see what it did next.
And her suspicions prove true. Preceded by a great hiss and greater CLANK, there's an explosive squall[1] that sends detritus flying with enough force to punch through the other walls! A many-limbed silhouette bursts forth from the steam, sixteen claws SCRAPING across the floor until it grinds to a halt. One of its dozen eyes has shattered[2], revealing an eerie pinpoint of crimson light behind it, but the machine yet stands. And it yet retains a head for every direction, and then some. Frantic, yet predatory is its search. But there is a pattern, a rhythm; to befit a machine, its behaviour is predictable. Input, output; its lack of fear and anger, things that make a person so fickle, make combatting it a matter of memorization.
That is, until something changes.
It does not find her in its search. Perhaps that is why there's a sudden, high-pitched click from somewhere in its body. With many a craning and pop, its two tails begin to rise and curve, like scorpions' stingers. What was difficult to notice before is an oddity in each tail: a little pane of glass, like the lenses that constitute the creature's eyes, but lightless - lightless, until now. They begin to glow, each forming a coloured streak just as the streaks on the hydra's heads: pink and purple.
There's a sizzling of mana in the air, a dichotomy of sensations beyond the scope of five; opposite and equal, and powerful all alike. At the tip of each tail, energy gathers into orbs of scintillating light that stings the eyes! And as the air crackles and writhes, this energy shoots forth in great, twinned beams: purple[3] and pink[4]! They're at once blinding and fantastical to behold, like all the light of the sun and moon, distilled into a destruction pure and terrible. As they sweep the room, they cut through the stone floor and metal walls like a fist through paper.
1. Wind Breath (Eden-02) 2. Strike Prevention [1 remaining] (Eden-02) 3. Dark Beam (Eden-02) 4. Light Beam (Eden-02)
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