by A Uscila
A timely retreat was in order.
“You do realize that your last threat could easily be interpreted as one of rape, don’t you?” – Undoubtedly sarcastic, Willows voice came from behind – “Maybe you should have refrained from drinking, if you’re such a lightweight” – She added, after stopping to his side – “but I doubt it would make a difference. Once an idiot, always an idiot” – And finally, with a long-coming verbal slap thrown down like a challenging glove, Willow passed Luke and walked off.
Yep. A retreat was definitely in order. An immediate one. Good thing he already paid for the beer.
Chapter 68
xXxArchangelxXx walked along the extravagant corridor with his chin raised high – a plate helm held under one arm, while the other rested upon the pommel of a glistering hammer. Cape billowed in the wake of his steady advance and metal clad feet pounded in echo upon the wooden floor beneath – extravagantly swirling patterns painted upon its’ slick surface, while painted walls loomed on both sides, their exterior littered with paintings and strips of silken cloth.
Barely a step behind, followed Joana – covered up from head to toe in the usual military attire, her own heavy steps echoing in tandem to those of the leading character, while the pommel of a two-handed sword poked out over her right shoulder.
In silence, the two advanced with a monotonous rumbling echo, their journey taking them closer to the end of the corridor with each passing moment – a pair of wooden doors, elaborate lines and shapes carved into them, while two armored figures stood listlessly at the sides. Hands resting upon the pommels of sheathed swords, gazes lazily observing the approaching two – yet displaying not even a drop of intent to act upon it.
Not even when Archangel dashed past the two and pushed the doors open with excessive force, only to charge inside with Joana a step away – the slits in her helm turning back and forth between the guards in passing, a gauntleted hand flexing as if in anticipation of something.
“Stories of your monumental failure travel far, Derek!” – a booming echo filled the study that the two entered, as Archangel chose to announce his presence quite rudely, his cold gaze doing a once-over the sparsely furnished interior, resting eventually upon a child that sat comfortably behind a large desk. His small figure clothed in a peculiarly modern black suit, light-blue eyes side-glancing at the uninvited guest, while facing another individual who stood barely a step to the side. A grim looking fellow with a head full of golden curls - clothed in an extravagantly embroidered white robe, his back to the wall, one hand casually placed upon a large mace that hung from the waist.
“Ah, Sweeper...” – The child began in a tone that one would address a close acquaintance.
“High Sweeper” – only to be rudely interrupted by the uninvited guest, the tone condescending, placing great emphasis on the beginning, which did elicit a twitch in Derek’s eyelid.
“Congratulations on your promotion, High Sweeper ex, capital ex, ex Archangel, ex, capital ex, ex…” – The child replied slowly, taking great lengths to articulate the ex’s, gaze kept locked onto the Sweepers own, a cold glint in them. A petty sort of payback, not in any way unexpected, yet with each pronounced letter, the addressed seemed to be unable to withhold his own, supposedly, involuntary physical response – a barely noticed series of flinches that followed in echo with the voiced name.
“You’re testing my patience here, Derek” – Through clenched teeth, the sweeper warned - gaze lowered at the child through unblinking eyes.
“Oh, am I? And what are you doing, huh?” - A reply dripping with mean-spirited sarcasm came from the boy, as he leaned over the table, head turned slightly to the side – his expression set into one of provocation – “How about you fucking address me with my own title, to begin with? It’s Lord Derek, damn you! I will not have you barge into my office like you fucking own the place and demean me! Not here!” – Outrage burst out like a geyser, an open palm smacking into the polished wood, voice raised way above the levels of polite conversation – “You will address me in proper decorum, you hear me?!”
There was something peculiar in seeing a tall, bulky grown-man in full-body plate, glare down upon a child behind a desk, who, in turn, was doing the same thing from down over there. A sight to remember, with plenty time for it – seeing as the two now sunk into a sizzling silence, the tension heavy and rising with each passing moment.
“Princess, always a pleasant sight!” – As if to dispel it, the Sweeper’s female companion suddenly intervened, as she took a step from behind him and out in the open – a rattling gauntlet waved energetically at the golden-haired fellow in greeting.
“Joana.” – Princess laconically replied, a barely noticed nod performed in tandem with the acknowledgement. Not the best method to resolve the current circumstance, but it would have to suffice.
“So, tell me, what brings you here, unannounced, hmm?” – As if on que, Derek sighed and leaned back into the back of his leather chair, voicing his questions soon after in an obviously disdainful tone – “Don’t get me wrong, your visits are always…” – he paused – “…eventful. But I doubt you came here just to gloat at my misfortune, did you?”
“Misfortune? More like a monumental screw-up!” – Archangel scoffed, clearly joyful with the fact – “But you’re right, the enjoyment I get from seeing you on the ground and muddled is not the main reason for my arrival. In fact, good news, I’m here to clean up your mess!” – He finished with a broad smile, hands extending to the sides as if attempting to take-in more.
“Clean up?” – Derek’s lips twisted into a frown, one eyebrow rising above the other as the question was raised.
“My Holy Order has seen fit to take matters into their own hands and restore order and the faith in these strife-ridden lands – since there has been a notable decrease in the dedication of the faithful” – Archangel proclaimed, chin raised slightly upwards - gaze locked upon the child in quite the steep angle, while the lips were close to forming a sneer.
“Donations are down” – Joana added, a light shrug of the shoulders accompanying the translation.
“Yes. Thank you for clarifying that.” – High Sweeper’s tone was flat, the chin now lowered and the sneer replaced by a forming frown.
“So, what you’re saying is that you came here to reap the harvest that my hard work has made possible?” – With a furrow of his own, Derek clarified – head supported by his left hand, a deadpan look resting upon the guests.
“That would be true, if your hard work would have actually done anything useful, but seeing as it didn’t – I’ll clarify it once again…” – Archangel casually replied, only to lean in closer towards the child, making sure to hold his gaze for a few moments before continuing in a slow, almost articulating manner – “We’re here, to sweep.”
A tense silence lingered after that little discussion, with neither party willing to add anything to it.
“Well. Now that that’s made clear, here’s the decree written and stamped personally by Arch-order, which requests your unconditional support in supplying my forces with fresh provisions and a place of rest, before our departure. I’m sure you’ll comply” – Archangel took out a rolled-up piece of parchment, sealed in red wax – only to place it merrily right under Derek’s nose, making sure to maintain a smug look as a reply to the perpetual glare the child directed at him. With the deed done, the High Sweeper simply took a step back, shot a few more jeering glances at the two and turned around to leave as if that was it, the departure halted for a moment – “Well…” – he raised an open-palmed hand, turning the head slightly to get a side-glance at the underage ruler who was now busily breaking the parchments seal – “…you don’t really have a choice, either way” – He flashed an exaggerated mocking sneer and resumed his exit, Joana following barely a step away.
“Bye!” – She backpedaled before departure, both hands waving in a hearty farewell, following it up with an elegant twirl on one foot – the sig
ht of her departing backside the only thing Derek could glance at, once he finally gave the parchment’s content’s an once-over.
Truly, a greatly unpleasant get-together, at least for one side – seeing as Archangel seemed to be leaving in a brisk and wholly energetic gait, while displaying a remarkably joyous expression – growing ever-more apparent once a loud thump of impact upon wood echoed across the corridor, followed by the rattle of metal and glass.
“Always a pleasure…” – The Sweeper murmured under his breath, a gauntlet-cowered hand gently stroking his hammer-like mace.
*******
An ear-drum shaking roar reverberated across the dark stone hall, as a leather clad female braced herself to face whatever was coming, feet bending together with her upper body at an impossible angle just as a mace almost as long as she passed an inch away from her fine features. Brushing a few strands of her short, straw-like hair, rustling a myriad of metal loops and rings that hung from a tight-fitting attire. With a scowl and a twist, the female quickly reaffirmed her footing and was clearly intent on using the timeframe between attacks as an opportunity to perform one of her own – twin curved blades swung in an attempt to wound the mace-wielding appendage – a malformed piece of bulging muscles and oozing dark green hide.
“Dancer!” – A shout came from behind, the second both weapons were on their way to the intended target, pulling her intent gaze upwards. Her ocean blue eyes glanced at two pairs of blood red pupils that glared down at her – one for each head, attached to a single bulging torso. The eye contact lasted for only the briefest of moments, as her attention was soon drawn to another large appendage that fell from above just as the mace-wielding one continued its’ journey away. The palm open, descending as if a wall, threatening to crush Dancer.
“Shield!” – another shout echoed, the voice supposedly identical to the one before, a transparent circle materializing right in front of the oncoming appendage – the two colliding fiercely, with the attacking force on the retreat moments later, another hall-shaking roar echoing in reaction. A duet that came from the throats of the before-mentioned pair of heads – twisted up mugs of bumpy green flesh, tusks and disheveled strands of dark hair, their rage at the curse of being attached to the same body apparent in the blood-red glare that both delivered to the one responsible for the sudden interruption. A female of long black hair, the strands brushing wildly against gold-embroidered shoulder-pads of green material – the theme mirrored by other disjoined pieces of armor, their function questionably effective, as most vital parts of the body were laid bare and protected by nothing more than mustard yellow cloth. Light was fading from two red jewels that were encrusted in identical bracelets worn by her – one jewel in each one, while she herself returned a most defiant glare right back at the foe, lips twisting in a mischievous smile.
Would the attacker have the time, no doubt he’d be stumped by her attitude, if not for the twin-bladed attack that finally went thought, cutting deeply into the mace-wielding appendage and forcing out another loud roar, the monster’s attention now right back at the very first annoyance, while the large mace that was so recently wielded fell to the floor in a loud clang – the grip loosened due to the unexpected jolt of pain. Fury rising to new levels, both appendages now swept towards the dancing-about pest, teeth gnashed in strained effort - the target moments away from being squished to a pulp. Yet again, things would simply not go as planned.
“Shield!” – The same shout, the same sphere getting in the way, only to crack under pressure, yet withholding long enough for the attack to be futile – or so it seemed, as the monster exposed its’ tusks in a vicious sneer – for the shield was able to get in the way of only one hand, while the other one continued its’ descent. A descent that ended in another jolt of sharp pain – since three short projectiles lodged themselves into the already injured arm, one even slipping into the gaping wound right up to the fletching.
Another furious roar, dust and pieces of rock falling down from the ceiling due to a sudden leap upwards and a rumbling descent performed by the lumbering oaf – the dancing female rolling out and away from the rampaging foe.
“Didn’t like that one, did ya, fugly?” – To add salt to the wound, a jeer was thrown in addition to the recently loosed projectiles – the combination of both, enough to demand immediate recompense. Which the monster was more than willing to provide, as an obligatory rock crashed against the ground where the ranger was prancing about on mere moments ago. A timely roll was performed, hardened-leather boots granting purchase on the uneven ground, pebbles and grit crunching under-foot, while a tanned man in his thirties rolled away to safety. Hands clutching an overly large crossbow-looking contraption close to the chest. A worn, soft leather coat brushing over dust and dirt – the original color ever-more obscured, ever-more unrecognizable. With a toothy-grin, surrounded by a two-week old stubble of brown hair, sapphire colored eyes glaring from under a wide-brimmed hat, the ranger regained his footing, aimed and put pressure on the trigger – another bolt loosed. Another angry roar coming in reply – “This is fucking easy! Keep him busy Dancer, we got this!”
“Easy for you to say, from way over there!” – Clearly dissatisfied, Dancer complained, feet lifting her off the ground in a beautifully performed back-flip, perfectly executed and in time to avoid a swung mace - its’ metal head crashing loudly against the rock, the shockwave strong enough to unsettle the landing long enough to keep the female in place while the two-headed attacker closed in with an outstretched arm.
“Shield!” – Yet once again, the intent did not go-through, while the hand crashed against the transparent circle – its’ appearance timely as ever.
Bolts flew, while Dancer dashed in and around the thrashing monster – blades flying in and around, leaving wounds on legs and arms in passing, while the wielder herself masterfully avoided any and all incoming attacks, most of which were consistently disrupted by the two back-seat passengers. Success already in sight.
Yet, how can success taste sweet, without the bitter taste of failure to compare it to?
With an ear-piercing screech and billowing flames, a demon charged into the room – heading straight for Dancer with extended claws. What horrible timing, since the ranged support was still busy reloading, while the ever vigilant shield-maiden was still in the process of blocking the monster’s attack – which left dancer exposed and vulnerable. Another screech and the demon leaped in for the kill – claws ready to rake, a burning gaze swirling in anticipation of the upcoming carnage. Yet instead of flesh, the appendages met steel with a loud clang, while the attack was quickly repelled with an angry grunt. Both disengaged, the female visibly seeping with anger, as she snarled at the sudden interloper, eyes widening slightly as the demon swiftly jumped away in retreat.
“Shit!” – Suddenly aware of her circumstance, Dancer spun in a desperate attempt to avoid the anticipated attack from the side, an attack that did indeed come at that exact moment. A mace, swung with great effort, fueled by all that pent-up anger and frustration.
“Shie..!” – Yet the shield maiden could not provide support this time, as she was rammed aside by a mobile fortress of black metal. How the clamoring bulk managed to sneak from behind, remained a mystery.
And so, finally, the monster’s attack went through with a sickening crunch of bone – the metal-ended mace connecting with Dancer’s side, both her blades placed in-between herself and it – the force of the blow strong enough to send the poor female flying into the darker end of the hall, a muffled crash echoing soon after.
“You bastards!” – The ranger shouted in distress, his shots now aimed at the newly approached, a poorly aimed bolt bouncing off a metal shoulder pad, while another ricocheted off a drawn blade – its’ surface pulsing red, ominously.
Yet before he could continue, fire exploded around, followed up by a screeching laughter, as the demon dashed past. The middle-age man rolled to the side in an attempt to avoid the bulk of the flames, st
eadied himself, aimed and gasped in pain as an arrow lodged itself in his leg, the unexpected attack forcing him to crawl behind a stone column for cover.
“You god damn idiots, now that thing is going to come for us next!” – A female voice echoed across the room soon after, only to soon be drowned out by the rampaging monster that was already upon the shield maiden – loud crashes and the sounds of shattering glass reaching his position.
“Shit…” – a silent curse slipped out as the ranger clenched his teeth in obvious frustration, while anxious eyes observed their carefully balanced success being destroyed, all at the hands of unwelcome interlopers.
*******
Wail carefully counted the coins found in a carelessly discarded purse, while on his merry way along a dark corridor of carved rock. Clashes of steel, wild explosions and an ominous, ever-increasing in volume rumbling accompanied his journey, yet the magician seemed unfazed – so drawn into the mundane task he was, lips twisted into a crooked smirk. No doubt, he was recalling the hilarious demise of the purse’s former owner – as the poor fellow ran about in a panic, the Soulfiend hanging from a shoulder, while Slicknick and his lackeys finished the job with skillfully wielded blades. Heck, so immersed was the warlock, that he didn’t even mind the ever-present Vivian, who was performing an adult-like level of tact, by not getting in the way of a man and his money – a hand lightly holding onto the father-figure’s robes being all the contact the two shared. That kid might just be more mature than Wail himself, a concept that would no doubt send the fellow into a fit of slobbering rage. Luckily – his self-absorbed nature and a baseless confidence helped overshadow any measure of doubt, the state of mind fueled by years of self-assurances and imagined superiority over everyone else. A desperate requirement to maintain a balance in his own inner-psyche after years of failures and rejections. Who could blame him, really?
