Sharps' Story

[Daligula]

For every good old-fashioned western and gothic movie produced, for the few illusion-sustaining role-players who I haven't had to betray, and most importantly for me.

PROLOGUE

It began this laughter, in the rise of the dawn, in the midst of foreign heavens.
It began this experiment, with a soul's infobites spilling down a lonesome slab of blackest night.
It began this lure, on a ride of that death-resort.
It began this chase, with a madcap carnival of yellow-grinned revelers.
And a flesh-bag stuck in the aftermath of an abyss-bound sewer...

He -was- on an overcrowded street, and every piece of property exceeded his wishes. He liked the supercharged current of the ocean, and the laughter quaking the gothic fashioned roads like a black symphony taking a bite out o' Sharps' ear. Above the inky crests of tangled hills, void suggestive pits, and blood-chilling canyons...

His vision wandered upwards at the darkness loomin' like a devouring giant. His eyes followed the purple disc solidly taking dominant shape in the heavens, and his jaw fell. Friendly faces waved from captivating flows of waves, from black, slithering towers, from ostentatious clubs shadily neighboring bottom of the barrel bars.

Sharps blinked, feelin' like he was an emperor making his long-awaited journey. They took him in with arms wide open, not really caring where he hailed from nor why he arrived. They catered him with unspeakable pleasure and initiated him into their carefree culture. Dark enchantment was riddled into the pavement, stamped into the doors in the form of minddust which could be bought (but widely shared) and primeval, deep-seeded illusions lasted for hours.

He couldn't believe his well-rusted luck pumping alive to the reality before him; his ability to escape the predator trying to fire sting him hard as a branding procession-- had seemingly been evaded out of. His positivity and hopes for the future were slim pickings as he initially set out to the Nethanlyr isles, the hope that burned to a mirror shine was to spin out a modest lift, perhaps become a monk. Yet for once, things had a-boomeranged, and in a direction that greased his preference axles.

The furious white ocean waves surfed up against niggling pointy rocks; then spat out sad whimperings; roared like power quenched ancient veins; like the silent slosh of death leaking in before time's pendulum swung it's best not known secrets.

The barbarian ignored the winces of pain huddling into his backbones and traversed the distance between him and the town, telling himself lowly as the few stars above shone like gaudy, knowing spectacles, "You have to be optimistic."

Yet it seemed everywhere he went he came out a barracks worth more bloody, a hair more meaner, and a few allies less...

LIFE IS REVENGE

Blonde's purple-and-black uniform was as impeccably wrinkle-free as General Portridge's sweat-gleaming brow. He couldn't believe the size of the arrival army across the rise and fall of crests that resembled a row of insatiably starving teeth. From this lamentable distance they looked more like near-autonomous knots of black scorpions that'd somehow memorized irresistibly effectual battle-lines. To manifest Blonde's growing unease, General Portridge said from scar-streaked lips, the spittle offending everyone unfortunate enough to fill in the circumference, "Goddamn there infantry is already in a double-line formation before parley, Colonel."

"Colonel Roarfin knows how to maintain a tight leash but that won't deter our own combat rebuttals, now will it?"

Blonde detached his rear-end from his horse's saddle and folded his arms, suppressing a glowering grunt.

"I imagine Colonel Roarfin doesn't deploy enough dog treats to his retinue, sir."

Blonde's gravelly-sounding words oozed irritation. Everything Portridge said right now was wrong and he had better chances of eliciting a chuckle from Selune than Blonde. "Mastery of strategy and domination with sword does not require treats."

"Absolutely accurate, my Colonel."

Blonde heard dragged-out caws rebounding off the smoldering red skies, crows swooping in to circle the parley negotiators converging in the desert valley. The ground appeared to be skinned flesh and an appalling assortment of bones from battles long-divorced polluted the schizophrenically-shaped landscape.

Roarfin, a blistering adversary as ever, folded a map and cut his resin-colored gaze to Blonde. It was safe to asses he didn't want to be here. "The Nethanlyr isles is supposed to be ruled by monstrous filth," said Roarfin.

Blonde levelled a prideful stare, and hard smile on Roarfin. "I wasn't aware we came to soften our speech with how humanity should treat tons of revolting puke."

"A bit soon to lose your edge but it doesn't take long to get to the end of your stomach lining."

"Is that why it has taken thirteen battles to accomplish the heroic endeavor... right your rumors of me fleeing in Valura don't count."

"Gentlemen! We came to parley for an agreement to end this war," Offered Portridge, looking meek and servitor as ever in the glooms of his cheeks.

"Precisely," agreed Blonde flatly, still occupying his mind with loops of a terrible vengeance.
But we both know Shar has the final word. Delaying is the only right option left.

"Well?" Roarfin demanded, stabbing his fingers backwards at his army as if suggesting they took speeches as precursors of aggression. Blonde retained a look of military professionalism, and passed on a lavender-schemed document quite easily opened; the symbol of Shar emblazoned bold enough to combust off the darly-inked paper.

Roarfin's imperious eyes swept over the writing, frowned like he was cracking a constellation's intricacies, and gave the sharp contrast to sycophantic laughter. "These terms are not feasible." He handed the scroll back to Blonde, who barely noticed the movement. Blonde affected a weighty expression like a brick wall had just tumbled down, lips pressed into an unimpressed line. "We offered to give Mask's First Nation ownership of the Grim& Mord bank, less suffocating taxes, and open borders for--"

"Less suffocating? Thank you high and mighty Black Embrace people for choking us with one hand instead of two! We should of never complied to be a bitch state of Black Embrace, originally."

Blonde just stared at him.

Roarfin bitterly stepped out of the parley circle, climbed aboard his horseflesh, and flew towards his awaiting army with deadly promptness. The killing ground thrummed thunderously; paraphernalias of death splashed about. Would of caused cringeworthy faces and ripples of shock if these soldiers weren't so murder touched.

Blonde knew there would always be a war on this isle til one side exterminated the other town but he had hoped this latest agreement would put off the hellstorm for a few months, or at least so he could attend his daughter's wedding. Knowing he was going to miss another momentous famility occasion in exchange for the Dark Embrace Army to suck him dry further left an aged-to-perfection worry in his butcher's playground for a gut. It wasn't right everyone in the city was an indentured servant of revelling, and were just a few steps ahead civility-wise to the orcs, bugbears, and the wretched Mask savages that let such deplorable creatures into their city built upon The Dark Embrace's good graces. He thought of Roarfin, how Blonde had taught him the art of swordsmanship and strategy just to phlegm it back in his unsuspecting face.

Blonde's fists balled up around the letter of concession, an angry red tangle making a havoc of his blinking, twitching eyes near rendered they exploded out of his sockets like the disobeying jelly they were. He didn't have time to manhandle an army small and battle-ravaged as his own, he didn't have time to cater to these near-mutinous scum with empty promises to tamp down the glow of dissent for a few more days... He didn't have time for this cat-and-mouse bullsh--

"The fury!" General Portridge exclaimed, sunlight refracting off his mithral helmet's visor, and set a purple-gloved gauntlet on Blonde's shoulder. Blonde worried about the influx of dead inevitably coming. Then he snapped on his helm, purple-and-gold- plume flapping steadily.

[Daligula]

THE GARDEN OF EVIL

Arrows streaked across the sweaty, desert air; punched holes into shields like they were nothing than openmouthed kisses, screams and condemnations spluttered down Blonde's front-lines. Arrows wedged into eardrums, nostrils, and in the gaps of soggy toes. Bodies fell in tortured angles; their last moments uncomfortable as primitives squatting in holes.

"Colonel, we should charge. Sitting ducks right now."

"No, Portridge, the position must be held."

He heard a raggedly bearded man screeching in his own ranks, eyes scrunching shut and popping open in blind horror as he rattled off madness, "THE GARDEN OF EVIL HAS ARISEN; WE ARE ITS GLORIOUS ENGINEERS AND OUR REWARD WILL BE ETERNITY IN SHAR'S TIMELESS VOID. SHE WAS HERE BEFORE THE REST OF THE IMPOSTORS. BANE AIN'T NOTHIN'.

There was a hissing of bows replaced with axe and spear and sword, and the mass of soldiers bounded towards their opposition like angry jaguars.

"Let loose the infantry's wrath!" Blonde ordered.

"But sir... they are in the fifth line, it will take longer for the blade-oriented to reclaim posit--"

"You shut your spoiled rotten mouth, and don't break the laws here!" Hateful spittle jetted from Blonde's mouth, his brain toiling through a headache that was packed with something new and porcupine painful on every layer. The trouble was coming. Time was tick-tick-ticking away....

The charge's impact brought anarchy and battered more; his men were pushed back remarkably and scores of troops swallowed whole, left rolling on the floor with their suppurating wounds and howling like warm alcohol had spread to each pitiable, puffy red-cut and red-lash.

Blonde clutches his scimitars in lean fists, and lashed his blades into a crescendo of subverting, dexterous arcs. Pupil blade jutting into a sod's doubled-over back vertebrae before he could yelp. His scimitars slashed through flesh and panic-dilated eyes, tore two denial-etched faces presiding behind it, and plunged into a woman's slithering away legs.

She gave vent to a bitter nooo before Blonde lodged his blade deep into the back of her belly. Blood erupted from her pain-sparked mouth and fell over in a morbid coffin pose. You'd think she practiced it wonderful well; arms in front of her with hands joined and resting over her crotch. He maintained a M.O. of impersonal effectiveness, his blade crackling the apart the submissive air with stalwart determination.

His aura psyching up those around him (but not a paladin) as the wartide took precedence over strategy. Several fiery booms disrupted their defense and slammed them yards back, black spumes brooke loose in the wreckage of profanity and tantrums of legs and arms propped upon destroyed wagons (the axles had come spinning around the circumference of the charred valley at high velocity; decapitating heads and slicing out fleshfuls of bellies; producing sobbing yells like talking birds shot out of the sky) reminiscent of cheesy horror plays at resplendent theatres but there wasn't much cheese distributed around.

Blonde's eardrums right quit due to the imaginary ringing spheres making themselves at home up there. The skies were no longer spilled blood red but jet-back with three imperialistic clouds forming a miserable frown, and a devil who easily passed the seven foot mark was kicking up mud and roaring towards Blonde. Flame-licking greatsword gripped in his meaty fists. Reasonable to say, Blonde's opponent projected a skin-startling snap within him.
But Gods-be-damned, had an adrenaline lift, Blonde did.

****

Stone, a fleshy horror rife with veins snaking up and down his sinewy horribly-stretched arms ate the distance betwist him and the lean, mean Blonde in a flurry of seconds. His blade carved pained anew every transgression of a step he wagered; soldiers cast across the battered and wrists and fingers severed I na rude fountaining of blood-- Blonde grabbed a man by the shoulder and ripped him backwards, to reallocate Stone's fury. By the shadows, Stone noted a braving flare in this one, and for a few ticks he was just stood there. Glarin' like he'd stepped into some elixir-promising puddle but it were accursed manure.

(He'd spent spent a lifetime poisoning things, making waffle stacks of monies, and not giving a dung for nothing. Least, til that bell of bad struck but he'd be damned if the devilish details miserly arose, again. Hell, it felt like he were doing routine cleaving duties til this pisshead showed, and that urge to misshape heads grew a tadpole fiercer. Misshaping em' perfect and bad all at once, but he figured playing fantasy in his head were counter to causing all the death in the smoking valley. A few words might this one more savory, might rub some new thrill out. His usual introductory line may be right to say, but then again he didn't give a shit for nothing.)

"I am Stone, I've killed seventy men and the legend has never outlived me.
Other soldiers began fighting around them purposefully, and a few stopped what they were doing to eavesdrop and spectate some (and make whisper wit henemies like they were a t the dog track just establishing bets).

"I am Blonde, I've killed men larger than you and I haven't heard about your legend, once."

"This little crowd knows some about my work."

"Rather soon to be vying for help, isn't it?"

"One day the fight'll be taken to your homes, and I'll squash the womensfolk and children like acorns before you, if you live to see the day." Stone croaked, sneering. Of course, Stone weren't too serious, but he knew it'd evoke the right reaction. Well, the women might be a different story.

Blonde's sweat-drizzling face got all worry stuck then barely-contained rage, his voice cut out hard as ice. "This discussion is over, there was no reason to toss the innocent in the mud."

Stone felt the need to spit a fresh slew of venomous words (because he Loathed Black Embrace soldiers more than the goon-filled Inquisition) however, Blonde let his scimitar loose throatwards, left-handed twin deathly whirling for that rock-hard belly. Stone lifted his greatsword to scratch against the curved blade, side-stepped surprisingly fast for what looked to be on the surface a lumbering oaf... and was forced to duck and spin sharply around those slippery eel scimitars.

Blond remained up-close and fearless; stone painfully (and relentlessly) was dealt stinging cuts to the torso and cheeks. Each time Stone swung his greatsword he left his body ready to be pulverized and Blonde near had his head a brooding number of instances. Somewhere between falling into the mud, enduring Blonde's tricky, tricky assault, and conflagrations mouthing off taunting disturbances in his universe... Stone had enough.

He shrugged off the freshest slew of cuts like some kind of un-dead hitman, and his blade carved arcs of imperceptible dominance; the flames haunting around Blonde's haggard face... greatsword backed by so much might Blonde had to use both scimitars to parry the would-be blow to the twitching jaw. Blonde had a bracing look on his face and he ended up back-handed hard, his mouth describing a muffled curse as he tripped over a horse' carass (and into a deep devil of a pit full of company-seeking cactus).

Stone laughed gravelly, crossbow drawn, and got a bit closer to enjoy the death-screams emanating below. He had a perfect line-of-sight and loosed a bolt that flew into Blonde's broken ankle. He reckoned since poison wasn't allowed in war (something about honor) he'd least draw out this one's suffering real slow. He gave a look-see round the valley, laughing to fill in that void more. War had migrated a little so he need not worry about those strange backstabbers. He loaded a brand-spanking new bolt, aimed with a happy grin, just to be distracted with some rumble that carried fierce across the current-stung wind.

Then the sandstorm happened, and his vision became good for nothing.

[Daligula]

HOUSE OF KNOWLEDGE

The walls were coal-black with a solitary purple marble door, and an overly high ceiling boasting frescoes of the Abyss and the Hells in the midst of some brutal war. The devils had fish-nibbled eyes and the demons' faces spelled their own creeping doom with jaws too twisted like wagon axles snapped-off. Blood spots squirted to the ceiling in torture experiments and no one bothered to undo the mess.

Probably was intentional. Who cares if Agent Bisery's eyes forego the sight daily, he'd seen it all.

A questioner came through the door, his lightly-scarred face was a slurry of confusion and poorly masked panic. He sat down quickly.

"Have you routed out the spies of Mask projected to be nosing around the Half-Empty Flask?"

"Not yet, Agent Bisery."

Of course not... you have been high as this ceiling, and even more flawed. Your father had ten times the integrity.

"And at the bank...?"

"..bank?"

I should kill you now. Your next words determine it so.

"Yes... the banking house of Grim&..."

I won't do your memory-work for you, dolt.

There was an unprecedented silence. Agent Bisery filled it, "Grim& Mord... quite easy to recall grim for how bad you are at this and mord for how often your magic is dispelled."

"I have informants intercepting suspicious citizens, the increase of screams you hear are proof moles are being uprooted."

Innocent screams do paint a pretty portrait of progress for the establishment that watches our very piss.

"Then deliver a report of these moles by the morrow. Now, I must attend to other matters."

I must locate the catalyst of the moles myself, it is why I sit here and you sit in a chair of perpetual disappointment.

"Good day, Agent Bisery."

"Oh, and Rollins."

Rollins turned sharply on his heel; his mop of gray, split end friendly gray hair and green, dull eyes flashed.

"Show up high again and I'll add some fingers to my lonely jar." He glare-grinned savagely at Rollins, his barbecued face utilizing every bit of its ugly horror. To make business worse, he lifted up a finger-encased jar.

"Will be clean as a whistle on our next appointment."

He hustled through the door-war, and vanished. There was a knocking at the door, shy at first rap then unmistakably assertive in its on-beat pattern. Agent Bisery was staring at the fingers.

"Oh, yes, come on in."

He rapidly thrust the fingers into a compartment by his burgeoning belly. It was Colonel Blonde, and he tried to angle the unburned side of his face in the lamplight flooding the room. But his bone-sickle smile corrupted the try.

"Hello, Agent Bisery. How are you feeling?"

How do you think? I feel as a man that reached his pinnacle of power and everything is sickeningly overhyped. It's like someone who is titled Ground Management Specialist but the totality of their duty is cleaning up the shit of the lazy.

"Fantastic. Just like you bucking the storm of fate. Nasty nobble you picked up there, eh?"

"We fought in many wars together, only natural we'd trade off personality traits and faults. I fell in a pit but the sandstorm blew in right on time."

Except, in essence, we are nothing alike.

"And what drove you to the fault of arriving at my office today? Oh, great success in pushing back the Mask force."

"There is a poison dealer named Stone... supposedly knows who poisoned the king's advisor and well, I got in a d**k measuring contest with him."

"Lagus... he wiggled the king out of a tight fix or three."

"Well, yes."

"I'll see what I can dig up. I'll appoint Rollins to the task. The more people out there having all the fun in the world the more chance of success, I have."

"An odd but merit-holding sentiment." Blonde smiled weakly.

[Daligula]

POISON, MY OLD FRIEND

"A merit-holding sentiment!" She declared giddily.

Sharps had heard the pearl of wisdom more'n once, you never really met a woman til after six months. But he was stubbornly certain this was no representative o' fleeting light.

"The Wizardess Wing is mighty nice," he said. His words were still at the sorry, witless stage, in fact, yesterday consisted mostly of "more minddust"? or, "you lay out a good idea." He produced a painful breath inwardly, as she drew close enough to cut his throat. His throat constricted, and he was dumb-brained whether on the minddust or not. Impulsively, he opted to destroy the silence. "Staying in the inn is an option, also."

"Silly that is all you ever want to do."

"Why ya call me golem-man for the first few occasions we met?"

"You used faces instead of words to describe everything. Silly, also."

"No sandstorm of questions today, at least. We had a sparring class in Athkatla together; the only person from the outside world, I knew! And the secrets, the comforting release you--"

"I meant to speak with you more back then... pride must of curtailed me."

"I wore an invulnerable, disciplined mask to the outside, here I can be something different."

"Reckon you helped people there."

"Not without pay and I help people here, you goof!"

She rushed around the room, bolted into the long hall-way and trailed up and down it for a while. When she returned, she extended a glass of cold, pristine water to Sharps. It cooled his throat as he looked up mysteriously confused.

"I have to go!"

Sharps blinked his shock. "Why?... maybe a rendezvous can be possible, before I have to be leanin' on tomorrow. Things could get ugly, if not..."

She dug her fingernails into his beating carteroid artery showcasing fierce on his neck.

"Ow!"

"Maybe!"

(Sharps enjoyed her company but the similarities to another were uncanny and it stimulated a volume of disturbance that breached even the most impervious walls of his mettle. Secondly, the way she held the glass in her hand gave the impression she was older than she really was, and her tender touches implied it monumentally. She had predicted another gentleman's tiefling-blood before she even was informed, which she substantiated as sheer intuition.)

The orange light bobbed through the window-frame, proliferating a dappled shadow over one side of Sharp's rough face.

"F**k," he whispered.

****

"F**k, Stone croaked softly. Something was teasing out a gnawing edge. Stone glanced at the conspiring, raggedy-ass clouds; wondering how they could be one-part cold blooded torturer, nine-parts forgotten doll that'd endured a superhail of knives. Then he realized getting rid of this poison was too f**king important to overlook. He held his grapevine-painted case before him like an all-seeing lantern. It was a cold night out in the desert and a lot of sorry scum was flitting in and out of his vision, his increasingly-tortured periphery...

He set the case on the unmalleable, sewer-slosh road, and squealed his greatsword out. The wind was vampire-slick in its soft caresses traversin' down his back, a scorpion crunching underfoot like a chip here, a frog leaping to his next short-lived sanctuary there. The more the wind spoke, the less he felt grateful bout the sounds. It wasn't saying nice things, after all. Reckoned he'd drown it out in a heartbeat to not worry so much, but he was born to worry; only the best listeners worried hard. The commotion of logs spilling over gripped his senses, and so he spun his cyclopean-sized neck to stare down the now dead, dark street.

A shadowy figure lingering in a deer-grazing mockery. Stone saw his chance coming and jumped on it; the giant terror of a tiefling with his hell-light eyes charged towards the pouty face, the gray, split-end mop of hair, and the green eyes flashing from dullness to fear quick-time. He was already mutilated in Stone's mind; the image itself was just nuzzled up there.

****

Rollins' jaw clenched in painful expectation then he unsheathed his House of Knowledge issued sword. He was scared shitless but a charging bull toting a flaming sword isn't exactly a recipe for strategizing, so he retorted a charge of his own. One moment his longsword was tumbling around like a storm turned over in its axis, the next he had to slip and slither away from wind-electrifying slashes and spumes of flames dogging his vision.

"Just tell me what you want," Rollins said in a raked breath.

"I would tell you to send the House of Knowledge my regards but..."

"But?"

The flame-enveloped sword jolted into Rollins' iron-bedecked temple, metal and flesh exploding; that first layer of cheek-skin smearing off from the harsh flames. His sword described violent music with a harrowing precision of arcs. Clang and snap, scratch and crunch, black blood welling in a yelping throat, gurgle and choke, a few screams, a few poison darts lodging into the unworthy, tongue-lolling onlookers with their worthlessly nosy eyes... and then Rollins groping for the railing with his now three-fingered hand and busting his ass on stairs like a mistreated dog... his squealing hardly heard as a few men shared laughs from the enviable distance and rode up the curving hill on their lovable horseflesh.

He said, "Oh Goddess, oh Goddess," A few times and died.

Stone lugged the three bodies to a barn across from the House of Knowledge (murdered the pale-eyed farmer and his albino wife in their chicken-counting activity with more precisely shot poison darts below their eyelids), and dumped the five freshly dead in grain barrels. Like a true predator he killed a score of chickens, and prepared a lunch for himself like he were going through the motions of some trite task.

When the neighbor came over to play cards, he crept on the tips of his toes around the house (to flank, which was easy since the pigs he'd loosed from the barn were taking it as righteous honor to dredge up horrible racket) and shot him too. Then strangled his brother with strips of leather binding.

(He didn't limit himself to murder but graduated to larceny of both farm's valuables even stumbling upon a dead aunt's appallingly impressive retirement that had the ability to pay for the best academies in Athkatla, and hidden under a trio of crossbow-holsters; but he heard someone shambling around outside and decided not to press his appetite for insatiable abuse and snuck away slowly with his adrenaline congealed in his rattling heart. When he got in bed that night, he leaned against his bedstand with perfect motionless; then he turned the portraits of Shar and Mask face-down, as to not circumvent his long-standing pattern.)

[Daligula]

PROMOTIONS

His Eminence had tiny, judging eyes shoved too bar fack in his bowl-shaped skull, and a shaggy salt-and-pepper beard. "Rollins' performance here was top-notch."

He was your nephew, and now that he is dead you hadn't weeped at all. I see it in your face. And good on Stone, I'd shake his hand, for what its worth.

"I couldn't agree more, sir."

"We take our fellow Questioner's lives seriously, he should of had a unit with him."

So more of my incompetent men and women could die? Funny the goons didn't note the fishiness of scheduling a poison deal the next day.

"Won't happen again. The insight for reinforcements is solidly placed in investigative policies, your Eminence."

"Excellent, good luck, Agent Bisery."

"Thank you."

The door closing was a few decibels louder than his usual. Bisery's buzzing fingers unlatched the desk compartment and it pulled out like a drooling tongue. His own tongue lolled like an over-excited dog, and his fingers hissed over the letter.

Agent Bisery,

The banking house of Grim& Mord is in a continued state of triumphant approval at your work of misinforming and setting back your House's progress. It's been a grueling plethora of projects and for that, we acknowledge your success rate with a payment contained in this box. Eyes cannot discover the existence of this letter, obviously.

-Aurin

Bisery decisted his slouthing, lurching to his feet, his belly so bloated and big it ached and flopped like some goth fish gasping for a ruinous tide to breathe again. His burned face greed-stoked as he opened the grapevine-painted case. The monstrous red lanterns he'd barked servitors of evil to gather unveiled the innumerable towers of gold stacked in that heavy-ass case. His heart fluttered.

----

Bisery's gaze slowly flowed below, at the pedestrians scurring along wet, slippery streets. The Proprietoress Club's balcony affored him an unbiased (indulgently so) view of the petty activity and commerce.

Strangely, the city never looked to have suffered invasion. It's always been money first, faith second. Even before the cultish populace abandoned The Temple of Old Night due to dissent regarding spreading Shar's message (opportunity of power in the vacuum).

The message of Banks running it all was clear. Bisery watched a scrawny young woman with raw awareness in her yuanti-green eyes listen to her promotion to Lieutenant. Obviously, she hung onto every word the superior said, with sycophantic focus. Overcome with eeriness and disgust, Bisery turned his back. Yet the voices followed.

"It has been decided with serious considering and after observing your hands-on approach, and willingness to complete objectives without bragging... this transitioning stage must be handled void of the pangs of doubt and acclimation learned very swift."

Of course, she is no longer human and any backsliding towards humanity will be beaten out.

The superior added two more embellished marks of power on her uniform (just below the right shoulder). She looked stunned then a look of pride absorbed her face subtly, and the superior displayed a happy, go-lucky vibe. They strode off in the daylight; ignoring the haunts of confused moroseness masked in deviant fulfillment, and the wails of crawling, evolving results no experiments wants to see.

I remember feeling jubilation rising up the ranks, obliterating my opponents, pitting them against each other, and sucking out their lifeforce til a not-very-important husk remained. It was done without an afterthought's regret, and the reward felt so sweet. Now, approaching the very top, I couldn't be less disappointed. The moments you wait for in life finally unravel, but come together as typical and boorish as a routine trip to a routine amusement filled watering hole (the only thing changing is the demand-level of the superior).

Bisery's frown deepened he had to piss, again. Bisery (the burned man) slowly trailed down the balcony's stairwell, the sensation of being a prisoner to inglorious masters projected around his morbid vicinity, and he knew the pleasure chasers on the street were akin to him; merely on a different side of the hell-boat.

[Daligula]

CLOSING IN

Blonde stood in his fastidious uniform and plunged through the melancholic corridor, moving on past the gift handlers and out into the cringy atmosphere only an elaborate wedding could inspire. There was an obnoxious amount of people to remind him of the inevitable imperative of issuing out some half-hearted social niceties, which was quite rulebook-tearing for a man whom cast suppurating insults and wound-opening orders out for a living. Some caterers were wildly fast on their heels and bumped into some officiants who took it out on the cake makers; after all, who couldn't resist staring at the gargantuan edible monster that took up an entire ivory, marble veined table.

The florists spat harsh words at the preparing musicians over who had a more distinct art form able enough to impress a fawning glow in the many vivacious woman shuttling by, and the horse handlers rolled their eyes at the many luxuriantly-dressed guests pouring into the supersaturated grandness that was Blonde's daughter's wedding.

The knot had been tugged fast in Blonde; feeling his blood pressure rising... thinking of the many dangerous scenarios that could unfold within the next hour-and-half to ruin Seskero's day.

He spied Bisery nursing a dragonbreath ale grudgingly, at the immaculate gemstone bar, and manoeuvred his way out of a head-on collision with two should-be-fired waiters.

"Bisery," Blonde hissed agitated.

Bisery appeared to be in misty country, the festivities of the present utterly unreachable to the torturer.

"Bisery!" Blonde hissed, edging forwards.

Bisery frowned and gave a look proving he'd heard him all along, "What is it, war hero..."

Blonde crooked a finger straight ahead to a skinny man yawning and entering the reception area via an elliptical stairwell. Bisery's face was pinched in misery, turned, and flicked his wrist subtly to two beefy goons leaning against that very stairwell.

"I am not a full-time tool, you know. Isn't that the same git who is blacklisted from Alfie's?" Bisery murmured.

One questioner kicked him in the nuts; the other cuffed him perfectly to incite unconsciousness, (the swelling crowd noticing none of it besides an old lady who frowned, looked upwards, then drained the rest of her whisky). An officiant stopped the questioners half way to the exit, one of them calmly explaining the man had regrettably drank too much whisky.

"The very same. Some just don't learn."

"Or know but just don't care. Excuse me I saw some of the more unpleasant populous over there. They seem willing to swap disappointments." Bisery set his drink down delicately and strode off, with his belly flopping lightly.

Then Blonde saw Seskero and Gemni walking towards him, their faces effortlessly elated. Blonde smiled, finding (not without an element of relief) the diarrhoea debacle of agony had dashed straight to the nether. Gemni submitted to an obsequious bow and Seskero fired off a mouthful.

"Did you see the gifts Gemni's family brought?"

Isn't that a recurrent action of them? Outclassing and outbuying me in everything.

"Oh, that is splendid."

"And Colonel Blonde, my father has offered to pay for the sparring classes at Athkatla. Her rapier techniques will be perfect." Gemni said formally pleasant.

Could you conjure a more clear image of viscerally defeating me?

"That will be meaningful, certainly." Blonde smiled, trying not to look like he just went through the s**thouse.

"Oh! We have to mingle with the Kauthfords. They said they never saw such a magical, charming reception room before."

How long did you look at my gift; two inches of beautiful steel sharpened only from the centre to the tip in a stylistic magnolia scabbard (the rapier your great-great grandfather wore when he fought for the Temple of the Old Night) before you thrust it to some unforgettable place next to the inferior gifts?

"I almost got lost in here, yes. Please, don't leave your guests unattended to." Blonde said with a drawn focus on the offending albeit sophisticated voices and wishing for an immediate dispossession of the present.

----

When Bisery pottered out of the restroom, a tall, ruffian with long brown, grey hair and a riot of a beard stood absurdly close. Bisery eyed him like he was some far-fetched conclusion he hadn't anticipated.

Sharps stared back at him mistrustfully and scowled.

"See something you disagree with, friend?" Bisery smirked.

"I'm not your friend." Sharps worked his mouth bitterly.

"Oh, I love this song!"

"Reckon I love to relieve my bladder."

Bisery dropped his voice, "Skin began to crawl as they neared him. Is all pleasure release? Oh these misery's merchants saw the message clear. It is time to pay"

"Move away from the door before more'n words exchange." Bright patches of sun wobbled from a window to express the nagged, itchy look on Sharps.

Bisery lifted his glass of whisky, his eyes fever-bright, and drained the contents. Belching out in a swarmy manner. Then continued his energetic ecstatic pace, "Llike a ghost in daylight on an overcrowded street..."

Sharps grabbed him by the collar, and pinned him against the beige wall, "Care to batter your luck?"

Bisery's pink-rimmed eyes flashed evilly sharp, "You have no idea who I am, do you? Run along now, there is enough debauchery left if you run. No need to summon a devil."

"You know one?"

"Yes, he is about seven feet tall and he averages three or four murders a day."

"Sounds like a sick f**k."

"He is."

Sharps removed his fury-quivering hands, a rising storm on his face as he fled out; door banging tunelessly behind him.

Bisery grimaced and re-affixed his collar, turning to the two Questioners who just now arrived.

"You alright, Agent--"

"Exuberant, invincibly super, the most proud man in the Black Embrace still reeling from the successes and the tragic pitfalls that didn't happen seasons past. Now, do your job and do it right."

The two Questioners stared obtrusively down the corridor then scanned Bisery up and down, confused.

"Follow him!" He commanded through clenched teeth.

"Who is he?"

"Some random stranger who decided to exude his inexorable strength upon an unfortunately powerful remnant! Get everyone!"

They paused chillingly long. "Everyone?"

"EVERYONE!"