A town you don't remember - Printable Version

Maybe he can still save this, drag him back and keep him still-

He's going back for the axe.

Surely he wouldn't be that foolish? But to let him go, to let an enemy run free once he'd proved himself a threat already... He's made his choice, something inside Juggernaut whispered. Let him bleed for it, feed Mother. It knew that voice well, and it'd listened to it many, many times. But-

But what? Kill.

It charged forward again, hoping to bulldoze its enemy with its sheer bulk. But its heart is still not in it, and its not thinking clearly either. It flails against the forces inside it blindly, crashing through nothing but undergrowth as it loses momentum.

A cacophonous thunder of footsteps sounds from behind him just as his hands wrap around the axe's handle. He turns, just in time to see the beast charge pass. Even with all those eyes, it has awful aim.

He's surprised he can even lift the axe. The effort exacerbates everything he's been through- the wound just below his shoulder blades, the searing pain in his ribs and tail- but that's just fuel to the fire. Everything hurts so much. He's not getting out of this without returning to his chrysalis ~~or worse.~~ But at the very least he can make it even.

He throws his full body into the swing, aiming for one of the beast's legs as it rushes past.

THWACK!

The metal catches the light as the axe is raised, and to Juggernaut's surprise, swung. Any reasonable creature would've turned tail and run, and they would've take the chance already.

What was Cyneweard fighting for? It was intrigued, despite itself - it thought back to Mother's praise of ~~Zoey~~

The blade, mercifully, cut the thought short as it crashes into his leg, shattering the clearstone horns, leaving a fine glittering mist. It goes further, obviously, splitting exoskeleton and sinking into Juggernauts latticed flesh. And most of its nerve endings, it finds.

The pain is immediate, sending everything else other than the present moment into oblivion. It's beautiful. It's loud, and it's simple, and it REALLY, REALLY hurts. If it's not halfway through the limb, it sure feels like it.

All doubt is razed from its skull. Mother is with him, and its her voice that sings for Cyneweard's stone.

It's cathartic.

Maybe it shouldn't be. Maybe a true, noble, honorable knight gets no joy from hurting others. Even massive, destructive beasts that only seek to cover the caves in layers upon layers of rotting mold.

But there's a certain satisfaction in dealing even a fraction of the hurt he's been dealt. And the glimmering dust filled in the air is rather pretty and hopefully not mold.
No time to think about any of that, though. He prepares for another swing.

This hit is less powerful, but it doesn't matter when he's already shattered the layers of exoskeleton that might've otherwise halted the swing.

He can't help but think of the very first time he used this axe. Of that log he'd chopped clean in half.

Maybe it shouldn't have held back, taken the killing blow the moment it found the chance. But it didn't hate this situation, this dance. Warriors receiving and returning blows, the clash of ideas and weapons both.

And he had nothing to lose but himself.

But that'd already happened, hadn't it?

Juggernaut didn't bother to stop the second swing. Like the trees that surrounded them, it split, the lower half rolling away. This had happened before. But he was free of those chains today.

He let himself lose balance, toppling backward towards Cyneweard. He didn't need all four legs to reduce him to oil. Again, the tendrils whipped forward, brought even closer by the angle.

Juggernaut aimed for the throat.

A stab of revulsion pierces through the adrenaline-drenched, pain-craze bloodlust . There's no bones. There's not even anything that properly resembled blood. The severed half of the leg lies abandoned on the ground, and his opponent hardly seems hindered by it's loss.

If anything, it seems to fuel it just as his own pain fuels him.

But it's not enough.

Four tendrils all homing in on him, moving so fast. His axe is so moving slow, so heavy in his aching grip. He's so tired. He should've ran while he had the chance.

But he can't. And it's far too late.

Something pierces his throat.

All four stingers hit their mark this time - the texture of the flesh they pierce new to it. Softer.

A quarter of its eyes can see nothing but the ground, the blood soaking the earth. It hasn't fought like this before in a long, long time. A part of it reminisces, almost fondly, staring at its reflection in the viscera.

The rest of it is screaming still, its body set ablaze by the pain and adrenaline, and now the knowledge of its utter victory. It must finish it's work, this dance. It does so by lifting Cyneweard's body up and forward, towards itself, artificial instinct guiding its tendrils back towards its centre.

Unable to access his mouth as he'd usually go, the tentacles yoink the knight towards his clearstone crown with some force. Juggernaut is barely thinking, beyond thought itself. The impacts, the dripping of blood down into the black and green - it rings hollow in his empty head.

There is only now. There will only ever be now.

MOTHER

MY CHILD...

She was at the back of Juggernaut's mind.

She always was, but now--as the bloodied, dying form of a stranger hung at Juggernaut's jagged gemstone--she came to the fore. Juggernaut would understand: she had remained silent so as not to distract him, potentially fatally, in the midst of a pitched battle.

But now-?

A surge of power flickered through him; a strange promise from the Hive.

"Lay it down," came her instruction, swift and perfectly Ordered and terribly careful. It was like holding glass. Like holding shattered bones and weeping, bloodied flesh. Juggernaut would need to be delicate. And here came further orders, images, a how-to of horror.

Juggernaut was to shed a shard of gemstone, this additional power gifted by Mother herself. And to insert it... this perfect Clearstone... into the forming chrysalis that would struggle to save Cyneweard.

This... This would infect the Knight. It would thread pale, crystalline webs throughout that blue spinel chrysalis, drawing thin lines of Order throughout its structure. Once complete?

Juggernaut would know. The whispers of Mother, the images he was shown, told him.

First... Cyneweard's chrysalis might simply purge that Order shard. In which case, her scouts would try to be there, and infest him upon awakening.

Or... second?

Second, if all went to plan?

Cyneweard would awaken in cold fluid, with thin strands of that glass-like webbing shrouding him. Order, in this case, would infect him: streaks of Clearstone through his Spinel, the touch of Hive whispering in his mind. Perhaps, even, he might dream of Order just before he woke.

They would have to wait and see.

But first, Juggernaut must take that first step: must insert a shard of his own stone into the forming chrysalis... after shunting off the dying body, of course.

And Mother approved, by the way. It wasn't an afterthought, but a necessary delay: one had to focus on what was at hand before offering praise, offering the flood of warmth and triumph. Her son--her precious warrior--her tank and her powerhouse. Her beloved and her loyal. He had bested a potential enemy of the Hive.

And perhaps even gathered a new brother to their side.

Juggernaut is being instructed to provide a shard of his gemstone, via Give Stone (the roll need not be successful) into Cyneweard's forming chrysalis.

Cyneweard's player may decide whether the Order infection succeeds, or is purged by the chrysalis. If it is purged, their character may awaken normally, though the awakening thread should be GM tagged for an Order post. If it is not purged, their character's gemstone will be infected by Clearstone, and over several cycles this will overtake them and join them to the Hive, as if they were infected by the Hive's fungus. A battle judge will be posted shortly.

He is still, for a moment. Gone from the world - the battle is over, and so is he, in a sense. The part of him that was made for it sits in stasis, no longer needed but without the power necessary to drag itself aside -

So he sits in the dirt, watching and feeling hot blood trickle down from above, staining his feathers. It traces its away down his exoskeleton, nerves flickering dimly with the delicate contact. Slowly, the ache of life returned as the fight faded from him - and with it, the realisation that he was missing a leg.

There was also a corpse on his head.

Revulsion, finally, churned his insides. He'd made these decisions wordlessly, followed instinct. Was this truly what he was, at his core? A desperate, violent child who'd skewer another Gembound on his own edges just to prove something? Prove what? That he was capable of it? All for her. All for her. All for her. All for her.

Always for her.

He couldn't move.

Mother returned to clean its mess. Again. Did she ever tire of him? But thankfully, she guided its movements with a gentle hand, sparing Juggernaut again of all these grotesque flaws in its thinking. Imperfections hammered into it over and over by the forces that sought to destroy her. The nature of being her shield. It would endure.

Following her instructions, it managed to remove the dying knight with great finesse, setting the comatose Gembound down gently onto the blood-soaked soil. The focus the process required took all of its attention, so it could spare no thought toward how mangled Cyneweard had become. The aftermath of its work.

No more damage would come to him, at least. No more loneliness.