Insult Comedy - Printable Version

Three caves worth of fungus ought to have been enough to satisfy those who participated in Mother's grand incursion. After all, it was an improvement from having only Ursa as stomping grounds and provided the beginnings of ample foothold in Chaos's diseased den. A good deal of the Hive seemed content to tend to these acquisitions, renewing their claim every patrol or so to keep Order's white threads pristine and relatively untouched. Not so for someone who hadn't forgotten how the loss of certain lynchpins in the invasion effort had led to retreat when they'd lingered on the cusp of even sweeter victories.

No, Ace remembered the injuries his comrades had suffered while he'd been distracted into fights with smaller fry. The sensation of Bone's throat being shredded apart before she fell to the beach lingered as harshly as his squadmate Alcina's torn off jaw. Both shouldn't have chrysalized, wouldn't have if he had been there to intercept the attacks. And damn it if he was going to let his wings wither when he could scout out the old battleground again for a future round of ass-kicking, preferably with far more done by Order this time.

He didn't fear any dragons who might cross paths with him as he cruised above the shoreline. Try as they might, fire breath had no chance of scorching him if his reflexes remained sharp as always. Bared fangs and the loudest of mocking laughter would greet any who dared to make a move against him. Furthermore, Ace had an ace of his own to use: the cold flame that flickered around his stinger.

"Oh, they'll really get it once we're ready." He cackled to himself, a noise as grating as his personality. "Let's see them run away from a real fight once we freeze them out of that."

Showoff to a fault, the Drone spun in the air, light gleaming off his pale and pockmarked hide.

Mirac prowled the shores of Leo. The blade had been itching for a good fight. After the battle of Leo, he had retreated to Draco, where he did nothing but indulge in the simulations the ring granted him, or sleep long hours in his chrysalis. But that was not enough. It was one thing to simulate an opponent, but it was another to FEEL them. To actually find oneself so close to death!

Mirac had many times come close to death in the visions, and then found himself unharmed in the real world. But that was why he traveled now. Leo was a sweet cave of memories for Mirac. It was the cave where he had been unleashed, where he had first been beset upon origin. The cave of his first kill (those awful, fake blades). And the cave where he fought for the first time. So he was here, wandering, hoping that another event would fall into his lap. And, miraculously, one did.

Ace was a veritable beacon in the sky. The gleam of his carapace caught Mirac's eyes immediately. His slit pupils narrowed in on Ace, eyes crinkling with mirth. It seemed as if Ace had gained a new weapon since last they spoke, as well! The thought had him giddy. A wild smile split his blade as he tore it apart, teeth bared like a crazed beast. But no words were spoken. Not yet. Instead, Mirac loosed a wild cackle.

He floated towards Ace as fast as he could manage (not very), and thats when his words spilled out.

"AHH, FINALLY! The CREATOR smiles upon ME, MIRAC! YOU!" Mirac barked from below. "MIRAC has not fought an opponent in so LONG. Mirac is BORED and wishes to cause PROBLEMS. Your ORDER has been so SLOW with the causing of WAR. Mirac craves the VIOLENCE you have STARVED him of. Engage Mirac in COMBAT, NOW. FIGHT MIRAC! Fight Mirac with your NEW, WEIRD TAIL. FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT!"

Were Mirac not a literal blade, he would have been bouncing up and down like a toddler. As it was, he could do little to outwardly show his excitement and enthusiasm. Other than, well, scream as he had been. And try to pull Ace down. The winds were not on his side today. At least, for now. The winds turned on him, locking him under a vice grip that had him struggling to stay afloat. He growled in annoyance at not being able to physically pull Ace down, before spitting out, "MIRAC wants you DOWN HERE!" Half command, half plea.

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Oh, it’d been quite a while since Ace had heard such demented laughter, but there was no mistaking whose it was. The reminder of the absolute farce facing the levitating sword had been instantly set the Drone’s shoulders shaking. A snicker slipped by fangs at first, inaudible over the breeze. This soon collapsed into an outright guffaw intense enough a stomach ache resulted from the tremendous force behind it. Unable to resist a challenge but too prideful to easily acquiesce to demands from an inferior, he lurched down just enough to be in better mocking distance, still keeping well out of melee range.

"Well, well, well. If isn’t Missed-rac!" he crowed, quick to call back to the other’s failures on the battlefield. "How’s about you pull me down if you’re drooling so much for a three-course meal of bruising, bleeding, and bash-ups. Wait"— hooked forelimbs clashed together as jaws parted into a wide shit-eating grin— "you can’t!"

Of course, he was utterly unaware exactly that had been tried to outrageous disappointment.

"Stick to playing in oil puddles, scrap metal. The wicked tail’s reserved for real problems, and you’re not making any worth fixing."

Ace’s inflated ego raised his head high and disdainful; seemingly he wouldn’t fully lower himself to the dare until a good enough strike popped it. Nevertheless nostrils flared for the telltale reek of ozone should his object of contempt prove feisty enough to warrant the attention screamed for.

"MISSED-RAC!?" Mirac choked out. He paused, stunned into silence. Then, he chuckled. "Skyreaver is much the SAME, Mirac finds! Talks very BIG! Skyreaver is OBSERVANT, too. A VERY good oponent worth MURDERKILLING many times! Many of Mirac's opponents do not talk this much, Mirac is PLEASED!" And then, Ace called Mirac a dreaded word. Scrap metal. Mirac spluttered with indignation.

"SCRAP METAL? SCRAP METAL!? MIRAC is NO LONGER PLEASED. MIRAC IS THE BEST OF BLADES. The one TRUE BLADE! Mirac wil pull you down and show you a REAL problem! REAL fighting! Mirac shall make YOU into scrap metal. Scraps of SKYREAVER!" Mirac was not the best at talking smack, but he was certainly trying his best. He concentrated, growling, and willed the ground beneath Ace to bulge into a lurching oily tentacle. If he succeeded, he could galvanize this conflict into a real fight!

Luckily for Mirac, and unluckily for Ace, Mirac's magic worked. The sand boiled with a growing oil puddle, and from it a tentacle launched itself at Ace. Were it to make contact, Mirac aimed it not to grab Ace, but instead to to slam the drone out of the sky.
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It took an ample air supply to produce audible mockery; still somewhat fresh off of his latest giggle fit, there simply wasn’t enough in the tank to blast Mirac with another one inversely proportional in volume to his estimation of the opposition’s threat level. Nevertheless, visual signs gave away the scornful amusement swiftly taking hold: legs trembled and wheezes shrank Ace’s narrow chest as he regularly spent any modicum of breath regained.

"Oh, really," he choked out at last. The smugness radiating from him almost could’ve been a light source for its undeniable intensity on display. "I’d love to see you try. Scraps of Skyreaver aren’t as easy to come by as your second-rate sword bits are. You got that, scrap met—ouggh!"

Whatever derogatory assault that he’d been weaving together burst apart at the seams, its threads the strands of spittle flying from an open mouth. A single oil-slathered punch had knocked the wind straight out of his wings by landing its blow squarely on the Drone’s wagging chin. Being a lightweight that served heavy words more readily than he could shoulder a physical burden, he was tossed as if nothing but fluffed feathers and ego stuffed his body. Neck snapped back from the hit, jaws shut on themselves with a resounding crack capable of nearly snipping off the tip of an overactive tongue.

Mirac, self-proclaimed true sword, could bask in the well-delivered comeuppance for such egregious slander against him. After a fantastic demonstration of how far someone full of hot air could travel, the blasphemer plummeted to the beach headfirst.

Ace’s skull provided the perfect pivot point for the rest of him, bouncing off the solid ground while everything situated beneath its base arced over him. The final landing position turned out to be on his belly, brain thoroughly rattled and plumes of disturbed sand crawling up nostrils. Once the irritating grains were sucked in, he promptly snorted them out. Promise of bloody-minded retribution glimmered in red eyes as limbs thrust down and pushed him into a low crouch, wings flaring at sides.

An ugly snarl made fangs more prominent. After being chucked like yesterday’s garbage, the battle had commenced, no longer a joke to dismiss.

"Lucky slap." The words would’ve been admiration or grudging respect in a friendly sparring partner’s mouth, but tasted of dirt in his. "Let’s see how long that lasts against pure skill!"

Energy coiled in legs as he rocked back on them. It released in an instant upon Ace lunging forward. A wingtip dipped, and he banked, forelimbs tucked close to his chest. They were prepared to lash out and unleash a flurry of swipes meant to give the blade a taste of his own humiliating tactics.

Mirac was silent, seemingly shocked as Ace tumbled before Mirac. He was silent, watching Ace with wide eyes. One may think he was showing humility; showing his opponent respect. It was shattered after a second with a snort. Mirac broke into a racouous, unbridled laugh. He did not miss the fury in Ace's eyes, but it only seemed to drive his enjoyment higher. He only just heard Ace's snarl of anger, bringing his laughter down to a sensible giggle.

"FINALLY! The Skyreaver ENGAGES me, MIRAC!
PURE SKILL?" Mirac barked. "I RELISH IT! SKYREAVER will find MIRAC is much the SAME. Mirac is ALL pure skill. ALL TALENT. ALL LUCK. ALL THE TIME! Mirac is--" Mirac said, cut off as Ace knocked the sword into a spin with a series of blows. Iron and flesh were scraped, drawing black blood equally. Mirac did not move to dodge the rest of the hits, although he could have tried. He had been too busy yapping, for one. For another, he did not want to retreat. Even a tactical evasion was the last thing he wanted to do.

He was immersed in the thrill of a being in a real fight once more! But that left him dizzy, dropping to the sand in the aftermath of Ace, the zephyr incarnate's rush. "MIRAC WAS NOT DONE TALKING." Mirac balked. Though he may have complained, excitement at a real opponent set him abuzz. He raised himself from the sand, opening his jaws. His stone hummed, and with it a ball of electricity began to form. One that burned his jaws as it formed, leaving the taste of ozone in his mouth. He aimed it for Ace--he was, perhaps surprisingly, not intending to truly harm, but to stun Ace long enough to endure another of his tirades.

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old friends and new - echoes of wishes

There was magic here.

It was an old magic, an echo called to this place now, one year after its last flicker through the caves.

Or it was a new magic, a gift in and of itself, in memory of what had come before.

Or it was something else. Something born of connections and magic numbers, time past and time yet to come.

This magic was however mindless. 'An idiot,' a less charitable Gembound might say. It was oblivious to the fact that these two, who had met before, were enemies. That they were in the middle of a battle which might decide their life or death.

This blind magic offered a flicker, as two who had met before, met again, regardless of their relationship. A promise, dumb to their aggression. A whisper of possibility, happily mindless as to the consequences. They had only a flash of time. No chance to discuss. No long minutes of soft debate, or calculation. Only this moment, a whim, the instinct to guide the spark of magic toward a gift. Would they choose something the other truly would like, adore, fall in love with, respect, feel forever grateful for? Or would their gift be a mistake, a misstep, well-intentioned but easily forgotten?

There was no time for second-guessing. Each of them felt it: the offer, for that split second, of making something come true for their companion.

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Each Gembound has only an instant to decide upon a Wish for their thread partner. While the players are free to discuss OOCly, the Gembounds themselves are the ones making this Wish: it should not use out-of-character information but should instead reflect the intent and beliefs of the Wish-makers.

Please GM tag a second time to have a Game Master confirm that all Wishes are viable.

Many soldiers became who they were out of choice. Some picked up their blade and spilled blood out of devotion for those they were loyal to. Others did so because even with the option not to, the alternative seemed far worse to accept. Both were paths impossible for a Drone: created for an exact purpose, a literal born warrior under Mother’s banner knew combat alone, and anything else was a void that they had no idea how to fill. Only a concerning minority outside her influence would understand this issue too, those combatants who relished solely in the devastation they unleashed on enemies placed in their sights. Now more than ever in the heat of battle it grew apparent how much Ace had languished in these caves, no regular fights to satiate designed bloodthirsty urges. Despite the smoldering ember of outrage in his chest, the swift blows he inflicted brought forth a certain exhilaration that had been absent from listless patrols through fungus-claimed caves. Struck iron scraping and ringing out was music greatly missed, making up well for the previous embarrassment of being temporarily grounded.

The petty act of tit for tat which sent Mirac spinning midair, soundly shut up, drew a pleased rumble out from a clenched jaw. Silence and the sight of his enemy falling to the beach as he had already done offered him the opportunity to seize control of the narrative again. Bared fangs readily bit down on it, and a harsh cackle pelted the sword where he lay in the sand. Hooked forelimbs clashed together in yet another eager show of strength, far too delighted at launching into a verbal evisceration.

"What was that?" he hollered. "I couldn’t hear anything over the sound of me scratching shavings off your cheap metal behind. Maybe if your quality didn’t suck, you’d soar instead of being a hanging waste of space for me to punch."

A creature of the present and rarely the future or past, so easy was he to forget the humiliation of a minute ago. Overconfidence already saturating his every atom once more, he angled and swept an arm toward himself in a gesture plainly inviting his opponent to come at him. "Try again, you overgrown knife. If your lucky streak keeps going, tell you what, I’ll make sure to give out prizes—one to each piece of your broken body. It’ll cover the cost to reforge your subpar, shattered ass."

Wait—rapid blinks revisited the insult torrent in full. Would Mirac take that whole prize promise seriously instead of as the mostly meaningless trash talk it was? The possibility caused the Drone to rub a hook against the horns protruding from the back of his head, at a complete loss as to what action would best handle the situation if that turned out to truly be the case. He had no need of riches when the Hive’s unity proved enough after all. Maybe if demanded to keep up the end of a deal whose creation was never intended, he’d simply deliver another beatdown to the sword and say bruises were all he owed him.

That approach seemed about right, Ace decided. Everyone knew arrangements couldn’t be held with Chaos clowns anyway; they’re bound by nature to ruin them. Not to mention it also allowed him another chance at working out frustrations on a willing target. Friendly spars forced him to temper his true potential, whereas he could lunge himself full bore at a mouthy representative of Mother’s much despised enemies.

So consumed was he by this mental tangent that the nearby crackle of building static entirely escaped notice as well as the warning hum of the wicked oilstone powering it. The sharp scent of ozone and flashing voidlight of the approaching bolt succeeded at grabbing attention, though, too alarming to not jerk him back to reality. Old danger awakened instinct, a flick of his tail flipping his flight upside down. Legs pulled themselves closer in while chitinous forelimbs braced to weather the brunt of searing corruption in defense of his exposed underside.

To what would be his great shame, he hadn't accounted for precise maneuvers to be so stupendously thwarted by the forking lightning's unpredictability. Most of it arced well above his torso, selling the possibility of a hilarious miss by Mirac, before suddenly changing course and crashing downward into his unprotected backside. A bragging session ended before it could even start, the real pain in his ass surging up his spine and converting an elegant glide into pathetic, teeth-grinding spasms. A whole continent away from triumphant, Ace received a second dose of sand to the face as nothing prevented him from flopping onto the ground like a thrown earthworm.

Pain and injured ego—this was what flooded the mind a foreign magic brushed against. Unaware his thoughts were heard by more than his often exasperated brethren, an impulsive desire was what ended up snagged in its barely perceptible web: he might be mocked here and now, but Ace wished for his opponent to grasp the true consequences of antagonizing a member of Order's endless troops. He, although flawlessly crafted, was but one of an infinite collective equally deserving of respect and fear whose reach could not be effortlessly quantified. Chaos's scum would do well to learn to surrender to its unified heel.

Ace had found Mirac's sore spot, and if Ace was anything, he was really good at digging into that sore spot. It only granted Mirac some vindication seeing that he had zapped Ace out of the sky. "Skyreaver is in luck--Mirac LOVES prizes AND winning! MIRAC will win ALL of your PRIZES! Mirac's success here will prove just how superior of a BLADE is to YOU," Mirac paused, the gears turning as he thought on a very good insult.

"THE SLOWREAVER! The BADFLIER FALLER!" Rather like a supervillain, he approached the zapped Ace slowly. Mirac laughed to himself at his very good . This was gleefully like some of the simulations Mirac had indulged in. There were rivals in them sometimes, two massive, strong gembound that would go for each other as soon as they saw each other. At first Mirac would intervene, join in the fight.

But it always ended up interrupting their one on ones, which could be so rapturously violent before his interruption. So visceral and brutal. Sometimes they would toss insults at each other as they fought. So sometimes he would watch, instead.The jealousy he felt seeing watching those simulations finally had a place. Mirac had what they had--a rival. He could barely contain his joy.

"Mirac has FLOORED Skyreaver once more. You are MEAN and STRONG and of ORDER. Mirac will declare you his RIVAL! We will fight FOREVER, AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN! Just like in Mirac's VISIONS!" Mirac said, as if Ace had any idea what he was talking about. Mirac did not want to lose this advantage, and so he pulled on his magic, finding it respond easily. The ground around Ace bubbled, darkening with pitch, and from it a trio of gangly, oily limb sprouted, aiming to press him into the sand into the sand before he could become airborne again."MIRAC will CONTINUE his SPEECH, now!" Mirac said, giggling excitedly. Then, rather ironically, before he could actually continue Mirac felt the wish magic course through them. Despite being interrupted, his giddiness only spiked.

Ace may have been having an irritating day, but Mirac was, aside from those grating remarks on the quality of his blade, having one of the best days of his life. Mirac was perhaps surprisingly rather benevolent, if not predictable, in his wish. Whereas Ace's wish was driven by his wounded ego, Mirac's was driven by his want of a rival and ravening hunger for combat. Make the Skyreaver stronger and better in every way. Mirac craved nothing more than a stronger opponent. An opponent Mirac could fight again and again.

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old friends and new - echoes of wishes

Mirac was granted... a vision. It might silence him for just a moment, at the very least: a fleeting sense of possibilities along with scenes that shot by in his mind.

First he would see himself demolishing a Drone, slicing through carapace, its white web in place of blood exploding violently all around him. He cleaved; it died.

Then he saw a battle, in which he fought, forces of Chaos and Order clashing. Order was brought to the ground, destroyed, explosions of white web left and right indicating constant deaths. (Glorious, no doubt, to Mirac.)

Next: scenes that did not belong to him, in which he did not feature, even in a fictional scenario. The first showed Order fleeing the battlefield: escaping. Chaos gave chase, winning the fight, but failing to secure their kills.

Then, Chaos fleeing. Furious. Raging. Dripping black.

And finally, Order winning this battle: Oiled blood spilled, Valkhounds rapidly decaying across the earth. It became a world swathed in white crystals, fractal and crystalline, shining and motionless. Perfectly Ordered, filled with the march of Drones, empty of Chaos and of change.

These were many of the potential consequences for beginning battle with Order, now shown to Mirac in the space of seconds.

Ace, meanwhile, was likewise granted knowledge, but with a touch of power: he could sleep. Now. Later. It mattered little: and as he slept, he would be changed. Empowered.

In the back of his mind, Mother had become alert. But there was nothing she could do--not against this. One would hope, at least, that the change would be... symmetrical.

Ace has been granted a Mutation+. The next time he rests he will enter his chrysalis. His player may then mutate him as desired, or may request a GM mutation design: the design must generally "improve" Ace, making him, as Mirac has wished, "stronger and better in every way."