[Ursa Assault] Cry Havoc... - Printable Version

There he stood, staring out into Ursa, black cloak whipping around him--and even Vargas, lingering nearby, was made visibly uneasy by his presence.

"I have already created a contingency plan," he insisted, voice raised against the howl of the wind. "Let the Gembounds deal with this."

The Masked Merchant was silent. In his hands was clasped a large, frosted-over black gemstone, one pulsing with malignant energy. It was no oilstone, with its dancing sheen of rainbow hues: this gemstone was pure, void black, and wisps of frosty air drifted down from the glass dome that held it covered. He adjusted his grip around this, staring out into Ursa, as if he could actually see past the blizzard of whirling white flakes.

Ursa's 'skies' were colored a sickly, ominous dark yellow: the color of storms, the color of malice. The wind was as high as it ever got, here: a sometimes-whistling, sometimes-shrieking gale that was strong enough to often knock smaller creatures off their feet, or stagger larger. The snowfall was blinding, a torrent of white. At least the fog was not too thick, if only because the wind kept blowing it away in tumbling whorls; at least the cold was not too bitter, its bite strong only when the wind cascaded past, cutting through fur or feather.

It was not a good day to march out to meet an enemy. But it was not a good day for a defender, either, particularly when the defender would not easily see them coming--and if they found their enemy deeply-sheltered, well, then they'd be on even footing. That said, Vargas would have chosen to delay it. Yes, the Gembounds had been alerted that the assault would happen soon, but today-? In this storm?

But the Masked Merchant would not be swayed. "You may make... your attempt now. I will let... your Gembounds try. If you fail... I will unleash... my contingency plan." That was all that he said, turning to stare then at Vargas, and Vargas regarded him--his expressionless mask--with dismay. "It will get free! It will destroy this nest, Hag-rteho. You cannot," he stated, as if it were fact. "Your authority does... not extend this... far, Master Vargas," the Merchant replied, and his utter tonelessness as he turned away indicated just how little he cared for the Leviathan's new title. Vargas stared at his back, for a moment. "Raheerah's shits," he spat quietly at last, as if this were the most foul swear he knew. Then he turned toward the rest, those who were gathered, perhaps uneasily; those who huddled against the storm, or waited patiently along the tunnel mouth.

"TAHI-SHEI DEIMOS," Vargas bellowed, trudging back to them through the snow. His figure was a looming, violet apparition, his acid eyes squinted against the wind. "WE ATTACK NOW. GATHER YOUR GEMBOUNDS. DRACONUA, TO ME," he added, calling this loudly. "THOSE OF YOU VENTURING INTO URSA: KNOW THAT THERE IS MUCH AT STAKE." He was shouting--he had to, to be heard against the roar of the wind. "IF YOU FAIL--IF YOU FALL TO DONTACAEL--THIS NEST MAY BE DESTROYED. IF YOU FIND YOURSELF AT RISK, TURN BACK. THE REST OF YOU, OBEY TAHI-SHEI, FOLLOW HIS LEAD, AND DO NOT FAIL. I WILL GUARD THIS TUNNEL: DRACONUA ACCOMPANIES YOU IN MY STEAD."

Contingency plans.

Would the Merchant do it-? Would he really, actually do it? Vargas did not know, but this had introduced a whole, and horrific, new level of consequence for failure.

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The Gembound are being called upon to gather up for the attempt to find, and destroy, Dontacael's nest of fungus--called "Mother" by many--in Ursa.

The current weather in Ursa consists of a strong blizzard, with high winds, high levels of snow, and medium-strength fog. However, the cold--though below freezing--is not as bad as it often gets in Ursa, and will be fairly tolerable to most. Current defenses for the staging ground include ice barriers and trenches in a V-shape defending the mouth of Tunnel E.

Gembound are encouraged to make any necessary preparations this round, as well as to roll for perception if they wish to try and detect any enemy presence in Ursa. Double posts are allowed to roll attempts for both a preparation action and perception check, if so desired.

The next GM post will occur in one week's time.

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This event will be greatly shaped by Gembound actions and choices. There is a potential in this thread for character capture, conversion by Mother, or true death, depending on group and individual choice--please do not enter this thread unless you accept these risks to your involved characters.

Any character, previously-involved or not, may join this thread in this posting round.

The worst part of all of this was, Sora did not actually know why she was here for fighting. She did not hate Mother, no more than she hated the Masters. They were both threatening and tall and foreign, and they were absolutely outside her sphere of influence. She had been born on borrowed time, and yet here she was, so willing to throw it away again.

Perhaps it was fate, then, that when she looked out into the snowy abyss, she saw the tall creature who haunted her nightmares, holding carefully in his hands the very shadows that had killed her brothers (and Kini). Nausea roiled through her. She could not quite hear what they said, not even with her new ears -- the snow absorbed everything, and the wind was howling -- but she saw the fear in Vargas's eyes.

The consequences of failure.

Would it be them? Would it be the fungus? At a certain point, would this creature even care? It had taken, and tended, and tortured. If Sora had known that it would be a factor, looming over her head, making her heart pick up in terror, she never would have come in the first place. She would have hid in Pisces, curled up in her den and shutting out the world as best she was able.

But she was here now, and she wasn't going to just run away. That wasn't the type of Gembound she was. She swallowed her fear and let it pool in her belly. It could become anger, then. Let it become white-hot and furious. She looked at the Merchant -- she could not hate him, not anymore.

But she could hate the monster he clutched so carefully in his hands.

Do you recognize me? she thought, trying to meet his eye, though one could never be sure with that mask of his. Do you know who I am? Do you know what you did to me, to my sister?

She looked to the frosted-over glass and the roiling, black storm within it. Do you?

This was it. Tahi-shei had gathered them in the previous days, visiting them in dreams or in person -- had gone to everyone he could find and told them. It was time.

The storm was furious -- he could hear it, and feel the wind whipping against his skin. It stung at his eyes and nose, and he did not feel guilty about closing them. In some ways, though, he was pleased with the storm -- it neutralized his disability and instead gave him an advantage. In this white-out, nobody could see properly; white creatures who served the Hive would blend in neatly to the snow, and this whole storm was to the advantage of those who were accustomed to its chill. But Tahi-shei, he could see the fungus that was sewn into their skin, knitting itself together into tufts of white.

It looked mostly the same as any other fungus, of course, but it was always best to be safe rather than sorry.

He flicked his ear at Vargas's words. The price of failure was a steep one -- so steep, in fact, that to fail was not an option at all. This has gotten so much bigger than me. Distantly, he considered praying, only to realize that there was nothing to pray to. Tahi-shei had long since lost his belief in fate; there was Order and there was Chaos and there was chance. But there was no Fate.

Neither the Creator nor the Spire cared for whether he lived or died. It was not as though a roll of the dice could be persuaded to love you. This was down to Tahi-shei Deimos, his army, and the chaotic nature of magic. His blood was running hot despite the chill.

He straightened himself out and hammered his heart into shape. This was not the time or place for Tahi, lover, father, friend. This was the time for the Fungal Prince. "PREPARE YOURSELVES!" Tahi-shei called once the Master was finished. "DO WHAT YOU MUST. LOOK OUT AND SEE. WE HAVE TO FIND THE TUNNELS; EXPECT RESISTANCE." He drew in a breath. "One of you will have to guide me, but I will watch for the fungus. I pray that there will be some in the tunnels."

In the meantime, he looked out and narrowed his focus. He was paying attention to the workings of the Fungal Crown, of course -- looking for whatever it could show him, searching for spies in the endless storm. But he knew that Mother was magic; perhaps there would be other things that mere fungus could not reveal.

Pride stepped forward, white coat near-invisible in the driving snow, diamonds glittering in the dim, ugly yellow. He looked from Vargas--and the Merchant beyond (and oh, they'd met, and distrust tumbled up through him), to Tahi-shei.

The younger deer was trying to organize them, and Pride dipped his head in acknowledgment. "I'll be staying near the rear," he called out, shouting to be heard over the wind. "You can stick near me if you wish! But that won't be leading," he added.

From around him he coiled forth magic: a pulsing shield that sucked in kinetic energy, perhaps strengthened by the buffeting wind, and formed it into a static, waiting barrier. It was close around him, a comfortable shroud of energy: a shield that, if struck, would send an enemy flying.

It was only after he'd formed this that he noticed Marshmallow taken to and fro by the wind--as white as he, and much smaller, and more difficult to notice. "Can someone--save the little one?!" he called; it'd be a moment before he could try again with his magic, to snag her down to safety.

Nidhogg followed in Draconua's wake, a sleek serpentine idiot bounding from craggy outcrop to upthrust rock. He seemed content, even, to take this path, to follow the fresh-charred stone instead of sinking into biting snow.

His attention was all over the place. This was a lot of stimulation, for a near-child who'd spent almost his entire life in Draco, among the same eight or so creatures. Suddenly there were others here, and his thoughts and perceptions were running rampant.

The snow was cold.
Tahi-shei was edible? Or was he not?
There was a small white thing, fluttering--Vargas had grabbed it.
Was Pride edible-?
The sky was yellow, and ugly. The falling flakes bit at oily skin. He trembled down, and hissed at the sky.
A jagged edge shifted underfoot. He grabbed at it, and leapt up.
The Masked Merchant was over there. He didn't know much of it but he wondered why it wore such loose black skin.
Voice, voices; a red dog, and a pig.

It was all rather overwhelming, and Nidhogg trembled between two disparate instincts: to run and cower, or to shout and screech and make himself heard above the confusing din. Surely if he were the most important thing, then he didn't have to worry about the rest-?

But--ahh, Draconua was here. And tragic as it was, the serpent had--for whatever reason--decided that she were something of a mother to it. They'd sparred, once. Once, and that was all. But she hadn't badly hurt him, and he knew her--and the fact she wasn't dangerous to him (in his mind) and was large and reassuring were both very big ticks in her favor.

So Nidhogg scurried up as close as Draconua would allow--even pressing his long, sinous form against a hind leg and flank, if she allowed (as unlikely as that was)--and looked around warily.

He hissed again at the snow, and shivered. And then he looked around, wary, for any signs of predators--or prey.