[OOM] Labyrinth / Krampus Plot with Eric

[fluffiest_archadian]

Mrlgh, there's - fuzz on Sherral's face. A kind of cloying, drying fuzz that clings even to dry skin.

As Sherral opens his eyes, he sees that it's woollen yarn, in bright pink and orange, from the suspiciously snug floor where he's sprawled beneath a cheerful woollen lamp with a knitted lightbulb inside.

This is not what he was expecting. A room full of yarn - a quick glance around confirms that everything seems to be either covered in or made of wool, checkered in various coloured patterns. A knitted puppet the size of a man stares at him from one of corner - is never really expected.

"Faram's balls," he growls.

Comments

[fluffiest_archadian]

"I'm shocked and appalled," Sherral says blandly, drawing his sword. Along the crystalline blade, the Hastega spells carved into it light up one by one.

As the last one starts glowing, Sherral vanishes - but the trail of silvery-blue Mist he leaves behind him is still visible as he starts tearing through automata.

[onceaviking]

Eric laughs and throws himself at a group of metal men at the other side of the room, moving at vampire speed and scattering torn off limbs everywhere.

[fluffiest_archadian]

The automata Sherral takes down are still nearly whole - and usually still able to move. He takes an efficient approach, severing enough connections in enough joints that they can't move or attack, and then moving on.

It isn't long until his side of the room is cleared, save for an automaton copying out Shakespeare's sonnets and two dancing puppets playing out something like a Punch And Judy Show.

[onceaviking]

Eric's side of the room looks like a scrapheap. Apparently, he decided that speed made up for efficiency and demolished everything thoroughly.

Some of them may have been engaged in peaceful tasks;we will never know.

He looks around and retracts his fangs.

He isn't even breathing hard. On account of not breathing at all.

[fluffiest_archadian]

Sherral quickly flicks some pieces of metal from his sword, checks how much Mist he has remaining by sending a few puffs of it up from his hand into the air, and starts heading towards the hatch.

[onceaviking]

"Not bad, magic user," Eric says, following along.

"Who would have thought you'd be useful. "

[fluffiest_archadian]

"Aye, after you flailed, mewled and sobbed so bravely against the goat-thing, I felt sure that you'd be the more effective one," Sherral says, deadpan.

"Come, let us be gone from this room. I trust not the puppets."

[onceaviking]

"Sobbed?" Eric repeats, but he has apparently decided to take all of this from the humorous side.

Fortunately.

The hatch opens easily, but it is narrow this time.

[fluffiest_archadian]

"There was certainly sobbing," Sherral says mildly. "You first, by all means."

[onceaviking]

"There was not," Eric says and gets down to poke his head through the hatch.

"It stinks down here, "he says and then pulls back to put his legs through first.

It's a narrow fit around his chest and shoulders. Very narrow. His skin tears but he doesn't seem to mind.

[fluffiest_archadian]

"If memory serves, there was even weeping, and wailing for a mother figure," Sherral says.

He waits for Eric to get through, and then follows - and while Sherral may be broad-shouldered, he's not as broad as Eric, nor is he full-grown, so he slips through without too much difficulty.

As soon as he hits the ground, the smell makes him freeze up. Not because it's bad (although it certainly is), but because he's smelled this stench before. It is the stench of the dead in their many hundreds.

He smelled it last at Nabudis, when the Midlight Shard's power tore through the city, striking down every man, woman and child and then raising them once more.

When he looks out over this new room, he realises that it is not, in truth, a room: Above them lies the stormy sky, and on either side ruined, hollowed out buildings, forming a corridor. In the far distance, Sherral can see a door, sitting in the centre of the road.

(Faram, it even looks like Nabudis.)

"Let us be hasty," he says, taking a step forward, "I like this place e'en less than the accursed puppet show."

Punch and Judy is creepy, man.

[onceaviking]

"Is that fear I detect?" Eric asks with a grin before sniffing the air.

"This place reeks of death and rot," he says. "Has there been a great battle here?"

He looks around. The door in the distance seems very Milliways in a way. The smell, not so much.
"Where are the dead?"

There's got to be a mountain of corpses somewhere.

[fluffiest_archadian]

"Everything about this place reeks of artifice," Sherral says, ignoring Eric's question. "The room of wool; the perfectly arranged automata, with war machines stood next to harmless amusements; the exit hatch that sat right by our entrance. Even the ruin of this place speaks to me of design, not accident."

He pauses, scuffing the ground with one shoe. "I'd warrant there has been no battle here, nor that anyone has ever lived in these buildings. It's a stage set up for our performance.

"The dead will show when it is their cue to do so."

[onceaviking]

"The dead?" Eric asks. He offers no opinion regarding whether or not this experience is manufactured or naturally occurring.

Not vampires. The scent is all wrong. Decay, not dust.

He also starts walking. No sense in hanging back when the way out is elsewhere. He is paying attention to his surroundings and his fangs have reappeared.

Ready.

[fluffiest_archadian]

"'Twas you who asked where they were," Sherral points out with a shrug.

They've not walked more than ten yards before the aforementioned dead (or undead, as it were) start to emerge from buildings ahead of them, forming a crowd to block their path.

"There we go."

[onceaviking]

They are disgusting.

A smile spreads across Eric's features, as he rolls his shoulders.

"Come here, little dead things. "

You should think he was enjoying himself. You would be right.

[fluffiest_archadian]

"How do you want to play this?" Sherral asks. "Cut them all down, or head directly for the door and ignore any of them that aren't in our way?"

[onceaviking]

"Just the ones getting in the way," Eric replies with uncharacteristic self restraint.

He cannot drink from corpses anyway.

They're getting closer.

Good.









[OOC : bedtime for me]

[fluffiest_archadian]

"More efficient. Less satisfying," Sherral says. "So be it."

He takes in a deep breath, pulling the Mist in the area (there's not much, unfortunately, there never is outside of Ivalice) around him, raising one hand.

The blast of light that issues from his hand is blinding, like stars exploding, but where it touches one of the shambling undead they turn to dust and steam. As it fades, a path has been cleared directly through the undead all the way to the door.

It isn't going to be there for long. Already the undead are shuffling in to fill the gap.

[onceaviking]

Eric falls back, shielding his face from the light.

He hates magic.

When the accursed light is gone, he takes the next round, moving through the ranks of the undead at vampire speed, tearing them apart with his hands and mouth.

It is gruesome work.

And rather bloodless, which, truth be told, weighs heavier in his opinion.

He reaches the door and pauses, looking back. Covered in filth. Then he leans against the door post. Might as well wait. For a number of reasons.

[fluffiest_archadian]

Sherral gives his sword a quick tap. Not enough Mist to cast another holy-powered Hastega.

But he follows anyway, and any which sweep in after Eric he cuts down with quick, violent strikes. It seems, to him, to take an age before he's at the door.

"Tell me it opens," Sherral says, and tugs at the door. It's locked, because of course it is. He jabs a thumb back at the approaching horde of undead. "Deal with them, I'll get this open."

[onceaviking]

"I do not take orders," Eric says. Tight lipped. Then he smiles. The fangs and the gore makes it an unsettling sight.

"But it is a sensible suggestion and I have missed a good fight. "

And so he throws himself at the horde of undead. It sounds like he might be singing.

[fluffiest_archadian]

Sherral's seen worse.

He rolls his eyes a bit, and gets to work on the door. Subtlety is overrated, so he doesn't try lockpicking: He just hacks at the lock.

[onceaviking]

After a while, Eric returns, leaving behind a veritable mountain of body parts.

"This is hungry work, " he says breezily, as he wipes his mouth.

"Are you done?"

They must be done now, right?






[OOC : bedtime]

[fluffiest_archadian]

"Almost."

One last strike, and the lock comes off. Sherral opens the door, letting out a blast of cold air and snow.

Once again, he stands back to let Eric pass through first, examining his sword for any damage.