#31
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Mister Vord Throgmorton, for what is what they call you now, you aren't fooling anyone with that cane, proper civilian attire, and derby hat. Well, okay, you were up until the moment you slid open the door, assessed what was behind it, pivoted off to the left, ducked behind a flotation device stand where two wizard hats seem to be discarded, turned to see what the commotion was behind you and coolly took command of the situation--all in under a half-second. Instinct. Training. Discipline. The best of the best. It doesn't go away. Here's what you saw ... Behind the doors, was a small, yellow spherical creature, chained to the walls but reaching out to you with a mournful expression. Next to this, was a small dragon which seems to have managed to break from its chains and goes flying out of the chamber and toward the waters behind you. When you pivot to follow the dragon's flight, you see Elspeth gesturing frantically to you and pointing to the yellow creature in the cell. Behind her is a pool with troubled waters, three humanoid figures are leaping out of it, followed by perhaps a half dozen slaadi, with sleep in their eyes and hunger in their bellies. It is as if everything is moving slowly and you still have time to act.
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Last edited by bananabadger; Jul 20th, 2023 at 08:17 PM. |
#33
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The waters are now churning with activity.
A strange creature with green hair and metallic implants rises above the froth and foam first and fires off a shot toward Vord Throgmorton! Dice Aromatika's shot:
It goes wide and sinks into the concrete side walls with a small, hapless echo. Elspeth runs into the cell and begins to unchain the creature. We have to get it out of here! She shouts to Vord Throgmorton as she then begins to obey the colonel's command and splashes--holding the creature above the waters--toward the ship. At that moment, the frog-like creatures--the sladdi--surround the humanoids rising from the waters and set upon them. Dice Slaadi vs Gallant:
Dice Slaadi vs Sam:
Dice Slaadi vs A-mortika:
Dice Slaadi vs Elspeth:
Gallant and Sam easily fend off the attacks, Sam grabbing both of them by the scruff of their warted necks and holding them under the water against one another. A-mortika might have done the same, but it was distracted by taking its ineffectual shot, and by the bullet that Vord Throgmorton had just landed in its chest. It was a mercy kill, anyone, for the next instant a slaad rose up, tore into A-Mortika's torso and dragged it underwater. The waters continue to churn, but are taking on hues of blood red as Elspeth reaches the ship, places the creature on the exterior hatch and pulls herself ... helplessly against the tug of a slaad's jaws into the water. She goes under with a salute, not a scream.
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Last edited by bananabadger; Jul 20th, 2023 at 08:35 PM. |
#35
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#36
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The colonel's luck has run out, not only because his shot has gone wide, but because he has seen Elspeth just go under and it has taken a few seconds for the reality to register.
Looking at the position of the ship, he would probably realize he could risk a jump and avoid the waters ... or he could avoid the risk of the jump and approach the ship through the waters ... surely the slaadi have had their fill? Gallant, the last of his group to rise, fires off his magical rays which sputter around the vault like water-soaked fireworks. But one light ray seems to hit a control panel of sorts, activating emergency lock-release measures and beginning the process of releasing thousands and thousands of gallons of water into the mountain river and canal system. For now, it begins with a trickle. Gallant, you see that one of your comrades has died, another is gloriously fending off creatures snapping around you ... and a small faerie dragon has landed on your left shoulder. "That's it, isn't it, Mr Gallant?" Sam screams as he struggles to stay afloat. "That's the creature. Take him! Get away if you can, here ..." Sam says, handing you a small wad of Wutub flower petals. "For you and the little dragon," he smiles ... which is fairly remarkable since in handing you the petals he had to let go of the two slaadi he was restraining. And they have returned the favor by tearing off his legs. "It was ... a remarkable adventure, Mr. Gallant ..." he says, feeding a petal to the dragon as he is pulled under the waters. The dragon looks up at Gallant, who can see the creature's body fading into another thread of existence. "Swallow, Mr. Gallmepicpeircmd," Sam urges, rising one last time before he is pulled under and his words come to you garbled and lost as the waters fill his mouth and lungs.
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Last edited by bananabadger; Jul 20th, 2023 at 09:03 PM. |
#38
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Well, Colonel Gaylen Vord Throgmorton ... that was unexpected.
First some shabby shooting, then a miscalculated leap that banged your head against the side of a priceless interstellar corvette and sent your slumping body into the clutches of some slaadi so shocked and embarrassed by your awkward tumble that they decided something might be tainted about your meat, and better to set you aside for observation and future grins and giggleles. They throw your body in the far back of the Priovo-IX, squashed against cans of shproti fish and casks of murk water, both of which roll around when the ship is jostled and leave small bruises on your body which won't heal for weeks, if you have that long to live. You might not. For you are unaware of the precise dangers around you. In fact, you are unaware of much anything around you with the big bird's egg bruise on your forehead, drool spilling over your distinguished jawline, and vivid, vivid dreams. ![]() Crammed into a Space Suit and Fastened Like a Hood Ornament
"You there, buddy?" a voice breaks through to your cognition. "Nice "rescue" by the way. One of you dies and one of you throws themselves into the side of a hunk of Mars-metal. But hey, I've seen worse. Actually ... no, I haven't. I'm a nearly ageless entity and I've never seen an operation so botched," the voice says, ending in giggles. "I got to hand it to you, it takes a lot to show me something new!" There's a short silence. "Oooof! You're fairly bad off, aren't you? I don't know humans as well as a lot of other creatures, but I kind of think all that internal swelling and bleeding can't be good. I could try to do something ... you know, if I wasn't captured, crammed into some space suit, and set on the front of a clankity-clank like some Restudian hood ornament," it says, its tone a universal bitter. "But ... golly, you should have seen that leap," and the giggles begin. It stops giggling and adopts a more serious tone. "So, sorry not to introduce myself ... I'm fairly sure your societies don't yet know what I am. I'm a Yeltrinko. My kind were present at the creation of the universe. We were tiny then. Spores really. But we had a purpose. When the Big Kabammo took place, we were scattered in the rocks and gases which encrusted around us and formed planets, well most of the time. Sometimes the bonding didn't take, and the rocks and gases shattered in the process, breaking up into smaller pieces and scattering around, depriving that particular spore of a warm, covered area to incubate. " "And that's what we do ... we incubate in planets. Sometimes we incubate for millions of years, others for a few centuries. It depends on the planet's creatures. I don't write the algorithms that govern universal laws. I don't even know who does, and I don't even know how I know I know them ... but facts are facts. And another fact is I'm in ya head and you can't turn me off!" This last statement brings on another fit of giggles. But you can't say it is an unpleasant sound. "Ok .. so Yeltrinkology 101 ... where were we? The incubation, right? Yeah different times for different planets. The key thing is it takes as long as needed until the planet's creatures develop a higher order of peace and ..." it pauses, you can tell it is thinking "... you really don't have good words for this in your culture, do you? ... The best I can do is groovyesquekeeptruckin'PagMayTiyagaMayNilaga. Anyway ... we thought two cultures on your world had achieved it, so I rose from my little magna core, popped up from a volcano in Iceland and floated over to see them. Now ... don't get me wrong, I like porpoises and bonobo chimps. They have developed into the type of souls that the universe needs ... but gee are they bawdy little party animals. I had just hatched from eons of isolation and they were like: 'wanna get it on? wanna get it on?' I mean, hey, I'm not against a party, but you know ..." Gaylen, it's okay if you are beginning to wish you had just remained insentient unconscious ... who knows, maybe you'll wake up and have forgotten some of the images the creature is sending through your mind. Wanna? Wanna?
"Anyway, so I thought that I might go back and hibernate until the ladybugs reached perfection and I could manifest and guide them to the next stage of enlightenment ... but then someone saw me ... and knew about me. You see, apparently while a select group of creatures will see us as gods of creation who bring them new teachings ... there are others who have figured out we are ... well, delicious AND nutritious. And ..." sigh! "... that if you knead us correctly and set a bit of us aside, you will never run out of us because we grow back each night. I mean, we're gods, right? It isn't that big of deal ... though I'd rather have lightning bolts. Anyway, some cultures reach enlightenment then decide, hey! we don't want the next level, we want an endless supply of life-sustaining nutrition! We wanna party! And so they capture us, tell us to shut up about our pithy wisdom, and slice and dice and knead us. The slaadi are one of those. They were such wonderful, benign creatures, but now they just host BBQs all around the worlds, looking for newly hatched Yeltrinkos because each of us has a slightly different volatile acidity. Apparently I'm earthy with hints of Venusian spice and cosmic Xlyian overtones. At least that's what the slaadi said when they passed me around and smelt and licked me ... yuck! I think I might have preferred the bonobos." You hear a ticking noise ... or the voice transmits a ticking noise into your head. "Hear that? Yeah. The Slaadi have set a timer ... they have to get to the BBQ where they will blow up this craft and roast me on a spit in order to impress the Slaadddddies. And, apparently, there are 10 more transit points between now and then. So 10 stops ... and not much time. If you wouldn't mind reviving yourself at some point between now and then, taking over the ship, and dropping me back ... well somewhere away from jungles, rivers, oceans, and the headquarters of evil companies colluding with Slaadi, and Viennese and American weapon manufacturers ... that would be nice. I suppose I could go to Mars and incubate with Fred? Could be fun?" There's a pause and then it adds, almost as an afterthought. "If it helps, I believe in you ... and you did catch that I am kind of a big deity deal, right? Oh, and I'll tell you secrets about your life if you succeed." Gaylen, you feel yourself waking up, the ticking noise escorting you from your dream to consciousness, and now manifesting in this world with bright, shifting lights that you see on the ship's control panel before you, the view only partially obscured by the bodies of at least 3 slaadi arguing over the ship's steering controls.
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Last edited by bananabadger; Jul 21st, 2023 at 10:17 AM. |
#39
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Last edited by bananabadger; Jul 21st, 2023 at 09:14 AM. |
#41
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Gaylen ... a parent's love isn't easy to discern. Maybe it is at first, on Mars, on Earth, on Station-V or Jakarta, it's all the same. A baby grows, puts on weight, babbles, explores, and thrives. In most all of these cases, it means there is some adult who loves it. Of course it becomes more difficult with time. A parent finds the balance between discipline and indulgence, between installing confidence and an understanding of how things work. It is a parent's job to love a child, but not a child's job to love a parent. They have the freedom and sometimes the need to be indifferent--for how else will they shatter ties that protected them but kept them from their own identities? That's the theory of parental-child love, at least ... though it plays out in millions of ways for every child and every parent. Assessing how anyone did or their motivations comes only with time, usually only with generations. Looking at the end of one's life, a child might be more forgiving of a parent who was simply trying to hold things together with an enormous weight of responsibility in their 20s and 30s. Or the child might think...did I really endure all that? Gaylen ... this story wasn't around in the time of your mother. Its posts and complications don't go back to the days when she may have alluded to yu being a disappointment ... or may have been expressing only disappointment in herself. That's an issue only a Yeltrinko might be able to pull from the sludge of memory. But this story was around for your time as a father, and for your relationship with your daughter. Of course, because she grew up without you and because her mother refused to say your name ... she could never be sure. But she had good instincts--yours, my man--and she could tell that whenever the papers carried the exploits of a certain dashing captain then major of the Martian Redcoats her mother would always linger longer over them and become broody, elated then sullen. When her mother died, she saved the clippings. And even after being whisked away from the orphanage into the grand mansion of the Irondawns, she kept among her gifted golden bracelets and pearl necklaces, the clippings from the papers and the one silver button from a Martian regimental uniform that she once found on the floor of her home. She had told this to you. All of it in a letter that she kept in her pocket along with the mission briefing, both of which she would hand to you as she hurtled through space. Except she was unable to do either ... and so now I'm telling you. It's me, the Yetrinko ... yeah ... sorry to get into your mind, I was just having some traumatic dolphin flashbacks and needed to focus on something else. Hey, so you're up! And you're ... oh! man of action! Not bad. Steady there though, you're still a bit wobbly ... here ... And his voice stops to play you back a memory. A memory of a charming song from a magical bird. One whose melody can allow you to look back at past regrets and grievances to either understand, forgive, move on, vow never to repeat or whatever you need to do with the wisdom of distance and time ... even if what you need to do is turn a disadvantage into an advantage and shoot straight, which you do. The bullet tears through the slaad at the center of the controls, the other two stand frozen, shocked that their little space mascot has a bite. You're a man of action. Instinct. Training. You have time to do something else before they respond, as the three of you and the Yeltrinko, fastened to the front like a hood ornament, continue to hurtle through space. But hurry, the dashboard says you have only 8 more quadrants to go.
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Last edited by bananabadger; Jul 21st, 2023 at 04:38 PM. |
#43
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Another Slaad falls and you now have the full attention of the last one.
He looks at you, not knowing whether your gun has more bullets or not, and makes a split-second decision, throwing himself up onto the dashboard and against the viewing screen. Dice Roll:
A faint, very faint crack appears. "Shoot again and I'll make sure my dead body bashes through this screen and sucks us all out into the void!" he threatens, even though in terms of slaad threats, this is fairly wimpy. Desperate, actually. His eyes are locked on you and your gun.
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Last edited by bananabadger; Jul 21st, 2023 at 05:02 PM. |
#45
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The slaad looks at you with confusion. He doesn’t know Wellington. He doesn’t do Woppington. He has no idea what you mean by Queensbury. All of it seems xeno-Greek to him until you come up and start pumping your fists (well, in a manner of speaking … perhaps you stumbled). But only then does the slaad figure out what you mean. You aren’t fighting … you are preening! "Ha! Thanks! But you’re not really my type. Tell you what, I won’t mention your preening and you don’t mention my threatening to bash the screen and we can go to the BBQ together. I mean, have you ever tasted Yeltrinko? Delicious!" That’s true, but he is trying to stall! warns a voice in your head.
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