"Double drat upon thee and thine ilk, Peregrin Acerus Corvus! Double I say!"
Never before have I seen a more spiteful shaking of a fist, Stranger. I've been around, and this is a new sensation for me. Just look at him, frothing with indignance. Here is a man, his name is Hattori Karasuki. Alas, he doesn't like to be called that. Instead, everyone calls him-
"Krow! How goes your fruitless sojourn against destiny? Will you never cease to fritter away that wasteland called your 'time'? You can't defeat me, only disappoint me to extremes never before seen from here to the Nithehewer's vacuous bum!"
And that string of mockery is delivered by the dwarf standing on the other side of a magentic river. Only Krow is wet, yet Acerus stays pleasantly dry. The former grits his teeth, a source of endless amusement for his dwarfen rival. Much guffawing and belly chuckles are had, a sensation Krow is way too familiar with.
ᛈᛖᚱᛸᛋ
Krow's spelling is sudden, a streak of magenta shooting out of his mechanical hand with reckless abandon. No anchors, no care. If only he'd bothered to aim, maybe his target would be regretting words by now.
"What's wrong, Krow? Can't be bothered to be real wyrd? I mean, you call that a bolt?" In response, the dwarf spells doom upon Krow, barraging him with darts of magentic glass.
"Curse you, Peregrin Acerus Corvus! A thousand curses upon the hairs of your bumfucked existence! You will pay for your theft a hundredfold!"
The dwarf scoffs at his outburst, and turns to leave. He taunts Krow with the item of interest: A brass ball that once sat in Krow's empty eye socket. Oh, there is that gritting of the teeth again. That cannot be good for your dental hygiene.
"Give it back, squat!"
The dwarf throws the brass ball into the river. Krow gasps, his drama worthy of eon dead epics.
Krow starts wading through the conjured deluge to retrieve his brazen eye. This is a bad move, as the very waters of this magentic river start slapping him silly, then throw him to the bank he came from. Acerus is long gone by the time he regains his standing, although he seems a distant memory compared to the present indignity.
Wyrding itself prevents me? If nerves could be strings on a harp, oh! I will pluck them, this scourge of reason has begun, I am an execution!
Krow points his gloved, wet index finger at the offending river, and let's loose a siege of harsh words. Brace yourself, Stranger. This is going to get graphic.
"You wretched trickle of drops! Pathetic sand trap of little wet! Never before have I seen a shallower, thin river. I'd tell my friends about you, but I don't want them to know that I just swam in fucking sewage!
The river gasps.
Oh, did I touch a nerve? You pathetic puddle? Fucking driz-" Krow doesn't get to finish his sentence, as an angry tendril of water snaps him up and proceeds to slam him against both sand banks again and again,
Slam.
Slam.
Slam.
Lasso.
Slam.
Slam.
Slam.
And then, with a final flourish of spite, it flings him several drins away. Krow barrels through the air like a human cartwheel. Hilarious.
With him out of the way, the river can cry in peace, it's feelings thoroughly hurt by his vicious mockery.
***
Some time later, Krow starts regaining consciousness. Slowly, his blurry universe comes into focus, and his eyes are met with the silhouette of a fellow ranger. Judging by the brown beard sticking out from under the raspirator, and the laughter tinged metallic by the very same raspirator...a revelation leads a shockwave of horror up through Krow's spine.
No...not Hasta. Anyone but Hasta. Give me a ghast of ghouls while I still breathe, not Hasta!
Tears well up in Krow's eyes as the stout figure of (you guessed it) Hasta approaches him, armed with various necromantic implements.
"(Hahaha) Krow (Haha) You need aid, Yes? (HahahahahA)"
Krow tries to crawl away with his one good hand, towards that piece of sharp rock. It might be enough to slit his own throat with. Hasta gains on him, laughing in between high pitches wheezes. For a split second, Krow misses Peregrin Acerus Corvus and his shenanigans.
Please...just a little more, and I'm-
*Stab'
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"
Stranger, there is no word in freynish (or any of its myriad dialects) that is capable of conveying the sheer brutality of Krow's agony. Oh dear, what is Hasta doing now?
"Hold still and relax (Hahahha) Can't administer to a taught rectum (Hahahahaha)"
Krow's screams are worthy of a dwarf tragedy, something Hasta is well aware of and enjoys greatly. Just like his job. As one of the Toecutter's necromancers, he takes great joy in administering medical aid to his comrades in Red Iron. Whether they like it or not. Consent? Irrelevant.
After many twists and turns, snapping of sinews, feeding Krow some sludge that I can't really identify, the pain suddenly stops. Krow blinks, then rises to his feet. He looks down at his "saviour", Hasta.
"Good as new and not a shub bothered (hahahahahaha)"
Krow takes a look around, trying to ascertain where the river is. He has a score to settle. Hasta waves him goodbye, laughs, high pitched wheeze, another laugh, on repeat until he's in the kagg and out of ear shot.
Going back only takes a few minutes.
Krow stands on the precipice of a massive dune which overlooks that damned conjuration. The magentic river that slapped him silly only a few hours before.
It’s gotten wider…or fatter, perhaps with tears?
Krow uses Runes to listen in on the river, to gain understanding of his foe. He hears it catching a shaky breath, like a child chewed up by consequences. Krow grins.
My lingo still has razors.
Krow snuffs the spelling. He takes a deep breath, his raspirator making it sound metallic and...well, raspy. The glare of the sun does little to hide the devastation waiting for him below. An expanse of dark salt, yet…a single, unreal river runs across it. It has no source of its own. No lake to speak of. Neither will it ever find an ocean to intrude upon. A magentic contrast to the endless black, seeking nothing forever.
Damn it!
Krow feels irritation in his empty eye socket, travelling down his electric scars. Most of his body itches, and there is nothing he can do to stop it. Fully geared up, he can only grin and bear it...
May Hel’yr reopen before I settle for another brass ball. Not in this socket!
Krow looks at his left hand, a mechanical appendage composed of various coppery alloys. The Runes shiver when he clenches it. He looks at his right hand, fully covered in an armoured glove. It itches where the tendrils of scar tissue decorate his flesh, like little cracks of lightning.
All righty then…round two, puddle!
With one fluid motion, Krow slides down the sandy dune like a cool guy. One of those fictional characters hardly found anymore.
Speak for yourself, horny rascal.
When he lands on the bottom, he fails the landing miserably and shits his pants.
No I don't!
And then a bunch of people materialize out of nowhere and laugh at him with pointy fingers. His protest fall on deaf ears, and then he continues towards the big bad river, grumbling with shit in his pants.
None of this shitty business is canon.
When he's close enough, he extends his arms in a mockingly friendly gesture, glittering with glee. "Hello puddle, did you miss me?"
The river responds with several, violent outbursts. Wet tendrils of magenta water fly towards Krow with malicious intent.
"I will not be moist this day!" he shouts, jumping in the air and flipping several times (with the aid of Runes, not even Tally is this agile) dodging every single appendage. Then he stays in the air, hovering in place. "That the best you can do, drizzle? I know clamped nozzles that squirt more water!"
Every tendril jabs forward from all directions, surrounding Krow in a watery pummel. However, the river didn't notice him subvocalize the following spelling: ᛞᚱᛇᛟᚱᚨ
Krow has surrounded himself in an aura of pure Dry. The river has never felt pain like this before, its appendages evaporating like water in a scorching pan. When the tendrils have all become a misty memory, the river makes for the distant horizon, slithering away in abject fear.
ᛗᚨᛊᛊᚺᛟᛚᛞᚹᛣᚱᛞ
Then it stops. Thanks to Krow's hyper complicated spelling, it stops dead in its currents. However, this action has dire consequences. Krow has to quickly remove his raspirator to let the vomit escape without blockage. Glowing magenta permeates his blue copper-blood in agonized strings, trying desperately to escape their impending oblivion.
Damn you Peregrin Acerus Corvus...a simple holding spell and I'm already...?
Krow flips his helmet's spangle up so that he can scratch the infernal itch originating from the empty eye socket, which by now bleeds blue gore and magenta. He wipes his mouth, then flips the spangle back down, then reunites it with his raspirator before the mosh-tainted air can finally drub him. A beeping alarm sounds inside his helmet.
+++ Warning: Terminal atrocity imminent.+++
Krow scoffs. The river is frozen in time, quivering in fear. It's ready to be invaded, and a certain brass ball needs to be retrieved.
Let's see what made you, puny drizzle.
Krow starts towards the river, and then swan dives directly into it. Despite his condition, he manages to make it look graceful.
The river may be shallow, thin and barely above a puddle in mass...but the inside looks much bigger.
***
Krow has been to the Mosh several times in his immortal career. It's a hodge podge of nonsense, sure. However, sometimes he feels that there is some logic to it. A method to the madness, hiding somewhere in the mist.
Or maybe the sick riffs have addled me. If wyrding ways didn't sway me, would I be one of them?
Right now, Krow is standing in an pleasant (albeit unreal) landscape. He can tell it's been tainted by magentic forces. He has an eye for these things, even without his brazen eye. There are things that don't add up, things that have abandoned reason to know only repeat upon repeat.
A trauma loop scenario? Perfect -_-
It is, in fact, not perfect. Judging by Krow's frown, he is very unamused by the scene playing out before him.
A little girl plays on a swing. Next to her is a river. She seems far too big to be playing on this swing, meant for much younger children. She can't be more than nine years old.
Krow, reluctant and irritated, walks up to the child.
"Hello..." he grumbles, knowing full well where this loop is going. The girl smiles. She's missing both front teeth.
An inverse rabbit...I wonder if this memory remembers rabbits.
"Hi...can you help me?" despite the smile staying on her face, there is a sadness evident on the rest of her features. Her messy blonde hair suddenly moves from a violent gust of wind blowing from the river.
It shouldn't have that power...
"I can't cross the river, and my parents are getting worried. Can you help me cross it? It seems deep."
No it doesn't, but fuck it. I'll play. One thing first though...
"Where did the river come from?"
The girl ponders the question for a moment. After straining for an answer that might make sense to such an exotic looking person like Krow, she gives up and makes something up.
"Maybe it's lonely? It wasn't here yesterday."
"What were you doing yesterday?"
The girl suddenly blushes. "Nothing." she says abashedly.
Krow sighs. "Fine then. Let's cross the stupid river and be done with it."
Taken aback by Krow's sudden crude remark, the girl hesitantly accepts his gesture to piggy back. She sits on his shoulders, which surprises the ranger.
Was that the same thing? I'll have to ask Omega when I get back.
Krow wades through the river, his shoulders barely rising above the waters at their deepest point. The girl suddenly slaps her tiny hands on his helmet in order to get his attention. "Hey mister, what's that?"
Krow's eye (or visor in this case) are confronted by a boy standing up on a cliff, water drizzling from his outstretched hands like twin waterfalls. Like a prankster that's been caught, the boy panics and increases the output to flooding proportions, threatening to drown both Krow and the girl.
ᚦᚱᛟᚹᛚᛸᛏᛏᛖᛚᛋᛸᛏ
With this hasty spelling, Krow uses the last of his strength to toss the girl far away from the oncoming tide of water. When the flood strikes him, his body endures a beating that makes the previous pummelling by tendrils seem like a lovetap. He washes up on the opposite bank, contorted into hilarious angles. He witnesses a conversation between the girl and the boy, much to his eternal regret.
"Hey."
"Hi. You're the boy from yesterday, right?"
Please...I need help.
"Yeah."
"Did you make that river?"
I think I'm bound for the Gulf.
"Yeah..."
"So you're a wyrlock? That's so cool!"
You know what would be cool? First aid.
"You think so?"
"Yeah! Hey, wanna be my boyfriend?"
Fantastic. I'll die of cringe before bodily harm at this rate.
"Uhm, sure!"
"Yay!"
Then they hold hands, and skip off into the fake sunset. The tainted dreamscape bleeds away, leaving Krow alone to ponder what he just witnessed. After a few moments of contemplation, only one question pops up in his mind.
I wonder what Ylva is cooking tonight...
Before drubbing away into the nearest shub, Krow sees a brass ball roll into his field of vision. He reaches out to grab it, but to no avail. His hand is bent at a ninety degree angle, the pain alone stops the attempt. The last thing he sees before shuburrecting is a familiar interceptor driving towards him on a soundtrek that wasn't there before.
"...Hasta?"
***
So familiar…this suffocating comfort. Am I back in…?
Krow’s rebirth into the world of Mythos is as routine as it is painful. His naked body plops down on the cold, wet floor of the Toecutter. Behind him is one of the salt strider's dozen shubs, the artificial wombs he’s come to know so personally over the centuries.
“Twenty nine hours (Hahahah) like clockwork, eh Omega? (Hahha)”
Those high-pitched wheezes followed by laughter are just about the last thing Krow wanted to hear, fresh out of a shub. Hasta stands there, arms crossed with a knowing (wider-than-usual) smile. His ashen-grey skin is glistening with sweat. Standing next to him is Omega, holding a trolley containing Krow’s recovered gear.
Minus one brazen eye…
Krow saunters over to her, and begins to suit up again, not bothering to wipe himself off. Omega pats him on the head. If it was anyone else, be it Tally, Hasta, Zach or Ylva, he’d take it as condescension. This is never the case with Omega. Her expression of comfort is genuine, and it makes Krow blush.
“My boy (hahahaha) you dropped this!” Hasta produces a brass ball, fresh and cleaned. Krow snatches it out of his hands faster than a snake overdosing on solar.
“So you did retrieve it. Was I beyond saving this time?”
“Oh yes (haha) Severe concussion, ruptured spleen (hahahA) broken limbs, anal prolapse (for some reason, hahahaha) and a stubbed toe. Your old body was pining for the Gulf (hahahahahAHAHA) very good (HAhahahaAHAHhhahahAHAha)”
Krow barely pays attention to the dwarf’s laugh infested explanation. He spits on the brass ball, and proceeds to shove it into his empty eye socket.
The itch subsides…
Krow starts dancing with joy, jumping up in the air with glee. “In your face, Peregrin Acerus Corvus! BAKA!”
Omega clears her throat. When Krow stops dead in his tracks, and turns to look at her, she has a warm smile on her face. It disarms Krow, makes him feel like a boy again. Damn that motherly aura…
“Ylva started cooking your favorite when she heard what happened. Come!” Omega leaves, waving Krow over to follow.
He starts for the exit, but Hasta stops him. “(Hehehe) what happened in the dreamscape, wyrlock?”
