Brent Stinebaker
patreon
II-15 Challengers (II)
🕑 Added 2024-11-10 16:15:26 +0000 UTCA lot of us didn't ask to be here. A lot of us died at the wrong place, at the wrong time, where fate just smiled and sneered at us and took us away, spared us from an eternity of oblivion, and gave us another life.
Some people found a use for that. Some people got lucky, became heroes of scattered kingdoms, of little lands of lost fantasy, spread out along with whatever the hell this is.
But some of us… we got to be slaves. We got to be pawns in another's great game. Some of us never had a chance.
Remember that. Remember, when you kill us, that we didn't want this, that we're sorry. That maybe, maybe you could think about us after we're gone.
-The Trespassers’ Compendium
II-15
Challengers (II)
As Wei finished taking in the assortment of scenes captured, he frowned. "Have you tried to recruit this Kalrus? That weapon—it might have some unsavory qualities, but could be very useful if you had more expendable assets."
Though the spending of the boy's life had been cruel, Wei could see the benefits it provided. An army was a hard thing to raise, and most people would never see the heights of true power. In times of crisis, or perhaps with enough slaves taken from one's enemies, Wei could very well see himself fielding such an expendable core of disposable soldiers.
The only matter was John Doe's eyes lingered on him for a moment too long. The Fighter gave Wei a slight hint of disapproval but said nothing outward. Bishop, on the other hand, simply shook his head.
"We tried," Bishop said, "but as I said, he's got his own interests in mind. Not exactly the kind to play ball or follow another set of ethics."
"I see," Wei said. Even so, he wasn't particularly inclined to kill Kalrus. There was much that could be salvaged from him, alive or broken. The orc’s casual cruelty made him fair game for enslavement himself. Wei would see him broken and seized for the Drowned Sky Sect, if the Trespassers' Lodge could not deliver on their own ends.
"Next up, we have the Facetaker," Bishop said.
"Facetaker?" Wei replied, frowning. "What kind of name—"
"By taking faces," Bishop replied dryly. He even finished off with a laugh. "The name was obtained quite literally. Even the Circle of Envy doesn’t know, and he’s their guy.”
***
The Facetaker presents: A Most Dangerous Game
This line, large and stylized in red, was seared in the topmost corner of Tei Brawo’s vision. She sprinted, her heart pumping hard in her chest, spasming, muscles working as hard as they could, her legs a combusting blur coated with volcanic veins. All around her, the woods grew thicker, branches sharper, the sky above darker, blacker. A mist was sweeping in, and sounds cried out from all angles.
She could hear the voices of her companions, still screaming, louder and louder. The path grew uneven, swampy in one second, then jagged stone the next. She slashed with her blade of flame, trying to cut her way through this dense midnight hell. But she was lost, and had been lost for the past half hour.
At some point, Tei ran dry of tears. At some point, her dream was starting to abandon her, and exhaustion crept in. She had been a fool to attempt this challenge, this latest offering of the Black Theater. She had convinced her friends as well—recent knights who had passed through the Hearted Realm, arriving under sponsorship of the Circle of Pride.
Then came a whistle—a sharp, shrill whistle that silenced all the noise. Tei's heart reached a pace that became truly unbearable. She thought it was going to burst at any time. Her arrogance was running low, and something inside her gave.
"Stop! Stop! Let me out! Out!" she screamed.
She cleaved out with her blade, and jets of fire slashed through the woods, severing trees at their base. But as they fell, more briars, branches, and twisted vines erupted from that which was cleaved. The forest that trapped her grew denser and denser.
"Tei!"
She heard a voice.
"Tei!"
It was even louder now. She knew that voice.
"Wilson!" she cried out loud.
"Tei, yeah! I found a way out. Come here!"
She abandoned all other thoughts, her focus solely on locating Wilson. He'd found her way out. There was hope. She could survive. She barreled forward, using the remainder of her Arrogance and empowering herself with Pyrodancer's Charge. A detonation of fire sprayed out around her. The wood burned. All that reached out for her was combusted and turned to ash.
She didn’t know how long she sprinted, and it didn’t matter what was in her path. She had a way out. She had a way out. She had a way out. She was going to make it. She was—
She burst through an unexpected clearing, only to tumble down a hill, rolling, her back smashing against pointed stones sharp enough to draw blood, even from one with a Constitution as high as hers. Tei screamed out as she bounced, the ground zooming towards her, slamming into her face over and over.
She continued falling until her collarbone was caught and pried open by something sharp. A final hoarse scream erupted from her throat as she went limp, kicking, suspended in midair. It took a few seconds for her senses to return, and for her body to begin healing, but as she lifted her head, she found herself trapped in a net of needle-sharp briars. Across from her, separated by a roaring stream of midnight black, were her three friends—Wilson, Mara, and Connor.
All their bodies lay before her, their faces taken…taken by her hunter.
Between two massive trees, they came, the mists parting to reveal their shadowed presence. A long, flaking coat made of treated human skin—of orc skin, of elf skin—flapped behind them, and their skull was adorned with a mask of stolen faces, stitched together visages all forever sealed in an eternal scream.
"No, no, please," Tei whimpered. "Please, no, please."
"You accepted." When the Facetaker spoke, so too did all their victims—the ones on his coat, the ones he wore as a mask. "You accepted," he repeated, and he reached out for her. The woods closed in, sharp, jagged trees burrowing into the sides of her skull. Tei screamed, and screamed, and screamed.
And so concludes our show…
A cheering could be heard, and as the mist dissipated, she found herself lying on a stage. Her own face danced like the flapping pages of a script caught in the wind, held in the hands of the tall nightmarish figure that was the Facetaker. They bowed, and bowed, as waves of black roses said from the audience in the unseen dark below…
***
Wei blinked rapidly as the scene came to an end. "What was that?" he asked.
"That is a live-play from the Black Theater," Bishop explained. "You can set up almost anything there. A lot of these plays are interactive, so, uh, you’re sure to find some interesting art pieces here. Not all of them are that messed up. Not all of them are that lethal. But they're all pretty... unique."
"A way of saying it," John Doe added. "Interesting. Demented. Those are others."
"Boring," Mills said, yawning. "Regardless, the next figure might be more interesting to you." Mills smiled. "I'd be interested to see how you'd deal with him. The Gainsmaster."
"The what?" Wei asked.
“Yeah,” Bishop grinned. “Sloth’s got some silly folk with them.
***
The Gainsmaster hated running. He hated lifting. He hated fitness. He hated it. He hated every second of it.
However, if he didn’t do it, he was going to die. His body would literally digest itself from the inside out. Such was the cost of gaining this Legendary Class Specialization. He thought it was going to be beneficial. He thought it was going to help him. Instead, it turned him into a giant metabolistic singularity.
And so it was that the Gainsmaster found himself running through the Base again, desperate to gain a few more days of life. The bastard Counts refused to help him; said he was doing fine and that he should just embrace things. But how! He didn’t want to be here! Just last, he was eating food on his couch and watching his favorite Law and Order. Now, he had to exercise constantly—or he would fucking die! He was breathing hard, wheezing. His speed and mass blurred as he shot through trenches, over battle lines, up the walls of fortresses, faster than bullets could ever approach him.
Everyone he passed by suffered inversely. Their legs gave out. Their muscles shriveled. They grew intensely fat, ridiculously fat. Several immediately developed diabetes and promptly suffered heart attacks. A few more keeled over dead from sudden strokes as well.
And through it all, the Gainsmaster kept running, and running, and running. He couldn’t stop. Because if he did, his heart would finally pop, and he would lose all his gains again. He couldn’t do that. Could never live with that. He needed a new class. He needed to level up. He needed to do something—something.
This was why he was doing this. This was why he was always running around down here. This was why he was always working out. Because the Counts, they promised. They promised he would be on Earth. They promised they would take him there, and they would fix his problems. They promised. They promised. They promised!
***
Wei watched as the blur continued running, eyes narrowed as countless hundreds fell, bodies withering as he passed nearby them.
"So," Wei said, "his exertions caused an inverse effect in others?"
"Yeah, you can say that," Bishop nodded.
"I see," Wei said. There were some very strange Class Specializations in the claimed hells.
"Trust me, kid, specializations—they get much weirder," Nils answered. Fittingly, his specialization was Terrible Surgeon. "However, the next individual you might need to deal with is a character—someone you could potentially pacify without needing violence. Though do be mindful of her charisma and her soirées. We've lost a few agents to those." Nils frowned.
"Soirées?"
"Yes. Marie Antoinette is quite the party planner. Free cake for everybody!"
***
"Let cake eat us!" Marie Antoinette declared.
Screams erupted from the massive crowds gathered in her parlor. She fanned herself, watching her guests desperately swing and unleash their Skills—only to fall before the endless onslaught of carnivorous dairy. Poor fools. Poor fools, all. They thought she intended an apology. No. They offended her by not vacating the entire Groove for her and her entourage. Why, she learned her lesson in the past life—one must not let the peasantry get too many ideas. It was an indignity to die, and a greater one to be rendered as a Marquis. Not even a queen anymore.
But she could climb. She could rise again. She just needed to be… thorough about things this time. Throw the best parties possible…
A snarl pulled her attention to the cake in front of her. It was a delectable little dear born of her Skill—made from chocolate, layered with the fluffiest bread, whitened with cream, sparkled with candies, glazed with honey, capped with three strawberries, and scented with perfume. All this was already a splendor for the eyes, but it also had its own teeth—a dog-like maw that snarled and snapped at her.
“Oh, why, hello, dear. What might be the matter? Hm? You wish to be eaten? Well… Very well, then.”
Without hesitation, she plucked the cake off the table and placed it within her mandibles. Ah. Delicious. So delicious she simply needed to share this with her world again. She heard the whispers—was positively giddy! Soon! Soon, she would get to go home again! To France! To take back what was rightfully hers.
And after that, well, the peasants needed to be taught a most humanitarian lesson.
***
Wei just looked on. He didn’t have the words for this. Things were getting stranger and stranger.
"Speaking of food," Bishop interrupted, "the next guy belongs to the Circle of Gluttony. Yeah, pretty similar deal, except..."
***
"It FUCKING RAW!" the Gourmet roared.
He slammed the skull of his assistant chef into the building-sized slab of raw-red ribs one time, two times, three. The assistant chef cried out, wept for mercy, but the Gourmet had none to give.
"Not raw," he snarled. "Leviathan ribs need more flame. Throw more kindling!”
As he continued brutalizing the fool of an assistant, the others knew their place. A collective yell of “Yes, Chef!” shook the very foundations of the world, and more Demons of Wrath were cast into the enormous grill beneath the titanic creature.
“As for you,” the Gourmet said, looking at the assistant. Their head was pulp. They were dead. He ripped a tendon free and bit, savoring the flavor. “Well. Elves always taste good.”
***
Wei’s speechlessness grew.
"So, kind of like a more psychotic Gordon Ramsay," Bishop began to rub the bridge of his nose.
"Bishop, the boy has no idea what you’re referencing,” John Doe said.
"He will," Bishop said. "Not right now, but he will. I'm just giving him a primer." He grinned at Wei.
Wei blinked several times in quick succession. He hated this place so very, very much. "Can I see my next challenger?" He was already planning to kill the Gourmet. There was nothing to do about this. He didn’t want anyone like that near him—or alive, for that matter.
"Best for last," Nils said. "Death’s Bastard. Once an aspiring candidate for the Circle of Wrath, he was stolen by the Circle of Lust. Through terrible suffering and... less-than-savory means, the Death Bastard had been bound to serve his Circle. He’s also a foe you’re least likely to prevail against in a direct fight." Nils' eyes twinkled. "Which is why I expect you to face him first. And potentially recruit him."
Wei cocked his head at that. Nils had presented himself as an amoral, indifferent character thus far. Among most of the challengers, there hadn’t been a direct order from the Lodge to save them. Not until now.
Wei narrowed his eyes. "What do you want with him?"
"Nothing particular," Nils said. "Just… he has potential to be more than a slave. And, frankly, I find his biology most fascinating…”
"A slave," Wei repeated.
***
The taste of blood. The feeling of enchanted alloy peeling easy as flesh. Screams. Cheers. And the moon. A song of a cursed moon howled within the Bastard.
“Brother! Brother, enough! Enough! Come back! Come back to me, brother!”
Death’s Bastard knew not when the wolf took hold, only that he was swallowing mounds of flesh, that his body was coated deep and red with blood, that a hundred other Classed had faced him in a duel, and the same hundred lay in scattered pieces across the Blood Grounds. The corpse of a giant orc was shrinking, its innards already mutilated into paste by the Bastard. His breaths came ragged and fast within his helmet, and his massive greatsword forged from a piece of the same cursed moon that empowered him sang in quieting sync.
Mourning was his sword’s name. Mourning, because it trapped those it killed, used them to nourish his sister’s sealed spirit. “Brother… it is enough. Let the wolf go. It is enough. It is done.”
Those final words jolted Death’s Bastard back to his senses. The red cleared from his eyes, and the weight of his Lust-Forged armor filled him with unsurpassed euphoria. All around him, down from the vast coliseum, in what felt like every corner of existence, he heard the cheers—and despised them.
"Bastard, Bastard, Bastard."
They were calling his name. No, his title. He didn’t have a name anymore. That had been taken. Lost to him. And this love he felt from them, this adoration they flooded the atmosphere with, he didn’t want it. It made him sick. It made him want to throw up. But it also empowered him.
His Class cleaved between Lust and Wrath, drawing succor from Passion. His blade, with his sister’s soul bound to it, nursed off sorrow and death. And so it was that he found himself murdering those who didn’t deserve it in the Bloodgrounds.
The slaughter was done. The spectacle was achieved. His master would be proud. With calculated ease, she arranged a terrible bet to settle an insult against one of her rivals. One of hers against 100 of theirs. All Knight-Tiers. Nothing more. By her will did the Bastard partake in this nightmare, and by her side was his love—Aerea.
Looking around the massive coliseum decorated in colorful silks, the stands filled with fornicating and mating bodies, drunken revelers, and at the very highest point, looking down at him from a special viewing box, the Bastard lifted his blade in salute to his master. And she smiled.
Veiled by shadow, the Collectoress of Tongues sat upon a throne of ivory. Chains ran out from her body, snaking around the ground, connecting eight love-slaves to her station of power. Some were boys. Some were girls. Some were twisted to be something either both or not at all. And among them was Aerea—her womb swollen with child, her skin pale, her pale hair thinning. She stood at the back of the chamber, fanning the Collectress, but her eyes darted toward the Bastard over and over.
He held his salute, but his chest thundered with a war drum of rising rage. Once more, the cursed moon sang, and the wolf shifted beneath his flesh. “I’m going to kill her. I’m going to kill her with my—”
“Peace, brother,” his sister sang from within his blade. She remained his secret—something that only he knew, and never revealed. “You must find the right moment. You must. We know nothing of this place and now the rules work here. But in time, there will come a moment. Do not condemn your love and child to death. Do not fail them. As you did me. As you did mother.”
Shame was the only thing that quieted the wolf anymore. And so the Bastard held his salute. And so he watched his Significance climb, reaching 9,310,031,144 points, and placing him among the top ten contenders for the war to come.
His might. His wrath. And his master’s desire. And his Aerea—his unborn spawn.
Damn it. Damn it all.
Comments
dethrothes
TYFTC!
