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Post by Cali on Feb 25, 2016 2:55:18 GMT 1
"Want to know the secret to magic? Any bastard can do it. Period." - UnknownBurma 1976 Clipper sat in the clearing, listening to the wind howl above around him in the clear midday sky, and looking at the katana on the ground, as well as the three people he had butchered with it. His shins and hands were caked in blood, none of which was his. The voices from behind him went through one ear and out the other. “Clipper!” One of them yelled. Before the three corpses had the threads and synapses of life torn from their coils, they had tried to kill him. Two were toting automatic weapons, while one was carrying a mean looking jian sword. It did not ease his conscious to satisfactory levels, however. “Hey, Clipper!” Goldfly yelled, the sounds of crunching leaves closing in on him. “Clipper I brought help! I brought help Clip-” This was followed by the sound of his friend groaning after tripping on a treeroot. “Clipper!” Piped a voice, lined and paneled with an obvious, but clear Japanese accent. “He's alright. Looks that way, at least.” The approaching formed a half circle around him and the area, keeping clear of the bodies. “I... uh...” Clipper cleared his throat. “I uh... did this.” The Japanese man stepped forward, his face chiseled and lined with a thick beard that looked as if had been trimmed and pasted from a black bear. He examined the corpses, two of them in olive drab uniforms and sporting tigerstripe boonie hats, accessorized with ammunition and utility belts, both of them sporting Beretta M12 submachineguns. One of them had a clean stab wound through his chest cavity while the other had half of his head severed from the jaw. The last was a man in an ocean blue tang suit and trousers, a blond haired white man, not asian looking in any way in contrast with his attire. All were wearing steel toed boots, however. “Oh, Christ.” Goldfly wretched, looking at the blond man's bowls sticking out of his belly and slumping over his hip and onto the jungle floor. “Gonna be sick, GONNA BE-” The rest of his linear sentence was aurally sapped by a mixture of his footsteps and increasing distance as he ran the other way. “This was mostly likely luck. Damned good luck, but you did it well.” The Japanese man patted him on the back, his large hand startling Clipper as it hit his shoulder. Clipper stood up, facing the large man as he lumbered toward the ground, picking up his blood wettened katana and handed it to the young man. “Tell me... Clipper.” The massive man replied, his voice and eyes laced with raw intrigue. “Where did you learn to fight with this?” Clipper cleared his throat. “I was always told you weren't taught how to fight with it.” He replied. “I was always just taught to kill people with it." "Smartass huh?" "Nope..." The shrugged, looking down at the trio of stiffs. "Just reciting dear old dad's wisdom. Can we get the fuck out of here, now?" ( Intro Song) Cali Presents LOGOS: Crust of Mayhem Written by Jimmy "Cali" Phillips and Alexander M. Conner Inspired by a Story by: Michael Chang Gummelt and Jon Zuk
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Post by Cali on Feb 25, 2016 11:04:49 GMT 1
ADVISORY: This story contains large amounts of profanity, use of racial and sexual slurs, and blasphemous dialogue throughout.
Chapter I – Both Sides, Now
Less Than an Hour Earlier...
The teenaged chatter behind Rodrigo was getting viciously out of hand. “SHUT THE FUCK UP!” He finally broke the truce with himself to not scold the new students. “You monkeys haven't been able to keep your goddamned traps shut the entire flight! I've got a fucking headache and there ain't no aspirin on board, keep it down!” He clunked back in his chair. “Jesus, shit.”
Most of the young magi stared at the cargo plane crewman as he sat and massaged his face with his hands. One such mage was one who went by the handle of Goldfly, who was probably the most obnoxious of them all. Though he certainly had shut up by then.
He looked to the man next to him, who had been sleeping for quite some time but was now awake, probably due to Rodrigo screaming at them. “What's up?” Goldfly extended his hand. “I go by Goldfly, what's yours?”
The other mage in the passenger seat next to him yawned. “What time is it?”
“Uh...” Goldfly looked at his wristwatch. “It's uh... six PM... what the hell? We just had breakfast!”
“You reset that thing, lately?”
“Oh... right. It's still on eastern time.” He nervously chuckled, slightly embarrassed. “So... got a name? Your uh... tower name that is.”
The other mage smiled. “Call me Clipper.” They shook hands.
Clipper was a short Korean-American mage with short banged hair, a square jaw, a wide mouth, and eyebrows that were nigh near nonexistent, which altogether would make him look rather silly if he were to be angered or irritated. He wore an orange Adidas tracksuit and a pair of faded grey converse sneakers. Goldfly on the other hand was a bearded, lanky Italian-American New Yorker with owlish eyes, and hair reminiscent of Al Pacino's titular character in Serpico. He wore a denim jacket and a pair of black slacks and steel toed hiking boots.
“Nice to meet you, Clipper. I'm Goldfly.” He nodded his head. “Where are you from?”
“Wingates.” Clipper replied, and felt the hairs on his neck perk up as somebody behind him stood up.
“Wingates, as in Virginia?” Inquired a voice, with a city-boy black man's drawl. “Get outta town. Everybody else on board seems to be from some other country or from the west coast.”
“Heh, good to see a fellow Winger. I'm Clipper.” He shook the black man's hand, who had a rather impressive afro, and an Iggy and the Stooges T-shirt and faded bell bottom jeans.
“Smokeburn.” He firmed his grip with a smile. “What part of the 'Gates you from man?”
“A crappy little apartment in Randolph Park. At least it had a decent view, with the Mercer Tower and all.” He replied with a hint of nostalgia.
“Ah, I'm from the Anglican Quarter.” He replied. “No surprise. For an anglocentric name, that neighborhood is the Harlem of the Chesapeake Bay, man.”
“I'm from Queens.” Goldfly grinned, looking toward the two other men, who glared at him, almost sympathetically.
“You poor dago bastard.” Smokeburn shook his head.
“Isn't New Jersey more interesting than that Borough?” Came Clipper's equally snide remark.
“Hey, Queens isn't boring!” Goldfly replied. “And don't call me that, you moolie prick.”
“Oh damn.” Smokeburn chuckled. “Wop-ass is breaking out the fatherland lingo.”
“Leave him alone, Smoke.” He shook his head.
“Nah, man. I wanna know how dirty this New Yorker is.” He giggled with a mischievous, shit eating grin.
“New York's very interesting!” Came Goldfly's inevitable defense, which everyone was already tiring of the argument.
“Yeah, Manhattan maybe.” The Wingater replied, tapping his fingers on the top of the seats. “The rest of Long Island is about as exciting as as riding a fishing boat on dramamine.”
“Oh come on man, I bet you haven't even been to-”
“I SAID SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU INSUFFERABLE PIPSQUEAKS!” Rodrigo screeched at the summit of his nicotine scarred lungs. “WE'RE ALMOST AT THE MONESTARY! HOLD OFF A BIT LONGER! JESUS AUTOFELLATING CHRIST!”
“The mouth on that motherfucker...” Smokeburn whispered.
“I heard that you jigaboo fuck!” Rodgrigo stepped up, exchanging sneers with Smokeburn. “If you don't shut the fu-”
An interruption occurred abruptly. The good news was, it stopped the argument and any beef the two had forever. The bad news was that one of the planes engines was engulfed in flames.
“Engine fire on the port side!” Rodgrigo shouted, running toward the cockpit before it burst open, startling him and making him fall backward on his rear.
“I know!” The plane's co-pilot shrieked, the plane jolting and causing her shoulder to mash into the ingress of the cockpit cabin. “Everybody in your seats! Buckle up!”
The Airbus A300's port engine exploded in flames, nearly shredding the left wing off the fuselage as it screeched closer to the ground, its speed slowing as it roared into an abandoned rice paddy, hitting the ground harder than the pilots intended. It rolled over at least once, the water in the rice paddy thankfully extinguishing most of the flames.
By the time the crash had come to its climax, at least two thirds of those on board were out like Snow White, a portion of them having at least a few broken bones.
The lights were out in the interior, a few panicked shouts and groaning being some of the only audible sounds.
“Oh God, my knee! It hurts! Help!” A Turkish passenger screamed.
“My back! Ah, shit, it feels like I was used as an accordian!” A British man groaned.
“My nails! I broke all my goddamned nails!” Came the voice of a Swedish girl.
“Are you serious lady?!” Clipper screamed, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Haha, just kidding!” She smiled, showing a mirror sheen toothy grin. “My nails are all intact, but I feel like I rolled my ankle a million times.”
Clipper did not have the mental capacity to comprehend or breakdown the logical holocaust he had just heard, so he decided to go the big man's route and unbuckle his seatbelt, grabbing a trinket from over his seat and hobbling his way toward Goldfly. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I'm good!” He groaned. “What the fuck? This is the second plane crash I've been in!”
“Come on. Up you go.” He hoisted the gangly Italian up, heading toward the exit which was conveniently torn asunder and wide open.
As they stepped into the light of the Burmese countryside, the inevitable reaction came up.
“Whoa, is that a goddamned samurai sword?” Goldfly asked.
He looked down at his katana, which was holstered at his belt. “Uh yeah. It is. It's a samurai sword.”
“Far out...?”
The pilot ran out of the plane, his shoes squishing in the rice paddy water as he loaded a flare into the orion signal pistol, aiming toward the sky and pulling the trigger. A ball of sparks jetted into the sky, the minature parachute deploying and drifting gracefully toward the ground.
Rodrigo stepped out, clutching a bloody bludgeon wound in his head. “Good work, captain.”
“Thanks.” The pilot replied, sheepishly.
“How far are we from the monestary?” Clipper inquired.
“I wouldn't be shooting off a flare if we weren't close.” The skipper replied, adjusting his tie. “Everybody sit tight and help me check on the students.”
“Sit tight. AND help you check on the students?” Rodgrigo asked. “Is this some sort of avant garde form of activity you've threaded together.”
“Rodrigo, shut your faggot mouth for once.” He sighed.
“Look up there!” Goldfly pointed up to a cliff, seeing three men in green clothing on the edge. “Hey! Over here!”
“Hey kid, chill out for a moment.” Rodrigo requested, looking worriedly at them.
Goldfly ignored it completely and even stepped up. “Over here! Help us out!”
The trio of olive clad responded by unleashing fully automatic gunfire in their general direction. The pilot was shot through the head, killing him instantly, and Rodrigo caught a hollow point bullet in the shin.
“Get your heads down!” Clipper screamed, falling forward into the wet rice paddy and crawling forward, Goldfly squeaking in terror and following suit, a bullet passing just over his shoulder as he dove for lower ground.
The gunfire continued, Rodrigo groaning behind them. “Son of a biiitch. Son of a biiiiiitch.”
Goldfly was hyperventilating, but slowly attempted to calm himself. He looked behind him, and saw a holstered sidearm the pilot had near his breast. He reached his hand out, his mind reciting Latin as the holster unsnapped and the gun floated toward his hand, grasping it by the barrel. “Magic, man!”
“While you got that, you wanna hunker them down a bit?” Clipper asked, laying on his side and grasping the hilt of his sheathed katana.
“What do you mean?”
“Shoot at them and hunker them dow-” Clipper winced as a volley of 9mm hollow point rounds peppered the ground between them in a straight line. “What they're doing now! Do to them!”
“Right, right!” Goldfly inspected the revolver, a Smith & Wesson Model 19, checking and seeing it had a full cylinder. “Okay, okay.” He sighed, taking aim in their general direction, then fired.
“FUCK THIS THING IS LOUD!” Goldfly shrieked, grasping his pained wrist after the kick of the .357 magnum cartridge caught him unprepared.
“No shit skippy! It's a gun!” Clipper sighed. “Keep at them! I'm going in!”
“What?!”
“I'm going in!”
“I can't hear you!” Goldfly's ears were ringing.
“Just shoot at them some more! Fucking hell!” Clipper shot up, sprinting towards the edge of the cliff as Goldfly let loose shot after shot. As Goldfly's shots battered the ground at the cliff, the trio of olive drab gunmen hunkered down, clamoring over one another briefly like the Three Stooges trying to enter a crawlspace.
Goldfly ran toward the mantle as the three agitators reloaded their weapons. “You okay?” He asked Clipper, who wheezed and replied with a thumbs-up gesture.
One of the shooters peeked his grisly head out, a caucasian man, grizzled and his face painted in tiger stripes. Goldfly raised his pistol and fired, the man's head snapping back, and his boonie hat flying off, the string chin guard keeping it from flying away in the wind. An acorn shaped hole was blasted through his forehead, just above his right eye.
Just then, the lady co-pilot, after seeing the exterior damage done, unholstered her .38 special revolver and began blasting toward their general direction.
“Root! He's dead! Carmichael is dead!”
“Shit's gone tits up! Let's get the fuck out of here!”
The two voices were distinctly of the Australian accent, if one could not tell by their slang. The pitter patter of cochran boots on grass sounded, leaving their dead comrade bleeding on the cliff.
“Whoa.” Goldfly stared up at the lifeless Aussie's reddened face.
Clipper was climbing a reasonably curved section of the small cliff, more of a ledge at this area. “Come on, Goldfly let's get after them!” He shouted as he climbed up.
“I uh! Okay!” He followed suit, being hoisted up by the Korean.
“Hey you two, come back!” The A300's co-pilot shouted, lowering her revolver. “Ah, Master Quarry is going to nail by asscheeks to the monastery door.”
It was a few minutes later that they tracked them to a large clearing. They crawled toward them silently, doing the smart thing, as far as idiotic teenaged combat tactics went, and swung around to a point where the two remaining thugs would least expect them to approach from.
“There they are.” Clipper whispered.
“Maybe you should take care of this.” Goldfly spoke.
“You're the one with the gun, idiot.”
“Six shots. I'm out of bullets, man.”
“Son of a bitch, you didn't bother to bring the captian's speedloader?”
“Kind of a hard thing to do when fuckers are shooting at you.”
“Okay quiet down.” Clipper shushed him. “Listen, go for help. Quietly.”
“But where?”
The track suit adorned kid looked back at him. “Anywhere. Now get.”
“You're just gonna...” Goldfly stammered, looking at the katana.
Clipper stared at him for a few good seconds. “What choice do I have?”
Around fifteen minutes later, the others stood in the clearing, the dead olive drabbed gunmen and the sword brandishing man lying dead on the floor.
“By all rights, you should have waited for us.” A bald caucasian man with a voice reminiscent of satan and wearing a flak jacket and jeans spoke. “Can't really encourage this type of thing, no matter how well you did.”
“Forgive me, sir.”
“Don't talk to me. Talk to the Jap.” He pointed at the lumbering Japanese man behind him, wearing a brown leather jacket, polyester fingerless gloves, cochran hiking boots, and biege traveling pants.
“Call me Supēdo.” The bear-like man replied, spitting onto the ground to his side. “I'm an advanced combat instructor. And you've already graduated to my class, kid.”
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Post by Cali on Feb 26, 2016 1:19:54 GMT 1
Chapter II - Hooked on a Feeling
Secretariat counted several round coins, made from hard alchemical paste and sporting emerald jewels in the center ring. “That's your payment. Plus hazard.” His cavernous voice spoke.
It was a hot day in the center of the monastery, the hills extraordinarily green beyond.
“You kidding me?” Minstrel, the co-pilot of the A300 lamented. “Our plane is totaled. Our second officer got shot in the leg, while our captain got his brains...” She sighed. “Look, do we even know who those four fuckers were, and if they had something to do with downing my goddamned plane?”
“It's very likely that they did.” Came a voice from behind, hints of Cantonese in the accent. “Why, and who they were remains to be seen.”
They looked behind them. “Master Quarry.” Secretariat greeted with a head bow. Quarry wore a white tang suit, an older looking man with a short mustache and short braided hair, as well as a myriad of strange lapel pins adorning his chest.
“Master.” Minstrel approached him. “You have to tell me what's going on, one of my crew is dead and I want answers.”
“Minstrel, patience is a dire necessity for dilemma such as this.” Quarry replied, one hand out while the other was behind his back. “Please, you and your surviving crew must stay here until it is safe.”
“I know I'm not going anywhere dammit.” She paced about, nervously looking toward the midday sky in anxious contemplation. “Somebody shot in arrow in our ass and I want to find out who's name is on the shaft.”
“Looks like Minstrel is...” A feminine, Swedish giggle chimed in. “...menstruating.”
“Show some fucking respect, you little squareheaded brat!” She brought her hand back and stepped toward the teenaged Swede, who merely retorted with a mischievous grin.
“Enough, we shall discipline her later.” Secretariat yawned.
“For now, I would like to see the young man who cut down Flatland and his entourage.” The master spoke, looking toward Clipper, who was nursing Smokeburn's busted nose.
“Whoa.” Smokeburn spoke, nasally. “That's... that's Quarry!”
“He run things around here?” Clipper replied.
“You serious, motherfucker?” Smoke scoffed. “That guy's a legend.”
“I haven't really dug too deep into mage culture.” Clipper admitted.
“Looks like he wants to see you.” Kirbacucu, the Turkish mage warned, his fractured knee nursed with both a splint and a small dosage of opiates.
“Guess I better go talk to him.” Clipper stood up and made his way toward the master, who stood like a perfectly erect straw in a messy pile of hay. He was unnerved by the way the master stared at him, looking down from his chin.
“Um... Master?” He bowed his head.
“Your name is Clipper, yes?” Quarry inquired, his voice having a faint lisp.
“Yes, sir.” He nodded.
“Come with me Clipper.” He turned around and headed toward the inner monastery, a large gilded pagoda.
The interior was something that not just everyone would see everyday. Apart from the massive tea collections in the foyer, coupled the walls being adorned with weapons from nearly all civilizations and times, there was the massive globe in the middle of the room. It was floating but a few feet above the red slate tile, and most certainly was not a globe made from any terrestrial material or metal, due to the shimmering glow and the way it span. There were also the details, such as the cloud formations and lights of individual cities, particularly in the New York area of North America.
“Keep going.” Supedo slapped him on the shoulder and pointed to the direction of the room Quarry stepped into. Admittedly, Clipper was very much in awe of the projection, very likely magical in the center of the room.
He stepped in one of the smaller rooms, a room for meditation which was rife with a galaxy of different types of incense, none burning at that moment however.
“Flatland. We need details.” Quarry spoke, as Supedo slid the door shut behind him.
“Flat... land?” Clipper inquired.
“The man you killed.”
“Er... which one?”
“The blond guy in the blue tunic you unseamed from the navel to the lower ribs.” Supedo shot in.
“Oh...” Clipper grimaced briefly at the memory. “What details do you need?”
Quarry turned around, looking out the window, listening to the wind chimes at the exterior and looking forth at the birdbath in the rear courtyard. “Just one for now.” He places his fingers together. “How long did the battle occur between you?”
The Korean teen sighed, remaining silent for a small moment, recollections of a grisly duel not being the most pleasant thing to think of, especially since it was no more than a few hours prior.
“A few minutes...” Clipper explained. “It was tough.”
“And you got out unscathed.” Supedo added, the Japanese giant's arms crossed as he leaned back into the sturdy sliding door.
“This is true. We neither found nor sensed any physical trauma.” The master turned his torso to face Clipper, then his body as he stepped to the youngster's side.
“I got lucky.” Clipper replied. “Very... lucky. He was good, but I bested him.”
The two remained silent for long moment, Supedo's eyes shifting between the youngster and the master.
Quarry smiled. “I see.” The old master stepped back and head toward the door. “Well, join your friends and report to instructor Benedictine. You've a prosperous future in our fold.” He turned and faced him, twiddling his fingers and smiled, the door opening suddenly, no one looking to have touched it. “We'll speak of this incident in the future. For now, your training begins.”
Clipper gulped, the nodded. “Th-thank you master Quarry.” Supedo stepped out of the way as his Korean underling walked out. They followed him enough through the foyer to see him disappear into the crowd outside.
The glow of the skylights, as well as the shimmering globe projection cast an eerie light on both of them, who quizzically looked at one another. “You think what he says is true?” Supedo asked.
“Supedo...” Quarry chuckled. “You know as well as I do that there is no way that child could have defeated Flatland in a toe to toe battle. Those mercenaries, maybe. But Flatland himself? Not realistic.”
“Yes.” Supedo replied. “Something's definitely amiss. What do you think Flatland was doing here in Burma?”
“I have more than one likely theory.” Quarry's baggy eyes looked to his Japanese lieutenant and back to the enterance. “It's also very likely he had something to do with the attempted murder of my new students. Whether or not he directly destroyed the aircraft they were on is unclear.”
“So what now?” The Japanese mage asked.
“Keep a close eye on Clipper. His newfound friends too, if need be.” Quarry stepped back toward the meditation room. “Springfold and I will investigate the recent matters. Your job is to stick to training Clipper and the other advanced students.”
“Hai masuta.” Supedo replied in his native language.
Clipper was in a line of the newly enrolled, approaching an outer area of the monestary. Most of them were carrying large crates, which required two, even three students at a time to carry them.
“Bring 'em up, class.” Benedictine spoke, a West German woman with an athletic build and shoulder length hair not unlike Olivia Newton John's, albeit charcoal brown rather than platinum blond. She wore a stereotypical safari outfit and aviator sunglasses with silver rims.
“Fuck.” Goldfly gasped, putting all his way in hauling one of the wooden crates, while the Swedish student, Bölzlschiessen wheezed as she helped him with it.
“Stop with the profanity, Goldfly. Not good in a learning environment.” The instructor replied.
“What do you have in here? Space shuttle components?” Another student complained.
“We have a low turnout since many of our students were injured. Means we have less people to carry them, now hustle up now. Builds character.” Benedictine drawled. “Aaaaand set them down.”
A crescendo of sighs sounded, some of them falling on their backs, one of the students nearly vomited from overexertion. Goldfly sat up, looking at some fixed target dummies in a short distance. “Whoa. Can't believe I didn't notice those.”
“Open up the crates, class. Schnell.” Benedictine ordered, grasping a few crowbars and passing them around. “Under the lids, pry those nails loose.”
After a few moments of toying around and ripping the lids off, he leaned in, seeing quite a bit of what appeared to be pasta noodle packets and coffee cylinders. “So... uh, we're having a picnic, right?” Bolzlschiessen asked.
“Open the packets.” She said, handing them a new set of tools, box cutters.
After the second layer was opened, they both looked down with a myriad of abnormal emotions and expressions. Some shock, some excitement, some horror.
Clipper removed one of the items within, a blued steel automatic pistol with checkered grips, inspecting it and reading “Browning Arms Company” on the side of it.
“Uh...” Goldfly began, inspecting his weapon; an IMI Uzi. “What do we... what do we do here? I thought this was a religious monastery.”
Benedictine nodded. “It is. Why wouldn't it be?” She spoke. “Now everyone step to the range, you will learn safety and trigger discipline before we get to target shooting. Come on now, before lunch starts! Schnell!”
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Post by Cali on Feb 26, 2016 5:59:15 GMT 1
Chapter III - TV Eye
Toulouse, France Six Weeks Later
“Everybody take your seats, the briefings about to start.” The Englishman spoke, adjusting his rounded spectacles, and pointed at the billboard where he was standing, a myriad of people sporting around. They were dressed in black suits, with white shirts and white ties, pins bearing a silver flag on their lapels, as well as a few multicolored, military style ribbons on their chest boards.
The Englishman stood in front of the corkboard bearing various papers and photos strewn together. “My name is Knight-Colonel Wicket, I will be in charge of this investigative operation. You all are knights of the Silver Banner, tried and true, from what I hear. This will be my er...” He thought for a moment. “...fourth day holding office as Knight-Colonel.”
“Sir, if I may intervene.” A banner knight with darker skin raised his hand, his accent distinctly Persian. “In cloistered locations we can refer to one another by our birthnames. Especially when there's little to no chance of security breach.”
“Right you are.” Wicket cleared his throat. “You can call me Knight-Colonel Lewis Ripley.” He turned to the corkboard within the dark labyrinth, almost like a world war two era executive bunker.
“Operation St. Justus, gentlemen. Please break the seal on your mission dossiers and review the contents inside, please.” He pointed at a photograph of numerous young men and women, all carrying firearms and looking towards a camera. “The photos you see are the men and women in the Children of Qing, also known as Children of Mayhem by other magi.
“They're a militant cult and Mahayana sutras schism. They're not an immediate threat to the banner or its sibling guilds, however they are in direct violation of the Treaty of 1850, therefore it falls onto us to dish out justice accordingly.” Ripley told them.
One of the other banner knights, a frenchman leaned forward. “These... kids attacked Tower Mold guilds?”
“Yes they did. Look on page four of your dossiers.” Ripley told them. “Six members of the House of the Fire Lotus were killed less than a year ago by gunshots and a car bomb a few miles outside of Nagoya, Japan.”
Some indistinct murmering was heard from the crowd as they looked through the dossiers. Ripley continued, pointing at a cluster of photos. “The primary officers and founders of the cult are here, turn to page eight in your dossiers, please. Thank you.” He pointed to a muscular bald caucasian man. “This is Secretariat, birthname Damien Lestrange. Born 1938 in Cherbourg, France, and director of treasury.
“Over here.” He pointed to a woman in a Silver Banner uniform. “Who used to be one of ours, is Benedictine, birthname Doris Hoefler, born 1922 in Riedelbach, Germany. Director of Supply and Engineering. Big file on her, for obvious reasons.” He pointed to another man, a blurred photo of what appeared to be an oafish asian man. “This mound of meat is known as Supedo, first and surname unknown, born 1823 in Morioka, Japan. Director of Operations. Old guy, but doesn't look it.” He then pointed to a shifty looking, slightly obese man, another blurred photo, as if the photographer phoned it in. “This is Springfold, name and birthdate unknown. All that we know is that he's a Canadian national and is the director of security, and probably espionage.”
He then pointed upwards, looking back at the other knights. “And lastly, the cheddar cheese.” He tapped a photo of an oriental man in a bright tang suit, standing among others and not in the center of the photograph. The only thing identifying him was a circle drawn around his head. “Master Quarry. Everything about him is more or less a riddle fastened inside a secret, but we do know he leads the cult.”
“They recruit as young as sixteen, huh?” An Irish knight scoffed while reading the dossier.
“They don't call this a children's cult for nothing.” An American knight chimed in. “Where do they recruit all these brats?”
“And um...” One of the other knights, another Englishman by the sounds of him. “Who's the chap near the bottom of the board?”
Ripley felt a brief, uncomfortable warmth shoot down his spine, trying not to sweat in embarassment. He looked down to the photo. “Um... that's Nikolay Cherkasov.”
“He part of the cult?” The Iranian man inquired.
“No, he's an actor, ain't he?” The Irishman asked. “What's he got to do with this?”
“Nothing...” Ripley sighed, looking at the photo of Cherkasov as the titular historical figure in the film Alexander Nevsky. “I forgot to take this off for some reason. I just really like this film he was in.”
A concerto of snorts and snickers were heard from the knights. “Um...” Ripley stammered. “Turn to page twelve in your dossiers, please.”
After the briefing was over, Knight-Colonel Ripley had grown weary putting everything away in meticulously neat order. His fat fingers grasped the doorknob out, going into the exterior hallway and up the steps in a contemplative mania.
In front of him, a secret door slid open, which led to the Catholic Church's currently abandoned “cry room”, which functioned as the secret enterance for Silver Banner members as well. The door opened in a circular sawtooth fashion, almost like a sphincter, which left a few members a bit unappetized when they passed through.
He cast the entry spell again once that he was on the other side, heading from the nursery, through the carpeted lobby, and toward the sanctuary, rows of benches facing the visage of the pastor's podium, and more importantly, a sculped visage of Christ crucified.
He picked a far away bench, sitting down and crossing himself accordingly as he put his hands together. “Enjoying your time as a knight-colonel?” A man with a French accent, that sounded like wet cotton and gravel mixed together within his vocal chords.
“Forgive me, Paladin Greico. I'm currently praying.”
“For what, may I ask?” Greico sat down beside him, grasping a gold plated flask full of bitter Kentucky bourbon and taking a sip after unscrewing it.
“I'm praying for-” Ripley's perephrial vision caught the visage of the vessel he drank from, but he himself decided it would be best if ignored. “I'm praying for the people involved in the Qing Cult.”
“Well if you are.” The paladin screwed the lid back on the tip before setting it back in his breast pocket. “Then that's good. But I'd warrant you're praying for yourself.”
“Respectfully, I beg your pardon, Paladin Greico.”
“A knight-colonel who was recently appointed has a lot of responsibility. Some say it only gets better once you reach captain... wasn't for me.” The old paladin chuckled. “It's okay to be a little selfish in these times, especially when commissioned by the Lord Hisself in one of His finest orders.”
Ripley snorted softly, standing up and adjusting his tie, followed by his cuffs. “I thank you, lord paladin. Would you like me to drive you back home?”
Greico hissed, his eyes shut in anticipation of his crackling bone joints as he was stepping up, which certainly delivered. “Sure, colonel. I tire of the sleeper taxis sometimes.”
They went out into the parking lot, entering in their respective sides, the driver still not used to getting in the left door of the car. They entered the interior of the black painted 1971 Pontiac Lemans, sighing as they hit the leather seats, each door shutting simoltaniously.
Ripley started the ignition. “There something you want to tell me about the cult, Phillip? Because I'm sure all the paladins know about it. Hell, most knights do, too.” He pulled out of the parking lot, pulling up towards the thoroughfare as he awaited an unexpected midnight traffic to pass.
“Well, colonel.” Greico cleared his throat. “Where is there to start?”
Ripley turned his car in the appropriate direction, remembering to be on the right side of the road, in contrast to his native environment. “You want to talk to me about the Alexander Nevsky portrait don't you?”
“I know about that, but was is there to talk about.” Greico laughed. “I like that movie, too.”
Ripley stared at him for a long moment, not looking towards the road for quite a while. After turning his head back, he shook his head. “Then why are you laughing.”
“Oh dear, colonel.” The paladin groaned, taking out his flask and drinking from it again.
“Sir, I understand that it's in the middle of the night, but someone of your stature should consider keeping your head clear until you get to your quarters.” Ripley put his hand out, nudgling the outer side of his palm into the steering wheel in a crude gesture to make his point.
“I know, child.” Greico groaned. “You were always a good friend, if not a good squaddie.”
Another long silence loomed in the vehicle, Ripley driving them well out of way of the inner city and toward the outskirts. “I know there's something you want to tell me.” The knight-colonel said, his mouth contorted inward in a wincing pucker.
“Alright.” Greico sat up, facing him. “You have to know, the Triumvent seems to agree that the children's cult is a bit of a bit of a neccessary evil.”
“Aw, HELL!” Ripley was rather angry, pounding on the steering wheel and causing the horn to beep once into the lonely night.
“Calm yourself. Lord have mercy.” The paladin leaned back and sighed, shaking his head. “Many of the guild members they have killed were grotesquely vile and corrupt. The guilds themselves do not deny any allegations, and would have tried them if need be.”
“So... why didn't they try them?” The colonel sighed with a twitchy shrug.
“You know why...”
“Right. Guild politics.” Ripley sighed once more, his tense posture softening. “A neccessity I suppose.”
“You just passed my home, by the way.” Greico informed him. Ripley blinked once.
“Oh, right.” He said, after making an illegal U-turn. After easing into the driveway, the paladin nodded in thanks.
“Please try to have a good night, Ripley.” He nodded. “And trust me, things will go the way you want them to, eventually.”
“It may not be something I'd wish for right now.” Ripley added, reluctantly sharing optimism. “But it'll get there.”
“Peace, Knowledge, Justice.” They both said, bowing their heads toward one another. Greico shut the door, and waved as his subordinate back out of the driveway, the latter waving back.
It was not too soon until the knight-colonel was back on the highway. He nervously cleared his throat, yet again, even though there was not a molecule of phlegm within his gullet.
“If it were easy, everybody would be a knight-colonel.” He said to himself, faintly giggling, but noticing how corny the sentence was.
“...dammit.” He switched on the radio. Blaring, American rock blaring with lawnmower guitars responding.
“ALL ABOUT THAT PERSONALITY CRISIS YOU GOT IT WHILE IT WAS HOT!”
“But now, FRUSTRATION. HEARTACHE'S ALL YOU GOT!” The colonel screeched, singing along to the radio, his foot easing the pedal down further as the vehicle began to speed forth into the night.
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Post by Cali on Feb 29, 2016 7:21:18 GMT 1
Chapter IV – Kashmir (Part 1)
Clipper stood on the star. His feet were sizzling, almost ready to crack open and bleed as the souls of his shoes charred off. However, he felt no pain, nor would he. He grasped his katana firmly, leaping to another star, this one hotter.
He stared into the infinite void of space, knowing very well that death awaited every living thing. He then leaped further onto another star, then toward a higher one, mantling and causing the skin on his hands to boil off as he pulled himself up. He heard a hissing noise behind him, singing softly into the vacuum.
“Guten Abend, gute Nacht, mit Rosen bedacht, mit Näglein besteckt, schlupf unter die Deck:”
He looked behind him, form and void of the woman behind him leaping after him. A legion of hellhounds were behind her, letting out barks that sounded like a hybrid of bullhorns and screaming souls, their feet like claws, their eyes like a horsefly's, and their mouths like a blackened and charred skull's teeth. They were all closing in on him.
As the woman, her arms covered in blood up to her elbows tilted her head, her face abherrated and deformed beyond description, and her teeth like rusted metal, blood seeping from the spaces between them like an old sewer grate. She continued to sing.
“Morgen früh, wenn Gott will, wirst du wieder geweckt, morgen früh, wenn Gott will, wirst du wieder geweckt.”
She leaped onto the same star as him, the hellhounds lagging behind. He unsheathed his katana, swiping it down on her neck. It bounced off and wiggled, rubbery.
She smiled, her expression most likely would have turned a daffodil to shrink back into the earth. “My turn.” He whispered.
She simply pushed him off, Clipper falling down into the dark void, the groans of the hellhounds becoming ever more distant, until everything was black and utterly silent, all except for three bloodied men in olive drab uniforms, as well as a blond man in a blue tang suit, all falling with him, staring at him like dead trouts as they were suspended in the void upside down.
***
“Wake up.” Supedo nudged Clipper, who was viciously startled in return, sitting straight up in the top bunk he was in and fumbling for an object to bash his superior with.
“Relax, relax.” The Japanese half-giant assuaged him.
“Sorry, sorry.” Clipper yawned. “Nightmare.”
“Yep. It happens.” Supedo stood up. “Now get up. You'll have breakfast in my plane.”
“The fuck is going on, master Supedo?”
“Language, fucker.” He slapped Clipper on the back of the neck. “Get up. Here the students learn things by doing them. We have a lot to do once we get to our destination.”
Clipper leaped out of bed, Goldfly rolling over and snoring in the bunk below him as the former put on the khakis he wore the day before. “Where are we going...?”
“Saudi Arabia.”
Clipper stopped fastening his pants a short while, staring at his superior. “What?”
***
Supedo eased the control tiller to right, banking starboard in the fierce draft. “For a clear day, it's pretty damned windy!” The Japan man griped. The twin engined Piper PA-31T “Cheyenne” shook in the wind as it was coming at it from the left.
“So we're turning around?!” Clipper sat in the co-pilots seat, a horrendously confused look on his face.
“Yes!” Supedo yelled over the heavy plane ambiance. “But not for the reason you think!”
“How's that?!”
“You see that shitty looking yacht down there?” Supedo pointed. “Chimney!”
“A Chimney's on that thing?”
“No! Chimney's a man! A space mage! He'll open a teleportation field and we'll fly through it!”
“Is that even safe, Master Supedo?!”
“Firstly, just call me Supedo for shit's sake! No more “master” nonsense. Secondly, of course it is, this guy's been doing this for seven years!” He stopped banking the Piper, and eased on the throttle, picking up the radio receiver. “Private channel to Green Angel.”
“Who's there?” Immediately came a voice from the other end, very much carrying a South Vietnamese accent.
“Baka! It's me Chimney, now open up something up for us!”
“Oh right. One way ticket to Saudi Arabia, coming right up!”
“Much appreciated, Green Angel. Piper out.” He hung up the reciever, a large circular void with a shimmering orange ring forming in the center of the air. He descended a bit to level the field of direction.
The Piper passed straight through the field, and immediately darkness overtook them.
“Ah crap, I'm dead aren't I?” Clipper groaned.
“You fool.” Supedo replied, tapping a switch and causing a red light to envelope the area, and the controls to light up. “It's like... two AM here.” He clicked a few other switches at the top.
“Woah, we're already in Saudi?” The Korean-American mage scoffed in amazement. “I've never actually gone through a teleport before.”
“First time for everything.” Supedo smirked, raising the flaps as he prepared to land. “Good, he put me right where I wanted him to.”
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