TWBB Mafia Game 20: Those who Challenge Fate-ENDGAME-A Kingdom Worth Living For (Thread 1)

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Re: TWBB Mafia Game 20: Those who Challenge Fate-ENDGAME-A Kingdom Worth Living For (Thread 1)

Post  Eisenbeißer on Mon Jul 30, 2012 3:35 pm

I wanted to post this link the whole day, but Youtube is blocked by my company.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=36lSzUMBJnc

Hmm... I don't know that the demon would become a serial killer. Some thing is with the MB. So your argument is that Ansem could be a puppet?

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Re: TWBB Mafia Game 20: Those who Challenge Fate-ENDGAME-A Kingdom Worth Living For (Thread 1)

Post  JohnnyFarrar on Mon Jul 30, 2012 3:39 pm

1) The core of my accusation is that you remain one of the two unknowns on my list, the cop kill was just a bonus. But I agree that it was probably Relm that killed Sonix!.

2) The fact that you are still unknown means that you're still our best bet for a kill, whether you say there's an MB possibility or not.

3) Still no thoughts on Minby?

4) Hudson is a mason, your vote on him is wasted.

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Re: TWBB Mafia Game 20: Those who Challenge Fate-ENDGAME-A Kingdom Worth Living For (Thread 1)

Post  TheTJ on Mon Jul 30, 2012 3:40 pm

My arguement is that Ansem IS a puppet?

I mean, his only post this dayphase is "Oh hey guys, I have an idea, vote to kill me off!"

I know I said earlier I'd trust that, but I, like everyone else, had forgotten the MB.

EDIT: ninja'd

The problem is your list doesn't work. The coalition is still around, yes? Then who's the MB? Who's with the ELoE still? It's not airtight other than the fact you claimed for yourself and your teammates. If it were airtight then it'd include the MB and maybe the ELoE member.


Last edited by TheTJ on Mon Jul 30, 2012 3:44 pm; edited 1 time in total

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Re: TWBB Mafia Game 20: Those who Challenge Fate-ENDGAME-A Kingdom Worth Living For (Thread 1)

Post  Ansem on Mon Jul 30, 2012 3:43 pm

Unvote Eissen Vote: Minby

whoops.

Also, everyone questioning my motives is doing it wrong. Watch me nail this thing. I'm the only one who has a chance.

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Re: TWBB Mafia Game 20: Those who Challenge Fate-ENDGAME-A Kingdom Worth Living For (Thread 1)

Post  JohnnyFarrar on Mon Jul 30, 2012 3:47 pm

If Ansem is a puppet, it means he's not the MB. Which means he doesn't need to die and can be ignored. So, from my perspective, the pool of people that can even possibly be considered are you and Minby (obviously), Snake (EXTREMELY doubtful), and Eisen (possible, but unlikely since Camilla vouched).

It's not me, Av, or Hud. I know this. It's also not Camilla, I brought her back personally. It's obviously not relm and it's definitely not Ansem.

So, unless you're willing to vote yourself, Minby, Eisen (with decent reason), or Snake (with MINDBLOWING reason), I'm going to assume whatever you say is coming from an anti-town perspective.

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Re: TWBB Mafia Game 20: Those who Challenge Fate-ENDGAME-A Kingdom Worth Living For (Thread 1)

Post  Quaetam on Mon Jul 30, 2012 6:06 pm

Vote Tally:
Minby(4): Avalanche, Johnny, Ansem, Eisen
Sonix!(1): hudsonboy111
Eisen(2): SnakeInABox, Minby
Johnny(1): TheTJ

Yet to vote(1): Camilla

Champion Tally:
hudsonboy111(3): SnakeInABox, Camilla, TheTJ
Ansem(4): hudsonboy111, Avalanche, Ansem, Minby
TheTJ(2): Johnny, Eisen

Yet to Champion(0): None

3 hours and 53 minutesleft in the dayphase!


Last edited by Quaetam on Mon Jul 30, 2012 6:30 pm; edited 2 times in total

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Re: TWBB Mafia Game 20: Those who Challenge Fate-ENDGAME-A Kingdom Worth Living For (Thread 1)

Post  JohnnyFarrar on Mon Jul 30, 2012 6:28 pm

Q, Eisen's doing the same thing I am, voting minby and championing tj. He posted just a little after I revealed on pg. 62

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Re: TWBB Mafia Game 20: Those who Challenge Fate-ENDGAME-A Kingdom Worth Living For (Thread 1)

Post  Quaetam on Mon Jul 30, 2012 6:30 pm

Fixed, thanks.

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Re: TWBB Mafia Game 20: Those who Challenge Fate-ENDGAME-A Kingdom Worth Living For (Thread 1)

Post  Doctor Shulk on Mon Jul 30, 2012 6:32 pm

Welp, since I know for a fact Eisen is a townie along with me, I'm going to vote: Minby.

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Re: TWBB Mafia Game 20: Those who Challenge Fate-ENDGAME-A Kingdom Worth Living For (Thread 1)

Post  JohnnyFarrar on Mon Jul 30, 2012 6:34 pm

And champion TJ? I'll love you foreverrrrr

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Re: TWBB Mafia Game 20: Those who Challenge Fate-ENDGAME-A Kingdom Worth Living For (Thread 1)

Post  SnakeInABox on Mon Jul 30, 2012 7:41 pm

What the Fuck Ansem, no. You haven't done a scummy thing this game, having you champiuon yourself off would be a large hit at the town. Please don't be an idiot.

As confirmed as Hudson may or may not be, on account of Johnnys claiming all avalanchians, which is about as fair and nice as how I played game 5, he hasn't done a productive thing this game.

I highly suggest, if we have to champion one of these two obvious townspeople, we champion the one who wont be as much help further down the road.

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Re: TWBB Mafia Game 20: Those who Challenge Fate-ENDGAME-A Kingdom Worth Living For (Thread 1)

Post  JohnnyFarrar on Mon Jul 30, 2012 8:05 pm

Or we could champion TJ, an unknown, and potentially win right now.

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Re: TWBB Mafia Game 20: Those who Challenge Fate-ENDGAME-A Kingdom Worth Living For (Thread 1)

Post  SnakeInABox on Mon Jul 30, 2012 8:52 pm

Does no one also find it suspicious Ansem WANTS to sacrifice himself?

That can NOT be a good move, regardless of whether he is town or not.

Minby, please, I have a bad feeling about this.

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Re: TWBB Mafia Game 20: Those who Challenge Fate-ENDGAME-A Kingdom Worth Living For (Thread 1)

Post  TheTJ on Mon Jul 30, 2012 8:54 pm

Yeah, I was talking about that. Ansem is almost certainly a pawn right now.

I mean, makes sense, right?

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Re: TWBB Mafia Game 20: Those who Challenge Fate-ENDGAME-A Kingdom Worth Living For (Thread 1)

Post  SnakeInABox on Mon Jul 30, 2012 8:59 pm

Shut up TheTJ, I should really be on your ass right now. Your saving grace is the fact that New York has kept me too busy to sit down and play the past 24 hours, and this whole fucking Ansem trying to do whatever he is doing with this sacrifice bullshit has really fucked things up.

I don't need some coalition asshole backing me up right now. I just need to stop whatever Ansem could be planning.

Johnny, you played this entire phase like an idiot. I hope Hudson and Avalanche gave you permission to out them, otherwise I would nominate outing your team as the worst play of the game.

Avalanchia may be in control now, but just like the Coalition when they were in control, I can trust you as far as I can throw you.

You want to help the town, and take one for the team, then stop ansem and champion hudson. Due to timezones and activity, it is now too late to successfully pile onto TheTJ.

It however, isn't too late to stop Ansem from whatever move he's planning.

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Re: TWBB Mafia Game 20: Those who Challenge Fate-ENDGAME-A Kingdom Worth Living For (Thread 1)

Post  JohnnyFarrar on Mon Jul 30, 2012 9:54 pm

I'll only accept "worst play ever" if I was somehow wrong about TJ and Minby. If I'm right and just not enough people got on in a twelve hour period to, you know, win the game, then I'm not taking any shit.

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Re: TWBB Mafia Game 20: Those who Challenge Fate-ENDGAME-A Kingdom Worth Living For (Thread 1)

Post  SnakeInABox on Mon Jul 30, 2012 9:56 pm

Regardless, it isn't doable this phase.

And if Ansem takes on the demon for whatever secret reasons he has and fucks things up, it might not be doable next phase either.


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Re: TWBB Mafia Game 20: Those who Challenge Fate-ENDGAME-A Kingdom Worth Living For (Thread 1)

Post  Minby_Aran on Mon Jul 30, 2012 9:58 pm

So, looks like I'm dead. Oh Bother. Even when things look the most grim, though, as long as there is the faintest hope, the light may still shine through for a better future, and that is what I wish for all of you. Except Hudson. Unchamp:Ansem Champ:Hudson

So long, and thanks for all the fish. GG everybody.

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Re: TWBB Mafia Game 20: Those who Challenge Fate-ENDGAME-A Kingdom Worth Living For (Thread 1)

Post  Quaetam on Mon Jul 30, 2012 10:00 pm

Dayphase over. Shiftpost coming soon.

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Day 9 - The Eleventh Hour

Post  Quaetam on Wed Aug 01, 2012 3:19 pm

Morning ran indistinct into evening, and evening uncertainly into dusk, as the world was drowned out by the storm that consumed it. From high in the Bastion, two figures, granted light by the torches that illuminated the dining hall, looked out over the Kingdom in peril. The Tempest drowned their vision, obscuring whatever they could see amidst a torrent of rain; the water and the mist slowly blotting out the world, rendering all that lay below intangible, one with the void, as the city began to crumble beneath the demon’s might. All that lay below faded into the mist, into the shroud of despair, of agony, vanishing, to be seldom relit, reimagined by the streaks of green lightning that all-too-frequently cut across the sky. The world slowly dissolved into obscurity, intangibility, only to be rendered real, rendered tangible once more by the verdant flashes that pierced it.

The universe was falling apart at the seams, as the Preacher of the Coalition, once the voice of the new order, now one of the final remnants of the old, stood and watched. The storm had reached a fever pitch long ago, and only showed signs of increasing, just as they knew it would build atop itself, unremitting, until the world was brought unto its end. And all their conflict, all their struggles would be for nothing. All dreams of a new age, forgotten amidst the fog. All hope for a better world shattered, split by the merciless bolts of green as they rent the world asunder, tearing the heavens apart with each strike. The dream of the Coalition would be nothing more than a shadow, adrift from the world, vanished forevermore.

This could not come to pass. Queen Snake’s thoughts turned to the Fedaykin, the Usurper, vanished by the power of the demon that now stood atop the world, shredding reality by its power. He had been a man of greatness, a man of power beyond comprehension, a man whose words inspired a revolution, whose truths had lit Snake’s world, and shown her the path to righteousness amidst a city of corruption. He had been her light, he had been her beacon, just as he had been an inspiration to so many who sought a better world, so many who desired Utopia. He had brought together the four of the Coalition, and led them in seizing the great throne, in taking control of their destiny.

Now that man was dead, gone, vanished from the world. Now her light, her hope, had faded. He who had borne the Coalition out of the darkness was gone, and with him their cause had faded, their faith had died. The dream of Utopia, so close a mere two weeks ago, had faded, shattered by the storm and the revolution.

The Preacher shook her head, gazing down upon the ruined Square below, illuminated, borne out of the darkness by a flash of green. Ascendancy Square had once stood as the symbol of their power, the peak of their regime. Now it was in ruins, shattered like the Usurper’s dreams. The revolution had ravaged it, just as it had ravaged the rest of the world. The golden throne still stood, she noted in amusement, but now there was nobody to champion it, nobody to occupy it.

Their new age had died there, in the storm, in the last great battle for their vision. But the world? The world lived on, the people survived. The Usurper was dead, and the people had rejected them. The risen angels had fallen again, and now they were on the run. For now, the world was ending. Now, the demon stood atop the Bastion, atop the pinnacle of the Coalition’s creations, as if mocking them, slandering their great vision by his mere presence. They had sought to champion fate, to bring the world unto a better tomorrow, but here he stood despite it all, striking at destiny, ready to deliver fate itself unto oblivion. No. It didn’t matter anymore who was righteous.

Snake turned to the moderator that stood next to her, to Jeremy.

Here,” she said, unclasping the orange sheath that she held at her side, tossing it to him, “Take this.

Where are you going?” Jeremy asked.

To bring us hope.

There was no time for quarreling over a lost vision, over a world best left forgotten. For here, now, their world was ending. It was time to make her final play, in hope that they might all see another dawn, and the world may yet survive the final storm.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Those of the old order were not the only ones moving amidst the Bastion that evening. For a new King had been crowned amidst a dying world, as the Usurper was cast adrift, away in the void. The old era had been vanquished, and the new ushered in with the passing of the scepter, the transference of the crown. Many saw his coronation as an exercise in futility, as a gesture made in false hopes, in wishful thinking, that one day the Tempest may end, and the demon might spare their lives. Even the Avalanchians grew desperate as the hours ticked on, as the tremors shaking the Bastion, shaking their world, increased in intensity.

Now they stood at the eleventh hour, the clock one tick from midnight, the world on the edge of total darkness, the people tense, looking towards their ruler for salvation.

Now, all eyes were turned to the King of the New Kingdom.

Now, that King sat at the head of the great hall, lounging in a head chair, sipping wine delicately from a glass. Behind him, great windows, tough as steel, looked out into the fury of the storm, into the dying of the world, green lightning flaring, wind whipping at the fortress of the gods.

The King was calm, enjoying himself, as the world flashed with malevolent light, as the storm ravaged the Kingdom beneath it. He sat upon a makeshift throne, in a hall that housed thousands, refugees from the violence in Ascendancy Square, huddling together amidst the storm. He who held the crown, who had been named successor to the great King God Emperor, sipped his wine as the world ended around him. And the hall, the people, were alive with whispers, with fear. They looked to their ruler for help, for solace, but saw none in his crazed eyes. They looked to him for action, but he was still, silent, sipping his drink, looking off into space with a calm, regal smile, as behind him green lightning cut the world in two.

The door to the hall flew open, and heads turned to look, to gaze upon Luigi, brother of their hero, carrying in his hands a corpse so decimated it was barely recognizable. He walked up the aisle in the center of the hall, the people parting to give him passage, stumbling as the building shook from a tremor, from a blow of the Tempest. And as he continued, as he strode onwards through the hall of the refugees, many turned their heads away from the gory mess he carried. Others stood transfixed by the desecration. The King sat silent, continuing to sip his wine and stare unknowingly into space.

Luigi stopped at the head of the hall, dropping the corpse at his feet.

Professor Layton is-a dead,” he said, his voice calm, his eyes cold as he looked upon the King.

The King made no indication, no acknowledgment of Luigi’s words. Green lightning flared, thunder shook the Bastion, knocking most of the people to the ground.

Did you-a hear me?” Luigi said, “Layton is-a dead. He has-a been murdered.

The King turned an eye towards Luigi,

Justice….” he said, slowly, his words shaped by insanity, ruled by madness, “is a fickle thing. Sometimes the ones who try to solve the puzzles… find something they would rather have left hidden.

Silence. Luigi furrowed his brows, clenched his fists in frustration.

Do you-a know what we’re dealing with?” said Luigi, “Do you-a know what is going to happen to this a-place if we don’t-a move now?

All storms have their endings, it only takes time,” the King sighed, before his expression turned stern, cold, “And you would know better than to so flippantly address your betters, knave.

No” said Luigi, “This-a one won’t. It will build and a-build, unending. We will all-a die if we sit back and a-wait.

He’s right.

All eyes turned to the head of the hall, to the doors that stood open from Luigi’s entrance. There, still in her regal garb, hands raised to the sides, unarmed, stood Snake. Former Queen of Avalanchia. Preacher of the Coalition. Gasps ran through the crowd as she began to walk up the aisle, and she moved slowly, deliberately, to avoid being mobbed by the people she once ruled, the people she now stood helpless before. She kept her hands in the air as she walked precariously amidst a sea of hostility, of rage. She was the liar, the hypocrite. She was the voice of the Coalition’s deceit. She was the one whose words they had listened to, the one whose rhetoric had guided them into the abyss. And it was she for whom they held the utmost rage.

The Preacher?!?” shouted the King, eyes suddenly alight, aghast. He stood, letting his wine smash to the ground, and pointed a trembling finger at Queen Snake, “Seeeeeize her! KILL her!

The people rose, made to grab the Preacher, but she spoke,

Stop! I stand unarmed before you, at the eleventh hour, the world collapsing around us. Please, hear what I have to say, then you may do what you wish with me,

The King continued to scream for her blood, but the people, somehow, were still, unmoving, unsure. They saw her helpless before them, beseeching their ears, and they saw the King, enraged, crying out for blood. They saw the storm, ravaging the world, striking at the universe, as Luigi’s words of doom rose in their thoughts, and they listened. She turned to the King, even as he stood in his frenzy,

This storm is no ordinary one, and you know this as well as I,” the former Queen preached, “Before this war, before the revolution that has torn our Kingdom to shreds, our world was ravaged by the Tempest of the Void, the End of Days as so many have called it. Now that storm has returned. Now our world stands on the brink

The people were quiet, the King himself attending to her words, his rambling madness ended,

This Tempest IS the End of Days. The storm we face now will build, unending, until it tears our world apart. For it is not a product of nature, not the result of some weather fronts, some cataclysmic forces, but of a demon, something, someone whose power stretches beyond our understanding,” the Preacher spoke, left hand in a fist, right held out before her as if beckoning for the peoples’ aid, looking out over the gathered crowd, “You have all seen him. He is the one who damned the Usurper, who would have slain your hero as well. He is the one who heralds the lightning, the dark deity who wields the Tempest.

Luigi recalled the terror that stood atop the tower, the monster who pointed down onto the square, who summoned the vortex that had swallowed Fedaykin, had swallowed his brother. He recalled Olimar’s words, Ganon’s, warning him of the demon, of the end of days, and he felt the object in his right pocket, the one thing that he knew would give them hope, the one thing he knew could stop the monster. He nodded, and several around him noticed, and turned back towards the Preacher, listening closely.

We have had our differences. We have had our strife,” said the Preacher, “Your vision, and that of your late King Avalanche, is far different than ours, of the Coalition.

She looked back to the King, as lightning struck, as she again stumbled with the shaking of the Bastion,

We each have fought for our vision, against each other, against the world. We each have fought to bring about a new era of our own accord. We each have reached towards a lofty goal, be it the throne of heaven or the golden ages of the old Kingdom. We each have fought to challenge fate.

Her voice grew quiet, “But there is no time for that now. Maybe our vision, of the Coalition was a noble one. Maybe you, of Avalanchia, follow the righteous path. It doesn’t matter anymore. If we don’t stop him, now, there will be no future to aspire to. Let us put aside our differences, now, and fight together. Otherwise, there will be no new era. There will be no fate left to challenge.

For an instant all went still. Then the King laughed, shaking his head,

Insolence, innnsolence….” he cried, crazed fury in his eyes, “You speak mad things, insanity, degradation! I will not have you threaten MY Kingdom with your siren’s words. This world is mine, MINE! You have had your chance, and you have failed. You will not steal it away.

There was a crackling sound, and one of the other Avalanchians vanished, appearing again by the Preacher’s side. His arms were crossed, his burning gaze shielded by his shades, cape, its hem singed by the banstick of the executioner he had fought, hung behind him. Quaetman, Avalanchia’s own superhero, stood now beside the Preacher, his gaze intent upon the King. Lightning flashed again, the fortress shook with a blow more intense than any it had yet seen, knocking the majority of the people to the floor, and as they picked themselves up, the gazed upon the confrontation with gasps, shock prevalent in their eyes. Quaetman floated in the air beside one of his greatest foes. The hero stood against the King he had sworn he’d protect, alongside the Queen he’d sworn he would slay.

She is right, my Leige,” Quaetman declared, strength in his words, in his voice, “We have to stand this ground. This is your Kingdom… if we don’t rally together, if we don’t fight for it, it will all collapse. We have to work together; we need the Coalition.

The King turned towards the hero, enraged his eyes bulging in their sockets, “Heretic! Swine! You dare speak against me? Avalanche should have never allowed you to work with us. You are a traitor to our cause, and will meet an end fitting to your kind!

The Preacher, enraged, spoke up, “Your hero himself, champion of the righteous, has spoken up on my behalf, and you condemn him? I beseech you, for me, for him, for all of us…

She looked him in the eyes, with no anger, no malice in her gaze, “For Avalanche…

The King scowled, cried out, looked towards her with anger in his eyes, “You dare speak his name, filth? You dare evoke the name of the man you killed, the one you murdered, in coldest of bloods? You are unfit to live!

Reaching into his robes he drew a gun, a long-barreled, gold-played pistol, and shot the Preacher through the chest before she could react.

The Guardian was in shock, Quaetman crying out despite himself as he stood beside his former Queen, as she fell to her knees, struggled to keep herself conscious.

There will be no treason in my Kingdom,

After all her efforts, this would be how she ended. The noble Queen of Avalanchia, the great Preacher of the Coalition, shot dead on the floor of the Bastion by a madman, a lunatic, he who wore the crown that had once sat atop the head of the man she loved. This was what it had come to, after everything. A time of greatness, a noble era, drowned beneath a sea of insanity.

There will be no violence.

Unbidden, her thoughts turned slowly towards the Forsaken King, to he who she had once loved, he who had died by her hand. The Kingdom they had shared together was a flawed one; Avalanchia had been a broken land. Despite the splendor the Ministers and Royals lived under, despite the riches, the wealth, the debauchery, the people were afraid… not of ruthlessness, not of oppression, but of apathy, of having their lives toyed with in some great experiment, dispatched by falling knives, or in petty internal struggles. The Kingdom of Avalanchia, despite its fun, despite the happiness, had been one of greed, one of selfishness, and one of fear at the common level. She had known this in her heart, she had denied it.

There can only be peace, prosperity, and loyalty.

Then the nation had fallen, the King vanished, and she had found herself here in the Mushroom Kingdom. The world was in chaos, and her attempt to unite the remaining Avalanchian royals had ended in vain. The world had collapsed following Peach’s death, despite Snake’s attempts to save it, and Matt Mercer and the other higher-ups sat back and watched, worried for their own lives, and none other. It was disgusting, disheartening… It robbed her of all faith in the gods that be.

We will have order in the New Kingdom, no fear, no despair!


Yes, she had feared, she had despaired, and it was to Fedaykin she had turned, out of her disillusionment, out of her anger. It was he who saw the corruption in it all, he who fought valiantly for a better future. And it was he she followed, a light in the darkness.

But Avalanche’s words, his condemnation, struck at her in the twilight of their era. That it was he, Fedaykin, who had killed Peach. He, Fedaykin, who had brought the world into chaos. She had long accepted that his actions were for the betterment of the people, for the greater good, but what had truly come of their mission? What had ultimately come of their drive, their vision? The world stood on the brink of Armageddon; the Tempest tearing apart a land that already stood in ruins. If it had all been by his hand, perhaps her choice had been the wrong one, those months ago, to join Fedaykin and bring about the Coalition of Moderators, to champion the dawn of a new era they thought righteous. Perhaps she had been in error all this time, and the light she had followed was the wrong one. Perhaps whatever future the Coalition would have wrought was a damned one.

We will stand together, and brave the storm, or all fall miserable into the ashes!

The Bastion again shook as a brilliant web of green shot across the sky, visible behind the mad King as he stood, raving, at the head of the great hall. Maybe she had been in the wrong. But did it matter now? Did it matter, here, at the end of all things? She had lived their dream, she had been with Fedaykin through the new dawn, the golden sunrise, the birth of their age. She had stayed beside him as the Bastion was raised, as the new world was planned from within its halls. The Hall of the New Era had been the beacon of hope for the people of the Kingdom, whether they knew it or not.

And we will have NO dissent!

She had known his intent, had cared about him, had believed in him. And now he was dead, now the world had fallen to a madman. Whatever nobility Avalanche had once held was gone, by her own hand. Whoever held the throne now, it wouldn’t matter. Kill this madman and he would be replaced by another. Slay the mad King, and another would rise to take his place. The Avalanchians had no hope; with Avalanche himself gone, the Negotiator long dead, there was nobody left of noble intent to take his place.

Stay true to me!! I am your beacon! I am your light! Follow me, into the brighter future! Bow before me, for I am the rightful King!

Her eyes turned away from the mad King, who stood, raving, atop the pedestal, seeking life in the New Kingdom even as she saw it for what it really was. And she looked towards Mario, the man in red, he who had killed the Usurper. It was by his hand that this had come to be, by his hand that the Coalition had fallen, by his hand that the world had been driven into madness, and now was doomed to burn, shredded by the demon’s power! He had killed their final hope.

Queen Snake, light leaving her eyes, strength leaving her body, pulled from a hidden pocket a small handgun and raised it, pointed towards Mario, who stood at attention, anger in his eyes at the King’s corrupt words.

He was the one who had doomed the world!

She pulled the trigger once, twice!

BRO!

There were two gunshots and a thump, a loud crash of thunder resonating in the background, and everyone in the hall turned at the sound of the noise. Queen Snake slumped to the ground, life leaving her eyes, the Preacher of the Coalition leaving the world in despair, her final bid for peace, her final push for a brighter future, in vain.

Minby_Aran was lynched! He was Queen Snake, Preacher of the Coalition! Alignment: Coalition

“NO!”

Mario sat, head bowed, tears already in his eyes.

And there, draped across his lap, bleeding out onto the tiles below, was Luigi.

Bro… bro…” Mario cried, desperate, “Stay a-with me bro.

He reached into his pocket, searching for anything, a star, a mushroom, something to save him, but there was nothing. He turned back to Luigi, eyes widening, unable to accept what existed before his eyes.

M-mario…” Luigi said weakly, “There isn’t… a-time.

He reached into his pocket, drew an object… Through his hands glowed an array of colors as he handed it to Mario.

Takeit and-a go,” Luigi said, “Stop the demon. A-Do it for a-me… do it for a-Peach…

And Luigi collapsed, eyes closed, drifting out of consciousness. Mario clutched the object tight in his hand, nearly breaking it as rage and bitter regret coursed through every aspect of his body.

No… NOO!” he cried, tears flowing as he screamed toward the heavens, even as the Bastion shook with ever-increasing blows, with the power of the demon, “Somebody a-help him!

Green lightning flared again, and there was a crack, as from the air beside the despairing Mario, Quaetman emerged, solidified. The look on the hero’s face was one of sorrow, gazing down at the heroes of the people, at the man who had done so much to save them… the one who had defeated the Usurper and allowed for change. He shot a look back at the King, who stood, proud, shortspear cackling with light, at the top of the hall, then returned to the Mario Brothers.

Here, give me the weapon” he said, extending his hand. Mario looked towards him, and handed off the object he’d been given by Luigi, “I will fight the demon.

No!” cried Mario, “We a-need you here.

But Quaetman shook his head, “I cannot stay. The King has condemned me in his madness. You, however… you carry the hopes of the people.

The hero rose to his full height, “Stay here, take care of him, of them. I must go onward. I may be the hero this Kingdom deserves, but I’m not the one it needs. I will ensure the dawn rises… You are the one who must lead the people to it.

Quaetman vanished in a crack of light.

Hudsonboy111 has gone to challenge the Ascendant Demon! He is Quaetman, the Superhero. Alignment: Avalanchia

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Re: TWBB Mafia Game 20: Those who Challenge Fate-ENDGAME-A Kingdom Worth Living For (Thread 1)

Post  JohnnyFarrar on Sat Aug 04, 2012 10:08 pm

elephant

(Because I haven't forgot this game.... get it?)

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Re: TWBB Mafia Game 20: Those who Challenge Fate-ENDGAME-A Kingdom Worth Living For (Thread 1)

Post  Doctor Shulk on Sat Aug 04, 2012 10:13 pm

Dude, Q's just about to finish his post, shut the fuck up. :U

Also nighttime, shhhhhh. /hypocritcal

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N9 Part 1-Futility

Post  Quaetam on Sun Aug 05, 2012 5:23 am

All was silent save the storm.

The Kingdom was collapsing, as blow by blow, the Tempest shook the world at its foundation, slashing bolts of green fire through the sky, each strike rending reality asunder as it cut a swath through the fabric of the universe. The noble Mushroom Kingdom, marred by warfare, slandered by oppression, only recently freed, crumbled now before the might of the Tempest of the Void. And the world, below, began to fade, the darkness of the storm, of the fog, itself giving way to something deeper, something more irascible. The void rose through the mist, and into its depths the Kingdom decayed.

And high above the mist, high above the fading city, at the apex of it all, atop the Bastion, a god stood, crystalline blade held aloft, green light searing skyward, piercing the heavens. There, the storm his weapon, the Tempest his power, tearing apart the universe through its fury, stood Relmitos, his gaze raking across the world, watching as it died by his hand. And, behind him, cape swirling in the wind, nearly blinded by the sunglasses he always wore, stood Quaetman.

The hero stepped forward, and the demon smiled.

Welcome, Quaetman,” he said, his words calm, eerily quiet, as if spoken from the void itself, “To the end of your world.

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Thunder roared through the world, through the Bastion, lightning flaring outside the great window. The fortress shook, immeasurable strain wracking its foundations as the storm began to tear at the Kingdom. Outside the Tempest roared, razor winds and deadly rain lashing at the walls of the Bastion, at the Kingdom that lay beyond. The miasma rose from the abyss, slowly dissolving the city into its gaping maw, rendering all of reality uncertain beneath its dark shroud. The outside was one of chaos, of entropy, fury beyond reckoning, ravaged by the demon who now faced the hero atop the great fortress.

Inside, however, all was still.

The hall was quiet, the people in disbelief, as among them, their greatest hero knelt, pain wracking his being, sorrow resplendent on his face. Mario, on his knees, head turned toward the ground, clenched his fists as he looked upon the still-bleeding body of his brother.

Images flashed before his eyes, scenes of the life they had shared. They were the Super Mario Brothers, always together, fighting side by side. Together they had faced Bowser, countless times, refuting his bid for the Kingdom, his bid for their Princess. Together they had helped to build this great city, piecing together the scattered Kingdom. They had been the beacon the people had aspired to: The great heroes, defenders of justice, champions of the people. And, in that age, the age of heroes, the world had been a good one, a valiant one. The causes fought for were ones of justice, of righteousness.

But the Cannibal had struck, leaving the dying Dreamland to rampage through the Kingdom. And although he was caught, although the Mario Brothers had succeeded in bringing him to justice, the world was never the same. For the innocence, the naïve hope and optimism the Kingdom had long sheltered… it had died there with Daisy, with the countless others slain by the Butcher. The golden age died, all illusions of grandeur shattered in the carnage. And the Kingdom fell into decay. The mafias had risen from nothing, and begun to vie for control of the Kingdom. The police, the law enforcement… they had become near-meaningless, unable to hold back the four mobs, and nothing but Peach and the threat of the other Dons prevented each of the mobs from taking the city.

Then the world had shaken beneath the quakes, the Avalanchians had arrived, and Peach had died. In her wake, everything descended into war. Had it been the Usurper who had truly killed her? It didn’t matter. From that war, the Coalition had risen from nothing, promising hope, promising change, promising Utopia. And the time for heroes was over. Mario had found himself unwanted, a relic of an old time, no longer looked up to by the people. He had been useless, unable to save Peach, unable to save the Kingdom. He had fallen into despair. He had subsisted for months, silent, unable to awaken from the stupor that had taken hold, drowning in liquor and misery. He had truly become useless, truly become worthless.

He looked at his brother’s hat, still untouched where it had fallen on the ground beside him.

Luigi had been the bigger man. Luigi had been the hero, the one who had kept them alive, kept him alive. He had been the only one to keep fighting in this dismal world. He had been the one to keep their hope alive, the one to keep Mario alive.

Mario owed him his life, and now he lay there, bleeding out into the tiles.

Mario took off his own hat, the red cap, labeled with his trademark M, stitched for him years ago. It was the hat of Player One, the hat of the man who had saved the Kingdom countless times. And it had been surpassed. Slowly, deliberately, he moved his hat to the ground, and reached for Luigi’s, bringing it up to his head, donning it.

I a-hope I can live up to you… little bro,” said Mario, green hat atop his head. He picked up Luigi, then turned to the people behind him, refusing to give up.

Someone a-take him!” he shouted, his voice cracking, holding tears back behind his iron grit, “Get a-him to a hospital!

A shrill voice cut through the gloom, superimposed by a pall of thunder, a cackle of lightning,

Do nothing!” cried the King, raving, eyes bulging, “LEEEEAVE him! He is to be made example of! None can stand before me, for I and I alone am the true KIIING of this LAAAND!

And Mario, setting his brother’s body on the floor, turned, slowly, rage in his eyes, towards the Avalanchians where they stood at the head of the hall. For six months, they had suffered under the Coalition, under the four Guardians who called themselves gods, the four who had wounded the world by their hubris, by their selfish, corrupt madness. For six months the people had slept, subsisted, allowed their rulers to step on their spirits, squash their freedoms through a flawed belief in a new age. When the Avalanchian flag flew at the clearing of the first storm, when the world came alive, the revolutionaries had been, to the people, their saviors, the ones who would free them from the grip of the gods.

Now, gazing upon the Mad King, he saw only dirt. Madness. Insanity. Corruption. There stood a lunatic, a crazy, atop the throne of the world, calm as it all slowly collapsed around him. He was the one they called King, the one who was supposed to rebuild their world, rebuild their hope.

Lightning flared, thunder roared, the Bastion shook with the force of a deep quake, vibrating with immeasurable intensity, as Mario, Luigi’s cap on his head, gazed with hatred upon the man who called himself their ruler. Avalanchia had seemed their salvation, had seemed the light that shone through the dark times under the Coalition. They had appeared a noble, just regime, and their ruler a valiant king. But now he could see their true colors: Whatever nobility the King had once held had died with him. This man, their new monarch, was nothing but a madman, a murderer.

This man had struck down their last hope, and brought his brother to the brink of oblivion.

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Inside, a hero rose, anger in his heart, sadness marring his being. Outside, another stood against the blackness, through the whirlwind that cut the universe apart, as the world burned around him.

The demon stood at the edge of the tallest tower, dark cloak blending with the darkness, energy lacing its folds, arcing around him. And behind him, glowing with a silver light, stood Quaetman. The hero, chosen of the people, stood facing the great demon, the harbinger of the abyss, the ascendant being who stood calmly on the edge of oblivion, balanced on the precipice. Below him the world shook, the storm savaging the Kingdom, as below the world began to dissolve, green lightning flaring, thunder crashing into the earth. The Tempest struck beyond the Kingdom, at the very fabric of reality itself, and Quaetman stood against the one who wielded it.

Welcome, Quaetman, to the end of your world,Relmitos said, smiling, as he faced out into the storm, “It is only fitting that you would be the one to join me now, here, atop the summit of it all, amidst the fall of your era. You who believe yourself a hero, who have carried with you the hopes of the people, will bear witness to the crumbling of it all, as the true worth of valor is laid bare before your eyes, and all descends into oblivion.

There is worth in our kind” said Quaetman, ”There is worth in humanity. Even now, the people have thrown off the shackles of their oppressors, and learned to fight again. This world has value, and I’ve come here to save it.

The demon grinned, turning to walk along the edge of the building, crystal blade dissolving into nothing as he released it. The storm continued to rage, continued to build, unperturbed, lashing out at the damned existence it had been unleashed upon. Quaetman stood fifteen yards away, towards the center of the rooftop, hands glowing with light, eyes alight with determination and latent, controlled fury. He had seen the misery of the people, he had fought for their survival, and now he stood against the void, against the paradigm of the abyss, the avatar of oblivion. And the demon paced, slowly, around the edges of the great tower, the god stood atop the fortress built by angels, his gaze calm, knowing.

Valiant words, yet spoken in futility,” said the god, said the demon, lightning cackling around him; green energy coursing through his features “Even now, the people fall to another oppressor. The shackles of the old have been thrown aside, only to be replaced by the chains of the new. There is no true righteousness anymore. The nobility of your cause is but an illusion, a lie built upon the ashes of crumbling dreams.

Perhaps,” said Quaetman, “For I too have seen the madness in the King’s eyes. But it matters not who the people follow, for they are the ones for whom I fight, not their leaders. If he who holds the crown is corrupt, they will cast him aside. If the regent of this Kingdom is mad, they will reclaim it for themselves. They are the ones in whom I believe, the ones with whom the future lies. They are the ones who will champion the fate of this Kingdom, and shape destiny by their hands, whatever the cost.

And the demon stopped. Lightning flared behind him as he turned to face the hero, thunder roared as the Bastion shook. Relmitos gazed upon Quaetman. A deadly mist rising around him, swirling about his form as energy laced the air between the two opponents. His eyes glowed with inevitability, with oblivion, with power unimaginable.

Your efforts are in vain. Your words, without meaning,” said the ascendant, “For destiny cannot be shaped by the hands of mere men; the world cannot be championed by mortals.

The demon raised his hand, mist gathering around it, malevolent, green light flaring, and Quaetman could feel the entire rooftop begin to shake lightly as energy built around his foe, around he who would bring about the end of days, and throw the world into darkness.

There will be no future to lead. There will be no fate to champion. This battle has been mine before it began.

But Quaetman shook his head, even as power built within the demon’s form.

No,” he said, hand raising slowly towards his glasses, “This world will survive. The future will be heralded by those who fight for it, not cast into oblivion, not burned away in the fires of the abyss!

The hero removed his shades, tossing them aside, and the rooftop was lit with a flash of white, burning light.

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The silence grew taunt, thin, as Mario’s eyes burned holes in the Mad King, who stood, aloof, proud, at the head of the hall. The refugees were on their feet, bracing themselves against the fury of the Tempest, aghast at the scene before them: The Mad King ordering that Luigi be left for dead, declaring his supremacy over his subjects, ignoring the pleas of the Preacher that they work together. And Mario himself stood at their head, fists clenched, fire in his eyes.

You are-a not the rightful a-King!” cried Mario, tears still choking his words.

The King looked down his nose at Mario, snarl forming slowly on his lips.

No,” said Mario, shaking his head, “You’re no a-better than a-them. You stand a-there, and laugh as this Kingdom a-burns!

He pointed at Luigi’s body, “HE is a-down on those a-stones, because you put-a your pride above the people you rule! You’re a-worse than the Coalition! At least a-they could look past themselves when the world needs a-saving!

SILENCE!!” the Mad King cried, “You will submit to us! You will follow our order! *I* am your King, and none other! Do not question MY rule!

He turned to Link, who stood, alongside several policemen, at the edge of the hall,

SEIZE HIM!

Mario turned, glaring at the Hero of Time as Link walked towards him. The Hylian had so quickly shifted loyalties, from that of the Coalition to the New Kingdom, doing what was needed to survive, lacking the backbone necessary to stand up for his rights. Link’s eyes were hard, cold, as they had been all these long months. He walked across the hall, drawing the Master Sword, the people parting before him, and stood before Mario.

Can’t you-a see what is a-happening here?” Mario started, “What is a-

But Link raised a hand, cut him off, and turned to face the Avalanchians, shaking his head. Something had come alive in him, something that had long been missed, long been forgotten.

No,” he said, addressing the Mad King, “You underestimate the worth of heroes. Your depravity has left you unfit for the throne.

He raised his sword, as green lightning struck, as the Bastion shook around them, and Mario stepped forward, standing beside Link, rage coursing through his being. The Mad King scowled, pointing a shaking finger at the two heroes, the two who had awakened, who stood, united against him.

THEN I NAME YOU TRAITORS BOTH!” he screamed, “Ministerrrrrrrr! Get themmmmm!

As the King spluttered, his comrade raised a radio to his mouth, spoke a single word. All around the hall doors flew open, admitting entrance to an identical army. The clones’ expressions were set, calm, as they brandished their guns, drew their blades, as they bore everything from riot equipment to medieval armaments, and they surrounded the refugees. Thunder crashed, and the hall’s occupants were forced to brace themselves, maintain their balance.

I will have order in my Kingdom!” cried the Mad King, “Only thennnnnn can you have your freedom.

But Mario shook his head, anger in his gaze, tears gone now from his countenance, “ You are a-no King. You’re a madman. And this… THIS IS OUR KINGDOM!

With a loud cry, the refugees, having rid the world of the oppressive Coalition a mere day ago, rose now against the Avalanchians, against those who promised them change. The people grabbed their weapons, clashing with the clones, Link running, chasing the King’s henchman, and as the Mad King shouted for order once more, Mario drew his fist back and punched him in the face.

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The world was lit with the glow of Quaetman’s eyebeams, as the lasers seared through the storm, through the fog, through the darkness of the Tempest, striking at the demon, the monster, the god astride, he who wielded the void. The rain was burned away, sizzled, scorched by the sheer heat of Quaetman’s strike; the darkness of the storm itself seeming to recede from his light. Quaetman channeled his focus into his gaze, all his power into his vision… the hero poured his energy into the being that stood on the edge of the rooftop. For a full ten seconds he struck at Relmitos, his eyes his weapon, his determination the hand that wielded it. Something beyond the storm seemed to break, shattering at the force of the collision, and Quaetman pushed onwards with confidence, pouring his might into the attack as he felt something intrinsic begin to cave before his power.

“It is futile.”

Quaetman’s eyes widened. The white glow faded from the rooftop, rain at last beginning to reach the floor in the wake of the irascible heat. There, before the superhero, stood the demon, the god, his face without expression, his eyes focused on the mortal who sought his end.

He had not been touched.

His left hand was held outward, dark energy swirling around it, and, surrounded by a cage of green light, was a ball of pure white power, the concentrated entirety of Quaetman’s attack.

I am the falling of the stars. I am the burning of the skies

Effortlessly, the demon waved his hand, and the sphere of radiant white was shot off into the storm, exploding against the Kingdom in a massive dome of white, shaking the ground greater than any blow of thunder had yet. The glow dissipated, the storm rushing in to fill the gap, and all was still save the Tempest. The demon grinned, lowering his arm. Around him the storm gathered once more, wind and rain meshing with the mist that rose behind him to form a dark substance, corporeal, the void made manifest.

You may gather the sum of your might; you may bring together the pinnacle of your power. You may place your very soul on the line,” said Relmitos, “But you will never defeat me, for I have already won.

The demon threw his hand forward, and with a rushing sound, an explosion of power, the fury of the abyss struck out at the hero, the storm striking at the champion of the hearts of the people.

The winds of the Tempest, already carving their paths deeper into the Kingdom, shot forth, battering the hero across the rooftop before he could react. As Quaetman rose to his feet, tendrils of mist lashed out from behind the demon, who stood at the center of a swirling vortex of darkness, of chaos. The tendrils stabbed at Quaetman, surrounded him, intent on enveloping him, devouring him, and the hero made to teleport, but found something blocking his way out of the world. Thinking quickly he shot skyward, burning his way out of the mist with a brief eyebeam.

The hero floated above the rooftop, as the demon stood below, mist rising around him, the Tempest shaking the world, its fury ravaging the Kingdom. The winds struck at Quaetman, buffeting him about, and the hero glowed with a silver light as he fought against it, struggled with unremitting resolve against the power of the storm. He gazed at the demon below, scanning the rooftop with the mind of an experienced tactician, looking for any weakness in his opponent, any opening he could use, exploit, to launch some sort of attack.

But there was none; there was no weakness, no opening he could use! Relmitos, gaze skyward, flourished his hand, dark power running up his arm, surging forth, in the blink of an eye, at Quaetman.

The hero had no time to react as a sea of swirling green and black overwhelmed him, and there was a sound like shattering glass, a force exploding outward to strike at his being.

Miasma coursing through his veins, Quaetman fell from the sky, into the swirling darkness below.


Last edited by Quaetam on Mon Jun 10, 2013 7:45 am; edited 2 times in total

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N9 Part 2-The Heroes We're Supposed to Be

Post  Quaetam on Sun Aug 05, 2012 5:52 am

Throughout the massive hall, the refugees, the fighters, and the police, finally standing in favor of the people they were meant to protect, struggled against the clones, against the Avalanchians, those who had once been their saviors, now just another oppressive regime, another legion of the corrupt. The mindless replicas swarmed the people of the Kingdom, intent on keeping them at bay. The people fought on, overwhelming their foes, slashing out with swords, slinging about hammers, broken bottles, crowbars. A couple had grabbed guns off the Coalition’s men in the earlier brawl, and they brandished them now, firing into the clones, who, wave after wave, encroached upon them.

And at the center of it all, the Hero of Time charged forward, Master Sword brandished, towards the Avalanchian Minister where he stood at the back of the hall. Something had changed within him, the despair, the willingness to sit back and subside as the world decayed vanishing from his countenance, the hero of ages past rising to replace it. The Avalanchian shouted something into his radio, and a number of clones rushed the Hylian from the hallways.

Link raised his sword, gathering energy in its length, and cried out, spinning and slashing. Several clones’ bodies fell to the ground, others knocked back by a sudden burst of wind. And as the Avalanchian raised his radio again, Link slung his boomerang outward, knocking the walkie-talkie out of the Minister’s grip, sending it flying into a dark corner.

Link caught the boomerang, pocketed it, and raised the Master Sword with both hands, as his foe drew from his back a jade, roughly cut sword, its hilt bearing the head of a dragon. The blade glowed an eerie green, matching the lightning of the storm outside, and the two circled, as a thunderblast shook the battlefield.

The Avalanchian sneered, “You want to fight me, elf? You’re in over your head. Go back to your ruined Kingdom, to your lost people, and know your place!

Link’s eyes widened at the Minister’s words. Ever since the fall of Hyrule, he had sat back, content to simply live, disillusioned with all vestiges of heroism. And he had sold his soul to the devil; he had aligned himself with the Coalition with the fallen angels, knowing what oppression they brought unto the land, in full understanding of the malice, the deceptions nested in their regime. He knew the madness of the Usurper, knew the suffering the moderators would bring upon his people, upon the Natives. Yet rather than rise, rather than fight for justice, just as he had so many times before, he had allowed the Kingdom to fall into corrupt hands. He had taken the easy way out, and allowed the Coalition to sweep, unopposed into power.

Link gripped his sword tightly. No more would he simply subsist. No more would he allow his Kingdom to be controlled by foreign men, by those with malice, selfishness in their hearts. He had allowed one nation to fall, one Kingdom to collapse, but NOT AGAIN!

Crying out with a vengeful fury, Link leapt forward, Master Sword, the weapon that had saved Hyrule countless times, awake once more, clashing with the Avalanchian’s blade.

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Quaetman hit the ground hard, fast, with a force that would have been fatal to any normal man. The superhero rolled, tasting blood, mud staining his uniform, cape catching on a rock and tearing. He lay there for a minute, slowly struggling to his feet amidst the rain, hand on his stomach, feeling nearly ill. His vision swam around him as he tried to focus, struggled to get his bearings. He collapsed again, breathing heavily, stomach swirling, and fought to contain the rising sickness. All around him the storm continued to open up against the universe, the Tempest lashing out at reality, striking its verdant blows against all that existed. Gradually, the hero’s sight came into focus, and he rose to his feet amidst an alien landscape, took off from the ground to rise, shakily into the sky, and land atop a jagged precipice.

The square was pierced by stone spires, the surrounding buildings nothing more but rubble, ashes. And the air, against the storm, was filled with a feeling of madness, of violence so recently past. This place, wounded by warfare, had been stained with the irrevocable touch of darkness. This place knew death, for it was the site of their suffering, the apex of the Coalition’s power, of their oppression.

This was the remains of Ascendancy Square.

The bodies from the brawl the day before had faded into the mist, become one with the miasma, but the scent of blood remained, forever staining this place.

This is the result of ambition; this is the outcome of your struggles.

The demon’s voice rang out through the pall of the storm, thunder lending it an ominous tone. Lightning flared, a bolt of electricity forking through the sky, and in its radiance, it illuminated, perched atop a cragged spire, a pinnacle of rock rising out of the mist, the demon, Relmitos.

This is the thing you call justice! A blood-drenched square, built to house a golden throne upon which men call themselves gods, and pass judgment upon those they are meant to protect.

Relmitos raised his left hand, swirling the mist around him, and cut an arc through the air. The world shook, the storm searing through the darkness with a blaze of green, with a blast of thunder, and gathered around the demon that heralded it, striking out at Quaetman, tendrils of mist swirling about, jabbing towards the hero. The Tempest thundered with each blow struck at the peoples’ final hope, as if the world’s lifeblood was itself drained by the god’s attack.

And the superhero coiled his feet and launched, grim determination in his gaze as he leapt with inhuman speed from rock to rock, from jagged rubble to ruined cement, dodging each wave of green energy as they sliced through the sky between the two combatants. Again and again the demon lashed out with his hands, the storm materializing itself into the waves of green and black fury that flew at Quaetman, struck at him. The hero ducked each blast, continuing to jump between spires, until finally he hero leapt against one of the few standing buildings nearby, and propelled himself off the wall, fist flaring with power as he burst straight through a wave of mist, towards the god astride, the ascendant being who heralded oblivion through his might. This was HIS Kingdom to fight for, this was HIS world to protect, and he would not fail now! But the demon flourished his hand, and three blasts of green light, slammed into the hero, knocking him sideways into a spire.

The cement collapsed as he crashed into it, forming a crater from the impact. Quaetman, undeterred, rose to his feet, floating in the sky before the wall. The demon slashed out with his hand again, and lightning gathered along the arc of his swipe coalescing into several wisps of green flame, which splashed out, lighting the darkness of the abyss. The mist gathered around the demon’s attack as it blazed through the sky, striking towards Quaetman where the hero floated. With expert precision, the hero dodged each fireball, resisting the pull of the void as he surged past, eyebeams flaring out to vaporize two that he could not avoid.

The hero flew for the demon, fist extended again, cape billowing in the wind behind him, but once more the demon flourished, and the mist, the winds of the storm, buffeted his adversary, knocking him about, off course. Quaetman shrugged off the attack and flew above the square. A flash of lightning illuminated the city below him, buildings rising out of the mist of the void, islands amidst a sea of chaos, as the streets faded into nothing below them. He circled the square, dodging another flurry of fireballs that blazed through the endless rain, through the fury of the storm, before diving in again, charging downward at Relmitos where he stood, unmoving, atop the spire.

And Relmitos raised his hand to the sky, a cyclone of wind beganning to swirl around him. Lightning sizzled from the vortex, striking behind him, before him, all about the square. With each clash, a rock shattered to bits, its pieces swept up by the swirling whirlwind until, suspended by the wind, swirling around the demon where he stood, thousands of lightning-laced razor shards pierced the sky.

Sensing danger, Quaetman reversed course, flying upward as the square became filled with the deadly whirlwind. He gazed down onto the square, the former sight of the Coalition’s displays now drenched in mist, shaking with the force of the demon’s attack. The fallen god stood at the center of a swirling terror, a vortex of absolute power, shards whipping about as the demon’s hand was lofted high green fury leaping from his fingertips to electrify the entire display. Lightning swirling now in the deadly whirlwind, Relmitos looked straight at the Champion, his eyes alight with malignant fury.

This world has no hope, for hope is but a dismal lie, despair the truth it masks,” snarled the god, “This world has no righteousness, for justice is but a bitter sham.

Relmitos threw his hand forward, and the whirlwind became a barrage, rising from the square and striking at the floating hero; millions of deadly, power-laced shards born on a gale fury.

Quaetman’s eyes widened as he found himself with nowhere to run, nowhere to flee to, and the flurry overtook him. He raised his hands to cover his face as the shards cut at him from every angle, and Relmitos flourished his hand. The winds swirled around the hero, cement shards slashing his clothes, cutting at his skin, threatening to tear him to shreds.

Quaetman grit his teeth as, with nowhere else to run, he mustered every fiber of his being, fighting against the fabric of the world, against whatever force seemed to stop him from blinking out of reality, and disappeared with a crack.

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The Mad King fell back, sputtering and snarling, arms flailing, face burning with pain at Mario’s blow. He maintained his footing, insanity, madness-born rage in his eyes as he pointed menacingly at Mario.

IINNNNNGRATE!” cried the Mad King, staggering, reaching for the royal scepter where it lay propped against his makeshift throne, “You dare strike me?!? You will suffer for your-

A-shut up, ah” snarled Mario.

Mario struck the King again, straight in the face, and he was sent sprawling behind the throne. He advanced on his target, stepping over the scepter, towards the King where he lay across the tiles. There was a gunshot and Mario ducked, a stray bullet passing through the air where his head had just been. He raised his head, looking around for the gunman, scanning the crowd that had rapidly become an incomprehensible battlefield…

…and the Mad King snarled, hissing like an animal, his legs twisting around one of Mario’s, knocking the hero to the ground. The King leapt on top of him, clawing at him with crazed hands, his expression wild. Mario scrambled on the ground, frantic, unable to stave off the madman’s assault! The man’s eyes were crazed, filled with madness, with rage, with unfathomable chaos, as he foamed at the mouth, slobbering over his prey, and his hands, like claws, tore at Mario’s clothes, at his body, reaching for his face even as Mario desperately pushed him back.

The Bastion shook with untold power, the world vibrating at the Tempest’s strike, as something seemed to shatter, some fundamental component of reality vanishing into the void. Tremors wracked the great hall, disrupting the battle.

The Avalanchian lost his grip, and Mario seized the chance. He pulled his right leg loose and raised it, bringing his knee up between the man’s legs. The Mad King cringed in pain and Mario, with a loud cry, threw him aside, rolling and rising to his feet.

Mario raised his hand to his face, wiping away a spatter of saliva with disgust, flicking it dry, and he turned to face the crowd, seeing the Mad King still struggling to his feet. The fight had remained on fairly even terms, but now the clones were attacking without mercy, firing into the crowd, assaulting with their weapons, and the room had become a bloodbath, bodies of refugees and clones alike scattered about the tiles, lustrous sanguine seeping into the cold, navy blue floor. Green flashes from the storm of the apocalypse lit the expanse, providing light to the scene of carnage, of horror, as the people fought off wave after wave.

Link was nowhere to be found, the Hero of Time vanished amidst the crowd, his duel with the Minister having carried him out of sight.

He turned back to face the Mad King… …just in time to throw himself aside as the madman thrust forward with the unsheathed shortspear, the scepter’s head held in his other hand, energy cackling along its length. The silver-glowing blade cut into Mario’s shoulder, and he growled in pain as electricity sliced through his veins. Mario leaned against the throne, bracing himself, gritting his teeth against the electric pain, and the King snarled with glee, making to slash about wildly, advancing on the Native,

Can’t you see… can’t you seeee?!?” the Mad King cried, “There is no rule here but my own! I will build a brighter world, and all who stand in my path will perish! I will tear you to shreds, plumber!

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Quaetman re-emerged atop the Bastion with a crack, falling to one knee, body shaking from the shock. The hero stood, his cape in tatters, his glasses smashed, cast aside, his figure disheveled. But, determined as ever, he fought off the darkness, the bearer of the light resisted the despair, and he rose slowly, inevitably to his feet. Around him, reality continued to swirl with the chaos of its end; the Tempest of the Void continued to devour the Kingdom. Lightning continued to glow an unnatural green, radiating immense heat with increasing frequency. Rain came down in torrents, drowning the world. The sky had begun to flash various colors, unnatural, despite the darkness of the storm, as if the laws of reality had begun to break down. The earth, and the Bastion atop it, shook almost continually as the fabric of the universe slowly began to bend.

There, again facing out into the storm, stood Relmitos. The demon turned once more towards the hero as he rose, looked the Champion in the eye as he spoke, and his words were laced with malice, his eyes glowed with hate.

Even through victory, the world belongs to the oppressed, to the corrupt. Even as the shackles of the old regime are cast aside, another of equal disgust rises to take its place,” the deity spoke, solemn but knowing, “For each obstacle surpassed, another will emerge, stoic, to force you down. Even if you smite the darkness, it will only grow stronger, and rise to consume you. You may struggle to bring justice to the world, but that justice itself is but another marred vision, another intrinsic corruption. You have no hope in your cause, for it was never a cause to begin with.

The demon again threw his hands forward.

Tendrils of mist lashed out from the ascendant, from the Tempest. The miasma swirled around Quaetman, writhing, cackling with green energy, and the superhero, with extreme agility, leapt aside, landing on his feet, irascible white light blasting towards the deity. But again Relmitos held up his right hand, this time simply knocking the eyebeams aside, off into the darkness, as he raised his left to the heavens, and lightning rained down upon the edifice, striking at the Bastion, at his foe. Quaetman leapt between bolts, dodging around them, before a whirling blast of miasma struck across him, beating at him. He fought his way forward through the wind, through the fury of the storm, eyes blazing a light against the darkness, even as the mist struck at him, eating away at his being, at his soul!

He struggled forward, his superhuman might propelling him one step… two… his eyes staving off the mist, his resolve fighting against the encroaching despair, and emerged to the other side, mind clearing as the abyss left him, vision free against the storm. But his momentum carried him forward, propelled by a burst of wind conjured by the Demon, to crash into the low wall at the side of the rooftop, and slump to the ground.

Quaetman fought to rise to his feet, fought again against the swirling darkness, the raw, brute force of the storm. All around the Tempest picked up in intensity, the sky beginning to flash incandescent green as arcs of lightning continued to shred spacetime, as gale-force and dark torrents rained down upon the world. And from across the roof, descended from his perch atop the edge of the tower, the deity walked, slowly, calmly, his intent clear, his malice undeniable. The storm cackled around the god astride, mist and lightning swirling about his unholy form. Green bolts lashed out, clashing into the floor, into the sky around him—the cement, the clouds, the air itself… all seemed to dissolve at the lightning’s touch.

And still the sky swirled, still the colors flared amidst the storm, still reality shook as Relmitos walked in stride across the Bastion, towards Quaetman, as the Champion of the people got slowly to his feet, shaking off the dark power, the demon’s might.

Even now your people rise, just as you bid them,” chanted the demon, “But their struggles damn them, for they fight against forces they cannot fathom, just as you seek to challenge the nature of this world, as you seek to fight in the flawed belief that men can forge their own destiny, that fate can be trifled with by the likes of your kind.

He charged the demon again, but once more Relmitos threw him to the ground, effortless, with a burst of wind. Once more the storm swirled around him, lightning cackling through the emptiness, through the void, and across reality. And the rain fell, carrying with it the full weight of despondency.

Yet the hero would not succumb, not now, not ever! He was the champion of the people; he was the one with the power. And it was his right, no, it was his duty to fight for them!

But as Quaetman rose again, the demon raised his right hand towards the superhero, fingers balling into a fist. All around the Champion, the fog of despair solidified, surrounding him, enveloping him in its dark embrace, eating at him, striking at him... His body cried for release, to become one with the abyss, with the mist at the end of all things, the void beyond the world becoming all the more clear to him as the universe shook, straining now at the storm’s blows, as the skies flashed around him, the wind pushed his body to its limits. The mist devoured Quaetman, and the demon stood above him, hand curled into a fist, twisting the storm around his prey. The hero squirmed beneath the iron grip of the void.

You will all come unto nothing. You will vanish, erased by the fog of despair, rent unto nothing by the Tempest of the Void.

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The King stabbed for Mario’s neck, sizzling shortspear intent on a lethal blow.

But Mario caught the blade in his hand, newfound strength surging through the hero’s body! The Mad King’s laughter stopped, and Mario looked his foe in the eye, even as his body cracked with silver shocks.

I” snarled Mario, “Am-a NO PLUMBER!

Bellowing loudly, he whipped the shortspear around by its blade and let go. The monarch was lifted off his feet and sent sprawling towards a nearby wall. Skidding to a stop, he quickly grabbed the spear from where it had fallen beside him and turned to face Mario again, snarling, flying forward in a two-handed chop, wielding the spear more like a club. Mario again caught the King’s slash, this time punching the monarch in the gut. Somehow maintaining his grip on the shortspear, the Avalanchian madman flew backwards, into the wall behind him, collapsing. But he rose to his feet quickly; he lashed out twice in rapid succession with the spear. Mario was unable to grab it, forced to retreat from its speed.

The King’s frenzy drove them back towards the center of the room, and Mario quickly found himself pressed against the throne, nowhere to run, nowhere to escape!

An arrow shot out of the crowd, catching the Mad King on his shoulder, a shallow hit. The royal gasped, then snarled, yanking it clean out, and backed up.

Both combatants turned. There, atop an overturned table, stood Link, bow drawn, robes slashed, damaged, but otherwise uninjured, as the fight raged behind him.

We can build a better world,”Link said, strength in his words, stepping towards the Mad King, shouldering his bow and drawing his Master Sword, “But we will do it together, without you!

The King took one frenzied look at Link, the Hylian uninjured, sword glowing a radiant light, quiver full of recovered arrows, and another back at Mario, his white gloves stained red with royal blood, his eyes aflame with anger, with vengeful rage. The two heroes stood, murderous determination in their gaze as they advanced slowly on the Avalanchian. Eyes darting back and forth, muttering soft insanities of royalty, of kingly rights, the madman backed up. Glancing to his left, his right, he turned and fled, taking off down a side passage. Mario and Link were left standing, in a momentary stupor, before both heroes had realized what happened.

You, fairy,” barked Mario, “Stay a-here, help our-a people. I’ll a-find this King.

Be careful,” the Hylian responded, “This place is like a maze, and the cornered beast bites back the hardest. It would not do to be trapped by a lunatic.

The two heroes locked gazes and nodded. Link turned, sheathing his sword and drawing his bow, as Mario took off at a run, following the crazed Avalanchian into the depths of the fortress.

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The mist surrounded Quaetman, and he fell to his knees, pain wracking his body. The miasma sank tendrils into his skin, seeping through his veins, slowly, painfully, assimilating every fiber of his being. He opened his eyes to strike out, to burn away the darkness, but his power would not come, his despair overburdening his focus. For he faced not a man, not a demon, but a force of nature; a latent, malignant deity, one that would not be stopped, could not be deterred. There was no hope against this monster, there was no salvation against this demon! Quaetman, in all his power, kneeled here, his resolve worthless, his vehemence faded. He who had once been a hero to so many, who was their Champion now, their final hope, had failed them.

He held up his hands, saw as they began to fade from sight, his vision pulsing with green as lightning seared into his eyes. These were the hands he’d been given, with the strength he’d been blessed with, and they had failed their Kingdom once again. He had failed in Avalanchia, failed to protect the people against themselves, failed to protect the Ministers against each other, and they had cast him aside.

He had been content then, to rue his luck, his misfortune; to subside in the mountains and wait for a time when he would again be needed, when he would again be appreciated. He had been content to waver, to drift away from his noble cause. Perhaps his isolation had been deserved. Here however, in the Kingdom, he would not make the same mistake; here he would not waver, for to waver was to doom thousands. Here he would not fail, for to fail was to die, to fail was to cast the world into oblivion. And here, he would not die, for through death he would condemn them all.

He was the goddamn Quaetman. And he wasn’t done yet.

If our struggles are in vain, we will grant them purpose!” the hero said, each word spoken deliberately, slowly, through the storm, “If our cause is not just, we will grant it righteousness.

And in the miasma, his eyes lit with white flames.

This world we will build together, through unity, through strength! I will champion the light!

Resolve hardening against the mist, Quaetman’s eyebeams shot forth, burning a hole in the sphere of madness that consumed him. The cleansing fires drove the fog away, and once more the despair lifted from his mind, the pain fading from his body, leaving behind a great ache, but nothing more. The fury of the storm screamed at him, deadly winds lashing at him from all sides, lightning from the demon’s attack coursing through his veins. But the flames of his gaze cut at the demon, the beams blazed forth, striking for the god, whose eyes widened in shock as he quickly raised his hand, catching the barrage even as the hero sustained it, as the roof glowed with the heat of a dozen suns, burning away the storm.

The flash of light faded, and as Relmitos cast the residual energy aside, Quaetman lunged forward, punching for he demon’s face with superhuman strength.

With the might of a god Relmitos blocked, mist rising between them, energy forming a wall of green power against which the superhero fought, muscles flexing as he struggled to break through. And slowly, surely, white-hot cracks ran up the length of the green shroud, the light, flashing; the wall of energy straining beneath the force of his blow.

The barrier cracked open, shattering with the sound of broken glass, and Quaetman was flung backwards as the roof was lit with an explosion of green light.


Last edited by Quaetam on Mon Jun 10, 2013 7:58 am; edited 3 times in total

Quaetam
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N9 Part 3-Of Those who Fight

Post  Quaetam on Sun Aug 05, 2012 5:59 am

Mario, clothes torn, shoulder bleeding, Luigi’s cap atop his head, ran beyond his pain, through the darkness of the Bastion. The corridors were endless; the darkness all-encompassing, eerie, pierced only occasionally by flashes of green, as the storm of the apocalypse continued to strike against their world. The corridor was silent save the sound of Mario’s feet on the perfectly tiled floor, echoing through the shadows, save the occasional crash of thunder that brought dust raining down from the ceiling; the Bastion straining under the force of the Tempest. Shadows lurked at every corner, ghosts of an age long dead. The fortress was indeed like a maze, sprawling out every which way, long hallways upon long hallways; a man could get lost in here for hours, days even.

And to a madman, this was surely paradise; the flitting darkness, the flashing of the sky outside as the world began to crumble… Just as Mario had lost his bearings, his quarry, the King, could be anywhere.

His thoughts returned to the battlefield; Link staying behind to help fend off the clones, the people, HIS people putting their lives on the line to defend their freedom, to fight for their Kingdom. To his brother, bleeding out on the tiles… the thought of Luigi nearly brought him to a stop, but Quaetman’s last words rang out through his thoughts: “I will ensure the dawn arises… You are the one who must lead the people to it.

He had to keep going. He had to end the Mad King’s reign, now, for his brother, for the people of the Kingdom. This was their only chance at freedom, their last chance at taking charge of their own destiny. For too long he had sat back and allowed the world to fall into the hands of the corrupt, while he wasted away. His brother had seen this, his brother had understood this, had seen the need for change, the need for righteousness in their world. And he had kept fighting. Now, Luigi was back there, bleeding out, his body amidst a battlefield. Mario had to keep going, if only for him, if only for his vision.

As he ran, Mario looked about, remaining alert, but was unable to see properly through the gloom, through the fog that had begun to seep into the Bastion itself… The light of the torches could barely penetrate the shroud, shining out as mere pinpricks, mere motes of sanity amidst the darkness, the chaos. The pillars rose, intimidating, from the mist, toward an uncertain ceiling. It was as if he walked on a lone spotlight, a sole spot of sanity amidst a smothering abyss.

The storm flashed green, the hallway was briefly lit, and he could see that he had reached an intersection. Mario looked back, forth, but could see no salvation, could see no end to the blackness. It was all-encompassing; the small area around him was an ever-diminishing, ephemeral refuge against the chaos of the abyss.

And he knew, then and there, that whatever happened, he had to get out of here.

Even if it meant he lost track of the King, the madman… Even if his entire cause was put in jeopardy, he had to escape that darkness.

Biting back a curse, the elder Mario Brother took off at a run again, veering to the right, making haste through the darkness of the hallway, turning at every chance. The shadows seemed to close in on him as he continued, his little island of sanity, of light, fading beneath him, as above the pillars towered, endless, and the corridor shook, flashing with unnatural light. He pushed onwards through the enchroaching chaos, fear slowly dawning on his mind as the Bastion stole his sanity, as the endless maze, itself a deathtrap, mocked him with its incomprehensible, labyrinthine despair. Thunder roared once more, Mario falling to the ground, and as he made to rise he found something resisting his motion, a deep, intangible, damp sense of fatigue, of despair.

His eyes widening, he rose through the mist, and ran through the winding corridors, all thoughts of the King gone from his mind, his entire focus bent on escape, on salvation.

He rounded another bend, dashing forward, and swiftly found himself face to face with a wall.

A dead end.

A flash of lightning illuminated the surroundings, and Mario saw before him a stone door, set into the wall. Again the luminance faded, and he was cast into darkness, but he reached for the handle, pulled at it.

Locked.

Thunder roared, the Bastion shook, and he could hear a dark, ethereal laughter rising from the miasma. He turned, to see, illuminated in the colorful, discordant flashing of the distant sky through a high window, the silhouette of the Mad King, crown glistening atop his head, maddening eyes shining out through the gloom, spear raised as he walked slowly towards Mario.

And still the door would not budge. His way was shut, his path was barred!

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The green flames faded from the roof of the tower, the inferno that lit the night giving way to the darkness of the storm once more. Above, the skies swirled, their endless expanse collapsing into the void, as below, the city was slowly consumed by the mist. The Tempest was tearing reality apart, utterly consuming the world in its fury. The Kingdom was beginning to crumble before the storm, before the power of the void at the end of all things. With each bolt of lightning, a tearing sound could be heard, as if the fabric of existence slowly was unraveling itself with each strike. The demon’s power was endless. The storm had no mercy.

And at the center of it all, standing in the sky, was Quaetman. His cape, already shredded from the demon’s earlier attack, had been singed, burned in patches by the blaze that had lit the tower of the Bastion. Lightning blazed around him, and he strained his reflexes to avoid each hit, each blow that would strike him irrevocably from the universe.

To unite, and bring about a better world?” rose Relmitos’ voice from the darkness. Quaetman spun around, fighting to keep his balance as the rain battered him, as lightning surged around him and he was forced to throw himself aside to avoid being struck from the universe.

Such dreams are the foolish visions of a naïve child,” the demon declared. The hero glanced behind him, around, again, catching a burst of green in his vision, but it was nothing save another web of light, lacing its way across the sky.

A flash in the corner of his vision, green lightning flaring behind him, and he whirled, dodging a blast of entropic fury, a cloud of green-cackling fog. Before him, mist swirling around him, Tempest ever at his call, Relmitos walked through the storm. For the first time there was passion in the demon’s gaze; for the first time, a brooding, dark hatred was etched onto his face. The god’s right hand was raised, and from the storm, lightning struck, weaving around his form, gathering until his arm glowed with a brilliant, neon light.

Ambition is the plague that scorns our world, the belief that mere men can fight fate. There is no purpose,” cried Relmitos, “There can be no true unity, save in oblivion!

Relmitos threw his arm down, and the sky itself began to shake.

The stormy clouds, flashing iridescent colors as the void began to break through their darkness, swirled around him, thunder roaring, lightning flaring, endless, into his being. Quaetman tensed as the world seemed to crack, ripples of sudden entropy, of incomprehensible light and sound, of unnatural emptiness, shot through the sky from where the demon gathered his might. Around Relmitos emerged a sphere of green light, glowing, first faintly, then with an unnatural, intangible flame as it condensed. The sphere became nearly opaque as it built, glowing, within its verdant fury, with a deeper light, a purging white flame!

A beam of implacable verdant energy, brighter than the sun, flared across the sky, striking at the earth, at the hero who sought to rise against the demon, to champion the hopes of a dying world, consuming him in its eternal fire. The ground cracked at the beam's touch, and the entire world rippled, waves of nothing, of void, holes in spacetime, reverberating outward from the place the beam struck, displacing the air, intensifying the wind currents as reality rushed inward, filling the holes in its fabric.

And the ascendant stood, confident, floating in the sky, as Quaetman appeared behind the god, flying forward, fist reared back!

No!” cried Quaetman, “We will never abandon our purpose! Even if our lives are enshrouded by darkness, even if all seems lost, we will fight to our last breaths to defend our world! I will put a stop to you, here and now, and save this world!

Yet Relmitos, without looking, raised his hand, and from the clouds a rain of darkness fell upon the hero, buffeting him downward. Quaetman teleported again, floating now in the clouds. Up here, reality seemed to slip away beneath him, around him. The world was filled with nonsensical colors, irascible sounds, heard as if from other worlds. Intermittently the entirety of existence seemed to shake around him, unstable. He stood at the edge of the world, on the verge of the abyss, but paid the existential decay no heed, as once more the demon lashed at him, lightning flaring through the gap between them.

He vanished, dodging, and reformed below his foe, vying to attack the demon’s blind spot, but the ascendant spun in the blink of an eye, swinging his other arm, and a surge of green lightning struck Quaetman, coursing through his veins. Once again the storm built around around him in a swirling cloud of energy before exploding with untold force, before the air shattered like glass, sending the hero flying downward, endlessly, into the abyss.

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Mario turned back to the door as the King, laughing maniacally, approached, step by step, spear glistening with silver light, set terrifyingly against the cackle of green lightning in the distant, high windows. And as the King approached, Mario fumbled with the stone, blinded by the darkness, searching for the lock to the door he could not see, for the path he could not open.

Closer… closer the King walked, and a flash of green lit the stone portal in front of him.

He saw the padlock, lifted it, threw the door wide, and burst through the gateway, into the light. The fog cleared from his mind, his focus returning in its wake.

He stood atop a well-lit balcony, overlooking the main entrance hall of the fortress. Against either wall a stairwell descended into the gloom below, and on the far side, across from the balcony itself, two giant stone doors stood fastened shut. Outside, through the grand windows that lined the hall, light flashed, electricity arced; the storm both visible and audible beyond the outer wall. Mario looked around, getting his bearings…

…there was a snarl, a crazed, mad fury as the King lunged for him, spear jabbing forward swiftly, lethally. Mario jumped backwards, landed on his feet, skidding to a stop on the tiles. As the King threw himself through the mist, towards his prey, Mario sidestepped his lunge and punched the crazy hard in the gut. The spear came sprawling out of the King’s grip, flying down, off the edge of the balcony, to land in the entrance hall below, coming to rest near the great doors.

Mario glanced downward at the noise, instinctively, and immediately regretted it, as the King threw himself upon him, laughing ferally, clawing for his face. They fell backwards, crashing into the stone balcony, Mario crying out as pain arced through his back. The King brought his fist back, slung it forward, punching Mario in the jaw, but even as he recoiled from the sudden pain of the blow, he spun around, throwing the lunatic aside. He fell to the ground even as the King rolled, crown falling from his head as he came to a stop against the wall. Snaking off his stupor, the Avalanchian rose, taking hold of his headpiece, and again lunged toward Mario.

The man in red leapt aside, and the King sailed past, rolling to his feet, laughing, his dark, hysterical mirth, filling all corners of the hall, echoing endlessly through the expanse. Mario raised to his feet again, fist rearing back to punch at the King, but the Avalanchian turned the blow aside with surprising swiftness, grabbing Mario by the arm. This time it was he, Mario, who was thrown aside, as the King, with surprising strength, beyond all logic, tossed him to the ground. The madman lifted a leg, prepared to crush Mario's face beneath his gilded boot, but Mario rolled aside, rising to his feet and throwing his body into the monarch.

The two collided and all-but stuck, falling together to the side. Mario reached for the railing but realized there was none, and, Mad King still clinging to him, fell, tumbling down the stairs to the fog-drenched floor below.

They hit the ground, together, knocking over a barrel that stood near the wall. Mario hit like a rock, his bulk slamming into the tiles, the Mad King flung across the floor from atop him, coming to a rest about ten feet away. Both struggled to their feet, the Mad King picking up his crown, placing it crooked upon his bleeding head, Mario fighting against the darkness that seeped into his wounds, into his veins.

And the Mad King laughed, walking forward, advancing on the Native.

Don’t you seeeeeee? Can’t you feeeel the fog... clooosing in around you?” the monarch giggled, blood dripping uncontrolled from a gash on his arm, his eyes lit with dancing spots. He was mad, he was insane! Whatever he had appeared earlier was only amplified now, only accentuated by as the miasma touched at his mind, driving him off the brink.

It’s so beautiful,” the King cried, “So…

His expression became contorted, the swimming, almost empty gaze replaced by one of sheer anger, fury as he leapt towards Mario, snarling like a wild, uncontrolled beast. The red man’s eyes opened in shock, as before he could react, the King threw himself upon him, skeletal hands closed tightly around his throat, choking the life out of him. He struggled against the weight of the Avalanchian, but could not shake his foe’s grip, and slowly the darkness began to encircle his vision, slowly the life began to leave his eyes!

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Quaetman flew through the darkness, unable to control his wild spin as electricity coursed through his veins, wind whipped at him through the void. Several strikes of green missed him by inches, flaring past, their heat reaching the superhero even as he fell, uncontrollably, through the darkness. At last his tumble was arrested as, uncontrollably, inevitably, he smashed through a concrete wall, skidding across a rooftop, coming to a stop.

Quaetman struggled to his feet, his entire body aching in pain, screaming against the power of the mist, the lightning that still ate at him. Every joint was sore, every muscle pushed to the limit of his already superhuman strength. He stood atop the shattered remains of the Ivory Tower, its ruined upper levels stretching unknowingly into the shrouded heavens above the dying Kingdom. Those heavens had been shattered, their graces faded, flashing entropic colors as they began to decay into less than nothing. Below, the shroud of the Tempest, the miasma of the void, hung over the land like a blanket, the ground below fading in and out of focus beneath the fog. The world cried out, yearning for the absolute end the demon heralded, for any release from the stormy hell that had utterly devoured it.

The demon stood across the rooftop, waiting for him, gazing out into the abyss, the dismal hellscape that stretched off into the untold horizons, a Kingdom in its dying throes.

Quaetman stepped forward, fist held before him, light from his eyes flaring, ready to fight the monster.

And Relmitos turned, an utter menace, an abomination, the concrete crumbling at his unnatural touch. He was ethereal, he was a force of nature, of darkness, an avatar of unspeakable power, herald of the void beyond the night. He held his right arm out to the side, and green energy began to swirl around it, building, coalescing… The demon strode forward, green flames and lightning swirling around his hand.

No matter how hard you struggle, no matter how long you fight, your last breath will be spent in vain,” said the demon, words calm, yet surrounded by a bitterness and rage that knew no bound, “This world cannot be saved; even by those who champion the light. Even your martyr’s sacrifice was in vain, useless, as despite the pinnacle of his efforts he was cut down by a man he could not touch, an obstacle he could not overcome.

Quaetman, amidst his retreat, turned, finding himself backed into a wall, no room to move!

This fight was over before it began. You could never stand before me; victory has been mine for time eternal.

And the demon slashed forward with his hand. From the arc of Relmitos’ motion, a wave of rippling light shot forth, blazing through the darkness. Quaetman turned back, but there was no time, and the energy slammed into him, burning at his being. His entire vision faded before a blinding green flash as the concentrated attack leapt through his body, energy once more burning into his skin, through his innards, enveloping him in a devouring shroud…

…the attack passed through him, and he slumped to the floor, his mind slowly succumbing to the mist as it rose up to meet him, surround him, as the abomination turned, walking away, knowing it was over.

And the superhero stood on the verge of despair, for the demon was right. Every time he had struggled, any triumph he had witnessed had been but a brief respite. Each time he managed to stave off oblivion, to save the people of his nation, he had been faced by a greater threat, unending, until at last the world was consumed by a mathematical joke. Even here, in the Kingdom, he fought for freedom, he fought for a release from the oppression of the Coalition, and a new dawn beneath his troubled monarch. Avalanche had been tarnished by rage, his nobility stained by anger, by vindictive fury, and Quaetman had known he would be the one to follow him, the one to watch him, look over him, keep him on the path to righteousness. But even as they triumphed, Avalanche was slain, and the world delivered into the hands of a madman. His struggles, like those of the Hierophant before him, were useless, nothing before the consuming void. Darkness would reign over the Mushroom Kingdom, even if he was to somehow save it from oblivion.

His hope fled before him, vanishing down dark alleys, light caving in before the reality of the demon’s words.

But still something stood against the despair. Still the hero inside him fought it. Quaetman cried out in anger, in fury at his own futility, and summoned his resolve, fighting against the darkness that surrounded him, as he rose from the ground, body flaring with silver light.

Victory belongs to the righteous; this land has worth, it has value, and it will survive the storm!

He burst forth from the darkness, eyes flaring with purging lights, and all his power, all his focus channeled into his charge as he flew at the ascendant, who continued to walk away, back turned.

There was a flash of light, an explosion of power blinding the shattered tower, sending shrapnel flying out into the night, whatever remained of the upper levels disintegrated by the force of the strike, and all was still as the white oblivion surrounded the two combatants, Quaetman’s spirit aflame with anger, with desperation.

Then it cleared, and his hopes fell. It hadn’t been enough.

Quaetman floated, suspended in midair, hand held in a vicegrip by the ascendant being that stood before him. His resolve had been for nothing. His strength, spent on an attack turned effortlessly aside.

You struggle without aim, just as he did. There will never again be a dawn upon this Kingdom.

The demon threw him aside effortlessly, and a blinding light struck through reality, cracking the world at its seams.

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Even as the Champion vanished in a flash of verdant light, Mario struggled against the darkness, fought with dwindling strength against the grip of the madman, the iron chokehold of the oppressor, who kneeled upon him now, crushing his windpipe. His hands flailed but found no purchase. And the Mad King glared down at the hero beneath him with fury, with rage tainted by pleasure, his own eyes bulging in their sockets, swimming with the insanity that gripped his being, dominated his mind. Mario gazed into the eyes of a feral beast, itself not a man but a monster, as it slowly squeezed the life out of its prey.

His vision faded before him, and his thoughts too began to dissolve into the mist, as before his eyes swam visions of lives once lived, but now lost. Visions of Donkey Kong, of Pauline. Of Peach, her life shattered in a single instant, the peace in the Kingdom dying with as the Coalition's assassin shot her clean through. He thought of the Hierophant, standing up at last for their cause, giving them strength. Of Snake. Of Fedaykin, the Usurper of Heaven, walking off into the vortex, setting him free, trusting him with the upkeep of the Kingdom.

Of Luigi, doing all he could to hold the Kingdom together, even as Mario had failed to maintain it, had failed to maintain his very own damn dignity. His brother had trusted him, and done all he could to protect him, just as the Usurper had turned away from his vision to grant him the chance to redeem himself, to bring the world into a better time by his merit.

They had all placed their trust in him. And he had failed so many times before, for so long. He would not fail again; their ambition would be more than simply void! He could not let them all be in vain.

You’re nothing, NOTHIIIING!” screeched the Mad King, eyes wild in a frenzy as his hands choked the life out of the elder Mario Brother, “And I will kill you, I will damn you, oh yes! I will step on you, for you are nothing before me, just like your brother!

Mario’s eyes flashed red, and a newfound strength blossomed within him. He clenched his abdomen, rolling as he thrust the King sideways, loosening the monarch’s grip on his neck. Vision clearing, reaching outward into the miasma, Mario’s fingers closed around a metal bat. He grasped it, ensuring it was tight in his grip, and swung as the King fought to recover his chokehold over the Native.

The lunatic was struck across the chest, sent spiraling backwards, toward the other stair. He skidded to a stop midway between the two, right before the entrance, before the great doors behind which the storm swirled.

And Mario was upon him, tossing the bat aside, laying into the Mad King with fist after meaty fist.

Your reign…” Mario panted, striking with an uppercut, before rearing his right fist back, “Is a-over!

Yet with a flash of steel the tables turned; with a glint of silver, a sizzling light, the King grabbed his shortspear from where it had fallen and raised it immediately to Mario’s throat. Both combatants went still, and the Mad King grinned, poking the spear forward, forcing Mario to retreat. The Native was forced backwards, step by step, until finally he stood against one of the great windows, the storm thundering behind him, flashing mere feet outside the wall. Mario could nearly feel the Tempest’s fury as it raged behind him.

Oh, nonononono,” chuckled the King, with a nearly singsong voice, “It will never be over!

But as the King brought his weapon back, again an arrow cut sharply through the fog, striking him in the shoulder, this time sticking. The Avalanchian snarled, turned, all thoughts of Mario momentarily forgotten, and Link notched another shaft to his bow, fired, catching the King just below the first shot.

I’ve had enough of your ravings,” Link snarled, sword raised toward the Mad King.

The Avalanchian backed up slowly, totally ignoring the two shafts in his shoulder, looking between the two combatants again, eyes wild. Mario and Link advanced, Mario bloody, his clothes torn, Link relatively untouched save a gash across part of his chest, his sword glowing through the mist, as together they pushed the madman back, before, finally, with a hiss, he turned, threw open the great stone doors, and ran off into the darkness of the storm, vanishing into the mist, the fury of the Tempest. For a second all was still. Rain began to whip into the Bastion, dark miasma swirling in through the open portal. Lightning flared in the distance, and in its wake, as the world shook with thunder, Mario could see the Mad King running down the street ahead. Mario, enraged, made to follow, but stopped at a hand on his shoulder. He turned, eyes furious, to face Link.

Stop,” the Hylian said, “There’s nothing but death out there.

I don’t a-care!” Mario cried, “That-a fucker will die, to MY HANDS!

He made to move forward, but Link tightened his grip, shook his head.

He is going to die out there, nobody can survive this storm,” said Link, looking Mario straight in the eye, “And if you follow him, you will perish. He’s beyond anyone’s help now; don’t throw away your life to join him.

Slowly, Mario’s features sagged, and he turned around, nodding in bitter acceptance. For a moment, they stood together, silent, looking out into the storm. The ground shook with tremors of unnatural, unheard magnitude; lightning flaring by the second, the half-second even. Each bolt seemed to shake something deeper than the earth at their feet; the air itself rippling as it lost all stability, the world groaning as its foundation began to crack, and all that existed shook in its wake. And the sky, roiling with dark clouds, flashed nonsensical, iridescent colors, as it began to lose all meaning.

What-a should we do?” Mario asked, part bitter, part in awe. The ground shook at their feet, the mist continuing to seep in through the door before the two heroes.

Now?” Link replied, “Now we wait, and hope.

The heroes fell silent as slowly their thoughts turned skyward, to the Champion, to he who carried all their hopes...


Last edited by Quaetam on Mon Jun 10, 2013 8:23 am; edited 3 times in total

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