#Gansetseg Oronir
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D30 - Amity
A muscular Viera, standing just a little too tall, hauls a heavy crate of food and medicine onto a grand company airship. The air in Gridania was mercifully temperate, with a moderate breeze to keep her from sweating overmuch from the exertion.
Though she’d never admit to her status as a former imperial - much less a Tribunus - Sviette felt mixed feelings as she continued hauling aid to be shipped over Alabatha’s spine. On the one hand, a job was a job; she didn’t have to believe in the cause, as long as it paid enough to help what few people she cared about and owed. Certainly the empire did not care for her for more than her military achievements, nor did she ever see its goals and ideology as more than a means to get what she wanted within a system that had long since claimed her as its own.
…On the other hand, however, these were innocent civilians. Ones no less caught up in propaganda and rhetoric in the past, perhaps, than those who acted as obstacles and fulsome flattery when she got past them; but victims of it nonetheless. They were deserving of support, and what little aid their pride as a people would allow. The mere act of accepting this aid perhaps suggested a willingness to change, of political coexistence with nations they once sought to conquer. Perhaps, Sviette thought, little different as a whole than she herself.
Her musings were interrupted by the vulgar yet cheerful calls from a Xaela barely half her size, wearing what could best be described as somewhere between an eyesore, garish fabrics, or downright curious clothing; gold of all things.
“HELLO! I DO NOT MEAN TO BOTHER YOU, BUT I HAVE SOME SUPPLIES TO SEND AS WELL, AND I WAS WONDERING IF YOU COULD HELP ME!”
Sviette winced. This woman was loud.
“Right, sure…. Do you need a hand?”
“Oh no,” the Xaela pipes in, mercifully a few decibels lower in volume. She hauls a crate of goods which she can barely see around - and certainly not over - with almost the ease which Sviette might herself, much to her own shock. She sets it down in front, presenting Sviette with a feather quill and ink well.
“You see, I want to make sure that this one - which has a gift - makes it to a friend.”
“A-a friend? In Garlemald?”
“YES! Though we met on the battlefield, he showed himself to be a person - no, warrior - of integrity. He even aided me against something cruel and awful, if you can believe it.”
“Alright. And how can I help with that..?”
“Well you see… I don’t know how to write his name…”
Sviette chuckles.
“What’s so funny?”
“Oh, nothing. You happen to be in luck; I know a bit of Garlean. Now, what was your friend’s name again..?”
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D29 - Contravention
“Uh, excuse me, miss?”
A short Xaela woman in yellow pivots on her heels, halting her hacking and chopping of nearby trees in the Black Shroud towards the sound of the newcomer. Unfortunately, her hatched remained in-hand as she did so, causing the new arrival - a man dressed in the greens of the wood wailers - to leap back defensively.
“Ack! Watch where you’re swinging that!”
The Xaela woman blinks in genuine ignorance.
“What is it? If you wish to claim wood for yourself, there are plenty of other trees.”
“That’s not the point. I’m here to tell you that you can’t just start logging without a permit-“
“A per-mett?” Gansetseg looks him dead in the eye, not entirely sure what to make of things. “Is this an issue with tribe territory? If so, all you need to do is duel me over it.”
“That’s not the point-“. The flustered wailer stammers out. “I really need you to stop, before the elementals get angry and someone gets hurt!”
Unfortunately, the offending Xaela only paid heed to the last part. She narrows her eyes.
“Before someone gets hurt, you say? Am I supposed to take that as a threat then?”
“Wait, no! You can’t just start cutting down trees without-“
This marked the turning point of this Wood Wailer’s day from bad to life-threatening.
#ffxiv#ffxivwrite#ffxivwrite2023#ffxiv writing#Gansetseg Oronir#Unlike Izayoi Gan didn’t show up to Eorzea wearing gold#she switched to it later
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D5 - Barbarous
“Look at her. That gaudy fur coat! Armour in broad daylight, and not even polished.”
“As though a Dravanian would ever live up to a Knight’s standards-“
“Not so loud! …Besides, she’s one of those Owruh, right? Surely she isn’t someone who did that?”
“I just want my peace. We were promised that much if we tolerated these backwards-thinking heretics-“
A short and muscular Xaela wandered the streets of Ishgard. The cold did her hardly any favours - thus in addition to black lacquered plates of armour accented with golden snurble wool, she wore a longer coat from yet more wool of her beloved fluffy charges.
Still, she shivered. At the very least, the prying eyes and scoffing voices meant little to her.
Sneer all you want, you uncultured buffoons, she thought, proudly.
She chuckles to herself, largely ignorant of the content of the jeering, until she spies an exhausted-looking soul carrying a backpack as large as she herself was.
The newcomer was a Moon Keeper with similarly bronze skin to herself, but stark white hair. She looked to be some kind of merchant, having just departed from airship to peddle her wares. And as one might expect of someone so burdened, she looked like she might collapse at any tick.
…until, of course, she indeed begins to.
Gansetseg rushes to the Keeper’s side, helping gently set down the Miqo’te’s considerable belongings, before the latter finds herself crushed underneath them. Before she can question how the Miqo’te got as far as getting off the gangplank of the airship with too much to carry, the reason becomes quickly apparent, by a loud growling sound from the Miqo’te’s stomach.
“Guhhh…. Need… Tummyfill…”
The strange dialect simply spurs the judgemental onlookers further.
“Oh great, the Goblin-child.”
“When will she learn she isn’t one of them?”
“If she’s such a great merchant, then she should get herself to the Crozier or the Firmament already.”
How uncivilised, Gansetseg thought. They live in such affluent homes yet lack the grain or meat to feed a collapsed stranger? Or perhaps, since they lack the knowledge to move with the seasons, they’re barbarians who cannot even lift themselves beyond their own arses.
Gansetseg thusly takes it upon herself to aid this girl by bringing her to an inn. But first…
“Mfffh?!”
The Miqo’te girl seems to come to life immediately as the Xaela stuffs some manner of spiced meatball in her mouth. Once she realises what happened, she chews slowly and swallows, gratefully.
“Uhh? Whatnow? Strange scalelander saved Oghii! Huge longtrade for lifetime!”
Gansetseg shakes her head.
“It is only the cultured thing to do to feed a starving trader in passage. However, while you regain your strength, I shall aid you in getting to an inn.”
The miqo’te seems initially hesitant, clutching her backpack like her life depends on it. As a travelling merchant, this likely isn’t too far from the truth.
Seeing the girl’s reaction, Gansetseg offers a compromise.
“I still struggle with coin, but perhaps I can offer you a trade? My people - well, my old people - are very adept at bartering. Perhaps this coat will suit you, in exchange for something heavy? You will find few things from this exquisite material.”
The Miqo’te’s eyes light up, as she produces some manner of collapsible cannon from her backpack.
The onlookers look away, shaking their heads.
The Miqo’te, very aware of the judgemental Elezen and Hyur around her and this kind stranger, frowns and her eyes lose their excited lustre.
Gansetseg, however, answers the girl’s enthusiasm in kind.
“I’ll take it! Now then, to the I-forget-the-name Night!”
#ffxivwrite#ffxivwrite2023#ffxiv#FFXIV writing#note: Gansetseg can’t read Eorzean script#So she’s just phoenetically misremembering “The Forgotten Knight#Gansetseg Oronir#Oghii Hideseex
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Part 4 - A New Dawn
The battlefield was chaotic. Frankly, I should have expected it. At first, I struggled to keep up; both with the proper soldiers I was posing as, and even the less formally-trained mercenaries. It seemed what second-hand knowledge I had wasn’t suited to my physique and fitness, the latter falling just shy during a lot of assaults.
My ears rang from the spells flung from my side, and the gunfire from the other. Our enemies weren’t like the fools who struck in the Lavender beds, nor were they like the organised imperial march from my second hand memories. At best I could liken them to a swarm, or a great, hideous machine; and I quickly learned that our goal was not simply to incapacitate, but to free each errant cog we could. We captured not to kill, but to heal; though the latter was a slow and costly process beyond my understanding, or perhaps simply beyond my belief.
Ticks stretched to bells and bells seemed to stretch to turns. Each moment felt like an uphill struggle, clawing for ground against a foe with considerably less remorse than our own. One incapable of remorse.
Eventually however, I found my stride. And by the light of the star, or whatever else there is to swear by, I kept it. We took ground. We rescued these “Telopheroi” from their ranks. And eventually, the time came for me to pursue my own goal.
“The Hells are wrong with ya, kid? Our lot kin’ stay back n’ not get Tempered!”
Jepherson yelled, as I charged forward into a now-thin crowd of tempered soldiers; exploiting their sluggish movements and toppling them with some well placed Termus Est crosses; the firey explosions providing more pressure to topple than to kill thanks to the enemy’s armour.
I knew the plan was to fend off the fodder until we could cure them. I knew at best we could challenge one of those false gods, those baleful apparitions. I knew that the closer to the tower I got, the more those spawns of foolish faith would greet me. I knew I wouldn’t have backup from Jeph’s squad, without the Echo in their ranks. I knew I was being stupid and reckless.
But my goal was somewhere nearby. I could feel it in my bones, pulling at my mind and soul.
Of course, I didn’t get very far on my own.
I fended off small groups of Telopheroi for a time; afterall, I didn’t need to stop them. I simply needed to slow them down. That all but ended the moment the form of a warped, dark and purple figure of unnaturally-hued frost reared her fearsome head. Against her, a “Lunar Primal”, there was no slowing her down. There was no getting around it. And as her minions gathered around me, threatening to drown me in bodies, or worse, there was no escape.
My instincts told me to hold my hope that my ceruleum-like flames would hold some meaningful advantage over the monstrous-yet-elegant apparition, given her apparent affinity for ice. However, the best I could do was to lessen the force of blizzards which she wielded with the same ease as one might a dagger. Fittingly, her skill with a blade conjured from ice was equally as devastating. A single swing brought me to my knees, and the other was set to finish me. I could only look up in desperation, cursing the futility of my sole goal on this battlefield.
I closed my eyes at the last moment, my stubborn defiance faltering in the face of death. A feeling I should not have been familiar with, yet through alien eyes, it mirrored the blade of another, and I could not bear to watch the proverbial reaper’s arc.
Shouting and glass shattering fills my ears; chaos broken by the bellowing of a single, commanding man’s voice.
“Waste little time with the rats; the Eorzean tribes may tend to them. Our priority should be the girl, and to her, take down that laughable attempt at divinity! Show her that ice is nothing under the brilliance of the Sun!”
I opened my eyes to see the monstrous goddess’ blade shattered, and an expression of irksome irritation and indignant surprise upon her face. Charging forces - Au Ra in yellow garb, I believe - overwhelmed the Telopheroi surrounding me. While I had been grossly outmatched by their numbers, it appears these valiant - if terrifying - souls not only outclassed them in numbers, but sheer might as well. A combatant had leapt from on high, from the back of some great bird, slamming an axe hewn seemingly from stone itself upon the dark idol of ice, breaking her stance despite her towering stature, through sheer weight. Its owner, an imposing and imperious Au Ra with sunbaked black scales and dark hair whose golden tips were braided into weaves to frame his scowling face, turned to me and lifted me by the scruff of my neck.
“Gansetseg! This one is yours to deal with. Perhaps your gift will keep her from falling prey to the foolish embrace of the spire.”
That man, evidently the group’s leader, hurled me towards a small and muscular woman wearing those selfsame yellow robes, albeit with a curious golden sheen, and what might pass as a small armoury strapped to her back. Despite her tiny stature, Gansetseg catches me, with a smile, and dusts me off.
“Take your breath. Then we shall fight.”
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Grail War AU 2
Clash
Standing atop a many-headed beast, a stocky figure clad head to toe in armour, save for bare her left leg, peers down at her foe. Her monstrous steed, clearly not of this world, beats its wings to remain airborn despite its size and clear ferocity.
Her foe glares up at her. She is a tall woman with short, braided hair and golden regalia reminiscent of the Roman imperial armour, accented by a bright red cape. Cavalry sabre and shield in hand, the surface of the water ripples beneath her despite supporting her weight.
“Interesting.” The warrior mounting the demonic beast mused; 15 snarling faces of her steed glaring at her foe as a predator sizing up its prey.
“You are blessed by water it seems. A trait not unheard of, but a rarity nonetheless. Perhaps you have shown your hand, Saber.”
‘Saber’ scoffs.
“You are no closer to comprehending my greatness for it.”
“And you, no closer to reaching me. Without your trump card, what hope does a servant summoned to the Saber class have of reaching me in the heavens?”
With haughty irritation, Saber points her blade towards her foe. With the distinctly resounding bang of a ship’s cannon, a burst of golden light bursts forth from her blade towards the offending beast’s wings, in order to ground its rider.
Though supernaturally nimble, not least due to the inhuman skill of its rider, the great beast is unable to evade entirely; though rather than tear through its wing, the armoured woman guides the winged monster such that its hide is grazed and not struck head on.
Saber’s assault continues; an onslaught of magical radiant blasts, suppressing the movements of even the supernaturally swift monster and rider. Still, though three of the 15 faces of the monstrous mount are seared away by burning radiance, several heads lunge with gnashing fangs and stretching necks, akin to great serpents, the hydra, or even dragons.
Saber is caught momentarily off-guard, barely fending off the many vicious maws seeking to tear her apart with her blade and hoplite. As the beast begins to reach her armour however, Saber shines a brief but intense flicker of red, and she smiles.
“Very well, master.”
Golden light erupts from the taller woman’s body, enveloping her in a blinding pillar. Such was the intensity and sheer force that the monster’s heads were forced away and burned to ash and mana. Still, the monster possessed awareness through faces on its scorched wings, and took flight for what appeared to be the rider’s desperate attempt to retreat and counterattack.
The scope of this attack, capable of razing a fortress and the forces within would not allow such an easy escape.
[Victoria Brittanica - Embodiment of Promised Victory]
Saber gathers the flowing magical energies freely surging from within her through her blade, holding it high. With a great one-handed swing, she brings it down in a vertical arc; wherein the concentrated mana explodes outwards, parting the lake for a time and engulfing the fleeing rider and beast.
With a bright flash and the gradual flow of displaced waters finally returning to place, Saber slumps in momentary exhaustion, catching her breath. The attack, though certainly fatal, not only exposed her true identity, but also greatly taxed her and her master’s reserves of magical energy.
Yet, to her horror, her foe stood before her, in what little remained of the parted lake’s bed that had not yet been reclaimed. The woman’s armour had changed, with a burned greave depicting wings and a few small mask motifs now on her formerly bare leg, and her helm briefly floating above her, as the grotesque face of a beheaded demon.
“It appears you win this round, Saber. However, know that an empire of recent history is nothing before a king of the age of gods.”
Taking advantage of Saber’s evident exhaustion, the other woman and her leering companion vanish into glittering particles of mana, and the water displaced by the final blow swallows their former foothold.
In the distance, gazing at the scene through binoculars, a tall and lean man with dark hair scowls. He grips his fist in frustration, revealing the faded red brand; one of three command seals wasted.
#fate series#fate au#grail war au#fan servant#writing#Gansetseg Oronir#yes I’m tagging the FFXIV OCs used as a base for the personality/loooks of these servants#though the servants themselves will be loosely based on figures from legend etc#though saber here is the manifestation of the former military might of the British empire#I thought having a not-Excalibur would be on the nose but in the spirit of things
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D28 - Blunt
Clang. Clatter. Steel against steel. Then a profound snap.
A tall man stands looming over a tanned Xaela woman with steely bluish hair and red eyes, a single-edged sabre in hand. He sends a lunging knee to her gut, and in the same motion, knocks aside her broken spear with the gauntlet of his “free” hand.
Gansetseg gasps sharply, almost winded from the blow, as she readies her axe. Many warriors twice her size would have certainly been.
“I don’t know why you continue to get in the way. This isn’t your problem, little girl. All I wish is to speak with a certain two-faced companion of yours…”
“Bite me.” She growled in response. “None of us care for your em-pee-reel garbage, and those who once did, do not need your help with their majee-teck.”
“Well that’s rude. You really don’t mince words, do you? …though you do butcher them.”
The man strokes his beard, leaving himself open in a measured display of cocksure arrogance. It was clear from how he parried and destroyed the shaft of the woman’s spear, and scattered a sword and scabbard previously that he was confident this would change nothing.
Gansetseg takes this opportunity to strike; aiming for the wrist to at least disable his sword hand; or failing that, disarm him or damage his blade. Despite all her strength however, her axe is halted by the flat of that thin cavalry sword, with yet another sharp clash of metal against metal.
Once again, she is knocked back and down, this time by the boot of heavy black greaves. The same boot tramples her forearm, forcing her to release the grip on her axe from the pain.
The man leans down, shifting his foot off to hold her aloft by that same forearm.
“Magitek may not be my specialty, young lady; but I will tell you this. Garlean steel is second to none. Against this, anything your primitive forges could make may as well not carry an edge at all.”
He readies to toss her aside; he wasn’t here to kill her; but pauses as she mutters something under her breath.
“…te me…”
He pulls her closer, in a moment of reflexive curiosity; or perhaps, once again, confidence that there was nothing this savage - who had not even wielded their kind’s magic against him no less - could do to stop him.
“I said BITE ME, ASSHOLE.”
With the last of her strength, the Xaela swung herself on her arm close enough to deliver a devastating and sudden headbutt to the swordmaster’s head.
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D6 - Ring
Harsh spotlights fall upon a fighting arena barely some 18 films wide, surrounded on all sides by a massive cage. A massive crowd cheers with the force of a dragon’s roar; each voice indistinct in the excited collective.
Cutting through the chaotic cacophony, is the amplified cries of an announcer; through some means of magic or magitek yet out of sight.
“LADIES, GENTLEMEN, AND EVERYBODY BEYOND! WELCOME ONE AND ALL TO TONIGHT’S RUMBLE! DON’T BE FOOLED BY OUR NAME, BECAUSE THESE FIGHTERS ARE ITCHING TO GO, AND WON’T GET ANY RESPITE UNTIL ONE OF THEM FALLS, OR THE BELL TOLLS!”
As the announcer gives their long-winded introductions, Izayoi examines herself. No sign of injury or dizziness, and no sign of aetherial memory tampering either. So then, how did the slender raen wind up here without remembering, if it wasn’t due to a head injury or magic? However troublesome, she knows what to expect; she’s been here before, and she seems to have swapped out her usual golden kimono for an equally flashy iridescent outfit and fox mask. A match then.
Before Izayoi can even check her pockets for her Ōfuda, they spring to life around her, the aether imbued beforehand all but confirming her preparations, even if she didn’t quite recall doing so. Well, not specifically for this, anyway.
With a wave of her hand, she makes herself vanish from sight with a glamour, running to the nearest door to the cage, and forming an illusory double to make it look like she blinked from one spot to another, and distract her opponent before the match even begins. As per the rules of this particular arena of course, the real me will have to go in too, as usual.
Izayoi grumbles as she realises the closest door is marked red; which with the blue accents on this prismatic white outfit, didn’t really match. As she’s about to switch to the other side, the announcer gives her reason to stay;
“IN THE RED CORNER! THE MISTRESS OF MYSTERY HERSELF, IIIIIIIIIIZAYOOOOOIIIIIIIIIIII!”
Izayoi scowls, and yells back.
“That’s not my stage name, asshole! Read the signup sheet!”
The announcer ignores her complaints, and continues.
“AAAAAAAND IN THE BLUE CORNERRRRR! THE BLADE OF GESAR, GANST- GANT- KANSEGSE! Is that how you-“
The inane ramblings of the announcer die out to Izayoi’s horns as she takes measure of her opponent. Rather than a hulking and brooding man, the likes of which fancies himself a mirror of the Oronir’s Khagan, Izayoi finds her gaze going far lower… to a woman shorter than she, but with several times as much muscle. In particular, what draws Izayoi’s gaze - and scowl - was the wool or fur lining to the other woman’s black lacquer armour. Was that fabric dyed gold? Was this burly idiot seriously stealing her thing? Or don’t tell me. She’s just wearing gold because it’s Oroniri yellow but extra.
While Izayoi was fuming to herself, the bell rings to start the match. She calms herself down, reasoning that this was a bit of an irrational reaction; afterall, there’s an idiot whom I KNOW is doing the gold outfit thing independently of me. Perhaps it’s just a big coincidence, and- WAITWHYISN’TSHECHARGINGATMYBODYDOUBLE.
The little blue-haired gym-and-war rat seemed to be entirely ignoring Izayoi’s carefully-woven illusion. It’s almost as if it wasn’t even there, and that the Raen wasn’t, in fact, hidden by those same magicks.
An axe to the side was all the confirmation Izayoi needed. The blow sends her careening a good few fulms to the side. Izayoi thanked the stars and seas, as well as this arena’s organisers, for the injury-dampening magicks woven into the arena; else she’d be in a lot of pain right now; and likely worse.
Though tumbling on the ground, Izayoi thinks quickly. She rights herself, and before she’s even on her feet, she’s pinning down her foe’s movements, and the Xaela’s position and direction. Easy pickings.
Izayoi focuses and unleashes magical covering fire to limit her opponent’s safe movements.
She channels aether through her fists to augment what would be a paltry and pathetic punch into an explosion of force. All she had to do was wind back right as the Xaela gets within… How the Hell did she get right up in my face? She was going half as fast as needed to get over here-
The Xaela’s boot collides with Izayoi’s gut. While she doesn’t get winded - much to her own surprise - she really feels the blow and the bruising that it’d leave.
That’s funny… She thinks. Isn’t that where I got shot by a rubber bullet by that big, hammer-wielding-
Izayoi hadn’t even blinked. The gold-clothes Xaela was immediately upon her once more, carrying an oversized hammer, midway through an overhead arc.
This is it. Izayoi winces. If I’m not concussed already, this’ll be how.
Izayoi shuts her eyes and braces for the blow, so tightly that her horns start ringing…
…the blow never comes, but the ringing becomes only louder and louder, even as she relaxes her eyes and opens them.
Tinnitus. From her previous fight in that same arena. One where while the rest of her head was spared, her horns took a beating, one she expected the rest of the moon to heal.
Izayoi groans as she wakes up in full from the incessant perceived noise. This was going to be a long day…
#ffxiv#ffxivwrite#ffxivwrite2023#ffxiv writing#the fighting arena mentioned is an allusion to The Wanderer’s Respite#which is on Chaos#in the Goblet#ward 17 plot 5 I think#this Sunday I’ll even be refereeing#Izayoi RKS#Gansetseg Oronir
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PART 5 - TO THE DEPTHS
Though the Oronir - and thus, more specifically, Gansetseg and I had made headway against more of these [E!£o’s] Primals, it was the wicked and winged bird woman that became our undoing. Even the Oronir joined could scarcely land magical blows amidst the raging storm winds which she called, deflecting arrow and bullet, as well as spellcaster and swordsman alike.
Only ice seemed fruitful to slow her down, and that was beyond even the tiny Xaela’s tremendous firey strength. Time and time again we charged, and time and time again, the flames of her strikes and my own Terminus Est were snuffed like so many flickering candles.
Even our own bodies were hurled around like rag dolls, sometimes taking many ticks to surrender us even to gravity. Worse still, with every time we gave ground, we grew farther from the tower we sought to seize with the resistance born of the Echo; and closer to the edge of a strange crater. And it seemed the soulless beast knew as much; pushing back with every advantage she could eke, until I myself was flung to the edge of a fall to who-knows-where.
Gansetseg screams in desperation, reaching for my hand; though her narrow reach eludes her. I catch onto her tail, as she buries her spear into the ground with what strength she could afford, though the shroud of flames she cloaked herself in to give herself physical might was continually snuffed out.
I felt my own grip weakening. Garuda’s tempest refused to lessen. I could feel surfeit scales shed from my tiny Xaela companion’s tail, even as she tried with all her might to curl it closer to herself through the pain.
For a moment I feared that by saving myself, I might tear it clean off. I reconciled myself with the fact that it may not even save me, but doom us both.
She screams my name[..?] as I surrender my grip, allowing her to hurl herself forward inadvertently. I don’t know what became of her as I was flung into an abyss of soil, of stone, and rubble.
The depths of this place, forgotten in the desolation of war and the machinations of the Telopheroi seemed to grab at the edges of my senses, clutching, boring into my skull. I did not black out, nor did I feel nauseated; however I drifted in and out of consciousness; all the while climbing, digging tirelessly.
I hardly noticed when I clamoured to my feet. I hardly noticed when my nails were cracked and my hands scratched from moving so much stone. I hardly felt the dust and mud settle and crust on me until I was covered in grime; and a makeshift passage lay before me.
It appeared that some great, hulking Warmachina had buried itself inside a great chamber of ancient Ala Mhigan design; likely lost to time and buried from its crash. Its hideous and twisted appearance in the darkness made me wonder at first if it was an Eikon spawned by the tower. The slithering, wet sounds that crawled forth from a cyst which may have once been a cockpit entrance from its back did little to assuage those fears.
I drew my blade slowly, as though frozen in terror. Indeed, I was gripped by fear, and every instinct told me to turn and run or charge forward and find something, *anything* soft to tear my blade into.
But it was not merely fear which held me in place; but something more profound. My own voice, monotone, bereft of my feelings and thoughts, rang through my head louder than ever.
[Disengaging combat parameters. Suspending autonomous motor function.]
Whatever figure crawled out of the ruined Warmachina’s back was much too large to be a man, much too discoloured; and it was clear that despite the shape of a midlander or Garlean’s torso, there was no distinction between clothing and skin.
It rose no further than upright; and the edges of the orifice of the machine appeared to pulse in tandem with oversized and aberrant veins.
Through a once-monocled eye, now divided into three sockets where lenses once were, the sharp and cunning mind of a surgeon, or perhaps scientist, bore into me. Into my very soul.
I tried to yell out. To scream for help. To question just WHAT this abomination even was.
It was no use. The air left my lungs but I could not shape them into words.
The thing peered down at me.
“It is good to see you return to me, proxy of Sas Aurum.”
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