I'm back at work now, and the office is pleasantly quiet as there's no-one else really in yet. I seem to have a busy day ahead of me though... I am starting to remember why I don't go on holiday.
The scout It would have easier, War thought later, to have landed the plane. He had no fear of anything, let alone heights, falling, or open spaces and so it never crossed his mind that just having the plane disappear when he was ready to drop might be a little, tiny, teensy-weensy bit terrifying for some of the other passengers. Scuffles screamed like a banshee as he plummeted towards the ground, his hands frantically scrabbling over his torso hunting for the promised parachute and failing to find it. The air was cold and it felt like he was in a constant blast of wind; he found it hard to breathe if he looked down at the ground (which made him sweat and start shaking), but when he flipped over onto his back and looked at the sky he felt like he was going to throw up. A jet of flame shot past him, making him stop screaming for a moment and then start again with renewed passion, but also making his flip over once more. The world seemed to roll around him and his stomach lurched, and then Hilda seemed to glide past him to the side. She spotted another bird, a hawk he thought, and breathed more fire in its direction. Shut up said Pestilence inside his head, and a cold bony hand that was lumpy in all the wrong places grabbed his shoulder, and for a moment there was a blessed sense of relief. Then he noticed that Pest didn’t have a parachute either, and he tried to suck more air into his lungs for more screaming. The flip from the real world into the ambient one was as startling as being woken up by having a bucket of ice-water dumped over him. Suddenly there was no movement, no falling, just the eternal chill and peace and the diffuse but bright light that seemed to emanate from all around. “You’re an Incarnate,” said Pestilence, sounding peeved. “If you want a parachute, decide you want a parachute. It’ll turn up. If you prefer you can just slam into the ground. It stings a bit, but it won’t kill you. Think before you scream please. If nothing else, think about where War got an antique plane from when we were stood on the edge of a reservoir with the only human life within five miles getting toasted for Rijbka’s breakfast.” Scuffles opened his mouth, then closed it again. Open. Closed. Open. Closed. “You look like a goldfish with Alzheimer’s,” said Pestilence. “Which, by the way, is as ineffective as it sounds. I was disappointed with that one, I thought it would be hilarious actually.” “Sorry,” said Scuffles at last. “I’m still sort of new to this….” “You still have to think,” said Pestilence. “Thought is the scout of action: it goes ahead and looks at all the possibilities and comes back with suggestions and facts so that action can go ahead and implement a plan.” “Right,” said Scuffles. “I should-“ “Just go back and enjoy it,” said Pestilence. “Like Hilda. By the way, have you ever considered using her as a flamethrower?” “War wouldn’t like that,” said Scuffles quickly, as the world around them everted again and he found himself falling at terminal velocity towards a very rocky looking ground. His brain insisted he should be screaming, but he pushed the thought aside and concentrated. “War doesn’t like most of our suggestions,” said Pestilence; the implication was that ‘our’ referred to himself and Famine. “Oh nice, War’s definitely going to hate that!” Scuffles grinned as two Valkyries grabbed him by the arms and flew him down to the ground.
Greg - I hope that your return to work wasn't too much of a shock to your system :)
Hah, there's a lot of great stuff here. Not sure if my favorite is 'the implication was that 'our' referred to himself and Famine' or the idea of using Hilda as a flamethrower.
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I'm back at work now, and the office is pleasantly quiet as there's no-one else really in yet. I seem to have a busy day ahead of me though... I am starting to remember why I don't go on holiday.
The scout
It would have easier, War thought later, to have landed the plane. He had no fear of anything, let alone heights, falling, or open spaces and so it never crossed his mind that just having the plane disappear when he was ready to drop might be a little, tiny, teensy-weensy bit terrifying for some of the other passengers.
Scuffles screamed like a banshee as he plummeted towards the ground, his hands frantically scrabbling over his torso hunting for the promised parachute and failing to find it. The air was cold and it felt like he was in a constant blast of wind; he found it hard to breathe if he looked down at the ground (which made him sweat and start shaking), but when he flipped over onto his back and looked at the sky he felt like he was going to throw up. A jet of flame shot past him, making him stop screaming for a moment and then start again with renewed passion, but also making his flip over once more. The world seemed to roll around him and his stomach lurched, and then Hilda seemed to glide past him to the side. She spotted another bird, a hawk he thought, and breathed more fire in its direction.
Shut up said Pestilence inside his head, and a cold bony hand that was lumpy in all the wrong places grabbed his shoulder, and for a moment there was a blessed sense of relief. Then he noticed that Pest didn’t have a parachute either, and he tried to suck more air into his lungs for more screaming.
The flip from the real world into the ambient one was as startling as being woken up by having a bucket of ice-water dumped over him. Suddenly there was no movement, no falling, just the eternal chill and peace and the diffuse but bright light that seemed to emanate from all around.
“You’re an Incarnate,” said Pestilence, sounding peeved. “If you want a parachute, decide you want a parachute. It’ll turn up. If you prefer you can just slam into the ground. It stings a bit, but it won’t kill you. Think before you scream please. If nothing else, think about where War got an antique plane from when we were stood on the edge of a reservoir with the only human life within five miles getting toasted for Rijbka’s breakfast.”
Scuffles opened his mouth, then closed it again. Open. Closed. Open. Closed.
“You look like a goldfish with Alzheimer’s,” said Pestilence. “Which, by the way, is as ineffective as it sounds. I was disappointed with that one, I thought it would be hilarious actually.”
“Sorry,” said Scuffles at last. “I’m still sort of new to this….”
“You still have to think,” said Pestilence. “Thought is the scout of action: it goes ahead and looks at all the possibilities and comes back with suggestions and facts so that action can go ahead and implement a plan.”
“Right,” said Scuffles. “I should-“
“Just go back and enjoy it,” said Pestilence. “Like Hilda. By the way, have you ever considered using her as a flamethrower?”
“War wouldn’t like that,” said Scuffles quickly, as the world around them everted again and he found himself falling at terminal velocity towards a very rocky looking ground. His brain insisted he should be screaming, but he pushed the thought aside and concentrated.
“War doesn’t like most of our suggestions,” said Pestilence; the implication was that ‘our’ referred to himself and Famine. “Oh nice, War’s definitely going to hate that!”
Scuffles grinned as two Valkyries grabbed him by the arms and flew him down to the ground.
Greg - I hope that your return to work wasn't too much of a shock to your system :)
Hah, there's a lot of great stuff here. Not sure if my favorite is 'the implication was that 'our' referred to himself and Famine' or the idea of using Hilda as a flamethrower.
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