Arac's RPGC New Years Saga

Wilfredo furrowed his thick brows and shuffled a few magazines forward, then one backwards, hoping he’d skipped an issue. No such luck he said to himself, the one issue you’re missing, the comic book shop is, too. Flipping the issues back and forward once more, just to be certain, he let out a sigh and straightened out the issues in the rack he’d moved. The cardboard bin, labeled with a letter T, didn’t really let the comics get too out of sorts, but Wil didn’t want to risk creasing the pages of a valuable, rare issue. Looking up, he saw a familiar face with a bit more five o’clock shadow than usual across from him, looking through the back-issues of Doctor Strange.
“Arac,” Wil greeted him, “It’s a shame you missed Halloween.”
“Yeah, surgery,” Arac explained, gesturing with joking melodrama at the small scar on his neck, “I miss anything good?”
“Just a few scary stories and the like, we didn’t have a party or anything this year,” Wil said, “so it wasn’t too big a loss.”
After a few moments of silence, Arac looked up at Wil again. “They don’t have the issues you’re looking for either, huh?”
“Nope,” the dark-haired mage said as he exhaled.
“Well, I know one thing we could surely find that would make up for missing halloween,” Arac whispiered, a cryptic undertone to his voice.

Sir Percival Rhyndon, often called the Gallant, tried to find peace in the crisp November morning. The leather glove on his outstretched hand was not taken to protect him from the cold, or for some unusual stylistic stament; it was the landing pad for his falcon. Falconry, one of the many arts of nobility in which Sir Percival had trained, was a way he often found to calm himself, to shake the uneasy feelings that gripped him or ease his fret, but today it did neither. Paladins, holy knights of the highest order, can sense evil the way normal warriors would smell a burning village, a Paladin can sense the evil long before the village is burned or the flames would reach his nose. This sense had led paladins to be seen by some as paranoid; off tilting at windmills at an upset stomach because they were certain it heralded teh coming of some great demon.
On peaceful days like this, when he felt evil, Percival wished he, too, could convince himself that his precognition was paranoia, his extrasensory perception nothing more than an unfortunate result of eating spiced lamb too late, perhaps, at a banquet. He know, though, that this feeling was different, like an ugly yellow weight on his ribcage, the same weight that warned him of evil coming in the distance.
Heaven’s Soldier, a young warrior very much enamored by Sir Percival’s skill and grace watched from behind. He had requested to come with the knight, and the kindly soul agreed to bring him along. Watching the Paladin’s muscular frame so stock still, staring at the sky in thought, Heaven’s Soldier wondered just what it was that troubled the great warrior. Sir Percival knew something was wrong, certainly, or something was personally wrong for Sir Percival. He didn’t know which. He couldn’t feel anything different in the air, an element he felt very closely tied too. Then again, how could the air tell him something bad was about to happen. Was that what the Paladin was worried about? What was going to happen?
Heaven’s Soldier heard a twig snap and hoped he hadn’t done it and somehow disrupted the falconry; he couldn’t tell if the process required complete silence or not. Turning with a flinch to look at his foot, which he was certain was the offender, he was quite surprised by what he saw.

“Blue. Blue, come in, this is Window,” a dark-garbed figure said, cursing the inane choice of nicknames in his head. Why could he be Black, at least, if the other agent got to be a colour? He’d rather to be named after his clothing choices than after a lame pun. “Come in Blue, let’s jsut get this over with and get paid, huh?”
“Widow? This is Blue, I think I’m in position,” a voice crackled into his ear. Bastard got the nickname wrong, “Window” said to himself before realizing that “Widow” was at least a little better than his real nickname, and deciding not to correct him.
“You think? Ugh, if I coulda done this alone,” Window said back, knowing the mouthpiece would both transmit and muffle the sound. It was marvellous technology. He reminded himself he, unfortunately, couldn’t do this alone, and cut himself short before he went off any further on Blue. “Okay, I can’t give you better than that. Release the lightning at the third one over.”
“The third what over?” Blue asked. Why’d they put me with this kid? Window sulked, Nobody else could provide the lightning for the break-in? Nobody with any knowledge of this business? Amatures.
“Okay, see the panel. The third socket-thing over, the third place it looks like electricity would go,” Window explained, doing his best to sound patient but knowing his tone betrayed him.
“Got it!” Blue yelled intothe comm piece. Nobody else would hear it, but it was loud enough to be painful to Window. As the lights went off below the grate in the air duct Window looked through, and the fans all went silent, Window figured Blue just might’ve “got” a little bit more than he meant to.

“Old halloween candy?” Wilfredo asked Arac, incredulously.
Cheap halloween candy,” Arac corrected him with a massive grin, loading huge bags of mostly non-chocolate candy, with a few exceptions, into a cart.
“I don’t know–” Wilfredo said, before his eyes caught on the price of a particularly large bag of candy. “This is cheap!” he interrupted himself to say.
After both of them had loaded carts with sweets too low-priced to resist, they wheeled them eagerly towards the check-out lanes, looking around to see which one was open. None of the numbers were lit.
“That’s weird,” Arac said.
“Lunch break?” Wilfredo asked, before his eyes widened and the extra bag of candy held in one of his hands dropped to the floor. “On second thought, I don’t think so.”
“Why not?” Arac asked, still scanning the unlit numbers.
“Look,” Wilfredo said, pointing below the numbers to Arac’s eye level. In case Arac still couldn’t see, he clarified, ominously, “Zombies.”
“So it would seem,” Arac said, calmly, “Guess we aren’t getting our candy, then. This day really can’t–”
“Don’t say it!” Wilfredo’s cliche-sense forced him to scream.
“–get any worse,” Arac finished, thereby making it so things would invariably become worse.
The lights all went out.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Arac said, “it did get worse.” Feeling Wilfredo’s glare despite not being able to see his hand in front of his face, Arac added, “In my own defense, that would’ve happened no-matter what I said, it was just bad timing.” Wilfredo didn’t say anything, but the loud moan said the zombies either didn’t care or were not convinced.


Next time:
The mysterious origin of the Zombies almost revealed, but not all the way!
The identity of Blue and Window, um, not revealed!
More characters introduced!
Existential questioning on whether or not the Shrodinger’s blackout proves that we are all just fictional characters being moved by a cold, invisible hand for purposees of plot! And given the cliche of such a blackout, a bad plot, at that? Or, a SATIRE? (that’s right. Satire is a clue. A clue with hints in it)

Awesome! My play is about zombies… but they’re more well adjusted than the humans (I love satire, too). Keep up the sexy work (with or without sex)!

EDIT: Funny. We’re reading a play called Blue Window, Mr. Arac-pants.

Wow, you REALLY “got” me there, Arac! One’d think you knew me personally. And the zombies-and-darkness thing was funny. I also liked how you described Percival’s Paladin Senses- pretty original.

Only complaint- I think you should leave more space between paragraphs. Page looks a little cluttered. But maybe that’s just me. :stuck_out_tongue:

Looking up to more.

S’not just you, Wil. The thing could use a bit more spacing. But other than that, good start.

what arac on that one!

This is an excellent beginning, Arac. I like your careful and colourful but not excessively elaborate descriptions (one my vices when writing prose and to some degree poetry as well, I fear); you slow the narrative enough to fit in details nicely and not excessively. You have certainly cast a splendid image of my character, capturing both his identity as a paladin as well as that of a mediaeval person. The plots that you have opened thus far promise development and seize interest. Well done!

As I shall be rather busy over the months that follow, I may not post responses very frequently. Nevertheless, I shall be reading your story.

Hm. It probably would be easier to read more amply spaced, and since I’m not printing it out, I can’t give my usual excuse of saving paper. I’ll space it more in the future.
Thanks for the complements, all, I’ll add another part tonight/tomorrow and try for at least 2/week after this.

Wow, that was really attention grabbing. Fun beginning. ^^

Your fans would have printed it though. Think of the trees, I implore you!

Bran Mak Morn glowered at GG Crono. “I swear to ye for the last time, outlander, I am not named for the Bran muffin, nor is it named for me!” the barbarian king bellowed.

GG didn’t know why he let her talk him into it. When a former Valkyrie asks one to go drinking, one, politely, yet sternly, declines her. One does not agree to follow her to some universe-transcending bar/mead-hall filled with Robert E. Howard characters, rip-offs of them, the Pig thing from Deathstalker, and a guy who was an actual historic figure named Hrolf Kraki who seems very out of place and is the only person in the entire bar to speak Finnish.

Well, okay, he hadn’t seen that pig guy yet, but he was sure the pig guy was there. Just waiting for a barfight to reveal himself and rip the arm off some poor innocent passerby to beat the guy he was fighting with. GG’s luck was going just such that he’d be the passer-by.

He’d been seated at the mead hall with Bran Mak Morn, one of Conan the Barbarian’s less-famed but arguable more post-modern predecessors, and the last chief of a dying race of people called the Picts. Who could never again know glory and were possessed by savagery like beasts, except him, who for some reason was spared. He had also, evidently, lost his best friend to Roman conquests and lived in perpetual sorrow at the downfall of the people he was duty-bound and swarn to protect. So, maybe, in hindsight, GG should’ve figured he wasn’t in the mood for a joke about his name. He didn’t need to get so upset about it. GG had tried to apologize easily ten times, only to be cut off with the same oath before he could finish a word; “I swear to ye for the last time, outlander, I am not named for the Bran muffin, nor is it named for me!”

The other one at the bench of the mead hall was that Kraki guy, who couldn’t understand a word either of them said. GG was in-between the two, and they were really big, and really sweaty, and really drunk. Val had disappeaered off from the Mead Hall with some gold-haired Thor lookalike, leaving the poor recolour alone with a man who now hated him and a man whose tongue he could not comprehend. In a sweat-soaked nordic mead-hall complete with, of all things, flourescent lights. It was like they went out of their way to try and make this place so uncomfortable and disgusting you had to be drunk to enjoy it. Probably made more money off drinks that way, he smirked. Bran glared at him again and repeated, word-for-word, his vow that he had nothing to do with the creation of Bran muffins.

As the lights cut out, GG Crono took solace in the fact that at least the pig guy hadn’t torn off his arm, yet.

Heaven’s Soldier quickly drew his blade in an underhand grip and drove it into the earth next to his foot, severing a grey-skinned hand from its arm. Shaking his leg to kick it off, he callout to Percival to warn him, to find the Knight’s sword drawn and already hewing through the undead who gathered to him like a beacon. His falcon, even, had its own battle, diving at zombified mouse on the ground. Percival looked at the creature and wandered what sort of villain-- really! – zombified mice. Reminding himself that the day one can truly comprehend the mind of evil is the day one should grow worried, Percival returned to his own duel with the legion of zombies, their claws unable to scrath the holy warrior, his blade gliding through them with ease. The motions were not the crude, though effective, hacks of norse and northern Gael swordplay, but the light and fluid motions of noble fencing. Heaven’s Soldier was almost distracted from the one-armbed zombie he faced, for he had never seen a warrior fight in such a way with a sword of that size before. Percival’s blade wouldn’t have been effective, true, were it not enchanted to cut through the undead so effectively (as bones would hinder its graceful motion) but to weild so great a blade so lightly was a feat not to be scoffed at, whether there was magic in the sword or not.

“Blue. This is Window. What in the hell did you just do?”

“I’m a big boy, Window, you can use naughtier words,” the other voice taunted.

“We couldn’t have gotten anyone else,” Window said aloud into the comm.

“Not my fault you couldn’t do it yourself,” Blue countered. “I mean, you could’ve got a scroll or something.”

“I couldn’-- no, it wouldn’t have been the same. You had more electrical energy than a scroll, thus why you were needed,” Window said formally, reminding himself why Blue was necessary. Sighing to himself, he said, “Look, just don’t cock it up like this again next time, 'kay? Now get the lights back on before I find you and shoot my way out in the dark.”

“Why should I?” Blue taunted.

“I might hit you on ‘accident,’” Window reminded him, putting little doubt into the word “might.”

“Are we all just fictional characters being moved by a cold, invisible hand for purposees of plot?” Arac asked, existentially questioning his own existance.

“A bad plot, at that,” Wilfredo grumbled in the cliche-spawned darkness.

“A bad plot, or, a satire, gentlemen?” A voice from the shadows asked, striking a lighter below his face.

I enjoyed that despite the fact that there was lack of sex. Hot zombie sex. On a feather bed. Oh baby, oh baby.

It will come. Oh, how it will come.
Well, maybe not the feather bed part. That’s bad for the back, and zombies already have trouble with falling apart.

Lose more zombies that way, alas.

You know, I’m very pleased with how you’ve done my character, Arac.

And I’m going to love taking out some Zombies. Especially fighting along side Percival, that’s going to be fun.

So mote (must) I thrive, sir, I am right glad eke (also) in like wise that ye be founden in my company by adventure, sithen (since) sundry men of this fellowship of RPGC recommend you worshipfully.

It looks really good. I think I’ve figured out who Blue is (not that hard), but I have no idea who Window is.

“A bad plot, or, a satire, gentlemen?” GAP explained, “My satire.”

“What?” Wil asked.

“I was writing a satire play, around halloween, another Zombie one. Well, there’s this. . . power, I guess, that I have, where I can make the things I write real. I have to do it intentionally, of course, it doesn’t just happen. Until, as you two might’ve guessed, right now.”

“So, um, there wasn’t a chance you made the Zombies secretly polite and civlized in this one, too, is there?” Arac asked.

“Nope, this was a direct parody, I’m sorry to say,” GAP sighed.

“So we’re trapped in an arguably wittier Shaun of the Dead?” Arac said.

“Essentially, yeah. Thanks for the compliment, though,” GAP replied.

“So, how were the zombies in your parody destroyed?” Wil said, looking for a way out.

“I hadn’t really decided, yet. It wasn’t done,” GAP winced.

“Blue, where are you? You turned the lights on, I’m not going to shoot you, there’s no reason to hide. You can come out,” Window said into the com as he made his way to the door, worried about the radio silence. The only good thing abouta talkative partner was you always knew what was going on. The worst thing, aside from the irritating chatter, was that you also always knew when something bad was going on. “C’mon, kid, cat got your tongue?” Window teased.

“Nope,” a voice behind him said, “Dragon got it. Care to explain just what you’re doing here?”

Window flinched as the voice went through his comm. Son of a bitch, this job just got easily a dozen times more difficult.

Dude, Kairi, Matabsekker and Kirokiri looked around the elevator. “I can’t see,” Dude said at length, hoping to end the awkward silence.

“I can!” Kirokiri said proudly.

“Catgirls get night vision, no fair!” Dude joked back.

“I think they’re plenty fair,” Matabsekker noted.

“A-hem,” Kiro said to remind him she was there.

“Sorry,” he said. Another awkward silence ensued.

“Electricity’s down,” Dude said, trying to end the awkwardness again.

“Wanna lift me up so I can see if I can reach the floor above?” Kairi asked.

“Too far between floors,” Dude said.

“We have to just wait here?” Kiro asked, obviously bored.

“Hey, whose hand is that?” Kairi asked.

“Not mine.”

“Not mine.”

“Not mine.”

“Yeah, I know, I was just joking,” she said.

“Dark sorcery tries to undo the last king of the picts!” Bran roared, rising from the table noisily and drawing a blade from his side. GG couldn’t tell what was going to be done with the bade because he can’t think.
“Or a power failure,” GG siad to him, then realized a man he could not see had a sword drawn right next to him and added, “But I bet it’s the sorcery. Yeah. That sounds right. Damn those dark sorcerors.”
“They’re a vile lot, lad, crafty bastards, though,” Bran growled.
“Don’t I know it,” GG moaned.

Dark sorcerers again?! Sheesh, and they just fumigated the place last week too!

Great job, I can’t wait for the next chapter. (Oh, just pointing out that it’s Kirokokori, no kirokiri. ^^)

When isn’t it drak sorcerors. Oh well we can take them.