...five.
The Slinger squinted at Smokey amidst the desert's Purgatory. Kuman had gone done a fine job of laying down his own fight.
He'd fallen but he hadn't Fallen.
The bullets had taken Kuman off his footing, but the carcass was only half made. The Dame's vultures had fled long ago but they were keen to come back-- and still she insisted on playing their heartstrings. Death's chariot had grown restless-- he wanted his fall man, and with thinning patience he would be content with settling for less.
Marlowe's smoke heavy baritone came over the link. "I ain't going to lie to you, Manco," he gruffed. "We're running out of bullets-- you think you still have it in you to make the carcass?"
Triggerman stayed silent, his lack of voice fulfilled instead by Hell's wash of cacophony. His thoughts were affixed with lead, distracted by half notions and the embittered concepts of the bullet.
He was obsessed with having the cure to Kuman's ailment; the bastard's sickness was choosing still not to sleep.
All roar and wind; the Slinger's allies had snapped to action once more.
But then Her voice came.
Feel like gambling?
The Dame had asked him the question, the kind with an answer too cold to make out the syllables that would frost the words.
Pick a card-- any card.
She fancied herself a magician, but he knew it was just a parlor trick. She was selling a damn guessing game with no easy return.
"...you know something, old man?" Triggerman finally responded gravelly, breaking his pause. "...I'm feeling lucky."
"You've never seemed the type... and you know I've never trusted her song and dance routine."
Triggerman lowered his hat. "...I think the bitch has come to my side of street."
"...I'll tell you something else. I'm pissed off now-- out of smokes," Marlowe grunted detachedly.
"...Too bad he ain't," Triggerman quipped through gritted teeth, with a nod to Kuman.
Triggerman knew the cards-- the dealer was on his side, The Damn Dame and Old Man Death both. He stood as if alone, just one of the lonely damned with a hell of display and a torn poncho behind.
But he was already too dead; too close to the Devil himself not to give Kuman an introduction too.
The sand spectre faded into the Seven's maelstrom, that hell he shared with the septet of fleeing sinners and a whole lot of broken liars.
In their next enfuried pass by Kuman, their gale turned sharp; from its sand appeared Triggerman's tattered poncho, and hat in close succession like an afterthought.
The tattered ghost drew himself upon the felled bear, hand reaching for neck, while gun arm prepared itself ceremonially. He was without time to indulge in a mental monologue or bleak observation; he was without time to try the Lady's fickleness. He cocked the hammer with steeled conviction at an instant.
Triggerman bore that cold barrel against Kuman's head, the Seven's hurricane encouraging every aggression with fanfare all their own.
He pulled the trigger at point blank, noise damp like any cry of pain that might've been. But Triggerman knew he'd yet to get his hands dirty; he holstered the .45 as a RageClaw began to take form in its stead.
He held onto Kuman's neck for every damned penny worth of a hurt he could donate, because he was nursing one. With a heavy hand, he threw a blow against the bear's skull, smashing it like he'd never held a gun before.
But the moment had passed; the slinger made haste to avoid Kuman's retaliation.
The beast was crippled but not tamed. In another moment, he had become a ghost again. Poncho and hat were what had become of Triggerman once more, and in escape, it drifted into the Sinner's domain.
The Magnificent Seven began their hard goodbyes; gale tormented that which had fallen, flame jeering like cattle prods upon the still quaking earth.
Hell had cleared, but Death was a patient one.
-)Kuman is The Target
-)The Magnificent Seven, 3/3 (10 damage, kuman massively blinded, deafened, disoriented, immobilized)
1)AreaGrab onto Kuman's neck
2)Snipe: Shotgun Kuman's head (60+ damage?, high accuracy)
3)RageClaw Kuman's head (40+ damage?)
-)Activate Spectre.GMO
4)Fade away into storm/Dodge
-)The Magnificent Seven dismissed (additional 10 damage)
=The Count: 4/6=
Yumland Research (EVENT!)
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Kuman, lying broken and bleeding on the ground, starts to breathe heavily, the labored breathing almost has a laughter like quality to it. This haunting sound echos around the valley, taunting the Navis.
Edgar patches himself and Triggerman up, while his DBLBeam spun around, revealing the red side, blasting Kuman.
Gunner somehow snipes a bomb, hitting it with the bomb, Kuman shrugs off the stun again, however. Gunner's follow-up shots all land as well, easily.
As the storm dies, Triggerman warps in to do some uncharacteristic short-range fighting. A point blank range shotgun can do quite a bit extra damage, then a claw to the neck can help any fighter's cause, but Kuman manages to fling Triggerman on the ground, landing right between Gunner and Edgar.
With all of the Navi's one place, Kuman's 'laughter' stops long enough to cough up a mighty breath, a large gout of 'wooden' breath, which easily overtakes the three Navi's.
Kuman: 360
Gunner.EXE: 1
Count_Edgar.EXE: 1
TriggerMan.EXE: 1
Special: Kuman Minor Netdrain has ended! Full Speed restored.
Special: Kuman's back legs are broken! Extreme penalties to movement and dodge.
Edgar patches himself and Triggerman up, while his DBLBeam spun around, revealing the red side, blasting Kuman.
Gunner somehow snipes a bomb, hitting it with the bomb, Kuman shrugs off the stun again, however. Gunner's follow-up shots all land as well, easily.
As the storm dies, Triggerman warps in to do some uncharacteristic short-range fighting. A point blank range shotgun can do quite a bit extra damage, then a claw to the neck can help any fighter's cause, but Kuman manages to fling Triggerman on the ground, landing right between Gunner and Edgar.
With all of the Navi's one place, Kuman's 'laughter' stops long enough to cough up a mighty breath, a large gout of 'wooden' breath, which easily overtakes the three Navi's.
Kuman: 360
Gunner.EXE: 1
Count_Edgar.EXE: 1
TriggerMan.EXE: 1
Special: Kuman Minor Netdrain has ended! Full Speed restored.
Special: Kuman's back legs are broken! Extreme penalties to movement and dodge.
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Edgar just got hit in the back by wood. He does not feel the pain of the attack, but he does have to kneel over some from the force of the hit. "I've been trough worse, trust me." He says while grinning. He manages to stand up, and then he says something else. "Looks like it is time for me to use something that might win this for us." He turns around to face Kuman. He raises his right arm into the air, and blood floats out of it at a fast rate into the air. At first, it creates a giant bubble. But when it size becomes bigger and bigger, it starts to change shape. When the blood stops flowing from Edgar's hand, the orb is now a giant long sword. The hilt was very oriental, like it was crafted for a king to whiled, the blade, sharp.
"Chishio No Kendo" Edgar shouted out, as his massive blood made long sword floats above his side, the tip facing Kuman. With the snap of Edgar's fingers, the blade starts to glow, then is engulfed in albino flames. The air around Edgar becomes unbearably dry, the plants start to wither away. Edgar, with a great yell, swings his arm forward. The blade then jets right at Kuman, the plants under it withers from the sheer heat of the weapon. The weapon finds it mark as either Kuman's shoulder or the ground near him. Kuman's fur begins to dry up from the flames. Edgar whispers to himself "Time for the fireworks to start." Then the blade.... Explodes. The storm of flames and hardened blood engulfs Kuman, unknown if it even damages him. It better have Edgar hopes, and he says to his allies "I think that is the last of my steam, the lord holds our fate now."
((Summery
0 holy strenght
1 Heatshot (40+20)*2
2 minibomb 60+20
3 minibomb 60+20))
"Chishio No Kendo" Edgar shouted out, as his massive blood made long sword floats above his side, the tip facing Kuman. With the snap of Edgar's fingers, the blade starts to glow, then is engulfed in albino flames. The air around Edgar becomes unbearably dry, the plants start to wither away. Edgar, with a great yell, swings his arm forward. The blade then jets right at Kuman, the plants under it withers from the sheer heat of the weapon. The weapon finds it mark as either Kuman's shoulder or the ground near him. Kuman's fur begins to dry up from the flames. Edgar whispers to himself "Time for the fireworks to start." Then the blade.... Explodes. The storm of flames and hardened blood engulfs Kuman, unknown if it even damages him. It better have Edgar hopes, and he says to his allies "I think that is the last of my steam, the lord holds our fate now."
((Summery
0 holy strenght
1 Heatshot (40+20)*2
2 minibomb 60+20
3 minibomb 60+20))
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"This is it... We've run out of chips. Nothing to do now but hope."
"And the best kind of hope is laced with hot lead." Gunner's comment only managed to increase the melodrama, though. "Let's see if those Navicust parts paid off." He reached into the holster.
The result was... Unexpected. His hand came to grasp nothing; in fact, he no longer had a hand. In its place was a common-issue buster with a paint job that matched Gunner's usual colors, gleaming in ebony and crimson. This was pretty unusual, but he had figuratively asked for it; he hadn't got a weapon firmly fixed in his mind when he reached in. The thing had a mind of its own, sometimes.
With a shrug, Gunner decided to make the best of it. He focussed his mind, and energy began to collect in a tiny orb at the yawning mouth of the thing. Motes of pure light drifted to the growing sphere of power until its size reached a peak. He let fly with the stored energy and fly it did, in a tear drop-shaped mass that screamed through the air at the oversized bear. It was soon followed up with another shot, although this one paled in comparison to the fireworks moments before.
---------------
I'm in a hurry and my Gunner muse is slackening. Sorry for the shortie.
1-3. Charge Attack (40) Kuman
4. Attack (10) Kuman
"And the best kind of hope is laced with hot lead." Gunner's comment only managed to increase the melodrama, though. "Let's see if those Navicust parts paid off." He reached into the holster.
The result was... Unexpected. His hand came to grasp nothing; in fact, he no longer had a hand. In its place was a common-issue buster with a paint job that matched Gunner's usual colors, gleaming in ebony and crimson. This was pretty unusual, but he had figuratively asked for it; he hadn't got a weapon firmly fixed in his mind when he reached in. The thing had a mind of its own, sometimes.
With a shrug, Gunner decided to make the best of it. He focussed his mind, and energy began to collect in a tiny orb at the yawning mouth of the thing. Motes of pure light drifted to the growing sphere of power until its size reached a peak. He let fly with the stored energy and fly it did, in a tear drop-shaped mass that screamed through the air at the oversized bear. It was soon followed up with another shot, although this one paled in comparison to the fireworks moments before.
---------------
I'm in a hurry and my Gunner muse is slackening. Sorry for the shortie.
1-3. Charge Attack (40) Kuman
4. Attack (10) Kuman
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She'd dropped the damned deck now. No more hands or suites to play; a burning joker at the bottom of the pack because everything was folded now. That hairy bastard didn't have any more rolls or chips to throw in.
His stack was empty.
The Kid and Doc had pitched in shots, but Triggerman knew the other two who'd sealed it.
The three had cornered that green son-of-a-bitch; They'd bullied him into that corner without so much as a drink, the Slinger, the Lady, and the Scytheman. They were a hell of a bunch; a Wild Bunch, and the Slinger didn't much like the other two.
They were The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly... and Smokey was without a prayer.
Ugly's chariot still waited in the wings, and now the Lady's vultures heralded it for all it was worth. They'd cawed like a whore's brat first and last breath, come out of hiding because they'd seen the Sinners out the door now. Their sandy purgatory had left, but there was plenty more hell where it had come from; they were just as well inviting Smokey.
The raptors swooped low now; making the paces arbitrarily, because they knew the domino could fall either way. The Slinger knew he was hanging on by the Lady's last thread, her fickle favor; he knew they'd be just as pleased with his carcass as Smokey's. Low circles for the hacken-eyed profiteers and too little to hide.
Triggerman lowered his hat for another damn time, giving a secure tug to his dustworn headpiece in some kind of morbid air.
If Ugly's going cold on me, I'm sure as hell keeping my hat on...
He still had the RageClaw; she had a few swings left in her, enough to swing Smokey to where he'd hibernate for a good time.
Triggerman cocked open the .45's chamber, frowning at the Count; too keen, the bullets. Too much for Smokey, more than he deserved.
Too many bullets he thought.
The leads all fell out; three clinks on the ground deprived of a bloody destination, except for a loner that remained in the chamber.
One bullet in the gun; seemed enough.
One too many, for you, Smokey.
He holstered his faithful companion, patting it with some kind of detached respect. It was a reassurance; the promise that he'd have the last word.
And The Slinger was keen on keeping that promise.
Triggerman made his final rush on Smokey; a whole lot of bullets and skin fading into nothing but a too-broken poncho and sorry hat. The Desert Ghost again, but accompanied by a pair of allies and another duet of punishers.
It was five against one.
The Slinger's phantom poncho threw itself at the prone cybeast again, and from the empty poncho appeared Triggerman's fully bleeding form. From his tattered folds he withdrew his still active RageClaw, still hot from its last encounter with Kuman's hissy fit.
But the brat wasn't getting his way this time; they were going to put that bastard to sleep now, smother the mockingbird because it'd never sang easy on the ears.
The distance was closed; Triggerman flung his claw-bearing arm at Kuman's head with the kind of empowerment only the Bad Dame and the Hooded Bastard would ever give.
The starving ones, the black artisans, them bloody buzzards invited themselves; they flung their feathered forms eager at Kuman, The Faller, prematurely clawed at the meat like a preview.
The Slinger threw another blow, felt the claws weighted with the Scytheman's effort too; the Old Man still had his scythearm intact. The black artisans were making some cacophony, raucous like a company of beermongers that wouldn't be told better. Still cawing, still clawing at what they'd labelled theirs.
Triggerman disengaged the Claw with a flick of his wrist; spent too long with it if only to get on Smokey's bad side.
He would keep his promise.
The Slinger withdrew his .45 without drama, cocked the hammer cold; he didn't need to aim, because the other two had done the aiming for him. No pause for the recollection of the jester's whole choreography, that somber ballet of battle.
He pulled the trigger.
The Old Man had put on his hood again.
...Don'cha hear that whistle blowin' Smokey? That train's for you.
=Summary=
i) Dodge/Drift into melee range
ii) RageClaw Kuman's head (40)
iii) RageClaw Kuman's head (40)
iv) Attack Kuman's head point blank (2)
=The Count: 0/6=
His stack was empty.
The Kid and Doc had pitched in shots, but Triggerman knew the other two who'd sealed it.
The three had cornered that green son-of-a-bitch; They'd bullied him into that corner without so much as a drink, the Slinger, the Lady, and the Scytheman. They were a hell of a bunch; a Wild Bunch, and the Slinger didn't much like the other two.
They were The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly... and Smokey was without a prayer.
Ugly's chariot still waited in the wings, and now the Lady's vultures heralded it for all it was worth. They'd cawed like a whore's brat first and last breath, come out of hiding because they'd seen the Sinners out the door now. Their sandy purgatory had left, but there was plenty more hell where it had come from; they were just as well inviting Smokey.
The raptors swooped low now; making the paces arbitrarily, because they knew the domino could fall either way. The Slinger knew he was hanging on by the Lady's last thread, her fickle favor; he knew they'd be just as pleased with his carcass as Smokey's. Low circles for the hacken-eyed profiteers and too little to hide.
Triggerman lowered his hat for another damn time, giving a secure tug to his dustworn headpiece in some kind of morbid air.
If Ugly's going cold on me, I'm sure as hell keeping my hat on...
He still had the RageClaw; she had a few swings left in her, enough to swing Smokey to where he'd hibernate for a good time.
Triggerman cocked open the .45's chamber, frowning at the Count; too keen, the bullets. Too much for Smokey, more than he deserved.
Too many bullets he thought.
The leads all fell out; three clinks on the ground deprived of a bloody destination, except for a loner that remained in the chamber.
One bullet in the gun; seemed enough.
One too many, for you, Smokey.
He holstered his faithful companion, patting it with some kind of detached respect. It was a reassurance; the promise that he'd have the last word.
And The Slinger was keen on keeping that promise.
Triggerman made his final rush on Smokey; a whole lot of bullets and skin fading into nothing but a too-broken poncho and sorry hat. The Desert Ghost again, but accompanied by a pair of allies and another duet of punishers.
It was five against one.
The Slinger's phantom poncho threw itself at the prone cybeast again, and from the empty poncho appeared Triggerman's fully bleeding form. From his tattered folds he withdrew his still active RageClaw, still hot from its last encounter with Kuman's hissy fit.
But the brat wasn't getting his way this time; they were going to put that bastard to sleep now, smother the mockingbird because it'd never sang easy on the ears.
The distance was closed; Triggerman flung his claw-bearing arm at Kuman's head with the kind of empowerment only the Bad Dame and the Hooded Bastard would ever give.
The starving ones, the black artisans, them bloody buzzards invited themselves; they flung their feathered forms eager at Kuman, The Faller, prematurely clawed at the meat like a preview.
The Slinger threw another blow, felt the claws weighted with the Scytheman's effort too; the Old Man still had his scythearm intact. The black artisans were making some cacophony, raucous like a company of beermongers that wouldn't be told better. Still cawing, still clawing at what they'd labelled theirs.
Triggerman disengaged the Claw with a flick of his wrist; spent too long with it if only to get on Smokey's bad side.
He would keep his promise.
The Slinger withdrew his .45 without drama, cocked the hammer cold; he didn't need to aim, because the other two had done the aiming for him. No pause for the recollection of the jester's whole choreography, that somber ballet of battle.
He pulled the trigger.
The Old Man had put on his hood again.
...Don'cha hear that whistle blowin' Smokey? That train's for you.
=Summary=
i) Dodge/Drift into melee range
ii) RageClaw Kuman's head (40)
iii) RageClaw Kuman's head (40)
iv) Attack Kuman's head point blank (2)
=The Count: 0/6=
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Count Edgar bombs away at Kuman, Sending him to new worlds of hurt. Kuman's laughing only seems to get louder as he drives his paw down at edgar, but he misses, and only succeds in burring his claws into the ground.
Gunner fires a shot with all of his energy at Kuman, knocking him around wildly, and three audible snaps can be heard as his arm is pulled free. Kuman's 'laughter' is almost drowning out all of the other sounds around them, it's almost a full roar.
Triggerman slashes viciously at Kuman, then, shoots him between the eyes for the hell of it. Suddenly, Kuman's laughter stops. Dead silence rolls across the area.
Then from the bullet hole, a brilliant green ray of light shoot upwards through the sky, shattering the jackout barrier, and Kuman roars, causing the thick vegitation to die in the immediate area. The ray of light glows brighter and brighter, until it consumes Kuman's body utterly. The beam, now split into many seperated beams, fly upwards, then spiral outwards, over the heads of the trio of Navis. As each ray makes an impact with the ground, it takes the shape of Kuman, over and over again, until Kuman's had been dispersed in all directions.
What have the Navi's released?
Kuman: UNLEASHED
Gunner.EXE: 1
Count_Edgar.EXE: 1
TriggerMan.EXE: 1
Rewards:
Gunner.EXE: BambooSword, Kuman's Claw
Count_Edgar.EXE: BambooSword, Kuman's Claw
TriggerMan.EXE: BambooSword, Kuman's Claw
Gunner fires a shot with all of his energy at Kuman, knocking him around wildly, and three audible snaps can be heard as his arm is pulled free. Kuman's 'laughter' is almost drowning out all of the other sounds around them, it's almost a full roar.
Triggerman slashes viciously at Kuman, then, shoots him between the eyes for the hell of it. Suddenly, Kuman's laughter stops. Dead silence rolls across the area.
Then from the bullet hole, a brilliant green ray of light shoot upwards through the sky, shattering the jackout barrier, and Kuman roars, causing the thick vegitation to die in the immediate area. The ray of light glows brighter and brighter, until it consumes Kuman's body utterly. The beam, now split into many seperated beams, fly upwards, then spiral outwards, over the heads of the trio of Navis. As each ray makes an impact with the ground, it takes the shape of Kuman, over and over again, until Kuman's had been dispersed in all directions.
What have the Navi's released?
Kuman: UNLEASHED
Gunner.EXE: 1
Count_Edgar.EXE: 1
TriggerMan.EXE: 1
Rewards:
Gunner.EXE: BambooSword, Kuman's Claw
Count_Edgar.EXE: BambooSword, Kuman's Claw
TriggerMan.EXE: BambooSword, Kuman's Claw
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Edgar has protected his allies, but their foe, the bear Kuman, has split into numerous copies of itself. Was that was the bear's plan? Edgar did not care about that at the moment. The blood used in the attack slowly returns to him as he moves to one of the trees and sits down by it.
"So, who here has the strange feeling that things might have gotten worse?" He asks, not truly knowing what has truly happened. "Well, at least we made it out of this alive." He said, chuckling some.
"So, who here has the strange feeling that things might have gotten worse?" He asks, not truly knowing what has truly happened. "Well, at least we made it out of this alive." He said, chuckling some.
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"Unforatnetly, I am going off somewhere to heal myself in confert." Edgar said, as he slowly starts to vanish. And in a few moments, he was gone.
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Swift was silent. Gunner was silent. Only thunder's throaty rumble could be heard in his small apartment. A rather flip touch from the Powers that Were, spicing up life's eternal drama. It added... weight... to what had just transpired. The Powers fancied melodrama, it seemed.
"What..." Swift feebly broke the silence, but his words trailed off too soon after their conception.
"... The thing's a genius." Gunner stated.
"What?" Swift was weakly incredulous.
"Whatever we just did, whatever happened, the beast wanted it to happen? Couldn't you hear? It was... laughing."
Somber silence descended once again. Swift felt like he was going to empty his morning coffee across the floor.
"Let's report to the Police... It's all we can do to clean up whatever it is we've unleashesd. I took a video."
"Alright." Gunner was preoccupied with scrawling something onto a piece of paper he had conjured from the PET's word program. He made his infirm way to the man in the poncho, and held out the scratched note with his one good arm: peacefulking@home.net.
"I don't know your name, but mine's Gunner. My operator, Swift. You were really a great part of this fight... Email us sometime if you want to fight together again." With a nod, Gunner simply dissapeared from the face of the Net.
"What..." Swift feebly broke the silence, but his words trailed off too soon after their conception.
"... The thing's a genius." Gunner stated.
"What?" Swift was weakly incredulous.
"Whatever we just did, whatever happened, the beast wanted it to happen? Couldn't you hear? It was... laughing."
Somber silence descended once again. Swift felt like he was going to empty his morning coffee across the floor.
"Let's report to the Police... It's all we can do to clean up whatever it is we've unleashesd. I took a video."
"Alright." Gunner was preoccupied with scrawling something onto a piece of paper he had conjured from the PET's word program. He made his infirm way to the man in the poncho, and held out the scratched note with his one good arm: peacefulking@home.net.
"I don't know your name, but mine's Gunner. My operator, Swift. You were really a great part of this fight... Email us sometime if you want to fight together again." With a nod, Gunner simply dissapeared from the face of the Net.
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Smokey'd played him; hell, the dame had been in on it. That was why she'd been so keen to see Old Smokey make amends as the raptor fodder. She'd cheated on her old flame Death; poor bastard didn't get to make any scythe work even after he'd put in the effort to lug his damn pull cart too.
And now the one who should've been the Faller was laughing like the Jester that stayed in the deck.
Dracula and The Kid had gone and left. They'd played their parts to the dame's satisfaction too-- hapless marionettes just like him. But they'd gone done only what they'd thought they knew, just like Triggerman.
He brushed himself off as an afterthought; poncho was tattered like a defaced tribute to Smokey's reckoning. He'd seen better days... and he'd felt them too. Just hanging by that familiar thread while the Dame had fled already. She'd done her fancy.
"...so how're you holding up?" Marlowe quipped in a kind of morbid gravel.
"...Go to hell."
One stroke of a callous breeze passed through the poncho, half a moment to spare. A whole lot of dust and then a whole lot of nothing.
A tumbleweed passed by. The poncho was gone.
And now the one who should've been the Faller was laughing like the Jester that stayed in the deck.
Dracula and The Kid had gone and left. They'd played their parts to the dame's satisfaction too-- hapless marionettes just like him. But they'd gone done only what they'd thought they knew, just like Triggerman.
He brushed himself off as an afterthought; poncho was tattered like a defaced tribute to Smokey's reckoning. He'd seen better days... and he'd felt them too. Just hanging by that familiar thread while the Dame had fled already. She'd done her fancy.
"...so how're you holding up?" Marlowe quipped in a kind of morbid gravel.
"...Go to hell."
One stroke of a callous breeze passed through the poncho, half a moment to spare. A whole lot of dust and then a whole lot of nothing.
A tumbleweed passed by. The poncho was gone.