Hello errybody ^_^ It's a beautiful day for bloodshed, is it not?
Today we've got a wonderful fight for you all to witness between Winston Kitt(Kamiroo Wolf) and Zackeroar(XDHunterNest)! It's sure to be a doozy so just kick back, relax, and be sure to vote fairly.
XDHunterNest's Part
Spoiler for Vengeance:
Show
The night was dark and full of terrors. Zackeroar trudged through the forest to the cabin he called home ever since he left the comforts of the Wind Chasers' base in Cansad City. It was hard, but had to be done. The Spartan wasn't feeling the thrill of the battle as often as he wanted. He hoped to have frequent battles with the comrades and friends he had gained. He wanted to feel the blood pumping through his veins, the adrenaline flowing through him, the sound of metal on metal, the sound of metal piercing skin.
Finally, the demi-god reached his wooden cabin. It was in the middle of the woods. No paths leading to it, no signs telling where to go, perfect for Zackeroar. The wooden door creaked as the Spartan shoved it open. The burden on his shoulder was becoming heavier by the minute. A red light shone outside as the sun slowly rose in the east, and Zackeroar hadn't gotten any sleep the night before.
Usually, his hunts would not go on for as long as it had gone the day before, but he had a little trouble. The wooden floor made a loud thump as Zackeroar unslung his kill and let it fall to the ground. It was a large brown bear, twice as tall as the Spartan. He hung up his sheathed sword, removed his armor, and leaned his shield on a wall beside his spear before he lay on his bed and let sleep take him.
A day before...
Zackeroar ate the last of the food he had stored. He had only taken a few supplies with him as he left the Wind Chasers - his armor, weapons, and a knapsack of foodstuffs. That was a few weeks ago. It was finally time for a hunt. He set out of his wooden cabin, spear and shield in hand, sword sheathed behind his back, and armor covering his body.
The Spartan walked through the forest, turning his head from left to right as he searched for his prey. He was keen to look for rustling leaves, shadows, shaking of trees. Zackeroar cut away vines as he walked forward, still searching for food. Berries and fruits would've sufficed, but the Spartan disliked those. He needed sweet, succulent meat. No, he wanted it. But more than his want for meat, he wanted to feel the adrenaline pumping from his veins as his spear pierced right through something. He thirsted for blood.
"Only one place would surely have animals in this godforsaken place." thought Zackeroar. The demi-god marched forward to the watering hole where all kinds of plants and flowers grew and where animals came to drink. He passed by it when he was searching for a place where his lodging could be built. It would've been perfect, but where herbivores come to eat and drink, carnivores feast.
Finally, the spring was up ahead. Zackeroar peered through bushes, crouching as he held his spear and shield in hand. It sparkled as the sunlight hit its crystal clear, blue waters. There was one problem, though. The Spartan looked left to right, searching to no avail. There were no animals! "What in the gods' names?" Two figures sat near the water - a boy and something that seemed like a stick figure. The boy had dark skin with black hair that curled. His eyes were dark grey, like Zackeroar's hair when in Wrath. Eyeglasses covered these like a helmet that protected a warrior's head. He wore a plain orange shirt and had jeans on.
The Spartan walked out of the shrubbery and into plain sight, his armor clanking as he stepped. Upon closer inspection, the dark-skinned teenager was holding a sketchpad with a ringed spine. Attached to the ringed spine was a blue pen. The stick figure immediately stood up, soon followed by what Zackeroar thought was its master. "Who goes there?" asked the boy. The demi-god took a step then stopped. He raised his shield and spear and eyed the boy and his "pet". "Wait. You're Zackeroar, aren't you?" The Spartan showed a sign of surprise on his face and lowered his weapons.
"Yes, I know you! You're the Spartan from the wRHG!"
"You know me, mortal, but I don't know you."
"Ah, yes yes. My name is Winston Kitt."
"Nice to meet you Winston. Well, I must get going. Gods bless you and your 'friend'."
"Hold on, hold on. I can't let you do that."
"Huh?"
"I'm supposed to kill you!"
Winston quickly opened his sketched pad and ripped a few pages from it. Pieces of paper slowly reached the grass they were standing on as he tore these in half. "Hahahahaha! You're supposed to kill me with those?" Zackeroar said as he looked at the pieces of paper that lay on the ground. "No," a smirk appeared on the creator's face. "With these. Attack!" Two stickmen holding swords and shields charged at Zackeroar. The "bodyguard" and a stickman with bow and arrows stayed back with the boy.
Arrows whizzed by the Spartan as the two swordsticks edged closer and closer. The demi-god smacked one across the face with the butt of his spear. It recoiled back as Zackeroar sidestepped from a downwards slash from the other one. "Bad move." The Spartan thrust his spear at the exposed side of the swordstick. Green grass turned to blue as the spear penetrated straight through to the other side. Zackeroar pulled his spear out of the torso, blue ink splattering across his chestplate.
Arrows bounced off of the demi-god's metal shield as he charged closer and closer to the creator. "Surround him!" Four sticks wielding swords on both hands counter-charged Zackeroar, who stopped and laughed. "I am the son of Zeus!" he said as he kicked one stickman in the groin. It took a few steps back as the kick connected. "I am wrath incarnate!" He said as he blocked a vertical slash from another stickman. "And I will not lo-" The ground disappeared beneath him as a stickman smashed into his back. "May the son of Zeus live long and prosper!" Winston said as he snickered.
Slash after slash connected as the son of Zeus lay helpless on the ground. His shield was tossed away, his spear broken in half. He could feel nothing but anger as his armor creaked, sparked, and screamed from the punishment it was taking from the sword hits. Laughing could be heard from the back as Winston watched his target being ravaged. Skin gave way as cold steel connected. Demi-god blood oozed out from the points where sword sliced skin open like scissors would to a piece of paper.
Pain. Blood. Suffering. Anger. Zackeroar would not writhe or scream. Nor would he cry in pain. No, he would not give his enemies the pleasure of seeing the son of Zeus, wrath incarnate, cry out in suffering. Anger built up inside of him as the grass turned red with blood. "Keep it up! Don't stop until he's dead! Demi-gods are hard to kill. And this one's resilient as all heck." said Winston, observing the bloodshed with the archer and bodyguard beside him.
"Is this how I will die? The son of Zeus, killed by a boy. A boy, for Zeus's sake! A boy who draws, out of all the assassin's out there! 'Here is Zackeroar, the demi-god who killed thousands, but couldn't kill paper-thin hellspawns!' they will tell me in the Underworld. No, I will not die! Not like this! Not today!"
The clouds began to form as Zackeroar felt his life slowly slipping out of him. "No! Get out of the way! Brick cover him! Don't let the lightning touch him!" The bodyguard named Brick ran towards the body of the Spartan. Gray rain began to pour as the son of Zeus took a deep breath. "Hades, if I die now, I swear I will kill you in the underworld and feed you to your hellhounds." Zackeroar thought as Brick edged closer and closer. Thunder crackled, the loud booming sound filling the whole forest. Birds flew into the sky in terror as Winston dropped his sketchpad and covered his ears.
Red lightning struck down from the heavens above. Brick was launched back a few feet away as smoke covered the area where Zackeroar lay. A smoke so thick and black, you would think you've gone blind. Four lightning bolts, red like blood, struck the four swordsticks. No ink was splattered, but the stickmen disappeared. Electricity coursed through Zackeroar's veins. He felt himself slowly getting stronger, his wounds slowly closing. Finally, he regained control of himself and felt no pain. "I saved the remaining three for you, my son. Show them what happens when they try to kill the son of Zeus." said a voice in Zackeroar's head.
"Attack him, quickly! Brick, faster! Archer, fire!" The smoke cleared and there stood the son of Zeus, mithril greatsword in hand. Rain as gray as the Spartan's long hair still fell from the ash-colored clouds above. "I am sorry, mortal. Truly. But man or god, no one angers Zackeroar!" shouted the demi-god as he dodged arrows left and right.
Zackeroar sidestepped right, avoiding Brick's punch. His sword vibrated as it hit the bodyguard's shoulder. The stickman punched the chestplate with a right hook, denting it as fist connected with the metal. "He's called Brick for a reason, you know." Winston said, picking his sketchpad back up. "No, I musn't let him draw those sorceries of his again!" The Spartan stepped back as Brick's head shot forward. The stickman fell on his face as Zackeroar ran towards the archer, greatsword held above his head. He slashed downward with all his might as Winston frantically drew more stick figures. The stick fell in half and a puddle of blue replaced the spot he was in. Then, he tackled the creator, sending the sketchpad from his hand flying. "Don't worry," the son of Zeus said with a smirk, "I'm saving you for last." He got up and grabbed his sword and the sketchpad and flung it like he would throw his spear.
"Now for this boy's protector." Brick and Zackeroar continued to trade blows, the Spartan slicing and thrusting with his greatsword and the bodyguard taking no damage from the hits, but dishing punches, kicks, and headbutts back. The clouds were beginning to disappear, though. "Curse this 'Brick' creature! His invincibility must wear out soon!" The son of Zeus said as a punch from the stickman connected. "That was weaker..." thought Zackeroar. Another headbutt connected, but it wasn't as strong as before. A ray of sunlight began to shine as the clouds slowly dissipated.
The armor-clad warrior kicked the stickman in the chest. Brick took a few steps back in recoil. The Spartan, relentless, split his sword into two and unleashed a fury of strikes and slashes at the fallen stickman. He was careful not to hit the stickman's head and other valuable parts. Blue ink filled his swords, but he kept slashing and slicing as Winston wept in the back. Zackeroar kept losing his grip and Brick responded with punches to his face, but the Spartan kept going and going despite this. Finally, with a single slash to the head, the bodyguard was turned into a puddle of blue ink.
"Mercy!" cried Winston as Zackeroar trudged closer and closer, ink still dripping from his swords. "Like you showed me?" questioned wrath incarnate. He merged his swords into one mithril bladed, ruby encrusted, gold hilted greatsword. He raised it high above his head and it came down with a mighty scream from Winston in response. His right hand fell off like cheese when cut by a knife. Another scream came from the creator as his left hand was disconnected from his left arm.
"There's your mercy." Zackeroar's stomach rumbled as he looked at Winston, eyes weeping and focused on the Spartan. A mixture of anger and sadness was showing on his face. "Food, food, food." A look of terror appeared on Winston's face. "No no no no no, mortal." Zackeroar laughed. "I'm not a cannibal. Oh, look. A bear."
My(Kamiroo's) Part
Spoiler for Gods and their creations? Hmm. Prolly a better title than that. Screw it. Kamiroo's part.:
Show
The hollow air flies up into the young man’s cranium through his nostrils, the air rattling in his skull as he holds it all in just a little bit longer than recommended by most medical officials. He pictures the life he creates, and the very lives he allows to fall through his fingers in combat, but can only feel so much sympathy for his creations as the air flows out. His eyes open, the full view of Stickpage city becoming swallowed in his steel, grey pupils. His heart skips its first beat in weeks, the bustling people below forcing their way in and out of the building he sits atop.
“The people below me… they do not know of me. They… do not know my thoughts…my sins. They do not care as to the monster I am. They don’t know that every mistake I make costs me the life of a friend.”
But we learn from our mistakes. Their lives surely were not meaningless?
“Even if I did take notes in their spilt blood… what good are they? Regardless of whether or not I learned anything, a person still died. An ally with emotions, dreams, and ambitions. Who am I to bring about life and smother it before it has a chance to grow- experience the many things I've had the opportunity to?”
Better them closer in age to infants than old enough to become your parents. There is a price to be paid with every ability out there. None are exempt from guilt, you are not special. We have a meeting to attend. Summon one of your winged ones, and bid them farewell.
The command skitters across the man’s ears, his eyes closing once more behind his glasses as he crawls away from the edge of the building. He rises with a grunt, face blank with forced numbness as he slinks over to and receives his backpack from beside the rooftop entrance. Hesitant to open the bag, the creator instead shakily reaches for the rooftop door’s handle, his clammy fingers closing tight around the metal knob before he pulls and thrusts himself into the building.
“I’ll walk. No need to summon anybody.”
You are appalled by your cowardice. You will be forced to summon them eventually, and when you do… they will lay down their lives for you without so much as a second thought or an apology from the god who brought them to fruition. You are heartless.
The two continue to argue in Winston’s brain, exchanging blow for blow as they carry on a dull and repetitive conversation. His feet trudge down the seemingly countless flights of stairs, his eyes with a blank stare when the device nestled within his right pocket begins to buzz. He digs it out with his left hand awkwardly, only to sigh as the name “Giselle G.” appears next to the default profile picture for her number.
“I assume you’ve got information?” Winston initiates, trying his hardest not to breath heavily in the girl’s ear as he descends the metallic staircases.
“Your target is the Hercules 2.0 known as Zackeroar. His powers you can probably figure out for yourself, though it is worth mentioning that he wields a large sword with a spear and a shield. Should it come to a fight, keep in mind that his equipment coupled with his heavy armor render him relatively immobile compared to most other gladiators. You should have no trouble defeating him with sheer numbers, though I personally advise you to keep in mind that this is a mission for recruitment, not assassination. Should it come to it, however, I want you to remember that it is always your life over his, as is it with all of our members. Any questions?” Giselle dumps the information like an tense, under-appreciated mentor, her voice without sympathy as she awaits response from her subordinate.
Several moments pass.
“Well aren’t you just a bundle of joy this evening? Wanna talk about it, champ?” She loosens up, voice a tad bit more sisterly than Winston is able to enjoy.
“Huh? No- Sorry, just a lot on my mind. I’m good. You go ahead and go back to- you know, whatever it is that Giselle does whenever she’s tasked with ‘holding down the fort’.” The creator forces a pathetic chuckle, his eyes squinting despite the already setting sun as he himself pushes his way out onto the busy streets. Giselle responds with something one would most likely perceive as sarcastic, though her voice is almost immediately drowned out by the sheer number of shouts and screams one could expect from one of the world’s busiest cities.
None of them know. None of them care. All they desire is to bathe in the bloodshed and look out for themselves. Fair enough.
But bloodsport’s always been popular. Winston sighs aloud and adjusts his glasses, disgusted that he once wanted to be just like them- or rather, one of their precious dogs in the cage expected to maul the other. With a dismissive glance back and up toward the ledge from where he watched the people, the young man turns and heads in the shifting direction marked on his phone’s GPS.
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Even demigods got hungry, and when they did, no place was a quicker fix than Meat-n-Bunz Burgers. The son of Zeus feels like a lowly mongrel as he digs into the putrid patty, but can’t deny the rough satisfaction of the processed meat sliding down his throat. The taste is awful, almost astonishingly so, but nutrients are nutrients… wherever they may be hidden. Face scrunched up at the rancid flavor, Zackeroar sets the burger down for a brief moment to pull a few onion rings from their crisp, cheaply labeled packaging.
As he had not recently been in any fights(a deal offered solely to gladiators), the god-child was to be forced to pay his meal. However, a greatsword and a whole lot of attitude was more than enough to bend the policy just once. Now the armored demigod sits, placing the onion rings on his tongue with satisfaction on his face. Almost instantly, the flavor creeps across his tastebuds, the sharp initial taste washing away the disgusting meat slab his stomach struggles to digest. The aftertaste lingers, fertilizing the crop field that is his tongue as his face lightens for the first time since quitting his old clan.
Crunching aloud, Zackeroar curses the most-likely wriggling burger lying lazily on the tray. Why even serve such a thing if the side dishes were almost-
“You must be the son of Zeus himself! I can’t lie, you aren’t necessarily the hardest person to pick out amongst a crowd… not that there is one.” A voice calls, the wind dulling it out a bit as a figure emerges from the creeping night’s darkness. Holding the appearance of nothing more than a university student, Zackeroar would have immediately dismissed the caller had it not been for the mention of his father.
“Of course, I meant no disrespect, calling you out like that. You mind?” The figure approaches, gesturing toward the seat opposite of Zackeroar as the eating man proceeds to shake his head and invite the other to sit.
“Thanks. Outside seat huh? Can’t blame you; beautiful night such as this. Sun fleeting, moon’s greeting, stars hanging, sky dimming. A true sight for sore eyes. Why, reminds me-”
“Enough,” Zackeroar halts, dabbing the onion ring grease from the corners of his mouth with a sandpaper-like napkin. “Why is it you approach me at the dawn of dusk? Is this a formal challenge? If so, then I wasn’t informed, but am more than happy to p-”
“Relax. I’m not with the RHG corporation. The name is Winston, and it’s only a fight if you want it to be. I would very much prefer to talk out or show you my reasons for calling you out rather than beat my opinions into you.” Winston sticks out his hand, looking for a handshake as the armored man rises to his feet and steps outside of the metal table. Shrugging and thinking of the employees, the young ambassador picks up the gladiator’s tray, his target dropping to one knee as he retrieves his weaponry from the loose gravel below.
“You know, you gladiators should really drop your guard every once in awhile. Not every new person you meet is out for your blood.” Winston tosses the disposable food tray into the garbage, turning around only to see Zackeroar’s spear just inches away from the center of his left eye. Managing to keep his expression blank, Winston raises a single eyebrow and looks past the weapon into Zackeroar’s eyes.
“You done, Leonidas? Come on, we’ve got places to be.” The figure back steps from the spearhead and pivots around the trademarked Meat-N-Bunz Burgers trashcan, gesturing for the spartan to follow him as he walks off into the city. Dropping his guard, the son of Zeus frowns in suspicion only to end up trotting after him, his armor and equipment clanking with each step as they traverse the parking lot until they hit the sidewalk.
“I’d like this to not be an awkward period of silence, so I’ll be saying things and asking questions. You feel free to jump in at any time, y’know? Keep this interesting?” A joker’s tone mixes itself in with Winston’s words, Zackeroar only able to grunt in response as the plume on his head billows in the wind.
“Ok, so, first off. You fight people. How many have you killed?”
“None as far as gladiators go.”
This catches Winston by surprise. Not expecting the demigod to respond as quickly as he did, the creator reaches into his backpack and draws out a notepad.Pen to the paper, he pipes up once more, “Oooookay, you’re constantly wearing that armor as I understand. Isn’t it, y’know, hot outside? What’s your secret to avoiding heatstroke?”
“Only a true warrior can withstand the onslaught of the sun as well as his foes, and neither Helios nor Apollo hold enough power to dim the strength of Zeus.”
Winston attempts to suppress his mocking laughter, ignoring Zackeroar’s cringeworthy “praise the sun”-esque pose as he motions for the two of them to keep walking.
“What is the reason you fight?”
“I enjoy the thrill of battle. There are not many on this planet who can match my strength, however, so finding a worthy opponent is much easier said than done.”
“Oh? Would you ever consider leaving and fighting against the RHG corporation? Plenty of enemies on the outside.” The leading young man turns, his expression serious as he continues to scribble something down on the pages of his notebook.
Zackeroar observes his surroundings. Empty street in the pitch black of what is almost midnight, the concrete and asphalt only illuminated partially by the the flickering street lights. Around the two of them are an abundance of high-rise buildings, potentially walling the son of Zeus and his interrogator into a not-so-tight corridor. If they were going to engage in combat, this would be the ideal place for a late-night ambush.
“I would not. Not too long ago I told a fair ally of mine that I needed to get out of the clan for the sake of seeking battle. I was sick of living in stasis. I missed the thrill of constant challenges, the wind at my back, and the hunt for an equal. The RHG corporation provides the lambs for my slaughter, and my dear father gives me the strength to rend the life from them. Now tell me: for what reason am I answering these questions? You’ve yet to write down a single one of my answers.”
Winston considers his question, nodding somewhat detachedly as he steps across the street. Zackeroar holds his ground, tempted to reach for his spear as he observes the figure’s movements. His fingers have finished their third scribble, the page flipping quickly as he begins a fourth.
“I’ve got a proposition for ya, child of Zeus.” The young man calls from across the street, eyes locked on the opposing gladiator with a grim demeanor.” If my creatures can knock you on your back just once, you have to consider joining my clan. We’re a simple organization and don’t require much. We simply offer a home to any who seek it, and have a multitude of enemies for you to bash should you get that itch. I’m more than confident you’d be a perfect fit, as is my… employer, but the choice is always yours. This is a challenge. If you decline I will walk away right now and leave you to the night, but I wonder what that’d do to the son of Zeus’ pride, cowering at the challenge of a man half his size in weight.”
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As one might have have thought. You will rely on the strength of your stick figures after all. But it goes without saying you have little to no choice. The entrance to Sanctuary is in the next city over, and it is doubtful the warrior will simply follow you all the way there. But what will you do if the stick figures are slain? Will you weep for them?
Winston tears several pages from his notepad, igniting them with a from his pocket lighter and allowing them to burn up to his fingertips before dropping the collection of notes and stomping them out. As he does so, a black stick figure spawns before him, its height and build similar to the creator. Tall and lanky, but not to be taken lightly.
Well you tell them that you are sorry over their dead bodies?
“What is it you desire, Winston?” The stick figure gargles in an unintelligible language, its head turning between its creator and the spartan as Winston explains the situation. One at a time, Winston is allowed to create up to three stick figures. Each stick figure takes turns attempting to knock Zackeroar down. All they must do get him off his feet at least once and onto his back, and all of them will be rewarded for doing so.
Will you take your life when theirs are extinguished?
“As you wish.” The stick figure turns from its master and steps onto the street from the sidewalk, Zackeroar doing so as well.
Of course not. You do not love them as you say you do. You enhance this one out of fear. But just who is it you are afraid of here?
“A light-hearted challenge.” Zackeroar chuckles, getting into stance and tossing aside his weapons as the black stick figure charges. Their bodies impact against each other like boulder against boulder, each attempting to gain leverage against the other as their feet grind against the road. Zackeroar gets his hand up under the stick’s armpit, the creature cursing in its foreign dialect as it is raised over the spartan’s head and slammed into the ground without mercy. Rather than dying instantly on impact with the ground, the stick figure sputters up its black ink insides, rising to its feet shakily and turning to address its opponent.
Once more the stick figure charges, this time going low as it wraps its arms around the gladiator’s waist. However, Zackeroar takes the stick figure’s rush as though it were a bull, its body hoisted up once more by the son of Zeus’ natural strength before this time time being thrown against a brick-walled building with relative ease.
“Well ho-ly shit!” Winston exclaims from the sidelines with eyes wide and mouth agape. “Come on back, damnit, that’s enough for you.” Winston calls to the stick, his hand gripped around a new bundle of pages as he lights them ablaze. Another stick figure spawns, this time green in color, but otherwise the same in height and build as any other stick. It prances over to and retrieves its fallen comrade, skipping back over to the sidewalk Winston sits on before placing its incapacitated brethren down before the creator. The green stick steps onto the road now, dancing in place as Zackeroar summons a big breath and gets into stance.
“Why so serious, friend?” The stick figure cackles in its language, sprinting to and hopping over the surprised spartan before kicking him in his exposed back. The son of Zeus stumbles forward, off-balance, only able to twist around in confusion once he gets his footing to release a backhand strike in response to the sound of approaching footsteps.
“Flailing like a madman?!” The stick figure quips as it whips underneath the fist with a giggle, its body like a course fluid as it sweeps for the demigod’s legs. Zackeroar hops back just in time, only to be caught mid-air by the green stick’s crouching leap. A vein pulses in Zackeroar’s forehead, his heart and mind refusing to be played by the energetic fool.
“By my father-!” Almost instantaneously the son of Zeus’ hair is dyed an ashen shade of grey, his sapphire eyes shifting to the shade of rubies as the green stick figure attempts to body slam the clearly heavier contender. A strike to the earth prevents this, Zackeroar’s knuckles plunging deep into the street before his back can make contact, causing the asphalt to erupt beneath the two fighters. The green stick releases the gladiator and flawlessly executes a spiralling backflip, whilst Zackeroar uses his arm to half-cartwheel onto one knee. “That all you’ve got?!” He bellows, chin up and teeth barred with ferocity.
“Well, nobody ever said this was gonna be easy. Green, come on back!” Winston responds, Zackeroar dropping his guard to breath and stroll back over to his side of the street. The green stick thanks Winston for the wonderful time before dropping against a glass building, instantly asleep without a worry in the world as Winston finishes tracing any wounds apparent on the black figure’s body.
“Looks like you’re going to have to get back in there, bud. Sorry, but just try to avoid those slams as best you can.” The creator sighs, beginning his sketch on the next stick figure as the black one once more takes the stage. “Let’s see… sturdy… nimble…”
Why not request a bit more time to work on a different stick? Is it too late? You’re not in a rush.
“Is it so hard to stay down when you know you’ve been beat? Kneel to me and I might show you mercy when I contemplate snapping you in half.” Rough like elbows and knees against a sun-scorched stone slab, Zackeroar’s suggestion scales the buildings to the very heavens as the stick figure across from him spits onto the uprooted asphalt.
Apparently not learning anything from the last encounter, the stick charges, body like new as it meets the demigod’s force head on. Hands grasping shoulders, the two push against one another for a minimal amount of time before the black stick is forced off his feet and thrown to the ground, further cracking the terrain as he lands head first. In attempt to get up the stick’s body locks, shocked by a sudden surge of pain throughout its frame. Forcing a bit of ink past the gaps in its teeth, the stick eventually climbs to its feet, face swallowed by its unsettling, unblinking eye contact with its enemy.
“Kneel.” The blood of the Olympians commands.
The stick figure rushes once more, his opponent only able to smirk in disbelief as the lesser creature comes back for more. Without warning the figure fakes, pivoting on the tips of its feet as it whips around the massive enemy and bends to wrap its lanky arms around his waist from behind. Mustering all the strength possible, the stick lifts, body struggling and legs nearly giving out as Zackeroar is slowly torn from the ground. With one, final breath the creation roars and slams the gladiator behind him, spine snapping and body collapsing underneath the demigod’s weight as the two hit the ground with an unsettlingly thorough crunch.
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“Remind me again how a creature less than half your size was able to perform a suplex
on you whilst you were wearing armor? I honestly cannot even begin to emphasize how bad I feel for you.” A red stick figure offers a hand to the fallen demigod, who can’t help but avert his blue-eyed gaze as his palm accepts. With a mighty thrust and yank the black haired gladiator is back on his feet, surveying the damage to the surrounding area before going over his body.
Arguably minimal. The toll could have been much, much worse. The godchild concludes.
A few non-functioning street lights, some torn up asphalt, and a caved in brick wall are hardly anything irreplaceable. On the far sidewalk sits Winston, hunched over the black stick figure with a somewhat blank expression as he traces along the length of its spine. Whatever it is he is thinking, it isn’t pleasant.
“How-uh, How long was I out?” Zackeroar requests, approaching and offering to help Winston but only receiving an open palm in response.
“Not long. Roughly 5 minutes despite landing square on the noggin. As for your help, sorry but I don’t need it. I can heal damaged sticks by tracing over, thus restoring wounds to their original state, though most don’t survive hits well enough to be saved by this.”
“Well what was this one’s secret?” The spartan questions, genuinely curious as he signals for the artist to “hold that thought”. Somewhat rushing, the gladiator backtracks and retrieves his weapons from the opposite side of the street, having felt somewhat naked without them as his grip lands over the shield, claymore, and spear.
“The secret was but a mere word: ‘sturdy’. Enhancing the stick with this adjective made him able to withstand some of your most devastating blows, though it soon became apparent that his strength was far inferior to yours…” The creator explains as Zackeroar returns, expression noticeably lighter whilst he works.
However, Winston’s tone feels almost empty, his body and movement without language as he finishes sketching the black stick figure’s new spine into place. Only a few lights on in the buildings above and even fewer people peering out their windows to view the commotion below, the night feels just as empty and quiet as the street as a green figure pops up beside the son of Zeus.
“My blessing was none other than ‘nimble’, thanks for asking! Good thing too, because a single hit from those nice, toned arms of yours would have sent me splattering like the pathetic bug I am!” The energetic stick yips, studying the low-on-patience demeanor of Zackeroar as it skips around the armored man.
“Damn shame. I would have taken great solace in making a mural out of your blood, jester.” The gladiator growls, refusing to make eye contact with the fool as Winston clears his throat.
“Enough,” The creator halts, rising to his feet and sticking his hand out to the suddenly shorter man before him. “Zackeroar, I believe we had a deal. Now, I’m not forcing you to join, but I am urging that you allow me to at least show you the place and think about it before making any rash decisions. As for you sticks: see me when all's said and done. You've earned your rewards, wonderful work.” Winston concludes, gesturing for the green stick to help the black stick to his feet.
“A deal is a deal I suppose, and I am a man of my word. I will see your ‘Sanctuary’ and decide for myself whether or not it deserves such a title.” Zackeroar gives a faint smile.
The dark skinned man smiles back briefly, only to look away and dig deep in his pockets for his cellular device. Once retrieved, the creator whips it open and sorts through his list of contacts to get in touch with a certain “Giselle G.”.
“Yeah. I’ve got him.”
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