Today we've got the master of restricted summoning, Winston
Versus
The indomitable master of the versatile morph blade, Ethernu!
Please take the time to read each story and vote fairly, and may the best man win.
Spoiler (Click to Show)
The “Bloodhound” herself, Bridget Greene, took to this form of universal cleansing after she was adopted into the clan of humanitarians, following the trail of a corrupt politician and the serpents he was connected to. On the trail, she was knocked out and kidnapped by the revolutionary organization known as Sanctuary, where she most recently was forced to fight one of their members for unknown reasons. Though she fought valiantly, the rogue archer of ethereal arrows was ultimately overpowered and defeated at the hands of Winston Kitt, a discount artist who summons and manipulates stick figures to fight on his behalf. At the very summit of what was an assured victory, Winston conjured a creature unlike any of the other she had dispatched prior, it’s winged structure and dominion over flame proving far too much for the resilient fighter to handle in her diminished state.
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*** “Should have opted for the chip in my neck, damnit…” The incapacitated archer winces, rising up from her position on the hospital style bed as the bandages underneath her robe stretch to the contortions of her body. In her hand lies a phone, capable of recording sound, snapping pictures, and capturing video, even at high quality, but otherwise useless as the dead zone she has found herself in strips her of any chance at calling for backup.
*** “Not like I exactly know where I’m at, anyway…” She sighs, shutting the phone and adjusting her robe before lying back down beneath the white, flannel sheets. Just as she gets settled, however, a knock from the other side of her infirmary room door sends her into a miniature panic attack, her heart leaping from her chest as she assumes the appearance of being unperturbed by the sudden infiltration.
*** “Glad to see you’re still kicking after that mess. Can we talk?” Poking his head through the entrance, as though physically repelled by Bridget’s cautious glare, is the very artist that put her in her current situation. Once more assuming a sitting up position on the bed, the young woman simply narrows her already daggered, sky blue eyes, which to most would suggest she’s not accepting visitors. Winston, however, pretends not to notice, remaining awkwardly in the doorway not staring directly at her, but in the general direction as he ruthlessly awaits confirmation. Eventually she caves, suggesting that the summoner leave the door open behind him as he stiffly strolls into the room, arms almost forced to sway at his sides as he pulls a chair from the back wall and takes a seat in the square, temporary living space. Expecting the exchange to be long and drawn out, Bridget lets loose a short burst of breath, reaching to her side and retrieving a miniature remote before pointing it toward a relatively massive television and dialing the noise down drastically. The reporter on the screen, now reduced to mere mumbles and murmurs, carries on with her analysis of the RHG system as the archer once more directs her attention toward Winston.
*** “If you’re here to give me some sort of rehearsed apology, I’d like to you to make it quick. *I’m not exactly busy lying here and waiting to be taken back to my cell, I just don’t like you.” She states bluntly, letting the remote rest on her lap as she crosses her arms. Winston raises one of his eyebrows and takes in a deep breath, allowing his body to loosen up before getting to point of his visit.
*** “Guess it’s safe to assume you’re fine then? Wonderful news, but the only reason I’m here is to ask you a few questions you may or may not have been asked already: Who are you? What are you doing here? What does that symbol on your armor mean? Who are you with? Stuff like that.” Limiting himself to very basic questions, Winston leans forward in his chair with hands clasped together almost as though praying.
***
*** “Who am I? You got my file didn’t you? That little paper with all my information on it, as though somebody’s been watching my every move since I first joined Gaia? Just like I told your handler, refer to that if you’re looking to interrogate someone.” Winston’s expression sinks as she answers, two of his fingers rising from his knees to clamp the bridge of his nose as he groans.
*** “While I understand your reasons for being difficult, I’m really not into the idea of having to play bad cop. I want to help you, Bridget- even if it means breaking you out of here, but you’ve got to fill me in on the essentials. The only things I know about this situation are your name, that you’re a good person at heart, and that you’re being held prisoner for reasons I have yet to understand.”
***
*** The incapacitated archer’s expression softens, the tight fold of her arms loosening as there’s a shift beneath the bed sheets. She sits up, calling out to her visitor and staring him dead in the steel-grey eyes with what little stubbornness she has left before requesting that he shut the infirmary door. Winston complies, rising from his seat and asking for confirmation before bringing his open palm to the brass knob and quietly pulling the room meeting into seclusion.
*** “You’re a pawn, you know that right?” Bridget challenges as Winston once more reclaims his seat.
***
*** “I am aware… and working on it. What makes you so sure you aren’t just another piece in the puzzle yourself?” The artist answers, straightening the yellow and black jacket warming his person.
*** “We’re all pieces on the battlefield in one way or another. I’m willing to risk you being on the other side if it means getting out of here.”
*** “Anyone ever tell you that you’re too trusting?”
*** “My mentor, on multiple occasions. I believe in second chances… for the most part.”
*** “That the reason you’re even tolerating me right now?”
*** “That, my instincts, and the teachings I’ve received. When you aren’t standing behind a gang of drawings, you’re a noticeably much different person. Your eyes are fragile, though feign resilience, your body language is noticeably more reserved, and the way you speak is very rarely in commands, but rather requests and suggestions. You sympathize with the common man and believe there is value in all life. A follower, based on what I’ve heard and seen, and a pretty blind one at that. You’re an enigma, sure, but one I find hard to identify as a sincere threat. ” Head tilted slightly to the side, Bridget reads from Winston as though he were an exposed pair of pages. The artist cannot help but crack a half-grin at the accuracy, his eyes falling to the white tile beneath his feet as the desire for knowledge hits him once more.
*** “And here I thought I was supposed to be the one gathering information.” The summoner reflects, wiping his mug with his hand and stroking his chin stubble before sitting up in his chair with raised eyebrows prior to resting his arms on the cushioned sides. “How about this: I’ll tell you everything you want to know about me if you promise to return the favor. Deal?” Sticking out his hand, Winston is forced to wait a moment, Bridget simply shifting her focus between the offer and his metallic eyes.
*** “Anyone ever tell you you’re too trusting, Mr. Kitt?” The blonde reaches and takes his hand, shaking it once before returning to her position and retrieving the remote resting on her legs. She turns the television up slightly, news of another gladiatorial scuffle come and gone enveloping the dustless room.
*** “Winston’s fine, and no, nobody has.”
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***
*** “Get the information you were looking for, Mr. Kitt?” Sanctuary’s designated scientist and well-established madman, Gus, approaches the artist just as he exits the infirmary, a beige file held tightly in his hazmat suited grip.
***
*** “More or less. You make it sound like I’m some sort of spy.”
*** “More or less, huh? Well, I’d love to try to delve into her mental state myself, but Sencarn won’t let ol’ Needles anywhere near that precious skin of hers. Damn shame, too. I’m starting to think I’m not trusted around here.” The serial killer painfully jokes, a surely disappointed face hidden behind the massive gas mask and helmet atop his head.
*** “Don’t let it get you down, bud. So what’s up, Gus? Did you need me for something?” Giving the murderer a sympathetic pat on the shoulder, Winston attempts to change the subject, finally pointing out the dossier in the suited man’s grip.
*** “Oh, this? A gift from the boss himself as compensation for the little spar you did. From what I could decipher, it’s a lead pertaining to the whereabouts of your father. Suggests a location and a person within the city worth investigating.” Examining the constantly shifting, wide-eyed expression of the artist, Gus nearly breaks into a broad smile beneath his visage.
*** Winston requests to see the file, cracking it open immediately the moment it hits his hands. Set up just like a character profile, Winston examines the lines at a speed almost demonically fast, pushing past an unsuspecting Gus before taking off down the otherwise uninhabited corridor.
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*** “Hmm, yes, indeed I do recall someone who fits that description. Dark-skinned fellow, almost repulsively thin, horribly scarred. Somewhat resembling you, now that I picture him.” The tan-capped shopkeep adjusts his crimson scarf before removing the pristinely-symboled hat atop his head, the brown hair underneath leaking from beneath as he does so. Strapped to his back, glistening in the radiant overhead lights, is a blade of foreign, possibly extraordinary material. Of course, this wasn’t the artist’s first time laying eyes on the green and blue-eyed swordman, as the merchant was also an up-and-coming gladiator by the title of Ethernu.
*** Winston, practically bloodthirsty for knowledge at this point, continues to press the Treasure Trove owner as the stick figures accompanying him browse the wide selection of trinkets, weaponry and other forms of ancient artifacts. The cobalt blue stick figure, created for the spar against Bridget Greene, scours the walls for a new axe, making sure to touch everything at least once as he goes along. Meanwhile a black stick figure, created to defeat Zackeroar in a wrestling match, goes over a countertop littered with supposedly enchanted talismans, not daring to lay a finger on them for the fear of attracting a curse of some kind. Every now and again they address one another in their unintelligible dialect, only to once more resume their quest for a fantastical souvenir from the gladiator’s shop.
*** “Did you talk to him at all? Any information as to what he’s been doing, what he is doing, what his plans are?” Winston’s hand scribbles down Ethernu’s every response in a flurry of writing only the writer could consider legible, the obvious excitement emanating from his person threatening to burst with each collected bit of information.
*** “Thankfully. He was very busy but managed to make time for a traveller curious about his work. He was working under a sect of humanitarians known as Pax Gaia, keeping the peace among various African territories using his superhuman abilities. When I asked him of his next move he froze for a moment. After a while he claimed he would be in the savannahs still hard at work, but said he might take the time to visit other countries. If you’re looking for him, you might want to hurry there before he moves again.”
*** Winston’s pencil nearly flies off the page of his notebook as images of Bridget flashing into his mind at the mention of Pax Gaia, the very same organization she identified with when questioned not too long ago. Coming to the conclusion that he’d gathered all the information he needed, Winston decided to have a chat with the only person he knew that could get him instantaneously to the destination in question.
*** “You don’t know how much this means to, Ethernu. If there’s anything I can do for you, just ask.” Winston reaches out to thank the gladiator, only to be met with a sharp glare as the casually dressed shopkeep nods to the stick figures behind Winston.
*** One, sensing the wrapping-up of conversation, stand obediently by Treasure Trove’s front entrace, arms crossed at its pitch-black chest and eyes straight ahead. The other, doing his best to maintain a poor, blue poker face, wipes what one can only assume to be a sweat forehead. Strapped to his back, a double-headed axe beams, giving away any shred of innocence the stick might have had as Ethernu rises from a leaning position against one of his many trinket-littered tabletops.
*** “If you truly wish to be indebted to me, Winston, you could start by having your associate there return the weapon he so clearly plans to steal from me.” Crossing his own arms, Ethernu stares down the stick with multi-colored daggers, the swindler only able to shut his eyes and raise his nose high to the ceiling.
***
*** “Why, I’m insulted! Just where do ya get off callin’ me, of all people, a thief?! I may lie, cheat, and crack jokes about piss and shit, but to think I’d go so far as to pilfer one of your petty trinkets, because I’m blue, is just plain ignorant of ya! ” Doing a terrible job of defending himself in a language the gladiator cannot even understand, the cobalt blue stick figure adjusts the axe at his back, attempting to hide the blades and shaft behind his rotund head and narrow body.
*** “Enough, Blue. It’s obvious to everyone here you won’t be leaving with that weapon. Just put it back where you found it or face the consequences.” Winston turns to face the creature with an impatient tone, the stick’s shoulders slumping slightly as he searches every corner of his mind for a solution.
*** “Alright, alright, ya caught me. Swordsman, I was plannin’ on havin’ this thing here looked at when I got home. Think you could give me a bit of history on it before I go?” Removing the weapon from its hiding place behind his person, the azurite stick presents the blade, but does not immediately offer it back to Ethernu. The shopke