The Man-Pony Interjection (part 2)
Welcome to the Man-Pony Interjection part 2! I'm not doing a preamble, so let's just get into it...
Bigfoot didn’t move, despite the angry Cohen charging at him full bore. He sighed, a wave of sadness passing over his face. Here I go again…
Cohen’s step faltered slightly. He’d expected the creature to react immediately and attack back, but instead he was just standing there, frowning.
“Er-“
In that fragment of uncertainty, Bigfoot lunged forward, his face contorted into a snarl that held no trace of recent melancholy. It was an expression of pure, animal hatred; a face ready to kill. Five hundred pounds of megafauna cryptid caught Cohen in the chest and he fell with a grunt, the air knocked from his lungs.
The weight was only on him for a second; moments later he heard the rustle of branches. He lay flat on his back, struggling for breath and listening: he could hear nothing but his heart hammering against his ribcage. Where was his adversary? He staggered to his feet, staring wide-eyed around the clearing. Damn this eyepatch!
“Where are you?” he muttered, following in the direction Bigfoot had gone. "Where are you?" he said again, louder.
“Over here,” came the reply, directly to his right; his blind side.
A hairy fist clouted him on the side of the head, making his vision explode with lights once again and tearing off his eyepatch.
Bigfoot regarded him with satisfaction.
“So you are blind. You’re so half-witted, I wondered if it was purely for decoration. How’s the old depth perception? Having trouble, are we?”
“I can see well enough,” Cohen snarled, advancing once more with sword raised. Bigfoot dropped into a defensive stance as he drew nearer, a confident smile on his lips.
The sword came sweeping down, but Bigfoot deflected it easily into the dust.
“You don’t know how to you use that sword, do you?” he laughed, as Cohen struggled to right himself.
Cohen didn’t respond; he recalled the weightless feeling he’d experienced on that frosty morning when he’d knocked the sword from Vena’s hand. At once, he felt it ebbing through him, and threw all his energy into a new attack.
Minutes seemed to stretch into years as the fight surged on. Bigfoot may have been able to hold off a clumsy blow with his hands, but he was forced to back off under the fresh assault. Bigfoot never stopped moving, staying to Cohen’s right side, playing on his blindness and making himself difficult to focus on. At one point he climbed a tree and tried to jump on Cohen's shoulders as he passed underneath; Cohen only just avoided that particular attack.
In moments of confusion, Bigfoot was able to strike back; but he never managed to get his attacker on the ground. In the end, Bigfoot was unarmed against a length of cold steel and a Discworld scorned, and his strength was waning. Cohen, on the other hand, felt afire with vitality. Bigfoot was, slowly but surely, being forced to retreat.
He found himself teetering at the edge of the small lake. Bigfoot looked down, distracted, as his foot slipped into the icy water. Cohen’s sword struck home, the hungry blade biting deep into the flesh above the hip. He roared in pain, grabbing at the wound and staggering back until he was shin-deep in the lake.
He stared haggardly at his adversary, trying to ignore the blood now soaking into his fur. “You have skill, if not experience. I give you that.” he winced before continuing. “Well? If you want the artefact you have to finish it properly. These are your choices: kill me, claim the artefact and accept whatever fate may find you, or turn away and forget this altercation ever occurred. Choose.”
The bloodlust and victory that had been roaring in Cohen’s ears subsided, and he was suddenly bombarded with images of his childhood.
Hours spent excitedly poring over books, yearning for the day he would meet the fabled creature.
Chattering with anyone who would listen.
The struggle to get here.
The wish to be like the heroes of old…
What am I doing? This isn't what I wanted. I never wanted to kill Bigfoot, I just wanted to find him. I got so obsessed with that treasure-
The treasure. An item of terrible power. The thought set his heart racing again. Bigfoot need not die, but the treasure would be his. In that moment, he made up his mind.
Bigfoot had been relaxing his guard, reading the uncertainty in Cohen’s face. Maybe the lad is smarter than I gave him credit for. Maybe he’ll listen. Maybe he-
He hadn’t been expecting the boot to the chest. The force and the surprise of it sent him reeling backwards into the water. Bigfoot are wonderful creatures with many skills; swimming is not among them. Mountain lakes are seldom gracious enough to even thaw.
The icewater sucked the warmth from Bigfoot’s body quick as wringing out a sponge. He was fighting against the chill, his exhaustion and the slash in his side, and just managed to keep his head above water.
“Stay right there,” Cohen said, turning back toward the cabin. He picked up his eyepatch from where it had fallen in the melee and put it on as he walked.
The cabin was dark and smelled of animal. Cohen spied a not-so-inconspicuous chest up against one wall: of course it was locked, but it has already been said that it’s amazing what can be achieved with hairpins (and Cohen always carried a stash for emergencies).
In the manner of stereotypical RPGs everywhere, the artefact was stashed in a box directly adjacent to the boss fight arena. But as loot goes, it was quite disappointing.
Cohen held it up in the dim light, trying to quell the disappointment crushing the adrenaline right out of him. The ‘treasure’ was a non-descript clay pot with faint etchings on the surface. It was tightly sealed with a stopper, and attempts to claw it out with fingernails had no effect. He held it up to one ear and shook it, to check it didn't contain something valuable and exciting. But no, while it was deceptively heavy, it was unquestionably empty. With a shrug, Cohen put it in that ever-expanding pocket, the Inventory. Loot is loot, no matter how boring.
Bigfoot had managed to pull himself out of the lake and was crouching on all fours, shivering violently. Blood still trickled from the wound in his side, and his eyes were screwed shut.
“You think you’re a hero, don’t you?” Bigfoot said, sensing Cohen’s footsteps. “The heroes of this land are long gone, relics from a different age.”
“Maybe it’s time they came back, starting with me.”
Bigfoot laughed darkly. “Defeating a terrible beast and claiming its treasure doesn’t make you a hero, lad; your type are all the same. Air-headed fools ruled by their pride and a thirst for gold. My great-grandfather was entrusted to keep the artefact safe by the last of the true heroes, and now I have failed in the task of my fathers.”
The great head sunk lower, exposing the back of his neck. “If you can’t be swayed to leave the artefact, I would appreciate it if you finished it properly. I vowed on my life that I would keep the treasure safe, and with that vow broken, well…” he trailed off, waiting.
Cohen brought the sword down in a final swing, but not with the blade; the hilt connected with the base of Bigfoot’s skull with a hollow crack.
With a surprised grunt, Bigfoot sunk the remaining inches to the ground, knocked cold.
“Don’t be so melodramatic. I can’t kill you,” Cohen said to the unconscious mass, “Not after a lifetime of searching. It’s been an honour. And I'll show you: the heroes are not dead.”
Then, being a decent sort really, he tore strips off his shirt to fashion a makeshift bandage for the gash in Bigfoot’s side. No point in sparing his life if he was going to bleed to death, after all.
With that he left the clearing, a satisfied smile straying onto his face.
_______________
The day was bright and young when Cohen knocked on the door of the family house. It was answered by a fiery-headed little person in a bad shirt, with quick eyes that gave him a once-over in case he had anything shiny within swiping distance. When it became obvious this was not the case, she gave Cohen her full attention.
"You must be one of my uncles," Dibbler stated, as if this fact was non-debatable. "Cohen, right? Uncle Carrot has hair like me. No, you can't be Carrot."
"Smart kid. Is Cheery in? I have a present for her."
Dibbler perked up. "A present? Is it expensive? She's inside, getting ready for work. What kind of present?"
Cohen eventually managed to convince his niece to show him in and he found Cheery in the lounge, not getting ready, as it happened.
"And how is Ankh Morpork's finest this wonderful morn?"
"Busy. Can't you see that, Cohen?"
"Nice to see you, too. I guess I'll keep this precious vase for myself then. Pity, I battled a fierce creature to get it..."
"You actually brought me something?! I thought you'd forget!"
"Never. For you, favourite sister."
"Uh, thanks Cohen, it-"
"-looks a bit crappy," Dibbler finished helpfully.
"Dibbler! Don't be rude! Go play with your sister."
"But it does..." Dibbler mumbled, stalking out of the room.
"Don't mind her, she rates things by how much they sparkle," Cheery said, taking the vase and examining it. "It's plain, but it's beautiful."
She noticed the stopper in the neck and tried to pull it out, but it wouldn't budge.
"No good for flowers, then. Never mind, it can just look pretty on its own account."
"It looks nice. Matches the decor," Cohen said approvingly.
"Since when have you noticed things like decor, brother mine?"
Cohen shrugged. "I don't - I just thought it was the right thing to say."
"I appreciate the effort. Are you staying in Ankh Morpork long?"
"Afraid not, just passing through to drop this old thing off. I have a beautiful lady waiting for me in Klatch and I'm sure she's getting impatient."
Cheery pulled her brother into a tight hug, realising what he'd just said: He'd found someone else.
"Can't keep her waiting, then. And I suppose I should be getting to work."
"I'll go, in that case. There are a number of things I want to see in this world, and my baby sister in spandex is not one of them."
"Harhar." Cheery gave him a squeeze. "Take care."
_______________
And so ends the interlude. Semester has just finished for me, although I have an internship at the local paper. I still have more time for Simming though, so hooray! The Discworlds have been sadly neglected of late.
Tarah, see you next time!
Bigfoot didn’t move, despite the angry Cohen charging at him full bore. He sighed, a wave of sadness passing over his face. Here I go again…
Cohen’s step faltered slightly. He’d expected the creature to react immediately and attack back, but instead he was just standing there, frowning.
“Er-“
In that fragment of uncertainty, Bigfoot lunged forward, his face contorted into a snarl that held no trace of recent melancholy. It was an expression of pure, animal hatred; a face ready to kill. Five hundred pounds of megafauna cryptid caught Cohen in the chest and he fell with a grunt, the air knocked from his lungs.
The weight was only on him for a second; moments later he heard the rustle of branches. He lay flat on his back, struggling for breath and listening: he could hear nothing but his heart hammering against his ribcage. Where was his adversary? He staggered to his feet, staring wide-eyed around the clearing. Damn this eyepatch!
“Where are you?” he muttered, following in the direction Bigfoot had gone. "Where are you?" he said again, louder.
“Over here,” came the reply, directly to his right; his blind side.
A hairy fist clouted him on the side of the head, making his vision explode with lights once again and tearing off his eyepatch.
Bigfoot regarded him with satisfaction.
“So you are blind. You’re so half-witted, I wondered if it was purely for decoration. How’s the old depth perception? Having trouble, are we?”
“I can see well enough,” Cohen snarled, advancing once more with sword raised. Bigfoot dropped into a defensive stance as he drew nearer, a confident smile on his lips.
The sword came sweeping down, but Bigfoot deflected it easily into the dust.
“You don’t know how to you use that sword, do you?” he laughed, as Cohen struggled to right himself.
Cohen didn’t respond; he recalled the weightless feeling he’d experienced on that frosty morning when he’d knocked the sword from Vena’s hand. At once, he felt it ebbing through him, and threw all his energy into a new attack.
Minutes seemed to stretch into years as the fight surged on. Bigfoot may have been able to hold off a clumsy blow with his hands, but he was forced to back off under the fresh assault. Bigfoot never stopped moving, staying to Cohen’s right side, playing on his blindness and making himself difficult to focus on. At one point he climbed a tree and tried to jump on Cohen's shoulders as he passed underneath; Cohen only just avoided that particular attack.
In moments of confusion, Bigfoot was able to strike back; but he never managed to get his attacker on the ground. In the end, Bigfoot was unarmed against a length of cold steel and a Discworld scorned, and his strength was waning. Cohen, on the other hand, felt afire with vitality. Bigfoot was, slowly but surely, being forced to retreat.
He found himself teetering at the edge of the small lake. Bigfoot looked down, distracted, as his foot slipped into the icy water. Cohen’s sword struck home, the hungry blade biting deep into the flesh above the hip. He roared in pain, grabbing at the wound and staggering back until he was shin-deep in the lake.
He stared haggardly at his adversary, trying to ignore the blood now soaking into his fur. “You have skill, if not experience. I give you that.” he winced before continuing. “Well? If you want the artefact you have to finish it properly. These are your choices: kill me, claim the artefact and accept whatever fate may find you, or turn away and forget this altercation ever occurred. Choose.”
The bloodlust and victory that had been roaring in Cohen’s ears subsided, and he was suddenly bombarded with images of his childhood.
Hours spent excitedly poring over books, yearning for the day he would meet the fabled creature.
Chattering with anyone who would listen.
The struggle to get here.
The wish to be like the heroes of old…
What am I doing? This isn't what I wanted. I never wanted to kill Bigfoot, I just wanted to find him. I got so obsessed with that treasure-
The treasure. An item of terrible power. The thought set his heart racing again. Bigfoot need not die, but the treasure would be his. In that moment, he made up his mind.
Bigfoot had been relaxing his guard, reading the uncertainty in Cohen’s face. Maybe the lad is smarter than I gave him credit for. Maybe he’ll listen. Maybe he-
He hadn’t been expecting the boot to the chest. The force and the surprise of it sent him reeling backwards into the water. Bigfoot are wonderful creatures with many skills; swimming is not among them. Mountain lakes are seldom gracious enough to even thaw.
The icewater sucked the warmth from Bigfoot’s body quick as wringing out a sponge. He was fighting against the chill, his exhaustion and the slash in his side, and just managed to keep his head above water.
“Stay right there,” Cohen said, turning back toward the cabin. He picked up his eyepatch from where it had fallen in the melee and put it on as he walked.
The cabin was dark and smelled of animal. Cohen spied a not-so-inconspicuous chest up against one wall: of course it was locked, but it has already been said that it’s amazing what can be achieved with hairpins (and Cohen always carried a stash for emergencies).
In the manner of stereotypical RPGs everywhere, the artefact was stashed in a box directly adjacent to the boss fight arena. But as loot goes, it was quite disappointing.
Cohen held it up in the dim light, trying to quell the disappointment crushing the adrenaline right out of him. The ‘treasure’ was a non-descript clay pot with faint etchings on the surface. It was tightly sealed with a stopper, and attempts to claw it out with fingernails had no effect. He held it up to one ear and shook it, to check it didn't contain something valuable and exciting. But no, while it was deceptively heavy, it was unquestionably empty. With a shrug, Cohen put it in that ever-expanding pocket, the Inventory. Loot is loot, no matter how boring.
Bigfoot had managed to pull himself out of the lake and was crouching on all fours, shivering violently. Blood still trickled from the wound in his side, and his eyes were screwed shut.
“You think you’re a hero, don’t you?” Bigfoot said, sensing Cohen’s footsteps. “The heroes of this land are long gone, relics from a different age.”
“Maybe it’s time they came back, starting with me.”
Bigfoot laughed darkly. “Defeating a terrible beast and claiming its treasure doesn’t make you a hero, lad; your type are all the same. Air-headed fools ruled by their pride and a thirst for gold. My great-grandfather was entrusted to keep the artefact safe by the last of the true heroes, and now I have failed in the task of my fathers.”
The great head sunk lower, exposing the back of his neck. “If you can’t be swayed to leave the artefact, I would appreciate it if you finished it properly. I vowed on my life that I would keep the treasure safe, and with that vow broken, well…” he trailed off, waiting.
Cohen brought the sword down in a final swing, but not with the blade; the hilt connected with the base of Bigfoot’s skull with a hollow crack.
With a surprised grunt, Bigfoot sunk the remaining inches to the ground, knocked cold.
“Don’t be so melodramatic. I can’t kill you,” Cohen said to the unconscious mass, “Not after a lifetime of searching. It’s been an honour. And I'll show you: the heroes are not dead.”
Then, being a decent sort really, he tore strips off his shirt to fashion a makeshift bandage for the gash in Bigfoot’s side. No point in sparing his life if he was going to bleed to death, after all.
With that he left the clearing, a satisfied smile straying onto his face.
_______________
The day was bright and young when Cohen knocked on the door of the family house. It was answered by a fiery-headed little person in a bad shirt, with quick eyes that gave him a once-over in case he had anything shiny within swiping distance. When it became obvious this was not the case, she gave Cohen her full attention.
"You must be one of my uncles," Dibbler stated, as if this fact was non-debatable. "Cohen, right? Uncle Carrot has hair like me. No, you can't be Carrot."
"Smart kid. Is Cheery in? I have a present for her."
Dibbler perked up. "A present? Is it expensive? She's inside, getting ready for work. What kind of present?"
Cohen eventually managed to convince his niece to show him in and he found Cheery in the lounge, not getting ready, as it happened.
"And how is Ankh Morpork's finest this wonderful morn?"
"Busy. Can't you see that, Cohen?"
"Nice to see you, too. I guess I'll keep this precious vase for myself then. Pity, I battled a fierce creature to get it..."
"You actually brought me something?! I thought you'd forget!"
"Never. For you, favourite sister."
"Uh, thanks Cohen, it-"
"-looks a bit crappy," Dibbler finished helpfully.
"Dibbler! Don't be rude! Go play with your sister."
"But it does..." Dibbler mumbled, stalking out of the room.
"Don't mind her, she rates things by how much they sparkle," Cheery said, taking the vase and examining it. "It's plain, but it's beautiful."
She noticed the stopper in the neck and tried to pull it out, but it wouldn't budge.
"No good for flowers, then. Never mind, it can just look pretty on its own account."
"It looks nice. Matches the decor," Cohen said approvingly.
"Since when have you noticed things like decor, brother mine?"
Cohen shrugged. "I don't - I just thought it was the right thing to say."
"I appreciate the effort. Are you staying in Ankh Morpork long?"
"Afraid not, just passing through to drop this old thing off. I have a beautiful lady waiting for me in Klatch and I'm sure she's getting impatient."
Cheery pulled her brother into a tight hug, realising what he'd just said: He'd found someone else.
"Can't keep her waiting, then. And I suppose I should be getting to work."
"I'll go, in that case. There are a number of things I want to see in this world, and my baby sister in spandex is not one of them."
"Harhar." Cheery gave him a squeeze. "Take care."
_______________
And so ends the interlude. Semester has just finished for me, although I have an internship at the local paper. I still have more time for Simming though, so hooray! The Discworlds have been sadly neglected of late.
Tarah, see you next time!