[closed] mist covered the kingdom
Who: stakesthings and samianscar
Where: The market to the border of ruins and hunting grounds
When: Early Monday, mid-minionfest
Format: Starting prose, happy to switch!
What: What Buffy and Spike always do: gender-reversed fairy tale.
Warnings: British slang? (And embedded forgepost)
There were goblins in the marketplace; and damn if there wasn't anything more fun, that Spike had found in Anatole, than playing whacamole with goblins in a marketplace.
Spike was in top streetfighterninjabrawlingjacketwhipping form. There were plenty of goblins, and so many fighting styles he just hadn't practiced in a while. Fisticuffs, Angel's karate-kung fu blend, quarterstaff (using the pole support of a smashed awning), shillelagh (yeah, like a goblin would know the difference), and good old vamp berserker.
It was in the middle of this dance that he glanced out past the edge of the market,
and there she was: scary showboat leader lady on her big winged horse, looking so beautiful it was downright irritating. He was all about female leaders, but this one was just asking for it. He bellowed toward her, "Alright, Godiva!" and dove headfirst toward her group.
He never reached her, of course. By the time he'd killed still more goblins (with gusto), she and the pegasus she rode in on had disappeared. -Instead, standing right in front of him, a whopping great troll with a brontosaurus's drumstick in its fist looked real keen to squish the bleach out of him.
It lunged toward him and swung its club. Spike threw himself out of the way into a forward roll-headlong into a near-totaled vendor's stall. He crawled out from under the remaining counters as the troll smashed them down around him. As the troll peered around to see if he'd scored the squish, Spike popped up from behind another stall entirely and cracked the troll squarely in the back of the head with an artichoke.
The troll whirled around. Spike hit him with an apple between the eyes.
Another roar, and the troll lurched in his direction. It promptly tripped over some rubble and sprawled flat down.
Spike flung out his hand to grab the next apple off the pile. Immediately he let out a shout of surprise and yanked his hand back. He started to look at what had seemingly bit him, but the troll rolled to his feet and started toward him again, so further provocation was unnecessary. Satisfied the troll would follow, Spike took off down the street.
Thus he didn't notice that what he had tried to grab was an apple that had been shot through with a goblin arrow. Nor that he'd pricked his palm on the arrowtip. Nor that this selfsame palm, like a blossom in his pale skin, was now turning an angry, unhealthy shade of red.
He led the troll on a merry chase through streets, knowing he had the advantage of lightness and quickness and thinking to wear the lumbering blubberweight out.
But it was Spike who was starting to feel tired.
Not just tired. Dizzy. Weak.
…the hell…
He was reaching his heretofore theoretical favourite battle grounds: the stretch of rubble-steppe-d land at the border of the ruins and the hunting grounds.
But he was nearly falling over. His hand had started to hurt, and the throbbing ache was spreading up his arm into his chest and neck.
Seriously… what… oh bloody…
He turned to look and was nearly beaten sideways by the troll. Far from falling behind or being worn out, as was the plan, the beastie just looked extra irritated at having to work harder and wait to hear that sound he lived for. (The coconut crunch of a scull under club.)
Staggering, now, Spike tried a wild spinning kick at the troll and only managed to fall over. He just barely rolled out from under what would have been a bonesmushing stomp.
Looking around, his vision bruising, Spike found what he was looking for and took off at another dead run; less relished as his initial one had been. The troll again followed.
Spike felt his energy sapping away from him at an amazing rate. Something had happened… what was happening…? but one thing more pressing: get rid of the soddingblasted troll, who was catching up and nearly on his heels…
In a last-ditch burst of energy and speed, Spike hurtled forward-and abruptly spun around and dove between the pursuing's troll's legs.
The troll had no time to figure out what the hell had just happened, when, in trying to spin around and get a look at Spike, he went three inches further than Spike had done, and, howling, tumbled sharply down a sheer drop.
Spike pulled himself up from the ground and crawled to the edge to look down.
The troll lay crumpled at the bottom; whacked in the head by his own falling club.
This should have been a more gratifying moment. He'd certainly planned as such. Instead, Spike's knees nearly buckled, and he finally thought to look down at his hand.
That's not good…
The plague in the streets. He'd kinda figured he was exempt. Bugger.
Lurching forward, his gait now resembling the troll's, Spike tried to get out of the open. Unconscious in the ruins was not a way to go. Unfortunately, his half-delirious peregrination was taking him into the hunting grounds. Which was not much better. Maybe worse.
It was on instinct alone, not sight nor smell nor debatable sense, that caused him at last to collapse in the nearest form of cover-not even noticing that it was a brier patch.
As his limbs numbed and his head swam out of this dimension, the last thing he didn't remember doing was slipping his forge out to the adjacent ground, pressing a random button, and rasping, "Buffy…"
Where: The market to the border of ruins and hunting grounds
When: Early Monday, mid-minionfest
Format: Starting prose, happy to switch!
What: What Buffy and Spike always do: gender-reversed fairy tale.
Warnings: British slang? (And embedded forgepost)
There were goblins in the marketplace; and damn if there wasn't anything more fun, that Spike had found in Anatole, than playing whacamole with goblins in a marketplace.
Spike was in top streetfighterninjabrawlingjacketwhipping form. There were plenty of goblins, and so many fighting styles he just hadn't practiced in a while. Fisticuffs, Angel's karate-kung fu blend, quarterstaff (using the pole support of a smashed awning), shillelagh (yeah, like a goblin would know the difference), and good old vamp berserker.
It was in the middle of this dance that he glanced out past the edge of the market,
and there she was: scary showboat leader lady on her big winged horse, looking so beautiful it was downright irritating. He was all about female leaders, but this one was just asking for it. He bellowed toward her, "Alright, Godiva!" and dove headfirst toward her group.
He never reached her, of course. By the time he'd killed still more goblins (with gusto), she and the pegasus she rode in on had disappeared. -Instead, standing right in front of him, a whopping great troll with a brontosaurus's drumstick in its fist looked real keen to squish the bleach out of him.
It lunged toward him and swung its club. Spike threw himself out of the way into a forward roll-headlong into a near-totaled vendor's stall. He crawled out from under the remaining counters as the troll smashed them down around him. As the troll peered around to see if he'd scored the squish, Spike popped up from behind another stall entirely and cracked the troll squarely in the back of the head with an artichoke.
The troll whirled around. Spike hit him with an apple between the eyes.
Another roar, and the troll lurched in his direction. It promptly tripped over some rubble and sprawled flat down.
Spike flung out his hand to grab the next apple off the pile. Immediately he let out a shout of surprise and yanked his hand back. He started to look at what had seemingly bit him, but the troll rolled to his feet and started toward him again, so further provocation was unnecessary. Satisfied the troll would follow, Spike took off down the street.
Thus he didn't notice that what he had tried to grab was an apple that had been shot through with a goblin arrow. Nor that he'd pricked his palm on the arrowtip. Nor that this selfsame palm, like a blossom in his pale skin, was now turning an angry, unhealthy shade of red.
He led the troll on a merry chase through streets, knowing he had the advantage of lightness and quickness and thinking to wear the lumbering blubberweight out.
But it was Spike who was starting to feel tired.
Not just tired. Dizzy. Weak.
…the hell…
He was reaching his heretofore theoretical favourite battle grounds: the stretch of rubble-steppe-d land at the border of the ruins and the hunting grounds.
But he was nearly falling over. His hand had started to hurt, and the throbbing ache was spreading up his arm into his chest and neck.
Seriously… what… oh bloody…
He turned to look and was nearly beaten sideways by the troll. Far from falling behind or being worn out, as was the plan, the beastie just looked extra irritated at having to work harder and wait to hear that sound he lived for. (The coconut crunch of a scull under club.)
Staggering, now, Spike tried a wild spinning kick at the troll and only managed to fall over. He just barely rolled out from under what would have been a bonesmushing stomp.
Looking around, his vision bruising, Spike found what he was looking for and took off at another dead run; less relished as his initial one had been. The troll again followed.
Spike felt his energy sapping away from him at an amazing rate. Something had happened… what was happening…? but one thing more pressing: get rid of the soddingblasted troll, who was catching up and nearly on his heels…
In a last-ditch burst of energy and speed, Spike hurtled forward-and abruptly spun around and dove between the pursuing's troll's legs.
The troll had no time to figure out what the hell had just happened, when, in trying to spin around and get a look at Spike, he went three inches further than Spike had done, and, howling, tumbled sharply down a sheer drop.
Spike pulled himself up from the ground and crawled to the edge to look down.
The troll lay crumpled at the bottom; whacked in the head by his own falling club.
This should have been a more gratifying moment. He'd certainly planned as such. Instead, Spike's knees nearly buckled, and he finally thought to look down at his hand.
That's not good…
The plague in the streets. He'd kinda figured he was exempt. Bugger.
Lurching forward, his gait now resembling the troll's, Spike tried to get out of the open. Unconscious in the ruins was not a way to go. Unfortunately, his half-delirious peregrination was taking him into the hunting grounds. Which was not much better. Maybe worse.
It was on instinct alone, not sight nor smell nor debatable sense, that caused him at last to collapse in the nearest form of cover-not even noticing that it was a brier patch.
As his limbs numbed and his head swam out of this dimension, the last thing he didn't remember doing was slipping his forge out to the adjacent ground, pressing a random button, and rasping, "Buffy…"