The wind catches your hair, those dreadful locks. Your raspirator filters out the chaos, the mist, the madness. On this rocky outlook, you can see the Helhound in the distance; trudging along the wastes like a caterpillar.
Kelly's asleep in the interceptor. The moonlids haven't even opened all the way. You're bored.
No, not just bored. Not enough scription for what you feel!
You're THROBBING for THRILLS.
CRAVING for KICKS.
DESIGNATED for DANGER.
You're a rocket filled with juice, raring to go. Yet, there is nothing to spark your ass into velocity!
Woe to you, Hamish Gilt!
In the Bay Area, surrounding the largest body of fresh water on the surfyss, is a nation. The Dam Nation. A collection of societies that thought 'Hey, let's stick togetha, surely that's easy?'
Easier said than done. As if local wildlife and raiders weren't bad enough, creatures from the Mosh (have you heard of them?) constantly bleed in through cracks in reality here and there. Hither and dither all over the Bay Area. At least, that's the norm...
Oh danger, where art thou?
Alas, as is the current predicament for one Ragnalonian, the norm has taken a holiday this week. In the northern reaches of the Dam Nation, lie the White Grail Highlands, they themselves a prelude to the tremendous Argent Peaks farther up north. Normally, this wretched region of Dam Nation hosts the worst dangers the Bay Area has to offer. Caravans on their way from Stringe to Threshold are pretty much attacked once every day on average.
Well, as luck would have it, this week has been a slow one. At least for the likes of Hamish Gilt; a tall bondathan man sporting dark dreadlocks and a skeletal grin raspirator.
Still bored, that gun barrel is looking really delicious right about now.
Hamish fondles his holster, where a blaster pistol rests in comfort. He wonders if there is any need for him; maybe he can just go to Ragnalon for some real excitement?
Suck on that barrel, make a show of it. You know you want to, you depressed menace!
Hamish unholsters what he believes to be the solution to a brazen steel conundrum...as he's about to throat the primed barrel, a thought penetrates his skull.
Maybe I should scan with the radome one more time?
Nooooo, kill yourself.
Ragnalon is much more fun than this.
...I'll just check, to be sure.
Holstering his pistol, Hamish turns towards the interceptor behind him. The vehicle is dirty, all four of its wheels covered in mud and gore from last week; when things were the norm.
Entering the kagg, he is greeted by Kelly Harbinger's loud snoring. It's actually loud enough to be heard outside of the interceptor, yet Hamish was too preoccupied with his angst to pay it any heed. The tyling woman doesn't stir when he activates the kagg's tulva, which can only be done by revving the engine once or twice.
Once the radome itself is fully awake and ready to scan, Hamish punches in the parameters he wants. A wider are than he searched last time, but with less accuracy. As the machine beeps and whirrs, he rolls down the armoured window on the passenger side. Unholstering his pistol once again, he aims it directly outside the passenger window, and pulls the trigger.
The phasal twang of the blast, shot directly in front of Kelly's face, only manages to force a chortle out of her. She does not wake. Hamish sighs.
How can she be this tired when we haven't done anything all week?
Hamish fires the pistol again. No response. He empties the battery. Kelly's only response is to mumble something. Out of patience, Hamish decides to just pistol whip her instead.
"WAKE UP!"
Kelly opens her eyes groggily, yawning and stretching as a bruise forms on her cheek. "Mornin' Hame." she glances at the radome. "Looking again?"
"Naw, I just like the pretty lights."
As if on queue, a single dot appears on the radome. An unassuming camp that wasn't there yesterday, only a few kloms from their position, deeper into the valley.
The interceptor is on the move in half a second, kicking up dust as it careens down to where the mysterious nomad is. Once they reach their destination, they are met with a strange sight.
"Is that woman trying to scrub that man's leg?"
Indeed, the woman is trying to wipe away crude remarks tattooed on to a man's leg. There are tears in her eyes, and anger in her expression. She doesn't even notice the Ragnalonian interceptor parked right in front of her.
Hamish takes the initiative and steps out to greet the distraught tyling. The moment he does, magical force keeps him still. The woman's hand is pointed at him, her eyes glowing magenta. Her expression turns from fury to curiosity when she notices the red-Iron cross emblazoned on their kagg's hood.
"The brand of Talos? So you're Ragnalonians?" she stands up, and walks towards the interceptor. Inspecting the machine, she seems pleased with something. Kelly steps out, weapon drawn. The woman places the same spell on her, though it takes her a bit more effort because of Kelly's heritage.
"Hmm, this interceptor is an older model, but it might do the trick." With feline grace, the woman turns to Hamish and beckons him to look at the man with the defaced foot.
"That man right there is my boy-wife. Mine, and mine alone! This is understood by any who know me. I know your kind have many travels under their brazen belts, so you might not have ken of me."
The woman strokes Hamish's cheek. He detects a hint of irritation in her expression when she looks down at his crotch and sees no growing bulge.
Of course there's no fucking bulge, you daft cunt! You think we're going to waste precious blood on your CACK when there's dopamine receptor's waiting to be penetrated with JOY?
Hamish Gilt, you are not a penis rocket!
YOU ARE A TURBO ROCKET!
VROOM VROOM!
"I'm Zarina Vex. You will remember m-"
"Little Vexy?" Normally, the spell would prevent them from speaking. You know, since there's a shroud of silence blanketing them. Yet, Kelly's willpower is stronger. She addresses Zarina with a nickname she hasn't heard in centuries, from when she was a little girl.
"...what did you call me?" stuttering and blushing, Zarina looks at the woman, indignant and embarrassed. Kelly doesn't care, she continues.
"How you've been? Swim much these days?"
Zarina's tanned cheeks are now deep crimson, all the way to the ears hidden by her long blonde hair. She looks back at Hamish. Trying to regain her composure, she beckons him to look at the man again. "My dear boy-wife's feet was desecrated by a group of goblins yesterday. While I slept, they snuck in and had their way with his feet; desecrating his stompers with their foul jizz! So much spunk covered both of his feet; I didn't see the tattoo graffiti they'd carved into them until I scraped it off with a chisel!"
At this point, Kelly has completely broken the spell, and holstering her blaster the moment she's free.
Zarina begins to cast a bewitching hex on Hamish. "You will find them, and bring me their feet. I will make a fetish out of them, this is my deepest desire. Do this for me and-"
"I'll do it for free." Hamish blurts out. Zarina blinks, her confusion making all of her magic melt away. Once Hamish is completely free, he is inside the interceptor's driver seat in mere seconds. Kelly knows that look in his coppery eyes, and hurries into the passenger seat before the kagg's tires kick up dust.
"Our WARDEN is nearby, meet us there." Kelly calls out, throwing a thrumball to Zarina. The witch watches as they drive away, utterly perplexed. She looks at the small, marble like sphere. The thrumball has chords embedded into it. These chords change every second or so, as if they're attached to a caterpillar trudging across the wastes.
"The Helhound? Why does that sound familiar?"
Shaking her head free of old, shameful thoughts, Zarina packs up her stuff and drives to a mobile den of brazen.
It didn't take you long to find them, eh?
Just lucky I guess.
Whoreshit!
You are a rocket, a heat-seeking missile!
Hamish Gilt, you found the goblins!
A goblin. Singular.
Good enough!
Where's the rest of them?
Zarina needs a foot fetish.
That requires feet, plural.
That's stupid, the name itself contains a singular!
Languages are weird, and not my problem.
I know what she meant, hatred like that can only be satiated by plurals.
A few kloms from where they started, Hamish and Kelly stumbled on a lone goblin riding a small bike. It didn't take them long to run him down, but the little bastard didn't give up. He started running, as fast as his little feet could carry him.
Look at him go, so full of hope.
Misplaced, deranged...patina tarnish may cover the soul from head to toe, but you're not fooling anyone.
There is envy inside you, Hamish Gilt...waiting to burst.
A desperate wish for a simple thrill; your feet are ready to be swept off!
Now cut his off already!
We need to know where his mates are.
No you don't, RUN HIM OVER!
Hamish makes sure to drive slow enough to maintain a metron(ish) distance between the interceptor and their quarry. It was by Kelly's request, much to his chagrin. This fuel-injected suicide machine begrudgingly obeys her command, in the hopes that the future holds orgasmic speed. Hamish tries to ignore the overwhelming urge to floor the go-pedal.
Kelly picks up the geller. "Where are you mates, scag?"
The goblin makes a rude gesture, and keeps running; he collapses after tripping over a rock. Hamish has to slow down even more to avoid running him over, which takes a lot of willpower. Stonks of it. A groan of frustration escapes the skeletal grin of his raspirator, a metallic hiss of frustration. Kelly places her hand on his shoulder to soothe him.
That's when Hamish gets an idea. It's a sure shot, why didn't he think of this before? He looks at Kelly, his eyes radiating mischief.
"Lure him in with your feet."
Kelly's eyes widen, then grow angry. "The fuck are you-"
"Damn it, Harbinger! It's the only hway!"
They have a glaring contest for about three pregnant pauses, before Kelly relents. She opens the armoured window on her side, and awkwardly trying to avoid hindering Hamish's driving. Taking off her boot to reveal her sweaty foot, she sticks it out of the window and dangles it like a lure. "Yooo-hooooo."
The goblins looks over his shoulder. That half-second glance at naked foot is enough for him to skid violently to a stop and turn one-hundred eighty degrees towards the "lure", sprinting towards his destiny. Before they know it, the goblin is hanging off of Kelly's leg, making love to her foot.
Hamish gently stops the interceptor, steps out of it, casually saunters around to the passenger side, and grabs the goblin off of Kelly's leg like a fish on a hook. Holding him by the scruff of his leather tunic, the little green man looks rather pleased with himself, ropes of semen squirting from his climaxing member. Once the post-nut clarity kicks in, the goblin's eyes widen with fear once the haze of orgasm clears and he realizes that Hamish is staring daggers into his soul.
"Where are your mates?"
The goblin folds immediately, pointing in the direction of where they are. Much further away, to the transition between the highlands and the lowlands that lead to Stringe itself.
"Now, let me go! You can have them, I-"
Kelly cuts both of the goblin's feet off. She does it so quickly and expertly, that Hamish doesn't even have time to react. Blood pours on his boots before he has a chance to toss the screaming green pygmy away.
"What did he say?"
Hamish makes a hand signal, that to the two of them means 'Get in the kagg, I'll explain on the move.' Their conversation continues inside, Kelly making sure that the feet are secure in the backseats. Hamish starts driving very fast as their conversation unfolds. "They're on the path to Stringe. Might be mercenaries hired by one of the Drizzlers."
"Maybe the Lich Queen?"
"Chances aren't zero, at least."
Hamish kicks the interceptor into higher and higher gear as speed builds. They're approaching a fork in their path, and a pit of anxiety grows in Kelly's stomach. The joy radiating off of Hamish's face does not reassure her. "Hame, what are you-"
"There's a small soundtrek on this path, hardly used. Maybe a few goblins would use it, if they were trying to get away." Hamish looks Kelly in the eyes, the mad glint sending shockwaves of dread into her lizard brain. "Reckon we can't risk them getting away?"
"You're saying there's a-"
"SHORTCUT!"
Hamish puts the kagg into the nastiest gear, turns sharply to the left and down a canyon. Kelly recognises the large floating rings that infest the crevasse, and her heart starts skipping beats.
"Isn't it pollination season?" Kelly asks rhetorically, trying to keep the panic out of her voice.
Hamish grins. She can tell by his cheeks rising, making his eyes look happy. He's matching the skeletal smirk of his raspirator. Even by his standards, this is unhinged. So now is a good time to panic.
"Woah!"
A pink laser filled with fertile seed beams down right in front of them. Hamish veers the kagg away from it; a near miss!
It's a game of whack-a-dude-with-pink-lasers and they're the only dudes on the board. Another laser grazes them, Hamish can feel the heat radiating through the passenger door for a split second.
"Hame, going back to Ragnalon will be even more gemwork!" Kelly finally manages to form an official complaint through a cloud of panic. I'm beaming with pride, unlike the wandering halos; they're beaming because they're horny.
Hamish looks at her, smile widening. As you know, she can't actually see his mouth. She can just tell that he's having a rocking good time. She's not happy about that at all. "You know, I think Zarina would be fine with just two feet. I think that's enough for a foot fetish, yeah?" Kelly's voice is warbly, despite her best efforts at staying calm.
Hamish tries to suppress the laughter building in his throat. Turning the wheel to manoeuvre out of death's way is making his eye twitch with excitement. Adrenaline pumps through his veins, making his driving more fast, furious and fun (for him). Another near-death dodge; two beams this time. Only through the bondathan's freakish reaction speed does the interceptor prevail. "
"FUCK!"
Here's the magnum opus to this suicide run: One ring plant gets a sure shot, one that will utterly destroy the interceptor. Any other drivers would perish, seeded with halove. Like halo and love, but together; a pile of ashen affection.
"ACE!"
Well, those other drivers aren't Hamish (fucking) Gilt! Seconds before the pink ray connects to the kagg, he violently turns the wheel, engages the turbo and left side hydraulics. The interceptor flips through the air like a corkscrew, avoiding the sure hit and a few more by sheer dumb luck while airborne. Gravity eventually says "fun's over" and the car lands on its wheels. Kelly's dazed, perplexed, confused, befuddled. She is unsure if the wet stain on her crotch is piss or...arousal?
The ring-shaped plants start thinning out; the end of the canyon is coming up in a steep incline that will surely slow them down.
"How much turbo do we have left?" Hamish asks, trying not to burst into laughter. Kelly checks the special fuel gauge.
"Barely enough!"
"Good enough!"
Kelly's eyes widen. She holds on for dear life as Hamish initiates the emergency overdrive; the kagg flies up the incline, flying up in the air like a rocket!
"FUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!"
"YEEEEEEEEEAAAAH!"
Hamish's cheerful roar can be best described as 'ear shattering'. His cackling laughter is the crescendo that comes to an abrupt stop when the kagg SLAMS on the ground; almost flipped over, Hamish manages to steady it, though the laughter resumes.
Kelly is ready to smack, kill, and fuck this man; in that order. She tries to steady her heartbeat as Hamish drives the interceptor towards their target, now only a few hundred metrons away from them. Seeing their trajectory more clearly, Kelly realizes that they're headed for the nearest soundtrek. Just as Hamish said.
Kelly primes her sub-machine blaster and pokes half of her body out of the pass window. Once the first vehicle is in range (a bike) she unleashes a torrent of slugs on it. The magentic muzzle flashes fly from both sides. A single Bronze interceptor against a dozen goblins on bikes?
Yeah, they don't stand a chance. Kelly's aim may not be the best among her peers, but it's good enough. Besides, spray and pray has never failed her to this day.
The road war only lasts for a few minutes. Kelly sustains a single boolet wound in her upper arm. Hamish runs over the last two goblin bikes, a klometron away from the soundtrek.
As they collect their feet (and a few pieces of meat for themselves) Kelly notices Hamish staring at her with a shit-eating grin hidden behind his raspirator. She can just FEEL the smug radiating from his face.
"What?" she demands, hacking off the last green foot and throwing it into the bommy. Hamish takes off his raspirator after confirming the zaturation levels.
"I came in clutch, eh?"
Kelly scoffs. "Yeah right, we could've just...uhm..." she trails off, unable to meet his stupidly attractive, dumbass face.
"Oi, did you piss yourself?" he points at Kelly's crotch. She hurridly puts her raspirator back on to hide the oncoming blush. "Yes, I did."
Their conversation is cut short by Kelly's wrist-tulva beeping furiously. Kelly answers it."Hey, this is-"
++ Do you have my feet yet? ++
Kelly can tell that Zarina is calling from the Helhound. "We have them, we're on our way back."
++ Yeah great, so...someone called Krow wanted me to tell you that Ylva is cooking kyarwhal tenders, and that there's not enough of them to go around. ++
CLICK
Kelly's heart drops into her asshole, as she turns to face Hamish. His raspirator is back on, a skeletal grin accentuating the last thing she wants to hear in response to his favorite food being on the table back the way they came.
"Kyar-tenders, eh? Don't want to miss that."
Both of them behold the valley where they came from, where the wandering halo breeding season is now reaching a fever pitch. Whatever they just went through was just an appetizer, and Hamish is not missing the main course. Not the kyarwhal tenders, nor whatever the halos are doing. Kelly looks back at her partner, and accepts her fate.
