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Summer Wars: A Live Report Rip Off
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Chapter 1: The King Returns
Durn yawned. How the days crawled by. Most grew up dreaming of being King. Dreaming of the castle and the food and the women and the... The castle was so boring, the throne was too high and being King amid the whole mess was a thousand times worse. The endless halls and the nauseating tide of men beseeching his favor rankled him to no end. The days when no one showed their face from sunup to sundown were just as bad. Legs too short to reach the floor crashed down upon the stack of medical texts beneath his feet. What happened to the days when he waged war and claimed the world as his own? He had mauraded from country to country, claiming victim after victim. It was the wild-eyed Finn who fell last, a curse on his lips. On that day Durn had been coronated as king.
It wasn’t like that any longer. The world was all grey and forlorn. What did the sky even look like? He’d been sequestered in this chamber so long he hardly remembered. What kind of king conquered all only to lock himself away. There were whispers that he too had gone mad. All the time locked away had rotted his brain and deteriorated his sanity. Didn’t they understand? He yearned to break free and slay once more, but all the threats were gone. He was a warrior, plain and simple. He only became a king when there was no one else left to fight.
Chapter 2: No Cure for Madness
The space was dark. Dark and damp and it smelled like pig shit. The ceiling was low. There was a door somewhere. Where? No one knew. All one had to go by was a candle so feeble, the wick should have shrivelled up to nothing weeks ago. There was a counter, dusty as all hell. Maybe covered in something worse judging by the stink.
There came a cackle.
They said he was a madman, but what did they know. He moved through the same with the assuredness of a rodent, the kind whose eyes have long since adjusted to the failing light. He wasn’t a rodent, though, he was a man. And far from a hunchbacked skulk, he was broad shouldered with rippling muscles, a shaved head and unblinking eyes. In his hand he held a rosary. On his lips a silent chant. My lord. my father. I give to you devotion so that you will give unto me your strength. Blood trickled down his right arm, trailing from the chain cinched around his bicep. My lord. my father. I give to you devotion so that you will give unto me your strength.
Today was the day. The day the blasted king fell. It was on this day that he would arise. No he. He! The lord above, the light in the sky, the mover of heaven and earth. Yes he! He was just a messenger, a servant a tool. He! How little he mattered in the face of magnificence. But he had been given a mission, one he must see to completion.
The King was a charlatan, a debaucherous man who cared not for those around him. He had slain countless men, but in doing so he had spit in the face of the true god. How? How? Wasn’t it obvious!
The door opened and Dieu stepped into the street. Today was the day the King fell. Today was the day his word would reach the ears of every man, woman and child in France.
Chapter 3: Poland This Time of Year
Piss reached down and yanked. There was a woosh and a plop as his leg broke free from the mud. There was a lot of it by god, but the Scarlet Scarlett was a rare breed and he had travelled much further for less provocative and lucrative sights in the past. The truth was he had been to nearly every corner of the globe. He’d tracked weather and fowl and fauna and a few other things he prefered to keep to himself. It was far from the swashbuckling life some might have imagined. It really just meant nights spent in seedy inns and sleeping atop hay with only donkeys for company.
This was a far more noble pursuit. The Scarlet Scarlett was as peculiar a bird as you’d ever see. Legends told of its ever changing feathers which shifted length at will, all while ranging from auburn to flaxon to red as bright as the devil’s… well the devil. It was a miracle if you got lucky enough to see one. If you somehow caught it… Well that was another story. If you managed that, the bird would grant you a wish. Any in the world. Piss knew exactly what he would wish for.
Durn had been so nice once upon a time, but being King had gotten to him and he never returned Piss’ messages anymore. It was time for a new King, someone who was a little more diligent at keeping up correspondences if nothing else. Piss took a step forward. There really was a lot of mud. Nothing could be done about springtime in Poland though, besides bringing along a liter of vodka. He hadn’t this time, though. He needed to keep his wits about him. There could very well be others looking for the same prize.
Chapter 4: Birds of a Feather
It wasn’t easy being a conservationist. It would be one thing if he had a gilded toilet waiting for him back home, but the pay sucked and the job dragged him all over the world. Here he was in fucking Poland. Poland! If he hadn’t come here for the International Extreme Bird Conservationist Council, it should have been clear he didn’t want to come at all. Duty called, his superiors told him before shipping him off. They didn’t even bother to tell him why.
It wasn’t easy being a conservationist, but when Sol found out why he’d come to Poland, he remembered how important it was. The transmission from his boss was rather short and of dubious quality, but Sol heard loud and clear that the Scarlet Scarlett had been sighted in this area. That meant all sorts of unsavory people would flock to these swamps in an attempt to get their hands on the blessed bird. Sol had been assigned to jobs like this for years now. He had protected the Teacrested Sparrow, the Silver Soogull and even a rogue Patch Winged Hawk or two. He put himself in harm’s way because birds were a species worth protecting. If you couldn’t see that, well, you didn’t deserve eyes. Sol shifted his grip on his rifle. Better to be careful. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time things a job had gotten dangerous.
The last bit of the transmission was too scrambled to be properly understood, but Sol wasn’t fond of what he could make out. He heard a name, a King something or other. Was it possible that King was responsible for the people hunting the Scarlet Scarlett? They said those with the most were the greediest. Sol would just have to find one of these poachers and get the truth one way or another. It wasn’t easy being a conservationist, but a man had to do, what a man had to do.
Writer: Mizenhauer
Editor: The Spirit of Tzuyu, Durn
Graphics: Hexhaven
