croak of dawn | [oswald v mutts, day two]

[dars]

rhogs (sand-hide army)
[ 15 | 15 HP ]

---

The battle has been all but lost, and the sandy hide army's reckless bravado is beaten beyond recognition. It was true that the rhog center of power was a fluctuating one at best, but the sandy hides were among the first to organize their efforts and as such- up until last night- they'd been in charge. For longer than any before them.

Damn those hot shot Triple Horns and their clever little tactics... The brood mother of the sandies had seen no others like them before. She hadn't taken them seriously. Now, her efforts were reduced to herself and only a handful of her strongest warriors. She's called for a retreat, but the entrance to their algae cave is blocks from here.

She's led her people to their death. And now this, a creature only foretold of in legends that go back as far as the sanctuary itself. A broodless mother wonders if it is an angel, welcoming her fellow rhogs into the afterlife, or the devil come to seek his penance.

She's on edge and, right now, she doesn't want to take the risk. She croaks a call of attack and, even though they know it is hopeless, those who remain charge forward on her mark and attack.

---

[ attacks oswald, knife ]
OeAmxnWM|rknife
[ 0.0 ]


[stole rave's coding, am lazy]

knife

[doodle :)]

sketches

The inky night sky domes the white-washed world. Everything constructed out of a thick, heavy lines that blob somewhat in the middle. Two dark shapes huddle beneath the broken walls of a shipping container that has been torn asunder and eviscerated. One is bulky and mechanical, crouched like a frog, its rounded abdomen leaned towards the kid huddling beside it. The child cradles a large gun in his arms. A stream of light cuts through the darkness, reflecting with wide eyes. Music notes stab through the air, jagged, broken.

Faces flash in the sky. One of the careers. A girl from Three. And then Celeste.

an animation

Her face lingers a long time in the sky. Literally shining now, a being of light, framed in an opal ring -- a spirit fading, becoming a haze, the dark of the sky bleeding through, until its consumed her. And her face is gone. All the light's gone.  There's just his eyes and the specks of star-light.

Without realizing it, he takes hold of his arm and strokes it. Feels the warmth of his skin. Warmth that means vitality, that means blood is coursing still. Contained within him. A precious thing, one would think. But maybe that's subjective. Maybe he was the only one who cared.

Wrapping himself up in his jacket, he slumps to the ground, hugging Fun Gun close to him.

His small hand creeps across the sand, feeling it. Sprawling across it, lengthening. Then the fingers curl. The pointer extends, strokes a line across the sand. Moves, leans aside. A dot. Lifts his entire hand, strokes a circle. It is too dark to see what he is drawing. His eyelids slip closed. His hand continues to move, as though of its own desire. The grit of the sand rubs caresses its skin. He sighs deeply through his nose. Eyelids part, only a little. As the shapes become more complex. Stranger. No reason -- only the feeling of something being created. Of a mark being made. Of familiarity. Of childhood.

a rotoscope

The sunlight glints across Oz's body as he sleeps, hands curled before him like a fetus's. Fingers flex open and closed, like a cat kneading a pillow before it sleeps. The floor of the Loft is cleaner than usual. His eyelids flicker, he scrunches up his body for a moment before he relaxes and his eyes open.

"Oz."

Blinking, he twists around. Snuff crouches beside him. Eyes wide open, the whites exaggerated as he stares.

"I told you."

He lifts up his arm. A piece of shrapnel, shaped like a fang, is in his hand.

"WAIT--" Oz throws his hands up as Snuff thrusts the shrapnel into his chest.

A scream pierces the air.

an animation

"Snuff--" he gasps as his eyes bulge open, his body flinching, the heel of his hand digging into the strange doodles he'd left in the sand some hours ago.

Screams pierce the air, shrill and savage. He can no longer tell if they're animal screams or human's. After the Bloodbath, they both sound alike. He lifts himself up, glancing around -- somehow, it's as though the night's gotten darker. He remembers a trick the manual mentioned. "Lights!"

A small high-beam flickers alive from the mech's chest. There's supposed to be two beams, but one of the lights is cracked and the filling's scooped out. Dozens of intense, black eyes gleam at Oz. Tiny. The light washes out their bumpy, gray skin, so that they look almost sooty. Their throats swell, up and down , practically bouncing as they huff through their wide rhinoceros nostrils. Some are bleeding; their horns are broken; purple bruises swell across their flesh. Yet, as Oz peers at them, noticing how they were barely larger than his hand, his face softens. He smiles.

The largest one hops forward, her clumsy webbed feet flopping across the sand. She holds her head high, proudly, throat pulsing as she grunts rhythmically. Oz chuckles. They're too small to hurt him -- besides, how dangerous can vaguely frog-shaped things be? Maybe if they were the size of actual rhinoceroses, he would be worried. But c'mon. Look at the little cuties and their neat little throats! Look at their dumb feet! Look at the sleepy little rhino eyes! What's there to worry about it!

"Hey there, buddy," he speaks warmly, as though he's talking to a puppy. He lowers his hand down, hoping the Mama Rhog to jump aboard. He knew Av had a pet mutt. Oz wouldn't mind one of those... "Yer a funky lil dude, aren't you?"

It sits there a moment, considering him with those beady rhino eyes. Its throat swells, wider than ever, as its little mouth gapes as wide as it can: "SQUEAK!'

Oz gasps, eyes widening, struck dumb with awe. "Oh my god, you squeak like a chew toy..."

The rhogs behind her take up her call, squeaking with all their little might.

"Yes, you're all cute lil squeakies," Oz assures them, not wanting them to think the big one was going to get all the attention, "You're all adorable, I knooooHOLY SHIT!"

The big one flings herself at him, the horn poised at his face. He barely has time to flinch back, avoiding a horn in the eye. Their high-pitched squeaks punching the air, the rhogs descend, webbed feet flopping all over, horns menacing his ankles, some nudging his mech with their horns, as though trying to figure out how to tip over-- "Nonono, that's my STUFF!" He tries to come to its aid, but the squeaking around him gets louder. The rhogs have formed some sort of military formation around him, separating him from it -- if he wanted to go forward, he'd have to step into a mass of rabid rhogs, all eager to stab their horns into him.

Oz goes pale. Those squeaks weren't cute. They were, in fact, the sonorous war-cries of some very angry rhogs.

Ferocious.

He glances down at the Fun Gun in his hand. At the rhogs at his feet, pushing themselves up with their forearms in that way frogs do to establish dominance. At his mech, helpless, besought with savage squeaking rhino-froggies.

He doesn't have a choice.

Gritting his teeth, he takes his gun by the barrel and swings it down.

[attacks rhogs, blunt]
yDAiu4fgbvblunt

[Broken right foot?, 6.5 damage]

blunt

[dars]

rhogs (sand-hide army)
[ 8.5 | 15 HP ]

---

The god is young in his divinity, the brood mother could sense it like salt in the air. She flicked her tongue at him as he made away with half her remaining soldiers. She stared at the remnants of them with blank, beady eyes. It was too late to feel, she thought. And the truth was that she didn't even recognize any of them by anything other than their battle stance. She'd grown too hungry with her power, too lax in her rule. And as a result, her rule was coming to an end. All good things did.

She wanted to do so in glory, not as a coward. She always respected the foes who fought to the end when she was in charge. She held no respect for those who fled. She fed them to her babies when she eventually caught up to them.

She croaked.

Brood mother would be no baby's food. And she still had three good soldiers to die for her.

---

[ attacks oswald, knife ]
JbiuOgPaUkknife
[ 0.0 ]

knife

[doodle :)]

Goddammit! These things were supposed to be cute!

The way their bodies squelch as the butt of the gun slam into them, how their little bones crunch...Oz gags as he blunders forward, wincing as though he's the one getting slammed across the head with a gun. Momentum and adrenaline alone carries him through, over their broken bodies, towards the mech. The second unit -- the ones trying to tip over his mech -- are ready for him, alerted by their leader's call, their horns raised. They leap for him.

They're brave little guys. He's so much bigger than them, and yet they still go for him. But then again -- they're just mutts. Some mutts are about as robotic as Oz's mech. Controlled by some scientist's formula or a Gamemaker's algorithm. Hard to tell sometimes. So maybe they're incapable of bravery.

He hopes they're incapable of bravery. Or feeling pain.

"Sorry little guys," he whimpers.

[attacks rhogs, blunt]

v4nUaaas50blunt

[2.0 damage]

blunt

[dars]

rhogs (sand-hide army)
[ 6.5 | 15 HP ]

---

Historically, the sand hides were known for their battle prowess. All offense, no defense, and up until now it worked with flying colors. Now, even the offense seemed offensive. The defense was unsteady at best- the young god managed to take just one of her men with his last attack, but she only had a few left to spare.

The time would soon come that her army would be down to only her, a good three inches bigger than her strongest warriors, and no less than five pounds heavier. Anyone paying attention would've pointed her out as the leader, of course this young god could pinpoint her with ease.

She would have his eyes dissolving in her stomach for ever viewing her as weak.

She would skin him and wear him as a coat in the winter.

She would raise a new empire, founded entirely on her destruction of him.

She would face the young god, and she would win.

Or, she would die trying.

This time when she croaked, her last two men did not move. Their eyes fell to her. Time for mother to show you boys how it's done.

---

[ attacks oswald, knife ]
5ATbQbb7awknife
[ 9.5 ]

knife

[doodle :)]

One hand slams against the mech. The sound, the impact, the feel of its smooth metal shell against Oz's palm is assuring, if only for a moment. He sets both hands on it, ready to pull himself up and clamber in--

Another of the rhogs' shrill cries rings out. But it's different times. Throatier, more like a croak than a squeak, and two-toned. Oz notices the slight difference and by instinct rather than sense, he turns to look over his shoulder for just a moment, to see what it is.

For a fraction of a heartbeat, there is a blur leaping up to him. In the other fraction, there is just pain.

a sketch

Pain is a red color. Hot, jarring. Rather like blood, but brighter. The eyes see it and they panic. Burns into the eyes, as pain burns into the body. Red seems to glow by its own accord, as fire glows by its own accord. Pain does too, but the glowing is more sensual. More like a radiation.

an animation

Blood specks his neck, his shirt, his shoulder. The fringes of the rip in his shirt. He crashes backward into the mech, crying out, hand pressing deep into his chest. A long, thin line slashes across it; it seems to glow a bright red color. The blood is warm. Warm enough it seems to burn.

His eyes sting, the image of the rhog leader warps and shifts. Sniffing, he rubs his sleeve across his eyes. The initial shock is collapsing. His hands tremble. His face burns bright red. His eyes are red.

"FUCK YOU!" he barks, raising his foot to stomp at the rhog leader, like a child having a tantrum.

[attacks rhog, unarmed]

itiho4R78aunarmed

[2.0]

unarmed

[dars]

rhogs (sand-hide army)
[ 4.5 | 15 HP ]

---

Perhaps the tiny god had not taken the sand hides seriously before. Perhaps he had giggled at her and her soldiers. Perhaps he'd reached for them like toys, like things for him to pocket.

He got the message now. The brood mother never missed. That's what kept her alive for so long. The little god was outraged by this- bested by a creature tinier even by comparison. She lapped at the blood that spilled down the length of her horn and into her mouth- ichor of the divne. She tasted heaven.

The god may have taken one of her last two followers as payment for her sin, but she knew now what she wanted more than anything. More than the power, more than the control, more than the victory. She wanted to consume him. She wanted to take his power and she wanted to ascend, not as a brood mother, but as the brood mother.

She eyed her last good man- it was just the two of them now, poor little pawn. She croaked her demand for blood, and the soldier moved to action.

---

[ attacks oswald, knife ]
6fcaIy112Qknife
[ 0.0 ]

knife

[doodle :)]

In his outrage, he managed to crush one of them, but not the one he wanted. The big one that kept staring him down with her beady, challenging eyes -- the one with his blood dripping down her horns. He stared back, chest heaving. Betrayal burned within him, almost as painful as the gash across his chest. He had so many plans for these rhogs. He was going to feed them fat, wriggly worms. Give soft, moist earth to brumate in. A green pond to splash and croak in. Pets every morning, flies every evening. It was going to be great.

And yet here they were.

Killing each other.

He was such an idiot for thinking they would make good pets, holy fucking shit.

[attacks rhog, blunt]

OkVwIzZK82blunt

[0.0]

blunt

[dars]

rhogs (sand-hide army)
[ 4.5 | 15 HP ]

---

The young god- for the first time- faltered. The brood mother croaked wickedly, a guttural choking rumbling. Laughter. The brood mother looked the young god in his eyes and she laughed.

Her last good man must've sensed the divine energy radiating from him as well- that, or he was slipping into the early stages of shock from avoiding the same fate as his fallen brothers and sisters. She gave him the benefit of the doubt- he'd made it this far, after all. Bother she didn't even know his name.

She wondered if he ever even had a name at all or if, like her, he'd been bred for war. A nest of little warriors, taught from birth only to kill. This soldier was not one of her own, certainly, but there had been those who became members of the sand hides later, the leftover crumbs of other dynasties they destroyed. He was a clever one indeed. She willed him the courage he lacked to help her kill a god.

---

[ attacks oswald, knife ]
5fgYp2EjD4knife
[ 3.5 ]

knife

[doodle :)]

Fun Gun bounces against the ground, bucking in Oz's grasp. He hisses through gnashed teeth, staggering, tightening his grasp on the gun. These things were greased lightning. One moment, they were blurs rocketing through his field of vision, the next they could be behind him, beside him...His eyes swivel around, bulging from their sockets. Regret seeps into him. Every single decision he's made since the anthem suddenly becomes a terrible idea to him. It had all been so stupid! He'd underestimated these rhogs, the arena in general, maybe even overestimated himself, if that were possible with his current situation with self-respect. Maybe the farce with his Fun Gun had made him lighten up, maybe he'd put too much stock in himself once he survived the Bloodbath after breaking a career's bones. Either way, should have been more prepared, should've known better. Slept in his mech, even, no matter how uncomfortable that could be. Kept his knife on him. The more he overthinks it, the more he wants to bash his head in.

He turns around, trying to swallow the regurgitation of self-doubt that tightens his throat. Locks eyes with the enemy. Which immediately struck him as strange, to think of a stupid rabid animal as an "enemy." Or to even look into that animal's eyes, as though it were a person. He blinks, considering her. The way the beady eyes slant, curl up a little at the corner. Looks kind of like one of those psycho tributes when they're on their murder sprees. How the throat pulses with each rhythmic croak -- a familiar rhythm -- deep, throaty -- like a...like a...like laughter.

The rhog looks him in the eyes and laughs at him.

Any icy hand seizes Oz by the heart. His gun droops in his grasp as his eyes widen till they can widen no more. What is this, a nightmare? Was this real? Was he going nuts? He can't decide, the world seems to whirl round and round like a top, he takes a big step back, another one. Brain faltering as it tries to confirm with his eyes what the fuck they're looking at. And he's certain he's looking at a rhog that's laughing at him.

How...How could some stupid, small animal-thing have that level of understanding...

He twists around and bolts towards his mech, abandoning whatever righteous bravado that sparked within him when the rhog alpha slashed his chest. There were guns on the mech, he knew; the manual said. How to operate them? Hell if he knows. What moves him is the beating in his ears, his heart, the pounding in his brain as its primitiveness screams into him that what he jut bore witness should not exist nor should be allowed to exist.

There's a flicker of movement across the mech. Again, one moment, the blur of motion -- bouncing off the mech, towards his face, he barely has time to shut his eyes instinctively -- the next the rhog reappearing. Horn grazing his cheek, just enough for blood to dribble out. He winces but keeps going, throwing himself at it, grappling it with his hands and hoisting him into the cockpit head-first, legs flailing and kicking wildly, chest thumping into the chair, face nearly flattening against the floor of the cockpit. The burning pain in his chest flashes white-hot heat, but for some reason his mind doesn't process it, only tells itself that it hurts there, and there's nothing more to it. He glances around quickly. The cockpit's still open; the rhogs could hop inside any heartbeat. It doesn't matter, it seems to him, what to press, only that he press it. There -- bright red, shiny button, sticking out of a joystick. Surely that must do something!

[attacks rhogs, knife (dagger mech upgrade)]

E9a0WjPAkoknife

[3.5]

knife

[doodle :)]

The moment he grasps the joystick, the yellow-amber light of a seat-belt reminder flashes over his head. Too little, too late. A knife-blade unsheathes itself from the mech's arm. Oz tugs on the joystick, it slides down a curved shaft with the motion of his arm, and with the motion the mech swings, a mirror-reflection of its owner. The momentum flings Oz from off his chest and onto his side, the back of his chair slamming into his back and catching him before he can be flung down. He winces, braces his feet against the opposite dashboard. Then he swings the joystick down. The mech's knife comes down. A boom, a cloud of dust flying up, Oz's body rolling forward and his chest slamming down into the seat, the dust-cloud falling into the cockpit with a shhhhhhhh hiss, the grains of sand dancing across Oz's body as he lies listless, trying to collect his breath. But there's no time to breathe. He scrambles up, pokes his head up, peers down the mech's body.

Nothing.

The mech's one hood-light flickers and buzzes. A splatter of blood beneath the knife glints crimson.

Relief. He flows down to his knees on the cockpit's floor, arms draped over the dash, heart still pounding, lungs still aching.

There's a warm tingling feeling across his chest. Blinking, he draws himself up off from the dash. Looks down at the blood stain there. At the little drops of blood on the floor. Twists slowly round. Blood smearing the chair's seat. Lowers his eyes. His shirt's turning red; wasn't it white before?

He brings his hand to the long tear in his shirt. His fingers feel sticky now. He looks down at them. At how red they are.

The shaking, murmured gasp is involuntary: "Mama--"

[fin]