Sometimes shit happens. Hey, it's not always your day, it's alright. One moment you're riding high, soaring above these mud-riddled plains with the king of mercs by your side, another, you're running far away from the crater he blew himself up in. Y...
yo hello heres a doodle of andy and w if they ever joined the IRA, enmjoy chapter
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Kill for gain or shoot to maim - but we don't need no reason! A cheerful song trickled down the festival's throat.
The golden goose is on the loose - and never out of season! The happy bunch wanted to join in and sing, but alas truly couldn't.
Blackened pride still burns inside – this shell of bloody treason! There have been around a hundred or so human casualties noted during the festival's runtime so far. People couldn't be classified as dead or alive anymore, only dead and soon-to-be-dead with a living weapon roaming the plaza. Introdus played their instruments, they sang their fiery tunes, but the patrons themselves were sharply and momentarily beginning to regret ever attending the event. Curtains that had once swirled around the marble pillars have now been torn and laid out like safety blankets all around the place – for some in hopes of hiding from the leather-clad monster – for others, as makeshift coffins. The great Sarkaz warriors were lying down to face death as cowards in favor of the Emperor's Blade offering them a swift and painless cut – for a moving, unrelenting and defiant target was far more difficult to slice evenly. The reaper adhered to the pleas to some degree, it raised its lengthy Originium spike above the unmoving corpse-cosplayers and poked their brains elegantly, but some still – terrified, sure – but still eager to fight – opted to instead face death in combat. Those ones, Andy would see flying above the crowd from time to time, missing a few limbs or perhaps even entire sections of their bodies. The blood-fireworks were really beautiful to Uri. He sang praise over the composition of it all, despite himself painting an uniquely terrifying blend of bile-blood-and-guts anywhere Andy had desperately swung him. It was never enough, though. Never enough, never satiated by his own work, always looking forward to the next explosion of red from the Blade.
"Bah!" Uri spoke indignantly upon caving in the skull of an unsuspecting Mercenary-band leader. "Squire Andrew, thou strikes with the dull end of mine blade have been nothing but pitiful so far!"
"W-What?" Andy yelled back, raising the sword high to block an incoming barrage of blades from the Mercenary-band itself, raining steel upon his head. "Whaddya mean pitiful?! I just thrashed his brain in half with one swing!"
"Hark, dear boy!" Uri buzzed in anger as all the four swords bounced effortlessly off his length. "'Tis not the problem, thee short-sighted baboon! It lies between the thin and lacking strands of thy technique, for if thy strike falters and conviction wavers, thou shalt find thy blade – meaning, MESELF – lodged halfway inside yon unfortunate opponent!"
"So w-what?" Andy pushed back, unrelenting. There were now four mourning male-Merc-widows constantly bashing and slashing at his hide from all directions. If not for the lack of weight Uri carried to his massive behemoth self, he would've been lying dead like their leader a long, long time ago. "So what?!"
