Cringe Excerpts from a Cringe Author

Confronting Mossmon

Vs Mossmon

(Possibly moving this late into the first part)

The squad of 5 enters a long, spacious hallway, designed with upmost regality. Chandeliers line up the ceilings whilst lampshades of what seem to be made of gold lines up the path covered with a red and gold carpet to a throne at the other end of the room. Still, the walls were of mossy, green stone brick so only the interior design has changed from the rest of the lair.

"Mason, what a pleasant surprise" The voice of a middle-aged man from the other end of the room echoes across the room as he stands up from his throne.

From what Mason could see at the current distance, he looked middle-aged, and did not sport a really good build, if anything he looked frail and weak, like an old man yet, around him were torched corpses of possibly others in the battalion.

"You, who are you and how do you know my name?!" said Mason with a firm tone, his hand gripping his blade hard, ready to fight.

"I would not simply forget our dark horse contender now would I?" Replied the man.

"Dark horse contender for what? Spare me your lies and put forth your-" Mason says but is cut off by Cassandra.

"Don't be so hasty, we might be able to extract information that we need in order to deal with perhaps a bigger picture." Cassandra whispers to Mason.

"Hey, we can't be so cautious in front of the big bad you know it's a big gamble! The best choice could be to-"  Mason nearly shouts but stops mid-sentence, this time being interrupted by George. 

Thankfully Mossmon seemingly did not hear them well enough to know of Mason's malintent.

"Now is not the time to fight amongst ourselves, let me handle negotiations." George says, then turns his gaze upon Mossmon.

"If you would, tell us now about what you speak of, if you dare don't, expect a fight." George exclaims towards Mossmon, this way it seems he has reached a compromise of Mason and Cassandra's wants.

"This would be the part where I would attack you but, I'll tell you anyway." Mossmon says, walking towards the party in a slow, suspenseful strut.

"Let's say, two men, with unquantifiable power play a game of chess before the rules are created." Mossmon starts, "one would find the chessboard completely ruined eventually. So they made a pact, a pact to instigate the rules into it's rightful game. With one minor difference, there would only be a total of 31 pieces at any time."

"Wouldn't that be unfair, just a tad bit?" Bill's soft voice echoes calmly.

"Correct, and so, each time they played, one would always have the advantage over the other, yet, the owner of the chessboard continued to win." The man continues ever so monotonously. 

"They also betted in their games, but only for the chessboard and pieces, whoever were to win gains ownership of it.

 Eventually, the loser got tired of advantages and said, "Why not isolate the last piece and put it in the middle of it all as it's own team,". 

Now whether that last piece is as valuable as a pawn or a queen, or even something else is truly unknown, but perhaps with this fight we'll shed some light on it," he ends his stroll when he is face to face with Mason where he pauses, affirming he ended his story. Mason resisted the urge to swing his sword at him, out of the reason that he couldn't believe what this implied and wanted affirmation.

Now that he was this close, Mason could make out his whole appearance. Mossmon, the leader of the Mossy-stone gang was a middle-aged looking man who wore the fanciest clothes Mason had ever seen. A green two-piece suit with a seemingly made of gold with a dap green top hat; he had the presence of glamour surely but there was more than that. Despite Mason being with his squad and Mossmon being alone there was still the looming fear of death by the hands of the latter.