CLONE doesn't know, but he's been told that you can't bow to things of gold. He raises the plasma cannon upward, pointing it at the figure up top, and fires a barrage of hot plasma that somehow misses with every shot - he supposes a plasma machinegun cannot really be all that precise after all. The plasma burns holes in the upper parts of the wall and the ceiling, melting right through and shooting off out of sight. The figure fails to react in any way. The worshiper merely begins to stare expressionlessly at the futuristic man. CLONE is vaguely aware that his ammo is about two-thirds gone.
Squirrel Grills, under the impression that this is about to turn ugly, takes out his crossbow, wondering who to point it at - the worshiper does not appear to be entirely hostile, merely disappointed, while the figure up top is unreactive. Thomas ducks to the ground, suspecting that this is about to turn into a firefight, and one he is ill-equipped for, it seems.
* * * * *
Salty Pete, knowing he's gone a little too far, begins to lower the ship to the ground.
"Y'arr, I say this ship not be that airworthy!" he declares, and immediately the ship responds, beginning to plummet to the ground.
"I say it be airworthy 'nuff to be within arms' reach, this I say with confidence!" he adds, but the ship does not slow down.
"Just watch it float! It'll float, this I say! They all float when and where I say they float!"It briefly occurs to Salty Pete that his word lacks a certain precision that is normally appreciated in the nautical world.
The ship, reaching terminal velocity, continues its path downward, and begins to slow down eventually - some five meters above ground, in fact. But by then it matters not, as the sloop slams right into the ground, sand and sailors flying everywhere, Salty Pete himself knocked back a good ten meters, though his bottle's still intact. The ship, from the looks of it, has caved inward from the impact, though it is far from destroyed. Wandering up to it, he notices that it still seems to be floating a little above ground. Guessing that's good enough (not like he needs to worry about air getting in), he smashes the bottle on its side, thus christening it the Red Barnacle of Atlantis.
"He's done it!" one sailor shrieks.
"The Red Barnacle of Atlantis!" another adds.
"Now we shall sail!" the third enthusiastically declares, and the ship cracks, lifts up from the ground, and seemingly mends itself, a rope ladder rolling out from it down to ground lever. The sailors immediately begin to clamber in.
* * * * *
Starn Gundar, watching the trader walk off, begins to examine the silver helmet. It looks very much like a morion, though without any sort of plume. Engraved on it are elaborate geometric patterns with a focus on Fibonacci spirals, and it is polished to an incredible shine. In addition, the dust of the desert seems to roll right off it, and it appears to reflect light like a mirror.
He feels the urge to put it on.
Author
Topic: Ephemeral Games: Game 2, the Fearsome Dominion of Radix (Read 25509 times)