Cazin slithers out of the pile and makes a break for the door, crawling quickly along the floor.
[There's A Pounding At The Door: 2+1]
You're not entirely sure it'll be any better outside, but it's got to be better than being crushed against a wall while the world burns around you, so you slither out and try to make your way outside, hoping to be tiny enough to miss but large enough to be difficult to crush underfoot.
[The Burning Barroom: 5]
The unlikely blur of Clark sweeps past you into the horde of demons, propelled by untold cybernetic enhancements as his monofilament axe rips through demons all around him, creating a slight ebb in the storm of violence that you waste no time in using to your advantage, scampering through the lull like a panicked rat in a maze, then diving into another momentary clearing as what is clearly a highly illegal railgun blasts through the chest of a particularly rotund demon, the other horde getting out of the way as it falls to the ground, and finally you manage to skip out between the legs of a dwarf that seems to have unfolded into a living assemblage of distorting blades right before he jumps into the fray and is immediately torn in half by a crablike armored fiend, the two halves nevertheless fighting on as they plunge into two separate directions in the crowd.
You finally make it to the front door past the old cloakroom, now inhabited by a fireteam of mercenary dwarves spraying lead into encroaching horrors, and look outside.
Much to your chagrin, the demons appear to have appeared in force - Apethreat is backed up three blocks long with the encroaching horde, and Onyx is even worse, part of it seemingly having slid down into a newly formed glowing pit.
This being Hell and property values around here being what they are, you expect security forces to start showing up within about twenty minutes from now. This likely doesn't bode well for anyone still inside.
Looks at the hole, looks at the bar, looks back at the hole.
"Maybe in a minute, but first... Bitch gotta get paid."
Runs for the bar, jumping over brawls and sliding under demons.
Run to the bar, crack open the safe holding Bomrek's double-barreled crossbow and tonight's earnings. Take it all, then get to that damn hole and shoot anyone or anything that tries to stop me.
It's just like Happy Hour, you say to yourself, except the patrons are interested in flesh in a more literal sense. And them putting hands on you is a lot more lethal. So really it's the masterclass that ought to test everything you've learned thus far, especially service with a smile.
[The Burning Barroom: 2+1]
You weave and whirl through the room, dodging among other things a burst of silver-tipped needles from a flechette cannon, a floating sentient ball of writhing maggots, this one guy named Clark and an Incongruous Opera Box being hurled past you, a screeching marquis of the night still within it as two particularly immense demons seem to have paused their destruction for a spirited game of catch, which makes you stop for a second as you do a double take.
This proves long enough for a sprinting skeletal horse demon to both call a shot and get right up to you, at which point he punts you hard enough that you turn into three different bats at once, flying behind the bar and circling a moment before reforming, dizzy and off-balance.
After a moment's recovery you look around the nearby neighborhood, and make out the safe beneath the bar, standing on top of which is none other than Bromek "Bomrek" Brokeshin, double-barreled automatic rocket crossbow in hand and no less then six goons kitted out in enough hardware to easily serve double that number, attempting and somewhat succeeding in holding off the encroaching demonic waves as they unload a lifetime's weapons investment to protect their employer.
[The Fruit of Arson: 1]
There is a muffled explosion from below, wholly distinct from the unmuffled explosions from above and the chunk of bar directly behind you leans downward before the panel supporting it snaps and collapses inward, the substandard construction seemingly having melted beneath to the point of failing to support it.
[Vampiric Reflexes: 6]
Sensing fire, you run toward the wall of the Gate and also slightly up it, hissing defensively as tongues of blue-white flame start coming out of the floor, accompanied by evil fumes of z-booze gone horribly wrong - behind you the back of the bar continues to collapse in earnest, a vicious inferno rising up behind it.
Demons in the cellar, you hear one of Bromek's security team shriek mechanically, they're coming in through the floors! Game over, another less optimistic one shouts in response! Bromek opens the safe with a thumbprint and quickly grabs several generous handfuls of credsticks that he shoves in his pockets, screaming something about retreating to the backroom while there's still time. Though the pocket of safety they carved out immediately begins to collapse as they try to retreat along the west wall to the backroom, they seem like they'd have good odds of getting there with minimal losses.
Meanwhile, you find yourself in the middle of this wall party that the demons are having up here by themselves, with the addition of several vampires fighting with them in the vain hope that their ability to scale walls will provide them with some kind of fleeting advantage. A few of them notice the cozy pool of steel-melting fire beneath them and dive in with hellish squeals of delight, some forgetting to put down the vampires they were dismembering at the moment as they do so, the screaming deaths of the latter making you feel really glad for a moment that you don't appear to have found a dance partner yet.
Once more, you have seconds before you are noticed, and no floor to run across in the near vicinity.
Sing. For the love of Moradin, sing.
[The Dwarven Concertina: 3]
You begin to sing a song nervously, and the demon listens critically for a moment, staring into your black soul with subtly faceted eyes. It doesn't seem very impressed at first, and so continues to squeeze and pull until you start to involuntarily shriek, at which point it starts to tap its foot and nod its head to the tune of your suffering. Then, seemingly satisfied for the moment, it tucks you underneath its arm in a sauna-like embrace and begins to make its way into the barroom in long, easy strides amid the ocean of chaos, finally landing on the stage.
Then it presents you, unfathomably sharp claws digging into your stomach as it plays a scream solo on you - the demons all around cheer, and several more gather on stage with their own creatively mutilated dwarves and vampires, gathering a six-piece torture band on stage, completely ignoring the sound system as they appear to intend to make you sing loud enough to outscream Mr. Lovegod's still-playing oeuvre through purely natural means.
Pray to the goblin gods, perhaps my old boss from before I got kidnapped by my dwarven family is in the crowd of demons.
Nuxkagoslust, you scream the name as you go from merely crawling to actual genuflection, save this poor pathetic nothing from the dark of the night, shelter them in black wings and carry them to safety! Bring doom and destruction upon those who would bring you harm!
[The Dark Masters: 1]
You repeat the prayer many times as the chaos around you grows quieter and quieter, and becomes muffled to an impressive degree before you open your eyes again and see what's happened.
The shield seems enveloped on all sides by something that is not quite darkness, but instead looks like a butterfly pattern of black and blacker, swirling lines and circles moving all around you before focusing on both you and the riggerdwarf, and suddenly opening into something darker still.
Shit, you didn't think Nuxkagoslust was actually real, but as the mass of staring eyes peers at you there is the strong urge to become a true believer. Their gaze is heavy and terrible, searching your heart for weakness and pulling at it experimentally, sending a chill down your bones as it tries to get you to submit - to do as it says and jump into its many maws as a momentary snack to sate its neverending hunger.
You glance to the side and see the riggerdwarf staring blankly, her fingers trembling as she begins to reach for what you recognize easily enough as the off switch for her drone barrier, and realize that maybe your old boss had a much brighter view of Nuxkagoslust than Nuxkagoslust seems to have of you for obvious reasons.
Jalormis, Extremely Undead Guy
Alternatively Souled: Vampire
Money: 2
Old Yeller: A Horrific Debt
Evil Minion: the Honorary Zombie
The Abyssal Players: Immortal Instrument
Too Close: 2
Enir Nazush, Barmaid of the Night
Alternatively Souled: Vampire
Outfit: Awful Schoolgirl-Dominatrix Uniform
Personal Therapy Assistant: Quietly Disapproving
Death's Gate: Too Many Vampires
Old Yeller: Come Along With Me
Break Yo Shins: A Severance Still Unpaid
Money: Flat Broke
Too Close: 1
Urist mac Slughterfiend, Miner on the Edge
Money: Flat Broke
Gruesome Insolvency: Surreal Debts
Eyes of the Butterfly: Spotted In The Crowd
Cazin Crundle-Smasher, Uncanny Bookkeeper
Money: 1
Old Yeller: Hopefully Dead
Too Close: 1
Author
Topic: Cyberdwarf: Concession and Cancellation in a Far-Future Fortress (Read 15188 times)