ManlyMan
[10] Knight
I believe I'd linked it in another thread, but since this is the spot that's actually for fanfiction, I figure I may as well show it off properly. This is a drabble series I wrote under the pen name 'mastersam' on fanfiction.net, that may or may not continue indefinitely, and whenever my whimsy says to. It focuses on Astaroth finding himself in a marvelous place called 'City Park', whatever that means. It'll also be edited a bit from what's on my FF.net account's version, mostly for smoothness and S&G.
Chapter 1: Grass
It was dark. Very dark, to be exact. Astaroth felt like something was being held over his face, and it was wiry and cool and kept trying to poke through his eyelids. He made a loud, guttural moan, and realized that it sounded very muffled, even more than the mask that he wore usually made it sound. His first idea was to think about what could possibly be discomforting him so much without actually hurting him, and doing so all over, but thinking never seemed to do Astaroth any good. It only served to irritate him, because it meant that there were too many little things to go through his head, and if it was little, it never mattered. His second idea was to get whatever was all over his front off of himself, and to accomplish this he placed the palms of his large hands adjacently to his shoulders before giving a mighty heave, pushing away the thing that was in front of him.
In doing so, Astaroth discovered that he was not under the thing that was weakly attempting to smother him, but that he was on top of it. The force of his shove succeeded in flipping him to his back, laying in what was determined to be thick, slightly crunchy grass. It was not textured out of dryness so much as it was just how stiff the juicy blades were. The wetness it made on his back was less irritating than the poking that it had done to his face, and so he felt content to lay there for a moment while making sure that he was unhurt and that nothing was missing. He clenched his fists.
His fingers were there, and so were his bracers.
He curled his toes.
They rubbed against the inner sole of the black leather boots he wore.
He then felt something prod his heart lightly. As he hadn't wanted to move that yet, he knew something else was there, and within arm's reach. His blank eyes shot open and he roared as he blindly grabbed at whatever was standing at his side, the perpetrator of fondling his body parts. His great hand wrapped around an arm that wasn't even as thick as the handle of his axe, and following the fragile length of flesh and bone, his eyes met those of a little boy, the golem's soulless white spheres meeting the child's watery brown ones, his entire small body quaking with terror. However, Astaroth lost interest when he saw that the boy had soiled himself; that did not amuse him in the least, and so he let the child flee upon letting go.
Once he felt that he was alone, Astaroth scanned the grass around him to find his beloved axe, Kulutes, laying just within his reach. When his fingers gripped the stout handle, he felt much more comfortable about his situation, a smile being visible behind his mask from the slight squint his eyes made. He forced himself to stand, and then took a look around the place.
Everything around him was huge. The oak he stood under was of respectable size, but it was nothing compared to the colossal towers that stood not two hundred yards from him. They were broader and taller even than the Tower of Remembrances, and covered in mirrors that reflected the sun and stung his eyes. What amazed him the most was that there were so many of them, and he wanted to eventually see them all, for something of such grand stature could not have been made without great power, and most likely held even more power inside of them. The sheer number of them made him wonder if each one housed a weapon of the same power as Soul Edge; the idea of it made his head hurt, and so he decided to sit down on a bench nearby, resting under the oak's leaves, his axe going over his shoulder.
As said before, Astaroth was not much of a thinker, but he knew this was a situation where thinking would be called for. He was out of practice, and it showed, since he could not make any significant thoughts about his predicament. He'd even forgotten by then what he had originally been trying to think about, which made him shift uncomfortably. He then decided that, if he sat and thought enough, he'd remember what it was he'd been thinking of in the first place, and so he leaned forward, propping his chin on a curled fist attached to a bulging arm that rested on his bent knee.
Chapter 1: Grass
It was dark. Very dark, to be exact. Astaroth felt like something was being held over his face, and it was wiry and cool and kept trying to poke through his eyelids. He made a loud, guttural moan, and realized that it sounded very muffled, even more than the mask that he wore usually made it sound. His first idea was to think about what could possibly be discomforting him so much without actually hurting him, and doing so all over, but thinking never seemed to do Astaroth any good. It only served to irritate him, because it meant that there were too many little things to go through his head, and if it was little, it never mattered. His second idea was to get whatever was all over his front off of himself, and to accomplish this he placed the palms of his large hands adjacently to his shoulders before giving a mighty heave, pushing away the thing that was in front of him.
In doing so, Astaroth discovered that he was not under the thing that was weakly attempting to smother him, but that he was on top of it. The force of his shove succeeded in flipping him to his back, laying in what was determined to be thick, slightly crunchy grass. It was not textured out of dryness so much as it was just how stiff the juicy blades were. The wetness it made on his back was less irritating than the poking that it had done to his face, and so he felt content to lay there for a moment while making sure that he was unhurt and that nothing was missing. He clenched his fists.
His fingers were there, and so were his bracers.
He curled his toes.
They rubbed against the inner sole of the black leather boots he wore.
He then felt something prod his heart lightly. As he hadn't wanted to move that yet, he knew something else was there, and within arm's reach. His blank eyes shot open and he roared as he blindly grabbed at whatever was standing at his side, the perpetrator of fondling his body parts. His great hand wrapped around an arm that wasn't even as thick as the handle of his axe, and following the fragile length of flesh and bone, his eyes met those of a little boy, the golem's soulless white spheres meeting the child's watery brown ones, his entire small body quaking with terror. However, Astaroth lost interest when he saw that the boy had soiled himself; that did not amuse him in the least, and so he let the child flee upon letting go.
Once he felt that he was alone, Astaroth scanned the grass around him to find his beloved axe, Kulutes, laying just within his reach. When his fingers gripped the stout handle, he felt much more comfortable about his situation, a smile being visible behind his mask from the slight squint his eyes made. He forced himself to stand, and then took a look around the place.
Everything around him was huge. The oak he stood under was of respectable size, but it was nothing compared to the colossal towers that stood not two hundred yards from him. They were broader and taller even than the Tower of Remembrances, and covered in mirrors that reflected the sun and stung his eyes. What amazed him the most was that there were so many of them, and he wanted to eventually see them all, for something of such grand stature could not have been made without great power, and most likely held even more power inside of them. The sheer number of them made him wonder if each one housed a weapon of the same power as Soul Edge; the idea of it made his head hurt, and so he decided to sit down on a bench nearby, resting under the oak's leaves, his axe going over his shoulder.
As said before, Astaroth was not much of a thinker, but he knew this was a situation where thinking would be called for. He was out of practice, and it showed, since he could not make any significant thoughts about his predicament. He'd even forgotten by then what he had originally been trying to think about, which made him shift uncomfortably. He then decided that, if he sat and thought enough, he'd remember what it was he'd been thinking of in the first place, and so he leaned forward, propping his chin on a curled fist attached to a bulging arm that rested on his bent knee.