"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
Kataclsym, Farren, Oakheart and Kratos have been eliminated.
Kataclsym and Farren, for the next two real life weeks, your mane and tail have been replaced with garland. Like shiny, colorful garland. You can pick the color(s). In two weeks, you'll go mostly back to normal, but you'll always have a few strands of hair that are still colorful and shiny.
Oakheart and Kratos, for the next two real life weeks, your legs are going to look like they are strung in Christmas lights. Colorful, flashing or color changing or something annoying like that, Christmas lights (you choose the details). After two weeks, you'll go mostly back to normal, but there will always be a few strange colored dots on your legs.
You are not alone. Groups of elves and demons and various other humans all arrive, popping into existence all around you. It’s never been just you, not really. The world is at war after all, and why are you all that special? You were awake, and that was enough. But you were not the only one awake.
The workshop shutters, echoing with the sounds of a fight already in process. There is nothing else for you to do but run. Into the workshop however you can (the front door is likely to be a bit jammed, given the number of you heading into the same place).
Once you enter, it’s impossible not to be struck by the workshop. It’s nothing like the books. The place is modern and improbable, but clearly not impossible. Machines churn out electronics and hover boards and stuffed animals at an alarming rate. You can see the stations where the elves should be working. But the elves cannot man their machines now, so the machines keep going, spewing gifts onto the floor in a flood.
On a balcony above you, there is a large black and white glowing orb, very much resembling a yin yang. Santa and the Grinch are already on the balcony, blasts of magic flying between the two. Some hit their targets, but many smash windows and blow holes through the walls. One hits a machine, and various gears go flying.
“I’m tired of Hell, Claus. It’s really nice up North though. ” The Grinch growls, and finally, finally, you begin to understand what he really wants. He wants the North Pole, and all the magic it contains.
The green monster dives at the glowing yin yang, and Santa (despite his rather large girth) is quick to do the same. They each manage to grab a half of the yin yang, ripping it apart.
You can feel the shift; feel the magic as is separates. It’s no longer whole, and the machines quickly begin to sputter and die. Some keep working, but half their product is deformed and blackened. Santa holds the white side, and the Grinch the other. “This is a good start,” he says, grinning wickedly at the piece of magic in his hands. “I kind of want it all though.”
Santa laughs at that, clutching the white half closer to his chest, a ray of white light streaking from the piece toward the Grinch. He blocks is easily, a black shield appearing in front of him from nowhere.
They don’t ask for help. They don’t have to. You already know that’s why you are here. The elves and demons are already moving, flying at one another with blasts of magic coming from either side. But the magic has changed. It is purely light or dark, and often the magic counteracts itself.
This is the end of the war. It has to end here, before the clock strikes midnight, before Christmas comes. You just have to figure out what your part in it will be.
You are now aware of the other humans in this quest – you can work with them or work alone, play off each other’s posts, etc. Do not power play someone else’s character, though you may continue to power play the demons/elves. No points will be lost if you choose to work alone versus working with others (the elves realize someone has to post first). You can simply go whatever route seems the most fun to you.
You have magic. No limits on uses. The only thing you may not do is kill the Grinch/Santa/other characters, or use magic on the halves of the yin yang.
He stares at that workshop long and hard, the old world charm to the outside of the building is what he’s always pictured-as he’s always seen it pictured. Though a battle rages about him, he feels like he is not really there. He isn’t though is he now? Not in his mind, because to him this is a dream.
Everything has gone numb, an empty feeling as sound and sight escapes him. He’s zoned out you might say, staring into the aged wood, not really seeing, not really hearing anything. It lasts for what seems like an eternity to Darwin, screaming from the canvas bag, yelling for his life.
“weir! weir, weir, WEIRRRR!” Darwin shrieks, desperately trying to pull his host from whatever reverie he was in. The mayhem has elves and demons alike jostling him about, slamming into Weir and the man gives no reaction.
Weir slowly regains his hearing, his feeling and sight. Returning from whatever dark reaches of his mind that he’s sought refuge in. He feels, a warm hand clinging to his coat, the gloved fingers clasped tightly and he’s jerked forward. “Weir, Weir!” The jolly face and rosy cheeks sharpen, losing the haze that blots out the world- he can see him, that Santa Claus, he can. He can feel him, those heavy hands pushing at his chest now, pressing into his skin with a force of urgency. He feels.
It creeps through him like a trickle at first, fighting the lost sense of being that had threatened to extinguish him, to suffocate him like the flame of a candle. It creeps, then it bursts forth like a wave, setting him on fire and burning his insides. His amber eyes widen, grabbing at Santa’s wrists, because the light bulb has been lit once more. “Santa?” Weir whispers, remembering where they are, how they had gotten there. “Weir,” Santa begins but he is jostled and tugged himself, and only now does Weir see how hard he tries to keep hold of him. The demons pull him, the Grinch too sends tendrils of dark lights to wrap around the rotund Saint’s belly. “Santa? What’s happening, this is all wrong. This is madness, is it my madness? This is my dream isn’t it? Have I done this to you?” Weir trembles as he speaks, boiling inside with magic once more, and his body craves it- revels in it greedily. That greed that he has so painstakingly quelled into a tight ball, plucking at it like harp strings only when it’s needed. It’s angry, he’s angry too and he’s scared at the way it fights him to burst forth.
“WEIR! Santa shouts again his voice ominous this time. “Take it Weir. Help me, you must!” He grunts, fighting the crushing force that grips him, an angelic light surrounding him. He takes his lips, pressing them to Weir’s forehead, the bleached whiskers prickling his skin as they pass it.
“Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow —
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away..”
The Grinch rips Santa from him, the jolly man turning with a fierceness to resume the battle of light and dark. Weir yells against the deafening sounds to Santa, a steel look to his bright eyes as the Father of Christmas is pulled from him into the workshop.
”In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?”
He grins, his smile gleaming as he snatches Darwin from his bag with a joyful chorus of laughter. “Weir, weir have you gone mad? What are you doing?” Darwin cries. “Ho ho, mad? Never!” He shouts, thrusting a palm towards a group of approaching demons, blasting them with a force field that sends them tumbling away.
Darwin’s beady eyes blink repeatedly, trying to register what he has just seen. “A war is coming Darwin, a War is here in my dream, and I should fight it don’t you think? I should not fight myself anymore.” The lines of his face have taken on a very serious look, one of self forgiveness and acceptance.
“Prepare for glory my friend,” He smiles, setting the small turtle on the ground, and he himself rises. His amber eyes are backlit, illuminated with light that seems to burn through them. He holds both hands forward, his palms gleaming with a golden radiance, and Darwin changes, he restores.
No more does Weir’s soul find itself trapped in a body that is not it’s own. That small turtle shimmers, wavers like heat against a black asphalt road, and he is a turtle no more. He is what he always has been, a magnificent tortoise, with a great shell and a long neck. He is a creature not limited to the binds of appearance or creation, he is not hindered with a slow crawl. He is much more than he appears, just like the red-headed man, who has always been more than just his cover.
“How do you feel friend?” Weir asks, dropping his hands to his sides. “Amazing! Better than ever!” Darwin shouts, no longer squeaking with a tiny voice. ”I think the hands are useful,” The man comments, deciding to remain human, before a roar of destruction sounds.
Weir brings his arm up, shielding himself from the rain of rubble as the side of the workshop explodes, lowering into a crouch next to Darwin. The great tortoise-soul has receded into the safety of his shell, dodging the particles of splintered wood and sheetrock.
“We better get in there.” Weir calls into the shell, there was no time to waste and they still had to get inside.
There’s no hope at entering through the front doors as others crowd the entrance, pushing and shoving to get through the opening. “Around to the side then Weir?” Darwin suggests, gesturing with his head to the demolished eastern side of the building. “Looks like we don’t have a lot of choices,” Weir nods and blocks a ball of green light, raising his arm up and across his chest as a shield materializes. The burst of dark energy ricochets off the surface, it’s commander growling and snarling with animosity. Darwin pops his head out shouting, “How dare you, you ugly scoundrel!” Biting at the bit to stomp or crush the little devil.
Weir places a hand on Darwin’s back, infusing him with life and force armor that scrawls itself over Darwin’s shell in glowing angelic runes. He thrusts his left arm forward, the palm looking like nothing more than a solid ball of energy it glows so bright and pure. His right arm he pulls back, bending at the elbow as he thrusts his body forward to his extended arm. Darwin rushes the creature, tucking into his shell and whirling, responding without a hitch to Weir’s intention- so imbued with life he was. As the giant tortoise rolls towards the demon like a freight train, the creatures eyes bulge, and he turns to scramble away much too late. He’s knocked to the ground, losing consciousness from the strike, and Weir rubs his hands together. That familiar dusting off action that he’s seen in a movie once or twice, or has he?
Together they make a path, dodging green beams of evil, sparing with demons when they can’t.
When they reach the workshop’s eastern side, they are met with a most unexpected sight. It’s filled with all manner of sleek modern surfaces, of automated assembly lines and robotics. The machines litter the gleaming white floors with toys. Heaps of the latest electronics and fashions build, not an elf to be spared from battle. Weir simply can not believe his eyes, this is nothing like what he thought it would be, and he doesn’t know why that is, come to think of it. Why wouldn’t it be? Everything else had become more efficient in the world, had pressed forward with the advancement of technology, why would Santa’s workshop not do the same?
It’s not a question he as time to think out, to conclude a valid reasoning for or against the matter because overhead a great war wages.
It always comes down to this doesn’t it, Good vs Evil? The Dark and the Light, never satisfied with coexistence. Hell doesn’t have to pull people down to its level, it all happens naturally. Lost souls descend, similar to the laws of gravity which cause us to fall to earth. Hence, those who have been evil now reside in Hell, left to reap what they have sown.
The collision of magic is blinding, several times Weir must shield his eyes or look away. On one such instance that he must do so, he is shoved aside by a woman, trying to make her own way to where the two forces fight. He’s so taken back by her presence that he doesn’t have time to call out, to tell her to wait or come back. He’s left standing there, mouth hanging open with surprise, looking like an idiot.
Several small hands are finding him now, yanking on his coat, tugging for him to look down. It’s the elves, that group of five that have been his aid through the whole ordeal. They point excitedly at Darwin, one is so bold to climb up on his shell, chittering with words they both do not understand. “I do say, I am not a horse, if you don’t mind.” Darwin's tone does not reflect his displeasure, and the tortoise looks rather sheepish from the attention.
But there’s no time to play, around them the fight rages on, both elf and demon exchanging the force of their respective magic. Weir aims for a staircase, one that has not yet been broken or smashed from the duel, though how he does not know. It’s the only way left up, the only passage to reach both Santa and the Grinch.
It’s not a straight shot, there are piles of toys to sort past, heavy pieces of technology that create barriers between them and their destination. “Stairs?” Darwin asks, though he already knows. That’s what’s nice about being someone’s soul, your indefinitely connected to their very existence- let alone the routine pattern of their thoughts. Weir nods, the elves nod too, though they speak no English they understand the language quite well.
The building shakes, quakes from a rumbling in the very earth and Weir steadies himself against Darwin, intent not to fall. The elves topple like a set of dominoes, much too small to provide each other support against the movement.
Demons crawl from a crevice in the floor, one that appears to have opened up straight to Hell itself. Weir looks on, lifting one elf to its feet and dodging left to avoid a blast of magic. The man scowls, throwing a burst of gold energy at the attacker who hits the wall and crumples groaning.
“Serves you right!” He calls, nodding to Darwin who returns the gesture. Together they maneuver around piles, blasting at demons who return their own magic full force, much more intent on harm than those that serve Santa. Another crash erupts from the ceiling, the fight between Santa and the Grinch intensifying, sending Weir and his helpers tumbling over a pile of flat screen tv’s. Darwin tucks and rolls, avoiding injury with his thick shell. Weir falls backwards, landing with a crash and hitting the back of his head on the corner of a set.
Dizzy. That’ how he feels, rubbing his throbbing skull as he sits up, his hand covered in red. My, my that was quite the fumble.
Before he can heal himself with the light magic that courses through his body, a nearby demon takes advantage of their misfortune, sending a lightning bolt of dark at Weir. The elves turn to help him, shoving the creature away with a forcefield of combined magic that crackles with silver brilliance. The once horse, now man, clutches his arm- too late to fully block the attack. He’d only been able to set it off course, the rod carving a deep wound into his hanging appendage. The only reason he makes any attempt to rectify the damage is because Darwin responds with an outpouring of curses.
The wound he seals, mends the sinews of muscle, the tendons until his arm is whole- for the most part. The curse leaves an ugly mark behind that bruises and purples at being forced away. The pain is gone at least, causing a great sigh to erupt from the redheads mouth, now realising how painful that had really been. He heals his head as well, taking energy from their surroundings and the displays of magic. He blinks his eyes slowly, then stands, the elves crowding him with worry. “All better, yes thank you, out of the way.” He motions stretching his arm, flexing his hands. “Yes, just a little souvenier. That’s fine.” He pats the puckered skin, and the elves withdraw with sour faces. Gross.
Weir is more set on reaching that flight of steps than ever, steering their group around the collapsing building, shoving pulses of amber light at stacks of toys- forcing a breach in the wreckage. Darwin heads the group, spells bouncing off his shell from his force armor. Weir is contained in the middle, protected, the elves form a crescent behind him. Flanking his sides, spinning bouts of magic with deft and practiced hands. They turn looms of silver, wisps of crackling light against the hellish magic of the demons. A woman even tries to rush the group, a great whip of silver formed by the tallest of the elves, sends her whirling horizontally away. He smiles, knowing he has impressed, it seems the closer they get to Santa, the stronger their magic becomes.
The staircase looms before them, climbing to a great height amongst a shattered mess of a building. Overhead, Santa and the Grinch fight on, each one harboring half of what was and should be, one single object.
“Surrender fat man! I can tell you tire, you’re a fool for sharing your magic with that sorry excuse for a man!” The Grinch taunts Santa Claus, jabbing at him with words where his magic will not reach.
“You’re wrong!” Santa returns, blocking a sword of black magic with a blazing shield of white fire. “You’re consumed with greed, you have nothing but hate. Your eyes refuse to see because you fail to comprehend, he is more than a man. He is a creature of the light, with a strong soul and a strong heart!” Santa grunts, his words emanating from a clenched jaw. They push at each other with their halves, the black magic meeting the white magic in an electrified arch.
“ You are a blithering old fool!” Says the Grinch, his tone seeping with malice, trying to tilt the pressure of magic to his side, to overcome the light with the dark. “You think you’re better, that you’re always right. You’re not perfect Nicholas, you never were!” The darkness smokes around him, coiling outward and trying to wrap around the connected bolts of magic.
Santa sees Weir, his eyes going wide but they are no less pleased in their surprise. Filled with hope, Saint Nicholas wills himself to steady, to press forward with his magic of white angelic fire. It’s too much though, that war of halves. The ground trembles, slowly at first, building in intensity and pressure, the waring magic growing ever brighter, hotter. Weir makes to rush forward, crying out for them to stop, falling to his knees as a spear of black magic flies from the Grinch’s woolly hand. “Stay out of this mortal!” He brushes the man off, returning his focus to Santa and that other half of the yin yang, but he is yanked again as he turns. The thread of dark presses into Weir, it will not release, it is trapped and Weir struggles to free himself from it.
“Release me!” Weir shouts, writhing, grabbing with his mortal hands at the solid-feeling tether. The Grinch tries to let go, failing with each attempt, his eyes widen realizing that he can’t, he can’t release him. “Weir, hang on!” Santa turns, sending his own white light to help his champion, afraid of what will happen if the man managed to force the darkness away himself.
That gossamer strand of white light finds Weir too, striking him through his chest and spreading over him in tendrils that resemble the dendrites of a neuron. Weir screams, agonizing as both light and dark war within him, refusing to release their hold. Santa is cemented as well, closing the circuit and connecting them all in the current of magic.
They’re stranded, unable to move, unable to fight or flee. Even Darwin stands immobile, his own cries rising, victim to his host’s afflictions. The elves and the demons run wildly, each trying to reach their respective leader, to pull them loose from this sorcery. All are thrown back the very moment their hands find their commander. Blasted away, like a shock from a high-voltage electric fence.
Features of Weir’s face twist, contorting his appearance in unimaginable ways. The two sides waver, threads humming as they thrust themselves into the man, but in him- there is more of one than the other. Weir had sided with Santa after all. Weir had chosen the light.
When he thinks that he can take no more, something tips. Only just and that’s all the momentum it needs to start. The tiny threads of magic spread over Weir entirely, seeking him out in whole, snaking into his ears, up his nostrils, past his lips. The light appears to consume him, taking over his body in a pattern of woven white fingers, the connection of dark flickers.
It begins to sputter, a dying flame. Clinging, trying to find oxygen to consume and restore itself with. The Grinch looks worried now, his grimace turning to a look of woe as the magic begins to drain from him back into its vessel- shoved away by the overpowering light. He doesn’t know, nor does he understand what is happening, how it is happening.
As good drives evil from the Grinch, it captures him as well, crawling up his arms- winding up shafts of moss colored hair. His eyes, once burning with Hell fire, burnish with the light of a thousand crackling hearths. Laughter fills the air, unbidden by the bounds of space and time, a chorus of merry children. Song, it starts out low, growing until the clear chorus of divine carols fill their ears. Weir is heaving, he is of solid light now, unable to distinguish one thread of light magic from another. There is no end to it, to him, there is no beginning either. He is pure. Consisting of wonder, of hope, family and friendship. He is selfless, the embodiment of the Christmas Spirit.
And he is good. Weir has always, been good.
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
It's like they've jumped into the sea serpent's mouth. Its gaping mouth was looming and that's all Nayl saw until suddenly there was darkness. It didn't feel like she was eaten though. There's wind in her hair and frost kissing her nose. Somehow they are all still alive and not being split between a sea monster and she-werewolf. How?
Nayl opens her eyes slowly and looks immediately to her left and right. A weak smile shakily appears because she suddenly remembers Cuddles in the Outback "I'm so sorry for what has happened," she whispers when she embraces the elves but they pat her and reassure her. "He died for a good cause. Our lives are devoted to Santa and protecting the North Pole," they glance at each other and step away as they hear muffled pops all around them. "The others are coming now.". "What others?" "Nayl, did you think we were the only Regiment in Santa's army? There are hundreds of us!" They turn their bodies to open up her view to see the others appearing abruptly. "Wow," her voice is hushed as her autumn eyes drink in the surprise occurring all around her. "We can definitely save Christmas then," she says to them as she takes her place standing next to Snowflake who is huddled and shaking in the snow. "Or not..." Not everyone is teamed with elves. Some are smiling among the minions with darkness in their eyes.
The ruckus in the workshop is what tears Nayl's attention away from the other humans arriving. She glances down to Snowflake and hoists him up with the help of the others. They can feel his body trembling and his respirations plummet. His face and skin is becoming ashy and gray. "He's dying. Hurry, let's get him in here quickly!" Everyone is rushing toward the door of the workshop and so the elves apply a small amount of magic to phase through the wall as to avoid the clutter at the doorway. What they see, however, is not what they expected.
Santa and the Grinch are battling on the floor above, each now holding one half of the yin and yang. Machines around them sputter and malfunction, some falling into a deadened silence. Nayl looks around in shock as her mind's idea of the workshop is betrayed. It's nothing like she imagined; it's worse and she wonders briefly if she chose the right side. Her heart clenches in her chest but when she turns to the elves she realizes that she had made the correct decision and that they are the ones who have brought out a better side to her. If there is one thing that Nayl has learned in her young life it's loyalty. Mother raised her to be as such and damn if she will fail her now on Christmas Eve.
The magic threads through her, and Nayl's whole body feels more alive than it ever has before. "Nayl! Watch out!" Peppy shouts and points at an animated clown doll with jagged teeth. The telekinesis of a demon is holding it before hurling it at her. It bites the air, wanting her. She quickly dives away and grunts when she hits the floor. Lifting her hand she tries to utilize her magic to lessen the evil of it, but the yin and yang are equal. Half of the doll smiles as most toys do while the other remains hellish. The two halves of the clown begin slapping each other in vengeful fits, completely forgetting about Nayl.
Grasping the opportunity, she scrambles to her feet and runs to Snowflake just as he begins draws in a final breath. "No!" They need him. Her hands rest onto his chest and she tries with all her might to focus. The magic seeps from her fingertips into his body. It drains her slightly as life begins to return to him. She managed to try at the last possible second. His heart begins to thump in his chest again and color returns to his skin. The rosiness of his cheeks pops and his eyes open suddenly. Air is sucked into his lungs as though he had been drowning, his hands reaching into the air for a split second before gaining control of himself. "What... What's going on here?" He looks around at the chaos happening before finding Nayl's eyes. "Thank you," the girl smiles in return before helping him to his feet. "We can't do this without you, Snowflake. I'm just happy I got to you before you were gone." She doesn't know if she would've been able to bring him back to life once he had died.
The wound is mended and the blood dried on his skin. His clothes, however, bear the evidence of his mortal wound. "Let's get jingling then!" It's strange to be on his feet again and to have strength in his muscles. He flexes everything curiously, wiggling his fingers and toes with a broad smile on his face. His Regiment cheers for a quick moment before directing their attention on the war at hand. "Captain Snowflake is back in action! Come on, boys! Let's show them what we've got!" Nayl smiles and pulls the elf into a bear hug but then looks up at magic bursts between the Grinch and Santa. "I don't want to destroy the workshop or any part of the North Pole. We have to spare as much as we can. It's the night before Christmas and we don't want to lose everything." She is more or less thinking aloud as her eyes dart from one minion to another. The other humans are breaking in as well, some siding with the elves and others with the minions. Nayl bites her lip as she contemplates a way to salvage what they can of this strange, modernized workshop. She isn't sure if the elves enjoy machinery taking their jobs or if they enjoy it. Her heart is in her chest as she teeters back and forth until she finds herself in the grip of a demon. Its nails sink into her arms and she yells. Blood dribbles down as she struggles. Sugarplum intervenes, however, by grabbing a large candy cane and hooking it around the minion's throat. With a fueled effort the elf dislodges the enemy and they proceed into their own private battle. Swirls of black and white combat against each other and Nayl watches for a split moment before tending to her own wounds. The BB gun shot wound and the claw marks are quickly healed. Learning from her injuries, she blasts herself and the Jingle Regiment with a defensive power. Each of them develops dermal armor; all but Snowflake, Nayl, and Sugarplum obtain extra thick skin. Snowflake develops armor of shells, Sugarplum a layer of hardened scales, and Nayl bone plates with spikes along her back and arms. They all admire the help with the exception of Sugarplum who is too preoccupied with the battle at hand. He animates rolls of ribbon and entirely covers and ties the demon.
"Frosty!" Suddenly, the elf is lifted above their heads with his limbs spread in every direction. They can see the pain in his face as he strains through clenched teeth, his eyes clamped shut. The minion is inducing pain, stabbing into Frosty with mental knives and cackling into the busy air. Nayl cups her hands to her mouth and looks at the others. "I don't know what I can do!" "Just try something and the magic will take on what it needs to! Save him!" Hurling her hands in the demon's direction a thunderous clap of white magic shoots forward in attempt to negate his power. Much to her dismay it meddles with the black magic but doesn't entirely stop it. What had been stabbing, unbearable pain for Frosty is now relentless tickling. "I can't totally stop it, it seems," she frowns as she watches Frosty gasp for air between huge bouts of laughter.
Shouting from above grabs her attention briefly and she sees Santa and the Grinch still battling. Their voices ring loud as their magic swirls and dances. She wants to run up there, but there is so much happening below between the minions and elves. That's when she sees Weir clambering up the staircase to reach the two Christmas leaders. Two threads of magic crackle toward him and embed into his body. Confused, Nayl glances between the two battles - the Grinch and Santa, and the elves and demons - and hurls another bout of magic toward an approaching group of demons. It's a defensive shield that physically shoves them backwards long enough for her to look back up to the Grinch. Her powers try to meddle with the elves as it shoots toward the Grinch, trying to negate the darkness of his own powers, even if it only weakens him/his dark magic slightly. She can only hope that it will be enough or that others will seize the opportunity as well.
There's a loud BANG as Nayl's shield wall is broken through. "Shit!" She has to turn her back to Weir, Santa, and the Grinch. While some elves and demons flee to their leaders, most still remain on the lower floor trying to defeat their opponents. Demons are using their destruction to maim and harm the elves. Pieces of the roof are tumbling down, machinery is being beaten and stopped. Everything in here is a storm of mayhem. Nayl surges toward a couple of the demons. Some try to jump on her, bite her, claw her, but her armor spares her soft skin below. The protruding bone spikes along her arms and back cut some of her enemies. They learn quickly, however, and reconsider trying to attack her as they have previously. "Armor, armor, she has armor. Can't bite." They are talking amongst themselves but never look away from her and the elves in formation around her.
A smile touches the girl's lips as another idea springs to mind. Shooting white magic toward one of the large machines, she tries with all her might to animate it. The conveyor belt rips and comes off its rail like a snake. The Jingle Regiment tries to distract the demons as the belt comes flying forward and wraps around a small mass of the minions. It pulls them toward the machine and crams them into the loading inlet before shutting all entrances and exits that it can, trapping them inside. "Now, stop!" She shouts, wanting the destruction to end but reveling in this new power to control the world around her, to breathe life into animate and inanimate things, to help those that need and deserve it.
She can only hope that the minions trapped in the machine won't escape and that the ones still actively on the floor, staring at her and Weir, will think they are on the losing side and resign. She has tried to weaken the Grinch and she has tried to take care of the battle underfoot to the Christmas leaders. Nayl can only hope that it's enough, that Christmas will be saved.
And inside you're burning with some secret yearning
She has never before known death. Not truly. Of course, her mother had died birthing her. But she does not remember that. She has never known her mother, and so her death had never truly registered.
But this. This is different. She hadn’t seen him die, but she knows that he is dead. How could he have possibly survived against those wolves? And she had never suspected what effect such an experience might have on her. Had never understood just how truly final death is until this very moment.
And she does not even have the time to grieve.
Instead, she is called to action once again, pulled away from blank shock into the violence of reality. ”Miss Lirren.” Mr. Thimbles voice echoes faintly in her ear, reminding her of everything that still is. One might have been lost, but there are others. Others who are not lost.
Glancing around, she realizes suddenly that they are not alone. Other groups of elves and humans have arrived with them. And the demons are there too.
Scrambling to her feet (and nearly falling again when she trips in her boots) she blinks her watery eyes rapidly. A drop of moisture trickling down her cheek causes her to swipe reflexively at her face, only to wince when her fingers scrape against the still bleeding gashes in her cheek. She can feel the blood freezing on her skin, the dull throb of a fresh wound.
For a moment, she wishes she could simply crawl into a hole and hide. She had not signed up for this, had not asked to join this rescue party. If anything, she had simply been taken along for the ride. She is not even certain she has contributed anything useful to the fight.
But then the anger comes. The terrible fury at what has been taken from her. At what those horrible demons, that godawful Grinch, had done. They have to pay. For everything.
It seems that whatever had brought them here is going down inside the workshop, so that is where she needs to be. She is still not entirely sure what she will do when she gets there, but she is damn well going to do something. Even if she has to bodily tackle the Grinch to do it.
Of course, the thought of a short, slight woman tackling a massive beast like the Grinch is rather laughable. Still, she won’t be denied. Not in this.
The elves are already gone, sprinting for the building to join their brethren in the fight. Lirren follows, albeit more slowly. There are others like her. Humans apparently selected to fight (though how she had ever been selected, she’s not entirely certain). Some appear to be fighting on the side of Saint Nick, others on the side of the Grinch.
Regardless, they all seem to be headed for the same place. This has resulted in a traffic jam at the door, bodies pressing and elbowing as they try to fight their way inside. Lirren halts abruptly, unwilling to join that particular melee. She has never been overly fond of crowds.
Scanning the building for an alternate entrance, she pauses when she sees a man and a - good lord, is that a tortoise? – break off from the frenzied mob to move around the side. The pair of them steamroll a demon before taking off, deflecting and dodging what appear to be energy balls as they go.
Deciding that her options are rather limited, she follows them. As focused as she is on her plan, she doesn’t notice the green ball soaring towards her until it is too late. She barely has time to raise her hands, erecting an unconscious and rather flimsy shield in response to the missile before it slams into her, knocking her slight frame backwards. She lands on her bottom in the snow with a solid thump that nearly knocks the breath out of her. Hissing in surprise, she struggles to regain her breath as well as her bearings.
She doesn’t have time though, as the demon that had flung the projectile at her is running in her direction, preparing a second energy ball. And just that quickly the fury is back. An anger that burns in her throat, causing her to lash out violently at the creature. She doesn’t even have to touch the beast. It flies through the air, barely catching itself with magic of its own before it slams into the building.
Lirren does not hang around to see how quickly it recovers. She is back on her feet in a flash, kicking the cumbersome boots for her legs before sprinting towards the side of the building where the man and tortoise had disappeared to.
There she finds a massive hole in the building, the gap displaying a wide portion of the workshop inside. She has not even made it two steps into the space when she skids to a halt, jaw dropping in amazement. Her shocked eyes fall on several huge machines, metal gleaming in the bright light. Piles of discarded toys are heaped alongside them, clearly abandoned in favor of the fight.
As her eyes travel the unexpectedly modern space, she sees Santa and the Grinch upon the balcony, battling each other fervently. They each hold one half of something. A thing that seems to be the center of their battle. The red haired man she had seen before is there with them, having been unfortunately caught in the middle of their personal fight.
Glancing around wildly, Lirren’s throat tightens as she realizes she has no clue what she could possibly do in the face of all of this madness. She is not cut out for fighting. She is nothing more than those pretty ornaments that the Grinch’s demons had so delighted in smashing, meant to add only beauty and whimsy to the world. She has nothing to offer.
As if to emphasize the point, several demons take advantage of her temporary hesitation, sending tendrils of dark magic to snake around her to hold her immobile. Lirren sucks in a startled breath, a small squeak escaping her lips as she does so. She can hear their triumphant cackling, can feel the burn of humiliation at the ridiculous ease of her capture.
And then the anger is back, the understanding and knowledge that whatever else she may be, she is not weak. She never has been. She had only forgotten it for a moment. A burst of furious, righteous energy frees her from her bonds. She pushes back against them, her arms outstretched before her. She can feel the tug and pull of the magic, the light and dark far too evenly matched.
Unfortunately, in a contest of strength, she would lose every time. But a contest of wits, now that is something she could win. She needs to fight smarter, not harder. And if she is fighting smarter, well, she shouldn’t be fighting at all. It is not one of her strengths.
But talking is. She can talk with the best of them.
So she does the only thing that she can do. She runs. But not away. No, she runs towards them. Towards the Grinch and Santa. She runs right into the fray, a wall shield thrown hastily around herself deflect any attacks. She races up the stairs – the last remaining set – throwing her hands wide as she reaches the top, a brilliant burst of bright white light shooting from her, framing her in its magnificence. The light is purely visual, a stunt meant to attract attention, to draw the eye.
”STOP!” she hollers in an authoritative voice she hadn’t even known she possessed. ”Stop it now! Is this really what you want?” Her eyes fix on the Grinch, even as he fixes his own toxic green gaze upon her, a sneer curling his lips. She can only pray that he will actually heed her words.
”Is it, really? Do you dream of being a ruler of nothing? Because that is what you will have if this continues. Nothing.” She emphasizes the word, trying to make him understand. ”You are destroying this place. And even if you win, all you will win is a land devoid of whatever magic it might have once possessed.” Actually, she’s not entirely sure that’s true. But at this point, she would say anything to make him stop and listen. To give Santa a fighting chance to make this all right again. After all, it is the only thing she has to give.
”So tell me, is that really what you want? Is that your dream?”
Lirren
starlit daughter of joythief and carnage
html c insane | pic c laura-ferreira.deviantart.com
12-17-2015, 11:49 AM (This post was last modified: 12-17-2015, 11:51 AM by Arka.)
his perfect kingdom of killing, suffering & pain demands devotion, atrocities done in his name
There was a moment – fleeting, childish – in which Santa fascinated him. He was only human (horse?) despite his current situation in life and the powers he’d been granted. The fat, jolly man represented all the carefree, easy family moments he’d ever enjoyed. Whatever Arka had become, there had been a time when Christmas had meant everything.
But that was then.
The Elves – clever, Arka would admit – used his momentary lapse in thought quite effectively. Lifted from the ground, Arka went flying. The wind whistled in his ears, the snow seeming to glitter brilliantly underneath him in the blur of his speed. It was actually quite beautiful, at least for as long as it lasted. His surprise and wonder were quickly lost as he slammed not only in to the wall of the workshop, but through it, letting out a cry of pain as he came to abrupt halt against another wall within the building. He slid down to the floor with an unceremonious ‘thump’, letting out a groan as he tried to shake off the dizziness. He’d hit his head. He couldn’t think.
From somewhere in the haze he registered a snarl, a demon’s arrival close by. Blinking furiously to clear the confusion, he realized an Elf was crawled through the human-sized hole in the wall to finish the job she had started. The bells on her skirt rang merrily even as she stalked towards Arka with a weary, resigned expression and he couldn’t help it. He started to laugh. There was something hilarious in the juxtaposition of the jolly chorus of bells and the murder the Elf was prepared to commit and Arka could not stop – he laughed, he laughed, he laughed and the Elf stopped in her tracks. She did not appear frightened, but rather confused and maybe a little disturbed by the Grinch’s chosen one.
“I don’t want to do this,” she said, a ball of light growing in her fist as she prepared to stop him if it was required of her. “You can stop. You can change your mind and help us.”
Arka stopped laughing.
“You’re right. I could. But why should I?” he asked, starting to lift himself off the ground to attack just as the Elf realized there was no help for him and raised her arm to release her magic. He built his own, prepared to release, prepared to destroy her despite his blood dripping down in to his eyes when…
The same demon that must have pulled him from his fog with a growl appeared, leaping between Arka and the Elf to absorb the beam of light that shot from her. A piercing howl screeched from the creature as it died, its oily tar body losing form and splashing back on Arka.
“It’s not yet time for you to die…” the Grinch whispered in his head, acknowledging the sacrifice was calculated.
Arka let loose with a wave of dark to match the light with which the Elf had tried to finish him, watching her fly backwards and roll to a horrid, final stop in a pile of half-wrapped presents. (Like a little ragdoll, limbs askew. You could do this to all of them Arka. Finish them now and you’ll never have to spend another Christmas pretending to care about the people around you, pretending that you give even half a shit about getting the perfect tree, pretending you don’t want to tear that string of lights off your neighbor’s houses and strangle them with it. Finish this.)
Covered in muck, barefoot and bare-chested, he stalked through the workshop. Fire had broken out and through its dancing he caught glimpses of other humans. All were deeply entrenched in the same war though they seemed far more cognizant of their purpose than those Arka had encountered in the club in Boston. Those people seemed overtaken with some unknown urge to defend the holiday, while every human in this workshop knew exactly why they fought. To Arka they were simply unnecessary obstacles.
Santa and the Grinch fought high above his head on a second floor. Arka caught a glimpse of another human and a…tortoise…sprinting up the only intact staircase towards the two dueling superpowers. He couldn’t risk taking the same route and being caught in a firefight when his true target was Santa. Nothing else mattered. If he could take out the big guy, the little ones would be child’s play, especially with the Grinch undistracted.
It was at that moment he heard another of the people milling through the workshop – a woman, a voice that brooked no argument coming from her as she shouted at the Grinch. Perhaps a creature less consumed by greed, less taken with their own madness, might have paused in the face of her argument. But Arka was mad and cruel and sick. He turned his head to look at her over his shoulder as he moved underneath the balcony on which Santa and the Grinch fought. An Elf flew past his head, taking a swipe at him but ultimately attempting to destroy another demon off to the side. He dodged deftly despite the oceanic roar in his head – oh, he’d hit it so very hard – and called back to the woman.
“That’s the point. A land full of nothing – no Santa, no elves, no presents. We’ll all forget you and your Santa ever existed. And we’ll build our own magic here!”
He sounded unhinged. He felt unhinged. His head was splitting down the middle, unfolding in some lotus-petal bloom, lava spilling out of its edges and burning him as he unraveled. Elves and Demons created a symphony of pain and rage as they fought, a backdrop that made his blood boil, his limbs itch.
With a scream he unleashed another blast of energy, presents tossed in to the air in the wake of his release though its true purpose was realized with spectacular efficiency: part of the floor above him exploded, shards of wood flying as shrapnel in all directions. He watched an Elf caught up in the explosion land, pinned to the floor by a huge piece of timber. Gathering another rage-fueled blast, he blew another hole in the floor above him, dust and wood raining down on him. What he wanted was simple: either Santa would lose his footing and fall down to the floor to his end, or Arka would force him to stand toe-to-toe with the Grinch on an increasingly precarious playing field. It was a tactic that put both Christmas superpowers at risk, but the Grinch was clever. Arka just wanted to force Santa’s hand.
He feels the queer sensation of weightlessness. And then he is gone again. In and out. He hears a savage clangor — bedlam, barely discernible and mixed with high pitched voices: “Put him here! Get ready!” “Where am I? And where are you bringing me,” He means to ask, but instead mouths lazily in interrupted bouts of lucidity. “What is going on?”
The boy can no longer feel the sharp sting in his thigh. The sensory receptors around the deep, black bite are necrotizing. He simply feels a heaviness in his limbs, and slowly he is becoming aware of the sluggish thud of his pulse. He can feel it everywhere! Hear it everywhere! The true rhythm in his body, it is like his heart pushing tar around his body. And it is tiring. So tiring.
“We must do it now. Stop the Malevolence from overcoming his body… ready?”
The teenager blinks. The watery quality of his vision squeezed away like tears, and with some clarity he sees he is in a small stone room surrounded by six small, gaily-garbed men. They are raising their hands, palms pushing towards him. He struggles a bit, it is wild panic of confusion, but finds he is immobilized. But by what he cannot be sure. Whether by their magic or by the quickly fading energy in his muscles, and he is powerless to do anything but remain limp. He turns his head to the right, and there is Horace, his face a mask of intense concentration…
And then the elves touched him, placed their hands on his legs and arms, He heard a small hum-ing sound, and felt a shudder: signs of their charms. The boy watched Horace for as long as he could, but suddenly the room filled with light. Bright, white light! Like the center of a star! And for a moment he forgot it was night, Forgot that there was a war, and his body filled with a strange and comforting warm. And then it grew stronger. Warmer and warmer, until it is no longer a star but a storm. A wild solar storm! When he opened his eyes, he thought he saw fire crawling up the stones, But that was just an illusion! A mind trick! Besides, he realized the lightness of his bones! The now regular pump of his heart, and he propped himself up on this elbows and all around… Oh, what a sight! What a horrible, awful, wonderful sight! The room fill of a silence so profound, And on the ground around him, in heaps of red and green clothes were six jolly guys, Their faces gaunt, and their small eyes now dark; all white and grey in untimely demise.
Pollock pushes himself up on his rear, scrambling back like a crab, until his back hits rough and cold stone.”Wha-” He lifts up his hands, maroon blood creasing off in dry flakes. Had this come from them? He hadn’t done anything… not that he could remember. He hadn’t moved, or said a word. He presses his back and hands against the wall and slinks up, looking around the room — devastation in one clean, bright moment. How? He reaches back mindlessly and touches his left shoulder. It is no longer sore, or swollen. Smooth and easy, he rolls them both out and smiles to himself.
Then he feels a tug, every cell in his body being forced inexplicable and improbably through space and time. And when he feels right again, he inhales sharply to fill his lungs. He does not feel ill, nor unsettled. It is a smooth transit this time. He looks up and he is in an oddly mechanized room. It glints and sparks with the bright, colourful flashes of magic and fire. Acrid smoke rises through the air to the ceiling, dim light filtering down through it from a large skylight above. His ears are overwhelmed by the humming of great machines, the clang of blows off their metal skeletons and in front of him a tall, green man yelling wild directions here and there, flicking his fingers and producing dark waves.“You killed at least six of my men,” The voice growls low, but the boy can heard it perfectly. He takes a step forward and leans in. “That is not easily excusable,” the Grinch turns around, his face contorted by that wide, ear-to-ear grin. He takes his free hand and thrusts it at him. Pollock is knocked back, and he feels a vice grip around his wrists and ankles.
“Let the boy go!” The great thunderous boom of Saint Nick on the balcony opposite. The room flashes with white light.
“Oh, but don’t you know, Claus?” He smiles sly, his voice full of wicked humour. And he thrusts his hand towards the edge of the balcony, and Pollock along with it. “The boy has felled at least six of your men, too!” He lets out a great laugh, and from across the way Pollock can see a searching look on the rosy man’s sweaty face. “It’s true! Oh how horrible. Why don’t you tell him boy? Why? See Claus. The thing is, this boy doesn’t seem very fit to take up any side, does he? I thought maybe he’d be for some fun, and you thought maybe he’d be your saviour. Well, it seems we were both wrong! Instead he is rather… indiscriminate.”
“Is this true?”
Pollock stares straight across. Of course, it was true. But how? He did not know. So he only nods, his face dark and impassive. The Grinch jerks him back and with his other hand sends out a black, dense cloud hovering in the center of the room. “Tell me.” He hisses, pressing their faces close together.
“I… I. I don’t know… They were. I think they were trying to heal me. One of your little dogs bit me. And, they just touched me. And. I don’t know.” And then the Grinch laughs. An amused, hearty laugh. He drops the hand possessing the boy and stares at him with those wide, headlight eyes.
“That is coooold boy. Even I must say. To take the lifeforce of those trying to save you. Positively corrupt!”He turns back to the edge of the balcony, and summons Pollock with a flick of his finger. The teenager follows. “Okay then boy. So you fancy yourself so inclined to dark power,”Pollock moved to contradict him — he hadn’t done it on purpose, “So… naturally disposed to it. Well, you seem a great fit!”
Pollock looks at him, and shrugs both his shoulders, “I guess… I guess I just don’t have it in me.” There is a hint of sadness, maybe, in his voice. A boyish grasping for something better, before something inevitable takes hold. How could he wield good, just powers, if his body had so readily counteracted such things without even thinking?
“Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong boy... But, no mind. It doesn’t matter. You took some of my soldiers. And there will be payment for that once this is all settled. But until then, boy...”
The Grinch placed his cold, green hand on the middle of the boy’s back, “Why, I have something for you,” The Grinch hissed, and he gave a sharp smack, Pushing Pollock’s belly against the railing, his face came in close and he smiled, His breath smelled of onions. “Nobody ever realizes how giving I am. Unfairly reviled, I would say.” His voice was full of a faux self-pity, and he drew in closer still, his fingers curling, “But isn’t this just what you wanted?” And He gave a shove, and down the boy went hurling.
Pollock hears only his screams for a long moment, but as he closes his eyes tight, he wonders if he really is uttering those noises? More likely or not, the shrill terror is in his head.
He tries to test it out and finds his voice tightly stuck in the back of his throat. Then he comes to a swift stop, knocking some air out of his chest. Slowly unhinging one eye, and then opening them both he finds himself hovering above the fray… Could he be… flying? He tilts his head up to try and look for the Grinch, but instead his eyes catch on the torn, magical bodies. Dark and light.“I’m tired of Hell, Claus. It’s really nice up North though…” He hears the Grinchy scream. And it becomes clear. “That sly, green bastard.” Pollock thinks, his eyes still locked on the swirling, thrumming objects of condensed power. He feels no particular affinity, he realizes, to one half. But is filled with a staggering desire to consume both.
‘You?’ Comes back the hollow, unfriendly hiss, ‘how very rich, my boy...’
He shakes his head, pressing his left hand against his temple. “Not now!” He bellows, and he shoots up in the air, uncontrollable speed and trajectory. He squeezes his fists tight and wills discipline into his body. It feels unnatural to be in the air, wholly unfit for such an ignoble wretch… And then he begins to plummet. Falling around blasts of weird, foamy magic, before landing hard but relatively controlled on his feet, pressing both hands into the ground as well, halved over into a crouch to absorb more of the shock. Had it not truly working... not even here?
He looks around him. Elves and gremlins are swarming each other. Engaging in firing magic and the gnashing of teeth and claws. The din of violence rushes him. He cannot tell if it is pleasurable or nauseating, but he thinks he can smell blood above the sweat. Strange, black blood and the more alike red, metallic tang. It was half familiar, half sickly alien.
He ducks.
His muscles are full with alertness and blood. A spells races over his head, and he turns to look at the source. There is a squat, red-clad elf, twitching his fingers and sending errant sparks at a dodging gremlin. He hates the both. Pollock raises his hand, chaos compelling a haphazard approach to his first test drive of these powers, but it is obvious in its bias. From the firing synapses of his brain, down his arm and through the ready tilt of his fingers comes an electric pulse. It releases into the air, and he can feel his own power, drinks it — for the first time in his life revels in the potential of his own flesh. The gremlin squawks, and then its muscles jerk hideously for a second.
And then he grows big. He grows big in every way until he is the size of a large grizzly bear. The elf’s eyes narrow as he he looks at Pollock, but before he can retaliate, the gremlin grabs for him with impossibly long, knobbly fingers. He throws back his head and jibbers, echoing and thunderously loud, and squeezes the life and viscera from the foe’s body. The teenager laughs, looking at his fingers again before thrusting them at another gremlin. This one grows large, and it tests out the new capabilities. Its enhanced anatomy. It swipes at the machine towering in the middle of the room and knocks a thick, steel pipe from its place. Steam whizzes out, hot and angry.
‘Don’t get full of yourself boy,’ Phina wheezed sickly into her son’s ear,
His he let out a wild scream again, “I have more power that you ever had here.”
A heavy, perverted laugh fills his ears. ‘That is is my point,’ she muttered,
He opened his mouth to respond, to retort... but instead he only sputtered,
A wordless garble of noises. Inside he filled with powerful doubt and self-hate...
What did that mean? He wondered, pinching his arm, “Don’t fall for her bait…”
He could (technically) fly here. That’s more than she’d ever given him. And here he could manipulate, with ease, the world around him. He could control the make and state of everyone. And then he blinks, realization filling him with the first real, unabashed clarity since this whole night started…
He was not here for Santa. Or The Grinch… or Christmas, or even his dam… He looks up, watery brown eyes transfixed. A singular purpose. I’m here… for… that. Because with that he could be whole. He could be feared, he could be… But to get to that…
Oh. His narrow and thirsty eyes turn to the balcony above where the Grinch was near toppling over the railing and yelling commands… He has to play it smart. He has to play his game. That is what this has been from the very start, right? The boy raises his hands above his head and with a downward sweep feels a familiar friend take his flesh — safe and protected. Invisibility. ( The things he had seen! The places he had been, and the things he had did!) He feels a strange nostalgia, and the memories are clear in his mind. This had given him such freedom in another life. Where his mangled body had held him back from things he was so close to being capable of of, this… This had set him free.
And so it does now, filling him with invulnerability. The boy moves around the room, manipulating the bodies of gremlins around him — bigger-ing them here, and growing natural armour on their heads there. He builds and army; reconstitutes someone else’s. And it is far superior. He could not stop the battle with the quality of his voice. He has never been a public speaker. But he could overwhelm one side, grind this all to a halt with creations of his own fashioning... If he could eliminate the North… he could…
The machine shuttered. Shivered and let out a great bellow of smoke and noise, And from its bowels came strange and ghastly figures — formerly known as toys. Now they were mangled and mutated. Burnt and spilling out at a blinding rate. Some, he noticed, were still pure. Forms that were meant to be. Pristine in state. It was the hunched and disfigured creation he felt compelled by. The boy reached for one, And then he realized, as he looked over the object in his hand, the fun had just begun!
Pollock turns it over and over in his fingers.
Once, maybe, it was meant to he a bear. Or perhaps a dog. Now it lacked a legs, and an eyes, and one of those hard, plastic noses. He drops it, and with a touch it shifts and breaths. He watches as it animates and grows, and when it it done… Oh! The beauty! The mighty feeling of godliness!
The thing was hunched and burly. On its back paws standing up, well over six feet tall! What it lacked in an eyes, it gained in a massive, gaping hole! And where its front leg should be, blood dripping from the melted, brown fur. It turns an angry and profoundly sad eye to him, it’s nose gone from its face as if slashed clean off. The boy raises his hands, and the bear roars a melancholy, powerful voice. It turns and limps off, joining the fight.
He finds another, and another — an impossibly lumbering earless, hairless wolf; a robot with sparks spitting out here and there where it should have been complete; a fat, oblong brown creature with strange rigid limbs, digging into a doorless room in its back and sticking blinking eyes where their should be a nose. But by then the elves had caught on, turning untouched toys into clean and well-polished living things — an armoured horse, like that of an old carousel; a supple, lean tiger; a six-foot long dragon, whirling through the air with snapping jaws.
But they seem fewer and far between, these perfectly formed toys.
Maybe because of the swell of dark magic in the room, or maybe a simple case of malfunction in the cogs and processes of the unattended machine. On the ground floor of the workshop, the throng of giant and lumpy creatures seem to overtake the bright, gleaming charge like a crashing wave. A hurricane wind; the eyewall of a great, strange storm. He smiles, watching it unfold in blood, both silvery and red; good and bad, and he feels attached to the fates of his offspring only as long as their numbers held in his favour. Each of them only as important to his as their part in his success.
There is nothing more to do. No more toys to fill with life and purpose; no more gremlins in need of bigger-ing just yet. Those of nature size would fight or perish, he could not arm them all. Or did not care to.
The boy moves like a ghost to the iron, spiral staircase. He creeps up with care, stunning or disintegrating elves as he goes, to not attract too much attention.
He is drunk now. Full of misfiring instincts and bravado. He stumbles with whiskey-courage to a standoff — his powers tingling. Who knows? He had only just begun! Perhaps they rival even his!
When he gets to the top there is Grinchy, hurling words at St. Nick. “The power of what I’m willing to do Santy… oh you can even come close old boy. He is hampered by the goodness, you see,” The Grinch yells the last bit over his shoulder, meant for Pollock. And he nods, crawling forward slowly, still unseen.
“You’ve done well down there.” The green man hisses, his back still turned to the boy, still sending missiles of magic across the way. “I can feel it. Old Claus knows it too.” The white bobble on his ‘Santa Claus’ had wiggles to the other side and He sends a humongous blast from the palms of his clammy hands. Like a detonation of explosives, it reverberates through the stone and metal room. Dust and large rocks fall from the roof, and many creature fall back from the blow. (He hears the spooked whiny of a horse somewhere far below.)
Across, the other side balcony has been split and cracked. It hands at an angle precariously. Santa Claus, down to a white undershirt and red pants held to by suspenders, hold desperately to the shuddering bright half. Pollock licks his lips.
“Very smart. To turn the toys. Inspired. I am surprised, but I suppose it takes a wretch to make one. You’d think you’d have some sympathy…” He laughs, and turn his green headlight eyes to the boy. He knows where he is, without a doubt. Through the veil of invisibility, the Grinch is look right at the boy.
“But you underestimate me.” The Grinch clucks sadly, his hands still pressing out before him. They twitch and the opposite balcony shudders and grinds, Santa Claus looking like a captain tasked with deciding whether or not to go down with the ship. “I can feel what you are after. I can see into your heart, boy. And it is bold. Did you really think it would be so easy?” The Grinch moves one hand from the ying and thrust it at Pollock. He crumples to the ground, invisibility snapping off his body painfully — he is exposed. The Grinch flicks his finger in a curl, and it pulls Pollock towards him. “Did you really think it possible?”
He moves his hands down, long index finger extended until it points to the boy’s thigh. “I told you, you would pay.”He fills with the crushing sensation of unabated pain. Pure and hot. He screams, this time it rings from his lungs out and agonized.
There is contempt in his voice. And maybe some pity.
The Grinch points his finger at the boy’s left arm, and it snaps. Loudly and cruelly. It snaps in a million different places, bent and limp. Sharp bone pressing through the soft, human skin. “You can’t do what needs to be done here, boy. This place is tenuous at best.”
![[Image: kkN1kfc.png]](http://i.imgur.com/kkN1kfc.png)