Calamity Hound Overture, Cascade Ominence, Benign Overlord

OH, FUCK OFF, DISEMBODIED VOICE! You have heard some annoying wisecracks, but this comes pretty close to taking the cake. THAT is not YOUR name! Whoever thought that up must be positively moronic to the upteenth degree.

Guess again, cannon fodder.

==>Enter name: Spades Slick

Spades Slick? You do admit that the name has a nice ring to it. Sounds like a guy with a sense of “don’t fuck with me”-style. You like that. But alas, that is not your name either, but as this name was somewhat tolerable, you’ll let it slide.

Guess again. AND get it right this time, or there will be blood!

==>Enter name: John Darke.

Your name is John Darke. Short for Johnson, but anyone caught calling you that get’s a midnight snooze with the fishes. You are a hard boiled thug, born and nursed by the streets. You are a leader of the notorious Twilight Crew, a small time gang meant for big things. Well, you used to be the leader, anyway. Stuff happened. Bad stuff. You’d rather not talk about it.

All that there is to know about you is no ones business, and even if it was, those who care to actually know would be dead by sunrise. A man needs his privacy, after all. You do, however admit to liking Film-noir movies and books of the hardboiled genre. Man, those things are amazing.

You attempt to shut out the continuous monolog by gazing into the endless desert, looking for something to direct your attention to. As it would be expected in the middle of a desert, neither of your goals bear fruit. This only goes to add to your constantly rising irritation.

As you are about to imprint your own palm on your face, you notice something peculiar and immensely curious. Your hand is not as you remember it being. And you most certainly do not remember having a hand covered in what looked like a shiny, black shell. On further inspection you notice visible joints on your fingers, just like some sort of a puppet.

A normal person would flip their shits from this, but as it stands, you are better than any normal person. The streets are a good teacher, a strict father and an abusive mother, ready to teach you how to handle yourself. And kill any asshole who messes with you. That too. This change, while very unexpected and strange, is nothing to fuss over. You just don’t work that way.

You flex your fingers a little. The joints seem to work like they normally would, albeit a bit more clumsily. You look at the rest of your body to see the extent of this odd predicament. It fits  your current expectations. Your whole body is like this. Shiny black with visible ball joints. Your feet look like pointy shoes. It also seems like you are butt naked, but this does not seem like an issue, as your body does not seem anatomically correct.

You are not sure whenever this is a huge relief, as you do not need to worry about going about naked... Well, in a sense. It could very well be a huge annoyance, as your manhood has been stolen from you.

You decide on taking the middle road on this one, accepting it, but still loathing it a little. The loathing gains a slight upper hand, as you really wish you had your old duds on. If you are supposed to be stranded in the middle of the God damned desert, why not look sharp?

A brief moment passes where you feel your face. No nose. A mouth with sharp teeth, apparently. You are also relieved that you feel your stitched up horizontal scar going across your face, over the spot your nose would be. That scar is like a good childhood memory, though you lack such things.

You also decide to not give a fuck about this sudden change, at all, and just think back to what might have caused this to occur. Unfortunately for you, your memories are a bit hazy. This irritates you.

You begin walking into a random direction, trying to shut out the continuous narrative. You experience a great quantity of fail.

The sun bears down upon the dunes. The air is hot, and so is the sand, but much to your surprise you don’t seem to be bothered by either. You feel the heat, but your body does not seem to react to it. As odd as this  sensation strikes you, it does not surprise you enough for you to actually care.

The sand shifts from under you with every step taken. A minute passes. Then ten. Then twenty. You lose count fairly early. It might have been an hour, for all you know. Sure as hell feels like it.

You visibly scowl at your predicament. The desert seems endless. Getting out of here is going to take time. That is, if you don’t starve first. Welp, sucks to be you.

AAAAAUGH!

 This voice in your head is really beginning to grind your gears. You would give anything for a way to vent for a w-!

You come to a sudden hault and turn around. You see nothing but sand, but you swear you heard something. Might have been your imagination, but one can never be too sure. Your trek onwards continues, but you stay vigila-

There it is again! That odd shuffling sound. You wonder what it could be. God, don’t let it be insanity showing it’s fangs. You like your sanity intact, and in your own possession.

==>John: Freak out

What? NO! Why in the name of Al Capone would you do that? It makes no sense to freak out over some noise. There is nothing violence can’t solve. Not even noise, as something always causes it. This something, more than usually, can be beaten to silence.

Right on que, you hear another sound behind you. This time closer. Much closer. You do the only thing that comes naturally at the moment.

AUTO-PUNCH!!!

You spin around, your fist travelling in a wide arch. You fist barely misses a figure that somehow snuck up on you. The figure jumps backwards, allowing you some movement space. It also gives you visage of the soon to be corpse that dared try sneak up on you.

It appears vaguely humanoid in shape, standing on two oddly shaped legs, it’s height just a bit over your own. Most of it’s features remain  wrapped under a large black cloak. What you do see however are two large hands like appendages. Appendages with sandy fur on them. This is just fan-fucking-tastic.

You are dealing with a werewolf-thing over here!

Of course you know such creatures are just old wives tales, but never mind. This creature is preparing for battle, based on the stance in has taken. You are more than happy to comply. Your street thug instincts kick in as you clench your hands into a fists and raise them.

We are making this shit happen!

==>John: STRIFE

Deciding you won’t have any bullshit, you get the first swing. Your fist misses by mere inches when the thing leans out of the way. It continues by jumping back a bit, reaching for within the cloak and drawing out a curved scimitar. It shoots you a cold glare from under that cloak. You return the favor with a death glare of your own.

Or you would, if one wasn’t your facial constant.

So the doggy/wolf-thing has a nice piece of metal. Do you don’t give a shit? I think not. You raise two of your puppet-like fingers and beckon the mutt to come forth. If it dares. It seems to know what you are gesturing for.

The canine attempts to charge at you and slash your throat, but you coolly just back away before countering with a quick and well placed punch in the face. When your attack connects, it puts the creature is a daze, allowing you to get a free shot at this things gut.

It does not last long. The creature strikes your stomach area with the pommel of the scimitar, making you back away yourself. The hit itself did not hurt that much. This, however, gives you an opening. You swiftly grab the creature’s blade arm and hold onto it firmly. Whilst doing so, you manage to score a nice uppercut on the mutt’s jaw, as well as twisting it’s hand, getting out a grunt of pain from your opponent, as well as forcing it to drop it’s weapon. You finish with a strong kick into the mutt’s gut, sending it to the ground in very visually apparent pain.

But what about that scimitar? Would that be handy for you?

==>John: Pick up the damn sword!

Sheesh, shut it! You were about to do it anyway. You grouch down for a bit to pick up the curved blade weapon. You stand to face the wolf/dog-thing, still on the ground, but slowly getting up. The blade in your hand is just begging to have some blood. You raise it above your head and are ready to...

...

S U C K E R !

You are unable to use this weapon in combat, as you lack the proper Strife Specibus to do so. You have no idea what that even is, but your attempts to use the sword are fruitless. You just can’t swing it to attack, no matter how hard you try.

You get fed up with this fast and just drop the damn sword. You don’t need it anyway. Seems like this will have to be dealt with good ol’ fisticuffs. Speaking of which, you did notice that your fingers were a bit pointy... You wonder...

Your borderline malevolent grin shifts into a borderline sadistic one. The difference is slight, but it is noticeable. You look at the creature in black robes. It appears to have recovered from your previous onslaught and is now back upright, glaring at you with anger and contempt. Not that you mind. I mean, you are a scumbag, all the offence, so why give a shit, right?

You find nothing to object to about that analogy. It is spot on.

You prepare for Round 2, by taking an aggressive stance and waiting for the doggy to make a first move, smiling like the smug sadistic fuck you are. The robed creature extends its hand into the robes once more. You let out an amused chuckle. It seems that there are more surprises to come. You look on as it pulls out an... an... Oh.... Oh my...

Your eyes widen out of sheer surprise. Then anger. Sweet, overflowing, unrefined and pure rage.

The mutt is holding a small blade with a handcrafted handle, made from mahogany. Crafted into the shape of a crucifix. Painted black as the abyss. A handle you recognize very well. Very well indeed, as you should.

You spent YEARS making THAT handle perfect. You spent even LONGER sharpening THAT BLADE until it was sharper than a razor. ANY razor. All the BLOOD that it would spill in the future. An artifact that spread FEAR in your enemies. A proof of your MIGHT. A perfect WEAPON to suit YOUR needs. And this mutt DARES hold it!

NO ONE HOLDS THE DARKE CROSS!!

You lose almost all of your self control as you...

... As you...

... Uhhhhh...

... Errr...

M... maybe w-we could be someone else for a bit.

==>JOHN: BE SOMEONE ELSE. NOW!

You are now someone else, in a universe distant from this one, on a green... planet...

...

Sorry, this is kind of awkward, but it seems you are unable of being this particular person at this moment. In fact, you are not supposed to be this particular person for quite some time.

==>Be Mr.Darke again.

If you insist.

You are John again. It has been a few minutes since we left you alone, but I am back now.

...

Much to your great displeasure.

Okay, sorry to tell you this, but I am not going anywhere, so you better get used to me spelling out your every movement and thought.

You casually tell the narrator to go fuck his- HEY! My mother is a very nice and respectable person and not worth your mockery!

...

Anyway, you  now stand upon the creature that assaulted you and dared to desecrate your sacred artifact... Or rather, what is left of the creature.

==>Be the creature.

You try to be the creature, much more commonly known as a diamond dog, but you fail with flying colors. Mainly due to a quite permanent case of death.

The fact that the body is spread around more widely than a person run over by a clown car might also have a say in the matter, lowering your Fail-O-Meter to the Justin Bieber-ladder.

You cheeky bastard.

==>Stop fooling around and be John already!

You are an temperamental psychopath. You are looking at the leftovers of your fresh kill. Wow, it looks like you really did a number on the poor guy.

... Well, not really a guy. You discovered that this thing was female when you planned on ripping of it’s balls and showing them down it’s throat. It was unfortunate that you did not get to do that, but hey! This happens.

Well, you did rip off pretty much anything else you could. There was a spleen, a stomach, some guts. You know. The usual. It really is a mess. Blood is pretty much everywhere. You are not an exception. The carapace like shell on your hands is stained red by your handiwork.

Blood was never an issue with you. The only thing you had with it was that it tended to be messy and hard to get off of your clothes.

==>John: Wipe that blood off

That sounds like a plan, even if it is from a voice in your head. Annoying, but it has a point.

You wipe your bloody hands on the dog things cloak until all of it is gone. As a sacrifice the cloak is now dirtier than ever. The blood, along with some of the damage it seemed to have suffered make the cloak look more fearsome from your point of view. And you are totally okay with that.

Now then, how to proceed from here?

==>Loot the corpse

You suddenly feel compelled to loot the spoils of your victory, though you doubt this thing is carrying much... Oh man, you are letting the Command get into your subconscious. So precious-HEY! Put that finger down this instant!

Anyway, you decide to loot the body for anything of value. But before that...

It is time. Time to hold what is yours. You pick up The Darke Cross. It is back in your hands. Your weapon. Your symbol of power. The shank of all shanks. It’s blade is shiny and flawless, as it has always been. Perfect!

And, as it happens, you gained a free starter Strife Specibus from defeating your foe.

You gained the Knifekind Strife Specibus. Now you can wield all kinds of knives as your weapons in combat... Or shanks. That is fine, I guess? But whatever, this bitch must have some other stuff on her. Just... mind the blood.

You search the body for any kind of valuables. Your expectations are low, but you do find some things.

First thing that you find looks like a marble pebble. A pure white pellet. It is... oddly alluring. As if it’s calling you... NAH, that’s unlikely. I mean, what are the chances? You agree. Still, some part of you strongly insist that you hold onto that thing.

==>Captchalogue the pebble.

Captcha-what? What the hell is tha- Hey, where did the marble thing go? Well, let me tell you. The white pebble is now in your Captchalogue Modus, more specifically the Fraction Modus where you must solve fractions to get the item you... want... Aaaand it looks like you SOMEHOW changed it into an Inventory-With-No-Additional-Bullshit Modus.

You cheeky cheating fuck, you. And put that finger down!

... Moving on, the other thing you discover is a small pouch. It is quite heavy, not to mention you know the jingle of coins when you hear it makes you deduce that there is money in this pouch. This will be useful in the future. The pouch disappears and appears in your Inventory too.

You are getting a hammerspace feel from this thing, but decide to not care for now. All in due time, as you say... Sometimes... In funerals.

Ahem! The third thing you find is a coin. A large coin with engravings on both sides. Angel and Demon, huh? Well, this thing sure is neat. You put that in your inventory as well. Just because it looks cool. While you are at it, you also grab some provisions the dog was carrying around.

... That is about it. Nothing else on this bitch that is worth your time. Back to business. You put your trusty shank into your inventory for safekeeping.

Also there is the sword this thing tried to gut you with... Well, it does look quality... Ah, what the heck. You take it as well. Who knows, this might end up helping you one day. Or you can always sell it. That works too.

Now to get moving and find a way out of this desert.

==>John: Wear the cloak

What? That dirty and shredded thing? Why  would you do that? It makes no sense.

You find yourself putting it on anyway. Fuck! It still has blood on it... Although, that just adds a certain... something to it...

... Getting out of here is going to take a while, isn’t it?

You can’t be amused. Not even by a clown car.

You move forward, only a bloody rag as your companion.