Previous: Twas the Night After Christmas
(Content Warning: BrikWars)
November 25. R. 2,016.
Valentine shifted into a crouch at the rooftop's edge of the four story tenement across the street from the pub where, as had been the case for the past several hours, all manner of holiday gaiety was in full swing. His crimson armored leathers creaked only slightly as he silently slid his bow across his back and pushed the blood red hood away, revealing his devilishly handsome features, startlingly golden locks, and a faintly glowing wreath of multicolored roses encircling the crown of his head. His sharp gaze scanned and darted as he took in the scene below.
The cacophonous merrymaking had long ago spilled out onto the sidewalk and street and the growing crowd of revelers choked the alleys and storefronts of the other businesses on the block. Traffic had been courteously rerouted just to appease the man of the hour, the man of every hour, that beefy, raucous specimen seated at the head of the oaken table he had dragged out into the middle of the street and there deposited without ceremony. It had soon filled with sycophants and an alarming number of rapidly emptied alcoholic vessels. Manly Fuckin' Santa slammed down another pint and called for more as he listened to Uncle Sam regale him with some no doubt vulgar anecdote. Valentine could read the garishly dressed Avatar's lips if he wanted to but found he had no such desire. To Santa's other side, on a tall stool, sat the fiery bearded Avatar of March clearly engaged in the tale old Stars and Stripes was barking but also clearly holding his liquor better than his companions. Dressed in his usual punkish attire, complete with sleeveless blue jean jacket and shitkicker boots, rather than his Holiday refinery (the fabled Shamrock Suit), he looked completely at ease nodding his mohawked head along and chuckling at all the appropriate parts. As if he weren't about to kick off another year's giant clusterfuck.
Just behind them, on a massive, impromptu raised dais, languished the unimaginably huge Lord of Turkey, a vaguely globular mass of feathers, wattle, and caruncles topped with a wide beak, an absurd snood, and a too tiny buckle-less capotain. It appeared to be asleep. Santa once proposed eating the ponderous creature one Thanksgiving a long while ago and fell to regretting that decision almost immediately. Once awoken from its OdinSleep, the Great Turkey went absolutely apeshit and destroyed everyone's holiday, sending a lot of them home with very hurt feelings. Since then, the Lord of Turkey has surrounded itself with a diverse array of guards, often dressed in problematic costumes, to help stop anyone from disturbing its slumber. For the past couple hundred years or so, the only two guards that were needed were the two standing to either side of the dais now, the intense and insanely muscular Captain Pilgrim and the brooding and wiry Chief Indian. No one knew their real names, lost to history, and while they both hated their prevailing monikers, they couldn't remember their real names either. One thing was certain, though...they hated one another despite any appearance to the contrary. In any case, rebuffed, Santa took to stealing the Great Turkey's glory each year in November. The Lord of Turkey did not seem to notice.
The Bunny was noticeably absent. Good riddance to vermin anyway, Valentine thought, remembering the hare's outlandish arrogance. The Bunny had said he wanted no part of Valentine's plan and called it “unimaginative” and likely to fail. Valentine had been so offended that he almost drew his gladius and ran the razgrizzly little fucker through. He hadn't, though, because (if he was honest with himself), he wasn't sure he could handle the Bunny in a one on one. The hoppity little bastard had grown powerful in recent years and his calm confidence gave Valentine due pause. Valentine pushed the ugly thought from his mind and returned his attention to the goings-on.
The story finally reached its long winded, overdue conclusion (Old Sam really did like to hear himself talk) and the trio fell to gut busting laughter as if the greatest joke in the universe had just dumbly wandered onto their stage and promptly fell face first into a cream pie. Saint PatRock recovered first as usual, took a long draught, casually glanced up at the tenement building, and threw Valentine a sly wink. Santa and Sam were unaware of the transaction, caught up as they were in their back slapping and squeezing their eyes against the otherwise unrestrained flow of comedic tears streaming into their big, stupid beards. Great guffawing and “hohoho's” filled the air and Valentine visibly winced.
How he hated them all. Short sighted, nasty, undeserving creatures, the lot of them. Valentine wanted to like the only other Saintly Avatar, but even PatRock lacked purpose and drive. The Crimson Lord could have no respect for any of them. They derided his mission, his abilities, and (most of all) his overriding Great Belief in Love. The fools claimed it had no place in the hearts and minds of minifigs. His Crimson Army would prove them so wrong. He had painstakingly paired the greatest warriors he could train into teams of lovers. Their love would drive them and bind them together as an unstoppable, well oiled, killing machine. They would fight more fiercely for one another than for any cause a minifig could subscribe to. They would die for one another without hesitation and, once gone, trigger an unfathomable Berserker Rage in their bereft living half. They would win any engagement and they would never, ever stop.
Just on cue, Valentine's earpiece chimed lightly. “Phaedrus Three in position, Saint.”
One and two were already in position and holding, the Crimson Lord knew. He smiled a slow, cruel smile and reached up to tap the comm. “Acknowledged. Leave the Green One for last. The War on Saturnalia begins now. Kill them all.”
“Yes, Saint!” all three teams responded in unison. Then, hell itself broke loose suddenly, violently, and all over the place.
Next:Easter Said Than Done
(Content Warning: BrikWars)
November 25. R. 2,016.
Valentine shifted into a crouch at the rooftop's edge of the four story tenement across the street from the pub where, as had been the case for the past several hours, all manner of holiday gaiety was in full swing. His crimson armored leathers creaked only slightly as he silently slid his bow across his back and pushed the blood red hood away, revealing his devilishly handsome features, startlingly golden locks, and a faintly glowing wreath of multicolored roses encircling the crown of his head. His sharp gaze scanned and darted as he took in the scene below.
The cacophonous merrymaking had long ago spilled out onto the sidewalk and street and the growing crowd of revelers choked the alleys and storefronts of the other businesses on the block. Traffic had been courteously rerouted just to appease the man of the hour, the man of every hour, that beefy, raucous specimen seated at the head of the oaken table he had dragged out into the middle of the street and there deposited without ceremony. It had soon filled with sycophants and an alarming number of rapidly emptied alcoholic vessels. Manly Fuckin' Santa slammed down another pint and called for more as he listened to Uncle Sam regale him with some no doubt vulgar anecdote. Valentine could read the garishly dressed Avatar's lips if he wanted to but found he had no such desire. To Santa's other side, on a tall stool, sat the fiery bearded Avatar of March clearly engaged in the tale old Stars and Stripes was barking but also clearly holding his liquor better than his companions. Dressed in his usual punkish attire, complete with sleeveless blue jean jacket and shitkicker boots, rather than his Holiday refinery (the fabled Shamrock Suit), he looked completely at ease nodding his mohawked head along and chuckling at all the appropriate parts. As if he weren't about to kick off another year's giant clusterfuck.
Just behind them, on a massive, impromptu raised dais, languished the unimaginably huge Lord of Turkey, a vaguely globular mass of feathers, wattle, and caruncles topped with a wide beak, an absurd snood, and a too tiny buckle-less capotain. It appeared to be asleep. Santa once proposed eating the ponderous creature one Thanksgiving a long while ago and fell to regretting that decision almost immediately. Once awoken from its OdinSleep, the Great Turkey went absolutely apeshit and destroyed everyone's holiday, sending a lot of them home with very hurt feelings. Since then, the Lord of Turkey has surrounded itself with a diverse array of guards, often dressed in problematic costumes, to help stop anyone from disturbing its slumber. For the past couple hundred years or so, the only two guards that were needed were the two standing to either side of the dais now, the intense and insanely muscular Captain Pilgrim and the brooding and wiry Chief Indian. No one knew their real names, lost to history, and while they both hated their prevailing monikers, they couldn't remember their real names either. One thing was certain, though...they hated one another despite any appearance to the contrary. In any case, rebuffed, Santa took to stealing the Great Turkey's glory each year in November. The Lord of Turkey did not seem to notice.
The Bunny was noticeably absent. Good riddance to vermin anyway, Valentine thought, remembering the hare's outlandish arrogance. The Bunny had said he wanted no part of Valentine's plan and called it “unimaginative” and likely to fail. Valentine had been so offended that he almost drew his gladius and ran the razgrizzly little fucker through. He hadn't, though, because (if he was honest with himself), he wasn't sure he could handle the Bunny in a one on one. The hoppity little bastard had grown powerful in recent years and his calm confidence gave Valentine due pause. Valentine pushed the ugly thought from his mind and returned his attention to the goings-on.
The story finally reached its long winded, overdue conclusion (Old Sam really did like to hear himself talk) and the trio fell to gut busting laughter as if the greatest joke in the universe had just dumbly wandered onto their stage and promptly fell face first into a cream pie. Saint PatRock recovered first as usual, took a long draught, casually glanced up at the tenement building, and threw Valentine a sly wink. Santa and Sam were unaware of the transaction, caught up as they were in their back slapping and squeezing their eyes against the otherwise unrestrained flow of comedic tears streaming into their big, stupid beards. Great guffawing and “hohoho's” filled the air and Valentine visibly winced.
How he hated them all. Short sighted, nasty, undeserving creatures, the lot of them. Valentine wanted to like the only other Saintly Avatar, but even PatRock lacked purpose and drive. The Crimson Lord could have no respect for any of them. They derided his mission, his abilities, and (most of all) his overriding Great Belief in Love. The fools claimed it had no place in the hearts and minds of minifigs. His Crimson Army would prove them so wrong. He had painstakingly paired the greatest warriors he could train into teams of lovers. Their love would drive them and bind them together as an unstoppable, well oiled, killing machine. They would fight more fiercely for one another than for any cause a minifig could subscribe to. They would die for one another without hesitation and, once gone, trigger an unfathomable Berserker Rage in their bereft living half. They would win any engagement and they would never, ever stop.
Just on cue, Valentine's earpiece chimed lightly. “Phaedrus Three in position, Saint.”
One and two were already in position and holding, the Crimson Lord knew. He smiled a slow, cruel smile and reached up to tap the comm. “Acknowledged. Leave the Green One for last. The War on Saturnalia begins now. Kill them all.”
“Yes, Saint!” all three teams responded in unison. Then, hell itself broke loose suddenly, violently, and all over the place.
Next:Easter Said Than Done