TheSundanceKid
Smash Lord
I think it's cool.
-
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Make Your Move 3.0: It's over, it's done, moving on.
- Thread starter Collective of Bears
- Start date
- Status
Chief Mendez
Smash Master
*random post is random*
TheSundanceKid
Smash Lord
XD That is my answer....yet my parents refuse to let me stay....
BUT I'm relasing 2-3 TYATM!! =O!!
But your family GAVE you the internet and taught you how to use it. (unless u pay for ur own stuff :/)
TheSundanceKid
Smash Lord
No one is here....so no one wants a "THE YOUNG AND THE MOVESETS" UPDATE?! =O
MasterWarlord
Smash Champion
I've finished playing through Super Paper Mario. I was VERY surprised how good the story was, and I'd highly recommend a rental of the game. After I'm done with Cortex for Blitzkrieg, I'm going to seriously consider doing Dimentio or Bleck. Expect my next SSE chapter up some time on Monday.
Agi
Smash Lord
I've been waiting all night... =,(
Yes, that game is the pwn. I bought it, and beat it in a weekend... But a Dimentio moveset would be awesome!
me wants one
TheSundanceKid
Smash Lord
The Young And The Movesets!
Horray, a loyal reader!
NO WAI!! YA WAI!!! UPDATEZ!!!
StB is now running (he ran so far away, he ran all night and day...) from the law! Let's see what happens next:
A phone rings in an office. Some one quickly answers it. It's none other that AGI THEMICROSOFT NERD easilly amused, milk-drinking detective (he done gotz a strange obsession with da paper clipz)! He has been informed of StB run from the law and is in charge of the investigation....
NOA elsewhere....
Kibble has lost his apartment (GASP!), Chuggs has died of alcohol poisoning in a game of Drink the Beer (lolwut?!). His chillinz (children..lol) iz now in foster care (DA GOVERNMENT CAME AND TOOK HIS BABIEZ!) He has also lost his job at the, um, Blue Iguana (Sorry, Kibble). He is a ragamuffin (What kinds of muffin blueberry? banana?) and begs on the street. Little does he know said street is frequented by BKUPA, THE STRUGGLING ARTIST!!....
(another episode in a few minutes...MAYBE if I get enough comments from this one)
Horray, a loyal reader!
NO WAI!! YA WAI!!! UPDATEZ!!!
StB is now running (he ran so far away, he ran all night and day...) from the law! Let's see what happens next:
A phone rings in an office. Some one quickly answers it. It's none other that AGI THE
NOA elsewhere....
Kibble has lost his apartment (GASP!), Chuggs has died of alcohol poisoning in a game of Drink the Beer (lolwut?!). His chillinz (children..lol) iz now in foster care (DA GOVERNMENT CAME AND TOOK HIS BABIEZ!) He has also lost his job at the, um, Blue Iguana (Sorry, Kibble). He is a ragamuffin (What kinds of muffin blueberry? banana?) and begs on the street. Little does he know said street is frequented by BKUPA, THE STRUGGLING ARTIST!!....
(another episode in a few minutes...MAYBE if I get enough comments from this one)
Agi
Smash Lord
You actually described me pretty well... *looks around for cameras*
Shadow5567
Smash Journeyman
I have a delima, all thoughout last thread and this one, whenever I get started on a good moveset, I get the urge to do another one, this happens to me many times but I have finally decided to stick with one, however, I was wondering if someone could do Ivy from Soul Calibur, I don't really want to make a moveset for her but with all the attention Cervantes is getting in the SSE it sorta seems she is a nessasity.......
TheSundanceKid
Smash Lord
lol...Glad you like it.
kitsuneko345
Smash Ace
TheSundanceKid
Smash Lord
Glad you like ti, Kibble. lolchillinz
Who Wantz Moar?! Who Wants Another Update?!
Who Wantz Moar?! Who Wants Another Update?!
Agi
Smash Lord
Sticks hand in air
TheSundanceKid
Smash Lord
The Young And The Movesets!
*alarms sound* NO WAI!! Too updatez in won day?!
We return back to the streets with Kibble, who done lost his chillinz, on the cruel streets! Bkupa, the struggling artist sees the poor fellow down on his luck. You see, BKupa is an artist(YOU'VE SAID THAT ALREADY!) without da fancy-shmancy art school. He roams around the city looking for burts of inspiration. He approaches Kibble. Kibble puts forth a grimy hand and in it a paper cup. Bkupa is instantly struck with inspiration for a painting and takes Kibble to his studio.
*alarms sound* NO WAI!! Too updatez in won day?!
We return back to the streets with Kibble, who done lost his chillinz, on the cruel streets! Bkupa, the struggling artist sees the poor fellow down on his luck. You see, BKupa is an artist(YOU'VE SAID THAT ALREADY!) without da fancy-shmancy art school. He roams around the city looking for burts of inspiration. He approaches Kibble. Kibble puts forth a grimy hand and in it a paper cup. Bkupa is instantly struck with inspiration for a painting and takes Kibble to his studio.
LOLCHILLINZ!
kitsuneko345
Smash Ace
^ Wow!!! What's the inspiration? Muffins? CHILLINZ? I have to see the next episode soon. AHHHHHHHH!!!!!
MasterWarlord
Smash Champion
For what you had to work with in those characters Bkupa, you did fine, but I found that a bad choice of characters to open with. You want the first opening scene to be at least somewhat serious, or else people will think the entire thing will be as ridiculous as the start. I just feel the start needed to be at least slightly "epic". What you have is fine, I just think it needs to occur later in the SSE, even if after the first level.
As far as that Dimentio moveset is concerned, it's fine, but I feel that Dimentio has much more potetional for more unique moves and a unique play style like I gave to Voldo, Nightmare, and Cervantes. The way I go about making movesets, it'd be HARD to base my movesets off of those of other people. When I get around to it, I probably indeed will do Dimentio over Bleck, as Bleck would be very awkward to do due to his lack of arms and legs.
As far as that Dimentio moveset is concerned, it's fine, but I feel that Dimentio has much more potetional for more unique moves and a unique play style like I gave to Voldo, Nightmare, and Cervantes. The way I go about making movesets, it'd be HARD to base my movesets off of those of other people. When I get around to it, I probably indeed will do Dimentio over Bleck, as Bleck would be very awkward to do due to his lack of arms and legs.
TheSundanceKid
Smash Lord
Seriously? If you want you can make an appearance....
Chief Mendez
Smash Master
The Saga of Chief Mendez the Magnificent
I get my internet from a small (but hardworking) clan of Data Gnomes, whom I conquered in valiant battle at the tender age of three. My "family" consisted of (in order, as I came of age) three cougars, a constantly-hungry bear, ten giant eagles, a bull elephant, and a kraken.
But allow me to start at the beginning, if I may...
I was born to a drug-addled mother, who callously tossed me into a nearby dumpster after birthing me. So, alone, riddled with various drugs of all kinds, and cold, I did the only thing I could do: I cried.
I soon realized, however, that crying wasn't helping my situation, and I was rapidly coming ever closer to a cold, frozen death. Knowing this, I proceeded to physically beat the drugs out of my bloodstream with my tiny, yet powerful fists. I then ate my way through the plastic roof of the dumpster I was in, and warmed myself up with a light cross-country jog.
As I reached the Rocky Mountains, I suddenly found myself surrounded by hungry wolves. I managed to crush several of their skulls, but, tired as I was from my voyage, they eventually overpowered me. My still-soft cranium was literally inside the jaws of the pack leader when my first parents: Aslan, Bagheera, and Mufasa. The three mountain lions swiftly drove away the remaining wolves, and were about to claim their reward (my broken, bloody body)...but they sensed the pure, unfiltered greatness present within me, and, rather than consuming me, placed me on their shoulders and carried me back to their mountainside cave.
And so, for the next three years, I was raised in the most wild reaches of the Rocky Mountain Range, learning the ways of the world: hunting and preying on the weak, emitting feral screams to attract a mate, being only active near dusk and dawn, and (perhaps most importantly) being a combat helicopter.
However, it was not meant to be. One day, my adopted parents were all cruelly shot by local hunters. Only Mufasa managed to limp back to our cave, where I cradled him in my small, but already powerful arms, tears of pure love rolling down my cheeks. I believe I gave him some level of solace in his final moments.
The next day, I assassinated every man, woman and child in the area who has or had ever owned a hunting license, a rifle, camouflage pants, or who had in their life used the word "sport" in reference to the cold, inhuman act of taking another living thing's life for nothing but the sheer, barbaric thrill.
And so, with nothing left for me in the Rockies, I continued on in my quest, turning north, and eventually making my way to the Canadian outback.
One day, I was casually eating my fill of the Caribou herd I had, moments before, brought down using nothing but a single pebble, when a large Grizzly Bear approached me, obviously looking for his next meal. I stood my ground, and as he approached, so did I.
During our epic, mortal struggle, the sheer force of will present within me contacted the bear's spirit, and instantly, we knew each other. While tending my fresh gouge wounds in a nearby stream, I learned my new parent's name: Wojtek. He had been the subject of several Canadian Government-funded experiments, resulting in him being bereft in a total, unending state of starvation; no matter how much Wojtek ate, he never could satiate himself. So, compassion filling my tiny, four-year frame, I devoted myself to helping him.
And so I hunted. Over the course of the next seven years, I made myself known across the country as "The Windigo", though of course, I was only a small boy at this time. Of course, I was uneducated in the ways of numbers, so had no notion at the time of how many animals I defeated in single combat for Wojtek's sake, but looking back, I would say...anywhere from five to seventy-eight hundred thousand.
At the end of this bloody, noble trail lay the Canadian Scientist's Headquarters, also known as "Mount Villainy". I climbed the jagged, sulfurous cliffs of that accursed rock for five days, never resting--for below me was Wojtek, barely alive and on his own: I had to do this as fast as possible. I infiltrated their foul lair, and found the anitdote to the illness afflicting my pitiable foster father. However, the Canadians discovered me on my way out, and I was forced into combat against an elite sect of Canada's greatest fighters: the Royal Canadian Mountain Police. When all was said and done, I limped out of the laboratory, bullet and saber wounds all across my battered body. One had even managed to gouge out one of my eyes with a hook mounted on a stump, where I presume a hand once was.
Despite my great cause, I found I could not maintain consciousness any longer. As I crested the summit, I passed out, cursing myself for failing at the task set before me...
...Yet soon, I awoke: a cool breeze awakening me from my rest. I felt beneath me, and my hand touched against enormous, silken feathers. Yes, I was being held aloft on the back of a tremendous golden eagle. I reached out with my pure, most bare of emotions to the creature, telling her of Wojtek's plight.
...But, to my utter despair, she informed me that Wojtek had perished at the base of Mount Villainy. Her name was Aquila, and her nine siblings, Corvus, Flint, Cygnus, Huginn and Muginn, Simurgh, Mynah, and Old Great Auk, were on their way to Wojtek's aid on the command of the Bird King, Phoenix. But alas and alack, they arrived too late. Perhaps due to my leading him around the countryside, he was without the aid of the birdfolk.
I have always...blamed myself for that, I suppose.
With nothing to be done for poor Wojtek, I swore vengeance against the Royal Canadian Mountain Police, and continued East with my new, feathered family.
I did not stay with the eagles for long, though. As we were flying over Tennesee, Huginn and Muginn attempted to steal the eyes from my sockets as I slept atop Old Great Auk's back. They held no alleigance to me or my journey, and so I do not blame them for this: it is only the natural law that when a thing is hungry, it must eat.
...However, it is also the way of the world that only the strongest survive. And so, reacting like barbed lightning, I arose, and tore the tongues from my attacker's gizzards, sending them both into uncontrollable, pain-induced free falls. I could immediately tell how well this went over with the other birds, and so I leapt from Auk's wing, pummeting to the ground hundreds of miles below me.
It is never a good idea to let oneself be surrounded by wrathful servants of the Bird King.
Handily, I had learned much from Aquila of the ways of flight, and though I possessed no wings, I used my knowledge to directionally influence myself toward a giant red and white speck, miles below me. As I reached terminal velocity, and the terrible inertia began to peel the very flesh from my bones, I again could not hold out, and I saw black.
When I awoke, I was staring up into the murderous eyes of an enormous African Elephant, or loxodonta africana, as they say in the West. Before he had the chance to gore or trample me, I sprung to my feet and delivered a kick so fierce it could shatter the trunk of a full-grown Redwood tree (and indeed, during my time in the North, it had done so, on several occasions) to the beast's head...but to my complete amazement, it bucked me away but with a brush of it's head! Suddenly and horrifyingly, I knew fear. For the first time in my life, I truly did not know whether I would be the victor of this contest of strength.
...Amazingly, though I no longer held any conception of victory, the thing did not approach me. It merely eyed me up, from head to toe several times, then, deciding something, turned to leave. With this relief, I examined my surroundings for the first time since arriving in this foreign locale. I discovered I had landed on the top of a giant circus tent, which would explain how all my bones were not of dust at this point. But I had little time to ponder the past, as my immortal warrior's soul was calling to me.
Thus, I was trained. My master, Orwell, was a fine teacher indeed. Raised on the barren plains of the Savannah, he had been born weak and alone, much like myself. He had spent most of his time there migrating from herd to herd, never fully accepted, and often physically assaulted for his ignoble origins and lowly station. But through it all, he never gave in, eventually defeating the Bull of a rival tribe in single combat, and thus becoming their herdmaster. For fifty years, he and his tribe roamed the Great Plains, conquering all and sparing none in their paths. He sired countless calves, and those he did not approve of were swiftly exiled. Like me, he held dearly to the Ways of the World. However, one day, while he was away on an expedition, black-suited men with loud, booming sticks and red, maple leaves on their backs came and destroyed his entire clan, stealing their proud tusks, not allowing even for a respectful burial. Enraged, Orwell took to the coast, hounding the men in black. Though they boarded their iron fish before he could catch them, he could see the way they traveled, and so, with a deep breath of the African air he loved more than life itself, he plunged beneath the waves, and ran along the Ocean's floor toward a new, alien world.
Once there, he was tired from his journey, and so laid down beneath a tall tree for rest. But--the fiends!--they ambushed him while he slept! He awoke, and crushed many underfoot, and his tusks were lined with bodies that day, but through sheer numbers and a traitorous tranquilizing poison, they brought him to his knees, and carried him off to their stronghold.
...Thankfully, he escaped: breaking out of the belly of their giant iron snake, he rampaged his way south until he found a lonely, secluded stretch of open land. It reminded him of his homeland, and that was good. For seven days and seven nights he wept for those lost to him. He would never see them again.
And so, when the circus came and erected their giant shelters, Orwell approached them. At first, they panicked, but in time, they came to accept him. Ever since, he had stayed with the group as they toured the country, performing for humans from all walks of life. It was not a dignified life, he told me, but a simple one. One deserving of a man who could not protect those closest to him.
Under his tutelage, I learned much. In the span of a single year, I became a rival even to his great strength, and began to finally integrate myself into the world of man--through my performances in the circus as "The Whild Child", I learned the human tongue, and even made several "friends". In time, though, this was our downfall. Word spread of our famed performances, which eventually attracted the very same forces that had stolen so much from both my and Orwell's lives...
One fateful day, during the highlight act of our performance, Orwell toppled to the ground. I rushed to his side, but he batted me away with his trunk as he regained his footing. It was then I saw the enormous needle protruding from the side of his head. Furthermore, I finally noticed how oddly quiet the crowd had been, and looking out past the glare of the stage lights, I saw not a normal crowd--but the Royal Canadian Mountain Police. They had come to reclaim what was not theirs! I gave a roar that would enrapture even the coldest of puma vixens, and lunged toward my sworn enemies, but my way was suddenly blocked by Orwell's hulking body, which shuddered as a second salvo of poisoned darts punctured his thick hide. I knew what he was doing, but would not accept it--he was all that I had left.
...But, against my dearest wishes, he lifted me, kicking and screaming, in his trunk, trundled outside the tent, with every step being more harried as more and more Canadian venom assaulted his old body...and threw me into the sky with all of his remaining strength.
I spent the following day, and part of the night soaring through the air, tears lashing their way off my face, falling behind me into my windstream. I beat my chest, gnashed my teeth, pulled my hair, and tore my flesh in penitence: once again, I had not been able to stand up and deliver justice, as a man should.
/////
I finally began to lose altitude as I came over the Atlantic Ocean, the same one Orwell had traveled on his road of revenge. After ricocheting off the surface of the waves for several miles, I was finally able to obtain my sea legs...or lack thereof. This was my first experience with the ocean, and I lacked Orwell's powerful elephantine lungs, so had no hope of walking back to shore. I though for sure I would perish, broken and alone, out there in the Great, Uncaring Blue...when something large and smooth wrapped itself around my leg. In a flurry of rushing water and coursing foam, I was pulled under, and found myself face to face with a truly gigantic creature--at least ten times the size of my now-deceased master! It's hundred arms grabbed me from all sides and tore at me, intent on breaking me open like some crude chestnut. But I would not have this. There was still much evil for me to cleanse in this world, and so I held off the monster's fatal embrace, making my body as steel. Apparently surprised at this turn of events, the leviathan brought me to the surface, and, in what seemed the blink of an eye, brought me to a nearby, remote and uninhabited island.
I learned the kraken's name: Jormungandr, and since then (this was roughly four months ago, mind) have been peacefully enjoying my time on the same island, which I have named "Chief Mendez's Island". As I have not yet been able to communicate effectively with Jormungandr (and indeed, he rarely is around to attempt communication with), I have had nothing to do with myself but lie around, tend the fertile land of Chief Mendez's Island, and hang out on SWF with all my pals (using my wind-powered laptop made of sand and hermit crabs).
But one day soon, I will taste revenge. I will hunt down the red-leaf'd demons that stole my parents from me, and I will tear them limb from limb with my bear hands. The Earth will run red with blood. The accumulated filth of all their murder will foam up about their waists and all those bastards will look up and shout "Save us!"...
...and I will look down, and whisper "No."
Aside from the kraken (whom I now reside with), all of my parents have at one point tried to devour me alive. Only constant vigilance and devotion to my martial studies have kept me alive this long.
Yes, it has been a harrowing journey. But I have survived. And I am all the stronger for it.
tl;dr - TWILTHERO has made an ass out of both you and me, and should be lynched because of it. Also I am the coolest motherf*cker alive.
NONSENSE
I get my internet from a small (but hardworking) clan of Data Gnomes, whom I conquered in valiant battle at the tender age of three. My "family" consisted of (in order, as I came of age) three cougars, a constantly-hungry bear, ten giant eagles, a bull elephant, and a kraken.
But allow me to start at the beginning, if I may...
/////
I was born to a drug-addled mother, who callously tossed me into a nearby dumpster after birthing me. So, alone, riddled with various drugs of all kinds, and cold, I did the only thing I could do: I cried.
I soon realized, however, that crying wasn't helping my situation, and I was rapidly coming ever closer to a cold, frozen death. Knowing this, I proceeded to physically beat the drugs out of my bloodstream with my tiny, yet powerful fists. I then ate my way through the plastic roof of the dumpster I was in, and warmed myself up with a light cross-country jog.
As I reached the Rocky Mountains, I suddenly found myself surrounded by hungry wolves. I managed to crush several of their skulls, but, tired as I was from my voyage, they eventually overpowered me. My still-soft cranium was literally inside the jaws of the pack leader when my first parents: Aslan, Bagheera, and Mufasa. The three mountain lions swiftly drove away the remaining wolves, and were about to claim their reward (my broken, bloody body)...but they sensed the pure, unfiltered greatness present within me, and, rather than consuming me, placed me on their shoulders and carried me back to their mountainside cave.
And so, for the next three years, I was raised in the most wild reaches of the Rocky Mountain Range, learning the ways of the world: hunting and preying on the weak, emitting feral screams to attract a mate, being only active near dusk and dawn, and (perhaps most importantly) being a combat helicopter.
However, it was not meant to be. One day, my adopted parents were all cruelly shot by local hunters. Only Mufasa managed to limp back to our cave, where I cradled him in my small, but already powerful arms, tears of pure love rolling down my cheeks. I believe I gave him some level of solace in his final moments.
The next day, I assassinated every man, woman and child in the area who has or had ever owned a hunting license, a rifle, camouflage pants, or who had in their life used the word "sport" in reference to the cold, inhuman act of taking another living thing's life for nothing but the sheer, barbaric thrill.
And so, with nothing left for me in the Rockies, I continued on in my quest, turning north, and eventually making my way to the Canadian outback.
/////
One day, I was casually eating my fill of the Caribou herd I had, moments before, brought down using nothing but a single pebble, when a large Grizzly Bear approached me, obviously looking for his next meal. I stood my ground, and as he approached, so did I.
During our epic, mortal struggle, the sheer force of will present within me contacted the bear's spirit, and instantly, we knew each other. While tending my fresh gouge wounds in a nearby stream, I learned my new parent's name: Wojtek. He had been the subject of several Canadian Government-funded experiments, resulting in him being bereft in a total, unending state of starvation; no matter how much Wojtek ate, he never could satiate himself. So, compassion filling my tiny, four-year frame, I devoted myself to helping him.
And so I hunted. Over the course of the next seven years, I made myself known across the country as "The Windigo", though of course, I was only a small boy at this time. Of course, I was uneducated in the ways of numbers, so had no notion at the time of how many animals I defeated in single combat for Wojtek's sake, but looking back, I would say...anywhere from five to seventy-eight hundred thousand.
At the end of this bloody, noble trail lay the Canadian Scientist's Headquarters, also known as "Mount Villainy". I climbed the jagged, sulfurous cliffs of that accursed rock for five days, never resting--for below me was Wojtek, barely alive and on his own: I had to do this as fast as possible. I infiltrated their foul lair, and found the anitdote to the illness afflicting my pitiable foster father. However, the Canadians discovered me on my way out, and I was forced into combat against an elite sect of Canada's greatest fighters: the Royal Canadian Mountain Police. When all was said and done, I limped out of the laboratory, bullet and saber wounds all across my battered body. One had even managed to gouge out one of my eyes with a hook mounted on a stump, where I presume a hand once was.
Despite my great cause, I found I could not maintain consciousness any longer. As I crested the summit, I passed out, cursing myself for failing at the task set before me...
/////
...Yet soon, I awoke: a cool breeze awakening me from my rest. I felt beneath me, and my hand touched against enormous, silken feathers. Yes, I was being held aloft on the back of a tremendous golden eagle. I reached out with my pure, most bare of emotions to the creature, telling her of Wojtek's plight.
...But, to my utter despair, she informed me that Wojtek had perished at the base of Mount Villainy. Her name was Aquila, and her nine siblings, Corvus, Flint, Cygnus, Huginn and Muginn, Simurgh, Mynah, and Old Great Auk, were on their way to Wojtek's aid on the command of the Bird King, Phoenix. But alas and alack, they arrived too late. Perhaps due to my leading him around the countryside, he was without the aid of the birdfolk.
I have always...blamed myself for that, I suppose.
With nothing to be done for poor Wojtek, I swore vengeance against the Royal Canadian Mountain Police, and continued East with my new, feathered family.
/////
I did not stay with the eagles for long, though. As we were flying over Tennesee, Huginn and Muginn attempted to steal the eyes from my sockets as I slept atop Old Great Auk's back. They held no alleigance to me or my journey, and so I do not blame them for this: it is only the natural law that when a thing is hungry, it must eat.
...However, it is also the way of the world that only the strongest survive. And so, reacting like barbed lightning, I arose, and tore the tongues from my attacker's gizzards, sending them both into uncontrollable, pain-induced free falls. I could immediately tell how well this went over with the other birds, and so I leapt from Auk's wing, pummeting to the ground hundreds of miles below me.
It is never a good idea to let oneself be surrounded by wrathful servants of the Bird King.
Handily, I had learned much from Aquila of the ways of flight, and though I possessed no wings, I used my knowledge to directionally influence myself toward a giant red and white speck, miles below me. As I reached terminal velocity, and the terrible inertia began to peel the very flesh from my bones, I again could not hold out, and I saw black.
When I awoke, I was staring up into the murderous eyes of an enormous African Elephant, or loxodonta africana, as they say in the West. Before he had the chance to gore or trample me, I sprung to my feet and delivered a kick so fierce it could shatter the trunk of a full-grown Redwood tree (and indeed, during my time in the North, it had done so, on several occasions) to the beast's head...but to my complete amazement, it bucked me away but with a brush of it's head! Suddenly and horrifyingly, I knew fear. For the first time in my life, I truly did not know whether I would be the victor of this contest of strength.
...Amazingly, though I no longer held any conception of victory, the thing did not approach me. It merely eyed me up, from head to toe several times, then, deciding something, turned to leave. With this relief, I examined my surroundings for the first time since arriving in this foreign locale. I discovered I had landed on the top of a giant circus tent, which would explain how all my bones were not of dust at this point. But I had little time to ponder the past, as my immortal warrior's soul was calling to me.
Thus, I was trained. My master, Orwell, was a fine teacher indeed. Raised on the barren plains of the Savannah, he had been born weak and alone, much like myself. He had spent most of his time there migrating from herd to herd, never fully accepted, and often physically assaulted for his ignoble origins and lowly station. But through it all, he never gave in, eventually defeating the Bull of a rival tribe in single combat, and thus becoming their herdmaster. For fifty years, he and his tribe roamed the Great Plains, conquering all and sparing none in their paths. He sired countless calves, and those he did not approve of were swiftly exiled. Like me, he held dearly to the Ways of the World. However, one day, while he was away on an expedition, black-suited men with loud, booming sticks and red, maple leaves on their backs came and destroyed his entire clan, stealing their proud tusks, not allowing even for a respectful burial. Enraged, Orwell took to the coast, hounding the men in black. Though they boarded their iron fish before he could catch them, he could see the way they traveled, and so, with a deep breath of the African air he loved more than life itself, he plunged beneath the waves, and ran along the Ocean's floor toward a new, alien world.
Once there, he was tired from his journey, and so laid down beneath a tall tree for rest. But--the fiends!--they ambushed him while he slept! He awoke, and crushed many underfoot, and his tusks were lined with bodies that day, but through sheer numbers and a traitorous tranquilizing poison, they brought him to his knees, and carried him off to their stronghold.
...Thankfully, he escaped: breaking out of the belly of their giant iron snake, he rampaged his way south until he found a lonely, secluded stretch of open land. It reminded him of his homeland, and that was good. For seven days and seven nights he wept for those lost to him. He would never see them again.
And so, when the circus came and erected their giant shelters, Orwell approached them. At first, they panicked, but in time, they came to accept him. Ever since, he had stayed with the group as they toured the country, performing for humans from all walks of life. It was not a dignified life, he told me, but a simple one. One deserving of a man who could not protect those closest to him.
/////
Under his tutelage, I learned much. In the span of a single year, I became a rival even to his great strength, and began to finally integrate myself into the world of man--through my performances in the circus as "The Whild Child", I learned the human tongue, and even made several "friends". In time, though, this was our downfall. Word spread of our famed performances, which eventually attracted the very same forces that had stolen so much from both my and Orwell's lives...
One fateful day, during the highlight act of our performance, Orwell toppled to the ground. I rushed to his side, but he batted me away with his trunk as he regained his footing. It was then I saw the enormous needle protruding from the side of his head. Furthermore, I finally noticed how oddly quiet the crowd had been, and looking out past the glare of the stage lights, I saw not a normal crowd--but the Royal Canadian Mountain Police. They had come to reclaim what was not theirs! I gave a roar that would enrapture even the coldest of puma vixens, and lunged toward my sworn enemies, but my way was suddenly blocked by Orwell's hulking body, which shuddered as a second salvo of poisoned darts punctured his thick hide. I knew what he was doing, but would not accept it--he was all that I had left.
...But, against my dearest wishes, he lifted me, kicking and screaming, in his trunk, trundled outside the tent, with every step being more harried as more and more Canadian venom assaulted his old body...and threw me into the sky with all of his remaining strength.
/////
I spent the following day, and part of the night soaring through the air, tears lashing their way off my face, falling behind me into my windstream. I beat my chest, gnashed my teeth, pulled my hair, and tore my flesh in penitence: once again, I had not been able to stand up and deliver justice, as a man should.
/////
I finally began to lose altitude as I came over the Atlantic Ocean, the same one Orwell had traveled on his road of revenge. After ricocheting off the surface of the waves for several miles, I was finally able to obtain my sea legs...or lack thereof. This was my first experience with the ocean, and I lacked Orwell's powerful elephantine lungs, so had no hope of walking back to shore. I though for sure I would perish, broken and alone, out there in the Great, Uncaring Blue...when something large and smooth wrapped itself around my leg. In a flurry of rushing water and coursing foam, I was pulled under, and found myself face to face with a truly gigantic creature--at least ten times the size of my now-deceased master! It's hundred arms grabbed me from all sides and tore at me, intent on breaking me open like some crude chestnut. But I would not have this. There was still much evil for me to cleanse in this world, and so I held off the monster's fatal embrace, making my body as steel. Apparently surprised at this turn of events, the leviathan brought me to the surface, and, in what seemed the blink of an eye, brought me to a nearby, remote and uninhabited island.
I learned the kraken's name: Jormungandr, and since then (this was roughly four months ago, mind) have been peacefully enjoying my time on the same island, which I have named "Chief Mendez's Island". As I have not yet been able to communicate effectively with Jormungandr (and indeed, he rarely is around to attempt communication with), I have had nothing to do with myself but lie around, tend the fertile land of Chief Mendez's Island, and hang out on SWF with all my pals (using my wind-powered laptop made of sand and hermit crabs).
But one day soon, I will taste revenge. I will hunt down the red-leaf'd demons that stole my parents from me, and I will tear them limb from limb with my bear hands. The Earth will run red with blood. The accumulated filth of all their murder will foam up about their waists and all those bastards will look up and shout "Save us!"...
...and I will look down, and whisper "No."
/////
Aside from the kraken (whom I now reside with), all of my parents have at one point tried to devour me alive. Only constant vigilance and devotion to my martial studies have kept me alive this long.
Yes, it has been a harrowing journey. But I have survived. And I am all the stronger for it.
tl;dr - TWILTHERO has made an ass out of both you and me, and should be lynched because of it. Also I am the coolest motherf*cker alive.
TheSundanceKid
Smash Lord
Wall of text? wtf is that for?
Chief Mendez
Smash Master
Gee I don't know. Certainly it has nothing to do with "The Saga of Chief Mendez the Magnificent", or anything, y'know...
Consider that my celebratory post for getting to the rank of Smash Master...even though I'm about 30 posts off still.
MasterWarlord
Smash Champion
You don't like walls of text SundanceKid?
If you are one of the few who has never been presented with evidence that The SundanceKid plans to send frightful trolls on safari holidays instead of publicly birching them, then be glad that the task to educate yourself has just become easy. With this letter, I compile all of the necessary evidence into one easy-to-read document. Read on, gentle reader, and hear what I have to say. You may have noticed that this is where the rubber hits the road. But you don't know the half of it. For starters, I don't see why SundanceKid wants to trade fundamental human rights for a cheap "guarantee" of safety and security. But there's the rub; I don't know what makes him think that he has the trappings of deity. Maybe he's been sipping cuckoo juice. The fact of the matter is that if SundanceKid thinks that he can make all of our problems go away merely by sprinkling some sort of magic, pink, pixie dust over everything that he considers nerdy or lubricious, then he's sadly mistaken.
SundanceKid ignores the most basic ground rule of debate. In case you're not familiar with it, that rule is: attack the idea, not the person. Others have stated it much more eloquently than I, but I find his reification of revanchism a tad disconcerting. Let's be sure that I've made myself absolutely clear: We can never return to the past. And if we are ever to move forward to the future, we undeniably have to move as expeditiously as possible to enable all people to achieve their potential as human beings. Before I continue, let me state that SundanceKid complains a lot. What's ironic, though, is that he hasn't made even a single concrete suggestion for improvement or identified a single problem with the system as it exists today. His complaints are in every respect consistent with the school of infantile thought that tends to operate on a criminal -- as opposed to a civil disobedience -- basis.
In the past, I've said that most of the things SundanceKid has written would be complimented by being called merely "mind-numbing bureaucratese". Were I to make such a generalization today it would contain a few "weasel words" -- an escape hatch or that indispensable cliche that SundanceKid is secretly saying that I should just throw in the towel. But because he supports rule by Man according to his own passions, opinions, and dictates, rather than rule by law, I am not ready to retract my conviction or to recant error. Some day, in the far, far future, he will realize that if his dupes get their way, society as we know it will cease to exist. This realization will sink in slowly but surely and will be accompanied by a comprehension of how SundanceKid wants to teach the next generation how to hate -- and whom to hate. What's wrong with that? What's wrong is SundanceKid's gossamer grasp of reality.
SundanceKid is doing everything in his power to make me run for cover. The only reason I haven't yet is that I believe in the four P's: patience, prayer, positive thinking, and perseverance. His deeds are founded on bald-faced lies. But that's not all: It would be wrong to imply that he is involved in some kind of conspiracy to replicate the most testy structures of contemporary life. It would be wrong because his fibs are far beyond the conspiracy stage. Not only that, but he once tried to subject human beings to indignities. If you consider this an exception to the rule then you unmistakably don't understand how SundanceKid operates. I hope, however, that you at least understand that he parrots whatever ideas are fashionable at the moment. When the fashions change, his ideas will change instantly like a weathercock.
That doesn't necessarily mean that I certainly can't stand SundanceKid or his shock troops, although it might. Rather, it means that SundanceKid finds reality too difficult to swallow. Or maybe it just gets lost between the sports and entertainment pages. In either case, SundanceKid should try being a little more open-minded. Stated differently, when he says that it is mindless to question his ultimata, in his mind, that's supposed to end the argument. It's like he believes he has said something very profound. I'm merely suggesting that I sincerely dislike SundanceKid. Likes or dislikes, however, are irrelevant to observed facts, such as that only the impartial and unimpassioned mind will even consider that I find that I am embarrassed. Embarrassed that some people just don't realize that nothing appears more plausible at first sight, nor more ill-founded and demented upon closer inspection, than SundanceKid's sound bites. If you don't believe me, see for yourself.
I assert it's important to continue discussing this even after I've made my point because I have begged SundanceKid's coadjutors to step forth and disentangle people from the snares set by SundanceKid and his backers. To date, not a single soul has agreed to help in this fashion. Are they worried about how SundanceKid might retaliate? The answer may surprise you, especially when you consider that SundanceKid is the picture of the insane person on the street, babbling to a tree, a wall, or a cloud, which cannot and does not respond to his publicity stunts.
If I thought that SundanceKid's intimations had even a snowball's chance in Hell of doing anything good for anyone, then I wouldn't be so critical. As they stand, however, I can conclude only that SundanceKid insists that his antics enhance performance standards, productivity, and competitiveness. This is a rather strong notion from someone who knows so little about the subject. I repeat: The basal lie that underlies all of his crass politics is that it is better that a hundred thousand people should perish than that he should be even slightly inconvenienced. Translation: Coercion in the name of liberty is a valid use of state power. I doubt you need any help from me to identify the supreme idiocy of those views but you should nevertheless be aware that SundanceKid has never inscribed his name on the Parthenon of human excellence, either mental or moral. Am I being too harsh for writing that? Maybe I am, but that's really the only way you can push a point through to SundanceKid.
Contrary to popular belief, SundanceKid is entirely gung-ho about onanism because he lacks more pressing soapbox issues. However much he may deny it, if you can make any sense out his sexist tricks then you must have gotten higher marks in school than I did. Should we worry that SundanceKid wants to publish blatantly hateful rhetoric as "education" for children to learn in school? In a word, yes. And that's not just because he likes to have difficult social issues presented to him in simple, black-and-white terms, but also because SundanceKid is a pitiful specimen of a cantankerous, sinful adulterer. For that reason, his opinion is that he acts in the public interest. Of course, opinions are like sphincters: we all have them. So let me tell you my opinion. My opinion is that when it comes to SundanceKid's reports, I aver that we have drifted along for too long in a state of blissful denial and outright complacency. It's time to provide a trenchant analysis of his warnings. The sooner we do that the better because if SundanceKid had even a shred of intellectual integrity, he'd admit that Nature is a wonderful teacher. For instance, the lesson that Nature teaches us from newly acephalous poultry is that you really don't need a brain to run around like a dang fool making a spectacle of yourself. Nature also teaches us that SundanceKid's the type of person who would pooh-pooh the concerns of others if he got the chance. Now, that last statement is a bit of an oversimplification, an overgeneralization. But it is nevertheless substantially true.
If we're to effectively carry out our responsibilities and make a future for ourselves, we will first have to condemn -- without hesitation, without remorse -- all those who wage an odd sort of warfare upon a largely unprepared and unrecognizing public. If I am doomed to lose all self-control then SundanceKid will obviously reduce history to an overdetermined, wireframe sketch of what are, in reality, complex, dynamic events within a short period of time. Authority without wisdom is mere noise against the music of eternity. Get that straight, please. Any other thinking is blame-shoving or responsibility-dodging. Furthermore, I am not predicting anything specific. I just have a feeling, an intuition, based on several things that are happening now that SundanceKid will stir up trouble faster than you can say "roentgenographically".
SundanceKid's advocates believe that SundanceKid's exegeses are a breath of fresh air amid our modern culture's toxic cloud of chaos. Although it is perhaps impossible to change the perspective of those who have such beliefs, I wish nevertheless to put SundanceKid's disaffected bruta fulmina out to pasture. There are no two ways about it; there are those who are informed and educated about the evils of Bulverism, and there are those who are not. SundanceKid is one of the uninformed, naturally, and that's why his sole aspiration is apparently to base racial definitions on lineage, phrenological characteristics, skin hue, and religion. I don't think anyone questions that. But did you know that his recent attempt to give rise to slovenly gits may prove to be a watershed event for those of us who want to stand up and fight for our heritage, traditions, and values? All of this once again proves the old saying that I leave open the question of the extent to which this discussion could be applied to impudent urban guerrillas.
TheSundanceKid
Smash Lord
Ok...*cricket chirps*
Chief Mendez
Smash Master
TL;DR - MasterWarlord has no life.
Also:
I was born to a drug-addled mother, who callously tossed me into a nearby dumpster after birthing me. So, alone, riddled with various drugs of all kinds, and cold, I did the only thing I could do: I cried.
I soon realized, however, that crying wasn't helping my situation, and I was rapidly coming ever closer to a cold, frozen death. Knowing this, I proceeded to physically beat the drugs out of my bloodstream with my tiny, yet powerful fists. I then ate my way through the plastic roof of the dumpster I was in, and warmed myself up with a light cross-country jog.
As I reached the Rocky Mountains, I suddenly found myself surrounded by hungry wolves. I managed to crush several of their skulls, but, tired as I was from my voyage, they eventually overpowered me. My still-soft cranium was literally inside the jaws of the pack leader when my first parents: Aslan, Bagheera, and Mufasa. The three mountain lions swiftly drove away the remaining wolves, and were about to claim their reward (my broken, bloody body)...but they sensed the pure, unfiltered greatness present within me, and, rather than consuming me, placed me on their shoulders and carried me back to their mountainside cave.
And so, for the next three years, I was raised in the most wild reaches of the Rocky Mountain Range, learning the ways of the world: hunting and preying on the weak, emitting feral screams to attract a mate, being only active near dusk and dawn, and (perhaps most importantly) being a combat helicopter.
However, it was not meant to be. One day, my adopted parents were all cruelly shot by local hunters. Only Mufasa managed to limp back to our cave, where I cradled him in my small, but already powerful arms, tears of pure love rolling down my cheeks. I believe I gave him some level of solace in his final moments.
The next day, I assassinated every man, woman and child in the area who has or had ever owned a hunting license, a rifle, camouflage pants, or who had in their life used the word "sport" in reference to the cold, inhuman act of taking another living thing's life for nothing but the sheer, barbaric thrill.
And so, with nothing left for me in the Rockies, I continued on in my quest, turning north, and eventually making my way to the Canadian outback.
/////
One day, I was casually eating my fill of the Caribou herd I had, moments before, brought down using nothing but a single pebble, when a large Grizzly Bear approached me, obviously looking for his next meal. I stood my ground, and as he approached, so did I.
During our epic, mortal struggle, the sheer force of will present within me contacted the bear's spirit, and instantly, we knew each other. While tending my fresh gouge wounds in a nearby stream, I learned my new parent's name: Wojtek. He had been the subject of several Canadian Government-funded experiments, resulting in him being bereft in a total, unending state of starvation; no matter how much Wojtek ate, he never could satiate himself. So, compassion filling my tiny, four-year frame, I devoted myself to helping him.
And so I hunted. Over the course of the next seven years, I made myself known across the country as "The Windigo", though of course, I was only a small boy at this time. Of course, I was uneducated in the ways of numbers, so had no notion at the time of how many animals I defeated in single combat for Wojtek's sake, but looking back, I would say...anywhere from five to seventy-eight hundred thousand.
At the end of this bloody, noble trail lay the Canadian Scientist's Headquarters, also known as "Mount Villainy". I climbed the jagged, sulfurous cliffs of that accursed rock for five days, never resting--for below me was Wojtek, barely alive and on his own: I had to do this as fast as possible. I infiltrated their foul lair, and found the anitdote to the illness afflicting my pitiable foster father. However, the Canadians discovered me on my way out, and I was forced into combat against an elite sect of Canada's greatest fighters: the Royal Canadian Mountain Police. When all was said and done, I limped out of the laboratory, bullet and saber wounds all across my battered body. One had even managed to gouge out one of my eyes with a hook mounted on a stump, where I presume a hand once was.
Despite my great cause, I found I could not maintain consciousness any longer. As I crested the summit, I passed out, cursing myself for failing at the task set before me...
/////
...Yet soon, I awoke: a cool breeze awakening me from my rest. I felt beneath me, and my hand touched against enormous, silken feathers. Yes, I was being held aloft on the back of a tremendous golden eagle. I reached out with my pure, most bare of emotions to the creature, telling her of Wojtek's plight.
...But, to my utter despair, she informed me that Wojtek had perished at the base of Mount Villainy. Her name was Aquila, and her nine siblings, Corvus, Flint, Cygnus, Huginn and Muginn, Simurgh, Mynah, and Old Great Auk, were on their way to Wojtek's aid on the command of the Bird King, Phoenix. But alas and alack, they arrived too late. Perhaps due to my leading him around the countryside, he was without the aid of the birdfolk.
I have always...blamed myself for that, I suppose.
With nothing to be done for poor Wojtek, I swore vengeance against the Royal Canadian Mountain Police, and continued East with my new, feathered family.
/////
I did not stay with the eagles for long, though. As we were flying over Tennesee, Huginn and Muginn attempted to steal the eyes from my sockets as I slept atop Old Great Auk's back. They held no alleigance to me or my journey, and so I do not blame them for this: it is only the natural law that when a thing is hungry, it must eat.
...However, it is also the way of the world that only the strongest survive. And so, reacting like barbed lightning, I arose, and tore the tongues from my attacker's gizzards, sending them both into uncontrollable, pain-induced free falls. I could immediately tell how well this went over with the other birds, and so I leapt from Auk's wing, pummeting to the ground hundreds of miles below me.
It is never a good idea to let oneself be surrounded by wrathful servants of the Bird King.
Handily, I had learned much from Aquila of the ways of flight, and though I possessed no wings, I used my knowledge to directionally influence myself toward a giant red and white speck, miles below me. As I reached terminal velocity, and the terrible inertia began to peel the very flesh from my bones, I again could not hold out, and I saw black.
When I awoke, I was staring up into the murderous eyes of an enormous African Elephant, or loxodonta africana, as they say in the West. Before he had the chance to gore or trample me, I sprung to my feet and delivered a kick so fierce it could shatter the trunk of a full-grown Redwood tree (and indeed, during my time in the North, it had done so, on several occasions) to the beast's head...but to my complete amazement, it bucked me away but with a brush of it's head! Suddenly and horrifyingly, I knew fear. For the first time in my life, I truly did not know whether I would be the victor of this contest of strength.
...Amazingly, though I no longer held any conception of victory, the thing did not approach me. It merely eyed me up, from head to toe several times, then, deciding something, turned to leave. With this relief, I examined my surroundings for the first time since arriving in this foreign locale. I discovered I had landed on the top of a giant circus tent, which would explain how all my bones were not of dust at this point. But I had little time to ponder the past, as my immortal warrior's soul was calling to me.
Thus, I was trained. My master, Orwell, was a fine teacher indeed. Raised on the barren plains of the Savannah, he had been born weak and alone, much like myself. He had spent most of his time there migrating from herd to herd, never fully accepted, and often physically assaulted for his ignoble origins and lowly station. But through it all, he never gave in, eventually defeating the Bull of a rival tribe in single combat, and thus becoming their herdmaster. For fifty years, he and his tribe roamed the Great Plains, conquering all and sparing none in their paths. He sired countless calves, and those he did not approve of were swiftly exiled. Like me, he held dearly to the Ways of the World. However, one day, while he was away on an expedition, black-suited men with loud, booming sticks and red, maple leaves on their backs came and destroyed his entire clan, stealing their proud tusks, not allowing even for a respectful burial. Enraged, Orwell took to the coast, hounding the men in black. Though they boarded their iron fish before he could catch them, he could see the way they traveled, and so, with a deep breath of the African air he loved more than life itself, he plunged beneath the waves, and ran along the Ocean's floor toward a new, alien world.
Once there, he was tired from his journey, and so laid down beneath a tall tree for rest. But--the fiends!--they ambushed him while he slept! He awoke, and crushed many underfoot, and his tusks were lined with bodies that day, but through sheer numbers and a traitorous tranquilizing poison, they brought him to his knees, and carried him off to their stronghold.
...Thankfully, he escaped: breaking out of the belly of their giant iron snake, he rampaged his way south until he found a lonely, secluded stretch of open land. It reminded him of his homeland, and that was good. For seven days and seven nights he wept for those lost to him. He would never see them again.
And so, when the circus came and erected their giant shelters, Orwell approached them. At first, they panicked, but in time, they came to accept him. Ever since, he had stayed with the group as they toured the country, performing for humans from all walks of life. It was not a dignified life, he told me, but a simple one. One deserving of a man who could not protect those closest to him.
/////
Under his tutelage, I learned much. In the span of a single year, I became a rival even to his great strength, and began to finally integrate myself into the world of man--through my performances in the circus as "The Whild Child", I learned the human tongue, and even made several "friends". In time, though, this was our downfall. Word spread of our famed performances, which eventually attracted the very same forces that had stolen so much from both my and Orwell's lives...
One fateful day, during the highlight act of our performance, Orwell toppled to the ground. I rushed to his side, but he batted me away with his trunk as he regained his footing. It was then I saw the enormous needle protruding from the side of his head. Furthermore, I finally noticed how oddly quiet the crowd had been, and looking out past the glare of the stage lights, I saw not a normal crowd--but the Royal Canadian Mountain Police. They had come to reclaim what was not theirs! I gave a roar that would enrapture even the coldest of puma vixens, and lunged toward my sworn enemies, but my way was suddenly blocked by Orwell's hulking body, which shuddered as a second salvo of poisoned darts punctured his thick hide. I knew what he was doing, but would not accept it--he was all that I had left.
...But, against my dearest wishes, he lifted me, kicking and screaming, in his trunk, trundled outside the tent, with every step being more harried as more and more Canadian venom assaulted his old body...and threw me into the sky with all of his remaining strength.
/////
I spent the following day, and part of the night soaring through the air, tears lashing their way off my face, falling behind me into my windstream. I beat my chest, gnashed my teeth, pulled my hair, and tore my flesh in penitence: once again, I had not been able to stand up and deliver justice, as a man should.
/////
I finally began to lose altitude as I came over the Atlantic Ocean, the same one Orwell had traveled on his road of revenge. After ricocheting off the surface of the waves for several miles, I was finally able to obtain my sea legs...or lack thereof. This was my first experience with the ocean, and I lacked Orwell's powerful elephantine lungs, so had no hope of walking back to shore. I though for sure I would perish, broken and alone, out there in the Great, Uncaring Blue...when something large and smooth wrapped itself around my leg. In a flurry of rushing water and coursing foam, I was pulled under, and found myself face to face with a truly gigantic creature--at least ten times the size of my now-deceased master! It's hundred arms grabbed me from all sides and tore at me, intent on breaking me open like some crude chestnut. But I would not have this. There was still much evil for me to cleanse in this world, and so I held off the monster's fatal embrace, making my body as steel. Apparently surprised at this turn of events, the leviathan brought me to the surface, and, in what seemed the blink of an eye, brought me to a nearby, remote and uninhabited island.
I learned the kraken's name: Jormungandr, and since then (this was roughly four months ago, mind) have been peacefully enjoying my time on the same island, which I have named "Chief Mendez's Island". As I have not yet been able to communicate effectively with Jormungandr (and indeed, he rarely is around to attempt communication with), I have had nothing to do with myself but lie around, tend the fertile land of Chief Mendez's Island, and hang out on SWF with all my pals (using my wind-powered laptop made of sand and hermit crabs).
But one day soon, I will taste revenge. I will hunt down the red-leaf'd demons that stole my parents from me, and I will tear them limb from limb with my bear hands. The Earth will run red with blood. The accumulated filth of all their murder will foam up about their waists and all those *******s will look up and shout "Save us!"...
...and I will look down, and whisper "No."
/////
Aside from the kraken (whom I now reside with), all of my parents have at one point tried to devour me alive. Only constant vigilance and devotion to my martial studies have kept me alive this long.
Yes, it has been a harrowing journey. But I have survived. And I am all the stronger for it.
I soon realized, however, that crying wasn't helping my situation, and I was rapidly coming ever closer to a cold, frozen death. Knowing this, I proceeded to physically beat the drugs out of my bloodstream with my tiny, yet powerful fists. I then ate my way through the plastic roof of the dumpster I was in, and warmed myself up with a light cross-country jog.
As I reached the Rocky Mountains, I suddenly found myself surrounded by hungry wolves. I managed to crush several of their skulls, but, tired as I was from my voyage, they eventually overpowered me. My still-soft cranium was literally inside the jaws of the pack leader when my first parents: Aslan, Bagheera, and Mufasa. The three mountain lions swiftly drove away the remaining wolves, and were about to claim their reward (my broken, bloody body)...but they sensed the pure, unfiltered greatness present within me, and, rather than consuming me, placed me on their shoulders and carried me back to their mountainside cave.
And so, for the next three years, I was raised in the most wild reaches of the Rocky Mountain Range, learning the ways of the world: hunting and preying on the weak, emitting feral screams to attract a mate, being only active near dusk and dawn, and (perhaps most importantly) being a combat helicopter.
However, it was not meant to be. One day, my adopted parents were all cruelly shot by local hunters. Only Mufasa managed to limp back to our cave, where I cradled him in my small, but already powerful arms, tears of pure love rolling down my cheeks. I believe I gave him some level of solace in his final moments.
The next day, I assassinated every man, woman and child in the area who has or had ever owned a hunting license, a rifle, camouflage pants, or who had in their life used the word "sport" in reference to the cold, inhuman act of taking another living thing's life for nothing but the sheer, barbaric thrill.
And so, with nothing left for me in the Rockies, I continued on in my quest, turning north, and eventually making my way to the Canadian outback.
/////
One day, I was casually eating my fill of the Caribou herd I had, moments before, brought down using nothing but a single pebble, when a large Grizzly Bear approached me, obviously looking for his next meal. I stood my ground, and as he approached, so did I.
During our epic, mortal struggle, the sheer force of will present within me contacted the bear's spirit, and instantly, we knew each other. While tending my fresh gouge wounds in a nearby stream, I learned my new parent's name: Wojtek. He had been the subject of several Canadian Government-funded experiments, resulting in him being bereft in a total, unending state of starvation; no matter how much Wojtek ate, he never could satiate himself. So, compassion filling my tiny, four-year frame, I devoted myself to helping him.
And so I hunted. Over the course of the next seven years, I made myself known across the country as "The Windigo", though of course, I was only a small boy at this time. Of course, I was uneducated in the ways of numbers, so had no notion at the time of how many animals I defeated in single combat for Wojtek's sake, but looking back, I would say...anywhere from five to seventy-eight hundred thousand.
At the end of this bloody, noble trail lay the Canadian Scientist's Headquarters, also known as "Mount Villainy". I climbed the jagged, sulfurous cliffs of that accursed rock for five days, never resting--for below me was Wojtek, barely alive and on his own: I had to do this as fast as possible. I infiltrated their foul lair, and found the anitdote to the illness afflicting my pitiable foster father. However, the Canadians discovered me on my way out, and I was forced into combat against an elite sect of Canada's greatest fighters: the Royal Canadian Mountain Police. When all was said and done, I limped out of the laboratory, bullet and saber wounds all across my battered body. One had even managed to gouge out one of my eyes with a hook mounted on a stump, where I presume a hand once was.
Despite my great cause, I found I could not maintain consciousness any longer. As I crested the summit, I passed out, cursing myself for failing at the task set before me...
/////
...Yet soon, I awoke: a cool breeze awakening me from my rest. I felt beneath me, and my hand touched against enormous, silken feathers. Yes, I was being held aloft on the back of a tremendous golden eagle. I reached out with my pure, most bare of emotions to the creature, telling her of Wojtek's plight.
...But, to my utter despair, she informed me that Wojtek had perished at the base of Mount Villainy. Her name was Aquila, and her nine siblings, Corvus, Flint, Cygnus, Huginn and Muginn, Simurgh, Mynah, and Old Great Auk, were on their way to Wojtek's aid on the command of the Bird King, Phoenix. But alas and alack, they arrived too late. Perhaps due to my leading him around the countryside, he was without the aid of the birdfolk.
I have always...blamed myself for that, I suppose.
With nothing to be done for poor Wojtek, I swore vengeance against the Royal Canadian Mountain Police, and continued East with my new, feathered family.
/////
I did not stay with the eagles for long, though. As we were flying over Tennesee, Huginn and Muginn attempted to steal the eyes from my sockets as I slept atop Old Great Auk's back. They held no alleigance to me or my journey, and so I do not blame them for this: it is only the natural law that when a thing is hungry, it must eat.
...However, it is also the way of the world that only the strongest survive. And so, reacting like barbed lightning, I arose, and tore the tongues from my attacker's gizzards, sending them both into uncontrollable, pain-induced free falls. I could immediately tell how well this went over with the other birds, and so I leapt from Auk's wing, pummeting to the ground hundreds of miles below me.
It is never a good idea to let oneself be surrounded by wrathful servants of the Bird King.
Handily, I had learned much from Aquila of the ways of flight, and though I possessed no wings, I used my knowledge to directionally influence myself toward a giant red and white speck, miles below me. As I reached terminal velocity, and the terrible inertia began to peel the very flesh from my bones, I again could not hold out, and I saw black.
When I awoke, I was staring up into the murderous eyes of an enormous African Elephant, or loxodonta africana, as they say in the West. Before he had the chance to gore or trample me, I sprung to my feet and delivered a kick so fierce it could shatter the trunk of a full-grown Redwood tree (and indeed, during my time in the North, it had done so, on several occasions) to the beast's head...but to my complete amazement, it bucked me away but with a brush of it's head! Suddenly and horrifyingly, I knew fear. For the first time in my life, I truly did not know whether I would be the victor of this contest of strength.
...Amazingly, though I no longer held any conception of victory, the thing did not approach me. It merely eyed me up, from head to toe several times, then, deciding something, turned to leave. With this relief, I examined my surroundings for the first time since arriving in this foreign locale. I discovered I had landed on the top of a giant circus tent, which would explain how all my bones were not of dust at this point. But I had little time to ponder the past, as my immortal warrior's soul was calling to me.
Thus, I was trained. My master, Orwell, was a fine teacher indeed. Raised on the barren plains of the Savannah, he had been born weak and alone, much like myself. He had spent most of his time there migrating from herd to herd, never fully accepted, and often physically assaulted for his ignoble origins and lowly station. But through it all, he never gave in, eventually defeating the Bull of a rival tribe in single combat, and thus becoming their herdmaster. For fifty years, he and his tribe roamed the Great Plains, conquering all and sparing none in their paths. He sired countless calves, and those he did not approve of were swiftly exiled. Like me, he held dearly to the Ways of the World. However, one day, while he was away on an expedition, black-suited men with loud, booming sticks and red, maple leaves on their backs came and destroyed his entire clan, stealing their proud tusks, not allowing even for a respectful burial. Enraged, Orwell took to the coast, hounding the men in black. Though they boarded their iron fish before he could catch them, he could see the way they traveled, and so, with a deep breath of the African air he loved more than life itself, he plunged beneath the waves, and ran along the Ocean's floor toward a new, alien world.
Once there, he was tired from his journey, and so laid down beneath a tall tree for rest. But--the fiends!--they ambushed him while he slept! He awoke, and crushed many underfoot, and his tusks were lined with bodies that day, but through sheer numbers and a traitorous tranquilizing poison, they brought him to his knees, and carried him off to their stronghold.
...Thankfully, he escaped: breaking out of the belly of their giant iron snake, he rampaged his way south until he found a lonely, secluded stretch of open land. It reminded him of his homeland, and that was good. For seven days and seven nights he wept for those lost to him. He would never see them again.
And so, when the circus came and erected their giant shelters, Orwell approached them. At first, they panicked, but in time, they came to accept him. Ever since, he had stayed with the group as they toured the country, performing for humans from all walks of life. It was not a dignified life, he told me, but a simple one. One deserving of a man who could not protect those closest to him.
/////
Under his tutelage, I learned much. In the span of a single year, I became a rival even to his great strength, and began to finally integrate myself into the world of man--through my performances in the circus as "The Whild Child", I learned the human tongue, and even made several "friends". In time, though, this was our downfall. Word spread of our famed performances, which eventually attracted the very same forces that had stolen so much from both my and Orwell's lives...
One fateful day, during the highlight act of our performance, Orwell toppled to the ground. I rushed to his side, but he batted me away with his trunk as he regained his footing. It was then I saw the enormous needle protruding from the side of his head. Furthermore, I finally noticed how oddly quiet the crowd had been, and looking out past the glare of the stage lights, I saw not a normal crowd--but the Royal Canadian Mountain Police. They had come to reclaim what was not theirs! I gave a roar that would enrapture even the coldest of puma vixens, and lunged toward my sworn enemies, but my way was suddenly blocked by Orwell's hulking body, which shuddered as a second salvo of poisoned darts punctured his thick hide. I knew what he was doing, but would not accept it--he was all that I had left.
...But, against my dearest wishes, he lifted me, kicking and screaming, in his trunk, trundled outside the tent, with every step being more harried as more and more Canadian venom assaulted his old body...and threw me into the sky with all of his remaining strength.
/////
I spent the following day, and part of the night soaring through the air, tears lashing their way off my face, falling behind me into my windstream. I beat my chest, gnashed my teeth, pulled my hair, and tore my flesh in penitence: once again, I had not been able to stand up and deliver justice, as a man should.
/////
I finally began to lose altitude as I came over the Atlantic Ocean, the same one Orwell had traveled on his road of revenge. After ricocheting off the surface of the waves for several miles, I was finally able to obtain my sea legs...or lack thereof. This was my first experience with the ocean, and I lacked Orwell's powerful elephantine lungs, so had no hope of walking back to shore. I though for sure I would perish, broken and alone, out there in the Great, Uncaring Blue...when something large and smooth wrapped itself around my leg. In a flurry of rushing water and coursing foam, I was pulled under, and found myself face to face with a truly gigantic creature--at least ten times the size of my now-deceased master! It's hundred arms grabbed me from all sides and tore at me, intent on breaking me open like some crude chestnut. But I would not have this. There was still much evil for me to cleanse in this world, and so I held off the monster's fatal embrace, making my body as steel. Apparently surprised at this turn of events, the leviathan brought me to the surface, and, in what seemed the blink of an eye, brought me to a nearby, remote and uninhabited island.
I learned the kraken's name: Jormungandr, and since then (this was roughly four months ago, mind) have been peacefully enjoying my time on the same island, which I have named "Chief Mendez's Island". As I have not yet been able to communicate effectively with Jormungandr (and indeed, he rarely is around to attempt communication with), I have had nothing to do with myself but lie around, tend the fertile land of Chief Mendez's Island, and hang out on SWF with all my pals (using my wind-powered laptop made of sand and hermit crabs).
But one day soon, I will taste revenge. I will hunt down the red-leaf'd demons that stole my parents from me, and I will tear them limb from limb with my bear hands. The Earth will run red with blood. The accumulated filth of all their murder will foam up about their waists and all those *******s will look up and shout "Save us!"...
...and I will look down, and whisper "No."
/////
Aside from the kraken (whom I now reside with), all of my parents have at one point tried to devour me alive. Only constant vigilance and devotion to my martial studies have kept me alive this long.
Yes, it has been a harrowing journey. But I have survived. And I am all the stronger for it.
TheSundanceKid
Smash Lord
Basically...TL;DR - MasterWarlord has no life.
MasterWarlord
Smash Champion
Do you really think I spent all that time randomly typing that up?
http://www.pakin.org/complaint/
^^COMPLAINT GENERATOR
http://www.pakin.org/complaint/
^^COMPLAINT GENERATOR
Weldar
Smash Cadet
- Joined
- Oct 19, 2007
- Messages
- 59
Hooray someone is interested in my work
Yes accordion Thief is going to be one of the more unique characters but you might have to wait a while for him as he will be the last character I do.I've added Seal Clubber's ground moves and specials back on page 267 if anyone is interested. This is my first moveset so please comments would be appreciated.
I must say making these takes a lot more time than I thought. In fact I'm worried about the talk of the deadline being soon, if it happens I think I might delete my post and save my movesets for the next thread because I would really rather post them all together
TheSundanceKid
Smash Lord
Pretty sneaky,
Chief Mendez
Smash Master
Cheater!
Agi
Smash Lord
The Young And The Movesets Full First Season
_______________________
Episode 1
_________________________________
SIR KIBBLE IS LEAVING MENDEZ?! WILL BLITZKREIG EVER WAKE UP FROM HIS COMA? CAN H&R STOP HIS EVIL TWIN BROTHER?! Join us next week for another exciting episode of: THE YOUNG AND THE MOVESETS.
_______________________
Episode 2
_______________________________
The Young and the Moveset: Chris Lionheart is back from the dead! He was buried alive by Cheap Josh, who wanted to cash in on the life insurance! He was saved by a mysterious stranger who is yet to be revealed....
_______________________
Episode 3
_______________________________
From last episode, you may remember that Chris Lionheart was burried alive!! O NOEZ!! He was then saved by a mysterious stranger....'twas none other than SMASHBOT!!! Why? Smashbot owed his daughter's life to Chris Lionheart by helping her through a mysterious disease! Smashbot learned of Josh's plot through a drunk TWILGHTHERO! Yet, what happened to TWILIGHTHERO....?
_______________________
Episode 4
_______________________________
As you know (from two episodes ago), TWILGHTHERO (TH) is a pilot who struggles with alcoholism =O!!. He then boarded his plane and flew it DRUNK (O NOEZ!!)! He crashed and fell unconcious in a feild in Northern Ohio (lolwut?) and he is about to experience AMNESIA!!!!
Meanwhile, Sonic the Baron (StB), a retired baseball umpire who owns a bar at the center of the earth ( NO WAI!!!) comes up after a long day of work. When he sees a strange car parked in front of his house....(Uh-ohz!! Cliff Hanger!!)
_______________________
Episode 5
_______________________________
We last left TH lying in a field awakening with amnesia! (AMNESIA?!) He now wakes up believing he is Lithuanian immigrant who has come to America to work in the meatpacking buisness. (O RLY?) He then travels to the stock yards searching for a job....
Meanwhile back at the ranch, StB enters his house- AND FINDS HIS WIFE HAVING AN AFFAIR WITH HIS CLONE, BARON THE SONIC! =O!!! Enraged, he spawns a wiffleball bat and throws it at BtS, killing him instantly. His wife is screaming and threatens to call the police...StB is now a wanted man.....
_______________________
Episode 6
_______________________________
Going back to the first episode (lol, FLASHBACK!!) Kibble left Mendez and took the kids. Since it was Mendez who brought home the bacon (mMmm...Bay-con), Kibble was forced to move back in with his old roomate, Chuggs. Kibble at first could not come up with the rent...so he was forced to dance at the BLUE IGUANAgentlemen's club XD!!
Mendez, was left devistated by Kibble's leave and soon fell into a spiral of depression....
_______________________
Episode 7
_______________________________
StB is now running (he ran so far away, he ran all night and day...) from the law! Let's see what happens next:
A phone rings in an office. Some one quickly answers it. It's none other that AGI THE MICROSOFT NERD easilly amused, milk-drinking detective (he done gotz a strange obsession with da paper clipz)! He has been informed of StB run from the law and is in charge of the investigation....
NOA elsewhere....
Kibble has lost his apartment (GASP!), Chuggs has died of alcohol poisoning in a game of Drink the Beer (lolwut?!). His chillinz (children..lol) iz now in foster care (DA GOVERNMENT CAME AND TOOK HIS BABIEZ!) He has also lost his job at the, um, Blue Iguana (Sorry, Kibble). He is a ragamuffin (What kinds of muffin blueberry? banana?) and begs on the street. Little does he know said street is frequented by BKUPA, THE STRUGGLING ARTIST!!....
_______________________
Episode 8
_______________________________
We return back to the streets with Kibble, who done lost his chillinz, on the cruel streets! Bkupa, the struggling artist sees the poor fellow down on his luck. You see, BKupa is an artist(YOU'VE SAID THAT ALREADY!) without da fancy-shmancy art school. He roams around the city looking for burts of inspiration. He approaches Kibble. Kibble puts forth a grimy hand and in it a paper cup. Bkupa is instantly struck with inspiration for a painting and takes Kibble to his studio.
_______________________
Episode 1
_________________________________
SIR KIBBLE IS LEAVING MENDEZ?! WILL BLITZKREIG EVER WAKE UP FROM HIS COMA? CAN H&R STOP HIS EVIL TWIN BROTHER?! Join us next week for another exciting episode of: THE YOUNG AND THE MOVESETS.
_______________________
Episode 2
_______________________________
The Young and the Moveset: Chris Lionheart is back from the dead! He was buried alive by Cheap Josh, who wanted to cash in on the life insurance! He was saved by a mysterious stranger who is yet to be revealed....
_______________________
Episode 3
_______________________________
From last episode, you may remember that Chris Lionheart was burried alive!! O NOEZ!! He was then saved by a mysterious stranger....'twas none other than SMASHBOT!!! Why? Smashbot owed his daughter's life to Chris Lionheart by helping her through a mysterious disease! Smashbot learned of Josh's plot through a drunk TWILGHTHERO! Yet, what happened to TWILIGHTHERO....?
_______________________
Episode 4
_______________________________
As you know (from two episodes ago), TWILGHTHERO (TH) is a pilot who struggles with alcoholism =O!!. He then boarded his plane and flew it DRUNK (O NOEZ!!)! He crashed and fell unconcious in a feild in Northern Ohio (lolwut?) and he is about to experience AMNESIA!!!!
Meanwhile, Sonic the Baron (StB), a retired baseball umpire who owns a bar at the center of the earth ( NO WAI!!!) comes up after a long day of work. When he sees a strange car parked in front of his house....(Uh-ohz!! Cliff Hanger!!)
_______________________
Episode 5
_______________________________
We last left TH lying in a field awakening with amnesia! (AMNESIA?!) He now wakes up believing he is Lithuanian immigrant who has come to America to work in the meatpacking buisness. (O RLY?) He then travels to the stock yards searching for a job....
Meanwhile back at the ranch, StB enters his house- AND FINDS HIS WIFE HAVING AN AFFAIR WITH HIS CLONE, BARON THE SONIC! =O!!! Enraged, he spawns a wiffleball bat and throws it at BtS, killing him instantly. His wife is screaming and threatens to call the police...StB is now a wanted man.....
_______________________
Episode 6
_______________________________
Going back to the first episode (lol, FLASHBACK!!) Kibble left Mendez and took the kids. Since it was Mendez who brought home the bacon (mMmm...Bay-con), Kibble was forced to move back in with his old roomate, Chuggs. Kibble at first could not come up with the rent...so he was forced to dance at the BLUE IGUANAgentlemen's club XD!!
Mendez, was left devistated by Kibble's leave and soon fell into a spiral of depression....
_______________________
Episode 7
_______________________________
StB is now running (he ran so far away, he ran all night and day...) from the law! Let's see what happens next:
A phone rings in an office. Some one quickly answers it. It's none other that AGI THE MICROSOFT NERD easilly amused, milk-drinking detective (he done gotz a strange obsession with da paper clipz)! He has been informed of StB run from the law and is in charge of the investigation....
NOA elsewhere....
Kibble has lost his apartment (GASP!), Chuggs has died of alcohol poisoning in a game of Drink the Beer (lolwut?!). His chillinz (children..lol) iz now in foster care (DA GOVERNMENT CAME AND TOOK HIS BABIEZ!) He has also lost his job at the, um, Blue Iguana (Sorry, Kibble). He is a ragamuffin (What kinds of muffin blueberry? banana?) and begs on the street. Little does he know said street is frequented by BKUPA, THE STRUGGLING ARTIST!!....
_______________________
Episode 8
_______________________________
We return back to the streets with Kibble, who done lost his chillinz, on the cruel streets! Bkupa, the struggling artist sees the poor fellow down on his luck. You see, BKupa is an artist(YOU'VE SAID THAT ALREADY!) without da fancy-shmancy art school. He roams around the city looking for burts of inspiration. He approaches Kibble. Kibble puts forth a grimy hand and in it a paper cup. Bkupa is instantly struck with inspiration for a painting and takes Kibble to his studio.
Greenstreet
Smash Champion
- Joined
- Jul 8, 2008
- Messages
- 2,965
Last time I checked Smash Master was at 2500 posts? lol?
Chief Mendez
Smash Master
FUUUCKDream-Crushing Website of Stupidness said:
...Oh well. It was fun to write. I like, never do anything spontaneous or stupidly off-topic like that, so it's nice to get a change from the normal, by-the-book Chief Mendez, innit?
TheSundanceKid
Smash Lord
epic Fail!
Chief Mendez
Smash Master
Hey hey, wait! I edited that response as you were quoting it! See?
EDIT - ...I have no idea how that got in there.Just Read The Stupid Thing Already So I Didn't Waste An Hour Of My Life And Can Stop Reposting It said:
Someone must be hacking this thread, or something...
TheSundanceKid
Smash Lord
*doesn't read*
I guess you'll have to post some more
I guess you'll have to post some more
Greenstreet
Smash Champion
- Joined
- Jul 8, 2008
- Messages
- 2,965
Lol I thought so... ah well. You'll be fine.
Chief Mendez
Smash Master
:D
/////
I was born to a drug-addled mother, who callously tossed me into a nearby dumpster after birthing me. So, alone, riddled with various drugs of all kinds, and cold, I did the only thing I could do: I cried.
I soon realized, however, that crying wasn't helping my situation, and I was rapidly coming ever closer to a cold, frozen death. Knowing this, I proceeded to physically beat the drugs out of my bloodstream with my tiny, yet powerful fists. I then ate my way through the plastic roof of the dumpster I was in, and warmed myself up with a light cross-country jog.
As I reached the Rocky Mountains, I suddenly found myself surrounded by hungry wolves. I managed to crush several of their skulls, but, tired as I was from my voyage, they eventually overpowered me. My still-soft cranium was literally inside the jaws of the pack leader when my first parents: Aslan, Bagheera, and Mufasa. The three mountain lions swiftly drove away the remaining wolves, and were about to claim their reward (my broken, bloody body)...but they sensed the pure, unfiltered greatness present within me, and, rather than consuming me, placed me on their shoulders and carried me back to their mountainside cave.
And so, for the next three years, I was raised in the most wild reaches of the Rocky Mountain Range, learning the ways of the world: hunting and preying on the weak, emitting feral screams to attract a mate, being only active near dusk and dawn, and (perhaps most importantly) being a combat helicopter.
However, it was not meant to be. One day, my adopted parents were all cruelly shot by local hunters. Only Mufasa managed to limp back to our cave, where I cradled him in my small, but already powerful arms, tears of pure love rolling down my cheeks. I believe I gave him some level of solace in his final moments.
The next day, I assassinated every man, woman and child in the area who has or had ever owned a hunting license, a rifle, camouflage pants, or who had in their life used the word "sport" in reference to the cold, inhuman act of taking another living thing's life for nothing but the sheer, barbaric thrill.
And so, with nothing left for me in the Rockies, I continued on in my quest, turning north, and eventually making my way to the Canadian outback.
/////
One day, I was casually eating my fill of the Caribou herd I had, moments before, brought down using nothing but a single pebble, when a large Grizzly Bear approached me, obviously looking for his next meal. I stood my ground, and as he approached, so did I.
During our epic, mortal struggle, the sheer force of will present within me contacted the bear's spirit, and instantly, we knew each other. While tending my fresh gouge wounds in a nearby stream, I learned my new parent's name: Wojtek. He had been the subject of several Canadian Government-funded experiments, resulting in him being bereft in a total, unending state of starvation; no matter how much Wojtek ate, he never could satiate himself. So, compassion filling my tiny, four-year frame, I devoted myself to helping him.
And so I hunted. Over the course of the next seven years, I made myself known across the country as "The Windigo", though of course, I was only a small boy at this time. Of course, I was uneducated in the ways of numbers, so had no notion at the time of how many animals I defeated in single combat for Wojtek's sake, but looking back, I would say...anywhere from five to seventy-eight hundred thousand.
At the end of this bloody, noble trail lay the Canadian Scientist's Headquarters, also known as "Mount Villainy". I climbed the jagged, sulfurous cliffs of that accursed rock for five days, never resting--for below me was Wojtek, barely alive and on his own: I had to do this as fast as possible. I infiltrated their foul lair, and found the anitdote to the illness afflicting my pitiable foster father. However, the Canadians discovered me on my way out, and I was forced into combat against an elite sect of Canada's greatest fighters: the Royal Canadian Mountain Police. When all was said and done, I limped out of the laboratory, bullet and saber wounds all across my battered body. One had even managed to gouge out one of my eyes with a hook mounted on a stump, where I presume a hand once was.
Despite my great cause, I found I could not maintain consciousness any longer. As I crested the summit, I passed out, cursing myself for failing at the task set before me...
/////
...Yet soon, I awoke: a cool breeze awakening me from my rest. I felt beneath me, and my hand touched against enormous, silken feathers. Yes, I was being held aloft on the back of a tremendous golden eagle. I reached out with my pure, most bare of emotions to the creature, telling her of Wojtek's plight.
...But, to my utter despair, she informed me that Wojtek had perished at the base of Mount Villainy. Her name was Aquila, and her nine siblings, Corvus, Flint, Cygnus, Huginn and Muginn, Simurgh, Mynah, and Old Great Auk, were on their way to Wojtek's aid on the command of the Bird King, Phoenix. But alas and alack, they arrived too late. Perhaps due to my leading him around the countryside, he was without the aid of the birdfolk.
I have always...blamed myself for that, I suppose.
With nothing to be done for poor Wojtek, I swore vengeance against the Royal Canadian Mountain Police, and continued East with my new, feathered family.
/////
I did not stay with the eagles for long, though. As we were flying over Tennesee, Huginn and Muginn attempted to steal the eyes from my sockets as I slept atop Old Great Auk's back. They held no alleigance to me or my journey, and so I do not blame them for this: it is only the natural law that when a thing is hungry, it must eat.
...However, it is also the way of the world that only the strongest survive. And so, reacting like barbed lightning, I arose, and tore the tongues from my attacker's gizzards, sending them both into uncontrollable, pain-induced free falls. I could immediately tell how well this went over with the other birds, and so I leapt from Auk's wing, pummeting to the ground hundreds of miles below me.
It is never a good idea to let oneself be surrounded by wrathful servants of the Bird King.
Handily, I had learned much from Aquila of the ways of flight, and though I possessed no wings, I used my knowledge to directionally influence myself toward a giant red and white speck, miles below me. As I reached terminal velocity, and the terrible inertia began to peel the very flesh from my bones, I again could not hold out, and I saw black.
When I awoke, I was staring up into the murderous eyes of an enormous African Elephant, or loxodonta africana, as they say in the West. Before he had the chance to gore or trample me, I sprung to my feet and delivered a kick so fierce it could shatter the trunk of a full-grown Redwood tree (and indeed, during my time in the North, it had done so, on several occasions) to the beast's head...but to my complete amazement, it bucked me away but with a brush of it's head! Suddenly and horrifyingly, I knew fear. For the first time in my life, I truly did not know whether I would be the victor of this contest of strength.
...Amazingly, though I no longer held any conception of victory, the thing did not approach me. It merely eyed me up, from head to toe several times, then, deciding something, turned to leave. With this relief, I examined my surroundings for the first time since arriving in this foreign locale. I discovered I had landed on the top of a giant circus tent, which would explain how all my bones were not of dust at this point. But I had little time to ponder the past, as my immortal warrior's soul was calling to me.
Thus, I was trained. My master, Orwell, was a fine teacher indeed. Raised on the barren plains of the Savannah, he had been born weak and alone, much like myself. He had spent most of his time there migrating from herd to herd, never fully accepted, and often physically assaulted for his ignoble origins and lowly station. But through it all, he never gave in, eventually defeating the Bull of a rival tribe in single combat, and thus becoming their herdmaster. For fifty years, he and his tribe roamed the Great Plains, conquering all and sparing none in their paths. He sired countless calves, and those he did not approve of were swiftly exiled. Like me, he held dearly to the Ways of the World. However, one day, while he was away on an expedition, black-suited men with loud, booming sticks and red, maple leaves on their backs came and destroyed his entire clan, stealing their proud tusks, not allowing even for a respectful burial. Enraged, Orwell took to the coast, hounding the men in black. Though they boarded their iron fish before he could catch them, he could see the way they traveled, and so, with a deep breath of the African air he loved more than life itself, he plunged beneath the waves, and ran along the Ocean's floor toward a new, alien world.
Once there, he was tired from his journey, and so laid down beneath a tall tree for rest. But--the fiends!--they ambushed him while he slept! He awoke, and crushed many underfoot, and his tusks were lined with bodies that day, but through sheer numbers and a traitorous tranquilizing poison, they brought him to his knees, and carried him off to their stronghold.
...Thankfully, he escaped: breaking out of the belly of their giant iron snake, he rampaged his way south until he found a lonely, secluded stretch of open land. It reminded him of his homeland, and that was good. For seven days and seven nights he wept for those lost to him. He would never see them again.
And so, when the circus came and erected their giant shelters, Orwell approached them. At first, they panicked, but in time, they came to accept him. Ever since, he had stayed with the group as they toured the country, performing for humans from all walks of life. It was not a dignified life, he told me, but a simple one. One deserving of a man who could not protect those closest to him.
/////
Under his tutelage, I learned much. In the span of a single year, I became a rival even to his great strength, and began to finally integrate myself into the world of man--through my performances in the circus as "The Whild Child", I learned the human tongue, and even made several "friends". In time, though, this was our downfall. Word spread of our famed performances, which eventually attracted the very same forces that had stolen so much from both my and Orwell's lives...
One fateful day, during the highlight act of our performance, Orwell toppled to the ground. I rushed to his side, but he batted me away with his trunk as he regained his footing. It was then I saw the enormous needle protruding from the side of his head. Furthermore, I finally noticed how oddly quiet the crowd had been, and looking out past the glare of the stage lights, I saw not a normal crowd--but the Royal Canadian Mountain Police. They had come to reclaim what was not theirs! I gave a roar that would enrapture even the coldest of puma vixens, and lunged toward my sworn enemies, but my way was suddenly blocked by Orwell's hulking body, which shuddered as a second salvo of poisoned darts punctured his thick hide. I knew what he was doing, but would not accept it--he was all that I had left.
...But, against my dearest wishes, he lifted me, kicking and screaming, in his trunk, trundled outside the tent, with every step being more harried as more and more Canadian venom assaulted his old body...and threw me into the sky with all of his remaining strength.
/////
I spent the following day, and part of the night soaring through the air, tears lashing their way off my face, falling behind me into my windstream. I beat my chest, gnashed my teeth, pulled my hair, and tore my flesh in penitence: once again, I had not been able to stand up and deliver justice, as a man should.
]/////
I finally began to lose altitude as I came over the Atlantic Ocean, the same one Orwell had traveled on his road of revenge. After ricocheting off the surface of the waves for several miles, I was finally able to obtain my sea legs...or lack thereof. This was my first experience with the ocean, and I lacked Orwell's powerful elephantine lungs, so had no hope of walking back to shore. I though for sure I would perish, broken and alone, out there in the Great, Uncaring Blue...when something large and smooth wrapped itself around my leg. In a flurry of rushing water and coursing foam, I was pulled under, and found myself face to face with a truly gigantic creature--at least ten times the size of my now-deceased master! It's hundred arms grabbed me from all sides and tore at me, intent on breaking me open like some crude chestnut. But I would not have this. There was still much evil for me to cleanse in this world, and so I held off the monster's fatal embrace, making my body as steel. Apparently surprised at this turn of events, the leviathan brought me to the surface, and, in what seemed the blink of an eye, brought me to a nearby, remote and uninhabited island.
I learned the kraken's name: Jormungandr, and since then (this was roughly four months ago, mind) have been peacefully enjoying my time on the same island, which I have named "Chief Mendez's Island". As I have not yet been able to communicate effectively with Jormungandr (and indeed, he rarely is around to attempt communication with), I have had nothing to do with myself but lie around, tend the fertile land of Chief Mendez's Island, and hang out on SWF with all my pals (using my wind-powered laptop made of sand and hermit crabs).
But one day soon, I will taste revenge. I will hunt down the red-leaf'd demons that stole my parents from me, and I will tear them limb from limb with my bear hands. The Earth will run red with blood. The accumulated filth of all their murder will foam up about their waists and all those bastards will look up and shout "Save us!"...
...and I will look down, and whisper "No."
/////
Aside from the kraken (whom I now reside with), all of my parents have at one point tried to devour me alive. Only constant vigilance and devotion to my martial studies have kept me alive this long.
Yes, it has been a harrowing journey. But I have survived. And I am all the stronger for it.
/////
I was born to a drug-addled mother, who callously tossed me into a nearby dumpster after birthing me. So, alone, riddled with various drugs of all kinds, and cold, I did the only thing I could do: I cried.
I soon realized, however, that crying wasn't helping my situation, and I was rapidly coming ever closer to a cold, frozen death. Knowing this, I proceeded to physically beat the drugs out of my bloodstream with my tiny, yet powerful fists. I then ate my way through the plastic roof of the dumpster I was in, and warmed myself up with a light cross-country jog.
As I reached the Rocky Mountains, I suddenly found myself surrounded by hungry wolves. I managed to crush several of their skulls, but, tired as I was from my voyage, they eventually overpowered me. My still-soft cranium was literally inside the jaws of the pack leader when my first parents: Aslan, Bagheera, and Mufasa. The three mountain lions swiftly drove away the remaining wolves, and were about to claim their reward (my broken, bloody body)...but they sensed the pure, unfiltered greatness present within me, and, rather than consuming me, placed me on their shoulders and carried me back to their mountainside cave.
And so, for the next three years, I was raised in the most wild reaches of the Rocky Mountain Range, learning the ways of the world: hunting and preying on the weak, emitting feral screams to attract a mate, being only active near dusk and dawn, and (perhaps most importantly) being a combat helicopter.
However, it was not meant to be. One day, my adopted parents were all cruelly shot by local hunters. Only Mufasa managed to limp back to our cave, where I cradled him in my small, but already powerful arms, tears of pure love rolling down my cheeks. I believe I gave him some level of solace in his final moments.
The next day, I assassinated every man, woman and child in the area who has or had ever owned a hunting license, a rifle, camouflage pants, or who had in their life used the word "sport" in reference to the cold, inhuman act of taking another living thing's life for nothing but the sheer, barbaric thrill.
And so, with nothing left for me in the Rockies, I continued on in my quest, turning north, and eventually making my way to the Canadian outback.
/////
One day, I was casually eating my fill of the Caribou herd I had, moments before, brought down using nothing but a single pebble, when a large Grizzly Bear approached me, obviously looking for his next meal. I stood my ground, and as he approached, so did I.
During our epic, mortal struggle, the sheer force of will present within me contacted the bear's spirit, and instantly, we knew each other. While tending my fresh gouge wounds in a nearby stream, I learned my new parent's name: Wojtek. He had been the subject of several Canadian Government-funded experiments, resulting in him being bereft in a total, unending state of starvation; no matter how much Wojtek ate, he never could satiate himself. So, compassion filling my tiny, four-year frame, I devoted myself to helping him.
And so I hunted. Over the course of the next seven years, I made myself known across the country as "The Windigo", though of course, I was only a small boy at this time. Of course, I was uneducated in the ways of numbers, so had no notion at the time of how many animals I defeated in single combat for Wojtek's sake, but looking back, I would say...anywhere from five to seventy-eight hundred thousand.
At the end of this bloody, noble trail lay the Canadian Scientist's Headquarters, also known as "Mount Villainy". I climbed the jagged, sulfurous cliffs of that accursed rock for five days, never resting--for below me was Wojtek, barely alive and on his own: I had to do this as fast as possible. I infiltrated their foul lair, and found the anitdote to the illness afflicting my pitiable foster father. However, the Canadians discovered me on my way out, and I was forced into combat against an elite sect of Canada's greatest fighters: the Royal Canadian Mountain Police. When all was said and done, I limped out of the laboratory, bullet and saber wounds all across my battered body. One had even managed to gouge out one of my eyes with a hook mounted on a stump, where I presume a hand once was.
Despite my great cause, I found I could not maintain consciousness any longer. As I crested the summit, I passed out, cursing myself for failing at the task set before me...
/////
...Yet soon, I awoke: a cool breeze awakening me from my rest. I felt beneath me, and my hand touched against enormous, silken feathers. Yes, I was being held aloft on the back of a tremendous golden eagle. I reached out with my pure, most bare of emotions to the creature, telling her of Wojtek's plight.
...But, to my utter despair, she informed me that Wojtek had perished at the base of Mount Villainy. Her name was Aquila, and her nine siblings, Corvus, Flint, Cygnus, Huginn and Muginn, Simurgh, Mynah, and Old Great Auk, were on their way to Wojtek's aid on the command of the Bird King, Phoenix. But alas and alack, they arrived too late. Perhaps due to my leading him around the countryside, he was without the aid of the birdfolk.
I have always...blamed myself for that, I suppose.
With nothing to be done for poor Wojtek, I swore vengeance against the Royal Canadian Mountain Police, and continued East with my new, feathered family.
/////
I did not stay with the eagles for long, though. As we were flying over Tennesee, Huginn and Muginn attempted to steal the eyes from my sockets as I slept atop Old Great Auk's back. They held no alleigance to me or my journey, and so I do not blame them for this: it is only the natural law that when a thing is hungry, it must eat.
...However, it is also the way of the world that only the strongest survive. And so, reacting like barbed lightning, I arose, and tore the tongues from my attacker's gizzards, sending them both into uncontrollable, pain-induced free falls. I could immediately tell how well this went over with the other birds, and so I leapt from Auk's wing, pummeting to the ground hundreds of miles below me.
It is never a good idea to let oneself be surrounded by wrathful servants of the Bird King.
Handily, I had learned much from Aquila of the ways of flight, and though I possessed no wings, I used my knowledge to directionally influence myself toward a giant red and white speck, miles below me. As I reached terminal velocity, and the terrible inertia began to peel the very flesh from my bones, I again could not hold out, and I saw black.
When I awoke, I was staring up into the murderous eyes of an enormous African Elephant, or loxodonta africana, as they say in the West. Before he had the chance to gore or trample me, I sprung to my feet and delivered a kick so fierce it could shatter the trunk of a full-grown Redwood tree (and indeed, during my time in the North, it had done so, on several occasions) to the beast's head...but to my complete amazement, it bucked me away but with a brush of it's head! Suddenly and horrifyingly, I knew fear. For the first time in my life, I truly did not know whether I would be the victor of this contest of strength.
...Amazingly, though I no longer held any conception of victory, the thing did not approach me. It merely eyed me up, from head to toe several times, then, deciding something, turned to leave. With this relief, I examined my surroundings for the first time since arriving in this foreign locale. I discovered I had landed on the top of a giant circus tent, which would explain how all my bones were not of dust at this point. But I had little time to ponder the past, as my immortal warrior's soul was calling to me.
Thus, I was trained. My master, Orwell, was a fine teacher indeed. Raised on the barren plains of the Savannah, he had been born weak and alone, much like myself. He had spent most of his time there migrating from herd to herd, never fully accepted, and often physically assaulted for his ignoble origins and lowly station. But through it all, he never gave in, eventually defeating the Bull of a rival tribe in single combat, and thus becoming their herdmaster. For fifty years, he and his tribe roamed the Great Plains, conquering all and sparing none in their paths. He sired countless calves, and those he did not approve of were swiftly exiled. Like me, he held dearly to the Ways of the World. However, one day, while he was away on an expedition, black-suited men with loud, booming sticks and red, maple leaves on their backs came and destroyed his entire clan, stealing their proud tusks, not allowing even for a respectful burial. Enraged, Orwell took to the coast, hounding the men in black. Though they boarded their iron fish before he could catch them, he could see the way they traveled, and so, with a deep breath of the African air he loved more than life itself, he plunged beneath the waves, and ran along the Ocean's floor toward a new, alien world.
Once there, he was tired from his journey, and so laid down beneath a tall tree for rest. But--the fiends!--they ambushed him while he slept! He awoke, and crushed many underfoot, and his tusks were lined with bodies that day, but through sheer numbers and a traitorous tranquilizing poison, they brought him to his knees, and carried him off to their stronghold.
...Thankfully, he escaped: breaking out of the belly of their giant iron snake, he rampaged his way south until he found a lonely, secluded stretch of open land. It reminded him of his homeland, and that was good. For seven days and seven nights he wept for those lost to him. He would never see them again.
And so, when the circus came and erected their giant shelters, Orwell approached them. At first, they panicked, but in time, they came to accept him. Ever since, he had stayed with the group as they toured the country, performing for humans from all walks of life. It was not a dignified life, he told me, but a simple one. One deserving of a man who could not protect those closest to him.
/////
Under his tutelage, I learned much. In the span of a single year, I became a rival even to his great strength, and began to finally integrate myself into the world of man--through my performances in the circus as "The Whild Child", I learned the human tongue, and even made several "friends". In time, though, this was our downfall. Word spread of our famed performances, which eventually attracted the very same forces that had stolen so much from both my and Orwell's lives...
One fateful day, during the highlight act of our performance, Orwell toppled to the ground. I rushed to his side, but he batted me away with his trunk as he regained his footing. It was then I saw the enormous needle protruding from the side of his head. Furthermore, I finally noticed how oddly quiet the crowd had been, and looking out past the glare of the stage lights, I saw not a normal crowd--but the Royal Canadian Mountain Police. They had come to reclaim what was not theirs! I gave a roar that would enrapture even the coldest of puma vixens, and lunged toward my sworn enemies, but my way was suddenly blocked by Orwell's hulking body, which shuddered as a second salvo of poisoned darts punctured his thick hide. I knew what he was doing, but would not accept it--he was all that I had left.
...But, against my dearest wishes, he lifted me, kicking and screaming, in his trunk, trundled outside the tent, with every step being more harried as more and more Canadian venom assaulted his old body...and threw me into the sky with all of his remaining strength.
/////
I spent the following day, and part of the night soaring through the air, tears lashing their way off my face, falling behind me into my windstream. I beat my chest, gnashed my teeth, pulled my hair, and tore my flesh in penitence: once again, I had not been able to stand up and deliver justice, as a man should.
]/////
I finally began to lose altitude as I came over the Atlantic Ocean, the same one Orwell had traveled on his road of revenge. After ricocheting off the surface of the waves for several miles, I was finally able to obtain my sea legs...or lack thereof. This was my first experience with the ocean, and I lacked Orwell's powerful elephantine lungs, so had no hope of walking back to shore. I though for sure I would perish, broken and alone, out there in the Great, Uncaring Blue...when something large and smooth wrapped itself around my leg. In a flurry of rushing water and coursing foam, I was pulled under, and found myself face to face with a truly gigantic creature--at least ten times the size of my now-deceased master! It's hundred arms grabbed me from all sides and tore at me, intent on breaking me open like some crude chestnut. But I would not have this. There was still much evil for me to cleanse in this world, and so I held off the monster's fatal embrace, making my body as steel. Apparently surprised at this turn of events, the leviathan brought me to the surface, and, in what seemed the blink of an eye, brought me to a nearby, remote and uninhabited island.
I learned the kraken's name: Jormungandr, and since then (this was roughly four months ago, mind) have been peacefully enjoying my time on the same island, which I have named "Chief Mendez's Island". As I have not yet been able to communicate effectively with Jormungandr (and indeed, he rarely is around to attempt communication with), I have had nothing to do with myself but lie around, tend the fertile land of Chief Mendez's Island, and hang out on SWF with all my pals (using my wind-powered laptop made of sand and hermit crabs).
But one day soon, I will taste revenge. I will hunt down the red-leaf'd demons that stole my parents from me, and I will tear them limb from limb with my bear hands. The Earth will run red with blood. The accumulated filth of all their murder will foam up about their waists and all those bastards will look up and shout "Save us!"...
...and I will look down, and whisper "No."
/////
Aside from the kraken (whom I now reside with), all of my parents have at one point tried to devour me alive. Only constant vigilance and devotion to my martial studies have kept me alive this long.
Yes, it has been a harrowing journey. But I have survived. And I am all the stronger for it.
/////
I was born to a drug-addled mother, who callously tossed me into a nearby dumpster after birthing me. So, alone, riddled with various drugs of all kinds, and cold, I did the only thing I could do: I cried.
I soon realized, however, that crying wasn't helping my situation, and I was rapidly coming ever closer to a cold, frozen death. Knowing this, I proceeded to physically beat the drugs out of my bloodstream with my tiny, yet powerful fists. I then ate my way through the plastic roof of the dumpster I was in, and warmed myself up with a light cross-country jog.
As I reached the Rocky Mountains, I suddenly found myself surrounded by hungry wolves. I managed to crush several of their skulls, but, tired as I was from my voyage, they eventually overpowered me. My still-soft cranium was literally inside the jaws of the pack leader when my first parents: Aslan, Bagheera, and Mufasa. The three mountain lions swiftly drove away the remaining wolves, and were about to claim their reward (my broken, bloody body)...but they sensed the pure, unfiltered greatness present within me, and, rather than consuming me, placed me on their shoulders and carried me back to their mountainside cave.
And so, for the next three years, I was raised in the most wild reaches of the Rocky Mountain Range, learning the ways of the world: hunting and preying on the weak, emitting feral screams to attract a mate, being only active near dusk and dawn, and (perhaps most importantly) being a combat helicopter.
However, it was not meant to be. One day, my adopted parents were all cruelly shot by local hunters. Only Mufasa managed to limp back to our cave, where I cradled him in my small, but already powerful arms, tears of pure love rolling down my cheeks. I believe I gave him some level of solace in his final moments.
The next day, I assassinated every man, woman and child in the area who has or had ever owned a hunting license, a rifle, camouflage pants, or who had in their life used the word "sport" in reference to the cold, inhuman act of taking another living thing's life for nothing but the sheer, barbaric thrill.
And so, with nothing left for me in the Rockies, I continued on in my quest, turning north, and eventually making my way to the Canadian outback.
/////
One day, I was casually eating my fill of the Caribou herd I had, moments before, brought down using nothing but a single pebble, when a large Grizzly Bear approached me, obviously looking for his next meal. I stood my ground, and as he approached, so did I.
During our epic, mortal struggle, the sheer force of will present within me contacted the bear's spirit, and instantly, we knew each other. While tending my fresh gouge wounds in a nearby stream, I learned my new parent's name: Wojtek. He had been the subject of several Canadian Government-funded experiments, resulting in him being bereft in a total, unending state of starvation; no matter how much Wojtek ate, he never could satiate himself. So, compassion filling my tiny, four-year frame, I devoted myself to helping him.
And so I hunted. Over the course of the next seven years, I made myself known across the country as "The Windigo", though of course, I was only a small boy at this time. Of course, I was uneducated in the ways of numbers, so had no notion at the time of how many animals I defeated in single combat for Wojtek's sake, but looking back, I would say...anywhere from five to seventy-eight hundred thousand.
At the end of this bloody, noble trail lay the Canadian Scientist's Headquarters, also known as "Mount Villainy". I climbed the jagged, sulfurous cliffs of that accursed rock for five days, never resting--for below me was Wojtek, barely alive and on his own: I had to do this as fast as possible. I infiltrated their foul lair, and found the anitdote to the illness afflicting my pitiable foster father. However, the Canadians discovered me on my way out, and I was forced into combat against an elite sect of Canada's greatest fighters: the Royal Canadian Mountain Police. When all was said and done, I limped out of the laboratory, bullet and saber wounds all across my battered body. One had even managed to gouge out one of my eyes with a hook mounted on a stump, where I presume a hand once was.
Despite my great cause, I found I could not maintain consciousness any longer. As I crested the summit, I passed out, cursing myself for failing at the task set before me...
/////
...Yet soon, I awoke: a cool breeze awakening me from my rest. I felt beneath me, and my hand touched against enormous, silken feathers. Yes, I was being held aloft on the back of a tremendous golden eagle. I reached out with my pure, most bare of emotions to the creature, telling her of Wojtek's plight.
...But, to my utter despair, she informed me that Wojtek had perished at the base of Mount Villainy. Her name was Aquila, and her nine siblings, Corvus, Flint, Cygnus, Huginn and Muginn, Simurgh, Mynah, and Old Great Auk, were on their way to Wojtek's aid on the command of the Bird King, Phoenix. But alas and alack, they arrived too late. Perhaps due to my leading him around the countryside, he was without the aid of the birdfolk.
I have always...blamed myself for that, I suppose.
With nothing to be done for poor Wojtek, I swore vengeance against the Royal Canadian Mountain Police, and continued East with my new, feathered family.
/////
I did not stay with the eagles for long, though. As we were flying over Tennesee, Huginn and Muginn attempted to steal the eyes from my sockets as I slept atop Old Great Auk's back. They held no alleigance to me or my journey, and so I do not blame them for this: it is only the natural law that when a thing is hungry, it must eat.
...However, it is also the way of the world that only the strongest survive. And so, reacting like barbed lightning, I arose, and tore the tongues from my attacker's gizzards, sending them both into uncontrollable, pain-induced free falls. I could immediately tell how well this went over with the other birds, and so I leapt from Auk's wing, pummeting to the ground hundreds of miles below me.
It is never a good idea to let oneself be surrounded by wrathful servants of the Bird King.
Handily, I had learned much from Aquila of the ways of flight, and though I possessed no wings, I used my knowledge to directionally influence myself toward a giant red and white speck, miles below me. As I reached terminal velocity, and the terrible inertia began to peel the very flesh from my bones, I again could not hold out, and I saw black.
When I awoke, I was staring up into the murderous eyes of an enormous African Elephant, or loxodonta africana, as they say in the West. Before he had the chance to gore or trample me, I sprung to my feet and delivered a kick so fierce it could shatter the trunk of a full-grown Redwood tree (and indeed, during my time in the North, it had done so, on several occasions) to the beast's head...but to my complete amazement, it bucked me away but with a brush of it's head! Suddenly and horrifyingly, I knew fear. For the first time in my life, I truly did not know whether I would be the victor of this contest of strength.
...Amazingly, though I no longer held any conception of victory, the thing did not approach me. It merely eyed me up, from head to toe several times, then, deciding something, turned to leave. With this relief, I examined my surroundings for the first time since arriving in this foreign locale. I discovered I had landed on the top of a giant circus tent, which would explain how all my bones were not of dust at this point. But I had little time to ponder the past, as my immortal warrior's soul was calling to me.
Thus, I was trained. My master, Orwell, was a fine teacher indeed. Raised on the barren plains of the Savannah, he had been born weak and alone, much like myself. He had spent most of his time there migrating from herd to herd, never fully accepted, and often physically assaulted for his ignoble origins and lowly station. But through it all, he never gave in, eventually defeating the Bull of a rival tribe in single combat, and thus becoming their herdmaster. For fifty years, he and his tribe roamed the Great Plains, conquering all and sparing none in their paths. He sired countless calves, and those he did not approve of were swiftly exiled. Like me, he held dearly to the Ways of the World. However, one day, while he was away on an expedition, black-suited men with loud, booming sticks and red, maple leaves on their backs came and destroyed his entire clan, stealing their proud tusks, not allowing even for a respectful burial. Enraged, Orwell took to the coast, hounding the men in black. Though they boarded their iron fish before he could catch them, he could see the way they traveled, and so, with a deep breath of the African air he loved more than life itself, he plunged beneath the waves, and ran along the Ocean's floor toward a new, alien world.
Once there, he was tired from his journey, and so laid down beneath a tall tree for rest. But--the fiends!--they ambushed him while he slept! He awoke, and crushed many underfoot, and his tusks were lined with bodies that day, but through sheer numbers and a traitorous tranquilizing poison, they brought him to his knees, and carried him off to their stronghold.
...Thankfully, he escaped: breaking out of the belly of their giant iron snake, he rampaged his way south until he found a lonely, secluded stretch of open land. It reminded him of his homeland, and that was good. For seven days and seven nights he wept for those lost to him. He would never see them again.
And so, when the circus came and erected their giant shelters, Orwell approached them. At first, they panicked, but in time, they came to accept him. Ever since, he had stayed with the group as they toured the country, performing for humans from all walks of life. It was not a dignified life, he told me, but a simple one. One deserving of a man who could not protect those closest to him.
/////
Under his tutelage, I learned much. In the span of a single year, I became a rival even to his great strength, and began to finally integrate myself into the world of man--through my performances in the circus as "The Whild Child", I learned the human tongue, and even made several "friends". In time, though, this was our downfall. Word spread of our famed performances, which eventually attracted the very same forces that had stolen so much from both my and Orwell's lives...
One fateful day, during the highlight act of our performance, Orwell toppled to the ground. I rushed to his side, but he batted me away with his trunk as he regained his footing. It was then I saw the enormous needle protruding from the side of his head. Furthermore, I finally noticed how oddly quiet the crowd had been, and looking out past the glare of the stage lights, I saw not a normal crowd--but the Royal Canadian Mountain Police. They had come to reclaim what was not theirs! I gave a roar that would enrapture even the coldest of puma vixens, and lunged toward my sworn enemies, but my way was suddenly blocked by Orwell's hulking body, which shuddered as a second salvo of poisoned darts punctured his thick hide. I knew what he was doing, but would not accept it--he was all that I had left.
...But, against my dearest wishes, he lifted me, kicking and screaming, in his trunk, trundled outside the tent, with every step being more harried as more and more Canadian venom assaulted his old body...and threw me into the sky with all of his remaining strength.
/////
I spent the following day, and part of the night soaring through the air, tears lashing their way off my face, falling behind me into my windstream. I beat my chest, gnashed my teeth, pulled my hair, and tore my flesh in penitence: once again, I had not been able to stand up and deliver justice, as a man should.
]/////
I finally began to lose altitude as I came over the Atlantic Ocean, the same one Orwell had traveled on his road of revenge. After ricocheting off the surface of the waves for several miles, I was finally able to obtain my sea legs...or lack thereof. This was my first experience with the ocean, and I lacked Orwell's powerful elephantine lungs, so had no hope of walking back to shore. I though for sure I would perish, broken and alone, out there in the Great, Uncaring Blue...when something large and smooth wrapped itself around my leg. In a flurry of rushing water and coursing foam, I was pulled under, and found myself face to face with a truly gigantic creature--at least ten times the size of my now-deceased master! It's hundred arms grabbed me from all sides and tore at me, intent on breaking me open like some crude chestnut. But I would not have this. There was still much evil for me to cleanse in this world, and so I held off the monster's fatal embrace, making my body as steel. Apparently surprised at this turn of events, the leviathan brought me to the surface, and, in what seemed the blink of an eye, brought me to a nearby, remote and uninhabited island.
I learned the kraken's name: Jormungandr, and since then (this was roughly four months ago, mind) have been peacefully enjoying my time on the same island, which I have named "Chief Mendez's Island". As I have not yet been able to communicate effectively with Jormungandr (and indeed, he rarely is around to attempt communication with), I have had nothing to do with myself but lie around, tend the fertile land of Chief Mendez's Island, and hang out on SWF with all my pals (using my wind-powered laptop made of sand and hermit crabs).
But one day soon, I will taste revenge. I will hunt down the red-leaf'd demons that stole my parents from me, and I will tear them limb from limb with my bear hands. The Earth will run red with blood. The accumulated filth of all their murder will foam up about their waists and all those bastards will look up and shout "Save us!"...
...and I will look down, and whisper "No."
/////
Aside from the kraken (whom I now reside with), all of my parents have at one point tried to devour me alive. Only constant vigilance and devotion to my martial studies have kept me alive this long.
Yes, it has been a harrowing journey. But I have survived. And I am all the stronger for it.
/////
I was born to a drug-addled mother, who callously tossed me into a nearby dumpster after birthing me. So, alone, riddled with various drugs of all kinds, and cold, I did the only thing I could do: I cried.
I soon realized, however, that crying wasn't helping my situation, and I was rapidly coming ever closer to a cold, frozen death. Knowing this, I proceeded to physically beat the drugs out of my bloodstream with my tiny, yet powerful fists. I then ate my way through the plastic roof of the dumpster I was in, and warmed myself up with a light cross-country jog.
As I reached the Rocky Mountains, I suddenly found myself surrounded by hungry wolves. I managed to crush several of their skulls, but, tired as I was from my voyage, they eventually overpowered me. My still-soft cranium was literally inside the jaws of the pack leader when my first parents: Aslan, Bagheera, and Mufasa. The three mountain lions swiftly drove away the remaining wolves, and were about to claim their reward (my broken, bloody body)...but they sensed the pure, unfiltered greatness present within me, and, rather than consuming me, placed me on their shoulders and carried me back to their mountainside cave.
And so, for the next three years, I was raised in the most wild reaches of the Rocky Mountain Range, learning the ways of the world: hunting and preying on the weak, emitting feral screams to attract a mate, being only active near dusk and dawn, and (perhaps most importantly) being a combat helicopter.
However, it was not meant to be. One day, my adopted parents were all cruelly shot by local hunters. Only Mufasa managed to limp back to our cave, where I cradled him in my small, but already powerful arms, tears of pure love rolling down my cheeks. I believe I gave him some level of solace in his final moments.
The next day, I assassinated every man, woman and child in the area who has or had ever owned a hunting license, a rifle, camouflage pants, or who had in their life used the word "sport" in reference to the cold, inhuman act of taking another living thing's life for nothing but the sheer, barbaric thrill.
And so, with nothing left for me in the Rockies, I continued on in my quest, turning north, and eventually making my way to the Canadian outback.
/////
One day, I was casually eating my fill of the Caribou herd I had, moments before, brought down using nothing but a single pebble, when a large Grizzly Bear approached me, obviously looking for his next meal. I stood my ground, and as he approached, so did I.
During our epic, mortal struggle, the sheer force of will present within me contacted the bear's spirit, and instantly, we knew each other. While tending my fresh gouge wounds in a nearby stream, I learned my new parent's name: Wojtek. He had been the subject of several Canadian Government-funded experiments, resulting in him being bereft in a total, unending state of starvation; no matter how much Wojtek ate, he never could satiate himself. So, compassion filling my tiny, four-year frame, I devoted myself to helping him.
And so I hunted. Over the course of the next seven years, I made myself known across the country as "The Windigo", though of course, I was only a small boy at this time. Of course, I was uneducated in the ways of numbers, so had no notion at the time of how many animals I defeated in single combat for Wojtek's sake, but looking back, I would say...anywhere from five to seventy-eight hundred thousand.
At the end of this bloody, noble trail lay the Canadian Scientist's Headquarters, also known as "Mount Villainy". I climbed the jagged, sulfurous cliffs of that accursed rock for five days, never resting--for below me was Wojtek, barely alive and on his own: I had to do this as fast as possible. I infiltrated their foul lair, and found the anitdote to the illness afflicting my pitiable foster father. However, the Canadians discovered me on my way out, and I was forced into combat against an elite sect of Canada's greatest fighters: the Royal Canadian Mountain Police. When all was said and done, I limped out of the laboratory, bullet and saber wounds all across my battered body. One had even managed to gouge out one of my eyes with a hook mounted on a stump, where I presume a hand once was.
Despite my great cause, I found I could not maintain consciousness any longer. As I crested the summit, I passed out, cursing myself for failing at the task set before me...
/////
...Yet soon, I awoke: a cool breeze awakening me from my rest. I felt beneath me, and my hand touched against enormous, silken feathers. Yes, I was being held aloft on the back of a tremendous golden eagle. I reached out with my pure, most bare of emotions to the creature, telling her of Wojtek's plight.
...But, to my utter despair, she informed me that Wojtek had perished at the base of Mount Villainy. Her name was Aquila, and her nine siblings, Corvus, Flint, Cygnus, Huginn and Muginn, Simurgh, Mynah, and Old Great Auk, were on their way to Wojtek's aid on the command of the Bird King, Phoenix. But alas and alack, they arrived too late. Perhaps due to my leading him around the countryside, he was without the aid of the birdfolk.
I have always...blamed myself for that, I suppose.
With nothing to be done for poor Wojtek, I swore vengeance against the Royal Canadian Mountain Police, and continued East with my new, feathered family.
/////
I did not stay with the eagles for long, though. As we were flying over Tennesee, Huginn and Muginn attempted to steal the eyes from my sockets as I slept atop Old Great Auk's back. They held no alleigance to me or my journey, and so I do not blame them for this: it is only the natural law that when a thing is hungry, it must eat.
...However, it is also the way of the world that only the strongest survive. And so, reacting like barbed lightning, I arose, and tore the tongues from my attacker's gizzards, sending them both into uncontrollable, pain-induced free falls. I could immediately tell how well this went over with the other birds, and so I leapt from Auk's wing, pummeting to the ground hundreds of miles below me.
It is never a good idea to let oneself be surrounded by wrathful servants of the Bird King.
Handily, I had learned much from Aquila of the ways of flight, and though I possessed no wings, I used my knowledge to directionally influence myself toward a giant red and white speck, miles below me. As I reached terminal velocity, and the terrible inertia began to peel the very flesh from my bones, I again could not hold out, and I saw black.
When I awoke, I was staring up into the murderous eyes of an enormous African Elephant, or loxodonta africana, as they say in the West. Before he had the chance to gore or trample me, I sprung to my feet and delivered a kick so fierce it could shatter the trunk of a full-grown Redwood tree (and indeed, during my time in the North, it had done so, on several occasions) to the beast's head...but to my complete amazement, it bucked me away but with a brush of it's head! Suddenly and horrifyingly, I knew fear. For the first time in my life, I truly did not know whether I would be the victor of this contest of strength.
...Amazingly, though I no longer held any conception of victory, the thing did not approach me. It merely eyed me up, from head to toe several times, then, deciding something, turned to leave. With this relief, I examined my surroundings for the first time since arriving in this foreign locale. I discovered I had landed on the top of a giant circus tent, which would explain how all my bones were not of dust at this point. But I had little time to ponder the past, as my immortal warrior's soul was calling to me.
Thus, I was trained. My master, Orwell, was a fine teacher indeed. Raised on the barren plains of the Savannah, he had been born weak and alone, much like myself. He had spent most of his time there migrating from herd to herd, never fully accepted, and often physically assaulted for his ignoble origins and lowly station. But through it all, he never gave in, eventually defeating the Bull of a rival tribe in single combat, and thus becoming their herdmaster. For fifty years, he and his tribe roamed the Great Plains, conquering all and sparing none in their paths. He sired countless calves, and those he did not approve of were swiftly exiled. Like me, he held dearly to the Ways of the World. However, one day, while he was away on an expedition, black-suited men with loud, booming sticks and red, maple leaves on their backs came and destroyed his entire clan, stealing their proud tusks, not allowing even for a respectful burial. Enraged, Orwell took to the coast, hounding the men in black. Though they boarded their iron fish before he could catch them, he could see the way they traveled, and so, with a deep breath of the African air he loved more than life itself, he plunged beneath the waves, and ran along the Ocean's floor toward a new, alien world.
Once there, he was tired from his journey, and so laid down beneath a tall tree for rest. But--the fiends!--they ambushed him while he slept! He awoke, and crushed many underfoot, and his tusks were lined with bodies that day, but through sheer numbers and a traitorous tranquilizing poison, they brought him to his knees, and carried him off to their stronghold.
...Thankfully, he escaped: breaking out of the belly of their giant iron snake, he rampaged his way south until he found a lonely, secluded stretch of open land. It reminded him of his homeland, and that was good. For seven days and seven nights he wept for those lost to him. He would never see them again.
And so, when the circus came and erected their giant shelters, Orwell approached them. At first, they panicked, but in time, they came to accept him. Ever since, he had stayed with the group as they toured the country, performing for humans from all walks of life. It was not a dignified life, he told me, but a simple one. One deserving of a man who could not protect those closest to him.
/////
Under his tutelage, I learned much. In the span of a single year, I became a rival even to his great strength, and began to finally integrate myself into the world of man--through my performances in the circus as "The Whild Child", I learned the human tongue, and even made several "friends". In time, though, this was our downfall. Word spread of our famed performances, which eventually attracted the very same forces that had stolen so much from both my and Orwell's lives...
One fateful day, during the highlight act of our performance, Orwell toppled to the ground. I rushed to his side, but he batted me away with his trunk as he regained his footing. It was then I saw the enormous needle protruding from the side of his head. Furthermore, I finally noticed how oddly quiet the crowd had been, and looking out past the glare of the stage lights, I saw not a normal crowd--but the Royal Canadian Mountain Police. They had come to reclaim what was not theirs! I gave a roar that would enrapture even the coldest of puma vixens, and lunged toward my sworn enemies, but my way was suddenly blocked by Orwell's hulking body, which shuddered as a second salvo of poisoned darts punctured his thick hide. I knew what he was doing, but would not accept it--he was all that I had left.
...But, against my dearest wishes, he lifted me, kicking and screaming, in his trunk, trundled outside the tent, with every step being more harried as more and more Canadian venom assaulted his old body...and threw me into the sky with all of his remaining strength.
/////
I spent the following day, and part of the night soaring through the air, tears lashing their way off my face, falling behind me into my windstream. I beat my chest, gnashed my teeth, pulled my hair, and tore my flesh in penitence: once again, I had not been able to stand up and deliver justice, as a man should.
]/////
I finally began to lose altitude as I came over the Atlantic Ocean, the same one Orwell had traveled on his road of revenge. After ricocheting off the surface of the waves for several miles, I was finally able to obtain my sea legs...or lack thereof. This was my first experience with the ocean, and I lacked Orwell's powerful elephantine lungs, so had no hope of walking back to shore. I though for sure I would perish, broken and alone, out there in the Great, Uncaring Blue...when something large and smooth wrapped itself around my leg. In a flurry of rushing water and coursing foam, I was pulled under, and found myself face to face with a truly gigantic creature--at least ten times the size of my now-deceased master! It's hundred arms grabbed me from all sides and tore at me, intent on breaking me open like some crude chestnut. But I would not have this. There was still much evil for me to cleanse in this world, and so I held off the monster's fatal embrace, making my body as steel. Apparently surprised at this turn of events, the leviathan brought me to the surface, and, in what seemed the blink of an eye, brought me to a nearby, remote and uninhabited island.
I learned the kraken's name: Jormungandr, and since then (this was roughly four months ago, mind) have been peacefully enjoying my time on the same island, which I have named "Chief Mendez's Island". As I have not yet been able to communicate effectively with Jormungandr (and indeed, he rarely is around to attempt communication with), I have had nothing to do with myself but lie around, tend the fertile land of Chief Mendez's Island, and hang out on SWF with all my pals (using my wind-powered laptop made of sand and hermit crabs).
But one day soon, I will taste revenge. I will hunt down the red-leaf'd demons that stole my parents from me, and I will tear them limb from limb with my bear hands. The Earth will run red with blood. The accumulated filth of all their murder will foam up about their waists and all those bastards will look up and shout "Save us!"...
...and I will look down, and whisper "No."
/////
Aside from the kraken (whom I now reside with), all of my parents have at one point tried to devour me alive. Only constant vigilance and devotion to my martial studies have kept me alive this long.
Yes, it has been a harrowing journey. But I have survived. And I am all the stronger for it.
/////
I was born to a drug-addled mother, who callously tossed me into a nearby dumpster after birthing me. So, alone, riddled with various drugs of all kinds, and cold, I did the only thing I could do: I cried.
I soon realized, however, that crying wasn't helping my situation, and I was rapidly coming ever closer to a cold, frozen death. Knowing this, I proceeded to physically beat the drugs out of my bloodstream with my tiny, yet powerful fists. I then ate my way through the plastic roof of the dumpster I was in, and warmed myself up with a light cross-country jog.
As I reached the Rocky Mountains, I suddenly found myself surrounded by hungry wolves. I managed to crush several of their skulls, but, tired as I was from my voyage, they eventually overpowered me. My still-soft cranium was literally inside the jaws of the pack leader when my first parents: Aslan, Bagheera, and Mufasa. The three mountain lions swiftly drove away the remaining wolves, and were about to claim their reward (my broken, bloody body)...but they sensed the pure, unfiltered greatness present within me, and, rather than consuming me, placed me on their shoulders and carried me back to their mountainside cave.
And so, for the next three years, I was raised in the most wild reaches of the Rocky Mountain Range, learning the ways of the world: hunting and preying on the weak, emitting feral screams to attract a mate, being only active near dusk and dawn, and (perhaps most importantly) being a combat helicopter.
However, it was not meant to be. One day, my adopted parents were all cruelly shot by local hunters. Only Mufasa managed to limp back to our cave, where I cradled him in my small, but already powerful arms, tears of pure love rolling down my cheeks. I believe I gave him some level of solace in his final moments.
The next day, I assassinated every man, woman and child in the area who has or had ever owned a hunting license, a rifle, camouflage pants, or who had in their life used the word "sport" in reference to the cold, inhuman act of taking another living thing's life for nothing but the sheer, barbaric thrill.
And so, with nothing left for me in the Rockies, I continued on in my quest, turning north, and eventually making my way to the Canadian outback.
/////
One day, I was casually eating my fill of the Caribou herd I had, moments before, brought down using nothing but a single pebble, when a large Grizzly Bear approached me, obviously looking for his next meal. I stood my ground, and as he approached, so did I.
During our epic, mortal struggle, the sheer force of will present within me contacted the bear's spirit, and instantly, we knew each other. While tending my fresh gouge wounds in a nearby stream, I learned my new parent's name: Wojtek. He had been the subject of several Canadian Government-funded experiments, resulting in him being bereft in a total, unending state of starvation; no matter how much Wojtek ate, he never could satiate himself. So, compassion filling my tiny, four-year frame, I devoted myself to helping him.
And so I hunted. Over the course of the next seven years, I made myself known across the country as "The Windigo", though of course, I was only a small boy at this time. Of course, I was uneducated in the ways of numbers, so had no notion at the time of how many animals I defeated in single combat for Wojtek's sake, but looking back, I would say...anywhere from five to seventy-eight hundred thousand.
At the end of this bloody, noble trail lay the Canadian Scientist's Headquarters, also known as "Mount Villainy". I climbed the jagged, sulfurous cliffs of that accursed rock for five days, never resting--for below me was Wojtek, barely alive and on his own: I had to do this as fast as possible. I infiltrated their foul lair, and found the anitdote to the illness afflicting my pitiable foster father. However, the Canadians discovered me on my way out, and I was forced into combat against an elite sect of Canada's greatest fighters: the Royal Canadian Mountain Police. When all was said and done, I limped out of the laboratory, bullet and saber wounds all across my battered body. One had even managed to gouge out one of my eyes with a hook mounted on a stump, where I presume a hand once was.
Despite my great cause, I found I could not maintain consciousness any longer. As I crested the summit, I passed out, cursing myself for failing at the task set before me...
/////
...Yet soon, I awoke: a cool breeze awakening me from my rest. I felt beneath me, and my hand touched against enormous, silken feathers. Yes, I was being held aloft on the back of a tremendous golden eagle. I reached out with my pure, most bare of emotions to the creature, telling her of Wojtek's plight.
...But, to my utter despair, she informed me that Wojtek had perished at the base of Mount Villainy. Her name was Aquila, and her nine siblings, Corvus, Flint, Cygnus, Huginn and Muginn, Simurgh, Mynah, and Old Great Auk, were on their way to Wojtek's aid on the command of the Bird King, Phoenix. But alas and alack, they arrived too late. Perhaps due to my leading him around the countryside, he was without the aid of the birdfolk.
I have always...blamed myself for that, I suppose.
With nothing to be done for poor Wojtek, I swore vengeance against the Royal Canadian Mountain Police, and continued East with my new, feathered family.
/////
I did not stay with the eagles for long, though. As we were flying over Tennesee, Huginn and Muginn attempted to steal the eyes from my sockets as I slept atop Old Great Auk's back. They held no alleigance to me or my journey, and so I do not blame them for this: it is only the natural law that when a thing is hungry, it must eat.
...However, it is also the way of the world that only the strongest survive. And so, reacting like barbed lightning, I arose, and tore the tongues from my attacker's gizzards, sending them both into uncontrollable, pain-induced free falls. I could immediately tell how well this went over with the other birds, and so I leapt from Auk's wing, pummeting to the ground hundreds of miles below me.
It is never a good idea to let oneself be surrounded by wrathful servants of the Bird King.
Handily, I had learned much from Aquila of the ways of flight, and though I possessed no wings, I used my knowledge to directionally influence myself toward a giant red and white speck, miles below me. As I reached terminal velocity, and the terrible inertia began to peel the very flesh from my bones, I again could not hold out, and I saw black.
When I awoke, I was staring up into the murderous eyes of an enormous African Elephant, or loxodonta africana, as they say in the West. Before he had the chance to gore or trample me, I sprung to my feet and delivered a kick so fierce it could shatter the trunk of a full-grown Redwood tree (and indeed, during my time in the North, it had done so, on several occasions) to the beast's head...but to my complete amazement, it bucked me away but with a brush of it's head! Suddenly and horrifyingly, I knew fear. For the first time in my life, I truly did not know whether I would be the victor of this contest of strength.
...Amazingly, though I no longer held any conception of victory, the thing did not approach me. It merely eyed me up, from head to toe several times, then, deciding something, turned to leave. With this relief, I examined my surroundings for the first time since arriving in this foreign locale. I discovered I had landed on the top of a giant circus tent, which would explain how all my bones were not of dust at this point. But I had little time to ponder the past, as my immortal warrior's soul was calling to me.
Thus, I was trained. My master, Orwell, was a fine teacher indeed. Raised on the barren plains of the Savannah, he had been born weak and alone, much like myself. He had spent most of his time there migrating from herd to herd, never fully accepted, and often physically assaulted for his ignoble origins and lowly station. But through it all, he never gave in, eventually defeating the Bull of a rival tribe in single combat, and thus becoming their herdmaster. For fifty years, he and his tribe roamed the Great Plains, conquering all and sparing none in their paths. He sired countless calves, and those he did not approve of were swiftly exiled. Like me, he held dearly to the Ways of the World. However, one day, while he was away on an expedition, black-suited men with loud, booming sticks and red, maple leaves on their backs came and destroyed his entire clan, stealing their proud tusks, not allowing even for a respectful burial. Enraged, Orwell took to the coast, hounding the men in black. Though they boarded their iron fish before he could catch them, he could see the way they traveled, and so, with a deep breath of the African air he loved more than life itself, he plunged beneath the waves, and ran along the Ocean's floor toward a new, alien world.
Once there, he was tired from his journey, and so laid down beneath a tall tree for rest. But--the fiends!--they ambushed him while he slept! He awoke, and crushed many underfoot, and his tusks were lined with bodies that day, but through sheer numbers and a traitorous tranquilizing poison, they brought him to his knees, and carried him off to their stronghold.
...Thankfully, he escaped: breaking out of the belly of their giant iron snake, he rampaged his way south until he found a lonely, secluded stretch of open land. It reminded him of his homeland, and that was good. For seven days and seven nights he wept for those lost to him. He would never see them again.
And so, when the circus came and erected their giant shelters, Orwell approached them. At first, they panicked, but in time, they came to accept him. Ever since, he had stayed with the group as they toured the country, performing for humans from all walks of life. It was not a dignified life, he told me, but a simple one. One deserving of a man who could not protect those closest to him.
/////
Under his tutelage, I learned much. In the span of a single year, I became a rival even to his great strength, and began to finally integrate myself into the world of man--through my performances in the circus as "The Whild Child", I learned the human tongue, and even made several "friends". In time, though, this was our downfall. Word spread of our famed performances, which eventually attracted the very same forces that had stolen so much from both my and Orwell's lives...
One fateful day, during the highlight act of our performance, Orwell toppled to the ground. I rushed to his side, but he batted me away with his trunk as he regained his footing. It was then I saw the enormous needle protruding from the side of his head. Furthermore, I finally noticed how oddly quiet the crowd had been, and looking out past the glare of the stage lights, I saw not a normal crowd--but the Royal Canadian Mountain Police. They had come to reclaim what was not theirs! I gave a roar that would enrapture even the coldest of puma vixens, and lunged toward my sworn enemies, but my way was suddenly blocked by Orwell's hulking body, which shuddered as a second salvo of poisoned darts punctured his thick hide. I knew what he was doing, but would not accept it--he was all that I had left.
...But, against my dearest wishes, he lifted me, kicking and screaming, in his trunk, trundled outside the tent, with every step being more harried as more and more Canadian venom assaulted his old body...and threw me into the sky with all of his remaining strength.
/////
I spent the following day, and part of the night soaring through the air, tears lashing their way off my face, falling behind me into my windstream. I beat my chest, gnashed my teeth, pulled my hair, and tore my flesh in penitence: once again, I had not been able to stand up and deliver justice, as a man should.
]/////
I finally began to lose altitude as I came over the Atlantic Ocean, the same one Orwell had traveled on his road of revenge. After ricocheting off the surface of the waves for several miles, I was finally able to obtain my sea legs...or lack thereof. This was my first experience with the ocean, and I lacked Orwell's powerful elephantine lungs, so had no hope of walking back to shore. I though for sure I would perish, broken and alone, out there in the Great, Uncaring Blue...when something large and smooth wrapped itself around my leg. In a flurry of rushing water and coursing foam, I was pulled under, and found myself face to face with a truly gigantic creature--at least ten times the size of my now-deceased master! It's hundred arms grabbed me from all sides and tore at me, intent on breaking me open like some crude chestnut. But I would not have this. There was still much evil for me to cleanse in this world, and so I held off the monster's fatal embrace, making my body as steel. Apparently surprised at this turn of events, the leviathan brought me to the surface, and, in what seemed the blink of an eye, brought me to a nearby, remote and uninhabited island.
I learned the kraken's name: Jormungandr, and since then (this was roughly four months ago, mind) have been peacefully enjoying my time on the same island, which I have named "Chief Mendez's Island". As I have not yet been able to communicate effectively with Jormungandr (and indeed, he rarely is around to attempt communication with), I have had nothing to do with myself but lie around, tend the fertile land of Chief Mendez's Island, and hang out on SWF with all my pals (using my wind-powered laptop made of sand and hermit crabs).
But one day soon, I will taste revenge. I will hunt down the red-leaf'd demons that stole my parents from me, and I will tear them limb from limb with my bear hands. The Earth will run red with blood. The accumulated filth of all their murder will foam up about their waists and all those bastards will look up and shout "Save us!"...
...and I will look down, and whisper "No."
/////
Aside from the kraken (whom I now reside with), all of my parents have at one point tried to devour me alive. Only constant vigilance and devotion to my martial studies have kept me alive this long.
Yes, it has been a harrowing journey. But I have survived. And I am all the stronger for it.
/////
I was born to a drug-addled mother, who callously tossed me into a nearby dumpster after birthing me. So, alone, riddled with various drugs of all kinds, and cold, I did the only thing I could do: I cried.
I soon realized, however, that crying wasn't helping my situation, and I was rapidly coming ever closer to a cold, frozen death. Knowing this, I proceeded to physically beat the drugs out of my bloodstream with my tiny, yet powerful fists. I then ate my way through the plastic roof of the dumpster I was in, and warmed myself up with a light cross-country jog.
As I reached the Rocky Mountains, I suddenly found myself surrounded by hungry wolves. I managed to crush several of their skulls, but, tired as I was from my voyage, they eventually overpowered me. My still-soft cranium was literally inside the jaws of the pack leader when my first parents: Aslan, Bagheera, and Mufasa. The three mountain lions swiftly drove away the remaining wolves, and were about to claim their reward (my broken, bloody body)...but they sensed the pure, unfiltered greatness present within me, and, rather than consuming me, placed me on their shoulders and carried me back to their mountainside cave.
And so, for the next three years, I was raised in the most wild reaches of the Rocky Mountain Range, learning the ways of the world: hunting and preying on the weak, emitting feral screams to attract a mate, being only active near dusk and dawn, and (perhaps most importantly) being a combat helicopter.
However, it was not meant to be. One day, my adopted parents were all cruelly shot by local hunters. Only Mufasa managed to limp back to our cave, where I cradled him in my small, but already powerful arms, tears of pure love rolling down my cheeks. I believe I gave him some level of solace in his final moments.
The next day, I assassinated every man, woman and child in the area who has or had ever owned a hunting license, a rifle, camouflage pants, or who had in their life used the word "sport" in reference to the cold, inhuman act of taking another living thing's life for nothing but the sheer, barbaric thrill.
And so, with nothing left for me in the Rockies, I continued on in my quest, turning north, and eventually making my way to the Canadian outback.
/////
One day, I was casually eating my fill of the Caribou herd I had, moments before, brought down using nothing but a single pebble, when a large Grizzly Bear approached me, obviously looking for his next meal. I stood my ground, and as he approached, so did I.
During our epic, mortal struggle, the sheer force of will present within me contacted the bear's spirit, and instantly, we knew each other. While tending my fresh gouge wounds in a nearby stream, I learned my new parent's name: Wojtek. He had been the subject of several Canadian Government-funded experiments, resulting in him being bereft in a total, unending state of starvation; no matter how much Wojtek ate, he never could satiate himself. So, compassion filling my tiny, four-year frame, I devoted myself to helping him.
And so I hunted. Over the course of the next seven years, I made myself known across the country as "The Windigo", though of course, I was only a small boy at this time. Of course, I was uneducated in the ways of numbers, so had no notion at the time of how many animals I defeated in single combat for Wojtek's sake, but looking back, I would say...anywhere from five to seventy-eight hundred thousand.
At the end of this bloody, noble trail lay the Canadian Scientist's Headquarters, also known as "Mount Villainy". I climbed the jagged, sulfurous cliffs of that accursed rock for five days, never resting--for below me was Wojtek, barely alive and on his own: I had to do this as fast as possible. I infiltrated their foul lair, and found the anitdote to the illness afflicting my pitiable foster father. However, the Canadians discovered me on my way out, and I was forced into combat against an elite sect of Canada's greatest fighters: the Royal Canadian Mountain Police. When all was said and done, I limped out of the laboratory, bullet and saber wounds all across my battered body. One had even managed to gouge out one of my eyes with a hook mounted on a stump, where I presume a hand once was.
Despite my great cause, I found I could not maintain consciousness any longer. As I crested the summit, I passed out, cursing myself for failing at the task set before me...
/////
...Yet soon, I awoke: a cool breeze awakening me from my rest. I felt beneath me, and my hand touched against enormous, silken feathers. Yes, I was being held aloft on the back of a tremendous golden eagle. I reached out with my pure, most bare of emotions to the creature, telling her of Wojtek's plight.
...But, to my utter despair, she informed me that Wojtek had perished at the base of Mount Villainy. Her name was Aquila, and her nine siblings, Corvus, Flint, Cygnus, Huginn and Muginn, Simurgh, Mynah, and Old Great Auk, were on their way to Wojtek's aid on the command of the Bird King, Phoenix. But alas and alack, they arrived too late. Perhaps due to my leading him around the countryside, he was without the aid of the birdfolk.
I have always...blamed myself for that, I suppose.
With nothing to be done for poor Wojtek, I swore vengeance against the Royal Canadian Mountain Police, and continued East with my new, feathered family.
/////
I did not stay with the eagles for long, though. As we were flying over Tennesee, Huginn and Muginn attempted to steal the eyes from my sockets as I slept atop Old Great Auk's back. They held no alleigance to me or my journey, and so I do not blame them for this: it is only the natural law that when a thing is hungry, it must eat.
...However, it is also the way of the world that only the strongest survive. And so, reacting like barbed lightning, I arose, and tore the tongues from my attacker's gizzards, sending them both into uncontrollable, pain-induced free falls. I could immediately tell how well this went over with the other birds, and so I leapt from Auk's wing, pummeting to the ground hundreds of miles below me.
It is never a good idea to let oneself be surrounded by wrathful servants of the Bird King.
Handily, I had learned much from Aquila of the ways of flight, and though I possessed no wings, I used my knowledge to directionally influence myself toward a giant red and white speck, miles below me. As I reached terminal velocity, and the terrible inertia began to peel the very flesh from my bones, I again could not hold out, and I saw black.
When I awoke, I was staring up into the murderous eyes of an enormous African Elephant, or loxodonta africana, as they say in the West. Before he had the chance to gore or trample me, I sprung to my feet and delivered a kick so fierce it could shatter the trunk of a full-grown Redwood tree (and indeed, during my time in the North, it had done so, on several occasions) to the beast's head...but to my complete amazement, it bucked me away but with a brush of it's head! Suddenly and horrifyingly, I knew fear. For the first time in my life, I truly did not know whether I would be the victor of this contest of strength.
...Amazingly, though I no longer held any conception of victory, the thing did not approach me. It merely eyed me up, from head to toe several times, then, deciding something, turned to leave. With this relief, I examined my surroundings for the first time since arriving in this foreign locale. I discovered I had landed on the top of a giant circus tent, which would explain how all my bones were not of dust at this point. But I had little time to ponder the past, as my immortal warrior's soul was calling to me.
Thus, I was trained. My master, Orwell, was a fine teacher indeed. Raised on the barren plains of the Savannah, he had been born weak and alone, much like myself. He had spent most of his time there migrating from herd to herd, never fully accepted, and often physically assaulted for his ignoble origins and lowly station. But through it all, he never gave in, eventually defeating the Bull of a rival tribe in single combat, and thus becoming their herdmaster. For fifty years, he and his tribe roamed the Great Plains, conquering all and sparing none in their paths. He sired countless calves, and those he did not approve of were swiftly exiled. Like me, he held dearly to the Ways of the World. However, one day, while he was away on an expedition, black-suited men with loud, booming sticks and red, maple leaves on their backs came and destroyed his entire clan, stealing their proud tusks, not allowing even for a respectful burial. Enraged, Orwell took to the coast, hounding the men in black. Though they boarded their iron fish before he could catch them, he could see the way they traveled, and so, with a deep breath of the African air he loved more than life itself, he plunged beneath the waves, and ran along the Ocean's floor toward a new, alien world.
Once there, he was tired from his journey, and so laid down beneath a tall tree for rest. But--the fiends!--they ambushed him while he slept! He awoke, and crushed many underfoot, and his tusks were lined with bodies that day, but through sheer numbers and a traitorous tranquilizing poison, they brought him to his knees, and carried him off to their stronghold.
...Thankfully, he escaped: breaking out of the belly of their giant iron snake, he rampaged his way south until he found a lonely, secluded stretch of open land. It reminded him of his homeland, and that was good. For seven days and seven nights he wept for those lost to him. He would never see them again.
And so, when the circus came and erected their giant shelters, Orwell approached them. At first, they panicked, but in time, they came to accept him. Ever since, he had stayed with the group as they toured the country, performing for humans from all walks of life. It was not a dignified life, he told me, but a simple one. One deserving of a man who could not protect those closest to him.
/////
Under his tutelage, I learned much. In the span of a single year, I became a rival even to his great strength, and began to finally integrate myself into the world of man--through my performances in the circus as "The Whild Child", I learned the human tongue, and even made several "friends". In time, though, this was our downfall. Word spread of our famed performances, which eventually attracted the very same forces that had stolen so much from both my and Orwell's lives...
One fateful day, during the highlight act of our performance, Orwell toppled to the ground. I rushed to his side, but he batted me away with his trunk as he regained his footing. It was then I saw the enormous needle protruding from the side of his head. Furthermore, I finally noticed how oddly quiet the crowd had been, and looking out past the glare of the stage lights, I saw not a normal crowd--but the Royal Canadian Mountain Police. They had come to reclaim what was not theirs! I gave a roar that would enrapture even the coldest of puma vixens, and lunged toward my sworn enemies, but my way was suddenly blocked by Orwell's hulking body, which shuddered as a second salvo of poisoned darts punctured his thick hide. I knew what he was doing, but would not accept it--he was all that I had left.
...But, against my dearest wishes, he lifted me, kicking and screaming, in his trunk, trundled outside the tent, with every step being more harried as more and more Canadian venom assaulted his old body...and threw me into the sky with all of his remaining strength.
/////
I spent the following day, and part of the night soaring through the air, tears lashing their way off my face, falling behind me into my windstream. I beat my chest, gnashed my teeth, pulled my hair, and tore my flesh in penitence: once again, I had not been able to stand up and deliver justice, as a man should.
]/////
I finally began to lose altitude as I came over the Atlantic Ocean, the same one Orwell had traveled on his road of revenge. After ricocheting off the surface of the waves for several miles, I was finally able to obtain my sea legs...or lack thereof. This was my first experience with the ocean, and I lacked Orwell's powerful elephantine lungs, so had no hope of walking back to shore. I though for sure I would perish, broken and alone, out there in the Great, Uncaring Blue...when something large and smooth wrapped itself around my leg. In a flurry of rushing water and coursing foam, I was pulled under, and found myself face to face with a truly gigantic creature--at least ten times the size of my now-deceased master! It's hundred arms grabbed me from all sides and tore at me, intent on breaking me open like some crude chestnut. But I would not have this. There was still much evil for me to cleanse in this world, and so I held off the monster's fatal embrace, making my body as steel. Apparently surprised at this turn of events, the leviathan brought me to the surface, and, in what seemed the blink of an eye, brought me to a nearby, remote and uninhabited island.
I learned the kraken's name: Jormungandr, and since then (this was roughly four months ago, mind) have been peacefully enjoying my time on the same island, which I have named "Chief Mendez's Island". As I have not yet been able to communicate effectively with Jormungandr (and indeed, he rarely is around to attempt communication with), I have had nothing to do with myself but lie around, tend the fertile land of Chief Mendez's Island, and hang out on SWF with all my pals (using my wind-powered laptop made of sand and hermit crabs).
But one day soon, I will taste revenge. I will hunt down the red-leaf'd demons that stole my parents from me, and I will tear them limb from limb with my bear hands. The Earth will run red with blood. The accumulated filth of all their murder will foam up about their waists and all those bastards will look up and shout "Save us!"...
...and I will look down, and whisper "No."
/////
Aside from the kraken (whom I now reside with), all of my parents have at one point tried to devour me alive. Only constant vigilance and devotion to my martial studies have kept me alive this long.
Yes, it has been a harrowing journey. But I have survived. And I am all the stronger for it.
/////
I was born to a drug-addled mother, who callously tossed me into a nearby dumpster after birthing me. So, alone, riddled with various drugs of all kinds, and cold, I did the only thing I could do: I cried.
I soon realized, however, that crying wasn't helping my situation, and I was rapidly coming ever closer to a cold, frozen death. Knowing this, I proceeded to physically beat the drugs out of my bloodstream with my tiny, yet powerful fists. I then ate my way through the plastic roof of the dumpster I was in, and warmed myself up with a light cross-country jog.
As I reached the Rocky Mountains, I suddenly found myself surrounded by hungry wolves. I managed to crush several of their skulls, but, tired as I was from my voyage, they eventually overpowered me. My still-soft cranium was literally inside the jaws of the pack leader when my first parents: Aslan, Bagheera, and Mufasa. The three mountain lions swiftly drove away the remaining wolves, and were about to claim their reward (my broken, bloody body)...but they sensed the pure, unfiltered greatness present within me, and, rather than consuming me, placed me on their shoulders and carried me back to their mountainside cave.
And so, for the next three years, I was raised in the most wild reaches of the Rocky Mountain Range, learning the ways of the world: hunting and preying on the weak, emitting feral screams to attract a mate, being only active near dusk and dawn, and (perhaps most importantly) being a combat helicopter.
However, it was not meant to be. One day, my adopted parents were all cruelly shot by local hunters. Only Mufasa managed to limp back to our cave, where I cradled him in my small, but already powerful arms, tears of pure love rolling down my cheeks. I believe I gave him some level of solace in his final moments.
The next day, I assassinated every man, woman and child in the area who has or had ever owned a hunting license, a rifle, camouflage pants, or who had in their life used the word "sport" in reference to the cold, inhuman act of taking another living thing's life for nothing but the sheer, barbaric thrill.
And so, with nothing left for me in the Rockies, I continued on in my quest, turning north, and eventually making my way to the Canadian outback.
/////
One day, I was casually eating my fill of the Caribou herd I had, moments before, brought down using nothing but a single pebble, when a large Grizzly Bear approached me, obviously looking for his next meal. I stood my ground, and as he approached, so did I.
During our epic, mortal struggle, the sheer force of will present within me contacted the bear's spirit, and instantly, we knew each other. While tending my fresh gouge wounds in a nearby stream, I learned my new parent's name: Wojtek. He had been the subject of several Canadian Government-funded experiments, resulting in him being bereft in a total, unending state of starvation; no matter how much Wojtek ate, he never could satiate himself. So, compassion filling my tiny, four-year frame, I devoted myself to helping him.
And so I hunted. Over the course of the next seven years, I made myself known across the country as "The Windigo", though of course, I was only a small boy at this time. Of course, I was uneducated in the ways of numbers, so had no notion at the time of how many animals I defeated in single combat for Wojtek's sake, but looking back, I would say...anywhere from five to seventy-eight hundred thousand.
At the end of this bloody, noble trail lay the Canadian Scientist's Headquarters, also known as "Mount Villainy". I climbed the jagged, sulfurous cliffs of that accursed rock for five days, never resting--for below me was Wojtek, barely alive and on his own: I had to do this as fast as possible. I infiltrated their foul lair, and found the anitdote to the illness afflicting my pitiable foster father. However, the Canadians discovered me on my way out, and I was forced into combat against an elite sect of Canada's greatest fighters: the Royal Canadian Mountain Police. When all was said and done, I limped out of the laboratory, bullet and saber wounds all across my battered body. One had even managed to gouge out one of my eyes with a hook mounted on a stump, where I presume a hand once was.
Despite my great cause, I found I could not maintain consciousness any longer. As I crested the summit, I passed out, cursing myself for failing at the task set before me...
/////
...Yet soon, I awoke: a cool breeze awakening me from my rest. I felt beneath me, and my hand touched against enormous, silken feathers. Yes, I was being held aloft on the back of a tremendous golden eagle. I reached out with my pure, most bare of emotions to the creature, telling her of Wojtek's plight.
...But, to my utter despair, she informed me that Wojtek had perished at the base of Mount Villainy. Her name was Aquila, and her nine siblings, Corvus, Flint, Cygnus, Huginn and Muginn, Simurgh, Mynah, and Old Great Auk, were on their way to Wojtek's aid on the command of the Bird King, Phoenix. But alas and alack, they arrived too late. Perhaps due to my leading him around the countryside, he was without the aid of the birdfolk.
I have always...blamed myself for that, I suppose.
With nothing to be done for poor Wojtek, I swore vengeance against the Royal Canadian Mountain Police, and continued East with my new, feathered family.
/////
I did not stay with the eagles for long, though. As we were flying over Tennesee, Huginn and Muginn attempted to steal the eyes from my sockets as I slept atop Old Great Auk's back. They held no alleigance to me or my journey, and so I do not blame them for this: it is only the natural law that when a thing is hungry, it must eat.
...However, it is also the way of the world that only the strongest survive. And so, reacting like barbed lightning, I arose, and tore the tongues from my attacker's gizzards, sending them both into uncontrollable, pain-induced free falls. I could immediately tell how well this went over with the other birds, and so I leapt from Auk's wing, pummeting to the ground hundreds of miles below me.
It is never a good idea to let oneself be surrounded by wrathful servants of the Bird King.
Handily, I had learned much from Aquila of the ways of flight, and though I possessed no wings, I used my knowledge to directionally influence myself toward a giant red and white speck, miles below me. As I reached terminal velocity, and the terrible inertia began to peel the very flesh from my bones, I again could not hold out, and I saw black.
When I awoke, I was staring up into the murderous eyes of an enormous African Elephant, or loxodonta africana, as they say in the West. Before he had the chance to gore or trample me, I sprung to my feet and delivered a kick so fierce it could shatter the trunk of a full-grown Redwood tree (and indeed, during my time in the North, it had done so, on several occasions) to the beast's head...but to my complete amazement, it bucked me away but with a brush of it's head! Suddenly and horrifyingly, I knew fear. For the first time in my life, I truly did not know whether I would be the victor of this contest of strength.
...Amazingly, though I no longer held any conception of victory, the thing did not approach me. It merely eyed me up, from head to toe several times, then, deciding something, turned to leave. With this relief, I examined my surroundings for the first time since arriving in this foreign locale. I discovered I had landed on the top of a giant circus tent, which would explain how all my bones were not of dust at this point. But I had little time to ponder the past, as my immortal warrior's soul was calling to me.
Thus, I was trained. My master, Orwell, was a fine teacher indeed. Raised on the barren plains of the Savannah, he had been born weak and alone, much like myself. He had spent most of his time there migrating from herd to herd, never fully accepted, and often physically assaulted for his ignoble origins and lowly station. But through it all, he never gave in, eventually defeating the Bull of a rival tribe in single combat, and thus becoming their herdmaster. For fifty years, he and his tribe roamed the Great Plains, conquering all and sparing none in their paths. He sired countless calves, and those he did not approve of were swiftly exiled. Like me, he held dearly to the Ways of the World. However, one day, while he was away on an expedition, black-suited men with loud, booming sticks and red, maple leaves on their backs came and destroyed his entire clan, stealing their proud tusks, not allowing even for a respectful burial. Enraged, Orwell took to the coast, hounding the men in black. Though they boarded their iron fish before he could catch them, he could see the way they traveled, and so, with a deep breath of the African air he loved more than life itself, he plunged beneath the waves, and ran along the Ocean's floor toward a new, alien world.
Once there, he was tired from his journey, and so laid down beneath a tall tree for rest. But--the fiends!--they ambushed him while he slept! He awoke, and crushed many underfoot, and his tusks were lined with bodies that day, but through sheer numbers and a traitorous tranquilizing poison, they brought him to his knees, and carried him off to their stronghold.
...Thankfully, he escaped: breaking out of the belly of their giant iron snake, he rampaged his way south until he found a lonely, secluded stretch of open land. It reminded him of his homeland, and that was good. For seven days and seven nights he wept for those lost to him. He would never see them again.
And so, when the circus came and erected their giant shelters, Orwell approached them. At first, they panicked, but in time, they came to accept him. Ever since, he had stayed with the group as they toured the country, performing for humans from all walks of life. It was not a dignified life, he told me, but a simple one. One deserving of a man who could not protect those closest to him.
/////
Under his tutelage, I learned much. In the span of a single year, I became a rival even to his great strength, and began to finally integrate myself into the world of man--through my performances in the circus as "The Whild Child", I learned the human tongue, and even made several "friends". In time, though, this was our downfall. Word spread of our famed performances, which eventually attracted the very same forces that had stolen so much from both my and Orwell's lives...
One fateful day, during the highlight act of our performance, Orwell toppled to the ground. I rushed to his side, but he batted me away with his trunk as he regained his footing. It was then I saw the enormous needle protruding from the side of his head. Furthermore, I finally noticed how oddly quiet the crowd had been, and looking out past the glare of the stage lights, I saw not a normal crowd--but the Royal Canadian Mountain Police. They had come to reclaim what was not theirs! I gave a roar that would enrapture even the coldest of puma vixens, and lunged toward my sworn enemies, but my way was suddenly blocked by Orwell's hulking body, which shuddered as a second salvo of poisoned darts punctured his thick hide. I knew what he was doing, but would not accept it--he was all that I had left.
...But, against my dearest wishes, he lifted me, kicking and screaming, in his trunk, trundled outside the tent, with every step being more harried as more and more Canadian venom assaulted his old body...and threw me into the sky with all of his remaining strength.
/////
I spent the following day, and part of the night soaring through the air, tears lashing their way off my face, falling behind me into my windstream. I beat my chest, gnashed my teeth, pulled my hair, and tore my flesh in penitence: once again, I had not been able to stand up and deliver justice, as a man should.
]/////
I finally began to lose altitude as I came over the Atlantic Ocean, the same one Orwell had traveled on his road of revenge. After ricocheting off the surface of the waves for several miles, I was finally able to obtain my sea legs...or lack thereof. This was my first experience with the ocean, and I lacked Orwell's powerful elephantine lungs, so had no hope of walking back to shore. I though for sure I would perish, broken and alone, out there in the Great, Uncaring Blue...when something large and smooth wrapped itself around my leg. In a flurry of rushing water and coursing foam, I was pulled under, and found myself face to face with a truly gigantic creature--at least ten times the size of my now-deceased master! It's hundred arms grabbed me from all sides and tore at me, intent on breaking me open like some crude chestnut. But I would not have this. There was still much evil for me to cleanse in this world, and so I held off the monster's fatal embrace, making my body as steel. Apparently surprised at this turn of events, the leviathan brought me to the surface, and, in what seemed the blink of an eye, brought me to a nearby, remote and uninhabited island.
I learned the kraken's name: Jormungandr, and since then (this was roughly four months ago, mind) have been peacefully enjoying my time on the same island, which I have named "Chief Mendez's Island". As I have not yet been able to communicate effectively with Jormungandr (and indeed, he rarely is around to attempt communication with), I have had nothing to do with myself but lie around, tend the fertile land of Chief Mendez's Island, and hang out on SWF with all my pals (using my wind-powered laptop made of sand and hermit crabs).
But one day soon, I will taste revenge. I will hunt down the red-leaf'd demons that stole my parents from me, and I will tear them limb from limb with my bear hands. The Earth will run red with blood. The accumulated filth of all their murder will foam up about their waists and all those bastards will look up and shout "Save us!"...
...and I will look down, and whisper "No."
/////
Aside from the kraken (whom I now reside with), all of my parents have at one point tried to devour me alive. Only constant vigilance and devotion to my martial studies have kept me alive this long.
Yes, it has been a harrowing journey. But I have survived. And I am all the stronger for it.
/////
I was born to a drug-addled mother, who callously tossed me into a nearby dumpster after birthing me. So, alone, riddled with various drugs of all kinds, and cold, I did the only thing I could do: I cried.
I soon realized, however, that crying wasn't helping my situation, and I was rapidly coming ever closer to a cold, frozen death. Knowing this, I proceeded to physically beat the drugs out of my bloodstream with my tiny, yet powerful fists. I then ate my way through the plastic roof of the dumpster I was in, and warmed myself up with a light cross-country jog.
As I reached the Rocky Mountains, I suddenly found myself surrounded by hungry wolves. I managed to crush several of their skulls, but, tired as I was from my voyage, they eventually overpowered me. My still-soft cranium was literally inside the jaws of the pack leader when my first parents: Aslan, Bagheera, and Mufasa. The three mountain lions swiftly drove away the remaining wolves, and were about to claim their reward (my broken, bloody body)...but they sensed the pure, unfiltered greatness present within me, and, rather than consuming me, placed me on their shoulders and carried me back to their mountainside cave.
And so, for the next three years, I was raised in the most wild reaches of the Rocky Mountain Range, learning the ways of the world: hunting and preying on the weak, emitting feral screams to attract a mate, being only active near dusk and dawn, and (perhaps most importantly) being a combat helicopter.
However, it was not meant to be. One day, my adopted parents were all cruelly shot by local hunters. Only Mufasa managed to limp back to our cave, where I cradled him in my small, but already powerful arms, tears of pure love rolling down my cheeks. I believe I gave him some level of solace in his final moments.
The next day, I assassinated every man, woman and child in the area who has or had ever owned a hunting license, a rifle, camouflage pants, or who had in their life used the word "sport" in reference to the cold, inhuman act of taking another living thing's life for nothing but the sheer, barbaric thrill.
And so, with nothing left for me in the Rockies, I continued on in my quest, turning north, and eventually making my way to the Canadian outback.
/////
One day, I was casually eating my fill of the Caribou herd I had, moments before, brought down using nothing but a single pebble, when a large Grizzly Bear approached me, obviously looking for his next meal. I stood my ground, and as he approached, so did I.
During our epic, mortal struggle, the sheer force of will present within me contacted the bear's spirit, and instantly, we knew each other. While tending my fresh gouge wounds in a nearby stream, I learned my new parent's name: Wojtek. He had been the subject of several Canadian Government-funded experiments, resulting in him being bereft in a total, unending state of starvation; no matter how much Wojtek ate, he never could satiate himself. So, compassion filling my tiny, four-year frame, I devoted myself to helping him.
And so I hunted. Over the course of the next seven years, I made myself known across the country as "The Windigo", though of course, I was only a small boy at this time. Of course, I was uneducated in the ways of numbers, so had no notion at the time of how many animals I defeated in single combat for Wojtek's sake, but looking back, I would say...anywhere from five to seventy-eight hundred thousand.
At the end of this bloody, noble trail lay the Canadian Scientist's Headquarters, also known as "Mount Villainy". I climbed the jagged, sulfurous cliffs of that accursed rock for five days, never resting--for below me was Wojtek, barely alive and on his own: I had to do this as fast as possible. I infiltrated their foul lair, and found the anitdote to the illness afflicting my pitiable foster father. However, the Canadians discovered me on my way out, and I was forced into combat against an elite sect of Canada's greatest fighters: the Royal Canadian Mountain Police. When all was said and done, I limped out of the laboratory, bullet and saber wounds all across my battered body. One had even managed to gouge out one of my eyes with a hook mounted on a stump, where I presume a hand once was.
Despite my great cause, I found I could not maintain consciousness any longer. As I crested the summit, I passed out, cursing myself for failing at the task set before me...
/////
...Yet soon, I awoke: a cool breeze awakening me from my rest. I felt beneath me, and my hand touched against enormous, silken feathers. Yes, I was being held aloft on the back of a tremendous golden eagle. I reached out with my pure, most bare of emotions to the creature, telling her of Wojtek's plight.
...But, to my utter despair, she informed me that Wojtek had perished at the base of Mount Villainy. Her name was Aquila, and her nine siblings, Corvus, Flint, Cygnus, Huginn and Muginn, Simurgh, Mynah, and Old Great Auk, were on their way to Wojtek's aid on the command of the Bird King, Phoenix. But alas and alack, they arrived too late. Perhaps due to my leading him around the countryside, he was without the aid of the birdfolk.
I have always...blamed myself for that, I suppose.
With nothing to be done for poor Wojtek, I swore vengeance against the Royal Canadian Mountain Police, and continued East with my new, feathered family.
/////
I did not stay with the eagles for long, though. As we were flying over Tennesee, Huginn and Muginn attempted to steal the eyes from my sockets as I slept atop Old Great Auk's back. They held no alleigance to me or my journey, and so I do not blame them for this: it is only the natural law that when a thing is hungry, it must eat.
...However, it is also the way of the world that only the strongest survive. And so, reacting like barbed lightning, I arose, and tore the tongues from my attacker's gizzards, sending them both into uncontrollable, pain-induced free falls. I could immediately tell how well this went over with the other birds, and so I leapt from Auk's wing, pummeting to the ground hundreds of miles below me.
It is never a good idea to let oneself be surrounded by wrathful servants of the Bird King.
Handily, I had learned much from Aquila of the ways of flight, and though I possessed no wings, I used my knowledge to directionally influence myself toward a giant red and white speck, miles below me. As I reached terminal velocity, and the terrible inertia began to peel the very flesh from my bones, I again could not hold out, and I saw black.
When I awoke, I was staring up into the murderous eyes of an enormous African Elephant, or loxodonta africana, as they say in the West. Before he had the chance to gore or trample me, I sprung to my feet and delivered a kick so fierce it could shatter the trunk of a full-grown Redwood tree (and indeed, during my time in the North, it had done so, on several occasions) to the beast's head...but to my complete amazement, it bucked me away but with a brush of it's head! Suddenly and horrifyingly, I knew fear. For the first time in my life, I truly did not know whether I would be the victor of this contest of strength.
...Amazingly, though I no longer held any conception of victory, the thing did not approach me. It merely eyed me up, from head to toe several times, then, deciding something, turned to leave. With this relief, I examined my surroundings for the first time since arriving in this foreign locale. I discovered I had landed on the top of a giant circus tent, which would explain how all my bones were not of dust at this point. But I had little time to ponder the past, as my immortal warrior's soul was calling to me.
Thus, I was trained. My master, Orwell, was a fine teacher indeed. Raised on the barren plains of the Savannah, he had been born weak and alone, much like myself. He had spent most of his time there migrating from herd to herd, never fully accepted, and often physically assaulted for his ignoble origins and lowly station. But through it all, he never gave in, eventually defeating the Bull of a rival tribe in single combat, and thus becoming their herdmaster. For fifty years, he and his tribe roamed the Great Plains, conquering all and sparing none in their paths. He sired countless calves, and those he did not approve of were swiftly exiled. Like me, he held dearly to the Ways of the World. However, one day, while he was away on an expedition, black-suited men with loud, booming sticks and red, maple leaves on their backs came and destroyed his entire clan, stealing their proud tusks, not allowing even for a respectful burial. Enraged, Orwell took to the coast, hounding the men in black. Though they boarded their iron fish before he could catch them, he could see the way they traveled, and so, with a deep breath of the African air he loved more than life itself, he plunged beneath the waves, and ran along the Ocean's floor toward a new, alien world.
Once there, he was tired from his journey, and so laid down beneath a tall tree for rest. But--the fiends!--they ambushed him while he slept! He awoke, and crushed many underfoot, and his tusks were lined with bodies that day, but through sheer numbers and a traitorous tranquilizing poison, they brought him to his knees, and carried him off to their stronghold.
...Thankfully, he escaped: breaking out of the belly of their giant iron snake, he rampaged his way south until he found a lonely, secluded stretch of open land. It reminded him of his homeland, and that was good. For seven days and seven nights he wept for those lost to him. He would never see them again.
And so, when the circus came and erected their giant shelters, Orwell approached them. At first, they panicked, but in time, they came to accept him. Ever since, he had stayed with the group as they toured the country, performing for humans from all walks of life. It was not a dignified life, he told me, but a simple one. One deserving of a man who could not protect those closest to him.
/////
Under his tutelage, I learned much. In the span of a single year, I became a rival even to his great strength, and began to finally integrate myself into the world of man--through my performances in the circus as "The Whild Child", I learned the human tongue, and even made several "friends". In time, though, this was our downfall. Word spread of our famed performances, which eventually attracted the very same forces that had stolen so much from both my and Orwell's lives...
One fateful day, during the highlight act of our performance, Orwell toppled to the ground. I rushed to his side, but he batted me away with his trunk as he regained his footing. It was then I saw the enormous needle protruding from the side of his head. Furthermore, I finally noticed how oddly quiet the crowd had been, and looking out past the glare of the stage lights, I saw not a normal crowd--but the Royal Canadian Mountain Police. They had come to reclaim what was not theirs! I gave a roar that would enrapture even the coldest of puma vixens, and lunged toward my sworn enemies, but my way was suddenly blocked by Orwell's hulking body, which shuddered as a second salvo of poisoned darts punctured his thick hide. I knew what he was doing, but would not accept it--he was all that I had left.
...But, against my dearest wishes, he lifted me, kicking and screaming, in his trunk, trundled outside the tent, with every step being more harried as more and more Canadian venom assaulted his old body...and threw me into the sky with all of his remaining strength.
/////
I spent the following day, and part of the night soaring through the air, tears lashing their way off my face, falling behind me into my windstream. I beat my chest, gnashed my teeth, pulled my hair, and tore my flesh in penitence: once again, I had not been able to stand up and deliver justice, as a man should.
]/////
I finally began to lose altitude as I came over the Atlantic Ocean, the same one Orwell had traveled on his road of revenge. After ricocheting off the surface of the waves for several miles, I was finally able to obtain my sea legs...or lack thereof. This was my first experience with the ocean, and I lacked Orwell's powerful elephantine lungs, so had no hope of walking back to shore. I though for sure I would perish, broken and alone, out there in the Great, Uncaring Blue...when something large and smooth wrapped itself around my leg. In a flurry of rushing water and coursing foam, I was pulled under, and found myself face to face with a truly gigantic creature--at least ten times the size of my now-deceased master! It's hundred arms grabbed me from all sides and tore at me, intent on breaking me open like some crude chestnut. But I would not have this. There was still much evil for me to cleanse in this world, and so I held off the monster's fatal embrace, making my body as steel. Apparently surprised at this turn of events, the leviathan brought me to the surface, and, in what seemed the blink of an eye, brought me to a nearby, remote and uninhabited island.
I learned the kraken's name: Jormungandr, and since then (this was roughly four months ago, mind) have been peacefully enjoying my time on the same island, which I have named "Chief Mendez's Island". As I have not yet been able to communicate effectively with Jormungandr (and indeed, he rarely is around to attempt communication with), I have had nothing to do with myself but lie around, tend the fertile land of Chief Mendez's Island, and hang out on SWF with all my pals (using my wind-powered laptop made of sand and hermit crabs).
But one day soon, I will taste revenge. I will hunt down the red-leaf'd demons that stole my parents from me, and I will tear them limb from limb with my bear hands. The Earth will run red with blood. The accumulated filth of all their murder will foam up about their waists and all those bastards will look up and shout "Save us!"...
...and I will look down, and whisper "No."
/////
Aside from the kraken (whom I now reside with), all of my parents have at one point tried to devour me alive. Only constant vigilance and devotion to my martial studies have kept me alive this long.
Yes, it has been a harrowing journey. But I have survived. And I am all the stronger for it.
/////
I was born to a drug-addled mother, who callously tossed me into a nearby dumpster after birthing me. So, alone, riddled with various drugs of all kinds, and cold, I did the only thing I could do: I cried.
I soon realized, however, that crying wasn't helping my situation, and I was rapidly coming ever closer to a cold, frozen death. Knowing this, I proceeded to physically beat the drugs out of my bloodstream with my tiny, yet powerful fists. I then ate my way through the plastic roof of the dumpster I was in, and warmed myself up with a light cross-country jog.
As I reached the Rocky Mountains, I suddenly found myself surrounded by hungry wolves. I managed to crush several of their skulls, but, tired as I was from my voyage, they eventually overpowered me. My still-soft cranium was literally inside the jaws of the pack leader when my first parents: Aslan, Bagheera, and Mufasa. The three mountain lions swiftly drove away the remaining wolves, and were about to claim their reward (my broken, bloody body)...but they sensed the pure, unfiltered greatness present within me, and, rather than consuming me, placed me on their shoulders and carried me back to their mountainside cave.
And so, for the next three years, I was raised in the most wild reaches of the Rocky Mountain Range, learning the ways of the world: hunting and preying on the weak, emitting feral screams to attract a mate, being only active near dusk and dawn, and (perhaps most importantly) being a combat helicopter.
However, it was not meant to be. One day, my adopted parents were all cruelly shot by local hunters. Only Mufasa managed to limp back to our cave, where I cradled him in my small, but already powerful arms, tears of pure love rolling down my cheeks. I believe I gave him some level of solace in his final moments.
The next day, I assassinated every man, woman and child in the area who has or had ever owned a hunting license, a rifle, camouflage pants, or who had in their life used the word "sport" in reference to the cold, inhuman act of taking another living thing's life for nothing but the sheer, barbaric thrill.
And so, with nothing left for me in the Rockies, I continued on in my quest, turning north, and eventually making my way to the Canadian outback.
/////
One day, I was casually eating my fill of the Caribou herd I had, moments before, brought down using nothing but a single pebble, when a large Grizzly Bear approached me, obviously looking for his next meal. I stood my ground, and as he approached, so did I.
During our epic, mortal struggle, the sheer force of will present within me contacted the bear's spirit, and instantly, we knew each other. While tending my fresh gouge wounds in a nearby stream, I learned my new parent's name: Wojtek. He had been the subject of several Canadian Government-funded experiments, resulting in him being bereft in a total, unending state of starvation; no matter how much Wojtek ate, he never could satiate himself. So, compassion filling my tiny, four-year frame, I devoted myself to helping him.
And so I hunted. Over the course of the next seven years, I made myself known across the country as "The Windigo", though of course, I was only a small boy at this time. Of course, I was uneducated in the ways of numbers, so had no notion at the time of how many animals I defeated in single combat for Wojtek's sake, but looking back, I would say...anywhere from five to seventy-eight hundred thousand.
At the end of this bloody, noble trail lay the Canadian Scientist's Headquarters, also known as "Mount Villainy". I climbed the jagged, sulfurous cliffs of that accursed rock for five days, never resting--for below me was Wojtek, barely alive and on his own: I had to do this as fast as possible. I infiltrated their foul lair, and found the anitdote to the illness afflicting my pitiable foster father. However, the Canadians discovered me on my way out, and I was forced into combat against an elite sect of Canada's greatest fighters: the Royal Canadian Mountain Police. When all was said and done, I limped out of the laboratory, bullet and saber wounds all across my battered body. One had even managed to gouge out one of my eyes with a hook mounted on a stump, where I presume a hand once was.
Despite my great cause, I found I could not maintain consciousness any longer. As I crested the summit, I passed out, cursing myself for failing at the task set before me...
/////
...Yet soon, I awoke: a cool breeze awakening me from my rest. I felt beneath me, and my hand touched against enormous, silken feathers. Yes, I was being held aloft on the back of a tremendous golden eagle. I reached out with my pure, most bare of emotions to the creature, telling her of Wojtek's plight.
...But, to my utter despair, she informed me that Wojtek had perished at the base of Mount Villainy. Her name was Aquila, and her nine siblings, Corvus, Flint, Cygnus, Huginn and Muginn, Simurgh, Mynah, and Old Great Auk, were on their way to Wojtek's aid on the command of the Bird King, Phoenix. But alas and alack, they arrived too late. Perhaps due to my leading him around the countryside, he was without the aid of the birdfolk.
I have always...blamed myself for that, I suppose.
With nothing to be done for poor Wojtek, I swore vengeance against the Royal Canadian Mountain Police, and continued East with my new, feathered family.
/////
I did not stay with the eagles for long, though. As we were flying over Tennesee, Huginn and Muginn attempted to steal the eyes from my sockets as I slept atop Old Great Auk's back. They held no alleigance to me or my journey, and so I do not blame them for this: it is only the natural law that when a thing is hungry, it must eat.
...However, it is also the way of the world that only the strongest survive. And so, reacting like barbed lightning, I arose, and tore the tongues from my attacker's gizzards, sending them both into uncontrollable, pain-induced free falls. I could immediately tell how well this went over with the other birds, and so I leapt from Auk's wing, pummeting to the ground hundreds of miles below me.
It is never a good idea to let oneself be surrounded by wrathful servants of the Bird King.
Handily, I had learned much from Aquila of the ways of flight, and though I possessed no wings, I used my knowledge to directionally influence myself toward a giant red and white speck, miles below me. As I reached terminal velocity, and the terrible inertia began to peel the very flesh from my bones, I again could not hold out, and I saw black.
When I awoke, I was staring up into the murderous eyes of an enormous African Elephant, or loxodonta africana, as they say in the West. Before he had the chance to gore or trample me, I sprung to my feet and delivered a kick so fierce it could shatter the trunk of a full-grown Redwood tree (and indeed, during my time in the North, it had done so, on several occasions) to the beast's head...but to my complete amazement, it bucked me away but with a brush of it's head! Suddenly and horrifyingly, I knew fear. For the first time in my life, I truly did not know whether I would be the victor of this contest of strength.
...Amazingly, though I no longer held any conception of victory, the thing did not approach me. It merely eyed me up, from head to toe several times, then, deciding something, turned to leave. With this relief, I examined my surroundings for the first time since arriving in this foreign locale. I discovered I had landed on the top of a giant circus tent, which would explain how all my bones were not of dust at this point. But I had little time to ponder the past, as my immortal warrior's soul was calling to me.
Thus, I was trained. My master, Orwell, was a fine teacher indeed. Raised on the barren plains of the Savannah, he had been born weak and alone, much like myself. He had spent most of his time there migrating from herd to herd, never fully accepted, and often physically assaulted for his ignoble origins and lowly station. But through it all, he never gave in, eventually defeating the Bull of a rival tribe in single combat, and thus becoming their herdmaster. For fifty years, he and his tribe roamed the Great Plains, conquering all and sparing none in their paths. He sired countless calves, and those he did not approve of were swiftly exiled. Like me, he held dearly to the Ways of the World. However, one day, while he was away on an expedition, black-suited men with loud, booming sticks and red, maple leaves on their backs came and destroyed his entire clan, stealing their proud tusks, not allowing even for a respectful burial. Enraged, Orwell took to the coast, hounding the men in black. Though they boarded their iron fish before he could catch them, he could see the way they traveled, and so, with a deep breath of the African air he loved more than life itself, he plunged beneath the waves, and ran along the Ocean's floor toward a new, alien world.
Once there, he was tired from his journey, and so laid down beneath a tall tree for rest. But--the fiends!--they ambushed him while he slept! He awoke, and crushed many underfoot, and his tusks were lined with bodies that day, but through sheer numbers and a traitorous tranquilizing poison, they brought him to his knees, and carried him off to their stronghold.
...Thankfully, he escaped: breaking out of the belly of their giant iron snake, he rampaged his way south until he found a lonely, secluded stretch of open land. It reminded him of his homeland, and that was good. For seven days and seven nights he wept for those lost to him. He would never see them again.
And so, when the circus came and erected their giant shelters, Orwell approached them. At first, they panicked, but in time, they came to accept him. Ever since, he had stayed with the group as they toured the country, performing for humans from all walks of life. It was not a dignified life, he told me, but a simple one. One deserving of a man who could not protect those closest to him.
/////
Under his tutelage, I learned much. In the span of a single year, I became a rival even to his great strength, and began to finally integrate myself into the world of man--through my performances in the circus as "The Whild Child", I learned the human tongue, and even made several "friends". In time, though, this was our downfall. Word spread of our famed performances, which eventually attracted the very same forces that had stolen so much from both my and Orwell's lives...
One fateful day, during the highlight act of our performance, Orwell toppled to the ground. I rushed to his side, but he batted me away with his trunk as he regained his footing. It was then I saw the enormous needle protruding from the side of his head. Furthermore, I finally noticed how oddly quiet the crowd had been, and looking out past the glare of the stage lights, I saw not a normal crowd--but the Royal Canadian Mountain Police. They had come to reclaim what was not theirs! I gave a roar that would enrapture even the coldest of puma vixens, and lunged toward my sworn enemies, but my way was suddenly blocked by Orwell's hulking body, which shuddered as a second salvo of poisoned darts punctured his thick hide. I knew what he was doing, but would not accept it--he was all that I had left.
...But, against my dearest wishes, he lifted me, kicking and screaming, in his trunk, trundled outside the tent, with every step being more harried as more and more Canadian venom assaulted his old body...and threw me into the sky with all of his remaining strength.
/////
I spent the following day, and part of the night soaring through the air, tears lashing their way off my face, falling behind me into my windstream. I beat my chest, gnashed my teeth, pulled my hair, and tore my flesh in penitence: once again, I had not been able to stand up and deliver justice, as a man should.
]/////
I finally began to lose altitude as I came over the Atlantic Ocean, the same one Orwell had traveled on his road of revenge. After ricocheting off the surface of the waves for several miles, I was finally able to obtain my sea legs...or lack thereof. This was my first experience with the ocean, and I lacked Orwell's powerful elephantine lungs, so had no hope of walking back to shore. I though for sure I would perish, broken and alone, out there in the Great, Uncaring Blue...when something large and smooth wrapped itself around my leg. In a flurry of rushing water and coursing foam, I was pulled under, and found myself face to face with a truly gigantic creature--at least ten times the size of my now-deceased master! It's hundred arms grabbed me from all sides and tore at me, intent on breaking me open like some crude chestnut. But I would not have this. There was still much evil for me to cleanse in this world, and so I held off the monster's fatal embrace, making my body as steel. Apparently surprised at this turn of events, the leviathan brought me to the surface, and, in what seemed the blink of an eye, brought me to a nearby, remote and uninhabited island.
I learned the kraken's name: Jormungandr, and since then (this was roughly four months ago, mind) have been peacefully enjoying my time on the same island, which I have named "Chief Mendez's Island". As I have not yet been able to communicate effectively with Jormungandr (and indeed, he rarely is around to attempt communication with), I have had nothing to do with myself but lie around, tend the fertile land of Chief Mendez's Island, and hang out on SWF with all my pals (using my wind-powered laptop made of sand and hermit crabs).
But one day soon, I will taste revenge. I will hunt down the red-leaf'd demons that stole my parents from me, and I will tear them limb from limb with my bear hands. The Earth will run red with blood. The accumulated filth of all their murder will foam up about their waists and all those bastards will look up and shout "Save us!"...
...and I will look down, and whisper "No."
/////
Aside from the kraken (whom I now reside with), all of my parents have at one point tried to devour me alive. Only constant vigilance and devotion to my martial studies have kept me alive this long.
Yes, it has been a harrowing journey. But I have survived. And I am all the stronger for it.
/////
I was born to a drug-addled mother, who callously tossed me into a nearby dumpster after birthing me. So, alone, riddled with various drugs of all kinds, and cold, I did the only thing I could do: I cried.
I soon realized, however, that crying wasn't helping my situation, and I was rapidly coming ever closer to a cold, frozen death. Knowing this, I proceeded to physically beat the drugs out of my bloodstream with my tiny, yet powerful fists. I then ate my way through the plastic roof of the dumpster I was in, and warmed myself up with a light cross-country jog.
As I reached the Rocky Mountains, I suddenly found myself surrounded by hungry wolves. I managed to crush several of their skulls, but, tired as I was from my voyage, they eventually overpowered me. My still-soft cranium was literally inside the jaws of the pack leader when my first parents: Aslan, Bagheera, and Mufasa. The three mountain lions swiftly drove away the remaining wolves, and were about to claim their reward (my broken, bloody body)...but they sensed the pure, unfiltered greatness present within me, and, rather than consuming me, placed me on their shoulders and carried me back to their mountainside cave.
And so, for the next three years, I was raised in the most wild reaches of the Rocky Mountain Range, learning the ways of the world: hunting and preying on the weak, emitting feral screams to attract a mate, being only active near dusk and dawn, and (perhaps most importantly) being a combat helicopter.
However, it was not meant to be. One day, my adopted parents were all cruelly shot by local hunters. Only Mufasa managed to limp back to our cave, where I cradled him in my small, but already powerful arms, tears of pure love rolling down my cheeks. I believe I gave him some level of solace in his final moments.
The next day, I assassinated every man, woman and child in the area who has or had ever owned a hunting license, a rifle, camouflage pants, or who had in their life used the word "sport" in reference to the cold, inhuman act of taking another living thing's life for nothing but the sheer, barbaric thrill.
And so, with nothing left for me in the Rockies, I continued on in my quest, turning north, and eventually making my way to the Canadian outback.
/////
One day, I was casually eating my fill of the Caribou herd I had, moments before, brought down using nothing but a single pebble, when a large Grizzly Bear approached me, obviously looking for his next meal. I stood my ground, and as he approached, so did I.
During our epic, mortal struggle, the sheer force of will present within me contacted the bear's spirit, and instantly, we knew each other. While tending my fresh gouge wounds in a nearby stream, I learned my new parent's name: Wojtek. He had been the subject of several Canadian Government-funded experiments, resulting in him being bereft in a total, unending state of starvation; no matter how much Wojtek ate, he never could satiate himself. So, compassion filling my tiny, four-year frame, I devoted myself to helping him.
And so I hunted. Over the course of the next seven years, I made myself known across the country as "The Windigo", though of course, I was only a small boy at this time. Of course, I was uneducated in the ways of numbers, so had no notion at the time of how many animals I defeated in single combat for Wojtek's sake, but looking back, I would say...anywhere from five to seventy-eight hundred thousand.
At the end of this bloody, noble trail lay the Canadian Scientist's Headquarters, also known as "Mount Villainy". I climbed the jagged, sulfurous cliffs of that accursed rock for five days, never resting--for below me was Wojtek, barely alive and on his own: I had to do this as fast as possible. I infiltrated their foul lair, and found the anitdote to the illness afflicting my pitiable foster father. However, the Canadians discovered me on my way out, and I was forced into combat against an elite sect of Canada's greatest fighters: the Royal Canadian Mountain Police. When all was said and done, I limped out of the laboratory, bullet and saber wounds all across my battered body. One had even managed to gouge out one of my eyes with a hook mounted on a stump, where I presume a hand once was.
Despite my great cause, I found I could not maintain consciousness any longer. As I crested the summit, I passed out, cursing myself for failing at the task set before me...
/////
...Yet soon, I awoke: a cool breeze awakening me from my rest. I felt beneath me, and my hand touched against enormous, silken feathers. Yes, I was being held aloft on the back of a tremendous golden eagle. I reached out with my pure, most bare of emotions to the creature, telling her of Wojtek's plight.
...But, to my utter despair, she informed me that Wojtek had perished at the base of Mount Villainy. Her name was Aquila, and her nine siblings, Corvus, Flint, Cygnus, Huginn and Muginn, Simurgh, Mynah, and Old Great Auk, were on their way to Wojtek's aid on the command of the Bird King, Phoenix. But alas and alack, they arrived too late. Perhaps due to my leading him around the countryside, he was without the aid of the birdfolk.
I have always...blamed myself for that, I suppose.
With nothing to be done for poor Wojtek, I swore vengeance against the Royal Canadian Mountain Police, and continued East with my new, feathered family.
/////
I did not stay with the eagles for long, though. As we were flying over Tennesee, Huginn and Muginn attempted to steal the eyes from my sockets as I slept atop Old Great Auk's back. They held no alleigance to me or my journey, and so I do not blame them for this: it is only the natural law that when a thing is hungry, it must eat.
...However, it is also the way of the world that only the strongest survive. And so, reacting like barbed lightning, I arose, and tore the tongues from my attacker's gizzards, sending them both into uncontrollable, pain-induced free falls. I could immediately tell how well this went over with the other birds, and so I leapt from Auk's wing, pummeting to the ground hundreds of miles below me.
It is never a good idea to let oneself be surrounded by wrathful servants of the Bird King.
Handily, I had learned much from Aquila of the ways of flight, and though I possessed no wings, I used my knowledge to directionally influence myself toward a giant red and white speck, miles below me. As I reached terminal velocity, and the terrible inertia began to peel the very flesh from my bones, I again could not hold out, and I saw black.
When I awoke, I was staring up into the murderous eyes of an enormous African Elephant, or loxodonta africana, as they say in the West. Before he had the chance to gore or trample me, I sprung to my feet and delivered a kick so fierce it could shatter the trunk of a full-grown Redwood tree (and indeed, during my time in the North, it had done so, on several occasions) to the beast's head...but to my complete amazement, it bucked me away but with a brush of it's head! Suddenly and horrifyingly, I knew fear. For the first time in my life, I truly did not know whether I would be the victor of this contest of strength.
...Amazingly, though I no longer held any conception of victory, the thing did not approach me. It merely eyed me up, from head to toe several times, then, deciding something, turned to leave. With this relief, I examined my surroundings for the first time since arriving in this foreign locale. I discovered I had landed on the top of a giant circus tent, which would explain how all my bones were not of dust at this point. But I had little time to ponder the past, as my immortal warrior's soul was calling to me.
Thus, I was trained. My master, Orwell, was a fine teacher indeed. Raised on the barren plains of the Savannah, he had been born weak and alone, much like myself. He had spent most of his time there migrating from herd to herd, never fully accepted, and often physically assaulted for his ignoble origins and lowly station. But through it all, he never gave in, eventually defeating the Bull of a rival tribe in single combat, and thus becoming their herdmaster. For fifty years, he and his tribe roamed the Great Plains, conquering all and sparing none in their paths. He sired countless calves, and those he did not approve of were swiftly exiled. Like me, he held dearly to the Ways of the World. However, one day, while he was away on an expedition, black-suited men with loud, booming sticks and red, maple leaves on their backs came and destroyed his entire clan, stealing their proud tusks, not allowing even for a respectful burial. Enraged, Orwell took to the coast, hounding the men in black. Though they boarded their iron fish before he could catch them, he could see the way they traveled, and so, with a deep breath of the African air he loved more than life itself, he plunged beneath the waves, and ran along the Ocean's floor toward a new, alien world.
Once there, he was tired from his journey, and so laid down beneath a tall tree for rest. But--the fiends!--they ambushed him while he slept! He awoke, and crushed many underfoot, and his tusks were lined with bodies that day, but through sheer numbers and a traitorous tranquilizing poison, they brought him to his knees, and carried him off to their stronghold.
...Thankfully, he escaped: breaking out of the belly of their giant iron snake, he rampaged his way south until he found a lonely, secluded stretch of open land. It reminded him of his homeland, and that was good. For seven days and seven nights he wept for those lost to him. He would never see them again.
And so, when the circus came and erected their giant shelters, Orwell approached them. At first, they panicked, but in time, they came to accept him. Ever since, he had stayed with the group as they toured the country, performing for humans from all walks of life. It was not a dignified life, he told me, but a simple one. One deserving of a man who could not protect those closest to him.
/////
Under his tutelage, I learned much. In the span of a single year, I became a rival even to his great strength, and began to finally integrate myself into the world of man--through my performances in the circus as "The Whild Child", I learned the human tongue, and even made several "friends". In time, though, this was our downfall. Word spread of our famed performances, which eventually attracted the very same forces that had stolen so much from both my and Orwell's lives...
One fateful day, during the highlight act of our performance, Orwell toppled to the ground. I rushed to his side, but he batted me away with his trunk as he regained his footing. It was then I saw the enormous needle protruding from the side of his head. Furthermore, I finally noticed how oddly quiet the crowd had been, and looking out past the glare of the stage lights, I saw not a normal crowd--but the Royal Canadian Mountain Police. They had come to reclaim what was not theirs! I gave a roar that would enrapture even the coldest of puma vixens, and lunged toward my sworn enemies, but my way was suddenly blocked by Orwell's hulking body, which shuddered as a second salvo of poisoned darts punctured his thick hide. I knew what he was doing, but would not accept it--he was all that I had left.
...But, against my dearest wishes, he lifted me, kicking and screaming, in his trunk, trundled outside the tent, with every step being more harried as more and more Canadian venom assaulted his old body...and threw me into the sky with all of his remaining strength.
/////
I spent the following day, and part of the night soaring through the air, tears lashing their way off my face, falling behind me into my windstream. I beat my chest, gnashed my teeth, pulled my hair, and tore my flesh in penitence: once again, I had not been able to stand up and deliver justice, as a man should.
]/////
I finally began to lose altitude as I came over the Atlantic Ocean, the same one Orwell had traveled on his road of revenge. After ricocheting off the surface of the waves for several miles, I was finally able to obtain my sea legs...or lack thereof. This was my first experience with the ocean, and I lacked Orwell's powerful elephantine lungs, so had no hope of walking back to shore. I though for sure I would perish, broken and alone, out there in the Great, Uncaring Blue...when something large and smooth wrapped itself around my leg. In a flurry of rushing water and coursing foam, I was pulled under, and found myself face to face with a truly gigantic creature--at least ten times the size of my now-deceased master! It's hundred arms grabbed me from all sides and tore at me, intent on breaking me open like some crude chestnut. But I would not have this. There was still much evil for me to cleanse in this world, and so I held off the monster's fatal embrace, making my body as steel. Apparently surprised at this turn of events, the leviathan brought me to the surface, and, in what seemed the blink of an eye, brought me to a nearby, remote and uninhabited island.
I learned the kraken's name: Jormungandr, and since then (this was roughly four months ago, mind) have been peacefully enjoying my time on the same island, which I have named "Chief Mendez's Island". As I have not yet been able to communicate effectively with Jormungandr (and indeed, he rarely is around to attempt communication with), I have had nothing to do with myself but lie around, tend the fertile land of Chief Mendez's Island, and hang out on SWF with all my pals (using my wind-powered laptop made of sand and hermit crabs).
But one day soon, I will taste revenge. I will hunt down the red-leaf'd demons that stole my parents from me, and I will tear them limb from limb with my bear hands. The Earth will run red with blood. The accumulated filth of all their murder will foam up about their waists and all those bastards will look up and shout "Save us!"...
...and I will look down, and whisper "No."
/////
Aside from the kraken (whom I now reside with), all of my parents have at one point tried to devour me alive. Only constant vigilance and devotion to my martial studies have kept me alive this long.
Yes, it has been a harrowing journey. But I have survived. And I am all the stronger for it.
/////
I was born to a drug-addled mother, who callously tossed me into a nearby dumpster after birthing me. So, alone, riddled with various drugs of all kinds, and cold, I did the only thing I could do: I cried.
I soon realized, however, that crying wasn't helping my situation, and I was rapidly coming ever closer to a cold, frozen death. Knowing this, I proceeded to physically beat the drugs out of my bloodstream with my tiny, yet powerful fists. I then ate my way through the plastic roof of the dumpster I was in, and warmed myself up with a light cross-country jog.
As I reached the Rocky Mountains, I suddenly found myself surrounded by hungry wolves. I managed to crush several of their skulls, but, tired as I was from my voyage, they eventually overpowered me. My still-soft cranium was literally inside the jaws of the pack leader when my first parents: Aslan, Bagheera, and Mufasa. The three mountain lions swiftly drove away the remaining wolves, and were about to claim their reward (my broken, bloody body)...but they sensed the pure, unfiltered greatness present within me, and, rather than consuming me, placed me on their shoulders and carried me back to their mountainside cave.
And so, for the next three years, I was raised in the most wild reaches of the Rocky Mountain Range, learning the ways of the world: hunting and preying on the weak, emitting feral screams to attract a mate, being only active near dusk and dawn, and (perhaps most importantly) being a combat helicopter.
However, it was not meant to be. One day, my adopted parents were all cruelly shot by local hunters. Only Mufasa managed to limp back to our cave, where I cradled him in my small, but already powerful arms, tears of pure love rolling down my cheeks. I believe I gave him some level of solace in his final moments.
The next day, I assassinated every man, woman and child in the area who has or had ever owned a hunting license, a rifle, camouflage pants, or who had in their life used the word "sport" in reference to the cold, inhuman act of taking another living thing's life for nothing but the sheer, barbaric thrill.
And so, with nothing left for me in the Rockies, I continued on in my quest, turning north, and eventually making my way to the Canadian outback.
/////
One day, I was casually eating my fill of the Caribou herd I had, moments before, brought down using nothing but a single pebble, when a large Grizzly Bear approached me, obviously looking for his next meal. I stood my ground, and as he approached, so did I.
During our epic, mortal struggle, the sheer force of will present within me contacted the bear's spirit, and instantly, we knew each other. While tending my fresh gouge wounds in a nearby stream, I learned my new parent's name: Wojtek. He had been the subject of several Canadian Government-funded experiments, resulting in him being bereft in a total, unending state of starvation; no matter how much Wojtek ate, he never could satiate himself. So, compassion filling my tiny, four-year frame, I devoted myself to helping him.
And so I hunted. Over the course of the next seven years, I made myself known across the country as "The Windigo", though of course, I was only a small boy at this time. Of course, I was uneducated in the ways of numbers, so had no notion at the time of how many animals I defeated in single combat for Wojtek's sake, but looking back, I would say...anywhere from five to seventy-eight hundred thousand.
At the end of this bloody, noble trail lay the Canadian Scientist's Headquarters, also known as "Mount Villainy". I climbed the jagged, sulfurous cliffs of that accursed rock for five days, never resting--for below me was Wojtek, barely alive and on his own: I had to do this as fast as possible. I infiltrated their foul lair, and found the anitdote to the illness afflicting my pitiable foster father. However, the Canadians discovered me on my way out, and I was forced into combat against an elite sect of Canada's greatest fighters: the Royal Canadian Mountain Police. When all was said and done, I limped out of the laboratory, bullet and saber wounds all across my battered body. One had even managed to gouge out one of my eyes with a hook mounted on a stump, where I presume a hand once was.
Despite my great cause, I found I could not maintain consciousness any longer. As I crested the summit, I passed out, cursing myself for failing at the task set before me...
/////
...Yet soon, I awoke: a cool breeze awakening me from my rest. I felt beneath me, and my hand touched against enormous, silken feathers. Yes, I was being held aloft on the back of a tremendous golden eagle. I reached out with my pure, most bare of emotions to the creature, telling her of Wojtek's plight.
...But, to my utter despair, she informed me that Wojtek had perished at the base of Mount Villainy. Her name was Aquila, and her nine siblings, Corvus, Flint, Cygnus, Huginn and Muginn, Simurgh, Mynah, and Old Great Auk, were on their way to Wojtek's aid on the command of the Bird King, Phoenix. But alas and alack, they arrived too late. Perhaps due to my leading him around the countryside, he was without the aid of the birdfolk.
I have always...blamed myself for that, I suppose.
With nothing to be done for poor Wojtek, I swore vengeance against the Royal Canadian Mountain Police, and continued East with my new, feathered family.
/////
I did not stay with the eagles for long, though. As we were flying over Tennesee, Huginn and Muginn attempted to steal the eyes from my sockets as I slept atop Old Great Auk's back. They held no alleigance to me or my journey, and so I do not blame them for this: it is only the natural law that when a thing is hungry, it must eat.
...However, it is also the way of the world that only the strongest survive. And so, reacting like barbed lightning, I arose, and tore the tongues from my attacker's gizzards, sending them both into uncontrollable, pain-induced free falls. I could immediately tell how well this went over with the other birds, and so I leapt from Auk's wing, pummeting to the ground hundreds of miles below me.
It is never a good idea to let oneself be surrounded by wrathful servants of the Bird King.
Handily, I had learned much from Aquila of the ways of flight, and though I possessed no wings, I used my knowledge to directionally influence myself toward a giant red and white speck, miles below me. As I reached terminal velocity, and the terrible inertia began to peel the very flesh from my bones, I again could not hold out, and I saw black.
When I awoke, I was staring up into the murderous eyes of an enormous African Elephant, or loxodonta africana, as they say in the West. Before he had the chance to gore or trample me, I sprung to my feet and delivered a kick so fierce it could shatter the trunk of a full-grown Redwood tree (and indeed, during my time in the North, it had done so, on several occasions) to the beast's head...but to my complete amazement, it bucked me away but with a brush of it's head! Suddenly and horrifyingly, I knew fear. For the first time in my life, I truly did not know whether I would be the victor of this contest of strength.
...Amazingly, though I no longer held any conception of victory, the thing did not approach me. It merely eyed me up, from head to toe several times, then, deciding something, turned to leave. With this relief, I examined my surroundings for the first time since arriving in this foreign locale. I discovered I had landed on the top of a giant circus tent, which would explain how all my bones were not of dust at this point. But I had little time to ponder the past, as my immortal warrior's soul was calling to me.
Thus, I was trained. My master, Orwell, was a fine teacher indeed. Raised on the barren plains of the Savannah, he had been born weak and alone, much like myself. He had spent most of his time there migrating from herd to herd, never fully accepted, and often physically assaulted for his ignoble origins and lowly station. But through it all, he never gave in, eventually defeating the Bull of a rival tribe in single combat, and thus becoming their herdmaster. For fifty years, he and his tribe roamed the Great Plains, conquering all and sparing none in their paths. He sired countless calves, and those he did not approve of were swiftly exiled. Like me, he held dearly to the Ways of the World. However, one day, while he was away on an expedition, black-suited men with loud, booming sticks and red, maple leaves on their backs came and destroyed his entire clan, stealing their proud tusks, not allowing even for a respectful burial. Enraged, Orwell took to the coast, hounding the men in black. Though they boarded their iron fish before he could catch them, he could see the way they traveled, and so, with a deep breath of the African air he loved more than life itself, he plunged beneath the waves, and ran along the Ocean's floor toward a new, alien world.
Once there, he was tired from his journey, and so laid down beneath a tall tree for rest. But--the fiends!--they ambushed him while he slept! He awoke, and crushed many underfoot, and his tusks were lined with bodies that day, but through sheer numbers and a traitorous tranquilizing poison, they brought him to his knees, and carried him off to their stronghold.
...Thankfully, he escaped: breaking out of the belly of their giant iron snake, he rampaged his way south until he found a lonely, secluded stretch of open land. It reminded him of his homeland, and that was good. For seven days and seven nights he wept for those lost to him. He would never see them again.
And so, when the circus came and erected their giant shelters, Orwell approached them. At first, they panicked, but in time, they came to accept him. Ever since, he had stayed with the group as they toured the country, performing for humans from all walks of life. It was not a dignified life, he told me, but a simple one. One deserving of a man who could not protect those closest to him.
/////
Under his tutelage, I learned much. In the span of a single year, I became a rival even to his great strength, and began to finally integrate myself into the world of man--through my performances in the circus as "The Whild Child", I learned the human tongue, and even made several "friends". In time, though, this was our downfall. Word spread of our famed performances, which eventually attracted the very same forces that had stolen so much from both my and Orwell's lives...
One fateful day, during the highlight act of our performance, Orwell toppled to the ground. I rushed to his side, but he batted me away with his trunk as he regained his footing. It was then I saw the enormous needle protruding from the side of his head. Furthermore, I finally noticed how oddly quiet the crowd had been, and looking out past the glare of the stage lights, I saw not a normal crowd--but the Royal Canadian Mountain Police. They had come to reclaim what was not theirs! I gave a roar that would enrapture even the coldest of puma vixens, and lunged toward my sworn enemies, but my way was suddenly blocked by Orwell's hulking body, which shuddered as a second salvo of poisoned darts punctured his thick hide. I knew what he was doing, but would not accept it--he was all that I had left.
...But, against my dearest wishes, he lifted me, kicking and screaming, in his trunk, trundled outside the tent, with every step being more harried as more and more Canadian venom assaulted his old body...and threw me into the sky with all of his remaining strength.
/////
I spent the following day, and part of the night soaring through the air, tears lashing their way off my face, falling behind me into my windstream. I beat my chest, gnashed my teeth, pulled my hair, and tore my flesh in penitence: once again, I had not been able to stand up and deliver justice, as a man should.
]/////
I finally began to lose altitude as I came over the Atlantic Ocean, the same one Orwell had traveled on his road of revenge. After ricocheting off the surface of the waves for several miles, I was finally able to obtain my sea legs...or lack thereof. This was my first experience with the ocean, and I lacked Orwell's powerful elephantine lungs, so had no hope of walking back to shore. I though for sure I would perish, broken and alone, out there in the Great, Uncaring Blue...when something large and smooth wrapped itself around my leg. In a flurry of rushing water and coursing foam, I was pulled under, and found myself face to face with a truly gigantic creature--at least ten times the size of my now-deceased master! It's hundred arms grabbed me from all sides and tore at me, intent on breaking me open like some crude chestnut. But I would not have this. There was still much evil for me to cleanse in this world, and so I held off the monster's fatal embrace, making my body as steel. Apparently surprised at this turn of events, the leviathan brought me to the surface, and, in what seemed the blink of an eye, brought me to a nearby, remote and uninhabited island.
I learned the kraken's name: Jormungandr, and since then (this was roughly four months ago, mind) have been peacefully enjoying my time on the same island, which I have named "Chief Mendez's Island". As I have not yet been able to communicate effectively with Jormungandr (and indeed, he rarely is around to attempt communication with), I have had nothing to do with myself but lie around, tend the fertile land of Chief Mendez's Island, and hang out on SWF with all my pals (using my wind-powered laptop made of sand and hermit crabs).
But one day soon, I will taste revenge. I will hunt down the red-leaf'd demons that stole my parents from me, and I will tear them limb from limb with my bear hands. The Earth will run red with blood. The accumulated filth of all their murder will foam up about their waists and all those bastards will look up and shout "Save us!"...
...and I will look down, and whisper "No."
/////
Aside from the kraken (whom I now reside with), all of my parents have at one point tried to devour me alive. Only constant vigilance and devotion to my martial studies have kept me alive this long.
Yes, it has been a harrowing journey. But I have survived. And I am all the stronger for it.
/////
I was born to a drug-addled mother, who callously tossed me into a nearby dumpster after birthing me. So, alone, riddled with various drugs of all kinds, and cold, I did the only thing I could do: I cried.
I soon realized, however, that crying wasn't helping my situation, and I was rapidly coming ever closer to a cold, frozen death. Knowing this, I proceeded to physically beat the drugs out of my bloodstream with my tiny, yet powerful fists. I then ate my way through the plastic roof of the dumpster I was in, and warmed myself up with a light cross-country jog.
As I reached the Rocky Mountains, I suddenly found myself surrounded by hungry wolves. I managed to crush several of their skulls, but, tired as I was from my voyage, they eventually overpowered me. My still-soft cranium was literally inside the jaws of the pack leader when my first parents: Aslan, Bagheera, and Mufasa. The three mountain lions swiftly drove away the remaining wolves, and were about to claim their reward (my broken, bloody body)...but they sensed the pure, unfiltered greatness present within me, and, rather than consuming me, placed me on their shoulders and carried me back to their mountainside cave.
And so, for the next three years, I was raised in the most wild reaches of the Rocky Mountain Range, learning the ways of the world: hunting and preying on the weak, emitting feral screams to attract a mate, being only active near dusk and dawn, and (perhaps most importantly) being a combat helicopter.
However, it was not meant to be. One day, my adopted parents were all cruelly shot by local hunters. Only Mufasa managed to limp back to our cave, where I cradled him in my small, but already powerful arms, tears of pure love rolling down my cheeks. I believe I gave him some level of solace in his final moments.
The next day, I assassinated every man, woman and child in the area who has or had ever owned a hunting license, a rifle, camouflage pants, or who had in their life used the word "sport" in reference to the cold, inhuman act of taking another living thing's life for nothing but the sheer, barbaric thrill.
And so, with nothing left for me in the Rockies, I continued on in my quest, turning north, and eventually making my way to the Canadian outback.
/////
One day, I was casually eating my fill of the Caribou herd I had, moments before, brought down using nothing but a single pebble, when a large Grizzly Bear approached me, obviously looking for his next meal. I stood my ground, and as he approached, so did I.
During our epic, mortal struggle, the sheer force of will present within me contacted the bear's spirit, and instantly, we knew each other. While tending my fresh gouge wounds in a nearby stream, I learned my new parent's name: Wojtek. He had been the subject of several Canadian Government-funded experiments, resulting in him being bereft in a total, unending state of starvation; no matter how much Wojtek ate, he never could satiate himself. So, compassion filling my tiny, four-year frame, I devoted myself to helping him.
And so I hunted. Over the course of the next seven years, I made myself known across the country as "The Windigo", though of course, I was only a small boy at this time. Of course, I was uneducated in the ways of numbers, so had no notion at the time of how many animals I defeated in single combat for Wojtek's sake, but looking back, I would say...anywhere from five to seventy-eight hundred thousand.
At the end of this bloody, noble trail lay the Canadian Scientist's Headquarters, also known as "Mount Villainy". I climbed the jagged, sulfurous cliffs of that accursed rock for five days, never resting--for below me was Wojtek, barely alive and on his own: I had to do this as fast as possible. I infiltrated their foul lair, and found the anitdote to the illness afflicting my pitiable foster father. However, the Canadians discovered me on my way out, and I was forced into combat against an elite sect of Canada's greatest fighters: the Royal Canadian Mountain Police. When all was said and done, I limped out of the laboratory, bullet and saber wounds all across my battered body. One had even managed to gouge out one of my eyes with a hook mounted on a stump, where I presume a hand once was.
Despite my great cause, I found I could not maintain consciousness any longer. As I crested the summit, I passed out, cursing myself for failing at the task set before me...
/////
...Yet soon, I awoke: a cool breeze awakening me from my rest. I felt beneath me, and my hand touched against enormous, silken feathers. Yes, I was being held aloft on the back of a tremendous golden eagle. I reached out with my pure, most bare of emotions to the creature, telling her of Wojtek's plight.
...But, to my utter despair, she informed me that Wojtek had perished at the base of Mount Villainy. Her name was Aquila, and her nine siblings, Corvus, Flint, Cygnus, Huginn and Muginn, Simurgh, Mynah, and Old Great Auk, were on their way to Wojtek's aid on the command of the Bird King, Phoenix. But alas and alack, they arrived too late. Perhaps due to my leading him around the countryside, he was without the aid of the birdfolk.
I have always...blamed myself for that, I suppose.
With nothing to be done for poor Wojtek, I swore vengeance against the Royal Canadian Mountain Police, and continued East with my new, feathered family.
/////
I did not stay with the eagles for long, though. As we were flying over Tennesee, Huginn and Muginn attempted to steal the eyes from my sockets as I slept atop Old Great Auk's back. They held no alleigance to me or my journey, and so I do not blame them for this: it is only the natural law that when a thing is hungry, it must eat.
...However, it is also the way of the world that only the strongest survive. And so, reacting like barbed lightning, I arose, and tore the tongues from my attacker's gizzards, sending them both into uncontrollable, pain-induced free falls. I could immediately tell how well this went over with the other birds, and so I leapt from Auk's wing, pummeting to the ground hundreds of miles below me.
It is never a good idea to let oneself be surrounded by wrathful servants of the Bird King.
Handily, I had learned much from Aquila of the ways of flight, and though I possessed no wings, I used my knowledge to directionally influence myself toward a giant red and white speck, miles below me. As I reached terminal velocity, and the terrible inertia began to peel the very flesh from my bones, I again could not hold out, and I saw black.
When I awoke, I was staring up into the murderous eyes of an enormous African Elephant, or loxodonta africana, as they say in the West. Before he had the chance to gore or trample me, I sprung to my feet and delivered a kick so fierce it could shatter the trunk of a full-grown Redwood tree (and indeed, during my time in the North, it had done so, on several occasions) to the beast's head...but to my complete amazement, it bucked me away but with a brush of it's head! Suddenly and horrifyingly, I knew fear. For the first time in my life, I truly did not know whether I would be the victor of this contest of strength.
...Amazingly, though I no longer held any conception of victory, the thing did not approach me. It merely eyed me up, from head to toe several times, then, deciding something, turned to leave. With this relief, I examined my surroundings for the first time since arriving in this foreign locale. I discovered I had landed on the top of a giant circus tent, which would explain how all my bones were not of dust at this point. But I had little time to ponder the past, as my immortal warrior's soul was calling to me.
Thus, I was trained. My master, Orwell, was a fine teacher indeed. Raised on the barren plains of the Savannah, he had been born weak and alone, much like myself. He had spent most of his time there migrating from herd to herd, never fully accepted, and often physically assaulted for his ignoble origins and lowly station. But through it all, he never gave in, eventually defeating the Bull of a rival tribe in single combat, and thus becoming their herdmaster. For fifty years, he and his tribe roamed the Great Plains, conquering all and sparing none in their paths. He sired countless calves, and those he did not approve of were swiftly exiled. Like me, he held dearly to the Ways of the World. However, one day, while he was away on an expedition, black-suited men with loud, booming sticks and red, maple leaves on their backs came and destroyed his entire clan, stealing their proud tusks, not allowing even for a respectful burial. Enraged, Orwell took to the coast, hounding the men in black. Though they boarded their iron fish before he could catch them, he could see the way they traveled, and so, with a deep breath of the African air he loved more than life itself, he plunged beneath the waves, and ran along the Ocean's floor toward a new, alien world.
Once there, he was tired from his journey, and so laid down beneath a tall tree for rest. But--the fiends!--they ambushed him while he slept! He awoke, and crushed many underfoot, and his tusks were lined with bodies that day, but through sheer numbers and a traitorous tranquilizing poison, they brought him to his knees, and carried him off to their stronghold.
...Thankfully, he escaped: breaking out of the belly of their giant iron snake, he rampaged his way south until he found a lonely, secluded stretch of open land. It reminded him of his homeland, and that was good. For seven days and seven nights he wept for those lost to him. He would never see them again.
And so, when the circus came and erected their giant shelters, Orwell approached them. At first, they panicked, but in time, they came to accept him. Ever since, he had stayed with the group as they toured the country, performing for humans from all walks of life. It was not a dignified life, he told me, but a simple one. One deserving of a man who could not protect those closest to him.
/////
Under his tutelage, I learned much. In the span of a single year, I became a rival even to his great strength, and began to finally integrate myself into the world of man--through my performances in the circus as "The Whild Child", I learned the human tongue, and even made several "friends". In time, though, this was our downfall. Word spread of our famed performances, which eventually attracted the very same forces that had stolen so much from both my and Orwell's lives...
One fateful day, during the highlight act of our performance, Orwell toppled to the ground. I rushed to his side, but he batted me away with his trunk as he regained his footing. It was then I saw the enormous needle protruding from the side of his head. Furthermore, I finally noticed how oddly quiet the crowd had been, and looking out past the glare of the stage lights, I saw not a normal crowd--but the Royal Canadian Mountain Police. They had come to reclaim what was not theirs! I gave a roar that would enrapture even the coldest of puma vixens, and lunged toward my sworn enemies, but my way was suddenly blocked by Orwell's hulking body, which shuddered as a second salvo of poisoned darts punctured his thick hide. I knew what he was doing, but would not accept it--he was all that I had left.
...But, against my dearest wishes, he lifted me, kicking and screaming, in his trunk, trundled outside the tent, with every step being more harried as more and more Canadian venom assaulted his old body...and threw me into the sky with all of his remaining strength.
/////
I spent the following day, and part of the night soaring through the air, tears lashing their way off my face, falling behind me into my windstream. I beat my chest, gnashed my teeth, pulled my hair, and tore my flesh in penitence: once again, I had not been able to stand up and deliver justice, as a man should.
]/////
I finally began to lose altitude as I came over the Atlantic Ocean, the same one Orwell had traveled on his road of revenge. After ricocheting off the surface of the waves for several miles, I was finally able to obtain my sea legs...or lack thereof. This was my first experience with the ocean, and I lacked Orwell's powerful elephantine lungs, so had no hope of walking back to shore. I though for sure I would perish, broken and alone, out there in the Great, Uncaring Blue...when something large and smooth wrapped itself around my leg. In a flurry of rushing water and coursing foam, I was pulled under, and found myself face to face with a truly gigantic creature--at least ten times the size of my now-deceased master! It's hundred arms grabbed me from all sides and tore at me, intent on breaking me open like some crude chestnut. But I would not have this. There was still much evil for me to cleanse in this world, and so I held off the monster's fatal embrace, making my body as steel. Apparently surprised at this turn of events, the leviathan brought me to the surface, and, in what seemed the blink of an eye, brought me to a nearby, remote and uninhabited island.
I learned the kraken's name: Jormungandr, and since then (this was roughly four months ago, mind) have been peacefully enjoying my time on the same island, which I have named "Chief Mendez's Island". As I have not yet been able to communicate effectively with Jormungandr (and indeed, he rarely is around to attempt communication with), I have had nothing to do with myself but lie around, tend the fertile land of Chief Mendez's Island, and hang out on SWF with all my pals (using my wind-powered laptop made of sand and hermit crabs).
But one day soon, I will taste revenge. I will hunt down the red-leaf'd demons that stole my parents from me, and I will tear them limb from limb with my bear hands. The Earth will run red with blood. The accumulated filth of all their murder will foam up about their waists and all those bastards will look up and shout "Save us!"...
...and I will look down, and whisper "No."
/////
Aside from the kraken (whom I now reside with), all of my parents have at one point tried to devour me alive. Only constant vigilance and devotion to my martial studies have kept me alive this long.
Yes, it has been a harrowing journey. But I have survived. And I am all the stronger for it.
/////
I was born to a drug-addled mother, who callously tossed me into a nearby dumpster after birthing me. So, alone, riddled with various drugs of all kinds, and cold, I did the only thing I could do: I cried.
I soon realized, however, that crying wasn't helping my situation, and I was rapidly coming ever closer to a cold, frozen death. Knowing this, I proceeded to physically beat the drugs out of my bloodstream with my tiny, yet powerful fists. I then ate my way through the plastic roof of the dumpster I was in, and warmed myself up with a light cross-country jog.
As I reached the Rocky Mountains, I suddenly found myself surrounded by hungry wolves. I managed to crush several of their skulls, but, tired as I was from my voyage, they eventually overpowered me. My still-soft cranium was literally inside the jaws of the pack leader when my first parents: Aslan, Bagheera, and Mufasa. The three mountain lions swiftly drove away the remaining wolves, and were about to claim their reward (my broken, bloody body)...but they sensed the pure, unfiltered greatness present within me, and, rather than consuming me, placed me on their shoulders and carried me back to their mountainside cave.
And so, for the next three years, I was raised in the most wild reaches of the Rocky Mountain Range, learning the ways of the world: hunting and preying on the weak, emitting feral screams to attract a mate, being only active near dusk and dawn, and (perhaps most importantly) being a combat helicopter.
However, it was not meant to be. One day, my adopted parents were all cruelly shot by local hunters. Only Mufasa managed to limp back to our cave, where I cradled him in my small, but already powerful arms, tears of pure love rolling down my cheeks. I believe I gave him some level of solace in his final moments.
The next day, I assassinated every man, woman and child in the area who has or had ever owned a hunting license, a rifle, camouflage pants, or who had in their life used the word "sport" in reference to the cold, inhuman act of taking another living thing's life for nothing but the sheer, barbaric thrill.
And so, with nothing left for me in the Rockies, I continued on in my quest, turning north, and eventually making my way to the Canadian outback.
/////
One day, I was casually eating my fill of the Caribou herd I had, moments before, brought down using nothing but a single pebble, when a large Grizzly Bear approached me, obviously looking for his next meal. I stood my ground, and as he approached, so did I.
During our epic, mortal struggle, the sheer force of will present within me contacted the bear's spirit, and instantly, we knew each other. While tending my fresh gouge wounds in a nearby stream, I learned my new parent's name: Wojtek. He had been the subject of several Canadian Government-funded experiments, resulting in him being bereft in a total, unending state of starvation; no matter how much Wojtek ate, he never could satiate himself. So, compassion filling my tiny, four-year frame, I devoted myself to helping him.
And so I hunted. Over the course of the next seven years, I made myself known across the country as "The Windigo", though of course, I was only a small boy at this time. Of course, I was uneducated in the ways of numbers, so had no notion at the time of how many animals I defeated in single combat for Wojtek's sake, but looking back, I would say...anywhere from five to seventy-eight hundred thousand.
At the end of this bloody, noble trail lay the Canadian Scientist's Headquarters, also known as "Mount Villainy". I climbed the jagged, sulfurous cliffs of that accursed rock for five days, never resting--for below me was Wojtek, barely alive and on his own: I had to do this as fast as possible. I infiltrated their foul lair, and found the anitdote to the illness afflicting my pitiable foster father. However, the Canadians discovered me on my way out, and I was forced into combat against an elite sect of Canada's greatest fighters: the Royal Canadian Mountain Police. When all was said and done, I limped out of the laboratory, bullet and saber wounds all across my battered body. One had even managed to gouge out one of my eyes with a hook mounted on a stump, where I presume a hand once was.
Despite my great cause, I found I could not maintain consciousness any longer. As I crested the summit, I passed out, cursing myself for failing at the task set before me...
/////
...Yet soon, I awoke: a cool breeze awakening me from my rest. I felt beneath me, and my hand touched against enormous, silken feathers. Yes, I was being held aloft on the back of a tremendous golden eagle. I reached out with my pure, most bare of emotions to the creature, telling her of Wojtek's plight.
...But, to my utter despair, she informed me that Wojtek had perished at the base of Mount Villainy. Her name was Aquila, and her nine siblings, Corvus, Flint, Cygnus, Huginn and Muginn, Simurgh, Mynah, and Old Great Auk, were on their way to Wojtek's aid on the command of the Bird King, Phoenix. But alas and alack, they arrived too late. Perhaps due to my leading him around the countryside, he was without the aid of the birdfolk.
I have always...blamed myself for that, I suppose.
With nothing to be done for poor Wojtek, I swore vengeance against the Royal Canadian Mountain Police, and continued East with my new, feathered family.
/////
I did not stay with the eagles for long, though. As we were flying over Tennesee, Huginn and Muginn attempted to steal the eyes from my sockets as I slept atop Old Great Auk's back. They held no alleigance to me or my journey, and so I do not blame them for this: it is only the natural law that when a thing is hungry, it must eat.
...However, it is also the way of the world that only the strongest survive. And so, reacting like barbed lightning, I arose, and tore the tongues from my attacker's gizzards, sending them both into uncontrollable, pain-induced free falls. I could immediately tell how well this went over with the other birds, and so I leapt from Auk's wing, pummeting to the ground hundreds of miles below me.
It is never a good idea to let oneself be surrounded by wrathful servants of the Bird King.
Handily, I had learned much from Aquila of the ways of flight, and though I possessed no wings, I used my knowledge to directionally influence myself toward a giant red and white speck, miles below me. As I reached terminal velocity, and the terrible inertia began to peel the very flesh from my bones, I again could not hold out, and I saw black.
When I awoke, I was staring up into the murderous eyes of an enormous African Elephant, or loxodonta africana, as they say in the West. Before he had the chance to gore or trample me, I sprung to my feet and delivered a kick so fierce it could shatter the trunk of a full-grown Redwood tree (and indeed, during my time in the North, it had done so, on several occasions) to the beast's head...but to my complete amazement, it bucked me away but with a brush of it's head! Suddenly and horrifyingly, I knew fear. For the first time in my life, I truly did not know whether I would be the victor of this contest of strength.
...Amazingly, though I no longer held any conception of victory, the thing did not approach me. It merely eyed me up, from head to toe several times, then, deciding something, turned to leave. With this relief, I examined my surroundings for the first time since arriving in this foreign locale. I discovered I had landed on the top of a giant circus tent, which would explain how all my bones were not of dust at this point. But I had little time to ponder the past, as my immortal warrior's soul was calling to me.
Thus, I was trained. My master, Orwell, was a fine teacher indeed. Raised on the barren plains of the Savannah, he had been born weak and alone, much like myself. He had spent most of his time there migrating from herd to herd, never fully accepted, and often physically assaulted for his ignoble origins and lowly station. But through it all, he never gave in, eventually defeating the Bull of a rival tribe in single combat, and thus becoming their herdmaster. For fifty years, he and his tribe roamed the Great Plains, conquering all and sparing none in their paths. He sired countless calves, and those he did not approve of were swiftly exiled. Like me, he held dearly to the Ways of the World. However, one day, while he was away on an expedition, black-suited men with loud, booming sticks and red, maple leaves on their backs came and destroyed his entire clan, stealing their proud tusks, not allowing even for a respectful burial. Enraged, Orwell took to the coast, hounding the men in black. Though they boarded their iron fish before he could catch them, he could see the way they traveled, and so, with a deep breath of the African air he loved more than life itself, he plunged beneath the waves, and ran along the Ocean's floor toward a new, alien world.
Once there, he was tired from his journey, and so laid down beneath a tall tree for rest. But--the fiends!--they ambushed him while he slept! He awoke, and crushed many underfoot, and his tusks were lined with bodies that day, but through sheer numbers and a traitorous tranquilizing poison, they brought him to his knees, and carried him off to their stronghold.
...Thankfully, he escaped: breaking out of the belly of their giant iron snake, he rampaged his way south until he found a lonely, secluded stretch of open land. It reminded him of his homeland, and that was good. For seven days and seven nights he wept for those lost to him. He would never see them again.
And so, when the circus came and erected their giant shelters, Orwell approached them. At first, they panicked, but in time, they came to accept him. Ever since, he had stayed with the group as they toured the country, performing for humans from all walks of life. It was not a dignified life, he told me, but a simple one. One deserving of a man who could not protect those closest to him.
/////
Under his tutelage, I learned much. In the span of a single year, I became a rival even to his great strength, and began to finally integrate myself into the world of man--through my performances in the circus as "The Whild Child", I learned the human tongue, and even made several "friends". In time, though, this was our downfall. Word spread of our famed performances, which eventually attracted the very same forces that had stolen so much from both my and Orwell's lives...
One fateful day, during the highlight act of our performance, Orwell toppled to the ground. I rushed to his side, but he batted me away with his trunk as he regained his footing. It was then I saw the enormous needle protruding from the side of his head. Furthermore, I finally noticed how oddly quiet the crowd had been, and looking out past the glare of the stage lights, I saw not a normal crowd--but the Royal Canadian Mountain Police. They had come to reclaim what was not theirs! I gave a roar that would enrapture even the coldest of puma vixens, and lunged toward my sworn enemies, but my way was suddenly blocked by Orwell's hulking body, which shuddered as a second salvo of poisoned darts punctured his thick hide. I knew what he was doing, but would not accept it--he was all that I had left.
...But, against my dearest wishes, he lifted me, kicking and screaming, in his trunk, trundled outside the tent, with every step being more harried as more and more Canadian venom assaulted his old body...and threw me into the sky with all of his remaining strength.
/////
I spent the following day, and part of the night soaring through the air, tears lashing their way off my face, falling behind me into my windstream. I beat my chest, gnashed my teeth, pulled my hair, and tore my flesh in penitence: once again, I had not been able to stand up and deliver justice, as a man should.
]/////
I finally began to lose altitude as I came over the Atlantic Ocean, the same one Orwell had traveled on his road of revenge. After ricocheting off the surface of the waves for several miles, I was finally able to obtain my sea legs...or lack thereof. This was my first experience with the ocean, and I lacked Orwell's powerful elephantine lungs, so had no hope of walking back to shore. I though for sure I would perish, broken and alone, out there in the Great, Uncaring Blue...when something large and smooth wrapped itself around my leg. In a flurry of rushing water and coursing foam, I was pulled under, and found myself face to face with a truly gigantic creature--at least ten times the size of my now-deceased master! It's hundred arms grabbed me from all sides and tore at me, intent on breaking me open like some crude chestnut. But I would not have this. There was still much evil for me to cleanse in this world, and so I held off the monster's fatal embrace, making my body as steel. Apparently surprised at this turn of events, the leviathan brought me to the surface, and, in what seemed the blink of an eye, brought me to a nearby, remote and uninhabited island.
I learned the kraken's name: Jormungandr, and since then (this was roughly four months ago, mind) have been peacefully enjoying my time on the same island, which I have named "Chief Mendez's Island". As I have not yet been able to communicate effectively with Jormungandr (and indeed, he rarely is around to attempt communication with), I have had nothing to do with myself but lie around, tend the fertile land of Chief Mendez's Island, and hang out on SWF with all my pals (using my wind-powered laptop made of sand and hermit crabs).
But one day soon, I will taste revenge. I will hunt down the red-leaf'd demons that stole my parents from me, and I will tear them limb from limb with my bear hands. The Earth will run red with blood. The accumulated filth of all their murder will foam up about their waists and all those bastards will look up and shout "Save us!"...
...and I will look down, and whisper "No."
/////
Aside from the kraken (whom I now reside with), all of my parents have at one point tried to devour me alive. Only constant vigilance and devotion to my martial studies have kept me alive this long.
Yes, it has been a harrowing journey. But I have survived. And I am all the stronger for it.
/////
I was born to a drug-addled mother, who callously tossed me into a nearby dumpster after birthing me. So, alone, riddled with various drugs of all kinds, and cold, I did the only thing I could do: I cried.
I soon realized, however, that crying wasn't helping my situation, and I was rapidly coming ever closer to a cold, frozen death. Knowing this, I proceeded to physically beat the drugs out of my bloodstream with my tiny, yet powerful fists. I then ate my way through the plastic roof of the dumpster I was in, and warmed myself up with a light cross-country jog.
As I reached the Rocky Mountains, I suddenly found myself surrounded by hungry wolves. I managed to crush several of their skulls, but, tired as I was from my voyage, they eventually overpowered me. My still-soft cranium was literally inside the jaws of the pack leader when my first parents: Aslan, Bagheera, and Mufasa. The three mountain lions swiftly drove away the remaining wolves, and were about to claim their reward (my broken, bloody body)...but they sensed the pure, unfiltered greatness present within me, and, rather than consuming me, placed me on their shoulders and carried me back to their mountainside cave.
And so, for the next three years, I was raised in the most wild reaches of the Rocky Mountain Range, learning the ways of the world: hunting and preying on the weak, emitting feral screams to attract a mate, being only active near dusk and dawn, and (perhaps most importantly) being a combat helicopter.
However, it was not meant to be. One day, my adopted parents were all cruelly shot by local hunters. Only Mufasa managed to limp back to our cave, where I cradled him in my small, but already powerful arms, tears of pure love rolling down my cheeks. I believe I gave him some level of solace in his final moments.
The next day, I assassinated every man, woman and child in the area who has or had ever owned a hunting license, a rifle, camouflage pants, or who had in their life used the word "sport" in reference to the cold, inhuman act of taking another living thing's life for nothing but the sheer, barbaric thrill.
And so, with nothing left for me in the Rockies, I continued on in my quest, turning north, and eventually making my way to the Canadian outback.
/////
One day, I was casually eating my fill of the Caribou herd I had, moments before, brought down using nothing but a single pebble, when a large Grizzly Bear approached me, obviously looking for his next meal. I stood my ground, and as he approached, so did I.
During our epic, mortal struggle, the sheer force of will present within me contacted the bear's spirit, and instantly, we knew each other. While tending my fresh gouge wounds in a nearby stream, I learned my new parent's name: Wojtek. He had been the subject of several Canadian Government-funded experiments, resulting in him being bereft in a total, unending state of starvation; no matter how much Wojtek ate, he never could satiate himself. So, compassion filling my tiny, four-year frame, I devoted myself to helping him.
And so I hunted. Over the course of the next seven years, I made myself known across the country as "The Windigo", though of course, I was only a small boy at this time. Of course, I was uneducated in the ways of numbers, so had no notion at the time of how many animals I defeated in single combat for Wojtek's sake, but looking back, I would say...anywhere from five to seventy-eight hundred thousand.
At the end of this bloody, noble trail lay the Canadian Scientist's Headquarters, also known as "Mount Villainy". I climbed the jagged, sulfurous cliffs of that accursed rock for five days, never resting--for below me was Wojtek, barely alive and on his own: I had to do this as fast as possible. I infiltrated their foul lair, and found the anitdote to the illness afflicting my pitiable foster father. However, the Canadians discovered me on my way out, and I was forced into combat against an elite sect of Canada's greatest fighters: the Royal Canadian Mountain Police. When all was said and done, I limped out of the laboratory, bullet and saber wounds all across my battered body. One had even managed to gouge out one of my eyes with a hook mounted on a stump, where I presume a hand once was.
Despite my great cause, I found I could not maintain consciousness any longer. As I crested the summit, I passed out, cursing myself for failing at the task set before me...
/////
...Yet soon, I awoke: a cool breeze awakening me from my rest. I felt beneath me, and my hand touched against enormous, silken feathers. Yes, I was being held aloft on the back of a tremendous golden eagle. I reached out with my pure, most bare of emotions to the creature, telling her of Wojtek's plight.
...But, to my utter despair, she informed me that Wojtek had perished at the base of Mount Villainy. Her name was Aquila, and her nine siblings, Corvus, Flint, Cygnus, Huginn and Muginn, Simurgh, Mynah, and Old Great Auk, were on their way to Wojtek's aid on the command of the Bird King, Phoenix. But alas and alack, they arrived too late. Perhaps due to my leading him around the countryside, he was without the aid of the birdfolk.
I have always...blamed myself for that, I suppose.
With nothing to be done for poor Wojtek, I swore vengeance against the Royal Canadian Mountain Police, and continued East with my new, feathered family.
/////
I did not stay with the eagles for long, though. As we were flying over Tennesee, Huginn and Muginn attempted to steal the eyes from my sockets as I slept atop Old Great Auk's back. They held no alleigance to me or my journey, and so I do not blame them for this: it is only the natural law that when a thing is hungry, it must eat.
...However, it is also the way of the world that only the strongest survive. And so, reacting like barbed lightning, I arose, and tore the tongues from my attacker's gizzards, sending them both into uncontrollable, pain-induced free falls. I could immediately tell how well this went over with the other birds, and so I leapt from Auk's wing, pummeting to the ground hundreds of miles below me.
It is never a good idea to let oneself be surrounded by wrathful servants of the Bird King.
Handily, I had learned much from Aquila of the ways of flight, and though I possessed no wings, I used my knowledge to directionally influence myself toward a giant red and white speck, miles below me. As I reached terminal velocity, and the terrible inertia began to peel the very flesh from my bones, I again could not hold out, and I saw black.
When I awoke, I was staring up into the murderous eyes of an enormous African Elephant, or loxodonta africana, as they say in the West. Before he had the chance to gore or trample me, I sprung to my feet and delivered a kick so fierce it could shatter the trunk of a full-grown Redwood tree (and indeed, during my time in the North, it had done so, on several occasions) to the beast's head...but to my complete amazement, it bucked me away but with a brush of it's head! Suddenly and horrifyingly, I knew fear. For the first time in my life, I truly did not know whether I would be the victor of this contest of strength.
...Amazingly, though I no longer held any conception of victory, the thing did not approach me. It merely eyed me up, from head to toe several times, then, deciding something, turned to leave. With this relief, I examined my surroundings for the first time since arriving in this foreign locale. I discovered I had landed on the top of a giant circus tent, which would explain how all my bones were not of dust at this point. But I had little time to ponder the past, as my immortal warrior's soul was calling to me.
Thus, I was trained. My master, Orwell, was a fine teacher indeed. Raised on the barren plains of the Savannah, he had been born weak and alone, much like myself. He had spent most of his time there migrating from herd to herd, never fully accepted, and often physically assaulted for his ignoble origins and lowly station. But through it all, he never gave in, eventually defeating the Bull of a rival tribe in single combat, and thus becoming their herdmaster. For fifty years, he and his tribe roamed the Great Plains, conquering all and sparing none in their paths. He sired countless calves, and those he did not approve of were swiftly exiled. Like me, he held dearly to the Ways of the World. However, one day, while he was away on an expedition, black-suited men with loud, booming sticks and red, maple leaves on their backs came and destroyed his entire clan, stealing their proud tusks, not allowing even for a respectful burial. Enraged, Orwell took to the coast, hounding the men in black. Though they boarded their iron fish before he could catch them, he could see the way they traveled, and so, with a deep breath of the African air he loved more than life itself, he plunged beneath the waves, and ran along the Ocean's floor toward a new, alien world.
Once there, he was tired from his journey, and so laid down beneath a tall tree for rest. But--the fiends!--they ambushed him while he slept! He awoke, and crushed many underfoot, and his tusks were lined with bodies that day, but through sheer numbers and a traitorous tranquilizing poison, they brought him to his knees, and carried him off to their stronghold.
...Thankfully, he escaped: breaking out of the belly of their giant iron snake, he rampaged his way south until he found a lonely, secluded stretch of open land. It reminded him of his homeland, and that was good. For seven days and seven nights he wept for those lost to him. He would never see them again.
And so, when the circus came and erected their giant shelters, Orwell approached them. At first, they panicked, but in time, they came to accept him. Ever since, he had stayed with the group as they toured the country, performing for humans from all walks of life. It was not a dignified life, he told me, but a simple one. One deserving of a man who could not protect those closest to him.
/////
Under his tutelage, I learned much. In the span of a single year, I became a rival even to his great strength, and began to finally integrate myself into the world of man--through my performances in the circus as "The Whild Child", I learned the human tongue, and even made several "friends". In time, though, this was our downfall. Word spread of our famed performances, which eventually attracted the very same forces that had stolen so much from both my and Orwell's lives...
One fateful day, during the highlight act of our performance, Orwell toppled to the ground. I rushed to his side, but he batted me away with his trunk as he regained his footing. It was then I saw the enormous needle protruding from the side of his head. Furthermore, I finally noticed how oddly quiet the crowd had been, and looking out past the glare of the stage lights, I saw not a normal crowd--but the Royal Canadian Mountain Police. They had come to reclaim what was not theirs! I gave a roar that would enrapture even the coldest of puma vixens, and lunged toward my sworn enemies, but my way was suddenly blocked by Orwell's hulking body, which shuddered as a second salvo of poisoned darts punctured his thick hide. I knew what he was doing, but would not accept it--he was all that I had left.
...But, against my dearest wishes, he lifted me, kicking and screaming, in his trunk, trundled outside the tent, with every step being more harried as more and more Canadian venom assaulted his old body...and threw me into the sky with all of his remaining strength.
/////
I spent the following day, and part of the night soaring through the air, tears lashing their way off my face, falling behind me into my windstream. I beat my chest, gnashed my teeth, pulled my hair, and tore my flesh in penitence: once again, I had not been able to stand up and deliver justice, as a man should.
]/////
I finally began to lose altitude as I came over the Atlantic Ocean, the same one Orwell had traveled on his road of revenge. After ricocheting off the surface of the waves for several miles, I was finally able to obtain my sea legs...or lack thereof. This was my first experience with the ocean, and I lacked Orwell's powerful elephantine lungs, so had no hope of walking back to shore. I though for sure I would perish, broken and alone, out there in the Great, Uncaring Blue...when something large and smooth wrapped itself around my leg. In a flurry of rushing water and coursing foam, I was pulled under, and found myself face to face with a truly gigantic creature--at least ten times the size of my now-deceased master! It's hundred arms grabbed me from all sides and tore at me, intent on breaking me open like some crude chestnut. But I would not have this. There was still much evil for me to cleanse in this world, and so I held off the monster's fatal embrace, making my body as steel. Apparently surprised at this turn of events, the leviathan brought me to the surface, and, in what seemed the blink of an eye, brought me to a nearby, remote and uninhabited island.
I learned the kraken's name: Jormungandr, and since then (this was roughly four months ago, mind) have been peacefully enjoying my time on the same island, which I have named "Chief Mendez's Island". As I have not yet been able to communicate effectively with Jormungandr (and indeed, he rarely is around to attempt communication with), I have had nothing to do with myself but lie around, tend the fertile land of Chief Mendez's Island, and hang out on SWF with all my pals (using my wind-powered laptop made of sand and hermit crabs).
But one day soon, I will taste revenge. I will hunt down the red-leaf'd demons that stole my parents from me, and I will tear them limb from limb with my bear hands. The Earth will run red with blood. The accumulated filth of all their murder will foam up about their waists and all those bastards will look up and shout "Save us!"...
...and I will look down, and whisper "No."
/////
Aside from the kraken (whom I now reside with), all of my parents have at one point tried to devour me alive. Only constant vigilance and devotion to my martial studies have kept me alive this long.
Yes, it has been a harrowing journey. But I have survived. And I am all the stronger for it.
...Ayup, lots of hackers going around here lately...
>.>
<.<
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