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Previously on With Great Power Quest: http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive.html?tags=With%20Great%20Power%20Quest
and Rites of the Red Wizard Quest: https://archived.moe/qst/thread/5043544/#q5045606
Down we went into the dark, and into a terrible heat. It was a tropical warmth, the air thick and humid. I was uncomfortable in my jacket, but kept it on. The only light to see from was the fire in my fist. It cast long shadows down the descending stairs. The walls were stone, at first. So were the stairs. Then the next step beneath my foot became sticky, and the light gleamed a halo off the grool that dripped from the walls. A gloved finger slid along the surface just long enough for me to not want to ever touch it again.
It was fleshy, and wet.
"Fuck this," Grit muttered behind me as we descended into the living nightmare that was the Flesh-Smith's lair.
I don't know how far down we went, but the time we reached the foot of the stairs, we were breathing hard through the baking heat. Ahead of me Ayane's neck glistened, a sheen in her black hair. When the Living Dead Girl looked back, she wasn't frightened, her cheeks and her neck glowing from sweat. Her dark eyes were hard, determined, ready to meet the monster head on.
Putting a hand to her shoulder, I pulled myself in front.
If anyone was going to slay this dragon, it wasn't going to be here.
"We're nearly done with this," Dusk whispered to her sister, squeezing comfort Ayane didn't need into her palm. The sinister mask had dropped from Dusk's voice, for the first time she had the tone of a woman scared for her little sister.
Ayane nodded. "One way or another," she said, more fatalistic than I'd like.
Down a corridor we came to a closed door. A door red and veined, and in its center, a face.
I knew it, or I recognized it. Ferrara, a capo for the Outfit. He had come on bended knee to beg the Flesh-Smith for help in the gang war tearing up Chicago. He'd found out the hard way who he was dealing with. Weeping eyes closed shut, the gangster sobbed in his prison. Poor bastard.
When he opened those horrified eyes, tears running down his wretched face, he gasped.
"Get outta here, go, run," he sobbed, "You don't want what's in here. Not even you, Hotspur."
"Yes, we do," Dusk said, an obsidian talon raised.
He squeezed his eyes shut and began to sob again. The once powerful Chicago gangster, now warped into a grotesque door knocker.
"You don't want this, you don't, you don't..."
>Open the door to confront what lies beyond
>Cut through the door and put Ferrara out of his misery
and Rites of the Red Wizard Quest: https://archived.moe/qst/thread/5043544/#q5045606
Down we went into the dark, and into a terrible heat. It was a tropical warmth, the air thick and humid. I was uncomfortable in my jacket, but kept it on. The only light to see from was the fire in my fist. It cast long shadows down the descending stairs. The walls were stone, at first. So were the stairs. Then the next step beneath my foot became sticky, and the light gleamed a halo off the grool that dripped from the walls. A gloved finger slid along the surface just long enough for me to not want to ever touch it again.
It was fleshy, and wet.
"Fuck this," Grit muttered behind me as we descended into the living nightmare that was the Flesh-Smith's lair.
I don't know how far down we went, but the time we reached the foot of the stairs, we were breathing hard through the baking heat. Ahead of me Ayane's neck glistened, a sheen in her black hair. When the Living Dead Girl looked back, she wasn't frightened, her cheeks and her neck glowing from sweat. Her dark eyes were hard, determined, ready to meet the monster head on.
Putting a hand to her shoulder, I pulled myself in front.
If anyone was going to slay this dragon, it wasn't going to be here.
"We're nearly done with this," Dusk whispered to her sister, squeezing comfort Ayane didn't need into her palm. The sinister mask had dropped from Dusk's voice, for the first time she had the tone of a woman scared for her little sister.
Ayane nodded. "One way or another," she said, more fatalistic than I'd like.
Down a corridor we came to a closed door. A door red and veined, and in its center, a face.
I knew it, or I recognized it. Ferrara, a capo for the Outfit. He had come on bended knee to beg the Flesh-Smith for help in the gang war tearing up Chicago. He'd found out the hard way who he was dealing with. Weeping eyes closed shut, the gangster sobbed in his prison. Poor bastard.
When he opened those horrified eyes, tears running down his wretched face, he gasped.
"Get outta here, go, run," he sobbed, "You don't want what's in here. Not even you, Hotspur."
"Yes, we do," Dusk said, an obsidian talon raised.
He squeezed his eyes shut and began to sob again. The once powerful Chicago gangster, now warped into a grotesque door knocker.
"You don't want this, you don't, you don't..."
>Open the door to confront what lies beyond
>Cut through the door and put Ferrara out of his misery
