Quoted By:
In hindsight, robbing the mansion of a self-proclaimed mad god may not have been the most brilliant idea you’ve ever conceived of.
The plan was simple: sneak in, abscond with a few artifacts of great power, and then sneak back out. Simple, clean, and efficient, a targeted blow to an arrogant tyrant who was much too wealthy for his own good. It’s not as if your schemes never hit snags—no, they more than often happened to, but the offending situations were more often than not scenarios you could realistically overcome. You were swift on your feet, fairly clever, and could disarm anyone in seconds thanks to your power. Whenever you were matched up against haughty nobles and complacent merchants caught unawares, you were nigh unstoppable, a veritable specter to their wandering eyes.
Against this so-called deity? Not so much.
The moment he laid eyes upon your person, you were assailed by a wave of sheer, immutable POWER. Instantly, you were forced to your knees by the pressure, teeth chattering and bones creaking as it felt like the very world itself was smushing you with its thumb. You push against the marble floor below in an effort to keep yourself from toppling over altogether, but it is a demanding struggle indeed, and your poor arms just can’t seem to stop shaking; for a moment, you’re worried they’ll dislocate right then and there. It is at that moment you realize, in a distinct impression of shock and horror, that you are severely and utterly outmatched. No amount of crafty, clever cunning or quick reflexes could unearth you from this ungodly trap, and you suspect it may indeed mark the last time you ever glimpse the light.
But it’s never hopeless, or so the remnants of the Thieves Guild taught you years ago. So even now, even as you are being crushed into the pale stone by an intangible force leagues beyond anything you could have previously imagined, you observe, you think, you plan. You see the man—Lord Cull—grinning at his gaggle of cultists and sycophants, pointing and laughing and gloating at the sheer depth of your failure. There he was, clad in silk, gold-threaded robes stained in bright magenta, an obsidian crown laying atop his pristinely-groomed hair. His pearly whites were almost blinding, and his supreme smugness fuels the last dregs of your defiance, feeding into the dim flames of your willpower constrained by the pressure weighing you down.
Think. Plan. Adapt.
(1/5)
