Here's my response to the Onslaught Saga, which is taking on the guise of a communally-written novel...
...scant seconds later, he lay there on the turf, sword arm severed, groins and vitals a mangled ruin, and his ally, Bloodsong, just a buzz of angry static in his head. How this pock-marked cripple, this one-handed old beggar managed to bring him, Onslaught, the great Humakti, He who had brought Death to so many, down amazed him; this was not how he thought It would End.
Onslaught gritted his metallic teeth and managed what he hoped was a sardonic, mocking grin. "Finish me, tattoo-face," he said, shuddering, and choking up a blackish mixture of blood, gall and bile. "Finish me", he said, looking at his unlikely nemesis in the face. Caught under the collar of Onslaught's breastplate, tattoo-face held him up with his metal hook, but the scimitar in his good hand that was already cutting into the Humakti's bared neck, began to shake. As sudden as it came upon him, the maniac look of bloodlust left his eyes, to be replaced by one of distress and horror; suddenly comprehending what he'd done and what he *wanted* to do. With a great moan, tattoo-face dropped Onslaught back into the dust, and, taking the scimitar blade in his hand, grasped and broke it in two. Cradling his bloodied fingers, he ran back the woman, rocking her corpse in his lap and sobbing.
Beside them lay a purple clump of hair, bloodied and bedraggled now, but still decked with a spray of lustrous pearls. Even with his vision now fading in and out of focus, Onslaught noticed for the first time that it was indeed a wig that he knocked off her with that first, sudden, punch in the face, before he got out his blade and did the job on her properly.
She was a Healer woman - so what? Onslaught had killed them before; it was usually cheap, quick and easy. This one had the temerity to tell him, Onslaught, that pissing on that stand of narl flowers she was gathering fouled their use as healing agents. Of course it did!
With tattoo-face blubbering like a baby, Onslaught saw his chance and desperately tried to roll himself over, lurching with his shield arm towards the distant sword. The effort was too much for him, and, raging against the blackness that overcome his brain, he fell into a swoon...
It may have been moments, it may have been hours - Onslaught shuddered and blinked away the great spots of rain that revived him. The lower half of his body was numb; inside his head throbbed as if a knife had gone in, and twisted
itself inside his very mind. A small reptilian creature was feeding on his entrails.
Standing above him were two men, clad in identical red cloaks but otherwise as
unalike as chalk and cheese. The taller one, bald, with rounded shoulders, looked down at him, nodding knowingly and stroking a tiny tuft of beard below his bottom lip. A brownish glow, eminating from a small statuette he held in his hands, faded away as if magic had come from it, and had done its work.
"Yes, this is him, the assassin at Two-Ridge; the killer of Tink".
Onslaught spat back at him, gurgling with rage, calling out to Bloodsong, trying to summon a spell. The bald man simply gestured at him dismissively, and he slumped back, the will to fight ebbing out of him like his blood and bodily juices were already doing. He waved his hand again, this time with a look of exasperation and, pulling away one last gobbet with its toothy beak, the reptile flew up and landed on his shoulder, tilting its head back to swallow the bloodied chunk.
The other man, iron-clad, less tall, but with far more imposing looks and manner, stared down at Onslaught with unconcealed disdain. "This man besmirches all that we Yanafarli and our brothers-in-arms the Humakti hold dear. That he would strike down in cold blood the Princess, an unarmed and gentle healer, shows that he is both base and coward. Wanton murder, death without purpose or reason shows no courage, no honour. Only when Death serves Life does it take its rightful place in the universe..."
"For Two-Ridge and Tink alone this one deserves to die..."
"But Death is what he craves now, he thinks he's earnt it, and it's something he savours and relishes", replied the man in iron. "No, a more fitting punishment awaits him, one that will give him time to reflect on his deeds, one that may give his life purpose. Seven years with the Xaroni..."
"Perhaps as an oarsman in the Black Fleet?"
"Perhaps - should be sufficient time, if he be man enough to take it. Come, we must get the Princess back to the temple quick smart, and stop our friend yonder punishing himself for his momentary lack of self-control - he's missing enough fingers as it is. Here comes Eslas with the wyverns, we must be away!"
[Lest I be accused of killing off another person's character (not cricket in my book), note that although I'm sure the Coders took Onslaught with them when they flew back to Boldhome to resurrect Anderida, whether or not he eventually made it to the Black Galleys is up to you...]
>Onslaught's Guide to Genertela - Part 1
>
>In the courses of my travels I have encoutered many strange and
>insane places, places where war is a curse and killing is frowned upon.
>Naturally I avoided such lunacy and concentrated on the good
>stuff. Here is are reports from my journal on places I liked:
>
...[deleted: yet more tedious accounts of Mr O killing everything
in his path]...
>
>Sword Onslaught, currently in Pavis
>Next week we'll look at Dagori Inkarth and Prax. Keep those sword
>sharp fun lovers!
I for one vote Thanks, but No Thanks.
(One of things that attracted me to RQ in the first place, way back then, was that even a very powerful character could be slain by that lucky arrow, that lucky sword stroke. It heightens the risk, the danger, the excitement in any combat, in a way That Other Game(tm) that everyone was playing at the time couldn't, and still can't. I realise that Onslaught's adventures are somehow meant to be 'amusing', but the character himself seems to me to resemble the blandest sterotype of your 25th, 33rd, (99th?) level Fighter (Lawful Evil of course) rather than a 'real' Gloranthan, and reading about him slaughtering everything in his path is about as interesting as listening to a group of velvet-caped tossers recounting how they 'cleaned out the complete Halls of the Fire Giants series' with their party of 39th level Fighter/Magic User/Half-elven Bards*.)
*two friends of mine actually had to endure this when they met with Avalon Hill's RQ editor at the time (c.1991).
Cheers
MOB
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