Ep. 66- The Defeat of Present Tense

No editorial blog caught somewhere between storyteller and confessional.

No apologies for the delay or promises for future releases.

Simple an acknowledgment-

The Queen’s Arc is at its end.

We rejoin Alice in present time and tense.

It feels like rejoining an old friend.

But first, we must let the Queen finish her business.

We have witnessed her rise and fall. Her aspirations for the throne, prowess in battle and ascension from outsider to Successor- and her descent to has-been. These memories playing out in her mind as she stands in the Valley of Bones awaiting a nemesis she has fought twice before.

We left our Queen standing in this valley at the mercy of her memories many months ago.

We rejoin her now.

And soon, Alice.

ext. valley of the bones morning present

The flashback has ended.

The Queen of Swords stands just as we left her- ragged black dress, wineskins dangling from her belts, the giant iron blade at the ready, her porcelain mask defiant in the harsh rays of the morning sun. The Castaway Queen.

Opposite of her is Justice, just as before- blindfolded, ivory white armor, cauldrons bearing the crest of the Sun. He carries his own sweihander, which he holds at a point with a single arm- the same arm he once used to endure the windstorm of the Queen of Swords. The arm no longer bears flesh, but rather, is a twisting of wood and iron, artificial.

From within the folds of his cotton tunic he withdraws a dingy copper crown- the Crown of Swords. He tosses the crown into the dirt between them, a few rolling clinks later arriving within arm’s reach of the Queen.

JUSTICE
Take it.

The Queen does not move.

JUSTICE
TAKE IT.

The Queen quietly raises her massive buster blade, her workmanlike stance shifting toward Justice.

JUSTICE
Still, the beast struggles, too ignorant to strive for anything beyond itself.

Justice brings his own blade up to a guard position.

QUEEN OF SWORDS
The arm is new.

JUSTICE
With every meeting you extract yet another piece of flesh. With every meeting it is replaced with something even stronger. I should thank you.

QUEEN OF SWORDS
In the House of Swords we were taught a swordsman’s arm is as valuable as a child.

JUSTICE
If you are suggesting this is personal- a living god is above such pettiness. Thank whatever master you serve that you have not earned the true enmity of the gods- it is a fearful thing.

QUEEN OF SWORDS
Spare me your castigations, failson of Swords. I am no child and you are not so great as a god. What you mistake for strength is an absence of spirit- and you will leave this meeting with sum total of parts less than what you brought in.

JUSTICE
There is no Child Queen to stay my hand this time. You served your role. You could have chosen to remain an animal in the wilderness, aspiring for nothing beyond existence. But instead you bind yourself to our affairs once more. The patience of my lord has run its course- there will be no mercy. Your life is in my hands.

QUEEN OF SWORDS
Hand. You mean hand, remember? The other one belongs to me.

The Queen stabs her own blade into the ground. She smirks, chuckling to herself as she pulls one of the wineskins up to her lips, tilting her mask back as she thirstily drinks the fajro juice. She wipes the trickles of the red libation from her chin as she lowers the skin. Steam begins to hiss out from her mouth as she replaces the porcelain mask.

JUSTICE
Even across this great valley I could hear you, same as before. Same stride. Same stance. But…different. The crownless Queen, who relies not on her strange power, but on her drink.

The Queen picks up her own blade, her stance wavering for a moment- not of drunkenness, but of barely controlled nervousness. It is the first crack in her façade.

Justice lowers his guard for a moment, his hand going toward his blindfold. The Queen launches herself forward, the momentum of her imbibed sway carrying her toward her target like a torpedo. She cries out with a shout, jumping into the air, buster raised overhead she brings the blade forward in an overhead, downward swing. Justice easily brings his own blade up from the neutral position to block it.

JUSTICE
Honestly, won’t even let me take off my blindfold. You must really doubt yourself-

But as the buster locks into the guard of the zweihander the Queen lets go of her blade, allowing the upward momentum of the block to carry her own blade into the air, unwielded. She drops to the ground and performs a sweeping kick which knocks Justice off balance, causing him to fall to the desert valley floor of bones and rubble.

The buster returns from the air, landing point down in the earth next to his face.

QUEEN OF SWORDS
Don’t insult me, house traitor, with a lack of effort. This is a serious battle.

The Queen grabs the hilt of her sword, using it as a focal point to propel herself upward into the air, then upside down, then back on her feet on the other side of the blade, her momentum used to rip the blade from the earth. The Queen shifts the blade behind her and charges forward, readying the massive blade for an overhead windmill strike on her downed foe.

Justice raises a hand, green air arcana forming around it- and with a snap of energy release a violent burst of air strikes the Queen of Swords, lauching her straight backward, her back smacking into the rock of the cliff walls behind her. The Queen falls forward, her blade propping her up.

Justice rises from his posiion, green air arcana aiding his ease of movement.

JUSTICE
Make no mistake, Queen of Nothing. You still contend with a living god. Every moment this draws out, it does so at my leisure.

Justice raches out a hand, the air arcana creating an aura- and his zweihander returns to his grip. He switches his stance, the blade pointing upright.

JUSTICE
I’ve always wondered- is that a sword- or a crutch?

The Queen, still propping herself up with her own blade, yanks it up from the ground, casting it over her shoulder. She swaggers into an uneven stance, her free hand swiftly uncapping another wineskin and jutting it straight up to her lips, a quick headjerk back dislodging her mask to allow for the drink. She takes several aggressive pulls, deflating the skin before letting it fall. She whips her head forward, the mask pulling back over her face as she lets out an animalistic howl. She lifts the buster from her shoulder and bolts right, crouching low in an exaggerated crouch ruin, the blade practically dangling behind her, whipping from her unwilling, taut arm as she cuts and dashes through the dirt, creating an angle to attack Justice from.

Justice remains still. He takes a deep breath. Green air arcana flares from beneath his blindfold.

The Queen breaks out of her run leaping toward Justice. Justice twirls the point of the zweihander toward the Queen. The Queen, anticipating the parry, reaches out her left hand, grabbing his shoulder. She once again propels herself, flipping over his head she reaches his exposed side and with a pirouette arcs her flailing blade toward Justice, who efficiently takes two steps, his hand shifting up on the guard of his own blade and firmly blocking the blow, scattering the erratic sword and flinging the Queen backward.

The Queen regains her footing and uncaps yet another wineskin, her breath misting from beneath her mask. This time she makes no pause, jamming the skin up beneath her mask, squeezing it so the fajro juice gushes out. The veins of her hands and neck become more pronounced and flashes of red arcana energy present from behind her mask.

JUSTICE
I can hear it- Fajro-juice, coursing through veins, a burnout imminent. 3 skins in and we’ve hardly finished 3 sequences. You will burn yourself from the inside out. This is the false power you resort to in absence of what you forfeited.

QUEEN OF SWORDS
(snorts)
Tch. My strength is what it is. You stole it. I replaced it. I’m not so proud, now, as to pretend that earned strength is any different from what is acquired. My drink is no different from your false god.

JUSTICE
Ironic, that you began this fight calling me a failson, when you yourself have abandoned even the basic tenants of our once proud house. I see now you are not worthy of my rivalry. How your dead queen must weep in the afterlife for having chose so poorly for a successor.

The Queen arcs her head back and lets out yet one more howl. She charges Justice, who remains in his defensive position. The Queen carries the buster up in her right hand, tosses the massive blade’s hilt to her left, her right fist striking Justice’s chin, her arm extending forward before jutting back in a piston-like elbow to his nose. During this movement, Justice’s hands do not waver and his zweihander’s parrying hooks catch the buster blade from the single hand grip of the Queen. A whipping motion brings his forehead crashing down on the Queen’s mask, shattering the porcelain. He then brings the pommel of his sword down straight on the top of her head, staggering her. He finishes this brutal sequence with a straight kick to the abdomen, aided by air arcana, launching the Queen back yet again into the stony cliff wall.

This time, the Queen does not fall forward. Air arcana pressurizes around her, pinning her to the rock, the pressure cracking the stone about her, her own skin flattening against the arcane onslaught. Her face, a mess of bone, broken porcelain and twisted, scorched demonic features, smolders- fajro-steam leaking from her nostrils, mouth and flared red eyes.

Justice places his blade point down in the ground. He walks toward the Queen, a single hand outstretched, air arcana swirling with an ominous, angry green aura playing about his fingers.

JUSTICE
I’m doing you a favor, delinquent royalty. The fajro-juice can only amplify your strength for so long before it burns out your organs entirely. You drank 3 skins- if you do not move enough to burn that off- you will simply combust. Only the exertion of battle- or the body’s scramble to repair a grievous wound- will stop this.

He balls his hand into a fist. The pressure of the air arcana further compresses the Queen, the shattering stone at her back giving signal to the raw intensity of the attack. She howls out in pain.

JUSTICE
I do not intend to simply watch you burn. This ending will be brought about by my own hands.

Justice drives his fist into the stomach of the Queen, who remains pinned against the cliff wall. Justice strikes again- and again- and again- each strike eliciting a greater cry than the last, each blow increasing with speed and viciousness, a tornado of fists slapping into stone and flesh until finally Justice doubles over, panting, his effort spent on the flurry of blows against his helpless adversary. He holds his fist, now black, blue and mangled from the volley.

In front of him, the entire cliff has been hewn away from around the Queen, who crumples to the ground in a mangled mess.

Justice massages his fist with his artificial hand, a crackling of bones within the damaged flesh answering his efforts. The battle is over.