Patience has always been a virtue of the Useless One, but right now he feels like there’s an itch working down his spinal struts telling him to move. Sitting cross legged with his staff across his lap, he taps his fingers lightly near the shocking end of his weapon. “Bellator, how do you deal with needing to wait…?”

willnotgogently:

Rung looked at the flame that was put on display for him, his optics glowing behind his glasses. He looked a little awed and actually started to reach out at first like he wanted to touch it and maybe feel some of what Bellator felt.

“I wish that I could give you more of that. I’m afraid I’m not usually one who seeks out retribution. Self defense, of course, it’s necessary for those that follow me. But not actively seeking out a vendetta. As poor as the circumstances are for bringing me here… Horrible as it is, I’m glad to have the chance to meet you.”

willnotgogently:

mightymegatron:

The mighty warrior stands tall, his servos resting on the pommel of his blade as it stands in the ground. His eyes are closed, but a grin spreads what’s left of his lips at the question.

Ah, Useless One. I am never left waiting long. There are always those who plot, who take up the sword against those who would strike them down. But, the acts of revenge that taste most sweet on my sword… Ah, Rung. Those are the ones that take time. Those who have time and again been denied, finally able to rest their claws across their opponent’s throat…

These moments are to be savored. Swift vengeance is called for often, but it is never as satisfying as that which has been left to stew.

Tell me, Rung, what do you believe this heretic deserves?

Rung looked at the flame that was put on display for him, his optics glowing behind his glasses. He looked a little awed and actually started to reach out at first like he wanted to touch it and maybe feel some of what Bellator felt.

“I wish that I could give you more of that. I’m afraid I’m not usually one who seeks out retribution. Self defense, of course, it’s necessary for those that follow me. But not actively seeking out a vendetta. As poor as the circumstances are for bringing me here… Horrible as it is, I’m glad to have the chance to meet you.”

As the Useless One reached out, Bellator’s claws laid over his servo, not so much a refusal as a gentle warning.

Take care, Rung. Such fire can overwhelm those unprepared. You are agreeable company; it would be a shame if you were lost to us.

The warrior god released his fellow’s hand, making no further move to shield his open flame. Instead, he closed his optics and smiled. Were it not for the gash in his face, he may have even looked serene.

Great things may come from tragedy. Let one of those be our paths crossing.

Patience has always been a virtue of the Useless One, but right now he feels like there’s an itch working down his spinal struts telling him to move. Sitting cross legged with his staff across his lap, he taps his fingers lightly near the shocking end of his weapon. “Bellator, how do you deal with needing to wait…?”

willnotgogently:

mightymegatron:

The mighty warrior stands tall, his servos resting on the pommel of his blade as it stands in the ground. His eyes are closed, but a grin spreads what’s left of his lips at the question.

Ah, Useless One. I am never left waiting long. There are always those who plot, who take up the sword against those who would strike them down. But, the acts of revenge that taste most sweet on my sword… Ah, Rung. Those are the ones that take time. Those who have time and again been denied, finally able to rest their claws across their opponent’s throat…

These moments are to be savored. Swift vengeance is called for often, but it is never as satisfying as that which has been left to stew.

Tell me, Rung, what do you believe this heretic deserves?

The Useless One yelps softly when the heavy servo comes down on his shoulder, nearly pushed over by the weight of it. He blinks up at the other and smiles softly at the enjoyment that Bellator seems to be getting simply from the fact that his compatriot is dreaming up punishments.

Reaching out to the massive god, he brushes his fingertips against Bellator’s, motioning for him to come and sit down rather than standing on the alert.

“And what about you? What are you daydreaming of? Is it just revenge or is it the enjoyment from being freed to act?”

The Useless One was full of surprises, so accommodating to such a destructive force. With a wave of his hand the sword dissolved, its essence returning to his form as he sat.

The form your question takes belies a deeper understanding, yet you ask the wrong one. This revenge is not my own. I answer the call of others. My flame is the passion that burns in those with the desire to fight.

Bellator reached his dulled servo into his chest, removing the brilliant orb to let it dance just above his outstretched hand.

That is what I am made to feel. Their angers, their fears, their triumphs and failures, their satisfaction. My warriors fill me, their will to win fuels me and in turn I give them strength. It is not freedom that I revel in, for I do not care for it.

He carefully replaced the flame, smirking and showing his teeth.

No, Rung. I dream of purpose. The thrill of a direction so certain that it consumes all else but the challenge. Being a part of such a thing is what I live for, my friend.

( A roar bellows through the ship, almost like it’s going right through the wall. Pyarrr’s on his way, and he’s angry, and big. )

the-scrappy-stinger:

mightymegatron:

Bellator hears this mighty call, standing from his resting place amidst the celebrating soldiers.

SILENCE!

All the rough-housing, all the drinking and partying stops as Bellator listens… Some great beast comes. He draws his sword from the air, stalking out into the hallway, to meet the approaching storm.

Who dares?!

(The sword catches a lucky point and hits clean between the tail’s gnashing jaws. Still thrashing even through being caught, the momentum of the blade and the writhing of the mouth drive the sword through it until the Pyarrr monster’s tail lies in uneven chunks on the ground. The head turns to attack again, the body pivoting under it and missing Bellator as he leaps. The blade drives deep into the creature’s back, splits it open halfway, crackling like a hatchet being driven into wood. Pyarrr’s arms come around, but can’t reach, and Pyarrr’s wings arch backwards but can’t quite connect.)

(And deep within the wound, at the core of the monster, a tiny white arm is freed, and a clawed hand reaches out before the body rushes in and heals over it.)

Bellator rides the mighty beast as it struggles, clinging to his sword to stay crouched between the reach of its claws. As such, he’s forced to keep his helm down, close to the healing wound, close enough to see… an arm.

It is quickly swallowed up again, the empty flesh knitting together around the sword still stuck in its back. The flame flares brightly, as his followers called for an end, victory over this monster, and Bellator was glad to oblige. Standing on the creature’s back, taking a rake across his own, the war god dashes forward while leaning on his sword to split its wound open again. As the flesh begins to heal, Bellator flips around, running the other direction to split the creature all the way down the length of its back.

Now! His clawed servo dives down into the writhing body, reaching for something, anything at its core. He feels something solid in the center, not quite able to wrap his claws around it.

PYARR! TO ME!

Patience has always been a virtue of the Useless One, but right now he feels like there’s an itch working down his spinal struts telling him to move. Sitting cross legged with his staff across his lap, he taps his fingers lightly near the shocking end of his weapon. “Bellator, how do you deal with needing to wait…?”

willnotgogently:

mightymegatron:

The mighty warrior stands tall, his servos resting on the pommel of his blade as it stands in the ground. His eyes are closed, but a grin spreads what’s left of his lips at the question.

Ah, Useless One. I am never left waiting long. There are always those who plot, who take up the sword against those who would strike them down. But, the acts of revenge that taste most sweet on my sword… Ah, Rung. Those are the ones that take time. Those who have time and again been denied, finally able to rest their claws across their opponent’s throat…

These moments are to be savored. Swift vengeance is called for often, but it is never as satisfying as that which has been left to stew.

Tell me, Rung, what do you believe this heretic deserves?

“Suffering deserves suffering.” Rung grit out, his fingers curling tightly around his staff so that the electric prod on the end spasmed with arcs of light that shot out towards the ground and singed a half moon circle around him. He has to force himself to take his hands off and reign it back in, taking deep vents as he pulls himself back to calmness.

“This -thing- inflicted hurt of a vile sort. And on a God of Light no less. One that stands for family, togetherness and love. I have seen and expected such things done towards me in the past, but to do this to Dynasty is a whole new sort of sickness.”

His hands slide together down the length of the staff and he takes another vent, a faint smile crossing his features. “This monster has made not just a god suffer, however, but also a sparkling. I think it would be appropriate if, before death, they felt as defenseless as the sparkling did. Rip away their ability to use weapons and t-cog. Peel off pieces of their plating slowly and perhaps drip acid into their wires so their ability to move is slowed then stopped. To start.”

Ahahaha! Wonderful!

Bellator lifts his blunt servo to clap it on Rung’s rounded shoulder, still grinning broadly.

You see? That is the spark, there! You focus on his crime and fed by that anger and disgust, focus further still on so many ways to make him suffer, each more creative than the last. You relish and lust for that satisfaction, imagining it over and over…

He sighs happily, returning to his standing posture while his inner flame flickers.

Your revenge on behalf of Dynasty will come, but until then, let it sink in, delight in your daydreams until they become the stuff of his nightmares. Oh, how sweet your revenge will taste…

( A roar bellows through the ship, almost like it’s going right through the wall. Pyarrr’s on his way, and he’s angry, and big. )

the-scrappy-stinger:

mightymegatron:

mightymegatron:

Bellator hears this mighty call, standing from his resting place amidst the celebrating soldiers.

SILENCE!

All the rough-housing, all the drinking and partying stops as Bellator listens… Some great beast comes. He draws his sword from the air, stalking out into the hallway, to meet the approaching storm.

Who dares?!

Wires and circuitry snapping, cables severing and splashing his draining blade with lifeblood. These were sensations he was familiar with whenever his sword sank into another’s frame; what he felt now felt more organic, empty flesh, like he’d somehow missed everything. Something wasn’t right…

Bellator didn’t have much time to think before Pyarr’s claws closed around him, digging into his chest and waist as the crazed beast attempted to wrench him apart. He strained and glared, the light within him flashing to blind his opponent and force him to let go. Gripping his sword, Bellator slashed to the side, cutting a long gash to remove his blade and still feeling that strange, empty flesh. He jumped back, crouching in wait for another charge as flames began to rise from the massive weapon.

(Chunks of Pyarrr fall off with the swipe, and where they hit the ground, they burst into fresh soil and flowers. Pyarrr still stands. Distracted by the pain, his head curls away to nurse at the fresh wound.)

( But now Pyarrr’s fanged and mouthy tail attacks Bellator. A long serpentine tongue tastes the air and snaps at the heat it feels, and it hones in near-perfectly on Bellator’s broad chest. It makes no sound; it neither breathes nor smells of ingesting. It is a mouth without lungs or a stomach, a set of teeth for the sake of teeth, and even as it attacks, Pyarrr’s wounds knit and heal steadily…)

Energon does not gush from the wounds as it would from living fuel lines, but instead seeps, like sap from a damaged tree. Pyarr is a god of nature, but he’s never seen anything like it.

As the tail lashes towards him, Bellator rolls forward and slashes in an attempt to sever the wild appendage, remembering how the normally peaceful god had been bodily overwhelmed, lashing out before appearing in this form… and it is this tainted form of worship that his own followers have taken issue with.

My quarrel is with this monster I see before me, not the benevolent Pyarr. If it is in my power, your defeat shall bring restoration! This is my vow!

The mighty warrior leaps into the air, attempting to drive his flaming sword into the creature’s back.

( A roar bellows through the ship, almost like it’s going right through the wall. Pyarrr’s on his way, and he’s angry, and big. )

the-scrappy-stinger:

mightymegatron:

Bellator hears this mighty call, standing from his resting place amidst the celebrating soldiers.

SILENCE!

All the rough-housing, all the drinking and partying stops as Bellator listens… Some great beast comes. He draws his sword from the air, stalking out into the hallway, to meet the approaching storm.

Who dares?!

(And pierce he does. The blade sinks deep and crunches, almost like the warrior was chopping into a melon. It’s wet and still wriggling and resisting against the blade while Pyarrr wails his rage and grapples Bellator with his claws.)

(Pyarrr’s ears ring with the pleads of his people, calling for help and slaughter and forgiveness in equal volume. He cannot find peace in the discord. His only focus is the bright flame before him and how he can make it hurt like he does.)

Wires and circuitry snapping, cables severing and splashing his draining blade with lifeblood. These were sensations he was familiar with whenever his sword sank into another’s frame; what he felt now felt more organic, empty flesh, like he’d somehow missed everything. Something wasn’t right…

Bellator didn’t have much time to think before Pyarr’s claws closed around him, digging into his chest and waist as the crazed beast attempted to wrench him apart. He strained and glared, the light within him flashing to blind his opponent and force him to let go. Gripping his sword, Bellator slashed to the side, cutting a long gash to remove his blade and still feeling that strange, empty flesh. He jumped back, crouching in wait for another charge as flames began to rise from the massive weapon.

( A roar bellows through the ship, almost like it’s going right through the wall. Pyarrr’s on his way, and he’s angry, and big. )

the-scrappy-stinger:

mightymegatron:

mightymegatron:

Bellator hears this mighty call, standing from his resting place amidst the celebrating soldiers.

SILENCE!

All the rough-housing, all the drinking and partying stops as Bellator listens… Some great beast comes. He draws his sword from the air, stalking out into the hallway, to meet the approaching storm.

Who dares?!

…What manner of beast is this? Pyarr! Know me and yield!!

The warrior dodges the god-creature’s wild charge, the flame in his chest blazing bright. The thrill of battle pulses in him always, though he hesitates. His opponent is a non-combatant, a creature of the soil and forest, mad from whatever poison strange prayers have given him.

Pyarr, hear me! If you do not yield, you will be made to do so! Do not challenge me, for I will answer!

(The mass thunders past him like a landslide. Pyarrr’s charge misses, but his tail doesn’t. Now hooked and barbed and fanged, it’s a mouth on its own, and it’s pained flailing catches Bellator’s arm where the rest of the god’s body misses. It’s only a glancing blow- the mouth is stupid and mindless- but the feeling of it makes Pyarrr whip around and attack from above with his clawed wings.)

(Pyarrr doesn’t think. There’s no recognition in the blank red eyes. He only screams and roars and attacks.)

Bellator doesn’t flinch at the wound, his own fuel boiling as it drips down his arm. He growls as the Beast turns, replying with his own roar as his sword clashes with the clawed wings above his helm. He’s pushed to one knee, but uses his grounding shove the wings away with a slash.

PYARR! Take heed and yield! If my warning goes unheard-

He feels them, then. The call of warriors, invoking him against the god of beasts and his followers… against what he has become. His flame burns bright with their offerings and devotion, with their desire to live and to win. The face of Bellator becomes a dark sneer, his fangs bared.

So be it.

Bellator charges forward, eyes ablaze as he aims to pierce the Beast’s neck with his blade.

(Out in the universe, a band of mechs is suddenly harassed.)

the-scrappy-stinger:

(A group comes out of the wild and bangs on their walls, shouts and hollers in the night, tosses around flaming torches and sings of how Pyarrr will bless them and give them their lands in glory. The quiet mechs won’t stand a chance against their power, as they’d armored themselves in the pieces of beasts left over from their sacrifices, and Pyarrr the All-Consuming Beast will recognize them as his own.)

(The quiet mechs they bother are the Warriors of Bellator.)

(And in silent unison, they take up their arms and defend.)

The soldiers sit in their camp, sharpening their swords and thanking the Flame of Battle for their victory to come by spilling vials of their energon. Assured of their strength, each warrior takes up arms, brandishing swords, blasters, shields, hard-light maces and electric javelins, all manner of weapons they’d brought for war. Instead, these trespassers would first be punished.

Fools dressed in the hides of animals. No armor or wild charge can outmatch a phalanx of large warriors, prepared for attack, and retaliation.

Patience has always been a virtue of the Useless One, but right now he feels like there’s an itch working down his spinal struts telling him to move. Sitting cross legged with his staff across his lap, he taps his fingers lightly near the shocking end of his weapon. “Bellator, how do you deal with needing to wait…?”

The mighty warrior stands tall, his servos resting on the pommel of his blade as it stands in the ground. His eyes are closed, but a grin spreads what’s left of his lips at the question.

Ah, Useless One. I am never left waiting long. There are always those who plot, who take up the sword against those who would strike them down. But, the acts of revenge that taste most sweet on my sword… Ah, Rung. Those are the ones that take time. Those who have time and again been denied, finally able to rest their claws across their opponent’s throat…

These moments are to be savored. Swift vengeance is called for often, but it is never as satisfying as that which has been left to stew.

Tell me, Rung, what do you believe this heretic deserves?

Bellator. I request you hold still, there is something very important I must do for everyone’s wellbeing.

ask-smokescreen:

mightymegatron:

Bellator glares at the trickster, his sword pulsing with light.

Touch me and you will regret it, Trickster. What must you insist upon?

“Despite whatever you may try, I don’t think I will ever be able to regret this.”

The Playful One is going to start sticking soft tennis balls into all the pointy parts of Bellator.

This image lasts for approximately 1.73 seconds, before the war God’s flame brightens to blinding, setting the balls ablaze as he charges the Trickster.

I take that as a challenge!