Mt. Ohm - God Slayer by K. van Marshall (romantic love story reading .txt) 📖

hot lava core of Gaiterra.

Despite Formicidea’s nature as a merciless dictator, forcing the vendors into such transparency has led to thriving competition between rival pleasure clubs. Services have rapidly improved as vendors attempt to top each other. However, the lack of sober artists has lead to poorly constructed signs slapped haphazardly over the walls. Their poor attempts to add flair using a variety of coloured fungi only make the domes harder to decipher. The more expensive the establishment the more variety of colours in the sign - Javan had managed to learn all this during his first trip to Subterra.

Continually stopping to grab him by the collar, Sumatran did not allow Javan to delay for long - dragging him back to task - they were on a mission and did not need to be spotted by any unwanted eyes.

Disguised in long grey cloaks, the pair weave their way through the thousands of pleasure seekers. The brothers inhueman stature easily dwarfs average sized huemans, even the taller six footers look like children next to the pair.

Bathed in a red glow, the dirty and drained stumble through the streets aimlessly. Even with all their energy and coin spent, they have yet to give up on chasing their next vice. The sweetness of Undajelly turns many weak willed huemans into pleasure zombies. Once tasted, few can escape Undajelly’s addictive delights.

As they got closer to the centre of Undajelly, the percentage of zombified people the brothers pass grew with every step. A twisted expression of lifeless joy stains their faces, yet the urge to extend their ecstasy drives the lost masses on to their next course of bliss.

The demonic pair manipulate their large frames with minimal grace, barely touching a single soul as they pass through the narrow busy streets like phantoms.

Still leading the way, Sumatran turns and slips onto a backstreet, then points to a dingy small dome.  

Javan stopped and inspected the crappy dome in front. “Dis really de bar, ei?”, he asked disappointed.

A sad looking scribbling of a bottle in orange fungi and run down exterior highlights its cheapness.

“Yep, Shankz Rip-off bar”, replied Sumatran, continuing to walk.

“Ha! A drinkin bar ei, a beat daan drinkin bar… couldn't ah pick’d ah strisey?”.

“De meetin place, I seen it laas time. If we get split up, we meet at de scented exit we landed”.

“Yeh yeh. But do dis quik, an we can do road tho, ei?”.

“If we ave time”, replied Sumatran, heading towards the bar.

“Yuh kno, fine two fine gal, ei”.

“If we ave time”. Sumatran looked back at Javan, the two had not done road in a while. “Ok, but we get dis dun - no troubles”, he added.

Sumatran enters through the stomach level swinging doors; leaving Javan celebrating outside. Pulling at his hood, keeping it low and covering his third eye - Sumatran walks cautiously. A single glance at his forehead would reveal to everyone that they were in the presence of a Demon. The brothers dark orange skin is just red enough to pass for southerners, rare, but not too unusual. To add to the disguise, the black stripes diagonally scratched through their cheeks resemble the tribal tattoos of Omexians; citizens of the famous southern state.

The squeaking saloon doors announced Sumatran, yet the inhabitants remained stuck to their present motives, nobody turned to inspect his shifty stance. The bar flies are more concerned with getting their next drink then who is entering.

Still, Sumatran was cautious, neither he or Javan had mastered concealing their demonic nature - the ability to hide one's true self is something only more talented and experienced immortals can achieve - Sumatran desperately hoped to develop this skill soon. Being a notorious demon is to live with a target on your head, and the brothers have only ever wanted an easy life. That is why they agreed to this meeting, the promise of more power and crucially, respect.

All Immortals have three eyes, the third located in the center of their foreheads, however Demons generally have more bestial features than their godly counterparts, their eyes stand out the most. And like most nagual class demons, the brothers eyes resemble that of fierce animals; felines to be exact. Even a dim-souled hueman can access the portal to the spirit, and an immortals eyes reflect the eternal vigour and divinity of their kirah.

Anyone of the huemans present would be able to see Sumatran’s maliciousness, if they were to look deeply into his fiery red, feline pupils. The hateful kirah of a demon is soul soaking and the coldness they reflect is astounding.

The great pleasure state of Undajelly does not discriminate against pheenomes, gods or demons, but still the brothers hide their demonhood for fear of being recognized. Due to their infamy, many bounty hunters and do-gooder gods challenge them on a stupidly frequent basis, and right now they have business to attend.

Javan enters the bar a few moments later. He took a quick look around to assess the surroundings. No hidden armies, no ambush or so it seemed. Although it would be foolish to attack them here the brothers have learnt to be cautious.

Sumatran spots the men they are meeting sat in a dim corner of the bar, dressed exactly as said.

Two small men, their purple robes, lined in a gold trim made from a regal velvet cloth. A stark contrast to the ragged looking bar scum around them. The other tables are occupied with shadowy groups talking in hushed tones.

“Dey are defo from a powerful sect”, said Sumatran, leading the way to the table.

With the cue spilling over from the bar and blocking the walkway, the brothers squeeze their way through the dense senseless crowd. The bar flies take no notice of the massive figures. They are too busy pushing and inching their way towards the front of the cue. Sweaty and covered in dirt, they silently argue, waging minor wars over minute toe length spaces of sticky ground - all the while waiting in turn for shots of wrayness silver rum; a throat tightening, mind buzzing spirit.

Sumatran is tempted to scatter the vermin with a little roar of demonic kirah, but slips a shoulder to the side and pushes his way through instead. Inadvertently, he knocks one unsteady grunt to the floor. The drunkard immediately bounces to his feet then struggles to regain his place in the cue. Ignoring the fiends plight, Sumatran approaches the table and begins to scrutinize the two small men sat before him intensely. Brow furrowed he sits. Leaving his hot red stare to bore through the two opposite, showing his patience short limit.

The two men were not fazed. The younger one had been staring into his eyes since he entered the bar.

“Yowavcum!”, shouts the young pale blue skinned man, standing with arms opened wide. His thin sharp lips try to form a welcoming smile.

The boisterous welcome broke the tension of Sumatran’s silence. His stabbing shrill voice jarring the atmosphere. The greeting was so enthusiastic that the whole bar looked around, staring for a second before returning to the silent war at the cue and secretive conversations.

WHACK! The older looking man hit the youngster across the back of his head, sending his short white hair shooting forward.

“Lower your voice, fool!”, whispered his companion harshly.

Sat back in his seat, the older man had terribly large bags under his eyes. His skin is a paler shade of blue, with a green undertone; the waxy complexion of someone suffering from a horrid illness. His sharp sunken cheekbones chiselled the harrowing resemblance of a wraith onto his face.

“Dis betta worf de time or I’ll rip yuuse in aalf”, growled Javan, perching delicately on the edge on the wooden bench next to Sumatran.

His patience is even shorter than his brothers. He did not want to come here in the first place and now, he has another seedier motive altogether. The quicker they wrap this up, the more time there would be for some extra special fun.

“It will be”. Sitting back in his seat, the young man still rubs the back of his head. “My name is Kumi, I'm a D'Hono Knight and this is my Denaar”, he states while flashing a sharp look of spite at his companion; his beady green eyes chopping the nasty look away and washing anew with a warmer gaze as he switches his focus to the demons before him.

“What'a pair, ei, a donor an’a dinnah”, said Javan.

“They are just titles”, said the Denaar, scratching his bald tattooed head; rings of black waves circle the top of his skull.

“Wat, yuh lik de cubs sitter, ei, Dinnah?”, snarled Javan, it was his turn to pierce the pair with deathly yellow cat-eyed gaze.

“I’m a De-na-ar, and no. I’m more like a guide”, replied the Denaar sharply. Javan hit a nerve. “You know how it is, weaklings roll in pairs”. His dark brown eyes, knowingly gazing at the demon across the dirty wooden table.

“Ehhhh, waaaat’s daat?!”, growled Javan.

“Sooooo, the proposition…”, interrupts Kumi, flinging his hands outwards, before clasping them together tightly. Exuding confidence, he looked intently at the brothers dismissing their blatant attempts to unnerve him.

“Ow d'yuh fine us? Wherr de one we talk’d ta?”, interjects Sumatran.

This meeting had been thrust upon the pair. Everywhere they have gone for half a cycle a metallic bird followed. After several failed attempts to destroy the pesky stalking messenger - no matter what they did the object would rebuild itself - eventually they succumbed to their curiosity. Once they allowed winged messenger to rest before them instantly their consciousnesses were pulled into conversation with a being far more transcendent than themselves.

“Easily, my lord and master is”...

WHACK! The Denaar lands another swift backhand across the back of Kumi's head.

“The proposition first”, sighs the Denaar.

“True”, said Kumi, after swinging another vicious look at his Denaar. Flicking the sharp  collar of his gold trimmed robe upwards he turns back to the demons. “Sooooo, you will be joining the ranks of a secret society. An alliance of Demons, Pheenomes and, ahem, Gods. Together you will change the world. Through the use of a collective power we hope to unify all civilizations and factions in order to fight against the inevitable destruction of our world”, Kumi explained as sincerely as possible, then paused to gauge their reactions.

His appeal seemed to be working as the cold expressions on their faces changed to more attentive ones.

“Sounds gooood, right?”, he added.

Javan and Sumatran looked at each other and smirked. “We are in”, they said together.

The grin on Kumi's face fell slightly.

“But only if you make us leader”, they continued simultaneously, before sitting back in unison and looking over the table at Kumi.

Kumi's smile grew wider than ever. “Huh, that is funny, but a shame. My lord and master, King Narrcicus, ruler of Quorth, gave me the order to not come back witowt y'all, sooooo”, he said, half mocking the brothers accent and shrugging his shoulders suggestively.

Sumatran shot up, nostrils flaring while glaring down at Kumi. He flew up with such force that the bench skids backwards with Javan still crouched upon it. His brother moves without any of the same urgency, stepping off his sliding seat neatly.

“Woah guys, woah... we all know where we are, there is no way even you two can escape unscathed if we start here”, exclaimed the Denaar, throwing his hands up.

The Denaar was referring to Subterra’s number one rule. No fighting! A rule enforced and punished with death, and with his power, the lord of Subterra, the Demon King Formicidea, is more than capable of delivering the execution.

“Leave them my Denaar. Let them come”, said Kumi, smirking and throwing a couple of jabs into the air in front of him. The mock warm up a clear attempt to aggravate the demons.

“Yuh a brave kid ei, heh... Dinner, keep’a tight’a leash on dis or