Fool's Gold [Open][LoTD2]

[Deleted]

Cold, helpless and battered. So tame seems to be the rain when it showers back home. When you're at home, seated by the fireplace with a glass of wine in your hands, there is that barrier of warmth that keeps you apart from the outside rain. The window lets in the faint light obscured by clouds, distorted by rain droplets that coat the glass with falling streaks like tears. The wet sound of its pattering twines harmoniously with the fire's crackling, two elements that are so different from each other but, in this moment, join to hold you in a cradle of serene and warm emotion.

Strange how a building could change one's perception. Moments like that seemed so far away, farther than home could ever be. Much like the flood, the Manor did not care for the significance of its victims so long as it achieves its purge. And the rain achieved more than pushing furniture and bodies out of place. It did not only envelope the first and second floors but it enveloped the entire mind, purposely distancing you from any longing thought of home. There was no comfort you could look to now, only water. A nation will have gone through so many tragedies and disappointments in his lifetime, achievements and near-death experiences - there were periods of having to survive that they might have forgotten now with modern life, though the Manor put forth all that it could to return these nations to that style of living. There was no peace and no escaping from your most haunting memories. There was only a renewal of all fears the nations have ever experienced and a setting that might as well make them believe they have returned to times of war.

Water had surged in by force, breaking what fragment of harmony Francis had been desperately feeling during his time with Arthur. Any further contact between himself and the other nation seemed to snap like thin string, nevermind contact with the rest of them.

Thoughts like these were all that clouded his mind as he emerged from the pool. This felt like more thankful a time as any that Francis has learned to swim. He could remember wildly groping for something to hold on to, desperate to scream though not wanting to swallow any water, scraping and bumping against chunks of debris that rushed by just as he did. With adrenaline refueling the strength he thought he had lost, his hasty strokes finally brought him to the surface of the water and he made it to the base of the third floor stairwell. Once he was free from its cold and wet grasp, it felt that all of that strength had quickly extinguished.

Coughing and with trembling legs, he trudged up the stair steps, each seeming more struggling than the last. His soaked outfit was weighing him down and his being tossed around underwater had thrown off his balance. A sopping hand was thrown out to grasp the railing, clinging with cold fingers to aid him in reaching the top step. A hesitant glance over his shoulder brought the waters below into view. Although only furniture and broken wood were visible from its surface, he half expected to see a body floating with them. He easily could have been one.

But it was best not to dwindle on the top step. Noisier then he would like to be (between his breathing and his dripping clothes), he made his way further down the hallway. There did not seem to be anyone in sight, nor any other trace of rising water. Those were disappointing and relieving enough to be cancelled into indifference. Water clung to his eyelashes and to his hair, tracing over his cheeks and lips and making him oblivious to the injury that he had. An unknown object had made a blow to his head while he was plunged underwater. The wound was by his temple, masked underneath a damp clump of now reddened hair - but Francis was too cold, too preoccupied to tend to it, and the endorphins released by his brain had not yet waned.

There was a slight stumble when he walked, but he ignored that entirely. He came to a halt once he had reached the end of the hall, leaning against the wall to finally catch his breath. His eyes closed briefly, hands lowered to begin wringing the water out of his outfit. The only part of it he decided to take off was the heavier jacket, which was promptly dropped down onto the floor. When his eyes had opened again, he took alternate glances side to side to see where exactly he had ended up. He was on the third floor, yes, but he wasn't sure to where all of these doors lead. Though that did not matter just yet. He would only go somewhere to rest if he had someone to watch out for him. It was at that notion that a twang of guilt hit him. He was aware it wasn't his fault, but he still hated that Arthur had been separated from him like that, and it certainly didn't escape Francis's memory that the Englishman did not know how to swim. That had him gripped with worry, but the last thing he was ever going to think about was one awful word; drowned.

Looking back forward, a glint had caught his eye. A color so off from the dark, intimidating shades of the Manor; everything that had been swallowed by its shadows. Blue eyes connected with something that rested on a small table up against the wall. It was golden and already that seemed like a forbidden pleasantry in comparison to everything else in this cursed place.

Pushing himself off the wall, Francis ambled over to the thing and, inspecting closer, saw that it was a whistle. Dreary thoughts were suddenly lifted from his mind. This whistle was so small and yet so delicately designed, dressed with ornate patterns and engravings that expressed its value as something that did not belong here. He had grown so desensitized to such fine things as this that it was melancholy to look at. Though there had to be something with this. There was no way he could just pick this up without consequence. It had to be a trap, surely... but he couldn't just leave it there.

His hand reached out to snatch it quickly. As soon as he had done so, he stepped back to make sure that nothing was going to grab him or cut off his hand or something like that. He waited until he was (somewhat) certain that this wasn't an ordeal like Pan's Labyrinth in which he has just stolen something precious from a monster.

With this new possession held carefully in his hand, he walked back down the length of the hallway to the staircase he had ascended from. Now he was at a dilemma. If this were just any whistle, it might be a terrible idea to blow it. Anything could hear him if he did so. And how could he know whether this were a special sort of whistle? Not that he had any idea what, but it could make a noise different from what other whistles would. He looked back down toward the water and already felt reluctance at the very idea of going back down there. There have been a number of people Francis was looking for since his arrival - either they were down there

(drowned)

or they were up here in "safe" proximity. At least someone had to be. Francis gathered a shaky breath, listening for proof that he wasn't the only one to have made it up here. No one would know that it was him with the whistle, but surely there was someone nearby, lonesome and afraid and desperately searching. Someone in the same situation as himself. It seemed a terrible idea, yes, but perhaps it would do better than having to shout out. The golden device was lifted to his lips. Hesitance. And then he blew. Anyone...?

[Hellhound]

Hungry.

So hungry.

The prey had been elusive thus far. It was hard to pick them off when they were running into each other, building numbers. Far better to wait for them to be separated, all alone, before striking.

Patience was the key.

Stalking after the last nation that had taken its notice the Hellhound sniffed along the wooden boards. This one had been bleeding. The blood of nations tasted far better than those of ordinary humans. It found that flavor to its liking. Just the scent of it caused the Hellhound's three tails to wag with wicked glee.

It could have followed this scent all the way to where its prey had come to rest. Since it had been so long since it had been able to play with any food then the next one would need to last. Maybe chew at its joints so it couldn't run away or move? Fear smelled delicious. It also made the blood pump faster. Slicing its teeth through tense muscles to rip and rend while its prey cried out in agony, helpless. Scrumptious.

The Hellhound paused when it heard the distinct sound of a whistle. All three skull-bearing heads lifted, ears twitching curiously as the sound reverberated through the corridor. Someone calling? Even if the Hellhound were a creature of demonic origin, at its core there was still a canine reaction.

Its three tails lifted to wag again as the Hellhound went padding along in the direction of that whistle's origin. Saliva dripped upon the floorboards from all three heads to leave little pits of burnt marks in its wake as the creature traveled along, claws clicking on the flooring. The Hellhound went lumbering around the corner to stand in the same stretch of hallway as a tall, light-furred Nation-Human.

Apparently it didn't need to track down any prey. The prey had called to it.

The Hellhound's three heads lowered to fix its burning eyes on the man and a growl of unearthly tones rumbled out of the beast's heaving chest as its left head licked a forked tongue across sharp teeth. Smoke puffed from the nostrils of the right.

Time to eat?

[Deleted]

The result of that blow began to unfold within minutes. He heard not only a creaking on the floors behind him, but a clicking as well - like the sound of one of his small dogs bounding across the tiled floors of a room. These, of course, were much heavier, and were accompanied by a rising glow that approached the corridor level where Francis stood waiting. It flickered like a candle, but it was moving - expanding. Then from behind the walls that had been concealing it, a canine-like head swung into view, followed by two others at its same height.

This creature was so barbarous in its appearance, so hideous and yet so mystic that Francis would not even question whether it was a prized creation of the Manor; or whichever other outlandish being called it its pet. Even given the distance he and the beast already had apart, the nation still took a step back. He still had some mobility in him, but it was not much.

It was surprising that he didn't feel anything akin to paralysis. Anxiety hit like needles underneath his skin. His palms became slick once the sweating began at his hands, over which the cool air passed and made itself more noticeable than it had been before - although now it had competition against the hot air which felt to radiate off of the unearthly creature beyond him. He could nearly feel himself paling, the blood rushing from his face to leave behind a sheet of white, and the wound on his temple throbbed a little. Those were all natural factors that he would ignore, of course, for he didn't want to bring attention to anything that he was feeling. The only response that felt important here was that of fight or flight, the trickle of adrenaline that rose in him harder than that initial sense of fear and anxiety.

After all, things like this - that denouncement only meant he didn't care to know what it was - usually fed off of fear or something like that. Just like murderers and their sadism that drives them to experience terror in the very eyes of their victim. The harder trick was always doing what you could not to let them feel that pride and pleasure.

He groped a hand behind him until his hand connected with one of the staircase railings. His breathing leveled and his heartbeat seemed to transport thicker adrenaline through him with each pump, making his heart race and his mind cloud even further.

He received two signals: one to let go of that whistle, which he did, throwing it in front of him where it clinked on the wooden boards. He doubted that was what the creature wanted, but it was worthless to him now as well. The other was to raise his rapier. Forget that his hand is cold and slippery upon its handle and try to keep a secure grip.

No matter how this battle went, it was eminent that one of those heads would end up burning him - if not given the chance to bite him. Running would be foolish. No turning his back or letting any part of himself open for feasting. He let go of the stair railing and resisted that urge as strongly as he could. Pain awaited whatever path he would take within the next few moments, and within a flurry of thoughts he tried to decide on whether striking through the heart or one of those throats would be best.

He raised the hand that held his rapier higher than the other, pointing the blade at a downward angle, and moved forward.

[Hellhound]

Odd.

Men, or men-shaped creatures like this (because it did not smell as normal men did), usually ran away. The chase was one of the best parts of it. There could be nothing more satisfying than the opportunity to run them down like rabbits in the fields. This human was thin and long enough, he'd be fun to shake gripped in the teeth of one of his glorious heads. Already the Hound was salivating with the idea of how the man-thing would taste.

It caught the flash of a shining object flying nearby. The Hound paused to track it, sniffing at the gold whistle that had gone clattering on the ground near its paws. It's third head finally bent to pick up the whistle in its mouth. Trying to chew the metal proved difficult. Tooting whistles blew out of its mouth with each heavy panting exhale of breath. Since that whistle was not food then it did not hold the interest of the other two heads. They retrained their blood red eyes upon the man in the corridor up ahead.

Not having to pursue its prey wasn't as fun but the Hound had no voice with which to complain. The steady tooting of the whistle and the promise of food had the Hound's tail wagging behind its sinuous body. That wagging happiness would have been pleasant on a creature of more domestic origins; not one that was dripping drool in puddles while sniffing out the scent of the man it intended to rend apart between three mouths. Approaching the man on the stairs the Hound's sharp claws clacked upon the floorboards as it resumed closing in upon its prey.

A weapon in the hand of its prey meant nothing. Certainly did not deter the Hound. It knew nothing of fear. In fact, the shine of the rapier attracted the attention of the first head enough that it barked out a hellish sound, blasting a swift gut of flame from its maw in the process. That potent fire would be plenty hot to cook the meat of the man coming towards it. Not that the Hound would mind if it got to eat the creature raw either. Another bark exploded out at Francis in pure menace as the beast's muscles coiled up in preparation to spring.

[Deleted]

The golden whistle might have been the most accursed and pointless item Francis had encountered so far. He was glad to have it out of hand and out of reach, watching warily as one canine head gnawed upon it. The sound of sharp teeth grinding against metal was most unsettling. If only that whistle had undergone such a fate before Francis found and blew it. It was clear that the Hound's fruitless attempt to destroy the golden object did not keep it occupied for long, and again was Francis met with the daunting array of six eyes all set on him.

If only words would aid him here. If only he could say something that made the thing go away, if he could say something that had someone come rushing to his side. Fear ran cold, prodding every corner of Francis's body. His eyes, however, were trained steadily upon the beast he was approaching. They slipped aside only when they caught sight of additional movement - the unexpected swaying of the Hound's tail. Each and every noise made the Frenchman's uneasiness spike.

One of them barked. Francis couldn't recall ever having jumped so violently. His start sent panic scrambling through his body, like thin needles running through his bloodstream. All he could do was curse his jumpiness and resume standing his guard - but first he had to get out of that flame's way. He could handle a pair of weak knees, hopefully. Don't give up on him now. Such a burst of fire sent him stumbling back, wincing and cursing under his breath at its sting.

The second bark made him jump again, but he was a tad more prepared that time. Intensive eyes were quick to notice a shift in burly muscles, and he knew then that he couldn't keep retreating backward. He'd just have to tough through the flames and... strike. Hands that were slick with sweat and shaking from bottled fear tightened around the handle of his rapier. His feet moved him forward, advancing just as the Hound prepared to lunge.

It would only be one move. Its success would be unforeseen, driven only by a strike of impulse - but he just didn't want his life to end there. With a growl between clenched teeth, Francis swung his blade for the neck of the first head. The strength he put into that not only hoped to slice through the first head but through the second as well - however much of the beasts he could reach.

[Prussia]

Just one turn of the hallway over, Gilbert was crouched down to examine a growth of vine that had sprouted through a crack in the wall. The leaves had spread out in wandering webs from floor to ceiling. His primary interest was in the berries that grew on it. For whatever reason, he'd become far more cautious about eating anything just conveniently sitting around the Manor. Just because something looked edible didn't mean it was safe to consume. Gilbert kept that in mind while foraging for food.

Turning one of the vines over in his hand he examined the little colored berries clustered together. His disappointment was matched with a hungering growl of his stomach when he recognized them as poisonous. They would do no good for him as a snack, let alone a meal, unless he really wanted to face severe digestion. Dying because of eating such a small thing would have been a severe embarrassment. Gilbert dropped the vine and stood, rubbing his fingers on his jeans.

All at once, the relative silence of the area was broken by an explosive, roaring bark. It sounded canine in nature but unlike any dog Gilbert had ever heard. He quickly picked up the sword leaning against the wall nearby to grip it firmly. Nothing was visible in the hallway where he was standing. That meant it was coming from somewhere close. The Prussian didn't enjoy the idea of encountering any kind of beast if he could avoid it. But if a beast was barking then most likely it was menacing a person -- probably a fello--er, current nation.

He moved to the end of the hallway's corner to peek around it. Red eyes widened when his scouting look brought a scary ass dog into view but a familiar Frenchman as well. It appeared that Francis had drawn the interest of the fiery canine. A fiery canine that wanted to kill him. Gilbert saw his old friend strike at the beast with a rapier; at least he wasn't walking around defenseless! There were three dangerous looking heads to contend with and one rapier wasn't going to do the job. Another blade in the mix, though....

Gilbert sprinted around the corner to come racing down the hall. When Francis went stabbing at two of the heads of the beast, his own sword went swinging for the third. He felt a satisfying thrill when the sharpened edge of that blade bit into flesh. Gilbert kept driving with the momentum until he had stabbed through the creature's extended neck, and pierced the tip of his blade into the wall nearby to pin that head down. The blood that came spraying out on him from that attack was hot -- abnormally hot -- causing him to wince as he recoiled from that hissing heat. "Schiesse! Looking to get yourself a new pet, Franceypants? Should stick with poodles!"

[Hellhound]

Three heads were normally immensely effective against lone prey. The Hound's sets of eyes watched the humanoid when it stopped backing away, and instead started coming closer. Good. The loss of the chase was disappointing yet the promise of the meal was worth it. Another tendril of saliva went dripping down from a mouth to hiss upon the wooden floor with an acidic searing. Seeing the flash of the Frenchman's blade being lifted up had the Hound growling in its throat. The human dared to attack it?

What the Hound didn't expect was for another human to come charging up out of nowhere. It yelped when one of its heads was caught with the point of a broadsword. Blood sprayed from it, hot enough to burn. Another mouth tried to snap at the Frenchman's rapier with snarling teeth, even as the blade came piercing into it as well. That left one last head with freedom between the two. It went snapping viciously at the two men, wildly seeking out a means to free its heads while also wanting to take a savage bite out of any limbs within reach.

The head pierced by the rapier tried to whip itself around, seeking freedom. Its blood coated the Frenchman's weapon and caused the metal to start glowing a faint cherry red. The flames within its body were not just for show. Open wounds caused by their strikes created a rush of heat that went churning at the two men, immediately soaking up most of the oxygen in the air with that sudden burst of searing temperature. The head pierced by the Prussian's sword howled out in agony and the Hellhound's large paws went scratching at the floor as the beast sought to push itself forward to overcome their combined efforts.

[Deleted]

Warning growls were inefficient, and with his swing came a surge of authority over this outlandish creature. A newcomer's presence went unheard until Francis noticed movement from the corner of his eye, but it would be foolish to look away. Gilbert always had a splendid face to view, though not worth death by a bite or worse while the Frenchman was distracted. Jaws remained clenched while his blade - noticeably thinner than the other that joined him just then - sliced through one canine neck, separating flesh and unleashing the most unearthly blood. His limbs had tightened the moment that weapon made first contact, braced for recoil or to retract his rapier might it become too far lodged. It seemed to be a clean cut, and he inwardly praised himself for having made it to the second head.

The sounds were satisfying, yes, as satisfying as they were unnerving. His instincts questioned whether the Hound had a vital feature which might spell its death - if its necks were void of human fatalities such as an artery or vein, perhaps its weakness lied where the heart should be. He'd hate to imagine whether it could survive without its three heads attached, although that would be an improvement. Gilbert's voice was indication enough that his best friend had truly found him. Unfortunately, the presence of their new foe overrode any chance of pleasant reuniting. "Tais-toi," huffed the Frenchman, voice harboring irritation not directly toward the Prussian but to their situation in itself. Hissing blood was one such unnerving noise, though the Frenchman had been darkly pleased by each of its yelps and displays of torment. Gilbert brought up poodles at the wrong time, though Francis had convinced himself that this thing wasn't remotely close to canines at home. "Would never settle for such an ugly mongrel as zis."

Puddles of blood did well to light that hall of the Manor, though he didn't check whether it was sinking through the floorboards. Half-consciously, his steps were taken back and not forward - stepping through a hole in the floor wouldn't be any better than in drops of lava. Focusing on strategy grew increasingly difficult and wouldn't be overcome so long as they stood within distance of the beast, choked by its issue of dangerous temperature. Francis's head turned aside and inner panic took flight – his clothes and hair were still damp but he couldn't help feeling at risk. His lips pressed together in between struggling breaths, grounding himself against the weight that the Hound exuded. A heated blade had little power against a creature of fire, and Francis was fearful that it might lose its quality that way - though that was what encouraged him to move quicker. "N-now just finish it," he spoke in a rushed voice less confident than it had been prior, pained by that agonizing heat. Careful with the Prussian so close to him, Francis ignored his desire to move further away and made another stab for the only head left.

[Prussia]

There was an awful lot of blood being spilled here. The potency of it, with its searing heat and lethal bite, wasn't something Gilbert cared to marvel at right now. Later on, when they were safe, then yes -- he'd think back on how cool it was to encounter a dog full of lava that they had slain together. If he managed to maintain a grip on the memory before it slipped from his mind into the foggy place where most of his memories dwelt, then he would tell the story to someone else in the future. His role in the tale by then would have likely exaggerated itself into a more grandiose summary of his actions in this confrontation. Gilbert never told stories where he wasn't the star because that was how it always played in his own mind.

From his angle it was clear that Francis's rapier didn't approve of those hellish temperatures. The metal was glowing a cherry red where it was embedded in the distorted air that the Hound's heat exuded into the air. Gilbert winced back from it just as the Frenchman did, a few quick jerks turning the cut of his blade into the neck of the creature to open the wound further. That injury left a gap like an open mouth and from it another fount of glowing red-orange came pouring out. A downward dart of red eyes caught the moment a few stray droplets splashed upon his shoes to start sizzling them, and the Prussian's weight shifted to shake the liquid off before it could burn a hole through. As abused as his shoes were from trudging through mud, water, and all kinds of foul things, they were the only pair that he had to use. Losing them in a fight with an infernal dog would have been a waste.

Gilbert's empty hand pushed at the Frenchman's chest when Francis made another attempt to stab at the creature. Its pained whines were echoing loudly through the corridors around them just as its growls had done; this was bound to catch unwanted attention from another direction. The Prussian's pale face was all hard lines and determined tension when he spoke hurriedly to Francis. "Just keep an eye around us. I'll finish the rest. I don't want one of its friends coming along while we're putting their dog down."

That would have been the worst. As it was, he figured that someone in this house would be unhappy with them for slaying the beast. If killing it permanently was even possible. Their chances were better with injuring it to the point of immobility and making a run for it. Gilbert wasn't sure how someone could kill a dog made out of lava. He had never encountered anything of its ilk before. First though, they'd need to silence the mongrel.

Prussia's sword wrenched free from the mortal injury he'd given to one neck and went slicing more effectively into the last. With the side of his blade it was a larger wound sustained. His lips were pressed in a grim line when the muscles of his arms bunched, and with another vicious twist, the howls of agony were silenced. Looking at the limp heads hanging from nearly severed necks it certainly wasn't an injury that would be recovered from too quickly. That insidious blood was pooling too close to their feet for comfort.

Dancing back a couple steps to put distance from it, the albino's arm locked upon Francis's to haul him back further from the creature. It's body was still heaving with signs of life regardless of the grievous damage they'd inflicted upon it. Gilbert didn't think it right that the beast wasn't already dead. That cemented his concern that they wouldn't be able to put the thing down through this method. "I say we make a break for it. This thing won't be able to hunt us down in this state. Maybe we can put enough distance before it decides to start puking fire balls at us -- or whatever it is this thing does."