King See No Evil

No man slays gods.

The sentiment rang clear through a white-coated crusader's mind as he held the smoking stub of a cigar between off-white fangs topped with an ever-so-slight light yellow sheen. It was safe to say that when in the business of revolutions, oral hygiene sometimes lost priority when a wake-up had to be rapid. The individual in the white longcoat crouched behind the snow-specked undergrowth was not by any stretch of the imagination a dirty man, but between the smoking, the drinking, and all the stress, it was no surprise that his teeth weren't quite an opalescent sheen.

One callous hand held the butt of a folded-stock black gunmetal combat shotgun whilst the other rested below, on the pump. Most people preferred the semi-automatic variant Cerisian Franchi SPAS-12 simply for the fact that it could launch a larger amount of shells with comparatively blinding speed, but the pump-action had character. Charisma. That defining aspect that other shotguns lacked. That signature noise it made, that hollow pop as the smoking cartridge ejected from its port.

Not to mention its versatility. Folded stock, pump action, rail for spare shells - with a full tubular magazine and a second fresh clip's worth waiting, the SPAS-12 went from a short-range hunting weapon to a behemoth of shredding metal and white-hot pellets. For that split-second, the chamber was empty, but a slow, extended chk-chk thanks to the scarred, olive-tanned hand below the shotgun proper remedied that issue. The gentle slotting sound of a shell priming itself against the weapon's hammer stretched a smile onto the revolutionary's face.

From the weapon's frame there extended a black sling, one that was worn and one that the tanned Cretan was all-too familiar with. Over his shoulder and the left side of his neck for added stability, it meant that should he lose his grip and drop his weapon at any time - which never happened - then it wouldn't fall prey to the wet, snow-specked soil below. Moisture was a firing system's worst enemy, so the strap, fashioned of a tight, simple black leather, was there as a contingency more than anything else.

The man clutching the shotgun could be said to have been vastly more important than the weapon, but he himself would digress. Just as guns are, and just as medieval blades and pikes were, weapons are in their very basis and nature, tools. And for a while now, the white-clad man, with specks of snow hanging in that jagged, spiked jet-black mess that he tied back into a pony-tail and called hair, had considered himself little more than that. A tool. And just like every other tool, he had a specific purpose and use. Spreading justice. Liberating the downtrodden. And rescuing those in Esparia from the RIOTE shackles of fear and control.

But no revolution was accomplished without funding or men, and at the moment the O.R.E. was only one helicopter, a warehouse, three men and an idea. And of all those, the idea was the most profound, and what would carry through til his dying day: for RIOTE wanted to liberate the entire land of alchemy. The white-coat recognised the science's danger, but realised instead that it was a necessary evil, a means to an end, and that it should be controlled and exploited, but not eliminated.

In truth, he was an optimist, but a realist. World peace was impossible. Instead, he just wanted freedom for his own little slice of home away from home. He was a man of simple, yet refined pleasures. Cold beer. Fast cars. Thick cigars. He was the salvation of the downtrodden, the voice of the oppressed. The messiah of the third world.

He was Noman Z. Godslayer.

This was phase one of his plan. For three hours prior he had been airdropped into Gelemorté and convened with local sovereign Wolfgang Murinyo - likewise a foreign fighter for his nation's freedom - who agreed, after a long period of tension between the two countries, that it was time for the formation of a new Esparia, one that was not renowned for its hostility towards the arctic nation, but instead for its freshly-struck alliance.

In return for this promise of a new bond, Wolfgang would support Noman with money and soldiers, but rallying both for such a wild cause would take time and effort. In exchange for that, the Godslayer had pledged his temporary allegiance to the military of the Ciel Dominion as an official liaison. Why, however, he was crouched in the bushes with a shotgun was another reason entirely.

Every politician has their methods of bureaucracy. Wolfgang Murinyo's differed slightly. For some it was a conference call or a boardroom meetings. The more casual figures, perhaps a spot of lunch or a fancy dinner. For the Gelemortian monarch, the pair of them had been dropped in a five acre game reserve with six caribou, an all-terrain quad-bike, and a weapon of their choice each and told to see who could kill the most.

Well, at least it was more fun than your average meeting.

The white-coated Godslayer brought up his shotgun and aimed dead down the iron-sights. The magnificent caribou reared its head and ground its back hoof against the dirt, scratching through the fresh, powdery snow and carving a shallow furrow in the glistening mud. "C'mere, boy..." A term of semi-endearment; he still wasn't totally sure of the beast's gender. Just a step closer... foot over foot, carefully scanning the undergrowth in front of him as the barrel poked through the leaves of a fir, the branches thinning, making sure not to snap a twig with a misplaced step...

BOOM. Chk-chk.

Instinctively he pumped the gun and sighed beneath the caribou's wail as it tottered around, stumbling over its own legs, moaning one more time before it fell down. The squelch and the crack of splintered ribs and shredded organs still echoed in Noman's ears beneath the dull whine of an imprinted shotgun blast, a sound he knew to an almost harrowing extent.

The caribou's twitching ceased a moment later. Godslayer swung the shotgun around so it hung loose at his back with a sigh, freshly-loaded with another eight shells to get him through their little game. The beast's rump was swelling with blood; torn flesh didn't make it a pretty sight. The white-coated crusader shook his head, bearing the shotgun, and duck back through the undergrowth, reverting to a regular half-run as he neared the quad-bike once more, hearing Wolfgang's motor rev in the far distance. At the beginning, the pair had split off.

This wasn't completely humane, but Noman, in his times, had seen far worse; flickering, splintered, fragmented images of familiar faces and twisted bodies burning alive flashed before his eyes for but a moment, but swiftly he locked them back down in a deep, mental prison and sighed, shaking them out of his head. Hunting, he could deal with, provided they were animals still; and he'd play Murinyo's games to get what he wanted, this didn't phase him. Targets on a list, that was all.

"One down." Noman murmured to himself, switching the engine back on with a splutter and riding snow-carved tracks off into the white expanse of the reserve.

No man slays gods.

At first glance, it was a statement on the mortality of mankind, their inferiority to forces which they cannot control. At first glance, that is. But at second glance, it may better be arranged, "Noman slays gods." Even better, perhaps, "Noman Godslayer."

And from what the Mad King had gathered, above all else, Noman was certainly fierce enough to have earned his surname. He'd come to Gelemort to ask for an alliance, in gaining Esparian freedom from RIOTE, and had seemed prepared to take Gelemort by force if he had to, in order to accomplish such means. Heaven forbid he had gone to some other nation, where help may have been refused. Which is, in fact, to say that Wolfy had agreed, and with relatively little discussion, to assist Noman. It would take some preparation, though. He'd have to train a proper army for such a thing, and they'd have to acquire some more supplies, but he had a plan in mind already; if he were to Navally cut off Esparia from anything else, he could have his Dragonwings cut down every defense, all the armories, the factories, everything. And as the great coup de grace, the infantry would storm in, to seize control, before handing said control over to Noman. Wouldn't be easy, and he still had to account for a Drachman retaliation, but hopefully he'd be able to hold Esparia long enough for a takeover, if his plan were to go into effect.

Though there was the fact they'd actually have to plan for such a thing. Perhaps Noman had a better idea. Though if he didn't, Gelemort was working on a project. A very powerful one... No matter! Well, he'd had two options. He COULD have discussed the matter with Noman in a wide plethora of settings. OR. Or. He could take Noman on a little hunting trip. Hunting was a manly sport, puts hair on a man's chest. Unless that man's a girl, in which case, it just makes her awesomer, but with less hairs on her chest, that'd be weird.

At any rate, a hunting competition was at hand. Six caribou, two ATVs, two shotguns, and two highly skilled marksmen. Fun game. Not to mention the fact that the caribou would be collected and served for a nice banquet, come the evening. That was the thought running through Wolfy's head as he sat patiently on a tree branch, in the sky above, maybe twenty feet up. As a child, he hadn't exactly been the most financially blessed, so he'd had many a meal of odd animals that his father could trap or shoot in the woods, over near his old friend Jason's house. Heh. Jason Furor... Some kinda guy, he was. The two used to head into the woods themselves, and he never could forget the day they stumbled across a moose calf. Mama moose wasn't too happy about that one, no way. Pinned Jason down, left a bad hoof-print scar on his shoulder, and Wolfy just narrowly got it with a few bolts from the crossbow. Didn't kill it, though; the thing ran off, bleeding, but strong. Was one of the two stories they never got over telling at house parties, even after Wolfy moved to Gelemort; they re-enacted the whole thing at his twins' first birthday party, to everyone's amusement. Last Wolfy heard of him, alas, he'd died in some shooting a decade ago. Whole family, bar his brother and his daughter. Wolfy pondered briefly planning to meet her one day; wouldn't be a good godfather if he didn't, would he?

At any rate, though, he'd realized, upon getting to Gelemort, how similar caribou were to moose, and it was always funny to him. They hadn't succeeded in killing the massive thing then, but now? Now it was much simpler, much smaller. Still large, but not as daunting a task. He waited, as such, like an eagle, waiting for a silly rabbit to be stealing Trix, a mile below. But as he did so, his mind wandered. How was Noman holding up? Moments later, this was answered with a resounding boom; one down? Five to go. Noman happened to scare a caribou Wolfy's way, as well, as he heard the ATV rev. With a grin, a stupid grin, a grin with madness written on every tooth, Wolfy dove from the tree, his Remington Nitro Mag tactical drawn back over his left shoulder with his right hand, left arm extended. He landed spot on, catching the beast around the neck as it ran, now trying to buck off the hitchhiker. Drawing his gun back, he brought it forward sharply, striking the animal in the head, with a resounding crack. Bleeding a bit from where the blow had broken the skin a bit, it tried more fiercely to flee, as Wolfy brought down the gun once more.

Crack.

It ran about thirty feet or so, as Wolfy dropped off, tucking and rolling, before collapsing, dead on the impact of the second blow, momentum taking its course. Creative applications of a shotgun, lesson 1: Screw Ranged Attacks, MELEE, MELEE, MELEE! Chuckling lightly, he darted off, slinging the bloodied gun onto his back once more, as he mounted his ATV. Let's see Noman top that one...