Wood Plane War
As the discussion among Lord Boros, Beta Ray Bill, Santa Claus, and It-That-Slays winds down, the group settles in to wait, to an extent.
Of course, It-That-Slays is certainly not idle. The application of it's Influence continues, shaping things. In the end, it is It-That-Slays that makes the first move, as something shudders awake, not far from the front lines. It-That-Slays speaks almost conversationally. "Aerguon monitored me, and yet not my Territory. I was content to pass the time, as I saw further action as futile. Yet that is not the same as having been entirely idle."
The trees, giants as many of them are, shift as a massive, hulking furred behemoth strides forward on eight legs. "Without a faster solution to the Chanters, these behemoth beasts would be useless, taking entirely too long to grow to be readily replaced." The creature roars, and charges towards the wall, to the side of the group.
And Santa's awareness tells him there are quite a few smaller editions of the same concept waking throughout It-That-Slays Territory. One can almost
feel the panic as dark shapes flit forth from the walls en mass, met by a counter-charge of Wyrms and assorted small fauna- well, relatively small. The tide of bodies from each side is, for the moment, continuous.
Not hundred foot tall Behemoths half again that wide and several times that length, certainly. It-That-Slays moves casually forward in the wake of the best. "If we are lucky, we will be able to penetrate layers of defense lines to strike at important soft targets, in the wake of my war beast."
Stormbreaker detects new energy signals abruptly manifesting en mass inside the wall- the same kinds that are evenly distributed throughout the wall. Some manner of attempt to prepare against the assault?
@TheMaskedReader
@Simon_Jester
@CV12Hornet
Santa Claus smiles, nodding to himself. He'd prepared for this. But- just in case- he withdraws a small, glittering silver pot with a hinged lid, and a little silver-handled paintbrush, from the Bag, and slips them into a pocket of his red coat. Then Santa starts jogging away from the group, as time slows for him. To non-speedsters, he blurs and vanishes into invisibility.
He approaches each of the beast creations of It-That-Slays along his path, trotting along at ground level. Or not. For what of it, if the beasts are clambering through the vast trees above his head? Gravity is irrelevant to him, at these speeds- a gentle suggestion. Santa may climb
down chimneys to enter homes, but on the outside, on the rooftops? He can walk up the side without difficulty. As he approaches the beasts, slowed to seeming immobility, he reaches into a small pouch he
withdrew from the Bag earlier.
...
As he passes the beasts, he gently flips little treats into their mouths, and a burst of magic bolsters them. The creatures of It-That-Slays feel sudden, magical strength and vigor flooding them, augmenting their formidable might, redoubling it and gifting them with a formidable reserve of regenerative power and stamina.
Though the pouch affixed to his waist would seem large enough to contain only a few dozen of the animal treats, it does not slim or shrink. Not for nothing does it resemble a smaller version of the Bag itself.
If there are mouthless beasts, as he walks towards the creatures he pulls the pot of ointment from his pocket, flipping the lid up and taking the little brush in his free hand. Upon the great beasts' haunches he dabs a single stroke from the seemingly inexhaustible contents of the pot. And the creatures are invigorated, like their companions.
Even mobile or monstrous plants get their care, from sprinkles of enchanted fertilizer drawn from a separate pouch. Gifted with strength, for the battle to come.
...
On Santa Claus goes, onwards. Occasionally, he stops for a few microseconds for a milk and cookie break, from the nearly inconceivable reserves stored, ever-fresh, in the Bag. After traveling for a time, he pauses, nods to himself and noting a landmark, and stops. Then he returns, by a straighter and faster course. For in the time of his passage, those creatures have moved but a short distance.
After another time, he reaches the place where Boros still stands, where Beta Ray Bill has hurled his terrible hammer Stormbreaker and stands awaiting its impact and return. There, he pauses as if in meditation, focusing on the intentions of his cobelligerents, on any sign of the powerful and ruthless will of Aerguon in action, on any actions of the creatures of Castae. He peers around, scanning the surrounding area for any sign of the mysterious Stalkers and Assassins.
In these instants, to one without a speedster's senses, there would be a brief flicker of red as Santa Claus pauses.
...
Flicker. Half a second has passed, and all the creatures along an fifteen-mile stretch, parallel to the front line to It-That-Slays' left, are strengthened and bolstered. Further empowered to fight the stony minions of Castae. He trots forward, to provide such enhancement to the great war beast that is serving as It-That-Slays' "point man."
Flicker. He trots out to cover a section of the front. Fifteen miles to the right, in half a second more.
Flicker, flicker. The line of beasts behind them, charging hard on their heels and only a second behind, likewise.
Then he does it again, and again, until there is some appreciable change of status...
Flicker, flicker. On and on, for It-That-Slays' legions rush forward in seemingly endless waves, replenished from behind.
To the jolly old 'elf,' each flicker is the pleasant labor of a full day, with leisurely mealtimes. Without sleep, but the Christmas spirit has no pressing need of sleep. Every Christmas is like this- for a full night to the mundane world, and for subjective decades- centuries-
millenia of time to him. It is well that Santa Claus is the soul of patience as well as of generosity.
@TheMaskedReader
@CV12Hornet
@I just write
