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Once upon a time, Bearskin was patrolling the outer perimeter of Christendom, out beyond the green fields and blue sky, in the sandy wastes from whence come the Turks/Huns/Visgoths/Bulgars/Excrucians, and he came upon a strange sight: a man in peculiar clothing protecting another man in peculiar clothing from a platoon of mounted Turk lancers. Recognizing both that anyone under attack by the Turks couldn't be all bad, and that the defender burned with great spirit, Bearskin fell upon the mob and slew seven soldiers in a single swipe with his straight sword, and shot the eighth with his trusty flintlock pistol. Bearskin realized, then, that the defender -- Merlin, the King of Locus Akraisel -- was a priest, and warned him and his charge (a Jew and artist named Luther) that the wastes at the edge of Christendom were not safe. Merlin duly noted this advice, and requested directions to New York City, a far-off and fantastic city of towers Bearskin had visted but once previously, on a trip through and beyond the nation-state Ohio and her capital, Cleveland. A trip from Christendom to New York City by way of Cleveland was possible, but Merlin and his charge would have to set out from New Jerusalem, the capital of Bearskin's homeland. Since Merlin was a priest, Bearskin recognized it as his duty to escort the pair back to New Jerusalem, and whistled up a pair of horses to speed the journey. They rode over the wastes towards the shining city on a hill, then, cresting a rise, saw a terrible sight. The Turkoman army was marching on New Jerusalem. Column upon countless column, stretching into infinity, stood between Bearskin and the city. Bearskin's inital idea was to ride along the heads and shoulders of the Turk army, and reach the other side and the city that way, but this plan proved untenable due to there being more than a finite number of Turks. Merlin, a king and priest in his own land, summoned aid, but it would not arrive for nearly an hour. Bearskin decided to spend the intervening time cutting down Turks, and leapt into the middle of the infinite army. Heads and limbs went flying everywhere, as Bearskin's straight sword flashed. He smote seven in each stroke, and seven more on the backswing, but they rose and piled up until he stood on a mound of corpses, and still the army was numberless, and still the army marched on. "FIRE!" Grapeshot filled the air around Bearskin, as he slid down the mound of corpses and saw that six divisions of musketeers had moved to surround him, a hundred riflemen to a side. Their leader, a massive bear of a man in golden turban, laughed as he caught Bearskin's eye, and raised his massive scimitar. Bearskin, astride his purple horse, lifted his own saber and moved to charge the Sultan. With inhuman swiftness, the Sultan deftly slipped under Bearskin's blade, while simultaneously moving his scimitar into the path of Bearskin's steed. Bearskin twisted his wrist as the purple horse died under him, sliding his saber deep into the Sultan's own animal. As they struggled off their useless horses, Bearskin tried to take advantage of the Sultan's preoccupation with his blade by shooting the foe with his trusty flintlock, but the Excrucian Turk nimbly knocked the sword aside and dodged the point-blank gunshot in a single fluid action, ending up several yards from Bearskin, as the countless horde of huns poured towards New Jerusalem. A dozen times Bearskin launched himself at the Sultan, whose mustachioes sent sparks flying into the heavens, and a dozen times the Sultan knocked him back with blows that would splinter the body of a normal man. Bearskin cast about for another tactic, and saw a column of Ottoman War Elephants passing behind the Sultan. He leaped up into the nearest elephant's howdah, slew its handlers, whispered the ancient war-elephant commands (passed down from good Christian soldier to good Christian soldier since the days of Hannibal) into its massive ears, and moved on to the next one. As the line of war-elephants thundered towards the Sultan, that foul Turk spoke a single word of command*, and as one the animals bowed their heads and before their master. Very well, thought Bearskin from atop the lead elephant. He picked up the massive howdah from the elephant's back and threw it down at the Sultan, kicking up a massive cloud of dust, then drew his saber and leaped into the fog of war. Now, the clouds of dust kicked up by the massive impact of the howdah concealed the Sultan's location and actions, a fact that old Turk was able to exploit to his best advantage. But Bearskin, master of violence, knew that, and knew just where the best place to move to would be, tactically, and so moved to counter that action. But the Sultan knew Bearskin would move there, and so moved to counter *that* action. But Bearskin knew the Sultan would move there, and so moved to counter *that* action. But the Sultan knew Bearskin would move there, and so moved to counter *that* action. But Bearskin knew the Sultan would move there, and so moved to counter *that* action. But the Sultan knew Bearskin would move there, and so moved to counter *that* action. But Bearskin knew the Sultan would move there, and so moved to counter *that* action. But the Sultan knew Bearskin would move there, and so moved to counter *that* action. And Bearskin hadn't counted on that. The Sultan's scimitar whizzed through the air over Bearskin's head, where it would have been had Bearskin not ducked. Bearskin's flintlock fired, sending shout through the air where the Sultan would have been had he not dodged. (Merlin, the foreign priest-king, had this entire battle been shouting advice while hiding half-hidden in the sand. His advice consisted not, however, of tactical manuvers, but instead of clever things to say. Bearskin was forced on more than one occasion to disengage from the Sultan long enough to explain to Merlin why he hadn't uttered a particular quip at a particular time.) It was at around this time that the very earth of Christendom rose up, filled with a desire to consume and digest the Turkoman invaders, and that Bearskin was joined on the field by a strange knight, come from Merlin's kingdom. Bearskin, the Sultan, and the strange knight pulled free of the earth's embrace, and it was then that Bearskin threw down his arms and leaped onto the Sultan, intent on squeezing his head like a berry. As Bearskin and the Sultan (and the strange knight, who was less helpful than he might have been, thanks to the massive wound in his side) rolled around on the wasteland, Bearskin finally managed to get his hands around the Sultan's neck and squeeze. The Sultan's eyes bulged, and he hissed and rattled. The sparking mustachioes fizzled and died. "You don't really think this makes a difference, do you?" "You don't really think this makes a difference, do you?" Behind Bearskin two voices spoke as one, and when he turned he saw two more Sultans, each larger, hairier, and more decadent than the first. Discretion, decided Bearskin, was the better part of valor. Bearskin and the strange knight rode on stolen Arabic horses past the marching army, to the Shining City on the Hill, where the honest Christian lanterns still shone in defiance of the dark night. They passed through the city walls by way of the eye of the needle, as the strange knight -- Alec, Knight of Brilliance in King Merlin's court -- explained he and others of the familia were come to aid New Jerusalem in its need. As the magic of these visitors crackled through the city, Bearskin mobilized its defenders -- hundreds of well-disciplined, highly-trained troops, easily at their peak and ready to repel the Turkoman assault -- and surveyed the forces arrayed against the white city. The infinite columns of Turkish troops fell against the silver walls of New Jerusalem like crashing surf, beating hopelessly at the solid stone and metal. More dangerous to the city were the long brass artillery, the elite gunners led by (as Bearskin's eagle eyes saw through the fog of war) the Sultan himself. The protection of the city foremost in Bearskin's mind, that able soldier called for the guards to fire their own guns, the silver cannons and cannonades that quickly filled the air over the battlefield with mortar shells and light jazz. To remove the threat of the Sultan's guns, Bearskin leaped onto one of those mortar shells and rode it over New Jerusalem's walls to the rear of the Turkish lines, where the banks of long brass guns were deployed. Master of violence that he was, Bearskin was able to ruin the guns in a matter of moments, so that by the time the Sultan had ridden on his ass back from the frontlines to the rear position, Bearskin was already riding a cannonball from the last brass gun back into the white city. Assured New Jerusalem would not fall for, oh, a good five or ten minutes at least, Bearskin joined with two other members of King Merlin's court -- the Duchess Sylvia and the regal Nezha -- to search the bowels of the city for the missing defenders: the Knight of Chivalry, the Princess of the Next World, and others. There was treachery revealed, as the Archbishop of New Jerusalem announced his collusion with the Turkoman menace, and Chivalry was found dying hung from chains. Bearskin, taken aback by the Archbishop's villainy, distracted the traitor and his cabal of corrupted agents while the Duchess and Queen abducted Chivalry: there was a massive battle, which ended as Bearskin slid his left arm down Love's gullet and pulled her beating treacherous heart out, so she could see how black it was before she died. And Bearskin and the familia Akraisel evacuated the City on the Hill, pulling its surviving inhabitants into the City of Lost Alleys as the Sultan and his thousand thousand troops poured over the walls and ruled in destruction and empty thunder after the end of all things. |
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