279 Chapter Two Hundred and Seventy-Nine – What Color is That? What are they Saying? (1/2)

The smell was bad, but it was being cleaned up by vivus, so it was just tolerated as the endless number of corpses burned constantly. Given the necroic empowerment, they were staining the ground white even here, underneath the Rift, and it was easy to see where the fighting was the toughest by how brightly white the ground was.

Regardless, the ground would still return to normal by morning.

Casualties were higher than the previous day, as expected, but more killing had taken place. Even among the less experienced troops here, there were improvements. They rested, and they digested their feats of battle, took their Karma, and they leveled.

If they knew how to Invest or Infuse, they took their spoils of war, burned the cursed, possessed, demonic, daemonic, and necromantic treasures of the enemy, and turned it into strength of a different sort for themselves, and got that little bit stronger that they could.

There was a lot of loot to burn. Everyone had seen multiple instances of what happened if you claimed the shit for yourself, so nobody was that stupid. Burn it, make something useful, get ready for the morrow.

The Healers and the Traps and Tremble were on the job, not resting until wounds were closed, and as much Soak as possible could be regained on the side.

Many more Lesser Baneskulls would be adorning Weapons today. Many Weapons were Named and opened their First Slot, to the disbelief of their wielders, who were suddenly far more expectant of the battle coming today.

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Bottles of pills were passed around. Just one, because they weren't healing pills, and the effects would last until at least the morning. They were handed out one by one, because they had a very specific and useless effect that not even greedy people could really find a use for otherwise, but they weren't going to be wasted.

The Rift was swimming with gay pastels. Amourae was coming.

Amourae was the Warp god of sensation and obsession. His followers were all about new experiences and sensations, of the satiation of any and all desires, and then going on to new ones. More, grander, more appalling, no reservations and no hesitation about pursuing extremes of desire and conduct, nothing getting in their way, fearlessly going about searching for that next impossibly extreme experience.

To the normal eye, they were crackpot loonies. They preyed on the senses of opponents, with charm magic for the eyes and ears, taking control and drawing them into a mad dance of gleeful sensation. They didn't fear death, because it was just another sensation, dragging bodies wasted by drugs and deprivation up along spears and swords with gasps of pleasure just to feel the blood jetting out from their killer's throat. They wanted to look good and feel good and trample all their lessers before them, unclean inferiors only suitable to look upon them and die in new and artistic ways.

And they freaking dressed in pastels.

The wild riot of gay colors had hidden meanings and power behind it that could twist minds, as could the wild, frantic horns and pipes swirling in the air, trying to draw you in to enjoy the blessings of Amourae, freedom from all inhibitions and able to act as you pleased.

The pills were swallowed quickly.

They had two very simple effects. They shut off the color cones in everyone's eyes, making everyone color-blind. They also affected hearing, making the ears less sensitive, totally cutting off the higher notes.

In a stroke, the hypnotic allure of the colors of armor, banners, mismatched clothing, waving flags and flitting skirts, swirling mists and sparkling lights... was all black, white, and grey, and looked pretty drab. Likewise, the singing and piping and whispered words on the wind were too high and faint to be heard, which meant that goblins, kobolds, elves, and women were a bit hard to understand if they spoke... but those half-heard promises were not being heard at all.

As for the pheromonal fogs and perfumed mists, the vivic braziers popped them just as they had the clouds of flies.

There was going to be a lot of charm magic used, but given the communication problems, it was probably not going to be as effective as the Luvvers wanted...

And of course, the Void Brothers, Briggs, and I didn't care at all.

The Dancers came spinning to the attack, attended to with crazed, happy music, celebrating their unflinching devotion to their art.

Apathy cut through them, just more targets to be disposed of, whatever beauty they had an illusion and glamour covering corruption and waste, truth unimportant in the face of appearance. They burned with all the rest.

Where the Riggors were relentless and tough, the Luvvers were quick and deadly, almost artistic in their fighting, every blow meant to show off their skill and strength, the star of the show for the eye of their god, celebrating the pain taken and inflicted, glorying in the conflict that would bring them to new heights of insight, uncaring of the cost it might take.