Poll: Shurikens or Lightning?
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If I have the ability to run on walls, shruikens, so I can run along the wall of the great hall at night, clad totally in black, the vikings falling one by one with choked gasps, the other brandishing axes, survivors clustering around the Great High Chair, where the Viking Lord sits, holding his broadsword, point to the floor, ready to do battle. The sudden rearing up of the fire, and the lighting of torches, illuminate the scene to the young viking boy. Crouched atop the back of the Great Chair, a shadowy form, shruiken held aloft. The arm descends. The King's eyes go wide, but he makes no sound, and, propped up in his chair, continues as he was. The warriors clustered around him do not notice anything wrong, and by the time the boy has found his voice, the shadowy form has backflipped away from the chair and into the shadows once more. Gone, forever.
Or, if I don't have super agility. The vikings feast long into the night, as they always do, trading stories of Thor and Ragnarok, but this night, when the hour is at its darkest, three blows upon the front door, as though struck by Mjollnir itself. The assembled warriors are stunned into silence and stillness. The air seems charged with static, as though before a storm. And duly, the storm comes. The doors burst open, flying into the room, spinning through the air, propelled, it seems, by lightning itself. The viking boy is hurled backwards against the wall, into the shadows, and stunned, but not hurt. He opens his eyes to see the bravest warriors take up their swords, their axes, their hammers to charge the dark-robed stranger. As each gets near, the stranger draws his arms back, then flings them forwards at the charging warrior, and crackles of lightning shoot forth, and each of the brave vikings is flung back, propelled by the white bolts of energy. The king stands, broadsword in hand, and, being canniest of all warriors assembled, throws his sword down in front of him, and it sticks in the ground. The strangers robes flutter around him as he throws bolt after bolt of electricity at the King, and it all is drawn into the sword in front of him. The King laughs, a deep and resonant laugh, and reaches for his spear. The stranger crouches, his robes swirling around him, the air around him charged with power, then thrusts his hand into the sky. Lightning leaps from it, flowing out into the bodies of the fallen warriors. To the boy's horror, they jerkily start to move, stiffly, as though they had had too much mead, but surely, and terribly, towards the King. The King howls, and throws his spear with a thunderous yell at the stranger. The stranger flicks his hand out, and lightning strikes the spear, sending it off target and in a ball of flame. It lands in a pile of spare thatch, and flames ignite. The boy looks back, and the dark-robed stranger is gone. He scrambles through the doorway, quickly, and looks back to see the King, sillhouetted by the now roaring flames, trying in vain to battle off a longhouse full of the walking dead. The boy turns away, and flees into the night.
What was I doing again?
Oh yeah, breakfast.
Or, if I don't have super agility. The vikings feast long into the night, as they always do, trading stories of Thor and Ragnarok, but this night, when the hour is at its darkest, three blows upon the front door, as though struck by Mjollnir itself. The assembled warriors are stunned into silence and stillness. The air seems charged with static, as though before a storm. And duly, the storm comes. The doors burst open, flying into the room, spinning through the air, propelled, it seems, by lightning itself. The viking boy is hurled backwards against the wall, into the shadows, and stunned, but not hurt. He opens his eyes to see the bravest warriors take up their swords, their axes, their hammers to charge the dark-robed stranger. As each gets near, the stranger draws his arms back, then flings them forwards at the charging warrior, and crackles of lightning shoot forth, and each of the brave vikings is flung back, propelled by the white bolts of energy. The king stands, broadsword in hand, and, being canniest of all warriors assembled, throws his sword down in front of him, and it sticks in the ground. The strangers robes flutter around him as he throws bolt after bolt of electricity at the King, and it all is drawn into the sword in front of him. The King laughs, a deep and resonant laugh, and reaches for his spear. The stranger crouches, his robes swirling around him, the air around him charged with power, then thrusts his hand into the sky. Lightning leaps from it, flowing out into the bodies of the fallen warriors. To the boy's horror, they jerkily start to move, stiffly, as though they had had too much mead, but surely, and terribly, towards the King. The King howls, and throws his spear with a thunderous yell at the stranger. The stranger flicks his hand out, and lightning strikes the spear, sending it off target and in a ball of flame. It lands in a pile of spare thatch, and flames ignite. The boy looks back, and the dark-robed stranger is gone. He scrambles through the doorway, quickly, and looks back to see the King, sillhouetted by the now roaring flames, trying in vain to battle off a longhouse full of the walking dead. The boy turns away, and flees into the night.
What was I doing again?
Oh yeah, breakfast.