Eridan: The True Zodiac Killer

[Debbie Does Dallas]

aka the prompt in which Eridan beats the shit out of y/c and probably kills them or leaves them for dead. my pride and joy.

i said i would post it so i decided to go back and touch it up a bit since i've been meaning to. here you go, kiddies

the ooc for this was literally "NO-GAME AU but everything still sucks." wherein the trolls grew up normally on Alternia and Eridan became an Orphaner-in-training. he's around 10 sweeps by this time.

A brilliant gradient of magenta descended eastwards along Alternia's skyline as the sun's crimson hotness dissipated behind the horizon. Insectoids cried with the approach of nightfall overhead, bulb beetles twinkling in the creeping darkness. Ahab's barrel glowed brightly, light reflecting off of dampened grass, painted a shade of hemo that didn't deserve to touch even the soles of Eridan's shoes - which already pushed the boundaries of acceptable complimentaries with that berylish streak that ran down the throat of each boot.

The round had been a grand success. Truthfully, it had been no contest, because Eridan was undoubtedly the best at this profession. His FLARPing days were long behind him (a troll grows out of such frivolous pastimes upon the coronation of his adolescence), but there were lessons well learned from such experiences preceding his days as an Orphaner. And that is why Eridan still had the best loot, and the best uniforms, and /of course/ the best weapons. Excluding the fact that he wasn't a snot pickin', grime lickin' imbecile with the inability to grow a set of fins on his face.

It had been easy to work with this newly formulated method. Calling out random schmucks on Trollian's roulette was much simpler than wading though page after page of social media platforms in order to scrounge up just /one/ troll to finagle into a FLARP session with a veteran player. Most of the trolls his age were already three squared under the dirt, and none of these freshly pupated wrigglers had the gal enough to come forth and take a seasoned warrior's challenge.

Not that he'd even been worried about someone attempting to usurp his position at the top of the dysfunctional totem pole.

Eridan was a winner. And what did winners do? They WON, that's what. By any means necessary.

They also claimed their prizes.

His just so happened to be all the flesh blocks of lusus scattered around the ground presently, coated in colors he would have gutted himself for if he'd so much as upchucked them onto a nutrition plateau. A messy endeavor, it was. Eridan could manage some how to deliver the body parts to Feferi's horrendously disfigured, ugly, misshapen horror terror at the bottom of Alternia's depths. Had he been looking forward to it? Not entirely. It was an exhausting job, but somebody had to do it, and that somebody was Eridan “Orphaner” Ampora. Yeah, that had a nice ring to it.

Completely unlike the awful noise that would erupt from the ticking time bomb at the base of the ocean if he couldn't acquire food for it. Y'know, you'd think with all of its fucking tentacles the awful thing would be able to fetch gruel for itself to consume, but no. He was imprisoned with catering to the useless lump of flaccid hiss dicks so that he could live to breathe the putrid, polluted, land dweller atmosphere another day. These bastards owed him their lives and yet they couldn't be bothered to repay their respected rulers by keeping this diminishing, unappealing /rock/ at least /somewhat/ co-habitable. The sea was filthy and the air was worse.

Fef would have told him he was too sensitive. Eridan would have claimed this was a vendetta. The earths would tremble under the stampeding armies of Eridan's wrath-born retribution. Land dwellers would beg for Gl'bgolyb to take mercy on their corporal forms and release them from the harrowing demise that Dualscar's descendant would thrust upon them for their ungratefulness of the time gifted to them by his own two hands. Flashing coryphees from the sky would strike the waters beneath his warship while it breached the shores, and all would be doomed to death.

And so here he stood across from this shameless ingrate and their retired custodial unit, lured out of their home under the pretenses that Eridan was going to shuck over all of his precious, hard earned doubloons if the ratty fool had actually bettered him in a match.

Which, predictably, they hadn't. Because Eridan blew their fuckin' arm off with one searing blast from his legendary firearm within fifteen seconds of introductions. Was it fair? Not in the least bit. Did he care? Fuck no. Troll Paul Soles could have narrated just exactly how little fucks he gave about the current situation in all of the immature poise the man could muster. This was a duel, and it ended in two ways: Eridan leaving here with the chunks of lusus tucked unto the aubergine silks of his cape, OR this assthropoid could jump at him again and the prestigious sea dweller would disintegrate them.

Currently, he stood with the rifle still-burning in his grip, chin raised high in a fashion that Eridan was more than accustomed to portraying. Holier-than-thou, because he was. The royal ichor in his veins was proof of that, like sweet ambrosia personally handed to him by greater beings above. “I honestly didn't think you would fall for somethin' as rudimentary as this fuckin' ruse. 'Specially with all the rumors that've been floatin' around lately like fuckin' filmy spheres from a wriggler's soap stick.” He turned the gun in his palms, as condescending as he could, and wiped the underside of it against the fabric of his jeans. “No wonder why it was so easy to fool you into rendezvousin' with me in the middle a' nowhere. That burst a' energy from Ahab's was entirely wasted on gutter scum like you, but I wasn't too enthusiastic about getting' my rings dirty.” He even raised a hand, observing the golden jewelry adorning his fingers.

“Since I've got work to do, I'll give you the opportunity to turn around an' dash home with your tail between your legs. Unless you'd rather I rip your other arm off an' pummel you into an unidentifiable slop to feed to my moirail's employer.”