Chapter Text
Lost Temple.
Arguably the most dangerous faction, in terms of pure, unbridled, environmental hazards and dangers.
Gushing valleys, gaping canyons, arid sandy dunes, spiking mountain ranges, boring calderas, scalding heat, and the poisonous, grungy wildlife.
And here was a tender, kind-hearted Thieves Den gardener, smack damn in the middle of one the most blistering environments in the inpherno, sitting at a saloon in the middle of Firebrand knows where.
The only reason she was here was because of her friends... who never came. Awesome time to flake out. Of course, normally she'd be escorted back to the faction, being somewhat high in importance in Thieve's Dens leadership, but... out here? She was basically untraceable. Her footsteps got swept up by wind the second she stepped off the cascading floor of this hellscape. The funniest part too, this saloon was near empty. Maybe 1 or 2 other people here. It was rickety and clearly not well-kept, with the bartender only giving her a small pour of Blackrocks Tonguespear. The only thing on the menu she thought would be favorable.
Vinestaff was, logically, of course, formulating a plan in her head to get out of here. Easier said than done, right? She had gotten here by herself, somehow, but her map got swept away. And the landscape changes too drastically due to the sand to rely on landmarks. She could fall through a sandpit or trip over a canyon edge or break open her skull on a rock formation or-
Better to not keep thinking about it.
About 3 hours later, and the saloon was empty. No bartender, who had somehow left without her noticing- no mice, no critters, not a single noise except for sand rushing outside. And footsteps. Oh god. Footsteps. Heavy, drumpy ones. Like each step was piercing the wooden platform.
The door-stall swung open, the flaps alternating between each other. Vinestaff felt a bump develop in her throat. She nervously gripped her glass, which she had barely even touched. Low, stalky footsteps gently pattered on the rotten wooden floor, each one kicking up dust and mildew. She saw the figures reflection through the mirror- from top to bottom... a white cowboy hat. Dark teal horns piercing out the sides of the hat, curling back like scorpion tails waiting to strike. Golden accents and a feather hung off the rim, with the Lost Temple insignia displayed on front. Spiky dark hair which softened into edgy lumps near the bottom, knotting into a hookshape. 3 teal lenses covered the right side of their eye, the other a ghosty, pale white. A fanged smile and scarred cheek appeared shaded by the hat. A popped collar and teal undershirt covered the torso, a medium-sized ribcage length white suit harbored the spiked collar, with golden accents hanging off the lower flap. Gold-pins with eye embroidery hung the two sides of the suit together, and a dark green necktie covered the figures lower larynx. Their right arm was entirely made of gold and sheets of metal and gears and machinery, teal liquid fissuring out in between to compromise the mechanical motion needed. The other arm was covered in an extended white suit sleeve, the golden outer lining a Lost Temple insignia pattering, with rectangular tassels hanging off of it. Their hip was wrapped with a belt, which connected with cowboy slacks that covered their long, sleek legs. Tassels hung off those too- so did a lasso, loosely tired around the upper half of the left leg. Both feet were wrapped in white, elongated boots with golden edges and spurs. The heel and nosepart of the leather ajointment were finished with pure gold sheers. In their hand laid their gear - presumably. A large, white column with black and teal bits in between, the top part springing yellow, sharp joints, like a sharks teeth. A large, prominent teal laser sprung out from the large pieces, enveloping the room in a eerie, overboding dark green.
...They sat next to her, the gear switching the prongs down, the laser disappearing. They put their gloved hand on top of hers, as Vinestaff shuddered in fear.
"Ya gonna drink that?" The voice asked, smoke puffing out of their mouth, billowing up to the ceiling. "N-no." Vinestaff managed to muster out the words, taking her hand off the glass. The figure swiped it, chugging it down and gasping for air, slamming the glass down on the table.
"...Not from around 'ere, are ya?" They asked, a grin slowly growing on their twisted, menacing face. They plunked the cigarette their hand previously hid into the cup, watching it diffuse, the smoke filling up the glasses volume. "I'm not. I came here because of... some friends." Vinestaff muttered. "Guess they must've flaked on me, hah..." Their eyes slanted. They sensed fear. They sensed weakness. No... they sensed power. That arm. That curse. That 'blessing'.
"Names Scythe. I'm a bit of a local." Scythe said, tapping her golden claw on the table, offering her hand. Vinestaff wearily shook it, and Scythe retracted her arm, forcing Vinestaffs sleeve up, revealing the wooden arm. "...Yer gonna turn a lotta heads 'round 'ere, sugar. But for me..." Vinestaff panicked, trying to wedge herself out as her head got slammed onto the table. The last glimpse she got of anything before passing out from the smoke- a wanted poster. for 1,000,000 bux... for one Scythe. "Finders keepers." Scythe ushered one last word, the smoke from her cigarette building up in the room, causing Vinestaffs eyelids to falter. To slow. To stop working. And then everything went blank.