Monday, 20 May 2013
FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! #32
Tyrion Lannister is the younger brother of the richest and most influential family of the nobles of Westeros. His family have either been advisers of Kings, or Kings themselves. Despite this, he has a tendency to slap said Kingish brethren, but everyone's fine with this because that King is about as much fun as drying your tears with a power drill while walking a tight-rope in high winds.
He appears in the novel series A Song of Ice and Fire, and in the TV show Game of Thrones.
Kroll is a giant squid-like creature who ate a holy relic/fragment of the Key to Time, mutating it to be approximately a mile wide. It mainly spends its time underwater nomming away on vegetation and any animals it happens to snare in its massive, convincing tentacles. He appears in four episodes of Doctor Who, entitled The Power of Kroll.
Tyrion himself is not much of a fighter, but he often has men at his disposal and a strong survival instinct. If pushed he will contrive to mash someone's face in with a shield, or lead men into battle. He might not look like he's dangerous, and that's why he is.
Kroll can detect movement on land by vibrations. It's very sensitive, but not in the sense that it will be made upset and irrational by jibes about its weight. Still, if you do that, he'll probably grab you with a big ol' tentacular sucker-laced reaching arm, and then gobble you up in its beak like some sort of slapdash amateur whore-parrot on its first unsupervised noshing.
Even as a dwarf in a Medieval Fantasy context, and one whose birth caused his mother's death, Tyrion can count on his family, although mainly to keep him alive just long enough to tell him that they hate him. Still, blood is thicker than water, as anyone who works on the visual effects at HBO can tell you. This means that his arrest by a member of the Stark family pretty much accelerates the Seven Kingdoms to a point of Civil War and carnage that destroys whole swathes of the land. If you aren't killed by wandering bands of looters, or an army, or from being stabbed out of sheer boredom, you'll probably starve to death. While the Lannisters are packing beaucoup de heaty heats (en Francais, tout le monde), winter is coming, as Northerners and fans of foreboding are wont to remind us. Sure, they have a point, winter is jizzing up ice zombies and nightmares from beyond living memory like there's no tomorrow, but if there isn't going to be a tomorrow then what's the point in worrying about it?
Also Tyrion has the services of Bron, the sellsword, for as long as he is the highest bidder. Bron, despite having no morals to speak of, is mint. He also has a splendid singing voice, probably.
Kroll is worshipped by the Swampies, who at first glance resemble quite a lot of extras and a couple of British character actors dancing around in loin cloths while painted green. They can imprison people and then bring in some dude dressed as a shit crab, and also devise overcomplicated method of deaths involving moistened creepers. The worst kind of creepers.
Give them a gun, and chances are they'll get Kensington Gore all over their necks. They are not the most impressive tribe ever to feature in Doctor Who.
Let that sink in for a while.
Kroll doesn't really have any nuances, unless you count 'His limbs don't always appear to be attached to his body' as a nuance.
Tyrion wakes, his head shrouded in a foul-smelling hessian sack, the odour of manure, sick and blood emanating from its weave.
He is monumentally hungover. Every other hangover in history feels like a pleasant breeze on a summer's day in comparison. His head feels like it's full of glass eyes farting nails in every direction. Who was he drinking with last night? He remembers a man in a cream suit, with a well-kempt beard and a straw hat.
What in the name of the Seven happened last night? His stomach feels like a Dornish flea-pit.
He is surrounded by tall grass. The air smells of peat, salt and farts. He could be on the Iron Islands but there's too much vegetation, and not enough rocks. He staggers to his feet, and then collapses again as the ground trembles beneath his feet. He tumbles down onto a small muddy beach on the edge of the reeds, only to be set upon my a monstrous rubbery creature that waves its...protuberances at Tyrion menacingly.
'Do you have any concept of money?' he asks it, taking it aback for a second and allowing Tyrion to kick it really hard in the shins. It falls over and starts flailing around trying to right itself.
'Well, that was easy, whatever that was.'
A shadow falls over the most charismatic of Lannisters. It is a many-suckered tentacle the size of a tunnel (although probably quite a small one such as a siege tunnel or engineering vent). The noise it makes as it attaches itself to the struggling heap of unconvincing crab costume is quite, quite disgusting, as are the screams of the green-skinned humanoid within.
The tentacle disappears beneath the water, taking its prey with it. Tyrion takes a cautious step, and is relieved by the lack of moistened suctions. Presumably this thing hunts by movement, if that costumed moron’s scrabblings were anything to go by, so Tyrion’s stature may actually be of benefit to him here.
A plan forms quickly. Tyrion spies a metal structure on the horizon, jutting out above the water on spindly looking legs, and sets off for it, steadily and cautiously. There are no other constructions in sight. If he is to find out what has happened to him, this must be his first port of call.
As he approaches he notices the flame above it, burning so blue that it almost isn’t noticeable against the sky. The sounds of industry grow louder as Tyrion approaches the structure. A lone outpost of alchemists, perhaps? It would at least provide him with someone to lord it over.
The presence of a skylift with no obvious sign of animal power worries him. These people are clearly more advanced than the alchemists of King’s Landing, as evidenced by the two men armed with strange, squat metal devices who are waiting for him at the top.
‘Halt, or I fire.’
Tyrion halts. His stomach keeps going. He does hope that he isn’t sick on a guard.
‘Too short to be picked up by securicam. That bodes well.’
‘Shut it Thorpe. Have you ever seen Swampy children?’
‘No, I gave no thought to their reproductive habits whatsoever.’
‘No-one ever does.’
The two guards (for that is what they must be, to be this well armed and this easily sidetracked) stare off into the middle distance for a few seconds, looking thoughtfully confused.
'Sorry to trouble you two fine gentlemen, but where is this place?'
'What? The refinery?'
'Possibly. Where is the refinery?'
'Delta Magna. Are you drunk?'
'I do so wish I was. Where is Delta Magna?'
‘Yes. Where is it?’
Tyrion kicks the wall in frustration. A resounding clang echoes through the building, before being absorbed by the support struts. The echo fades into a quiet, high-pitched buzzing in his ears.
Outside, there is a deep and viscous gloop as the ocean moves.
An alarm sounds, the lights dim. A disembodied voice blares out from every corner.
'Weapons store. Explosive rounds. 10.4.03 by Vector 9. It's about a mile wide.'
'Bring him,' says a guard.
As he is gripped by the shoulders and dragged along, Tyrion asks if there is any wine on board, only to be thrown through a doorway, face first into a metal gantry. The wind and spray then pummel him backwards, spinning him over. He squints, but then a light blinds him. A blue flame. A dragon?
His guards let out an oath that approximately 12 people will get:
'By the beard of the Space Whale.'
A shape is displacing the water below. Huge, pustulated, writhing. Tyrion's eyes adjust to the outside world, and witness the sea monster. He burps, and throws up over the edge.
The chunder enrages Kroll, the gargantuan sea-beast, and a tentacle reaches up to the gantry and snatches away a guard. His grenade launcher clatters to the floor. It leaks fluid which drips down through the grilled flooring. Tyrion can smell it from here. Pure alcohol.
'Is that spirit?' he shouts at the guard, who cannot hear him over the sound of the wind, and the waves, and the huge fuck-off gun that is firing lots of shots of bullets. Fortunately, the roar of the monster as it attaches a sucker arm to the guard's face is a lot quieter. Turns out we'll never get an exposition bit about why there's ethanol in the guns. Oh well.
Tyrion picks up the unexplained booze gun, and drains it. The rainwater and sea spray dilutes the alcohol, but still it burns like nothing Tyrion has ever experienced. He clambers up to the blue flame, where the excess gas is being burned off, drops his pantaloons, jumps up and down, holds his breath, and waits.
Kroll is not expecting to be confronted by a small man, vomiting through his nostrils and breaking wind with the alimentary canal of a giant. The flame grows in strength until an explosion rocks the refinery, and the seas of Delta Magna boil until they are rife with unedifying looking calamari.
The Swampies have lost their god, but they have discovered a new deity in the form of batter and lemon juice.
Displaced in time, heading to who knows where, the further emaciated remains of Tyrion Lannister spin through eternity, on the whims of an enigmatic guardian of no-fixed morality.
FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! will return in:
"IF YOU SHOULD DIE HERE TONIGHT, I WANT YOU TO KNOW THAT IT WAS ME WHO KILLED YOU
AND I TOTALLY WON.”
If you have any suggestions for who you'd like to see square go each other in future FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! articles, please mention them below.