The Adventures of Lars the Cyberian
Table of Contents
It was the Gloaming-tide of the Second Age of Man. Nuclear war had scorched the sky. Frission-bombs had devastated the earth. Psyonic weapons had seared men's minds.
The injured planet, the earth goddess Grothmir, cried out for healing, and her voice was heard in the birth of Grothmana, a magical force that adepts could use to fuse technology and biology, science and magic, possible and impossible.
Thus began an age of wonder and of nightmare. An age of miracles and atrocities. An age where knights in plate mail atop motorcycles did battle with laser-eyed dragons. An age when anything could happen, so long as it was totally wicked awesome.
It was a time for heroes, and it found a hero whose time had come, a hero who would stride the landscape like a heron strides through a swamp. That man -- that hero -- that legend -- is Josh Lars the Cyberian. This is his story.
| Table of Contents |
| Chapter One |
| Skip to the End for your Reward |
Chapter One
No adorable feathery birds chirped in the blasted, purple-and-orange trees of the Bjalkwood. Any non-cyborg lifeform had been unable to survive the terrible devastation of the Psyonic war. A few bird-like whirlyborgs flittered above a rushing stream, hovering with their fore and aft propellors as they pecked at bugs to fill their biomechanical fuel tanks, and their mechanical chirps and squawks had to serve to set a peaceful scene.
One whirlyborg flitted over to a curious object sticking out of the stream, its red eye irising in as it tried to process what the log-like construct might be. Just as its danger sensors began to softly hum, there came from the end of the protrusion a FREEEEEAAAAAP, as a red beam of light emerged from the end and rewarded the creature's curiosity with a quick trip to vaporsville.
Near the gun-arm (for that is what the object was), a head emerged from the stream. It was not a pretty head, nor a delicate one. Piercing green-brown eyes opened as they broke the surface of the water. Scars criss-crossed the cheeks in a badass, oddly appealing road map of past battles. A small tuft of hair at the admittedly weak strong jaw provided a perfect counterpoint. The head was bald crowned by long, black hair that grew down past the broad shoulders that emerged next.
Soon, Lars the Cyberian stood revealed in all his glory (for he had been bathing nude, only his gun-blade carefully held above the water), the wasted light of the red sun gleaming on his bitchin' pecs, his lats, his traps, his delts, his trikes, his biceps, his washboard abs, his giant . . . well, all of him. He flexed one iron buttock, and his other flesh buttock as well, and smiled grimly as he beheld the ashes that was the unfortunate whirlyborg.
"Curiosity kills," he grunted, to no one.
"So do I," said a sultry female voice from the bank of the stream behind him. Lars spun around, both of his weapons at the ready, but lowered one as he saw who had spoken.
She was a warrior maiden, clad -- if one can call it clad -- in a metal bikini that left little to the imagination and much to the appreciative eye. Lars had no trouble seeing all of her bioluminescent tribal tattoos, and recognized them as belonging to the Frjenala clan of fierce warrior women. Lars idly wondered what her name was, and whether the floor of her cottage matched the flaming red of its roof. Mostly, though, he marveled that he had not heard her approach, nor had he heard her power up her laser crossbow, the sight of which was making a glowing red dot on one of his immaculate pectoral muscles.
"I should know your name, if you are to kill me," Lars said, tossing his hair so water danced in the red sunlight.
The warrior maiden smirked gently. "My name? Helga San-Torakiri of the Frjenala clan, daughter of Torakiri the High Mother," she said, "and you are Lars the Cyberian. And I will not kill you unless you force me to." With her free hand, Helga removed a pair of servo-cuffs and tossed them to Lars, who caught them casually with his flesh hand. He obediently clamped one end around that wrist, tossed his gun-blade to the shore, and clamped the other end on his other wrist.
"Well, this is an unexpected capture," Lars said. "Lady, I am your prisoner. May I at least retrieve my loincloth?"
At this, Helga's smirk became a most beguiling smile. "No," she said.
| Chapter Two: Lessons in Pain |
| Table of Contents |
| Skip to Your Reward |
| Quit Reading |
Chapter Two
Lars trudged along, his manacled hands tied to a rope that was attached to Helga's steel horse. Helga occasionally glanced back to make sure her prisoner was behaving, but mostly she faced forward, allowing Lars the luxury of contemplating the taut, firm muscles of her back, and the dimples just above her bikini. A miniature winged unicorn -- an abomination of science and nature that must have been created by a powerful Grothmana shaman -- flitted around Helga's head, occasionally finding a mutated flower on the dusty trail to weave through Helga's mane of red hair.
"You can not think I, Lars the Cyberian, will be content to be a woman's captive," Lars said, conversationally.
Helga laughed, like bright bells ringing out, like a flower blooming in a wasteland. "You cannot think that I, Helga San-Torakiri, would be persuaded, beguiled, or overpowered by a mere man?" she replied.
At that, Lars hung his mighty head and trudged on in silence.
Presently, they came to a well beside the path, a rare source of pure water maintained by the Holy Brotherhood of Hreldamar, the Dark Mother, as a respite for travelers. The Brotherhood believed that in time, Hreldamar would give birth to a dark son who would destroy the world, but in the meantime, they wished that none should go thirsty.
"Lady, I thirst," Lars said, his voice creaking.
"Prisoner, I care not for your thirst," Helga said, tossing her hair.
"You said you would not kill me," Lars replied, "that means Torakiri needs me alive. Without water, I shall perish."
With a snort of annoyance, Helga leapt from her iron horse, bouncing agreeably as she landed. Watch[sic]? him, Piksprit," she chirped at her winged unicorn, and Piksprit flew close to Lars as Helga bent over the well to draw the bucket from within it.
A squeal from Piksprit made Helga drop the bucket and spin around to see that Lars had captured the beast, Lars's hand around its slender neck, its wings fluttering feebly to escape. Piksprit gave her a look that all-too-eloquently said, "what? He's, like, ten times my size. Smart, too. And handsome."
"I would not have thought Lars the Cyberian would stoop so low," she said, snarling as she unhooked her laser crossbow from her belt and let it fall.
"I would not have thought Helga San-Torakiri would be so easily caught off guard," Lars replied. "Now release my bonds."
Reluctantly, head bowed, Helga entered the code into the manacle's keypad, and there was a whine of servo motors as they released and fell to the ground. As Lars released Piksprit, Helga leapt for her iron horse, but Lars siezed her wrist.
Lars sat on the edge of the well and pulled Helga over his lap. He raised one stern hand and took aim at her left buttock. "And now, Helga San-Torakiri, I shall teach you some manners. I shall teach you lessons . . . in pain."
| Chapter Three: The Tears of Helga San-Torakiri |
| Table of Contents |
| Skip to Your Reward |
| Quit Reading |
Chapter Three
"Well, then, Lady," Lars the Cyberian said from his perch on the well, rubbing his aching palms together, "I trust you have learned that which I sought to teach you?"
Helga glared, sitting uneasily on the rough earth opposite Lars, all four of her cheeks blushing red. She sought to haughtily toss her hair, but her heart was not in the gesture. She nodded instead.
"Then let there be an understanding between we two," Lars said. He picked up Helga's laser crossbow and tossed it to her, making sure his gun-blade was at the ready. He warily stood up and paced around her, retrieving his loincloth from her iron horse and buckling it around his loins, much to Helga's disappointment. Then he lowered the gun-blade, presenting his broad chest. "Shall we trust one another?"
Helga sighed. "We shall, Lars the Cyberian. But I beg of you, will you yet travel along with me? Not as a prisoner, but as a hero?"
"It shall be my pleasure, Lady, to service you," said Lars. "Now tell me: what does the Frjenala clan need of a hero? The last I heard, High Mother Torakiri had no use for any man, save what use he might be put to horizontally and temporarily."
"So it has always been," Helga replied, adjusting her metal bikini, revealing a glimpse of the alabaster flesh where the red sun had not shone. "And even in that one respect, we Frjenalae have learned that the truth 'what a man can do, a woman or two may do even better' still holds. But the evil that besets our clan now has defeated even our most stalwart warrior princesses."
Lars leaned forward, the red sun gleaming from his piercing green-brown eyes. "What evil power could be so great?"
"It is the fell wizard Rothimar," Helga said.
"But Rothimar was slain before the second half of the First Age of Man," Lars replied. "So it is written in the Bromdalian Codex!"
Helga snorted derisively. "Bromdal was a fool," she said, "and a man. Men are adept with swords and loveplay, but not with history. The Frjenalae have an alternate codex from the sorceress Olga San-Fushuku, which tells the true story. Rothimar was not slain, merely weakened. Now, with the dark days of the Drakmaglinoth approaching, his power waxes again. Already he has stretched out his hand and twisted the minds and bodies of some of our sister-lovers, transforming them into the Marglen, powerful warriors with the blackest of hearts."
Water splashed the blasted earth between Helga's muscular thighs, then, water not from the Hreldamar well but from her own ice-blue orbs.
"Lars the Cyberian -- warrior -- hero --" she stammered, "I entreat you --"
"Dry your ice-blue eyes," Lars said, leaping to his feet. "The tears of Helga San-Torakiri are more binding than any blood oath. I shall battle Rothimar, and defeat him if I can. Show me the way to the Frjenala clan hall, and I shall offer my services to High Mother Torakiri."
| Chapter Four: Strange Constellations |
| Table of Contents |
| Skip to Your Reward |
| Quit Reading |
Chapter Four
Night had fallen upon the Jalkkthrom, the blasted, wasted plains that lay between the Bjalkwood and the cliffside home of the Frjenala clan. Lars squatted by a meagre fire, slowly turning a spit upon which roasted the remains of one of the stunted, twisted coyote-snakes of the plains. He tore one of the legs from the creature, deftly flayed the scaly hide from it with the blade of his gun-blade, and offered it to Helga. She turned up her already turned-up nose, and Lars smiled grimly in the firelight before sinking his teeth into a leg himself. "See, Lady?" he said. "The flesh is sweet, and shall not harm you.
"Lars the Cyberian, I have sworn an oath to never eat the flesh of another living being," she said. "And even if I hadn't, I would never eat something with six scaly legs and two heads." She opened a pouch on her iron horse and withdrew a small paper-wrapped packet. "The Frjenala eat only these cakes made of rice, or cubes of gelatinous bean curd."
Lars shuddered. "Given the options, Helga San-Torakiri, I will stick with the coyote-snake. A meal without meat is no meal for a warrior." And he fell to, burying his face in the leg and ripping the flesh with his sharp teeth, snapping gristle and cleaning it to the bone like a wild animal.
After their meager repast, Helga shivered and hugged Piksprit to her considerable bosom, gooseflesh breaking out on her tanned skin. "Why must it be so cold in the in-between places of the world?" she asked.
"I have warmth enough to spare, Lady," Lars said, "should you lie with me tonight."
"Lars the Cyberian, I have sworn an oath of chastity until I should complete my quest --" Helga began, blushing and glancing in the direction of the hero's loincloth,perhaps[sic] to see if it should rise.
But Lars pressed a coyote-snake-greasy finger to her lips. "Only lie with me, Lady," he said. "Your virtue is safe. I, too, have sworn a mighty oath that I shall never know carnally only one woman at a time. See, I shall keep my loincloth between us."
"That is good," Helga said, "because I do not wear my metal bikini to sleep, for it pinches me in places my virtue bids me not mention." As she began to undo the clasps of her bikini, Lars averted his piercing brown-green eyes with heroic restraint.
"No, Lars the Cyberian, look upon me," she said, "for I have seen all that you have, and we are equals." And Lars looked his fill, his warrior's training enabling him to restrain his ardor.
So Helga San-Torakiri nestled herself into the broad chest of Lars the Cyberian, and with Piksprit keeping watch, the heroes chastely fell to sleep beneath the strange constellations of the Jalkkthrom.
| Chapter Five: A Rain of Mead |
| Table of Contents |
| Skip to Your Reward |
| Quit Reading |
Chapter Five
As the sun set on their third day of travel, Lars the Cyberian and Helga San-Torakiri finally beheld the cliff dwellings of the Frjenala clan. Lars marveled at them; they were huge, multi-storied buildings carved into the very living rock. Above them, a dozen times lifesize, was hewn a massive statue of an unclothed woman raising a sword in both hands, as if she would stab the very underside of heaven.
"Lars the Cyberian," Helga said, "you have been kind to me, and we understand one another. Would you consent to wear these shackles again, that I may properly present you to High Mother Torakiri?"
"I confess, Helga San-Torakiri," Lars replied, "that I would be eager -- let us say, I would be unopposed to that plan."
And thus was the Cyberian shackled again, and he consented to be led behind Helga's iron horse into the keep beneath the enormous naked statue. There, he found a great throne room, with throngs of warrior women on either side, and a raised dais in the middle upon which sat a gigantic throne, upon which was perched High Mother Torakiri, with two male slaves (for all men in the Frjenala were slaves) reclining at her feet.
Upon her head, she wore a headdress made of feathers and bone, with a ruby-eyed human skull in the middle. Upon her body, she wore only cybernetic tribal tattoos that shimmered and writhed, changing color according to her mood. They turned a deep shade of pink as she beheld Lars and Helga's approach.
"Behold," she said, her usually icy voice betraying a hint of passion, "the warrior approaches, showing the proper respect for the Frjenala and the High Mother! You have done well, Helga San-Torakiri, and tonight you may feast with the elder priestesses. Release his bonds, then go forth and join your sister-lovers." Helga did as she was asked, and slowly Lars raised his piercing green-brown eyes to meet Torakiri's smoldering midnight orbs.
"High Mother," Lars said, "I have heard of your plight, and have come to offer you any service I may."
"I suspect that you have many talents indeed, Lars the Cyberian," Torakiri responded, her midnight eyes flitting across his broad chest and muscular thighs (with the biomechanical patch on his left), pausing slightly at his loincloth. "We shall speak of it on the morrow. But tonight, you shall enjoy the hospitality of the Frjenala! Tell me, Cyberian," she said, narrowing her eyes slyly, "would you lie with Helga San-Torakiri tonight? I am sure you are pleasurable in her eyes, and she has fulfilled her oath."
"High Mother," Lars replied, "I have sworn an oath never to lie carnally with a single woman. It is not fair to ask of any single female the gargantuan task of satisfying a warrior's appetite."
"I thought as much," the High Mother said, and beckoned into the shadows. From within the dark behind the throne stepped forth a woman with waist-length platinum-blonde hair, alabaster skin, and one entirely biomechanical leg. The Cyberian shuddered as she seemed to gaze through him with one milky white eye and one that gleamed red.
"This is Olga San-Fushuku," Torakiri said. "She will teach you, among many other things, the true history unspoken of in the Bromdalian Codex. Lie with her and with Helga this night, and tomorrow you may set forth upon your quest."
"But first," she continued, rising from her throne and flinging her hands into the air, "let there be a celebration this night! Bring forth the rice cakes and the cubes of gelatinous bean curd!"
"High Mother --" Lars began, but Torakiri ignored him.
"And let there be a rain of mead to flood this great hall with intoxicating pleasure!"
"Ah, that's more like it, then," Lars said, and lifted his open mouth as the mead began to patter down from above.
| Table of Contents |
| Quit Reading |
| Skip to Your Reward |
Quit Reading
Keep an eye out for the continuing adventures of Lars the Cyberian in Chapter Six: Assault of the Raptorlions!
Skip to Your Reward
What, an enchanting story well told isn't enough of a reward for you? Oh, I'm sorry. Was my deft prose, my subtle humor, my entrancing plotting not optimal enough? Did you not get your money's worth from the literally dozens of minutes of work I put into this narrative? What kind of reward do you think you deserve other than having been entertained? I can't be bound to your expectations all the time, man. I'm an artist, okay?
All right, fine. If that's not enough, then here's this SCREW for YOU, BUDDY.
 | You acquire an item: Skullhead's Screw |
Occurs when using Lars the Cyberian.
Notes
- The tale is (slightly) continued in the Fernswarthy's Basement adventure Unholy Writes.
