Gristly Summons

Kalabas had squandered away his afterlife to pursue the conclusion of his worldly affairs and having reaped only more trouble and turmoil from it it was only natural that these anxieties haunted the soul no matter how many graves he was put through. His mere existence commanded attention in the Otherworld, one that could not be sated with fearful turns of heads and distant awe - the first to come up to the ghost was followed by numberless others. Some were curious, others were alarmed, a handful wanted to battle, and all were ignored during the long stretch between the ghost's apartment and Vocado's supposed location. That before and after his time Kalabas had something of a friendship with the rampaging prince was known, but the mob could only speculate just what was the ghost's intent. Was he to put an end to his madness or indulge in it too? More paranoid minds feared the latter, this was Hell afterall, but the mob did not scatter yet. Instead they were meaning to fight the ghost, bring him down all together, lest the catastrophe swallow them too. What fools! As if there was any point to be made Kalabas walked through those that blocked his way. Not as a ghost, shifting and immaterial, but as a monster as tangible and concrete as any. Prismic gore slathered the saiyan, then dripping down in one meaty chunk as he made himself untouchable again. He casted his detesting gaze upon the long trail of followers, taking in their shock, their horror. There was more indulgence in the act that he would have liked. He forced his hands still as he allowed the mob to disperse, delicious as it would have been to give chase and maul them all.

In the distance, over the screaming and scrambling, Kalabas heard a cackle. It reminded him of home. It was not Vocado's, as he first had hoped, the sound was more like that of a... chitter. And so near a bramble forest, could this be a saibaman? He knew the critters well - for playmates, companions and minions no saiyan boy could get a better pet- and yet for all his swathes of knowledge he could not recall any breed that could achieve such high-pitched, almost musical notes. Kalabas was, of course, quite excited. With no mouth to 'pspsps' he could only entice the saibathing to appear by offering food. He scooped up some still beating remains - as far as he knew nobody ever truly died in Hell, and fresh meat was the best for goading anyway - and held it in the air until something showed itself.

Slowly, warily, the little beast did come. A green head poked through the bushes, propped up high in the air by six slender, spider-like legs, matched by a nearly as long set of mandibles. To pick on carrion? The saiba cackled again, spraying the ghost with bubbling acid spit, which he chose to take as a sign of affection. As the offer was preened away and fought with Kalabas raised his hand, going for a pet.

As his palm touched the bristly ridges of its crown something changed. Beyond the gravity, the breeze, the light, the fact that he was now inside in almost pitch darkness, where the faint scent of blood followed in the purple smoke that clung to his form, Kalabas realized that he had his hand stuck between the horns of some bastard woman. He stepped back, whipping his hand back as if it had been shocked, confusion clearer in his eyes now that he noticed that she had no halo, nor did she look like some shinjin of any sort. What in blazes was going on? Erring on the side of caution, Kalabas pointed his finger at the witch, holding her at kipoint. With no mouth to do the talking, he chose to imply his questioning in the slow, measured rise of his arm, and the fact that he had not killed her yet.

Kalabas felt at odds with himself. The ambiance was quite phantasmal and the company not unpleasant to the eye, the former eased the ghost's nerves and the latter only set them on edge again. Without a word said she already was all grace and smiles - but once she started her cooing? It was so insufferably patronizing that Kalabas could have mistaken her for his old maid. He knew that he had been summoned and that he was no longer in Hell - the sensation of unbelonging had even shifted in nuance -, knowledge that only sunk in once he had his hand clasped from him. The finger remained pointed and deadly, no longer merely glowing but sparking with energy all around it. Still, he did not shoot. Even in this current state, so far removed from the control he sought at all times, he would have had to be a fool to kill someone outright without first thinking everything through. It was how he died his first death, his second death, and his pride would not survive a third death suffered from gratuitous emotional excess...

But yes, he was on Konats, that near fantastical planet more seeped in magic than Namek, more courtly intrigue than Vegeta, and somehow even less literacy than Earth. He had thought of it as an exotic destination before, to explore, learn from, and maybe even civilize at his own leisure, but not once did he even dream that he would have his undeathness exploited by one of its warlocks. And a powerful one at that, the corruption of her magic had even granted her an impressive set of horns! Truly, a fiend.

Almost as if on purpose the story presented contrasted her powerful magics. Even if it was true, another's murdered prince was not for Kalabas' to worry, he had his own to look after. And then there was Vegeta, of course, so what damn was there for him to give about Konats? Let these wretched Fleet sympathizers wallow some more, the Kingdom's rescue would be all the more triumphant! Bah!

... But he was not with the Kingdom, was he? Ideologically and factually, the good he sought to sow would be reaped and made twisted by another's hands.

Yet, that need not be the end of his effort. Kalabas felt his strength doubled, a voice echoing from the inside that conquest was rarely achieved through force... Chard was a wise man, but was he right? His heir would put the theory to the test. He would dance to the demon's tune. For now.

His finger curled back, the energy quieting to a hum and then nothing. He gave a curt nod, wondering how long it would take for him to take control of an entire planet's worth of resources.

Once freed the ghostly hand collapsed on itself, nails digging through the palm in penance for having threatened the witch, and for not firing the shot. Kalabas knew not what to make of this woman, this planet, this clipboard she was prodding him with and that he accepted with slight clumsiness masked in a stern swiping motion. He had been summoned by an apparently bening and quite fetching enchantress for seemingly altruistic reasons, invited to protect the lives of some as if to atone for the many he had cut short, not quite marooned in a planet a ways from his past troubles yet close enough that he could take them on once more or never again... Alone each of those conditions would have sounded too good to be true, together they had the ghost dazed, fearing for his sanity and the sheer insanity of not leaping at a chance like this. For a very fleeting moment he dared to dream again of streets bustling with hurrahs, old battlefields overgrown with fields of wheat, saiyankind triumphant, led into eternity by a king that had beaten death. Could it be that for once the promise of a happy ending was a certainty?

He would have cried and laughed at once, but he was without a mouth. The tear that had smeared the paper and laced itself into the black blotch of blood was the only shed before he took back control. He stopped to think very briefly before the sharp rasp of pen on paper filled the silence.

Kalabas expected recoil, retaliation, a fainting, but all he got was a gentle smile from the witch. Had his prose rusted? It had been a while since he picked either pen or quill, but... he was a ghost and a noble, had he not the eloquence and means to strike true fear!? Maybe he had, maybe she was just that divorced from reason that she was indeed charmed by something that would have alarmed even better spellslingers. How in control was this woman, and more importantly, how could she best serve the Duke? With her back turned Kalabas' eyes meandered down to her most impressive asset, a rather busy desk. His was bigger, more full and better organized, but it was not the desk itself or even the tablecloth that called his attention. The more he tried to understand the shapes under the sheet the more he felt like there was a... connection. The same way arteries and veins connect to organs, and how these were felt when pulled, strained.

This call spoke louder than Ikra's words, without hesitation he unveiled the desk. The strange markings, the decoir, her works, they were nothing next to Chard's pocket watch. He swiped the memento, feeling the call to open the lid, face them... But he wasn't ready. Perhaps he never would be. Instead he glared at his summoner and how she sat just asking to be pushed. Could she fly? And if not, would she scream? The pocket watch sunk through the ghostly palm like a stone thrown into a murky lake, disappearing in its course to the ghost's chest.

His march to the her side was too fast, his stretched arm heralded no pleasant response, the ghost's unblinking eyes showed only anger and indignation. Fortunately, his swipe was at the clipboard, and not her. Floundering for another writing implement, he settled for a quill that he dipped on globs of her demonic blood.


He ripped the sheet and handed it to her, singing slightly the paper. Was it an accident or a threat? Both?

With each second that passed Kalabas raised one imperious and all-powerful finger, sprouting new digits as needed. By the end of Ikra's explanation it was as if he had a small constellation in his hands, thirty-one stars pulsating with red haze... Had she done this on purpose? Kalabas shut his eyes, exhaled loudly, and snuffed the lights between clenched white knuckles. Feeling a nearing migraine he pulled up a chair, sat, and started rubbing his temple, resting his elbow on the windowsill and his head over it. Despite the odd angle his calligraphy was quite good, perhaps because he was no longer shaking, or launching his wrist in wild violent arcs.


This ink flowed rather poorly, perhaps because the pigment was so thick? And with such strong color too... Oh well, he knew the old saliva trick. He went to poke the tip of his tongue with it, instead jabbing himself in the face. He raised his head, squinting at the quill, rubbing where he had pricked himself. The pain had surprised him more than anything. Regardless, he turned and turned and failed to find a pot, although Ikra appeared to have a lot of ink just dripping down her hand and wrist. Had the dolt spilled it? He dipped the tip of the quill on one of the more runnier beads and went back to writing, not even once imagining that it was blood. Then again, he was still under the impression that Ikra was a konatsian, albeit a very pretty one.
So he had done it... Kalabas felt proud, in a sense. Cress was so driven, so great in power and ambition, he was of that rare breed of man that would never - could never - be held back by scruple. The ghost always envied that about him, and now, he was seething with it. So what if Cress had shattered a planet to fine smithereens? Kalabas would conquer one from the inside, and keep all of its armies, infrastructure, and even... her. Potentially speaking, how many more warriors could she bring back? All Cress had vaporized with his little genocidal stunt, for sure. And if not... even then, Kalabas would be ahead in the competition for the simple fact that he had not done away with a set of dragon balls.
He slid her the paper, drumming his too-many fingers as he waited for her to read.