08/07/2026
Heimhorst Vs. Flogelkrausse:
16.7 tons of wretched, undulating biomass was contained within the suit. Though the flesh writhed and twitched uncontrollably, it knew it was Flogelkrausse; innumerate misprogrammed cells, forming tumorous appendages that pressed up against the suit still knew: they were all Flogelkrausse. They could smell their rival close at hand and convulsed in spasms of rising anticipation. Flogelkrausse's instincts were few, and those which remained could be wrapped into the two greater instincts upon which it now drew in almost all moments: organ-hunger and battle-lust.
Opposite the dripping horror stood Heimhorst, most perfect Heimhorst, he who had first crossed the sea. In his leather-gloved hand, he held his seven sacred ninja stars at the ready. Each star possessed his enemies with the burning, sacred darkness of lies and truths eternally lost. He had hardened his heart, for he knew he would lose two friends today; the part of his traveling companion that still resided somewhere in the monster's labyrinthine mind, underneath all those tentacles; the other friend, the friend inside himself who spoke with a firm but even timbre, who would never forgive him for what he would have to do to poor, admirable Flogelkrausse.
The miserable thing burbled from within its can, its teeth aching for meat. Its challenger let forth a howl that brought depth to the bowels of his men. Above the field of battle, the turgid skies were shot with streaks of serpentine, and the torrid humidity condensed and dripped mercilessly down their loins like the products of desire. As most perfect Heimhorst had hardened his heart, so now too did he harden his appendages as he let out a bellowing cry, charging through the swarms of flies drawn to the pulsing humidity of their bodies. The rounded cheeks of his face, fat and cherubic outside of battle, were streaked with bug guts as he thundered forth, his roar contorting his face into a grimace and allowing hundreds of flies down his parched throat.
With every wet and throbbing tendril, Flogelkrauss crept forth into an uneven, rolling gait. Noble Heimhorst followed his hardened appendage in a frantic charge towards the undulating fiend. For days the mountain beneath them was ravaged by the effects of their combat, the surrounding valleys drenched in the echoes of their tremendous yowling. Heimhorst could feel the waning certainty of his once proud engorgement and knew he would soon succumb to the eager and ravenous flesh of his foe. He clenched and mustered every last drop of strength to pry the mountain itself from the bosoms of the earth, caging the chastened tendrils of the frothing wretch under its inescapable weight. Here would remain the diminished Flogelkrausse until the first Aruak hunters of Pestle unknowingly freed him, allowing him to once again wreak havoc upon the amateur combat sports circuits of the local area.
