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Spiderkin |
Joined: Mon Jul 26, 2004 5:20 am Posts: 480 Location: Blighty
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“... Stupid titting freezing ice-coated tosspot of a mountain...” Ward shivered bitterly.
“I don't know about you brother, but I find it bracing! I did tell you to wear garments with some modicum of cold resistance...”
“I am wearing cold resistance gear. What I am not wearing is cold enjoyment gear. I suppose you like the cold because its one of the elements that dragons are attuned to, correct?”
“Well...” Aloysius said hesitantly, “There may be some truth to that...”
“Thought so,” Ward sniffed, “You'd enjoy dysentery if drakes breathed it.”
Watching as Ward trudged ahead of him in the ankle-deep slush, muttering angry nothings under his breath, Aloysius commented, “I take it that experiencing the bitter cold can turn one's attitude cold and bitter, brother, but please try to focus. Our task here is important, so we cannot allow ourselves to become...” Slowly, Aloysius noticed that there was a ragged halfling stood beside him, shivering and frost-bitten, feebly tugging at the lining of his armour, “... distracted?”“Please, sirrah... Help me...”“Ward! Ward!” Aloysius called, “Cease your advance, brother!”
“I cannot thank you enough for your kindness, sirs. I am Unranarileg, pleased to make your acquaintance. What should I call my heroes?”
“Aloysius, and please, it is no act of heroism.” Bowing low, Aloysius beamed, “It is simple nature to watch out for your fellow man.”
“Ward.” Stood with his arms folded, his cloak now wrapped about the halfling for warmth, Ward gave silent thanks to the armoursmith back in Last Hope for giving his armour extra padding, “Why is one such as yourself traversing this snowy peak on his lonesome?”
Shaking his head mournfully, Unranarileg sighed, “Greed. Simple greed. Almost enough to put one in their grave, I now recognise. The group I belong to received news recently that the Daikara was rich with precious gems, even upon its surface, so in my haste I arranged to trek here, solo... and this is where it got me. Had you not arrived sooner...”
“Hey, don't worry about it. We all bite off more than we can chew sometimes,” Ward gazed up the mountain path, winding its way upwards, “Do you have a recall portal nearby we can take you to?”
“Yes... Yes, I do. It's some way though, and...” Unranarileg paused, “... There is something blocking our passage to it.”
“Something?” Aloysius enquired, “What manner of 'something'?”
“... Something. I have never seen such a creature before... I would almost call it arachnid, but to consider it a mere, mundane giant spider would be grossly inaccurate... Hold,” Unranarileg noticed that Ward was now walking away, loosening the waraxe from his belt, “Where are you going?”
“Where do you think I'm going? To go and do something about your 'something', of course.”
“What?! You mustn't! I repeat again, it is no simple giant spider! It will...”
But Ward was already out of sight. Turning his worried visage back to Aloysius, the wyrmic smiled, “Do not fret overmuch. Bulwarks consider themselves living shields. If anyone can protect you from this 'something', it is my erstwhile brother-in-arms.”
The halfling relented, but still appeared to be quite unsettled. Noticing this, Aloysius decided to broach a different avenue of conversation, “So... Your journey here; gems were your quarry?”
“That they were,” Unranarileg nodded, “Must make me appear terribly avaricious, eh? Venturing up this void-forsaken peak just for shiny stones...”
Aloysius waved his hands, “Not at all, friend. It is a mission far more noble than the one usually undertaken by travellers here...”
“I assume you refer to dragon poaching? Yes, I noticed that you were a... Ah, what's the word? Wyrm-man?”
“Wyrmic.”
“Yes, wyrmic. Still, as I was saying, it was gems that I sought for, not dragonhide. My concoctions have been demanding more and more of them lately, and if I'm ever to advance in the Brotherhood...”
Aloysius' smile flickered, “... You're an alchemist.”
“Oh, yes,” Unranarileg replied genially, “Didn't I mention? I thought my regrettable gem-lust would've given me away! Hah, quite a coincidence – alchemists covet hoards of gemstones almost as much as dragons do! We could almost be kindred spirits, eh?”
“Yes, yes...” Nodded Aloysius, surreptitiously pulling a pouch of grey dust from his belt, “Kindred spirits...”
“Hah! Whoa! Just one more...!”
Ward aimed carefully and with one last, perfect strike, scored a lethal hit upon the immense arachnid form that darted towards him. Leaping out of the way of the beast's final charge, Ward watched with fascination as the eight-legged creature crashed against the rock, shuddered for a brief moment, and then... vanished. Ward stared at the patch of ground where his opponent had simply blinked out of existence, disbelieving.
“No way. It couldn't have been...”
“It was a weaver!”
“A... weaver?” Aloysius furrowed his brow.
“I must agree, I have never heard of such a creature,” Unranarileg added, “Yet it appears that you have. Where does your experience come from?”
“Robin. Ah, that is, the notes a friend of mine wrote, regarding chronomancy.”
“Chronomancy...”
“From what I understand,” Ward began, “Time is like... threads of silk, okay? Don't ask me how a concept such as time can be manifested in such a manner, but it's threads. And weavers are, like, the spiders that weave these threads, maintain them and so on. No wonder the thing looked so alien to you; it technically shouldn't even be in this plane of existence!”
“Amazing,” Unranarileg breathed, “To think you could learn such things from the notes of this friend of yours. Surely he must have been a mighty mage!”
Ward glared at Unranarileg for a moment, before stating, “He is a very smart man, I will say that. Nobody can take that from him. Nobody.”
Scratching the back of his neck awkwardly, Unranarileg coughed, “Well, no, I guess not... Still! If you've dealt with this weaver, then there should be naught blocking my path to my recall portal. Once again, I cannot thank the pair of you enough for helping me.”
“Think nothing of it, friend.” Ward thumbed over his shoulder, “Shall we be off?”
“Ah! Here it is.”
The mountainous path that the trio traversed had made its way upwards to a small, rocky plateau, the earth around Unranarileg's recall portal glowing a gentle shade of purple. Upon seeing the portal, the halfling himself gave a cry of relief and jogged ahead of Ward and Aloysius to ensure that it was still complete and functional.
“Mmhm, mmhm... All runes and sigils present and correct! Excellent!” Jumping into the centre of the glyph, Unranarileg laughed, “To think, moments hence I thought it was all over!”
“Fortune's smiled upon you this day,” Aloysius grinned, “So, back to the halls of Angolwen for you, friend?”
Upon hearing the 'a-word', Ward glanced upwards, “Hey, wait, what—”
“That's right!” Unranarileg nodded, “To home and hearth at last! Who cares if my quest for gems came up empty-handed? All I desire now is a cosy chair, a roaring fire, and maybe a slice of shortbread or two!”
“Sounds delightful,” Reaching one arm behind his back, Aloysius slowly poured a measure of grey dust into his fist, “If it's Angolwen you're headed to, could you perhaps deliver a message for me?”
Ward's eye darted to the dust in Aloysius' hand, “Hey, hang on! Don't—”
“Of course! What is it?”
“Just this: First Protector Ardon sends his regards.”
“Wait!”
As Aloysius dashed his dust at Unranarileg's portal, Ward only saw the alchemist for a split-second before he vanished, but it was long enough to witness the emotion that flooded across his face – terror.
Unranarileg Betrayed! +2 Willpower “Aloysius!” Grabbing the smirking wyrmic by his multi-hued lapels, Ward exclaimed, “Why did you do that?! We just saved that guy from freezing to death up here, only for you to backstab him the moment he enters his portal?! What were you thinking?!”
Despite the smile that remained constant on his face, Aloysius' eyes had grown hard and steely. “In case you've forgotten, brother, you and I are members of a little movement known as the Ziguranth. Remember Zigur? Your initiation? Our sworn duty to protect the world from the whims of the insane mage bourgeoisie? Forgive me if I'm patronising you, but it looks as though it's slipped your mind.”
Releasing his grip on Aloysius, Ward paced backwards a few steps. It was true, he was Ziguranth, and what Aloysius had just done was expected of them. And yet, despite how prepared Ward had believed himself to be to join the order, it looked as though his conscience and his morals weren't as hardened as he had expected them to be.
“It's just... Something wasn't right,” Ward wrung his hands, “Sure, he was a mage. But... Couldn't you have just struck him down the moment you realised it, instead of getting his hopes up, escorting him to his portal?”
“There's an element of danger to such an action, Ward,” Aloysius folded his arms, “We may have developed such that we can resist the brunt of magic's might, but there's always the possibility that one can underestimate a mage – bite off more than you can chew, as it were. Dusting portals is a far safer course of action.”
Seeing no immediate response from Ward, who continued to look unsettled, Aloysius sighed, “I have seen the same reaction from many a new initiate in my time, Ward. Their initial experience with mages has always been the... insane corruptor, the malevolent necromancer, figures for whom even the most rudimentary of moral compasses point towards 'oh, void naw'. But then you have archmages, alchemists and their ilk. Folk whose transgressions aren't so obvious. Realising the peril that these people embody – far greater peril than that of corruptors or necromancers, I should add – is a test for new blood within the Ziguranth... A test that not all complete.”
“... I have to 'realise the peril' of mages?”
“The Spellblaze was such a long time ago, wasn't it? Even the most grievous of wounds can heal; someday, the Spellblaze's mark on the world may vanish entirely. How much longer can the Ziguranth strive for revenge? Fifty years? A hundred years? You see, the reason for our zeal is that, despite the cataclysmic destruction that the Spellblaze caused, and the sheer irresponsibility of the mages that allowed it to happen... the arcanists' approach to magic has not changed. Not. One. Iota.”
Ward went to speak, but Aloysius wasn't about to be interrupted. Now striding to and fro, he continued, “Knowledge. That's the excuse that mages use for their actions. We must learn about magic! We must study it! It's knowledge, don't question it! Knowledge! However, one must ask: What is it exactly that mages study about magic? It's reason for being? Why they possess it? How to make it safer? More accessible, perhaps? A way of bestowing magical abilities upon those without them is surely not outside the realm of possibility?”
“No. When mages say they 'study' magic, they mean one thing... Power! Power! Power! More power! How much more powerful can we make it?! How much more powerful can I make MYSELF? Me, me, me, power, power, power! More power! More power! Over a mountain of corpses! Who cares how many die?! Power! POWER! POWER! Fire and blood, the ruler of the mages even snorted up a god simply because she wasn't satisfied with her previous strength!”
“... Gotta admit, that's pretty... extreme.” Ward mumbled quietly.
Much to Ward's relief, Aloysius finally began to calm down. “It's funny,” He snickered, “We Ziguranth are called a cult, when it's the mages who worship a dead god. I notice I've unnerved you a touch, brother. It wasn't my intention.”
“N-No, no, it's okay,” Ward shrugged, “The way you started raving then, i-it... it was comforting. Really. Got any more proselytising you want to get out of your system?”
Chuckling, Aloysius gave a sarcastic bow, “All done for the moment, brother. Shall we be off?”
“So, ah, at the risk of triggering another explosive bout of speech-giving,” Ward said, arms behind his head as he and Aloysius continued their progression along the Daikara, “Could you tell me what it is we're doing up this mountain? You said you'd explain 'in due time'.”
“Ah, that, yes. No.”
“... Hrm.”
“Come now, don't pout,” Aloysius sniggered, “You found that, ah, dwarven-steel thought-forged longsword of purging on that weaver creature, didn't you? Doesn't that already make this jaunt worth it?”
“It's not the journey being worth it or not that bothers me,” Ward replied, idly swinging his new sword – it was spiffy, he wasn't going to lie, “I just don't like secrets. What if you're taking me up here as a sacrifice, to power your nature gifts, or something like that?”
“Hah! Come now, Ward...”
“Tell me why we're here.”
Glancing around, Aloysius suddenly pointed at a dark passage, carved into the mountainside, caught his eye, “Ah, look there, Ward! An intimidating cave! Perhaps we should—”
“Forget the cave,” Ward waved a hand, “Tell me why we're here.”
“... Hmhm. Tell you what. I'll tell you why we're up here... if you tell me about your parents.” Amused by the indignant glare that surfaced on Ward's face, Aloysius laughed, “A little trick Myssil taught me the other day, to get you to stop pursuing secrets. You really don't like talking about your childhood, do you?”
“Leave it, Aloysius,” Ward said lowly, “I'm serious. Leave it.”
“Mage killed your family, right? That's what everybody back in Zigur guesses.”
“No. Leave it.”
“No? Now I'm intrigued,” Rubbing his chin, Aloysius thought to himself, “Come to think of it... Ward's your family name, right? It rings a bell.”
“You aren't leaving it. I suggest you leave it.”
“Doesn't that name belong to some big, affluent merchant family, down in Last Hope? Yet, you said you're from Derth...”
“You have no idea how close you are to getting a shield in the face, Aloysius. Last time: Leave it.”
Finally relenting, Aloysius whistled, “Alright brother, you've made your point. Save that rage for those who deserve it, right? Let's change the subject; what do you want to talk about?”
Ward gave a non-committal shrug.
“We could talk about... art? The weather? Day-to-day life, perhaps—SNOW GIANTS!”
“Snow giants?” Ward was confused, “Why would you want to talk about snow giants? Aren't they just a pack of oversized, club-wielding, blue-skinned, loosely-confederated troglodytes?”
Staring at the warband of towering, frost-rimed and freshly insulted snow giants that loomed behind Ward's back, Aloysius mumbled under his breath, making a small 'turn around' gesture with his index finger, “Ah, brother? I think a little pirouette might be in order here...”
“Pardon? We're up a mountain and you want me to start... Oh.”
Finally noticing the cantankerous group stood behind him, Ward instinctively reached for his sword and shield even as he laughed, “Ah... Haha. When I said 'troglodytes', I meant it in an ironic... social commentary... non-offensive way...”
Ten minutes, and several dozen dead snow giants later...
“Cold resistance gear, you said to bring!” Ward stammered, still jolting and juddering from the lightning bolts the snow giant thunderers had peppered him with, “You said nothing about lightning resistance gear!”
“Well...” Having hidden behind a rock and not contributed to the battle (due to not being an actual in-game character), Aloysius reached for something positive about Ward's recent lightning-rod impression, “... I suppose you don't feel cold any more, right brother?”
“Yes, I suppose. Having all your internal organs fried until they're golden brown would heat you up a little. Still, I'd rather that it didn't happen again!” Shuddering, Ward shook off the last of the thunderers' sparks, “Suppose I should look on the bright side. At least the snow giants' champion wasn't among them; I'm not sure we would've survived then.”
“Indeed,” Aloysius nodded, “Our hopes of surviving against a foe as mighty, ingenious and good-looking as the snow giants' champion would be slim to none...”
Now continuing their ascent in silence, Aloysius silently considered the ramifications of the thunderers' presence. Snow giants don't wield lightning magic 'just because'; something – or someone – was influencing them...
This, after all, was the reason why Myssil had tasked himself and Ward with scaling the Daikara; to search for the storm mage who had assaulted Derth. Myssil had bade Aloysius that Ward was not to be made aware of the purpose of their expedition – if Ward did know, it would distract him during combat. Not to mention the fact that, if they did locate the culprit, Ward would most likely attempt an attack immediately, despite how foolhardy such an action would be.
No, much better to keep him in the dark at present. Aloysius was the eyes, after all – Ward was merely the sword and shield.
“Hold on, haven't we walked up this pass already?”
“You know what,” Said Aloysius, turning to gaze at the mountain path behind him, “I think we have...”
“This isn't just déj? vu, no way. We've definitely been here before. But how is that possible? ... This is odd.”
“Agreed, brother. We've been here before, and yet...” Scrunching up his face, Aloysius spoke with obvious confusion, “I also know that we'll walk here again... in the future?”
“Funny. I was about to ask how you'd know that, but... I know it as well. We've walked here before, we're walking here now, and we'll walk here... in the future...” Slowing to a standstill, Ward thought for a moment on what he had just said. In an instant, his eye shone with realisation.
“Oh, lawd. There's a temporal rift nearby.”
“A temporal... rift?” Aloysius said curiously.
“That explains the weaver I found, not to mention the déj? vu and precognition we're experiencing. Time's been ripped a new one, and the wound is very close by... Should be just up ahead.”
“How on Eyal do you know that?”
“Easy,” Ward shrugged, “I remember seeing it... even though I haven't... yet.”
True enough, a mere dozen yards up the mountain path, Ward and Aloysius came across the culprit behind their prescience – a rift, a burning hole that hung in the air itself, countless images of countless eras (thankfully) lost in its inky blackness.
Aloysius and Ward stared at the impossible fracture in reality for a moment or two.
“So... Do we just leave it?” Aloysius eventually shrugged, “I mean, this isn't like finding litter somebody's dropped and leaving it. It strikes me as fairly major, brother.”
Arms folded and with a finger held to his chin, Ward hummed, “Irresponsible as it is... I think it'd be best if we left it be. Corporeal bodies aren't suited for travel in the temporal domain – if we encountered any resistance, it'd be a challenge retaliating while we're moving as slow as molasses. Plus, actually repairing the rift would most likely involve colluding with chronomancers. Seeing as we're Ziguranth, I can see a good dozen ways how that could go south. No, we should leave it for now; maybe come back better prepared. Who knows? Maybe, now that I've slain a weaver here, a greater group from their brood will come to investigate and repair the damage themselves. Who can say?”
Aloysius, who had listened to Ward's speech with quiet surprise, took a moment to respond. When he did, his tone was tinged with suspicion, “You know, between this rift and that weaver, you know an awful lot about chronomancy. You're sure this all comes from browsing through your mage-loving friend's notes?”
“Eh. Out of everything there, it's what interested me the most. Chronomancy used to worry me more than anything – it's a threat you just... can't respond to normally, y'know? Looking through Robin's notes put my fears to rest for the most part.”
“Oh? How so?”
“Look at it this way,” Ward smiled, “If a paradox mage could kill you by, say, going to the past and killing you as a baby, or maybe 'sever your thread' or something like that, it would've happened already. It hasn't, so...”
“Hmm. I see...” Mollified for the moment, Aloysius nodded towards the mountain path, and both he and Ward continued their ascent. “Incidentally, brother,” He continued, “What is your opinion on chronomancers? Do you believe them to be as reprehensible as their mundane mage muchachos?”
“I won't comment on it. ... Although anybody who gives themself the title 'Grand Keeper of Reality' probably should be regarded with some healthy level of trepidation... Maybe we should give ourselves titles.”
“Ah! It looks like we're finally approaching the top of the mountain! After you Aloysius, Benevolent God-King of the Outer Reaches!”
“Why, thank you Ward, Great and Glorious Iron Emperor of—what on Eyal is that?!”
Stood upon the path before them – indeed, entirely filling the path before them – a bloated horror gurgled and pulsed. As horrific as it was bloated, the pasty ball of vaguely-humanoid blubber was inhuman enough to cause revulsion, but just human enough to unsettle...
“Is that... a horror?” Aloysius breathed, “I've never seen a horror so... corpulent.”
“Goodness. Now, I've seen some fat people, and I mean really fat, circus-grade fat – there was this one noblewoman I saw in Last Hope that had to be pulled around on a cart – but this thing?!” Ward shook his head, “I wasn't aware that the nightmarish beings that inhabit the hell-realms between dimensions had to cope with cholesterol, of all things.”
“Indeed. I wonder if it's meant to be, ah... a representation of man's greed, or something. A damning indictment of how humanity exists merely to consume, or something like that.”
“Ugh. Wouldn't surprise me,” Readying his weapons, Ward strode towards the horror. The horror, for its part, continued to passively jiggle and squelch. Confused, Ward wondered to himself, “Is this thing even capable of fighting? Has it even noticed us? I would've expected it to do something by—”
And then, the bloated horror began a devastating mental assault, searing Ward's mind.
“OW OW OKAY IT CAN FIGHT OW CRAP DAMMIT”
* * * SCHLAK * * * * * * CHOP * * * * * * CHOP * * * * * * SQUELCH * * * * * * CHOP * * * * * * SQUISH * * *
Having frantically diced the bloated horror to pieces, halting the mental assault, Ward paused to rub his head tenderly.
“Ugh, psionics,” He groaned, “Can't stand it. That thing put images in my head I just couldn't deal with, and I've read 'Scaled Majesty'!”
“Hmph,” Aloysius folded his arms, mildly offended, “Scaled Majesty is a deep and thought-provoking thesis into the complex relationship between wyrmics and dragons, brother. It's not our fault that the world at large sees it as nothing more than shallow, disturbing, inter-species erotica.”
“Spare me,” Sighed Ward, idly scooping up the bloated horror's diseased heart (in case he ran into Agrimley again), “By the time I finished chapter three I already felt like I needed a wash.”
Any rebuttal that Aloysius would have wanted to give was cut short by a sound both chilling and, judging by its volume, from a source that was far too close for comfort: The roar of a great wyrm.
“Curses,” Muttered Aloysius as he and Ward beheld the oversized reptilian form that rose up from the dense icy mist before them, “I could've sworn that Rantha hibernated around this time of the year.”
“Looks like it's us or her,” Said Wardy as he readied his sword and shield, “You've got no objections to dragonslaying in self-defence, right? Mr. Wyrmic?”
“Oh, of course I haven't,” Snapped Aloysius testily, backpeddling away from the impending battle as he spoke, “Just... do what you have to.”
“Hell, I couldn't treat this dragon any worse than what happened to that one in chapter five, anyway!”
“Just start fighting it already!”
Level 19! +1 Strength, +2 Willpower, +1 Spell Shield, +1 Combat Accuracy To Ward's chagrin, his battle against Rantha echoed his clash with Wrathroot – a war of attrition, albeit a slightly more hazardous one. Having expended the entirety of his combat repertoire, not to mention his stamina, the battle was soon reduced to a desperate, artless struggle, Ward haphazardly striking at the great wyrm whenever an opportunity presented itself, hoping that his blows were strong enough to penetrate Rantha's scales.
Still, Ward comforted himself with the thought that the battle must have been frustrating for Rantha as well; not once was he frozen by her blasts of icy breath, and his heavy armour greatly mitigated her rending claw-strikes. Once again, he had proven to be a nut too tough to crack.
“Found a couple of interesting items in Rantha's hoard,” Ward called to Aloysius as he returned from rooting through the dragon's assorted collection of valuables, “There was a nasty ol' arcane 'Burning Star', which I'm sure you'll be thrilled to hear is now transmogged, and also this pair of shoes. 'Frost Treads', the scryer called 'em. They're quite nice, think I'll use 'em... Although, I think I'll want to invest in some thicker socks... Aloysius?”
Having noticed that Aloysius was stood a distance away, gazing blankly at Rantha's corpse, Ward came to his side and said, “Look. I know it's a shame, but I had to kill Rantha. No way around it. I know I poke fun at you wyrmics every now and then, but deep down I do respect your—what?!”
To Ward's surprise, Aloysius had knelt down and, drawing a large knife, begun to hack around the inside of Rantha's jaws, mumbling to himself, “I hope the breath glands are still intact...”
“Aloysius?! What're you doing?!”
Glancing back at Ward for a moment, Aloysius responded idly, “The glands inside a dragon's mouth are what allow it to breath fire, ice, acid and so on. A steady diet of such glands is necessary for a wyrmic to develop draconic powers, don't you know...”
“But... But I thought Wyrmic's didn't like it when you kill—”
“Waste not, want not, brother! Mmm, Rantha had some good, strong hide... Think you could give me a hand slicing it off?”
Myssil was an embattled woman.
For the longest time, she had possessed a feeling. At first, the feeling wasn't strong enough to merit any serious reflection. As it grew, she attempted to dismiss it out-of-hand as being irrational, or 'un-Ziguranth'. But still, the feeling persisted. The current state of the Ziguranth – hunting mages, attacking exposed pockets of corruptors, spreading antimagic sentiment amongst the general populace... It was nothing more than a holding pattern, a holding pattern that was not benefiting the Ziguranth. At this rate, magic would remain and the Ziguranth's primary goal would go unfulfilled. No, thought Myssil, something greater will have to happen if Ardon's dream was ever going to be realised... something grand, sweeping, decisive. She comforted herself by working on her plans every night – possible scenarios that would result in an end to all magic, or at least something that would cripple mage society as a whole. Yet, as it stood now, none of her plans could be put into action.
Sadly for Myssil, many of the Ziguranth took her introversion and disinterest in the day-to-day affairs of Zigur as inactivity, indolence. Her more vocal critics had claimed that under her leadership, the Ziguranth was stagnating and not 'fulfilling its true destiny'. In truth, Myssil was never even meant to be Zigur's ruler – she had become Protector as a 'battlefield promotion', taking command during a corruptor raid after the previous Protector had fallen in battle. Thanks to her masterful display of tactics during the raid, not to mention her ferocity in combat, she kept the rank of Protector even after the attack had concluded. Up until said raid, the Ziguranth member thought to be a shoo-in as the next Protector was... Aloysius.
Charismatic, bold and idealistic, it was no surprise that Aloysius was so beloved by his Ziguranth brethren. Deep down, it concerned Myssil that so many viewed the wyrmic with such esteem – with each passing day, the whisperings that Aloysius was the true leader of the Ziguranth grew. She could only hope that it wouldn't develop into a full-fledged mutiny. Aloysius himself, for his part, remained silent on the subject, and on the face of things he remained loyal to Myssil and her rule. Still, she thought anxiously, it was certainly within the scope of his abilities to hide his desire for rulership over Zigur...
And then... there was Linaniil.
Unlike the corruptors, archmages did not oppose the Ziguranth openly – socially, they could not. If Angolwen were to move to destroy Zigur, it would turn the Ziguranth into an entire legion of martyrs. The public would see it as the ever-aloof mages, with their delusions of godhood, striking down the fools that dared to oppose them... As far as becoming accepted by the common man went, it wouldn't be a prudent choice for them. Corruptors, obviously, didn't care about such things as 'acceptance', hence their comparatively overt assaults.
But this did not stop the mages from attempting to destabilise the Ziguranth subversively, and that's where Linaniil comes in. For a period of many months, the one surviving Kar'Krul would cast spells to torment Myssil whenever she was alone: Whisperings, apparitions, repeated assertions that she and her order would fail... For a time sleep became an alien habit to Myssil, with shades and projections of Linaniil keeping her awake night after night after night. Myssil became drawn, fatigued, incapable of leadership or even coherency at the worst of times. Eventually, the Ziguranth's psions devised a method to mask Myssil's consciousness, saving her from Linaniil's mental assaults. Yet despite the time that had passed, Myssil felt that she had lost something permanently. Her energy, her conviction, her passion... Perhaps she was just getting older.
“Protector Myssil? You slumber not?”
Coming out of her reverie, Myssil sat up in her chair and turned to see Padakkk, a yeek psion, pad into the room.
Padakkk – and indeed, all of the yeeks within the order – had been a blessing, improving the strength, numbers and capability of the Ziguranth's psions immensely. Yeeks as a race were naturally given to psionics; their mere presence could engender development of psionic abilities upon those of other races with adequate potential. Each of them, to a yeek, gave no reason for their joining of the Ziguranth, each claiming simply that 'their drives are their own'. Normally Myssil would've been sceptical of allowing such a secretive people into the Ziguranth, but she knew that the power that yeek psionics gave her order was not something to be squandered.
“No Padakkk, I'm awake. What is it?”
The yeek's white fur bristled, “The information psioncally harvested from your scouts in the Daikara has focused our mental search to a single point. Atop a peak, shrouded in stormclouds, a human who wields lightning...”
Now wide awake, Myssil grabbed a scrap of parchment and raised her quill, “You know who's causing the storm over Derth? Tell me.”
Padakkk's bulbous, dilated eyes began to darken as his 'inner eye' focused, “A man... grey and twisted... nothing but scorn... Urkis... of Angolwen...”
Myssil inhaled sharply – she hadn't been expecting this. “Angolwen? You're sure?!”
“From the city of spires and contention of the Way... It is clear that Urkis carries their mark.”
“Padakkk, the mountain Urkis resides on – you can sense where it's located, right?”
“I can...”
Getting to her feet, Myssil ushered the yeek into her chair, showing him her parchment and quill. “Sketch a map of where he is before your vision fades, Padakkk,” She instructed, “I've got an urgent matter to attend to.”
With quick, sporadic movements, his eyes not upon the parchment, Padakkk dutifully began to scratch out a map. As Myssil paced towards her chamber's door, pulling a cloak about her neck, he commented, “No action may be taken against the man Urkis until you know his location, no? What are you doing?”
“Never you mind, Padakkk,” Myssil muttered, opening the door, “There's someone I need to speak with.”
Emerging from the dense underbrush, Myssil entered a small, moonlit clearing some distance from Zigur's borders. While her months of harassment from Linaniil's apparitions had taken much from her, it had also given her something: Now, Linaniil could only sense Myssil's mind if Myssil herself wished it. So, when Myssil had something to say...
“Quekorja! Quekorja!” Myssil shouted at thin air, “Quekorja! Reveal yourself!”
Within seconds, a pearlescent ball of blue light welled up from the ground before Myssil's feet. The ball distorted, stretching in multiple directions, its light fading and growing stronger at different points. It's form became more and more humanoid, until eventually...

“How many times must I tell you, Myssil? I am Linaniil.”
“I speak to you, Quekorja,” Myssil poked a finger upwards, “Not the corpse of the woman you inhabit.”
Linaniil's image folded her arms, “Thou hast called me simply to harangue me?”
“Urkis,” Myssil spat, “Surely you have knowledge of his actions, his assault on Derth? Or were your eyes too affixed upon your plans of conquest to notice?!”
“Urkis...” Linaniil sighed wearily, “Too late do I realise he has become a liability. Time and again he would come to me, demanding greater liberties to facilitate his 'experiments' – the spark of madness within his eyes whenever I refused him...”
“So your dog slipped his leash, and only now do you react,” Said Myssil, tartly, “What must his tempest strike to make you take action? Angolwen? Your own bedchamber? You?”
“You will not take that tone with me, Ziguranth,” Linaniil snapped, eyes narrowing while the remainder of her expression remained passive, “Hast thou not blanketed Maj'Eyal with your seething, unjustified hatred perhaps our number could 'take action', as you so eloquently put it.”
“Your self-righteousness knows no bounds, Quekorja! One of your charges torments an entire community with his thunderstorms, storms that birthed his own insanity, and yet we are the ones accused of 'seething, unjustified hatred'?!” Linaniil began to speak, but Myssil continued unabashed, “Well, fine! Sit in your grove! Wallow in your auras! In the meantime we, the evil, twisted Ziguranth will be directing some entirely justified hatred at a certain storm mage, and in the process of doing so save hundreds!”
Pausing for a moment after Myssil's outburst, Linaniil smiled, “I do so enjoy our discussions, my dear Myssil. Listening to the views of one so unfettered by any cultural, ethical... or intellectual... trappings can be quite refreshing. Will that be all, then?”
Her temper piqued by Linaniil's flippancy, Myssil began to snarl... before a eerie smile surfaced on her face.
“Well, there is one other thing you may want to know, Quekorja,” Myssil paused for effect, “... I have almost found it, you know.”
“... It?”
“You know what I'm talking about. It.”
Linaniil was bemused, “... I honestly don't.”
“You know. My search is almost at an end. Within months, weeks, days even... Hasta Exoculo will be within my grasp.”
Upon hearing the phrase 'Hasta Exoculo' escape Myssil's lips, Linaniil rolled her eyes and turned away, “Hasta Exoculo,” She sighed exasperatedly, “Honestly? Madness hast truly taken you, Ziguranth.”
But Myssil was undeterred, taking Linaniil's disparaging response as an attempt to hide fear. “Hmhm, yes,” She chuckled, “T'would be an honour, you know. To be the Protector to finally do away with the Ghost of the Kar'Krul. Remember, Ardon's spirit predates you, and so shall it endure after you have passed. Until then, Quekorja...”
Without a word, Linaniil's projection slapped a palm to its face, then slowly flickered out of existence. Myssil continued to smile to herself after it had vanished; mayhap she had shown her hand too early, mentioning Hasta Exoculo to Linaniil... but, Myssil told herself, what possible counter could 'Quekorja' possibly muster?
“Protector! Protector!”
Whirling on the spot, Myssil was surprised to see Padakkk stumbling through the undergrowth surrounding the clearing she stood in. “What is the meaning of this?!” She shouted, “Padakkk, were you eavesdropping?!”
The young yeek psion shook his head, heaving as he attempted to catch his breath. It was clear he had ran some way. “Pr... Protector! An attack! An attack within Zigur!”
“What?! Is it corruptors?!”
Padakkk shook his head, “No! Of all the minds within Zigur, one suddenly twisted! Roaring in pain! Filled with knives and gloom!”
Myssil strode past Padakkk, back in the direction of Zigur. It would be quicker to witness the attack for herself than to interpret Padakkk's speech.
Ward and Aloysius had only just made it back to Zigur when Ben had snapped.
“Grrgh! You've finally lost it, old man...!”
“Let me go! I saw him! He was a mage! He had her! He had her!”
The tableau presented to Ward as he approached Zigur's centre was quite gruesome. An unfortunate young summoner had been introduced to Ben's axe following the start of his new 'episode' – a remarkable amount of blood surrounded where the summoner had fell, more than Ward thought a human body could contain. A pair of anxious-looking Ziguranth were tenderly lifting the summoner's body onto a crude leather stretcher; even if they could save him, he would likely be more fungus than man by the end of his treatment.
And there was Ben, eyes unfocused and bloodshot, screaming incomprehensibly as he grappled with Fearne, who was doing her best to restrain the cursed lumberjack.
“They won't take her! I see them! All of them! I'll stop it! I'll end it all!”
“That's it,” Fearne brought her head back, teeth bared, “Say goodnight, you psychopath!”
* * * CRACK! * * *
Ben's head snapped backwards from Fearne's mighty headbutt. Fearne initially relented, believing that Ben was about to sink into unconsciousness, when all of a sudden...
“KNIVES! KNIVES!” Ben grasped Fearne's arms, nails cutting into her skin, “YOU! YOU'RE A MAGE TOO!”
Astonished, Fearne gasped, “What?! You're still up?! Son of a...!”* * * CRACK! * * *Fearne had put all her strength into her second headbutt, the impact sending her staggering forward several feet... and Ben flying back several yards. Ward thought to himself that such a headbutt would've likely decapitated a normal person.
Dazed by the impact, Ben finally fell to his knees before collapsing in an unconscious heap. Happy in the knowledge that Ben was now truly incapacitated, Fearne allowed herself to turn away as she held a hand to her own head, her ears ringing. Ward came to her side while Aloysius inspected Ben's fallen body.
“Fearne! You okay?”
“Ugh,” Fearne stumbled for a moment, “Never had somebody stay standing after one headbutt before. I'll be lucky if that second one didn't fracture my skull!”
“What happened to Ben?”
“Whaddaya think happened?” Fearne spat, “He lost his bloody mind, that's what happened! I saw him walk past that summoner chump a few minutes ago when all of a sudden he ran back after him and swung his bloody axe into his bloody chest! Out of nowhere, literally out of nowhere!”
“I'll take him to a cell,” Aloysius grunted, heaving Ben's body over one of his shoulders, “Maybe when he regains consciousness he will have retaken some of his sanity.”
“I'm telling you,” Fearne said as Aloysius departed, “He's a lost cause. We oughta just put him away now – it'd be kinder.”
“That will be my decision,” Came Myssil's voice. Having just approached the scene of Ben's outburst, Myssil approached Ward and Fearne, folding her arms, “My decision, not yours. Understand?”
“You're making a mistake, he'll...” Noticing the glare on Myssil's face, Fearne did something almost unheard of for her – relent, “Fine, whatever you say.” She muttered.
“So,” Myssil turned to Ward, “Ben's curse got to the better of him, I understand? Has he been detained?”
“Aloysius just hauled him off to a cell moments ago, Protector.”
“Good, good... I was hoping to be able to tell you this news in a somewhat more positive setting, but... the storm mage behind the attack on Derth has been located.”
“Really?! Excellent! So, ah...” Ward glanced over his shoulder, “Where is he? Should I prepare now, or...?”
“Have some sense, Ward. You've only just returned from the Daikara. Perhaps you should relax for tonight, in preparation for your task.”
Ward was sceptical. “Are you sure? That storm over Derth's not getting any smaller. I've still got energy, I'm sure I could—”
“Yes, you should relax,” Myssil repeated, this time with a smile, “Maybe have a few drinks...?”
“... Perhaps I could use a little preparation time. A man can't fight on an empty liver, you know!”
“Good. Still, I should go check on Aloysius to make sure Ben's properly secured. Be ready by tomorrow; this will likely be your greatest task within the Ziguranth yet.”
Watching as Myssil paced away, Ward looked sideways at Fearne. “So... Looks like I've got some time to spare before my date with despicable destiny, eh? Want to head over to the tavern? There's a good dozen tankards there with our names on them, I hear...”
“Oh sure, we could go to the tavern here in Zigur,” Fearne said floatily, “We could have a few drinks, go back to your place! I could paint your nails, style your hair, pick out a nice dress for you...”
“Hey, what gives?”
Leaning in close to Ward, Fern gave a toothy grin. “I know a little hangout out in the wilds that makes the drinks here look like watered down gnat's piss. Why don't we go there so you can find out what a real drink tastes like?”
“A woman after my own heart,” Ward laughed, “Lead the way!”
“Hmph, alright then. It's this hidden compound out to the west...”
Last edited by Burb Lulls on Mon Mar 17, 2014 6:50 am, edited 2 times in total.
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