With Argrave tapping into the power of his Black Blood with the use of blood magic, what was a pitched battle quickly inverted in their favor. Argrave had a keen aim, and the constant biting of pain distracted him none—indeed, it only sharpened his focus, tuning him like an instrument to be dead set on his task at every second. He seldom missed. There were too many targets.
Argrave advanced alone, leaving the protection of his companions to give him a better vantage point. He knew the tricks of these Sentinels—even if they were fast enough to attack, he was more than able to guard and dispatch them… yet few did manage that, and he slaughtered the malformed animals one after another.
Something grabbed onto his arm, and he very nearly retaliated before he recognized that it was Anneliese. He dispelled the [Waning-Cycle Bloodmoon], the thread dissipating into nothing. She dragged him back, shouting something, but his ears were ringing terribly and he could discern nothing.
He tried to advance back onto the frontlines, but Anneliese stopped him, repeating something. As the ringing faded, it slowly came into focus.
“..tay here. Stay here. Stay here!” she said, time and time again.
“I get it,” Argrave finally responded to her. “I’m good. I’m good,” he said, half to himself. “Let’s finish things up,” he commanded, getting ready once more.
Though he said that, there was little to finish up. With Argrave single-handedly wiping out one side of the bridge, Durran and Galamon had cooperated ably with Anneliese’s support to make way on the other. The Sentinels were not all annihilated, but they were routed—Argrave could see a great many of the larger beasts retreating to the center of the vast crater of rushing water. The final confrontation would be there, without a doubt.
As Argrave glanced around, a voice cut into his thoughts. “Remove your glove,” Anneliese said, the speed of her voice masking her worry.
Argrave leaned against an archway adorned with rose-colored leaves on the bridge they stood, adrenaline slowly fading. Durran collapsed to one knee. He threw his helmet off and held his face as though nauseous, and Galamon knelt down beside the tribal. The elven vampire cast a glance at Argrave. The vampire’s expression was largely hidden beneath his helmet, which covered only his eyes, but Argrave knew that look wasn’t worry alone. Awe, maybe. Or so Argrave hoped.
Per Anneliese’s direction, he took off the glove. It stuck to his flesh, and he felt skin tear as it came free. His hand had cracked all along its surface, beginning from his fingers. Blood dripped from these cracks, swelling in tandem with his heartbeat. Argrave rolled up his sleeve. The cracks continued up his wrist, his forearm, past his elbow… stopping just below the shoulder. His whole arm was pale, appearing somewhat dead.
Anneliese clenched her teeth and locked gazes with Argrave. Then, she held both hands out. She cast the C-rank [Mystic Suture], her hands following along the cracks in his flesh. Blackness appeared along the edges of the wounds, and the flesh itself seemed to sew together without seams.
She stood once the last crack had faded in his flesh. “…the blood loss will still trouble you,” Anneliese said quietly. “That cannot be healed. Not with my magic, at least. You will be anemic for a time, but considering your unique constitution… not as long as most.”
Argrave rolled down his sleeve and gave her a quiet nod. He tested his arm. Now that the adrenaline was gone, it felt stiff, numb, much like one’s fingers when left out in the cold.
“Thank you,” he said, moving away from the archway.
“I do not like having to do that. But I always will,” she returned. She tripped over a root, clearly exhausted, and Argrave caught her before she could fall.
With Anneliese held in one arm, Argrave called out, “We’ve bought time. Small break, gather ourselves, and then… press to the center.”
Durran looked up and nodded, then quickly lowered his head again as though the act made him more nauseous. Argrave looked towards the center of the crater, where the jagged bolt of rot marring the beautiful landscape rushing water seemed to strike a target.
#####
After the time taken to rest, Argrave and his company proceeded onwards across the wooden platform. His arm regained its mobility after a few dozen minutes, but his whole body felt heavier, sluggish. Barring the sounds of rushing water, the landscape was eerily quiet—the Sentinels left alive had made their retreat, and now they were holed up in the center of this place.
As they neared, what was in the center was made clearer. One might expect a grandiose palace of sorts, but this was not a place built for man—indeed, it might have been built before man. But perhaps ‘built’ was the wrong word.
Once, perhaps, a great tree had stood there. Now, there was only a great circular building of rotted black wood, half-caved in. Piles and piles of rot and dust lay around this circular building, meshed with masses of disgusting and wax-ridden plant matter. The upper half of the tree had collapsed, and a great log thicker and taller than any skyscraper was buried beneath the ever-rushing waters of this serene place opposite where they had entered. Its fall had destroyed many of the wooden platforms and plants growing atop the serene place.
“This will be my time to handle things,” Argrave looked to Durran pointedly. “Defend me as I do things—nothing more, nothing less.”
Durran did not even muster indignance at being so blatantly signaled—he gave a quiet nod and took a deep breath to steady his hand. He had obviously been affected by the seriousness of the situation.
Anneliese looked discontented, so Argrave added, “There’ll be no blood magic.”
She nodded, but he could tell his words were not entirely dispelling her sentiments. “I scouted ahead. We know what is within. Whenever you are ready,” Anneliese gestured towards Argrave.
Argrave felt trepidation and anticipation both. He took a deep breath and exhaled. “Galamon,” he looked to his companion, then stepped ahead without another word. The elven vampire took his place by Argrave’s side, greatsword held at the ready as they walked forward.
“Should have brewed those potions we used at the druidic camp,” Argrave said, trying to draw upon humor to ease his nerves.
“Considering your blood, they wouldn’t work,” Galamon pointed out.
Argrave snorted, keeping his eyes wide and alert. As he neared the vast opening on the rotten stump ahead of them, Argrave triggered the Blessing of Supersession. That familiar feeling of an ocean welling up within consumed all of his thoughts, and the sole thought occupying his mind was his duty.
Argrave took steady, even steps into the sanctuary of the god within this vast crater. One hand was held towards the sky, and the spell matrix for [Electric Eel] whirled time and time again, sparking constructs dancing up into the air. The other was outstretched, facing the enemy.
The first to leap at Argrave was a giant lynx. It came with claws first, a waxpox-ridden stinger shortly behind. Argrave cared not what it was—he saw it move, and he cast a C-rank spell, [Wargfire]. A maw of flames emerged, catching the lynx in its teeth. The second enemy came, a dragonfly—he met it with a spell of wind.
His right hand became a shield, and his left became a sword. He warded away all comers with large, powerful spells, while the left conjured the eels of electricity dancing in the air. When enough had conjured, he would send the prepared attacks towards his enemies. Dozens of the lithe bolts of lightning striking at once left most foes dead, and those that lived still stood at death’s door, spasming in agony.
What few enemies made it past his shield of spells or his ever-vigilant companions, Argrave dispatched with a spell cast from Garm’s eyes. Like this, great or small, all before him fell. What had been a desperate struggle not an hour ago became an overwhelming defeat for the Sentinels of this exalted land.
Argrave felt himself drifting away into the feeling of overwhelming power in his hands, as he had times before. It was recognizable, now, like a pull beneath his mind, threatening to consume him. He realized there was something more to this ocean of magic, something deeper. His greater mastery of magic enabled him to see that. He wished to look down, using Garm’s eyes to see the magic within… but he feared what was there. He feared ‘Supersession’ had more than one meaning.
To combat the tugging, the pulling, he conjured images of Orion. The man would shrug these spells off as though they were nothing, then crush Argrave’s skull with his bare hand. The thought helped in sobering him. Argrave cast one final spell, then lowered his hands. His breathing was as steady as it was when he had walked in here.
Things were quiet, still. Argrave glanced around, paranoid and rattled, power still surging from within him.
“Drezki the Coward is further back,” Argrave urged, stepping ahead while the power still sprung from within him.
Argrave pushed past the horde of dead and dying, not even sparing a glance behind. Galamon kept pace with him, and he heard his companion’s footsteps further back.
As they moved deeper into the rotten stump, it stopped making sense—they walked for far too long without ever meeting a wall. Argrave was not concerned, but he was disconcerted to experience this place in person. The sound of rushing water filled his ears, growing in intensity until it was a low roar consuming all sound.
Argrave’s feet met shallow water, and the scenery changed once again. They were in a deep pit washed in sunlight. Vast waterfalls towered above them in a ring, flowing down to the ground. They all formed one giant spring heading to a great blooming flower of pure water. The water shone like emeralds and sapphire, but nothing could be seen within it.
A lone figure waited before the great flower, kneeling. Argrave did not waste time to admire things—he stepped forward, the Blessing of Supersession still surging within him. Both of his hands worked diligently to conjure electric eels, and before long, a great horde of them surged above his head. With every that joined them, his steps grew more confident.
The figure turned her head back and stood. It was a woman. She was short and squat. She looked afflicted with jaundice, but Argrave knew she was not—she was one of the swamp folk. One of the last, that is. They were a short, squat people, with colorful yellow-green skin tones and mostly brown hair. They were technically human, much in the same way Veidimen and the southron elves were both technically elves despite their drastic differences.
“One of the Plague Jester’s servants, come to put an end to my Lady and Light,” she said, grabbing at her thighs. She pulled free two sticks—Argrave knew what they did, though, and could not call them simple.
Drezki’s body was malformed. She wore armor made of wood. Parts of her were missing and had been replaced entirely by wood like a puppet patched together with improper materials. She did not look a dangerous foe—certainly no more than those animal abominations they’d just put an end to—but Argrave knew better.
“On the contrary. I’ve come to put an end to the Plague Jester. To do that, I need Silvic’s help,” Argrave explained, even though he felt this battle was inevitable. He watched for every movement, knowing Drezki’s speed. “So let’s get this started, Drezki.”
Drezki was rattled, but she held her sticks at the ready. Her feet braced, and Argrave’s whole party braced in turn.
“How do you know us?” a voice echoed throughout the vast waterfalls.
Argrave shifted on his feet, shallow water splashing beneath his boots. “What?” he questioned, genuinely surprised.
“How do you know us?!” the voice came again, doubled in volume. Argrave almost grabbed at his ears. Drezki hesitated to rush forward.
“Reasons,” Argrave said simply. “That’s you, Silvic?”
No reply came for a time. Then, the blooming flower of water behind Drezki began to spin outwards, fountaining into the shallow water below as though unravelling. The flower flowed back into the water at their feet, dissipating… and as it faded, a humanoid figure stood there.
Though Silvic could not be called man or woman, it leaned towards the latter. She had a great crown resembling a stag’s, but it was made of writhing tree roots, half of which had been afflicted with the waxpox. The left half of her body was like a vibrant tree, surging with dancing liquid lights. Much of its right half was the same… but even more had been rotted away by the disease they’d seen all too much of, lately.
“You speak truly? You are an enemy of the Jester?” Silvic questioned.
Argrave realized when he heard those words that he might’ve been too fatalistic about the inevitability of this battle.
