Idyllwyld
Bandersnatch
Introducing now the 7th Savior. This is related to The World Ends With Me.
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Light....
Blissful light, and then eternal darkness.
From Oblivion I came, and to it I return.
I remember feeling so exhausted. Battered, bruised, bleeding, tired. Dying. But no more. I feel nothing. There is no more body. I do not even feel my mind expanding, joining that fabled greater consciousness that fools hope for. Such a delusion is not for me. My thoughts are already fading.
It is good.
I can rest...
I am...not.
Light...
No.
I...am.
No.
Thoughts barrage me, emotions fill me.
No!
The weight of physical form hits me. I am solidified. I exist. I am breathing.
No!
I feel warmth, and the maddening fade of cold. I hear sounds; the whoosh of air as something gasps and there is a filling inside me. It can't be. There are lungs again. A heaving chest, arms and fingers. I think, and those fingers move. What have they done!?
My body bolts upright, I bolt upright, and eyes that never should have seen again snap open.
Around me are dozens of individuals. People, the word sloshes in my once-again processing consciousness with loathing and disgust. Some of them clad themselves in tattered robes, once a pristine ivory with noble violet trim, now just sullied, dully tinted rags. Others conceal themselves within ebon robes adorned with archaic runes and glyphs. A few don simple leathers and hides, but their calling is easily betrayed by the leaves and twigs caught in their hair and dangling from their belts. A few particular savage ones are barely dressed at all, padding themselves only with loin-clothes, tattoos, and piercings. All of them smell horrible to me. They reek of blood and sweat and breath and skin and meat and all the things that are life.
These mages, warlocks, necromancers, shamans, druids, and witch doctors stare at me with dumb wonder, their heads craning atop their spine-tipped sockets as I raise my mortal arms to examine my fingers and wrists. Golden plate mail covers me; they've even bothered to find my armor. It is still blemished from their grubby fingerprints and moist breaths. It is filth, and it is all over me. This body is filth, and I possess it once again.
I am atop an altar, set in the middle of a vast, columned chamber. Lines made of up of some dark, thick liquid trail from me, down to the altar, to each of the spellcasters, and then disappearing into the shadows in even more convoluted diagrams. There are rows of what I think are smaller altars towards the recesses of the room, but the stark light from the candles and sun let in through the hole above are constrained to just this most immediate area. I reach down and smear a finger into the dark liquid, but its pungent smell already betrays its identity. Blood magic, I realize. Always potent, but costly.
The blissful nothingness of death feels like an eternity ago. Yet, as the neurons fire and the muscles spasm appropriately, my mind and soul quickly remember what it is like to be corporeal again. I push down on the granite slab they've set me upon, and slide off. The stone floor resounds as my metal-clad feet land harshly but squarely upon it, and I see just beyond the idiotic circle that there on a rack lie my helm, shield, and sword.
A wizened old man in ripped emerald robes falls to the ground, bending his forehead to touch the ground. Everyone else follows suit like mindless drones, and they begin chanting in the tongue of magic. It is thanks, praise be to the gods.
"Silence!" the anger blurts from my mouth before I even realize it. I detest emotions.
The spellcasters cringe and they shuffle backwards, somehow managing to grovel even further into the ground. They shake and whimper into the stone, too afraid to even step aside as I begin to step forward. But I can sense their thoughts, feel their fear. I am awash in the Empathica, so I know how much they desperately will into their minds to sink deeper, to become smaller, to shrink and not be an obstacle to me.
To them, no doubt, they hear only the clanging of my armor against itself and my heavy thudding footprints as I approach my old armaments. They don't hear, nor did they ever, their own breathing, the pounding of their hearts, and the roar of the waves of blood coursing through them. Nor how much of a cacophonous racket it all is. I reach forward and take hold of my shield, whipping it around and slinging its straps over my shoulders--like I've done a thousand million times before, and never should have done again. I clasp my helm and gently lower it upon my brow, thankful for the silence that descends once its bottom rim hits my armor.
Finally, I wrap my fingers around the hilt of Truth, and hoist it up. Of all the petty materials clinging to me, it is only this, my sword, which I can bear to tolerate. This armor may be mine, as is my shield, and even this body. But Truth is my function. It is why I came, and once all understood; I was finally able to leave.
Yet here I am once again. These simpletons have forgotten all that was shown to them. All that was proven to them through sacrifice, war, and death. They now instead choose ignorance. So, I turn to face them, setting Truth down, point-first, upon the cold stone floor. Like obedient dogs the circle immediately re-arranges into neat rows now facing me, all the while each of them still practically kissing the ground I just tread upon. These people are not even fit to stand upon my grave; and yet they've gone and ransacked it.
"Speak," I bellow, and the sound of my voice reverberates throughout the chamber. One of the sniveling mages at least has the spineless obedience to shuffle forward. "We are not worthy to look upon ye, mighty Savior. But we have beckoned ye to-"
"I said speak!" I cut him off with a bark as sharp as Truth, "Not grovel like maggots. Do not patronize me; address me with respect!"
One of the spell-channellers immediately steps up to his full height, letting his cerulean robes sway by his ankles. He rears his head back to stare directly at me from beneath a patchwork azure hood, and his body goes rigid. I can see the beads of sweat trailing down his youthful face, and the dilation of his pupils, but to his credit, he remains ramrod straight with knees locked and arms at his sides. "My lord, we need, rather, we all need... The people, they are in need of a Savior."
He takes a gulpful of air and swallows it, and it is amusing to follow the bulge down his throat. "The world has fallen into disarray," he continues. "Terrible storms come every day, the earth quakes, and pestilence and famine streak merciless swaths across the land. The people are starving, they prey upon one another, and always the skies darken sooner every day. Something horrible is coming, but none of us can ascertain what."
I nod only once. It's the only effort I find worth giving them.
"As you can see, we are all magi of different, rival schools. But this same attunement to the magical energies that permeate this world have also given us intuition of what is to come. All know of the legends of the Saviors, those who come to aid humanity in its darkest hours, and all who live today still revere you. What you did will never be forgotten."
Obviously they have, otherwise they should have known better than to have done all this.
"And so we've all put our petty quarrels aside to bring you back," the arcanist continues to drone. "We cannot afford to wait for another Savior to reveal themselves. The world is running out of time, and you are the greatest champion it has ever known."
"That is not how the world works," I finally interject. "You know this. You all know this. Each Savior comes when it is their proper time, and once their work is done they are to return nevermore. You've defied much; you are disrupting the order."
The man shrivels beneath his robes, but some final stroke of cowardice of something else must be unwavering enough to keep him standing. "Y-yes, my lord. W-we are aware of this transgression. But there is another that has disrupted the order."
His words are becoming lower and higher between each syllable. He's beginning to squeak, and my grip on Truth tightens. This pompous account may be true, but it is still rife with arrogance and ignorance. "Well?" I cut into him.
"Ah!" he yelps, and then locks himself back into place. "There is another, a destroyer. He has wreaked more havoc across the land than any disaster, and we believe many of the catastrophes come from his own hand."
"A great destroyer?" I reply not without some interest, and my fingers relax slightly upon Truth's guard. "That may be so," I continue, retaking grasp of the sword, "But that is still not within my domain. I have come before to fight the great destroyer of that time, and I have done what needed to be done then. This is for you to deal with now."
"But my lord," the mage blurts out, "We are powerless, and time is running out."
"No," I come towards him, bringing Truth up in my hands. "You are all impatient cowards. You have put all your faith blindly into distorted legends of events that happened years ago, and not once did you ever try and learn what really happened."
"All of you," I shout, "Get up and face me, or must this young man speak for all you old codgers? Get up!"
The spellcasters do, quickly but only with submissive haste. They all keep their heads bowed, and none of them bother to speak. Only the one arcanist continues to hold his gaze to me, and his constitution is already fading quickly.
"I care not for your concerns, or your world," I state plainly. "Have you all forgotten why I and every Savior before me have come?" None speak, or even motion their heads.
"We come not to your rescue," I declare loud enough for the words to rattle down their spines. "Nor to clean up your messes."
I scan the magi in front of me, those who brought me back to life. I glare into each of their eyes, and I see their fear. But more distinctly , I see their weakness. These men would not stand unless told to do so, just as when I had awakened.
"We, the Saviors, are sent to test the will of men. And you all, before me, have failed."
Truth screams through the air, slicing through the silken robes of a nearby magus with ease and releasing the blood within out in a spray. The man cries out, and then collapses into a heap. The other spellweavers immediately recoil, wincing at the steaming life fluids that pepper their faces and once-fancy clothes. They stumble backwards, some slipping on the lines of cold blood they drew upon the floors earlier.
I tread forward, deliberately stomping one metal-plated foot onto the sprawled arm of a fallen caster. There is a loud snap and a scream, but I walk on without hesitation. I swing again at a straggler, and the arcane sigils upon his robes crackle with energy and explode, their magic overloaded and combusting upon their wearer. The roar of the instant azure flames drown out the volume of his cry, and the fire immediately saps all of his oxygen away. But its harsh glow fills the room all the way to the back walls, and I finally see what was actually there.
There are scores, dozens upon dozens, as I whirl around, trying to count them all. Nearly a hundred altars, and upon each one a vivisected corpse. The skins of their body are stretched back and held in place by the sacrificial daggers used on them, and above each bloody sacrifice are more runes, anchoring seals, etched in the victims' own life-fluids. The trails of blood I saw earlier trail all the way to these sacrifices, and trace along the once dim walls in dizzying labyrinths. There are no scars or piercings or tattoos on these bodies. Their hair is fairly neat and they are of decent health. I see the bodies of young men, old men, women and children. These are no criminals, sacrificed for a greater good. These are simple villagers, folken.
I thought all the blood had come from the spellcasters themselves, as is normally done. But this...
"What have you done?" I bellow, and while the columns do not shake each of the magi quiver.
"My lord!" one of the channellers, another arcanist in red robes now, speaks up. "We needed those well-versed in reaching your spirit and restoring your body. We could not afford any mistakes or miscastings, which is why we enlisted in the help of necromancers."
"Yet you resorted to blood magic still, and even sacrificed countless innocents in what defies the order anyway?!"
"We had to insure that you returned with your full consciousness intact and your power whole!" the magus squealed. "Please my lord, we did what we thought was best!"
"You decide to save people by sacrificing them," the words growl forth from my helm. "A whole city's worth of them!"
My emotions are roiling within me, making me pant. I still myself, slipping back into calm. "And here I am, as you have called me. Your Savior."
Looking over the lot of them, I simply declare, "I come to judge. And I have judged ye all guilty."
I pound towards the magus and grab his face in one gauntleted hand before he can squirm away. I can feel his screams resounding off the metal, and I lift him in my grasp until both the man's legs dangle over the ground. The other channellers, at least those dressed similarly to him, scream in protest and fling their open palms at me. Some unseen force buffets against me, but in my appointed armor, their efforts are utterly for naught. I squeeze my fingers, and after a loud crunch thick, chunky liquids seep forth and splatter onto the ground. The man's body is flung away at one of his disciples with enough force to knock both of them down.
The air to my left crackles aloud with lightning and the mages punch forward several spheres composed of pure electricity. The crackling globes soar towards me, and I swing Truth in a wide arc that slices through the spells as if they were paper. The eyes on the casters grow wide at the sight, but the onrushing force of Truth coming towards them strikes and cleave through their necks. I cast no magic.
By now the floors are awash in blood, the fresh now obscuring and mingling with the old. There is chanting to my left. I glance over, and behold the necromancers huddled by their altars. The daggers embedded there twitch and wiggle free, floating into the air in a pointed and keenly edged swarm.
I step forward, and throw Truth forward like a spear. Its eternally sharp blade shrieks through the air and impales one of the dark magic wielders, who clatters to the ground. The pitch of the chanting from the others doubles in compensation, but despite the loss all the flying daggers turn point-first towards me and shoot ahead like arrows.
My arms whip around and free my shield, bringing it around and positioning in before my face and upper chest. Bending at the knee, I yell and charge, ramming through the oncoming daggers. I feel the stone floor crack beneath my steps, and even after I am through the cloud of blades I continue to stampede forth, straight into the necromancers, crushing a few of them right into the wall. There is the barest utterance of a scream before the sound of ripping cloth, shattered bone, and crushed organs.
Sparing no moment I step back, tearing my shield away from the now-dented walls, and slice forward with it, driving its rim into the collarbones of another necromancer. I shift back, punching another and grabbing the side of his face as I draw my hand back. I whip him around and smash his skull into the wall, now utterly covered with blood and bits of bone. Finally I stop, only to bend and retrieve my Truth and re-sling my shield. Now the blade is utterly pulsing in my hand. I turn to face the surviving mages.
"My lord!" one of them, a druid from his garb, cries. "We only did what we thought was right! Please stop this!"
"You are all cheaters and charlatans," I spit. "You are murderers who did what was most convenient. This world is no longer my concern, and I've already sacrificed myself once for it. But it appears it was all a waste to give my life for you pitiful creatures."
"But the great destroyer, he is unstoppable!"
"Have none of you learned what I was sent to prove!?" I raise Truth's cruel and bloody edge to them. "There will always be one who comes to destroy, but I led you all, and died for you, so that you could defeat him for yourselves. This world has no more need of Saviors!"
I slice through the air before me, and the distance between them and I is literally cut; one of the sword's few abilities I do not mind using. Within that instant, I stand amidst their cowering huddle, and their slow eyes, still drawn forward, cannot react in time. I slash through those nearest to me, bringing the blade's pommel up and bashing it into others. I elbow a witch doctor next to me, my heavy plated armor easily cracking his ribs to the point of sticking out through the skin. The casters start to scatter, but Truth's keen edge flies through the air, always finding its mark.
I shoot out my free hand before a shaman trying to flee, and his neck slams against my wrist. Before he can fall, I reach down and grab him by the collar of his jerkin. He stares up at me with wide, terrified eyes. Greedy ones that wouldn't hesitate in withholding water from thirsty villagers unless they brought sufficient payment, I see. I pull him closer to my helm, rear back, and butt him squarely in the forehead. As I withdraw, the face containing those eyes is now no more than a bloody pulp. He drops to the ground.
They all fall before me. Some of their deaths are instant, some longer, but all of them are painful. Truth's golden hue is streaked with crimson as it drips blood. And finally all is blessedly silent.
I wipe my sword on the robes of one of the fallen, and sheath it. But...what is that? It is the faint sound of ragged, shallow breathing. I approach the source of the noise. It is the blue-robed younger wizard , the first one to speak. He is clutching at the huge gash across his torso, squeezing his bowels back into his body. The breaths coming from his bleeding mouth are squealed and wheezy, half-gurgling with internal bleeding and edged with abject panic.
His bloodshot eyes look up at me as I approach, and both arms fall limply away, letting the viscera spill forth. "Please, my lord," he rasps. "We were wrong... Forgive us."
"I forgive none. All must be held accountable for their actions." I lift my foot and rest it upon his chest bone. Faintly through the metal, I feel a slowing heartbeat.
"But, the destroyer must be stopped. He is like you," the dying youth manages through bloody gurgles, "We call him the Dark Savior."
Now my own words begin to falter. "A...Savior?" The words come out more as a whisper. Had this world grown so twisted that another one had arisen, but his purpose had become corrupted? Or was my task not yet truly done? No, neither of these felt quite right. I would have known if my function was not yet completed, and there were to be no more Saviors after me.
"I will do as I see fit," I remark to the dying man, "And we shall see what happens."
I lift the foot upon his chest high, and then stomp straight down.
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Light....
Blissful light, and then eternal darkness.
From Oblivion I came, and to it I return.
I remember feeling so exhausted. Battered, bruised, bleeding, tired. Dying. But no more. I feel nothing. There is no more body. I do not even feel my mind expanding, joining that fabled greater consciousness that fools hope for. Such a delusion is not for me. My thoughts are already fading.
It is good.
I can rest...
I am...not.
Light...
No.
I...am.
No.
Thoughts barrage me, emotions fill me.
No!
The weight of physical form hits me. I am solidified. I exist. I am breathing.
No!
I feel warmth, and the maddening fade of cold. I hear sounds; the whoosh of air as something gasps and there is a filling inside me. It can't be. There are lungs again. A heaving chest, arms and fingers. I think, and those fingers move. What have they done!?
My body bolts upright, I bolt upright, and eyes that never should have seen again snap open.
Around me are dozens of individuals. People, the word sloshes in my once-again processing consciousness with loathing and disgust. Some of them clad themselves in tattered robes, once a pristine ivory with noble violet trim, now just sullied, dully tinted rags. Others conceal themselves within ebon robes adorned with archaic runes and glyphs. A few don simple leathers and hides, but their calling is easily betrayed by the leaves and twigs caught in their hair and dangling from their belts. A few particular savage ones are barely dressed at all, padding themselves only with loin-clothes, tattoos, and piercings. All of them smell horrible to me. They reek of blood and sweat and breath and skin and meat and all the things that are life.
These mages, warlocks, necromancers, shamans, druids, and witch doctors stare at me with dumb wonder, their heads craning atop their spine-tipped sockets as I raise my mortal arms to examine my fingers and wrists. Golden plate mail covers me; they've even bothered to find my armor. It is still blemished from their grubby fingerprints and moist breaths. It is filth, and it is all over me. This body is filth, and I possess it once again.
I am atop an altar, set in the middle of a vast, columned chamber. Lines made of up of some dark, thick liquid trail from me, down to the altar, to each of the spellcasters, and then disappearing into the shadows in even more convoluted diagrams. There are rows of what I think are smaller altars towards the recesses of the room, but the stark light from the candles and sun let in through the hole above are constrained to just this most immediate area. I reach down and smear a finger into the dark liquid, but its pungent smell already betrays its identity. Blood magic, I realize. Always potent, but costly.
The blissful nothingness of death feels like an eternity ago. Yet, as the neurons fire and the muscles spasm appropriately, my mind and soul quickly remember what it is like to be corporeal again. I push down on the granite slab they've set me upon, and slide off. The stone floor resounds as my metal-clad feet land harshly but squarely upon it, and I see just beyond the idiotic circle that there on a rack lie my helm, shield, and sword.
A wizened old man in ripped emerald robes falls to the ground, bending his forehead to touch the ground. Everyone else follows suit like mindless drones, and they begin chanting in the tongue of magic. It is thanks, praise be to the gods.
"Silence!" the anger blurts from my mouth before I even realize it. I detest emotions.
The spellcasters cringe and they shuffle backwards, somehow managing to grovel even further into the ground. They shake and whimper into the stone, too afraid to even step aside as I begin to step forward. But I can sense their thoughts, feel their fear. I am awash in the Empathica, so I know how much they desperately will into their minds to sink deeper, to become smaller, to shrink and not be an obstacle to me.
To them, no doubt, they hear only the clanging of my armor against itself and my heavy thudding footprints as I approach my old armaments. They don't hear, nor did they ever, their own breathing, the pounding of their hearts, and the roar of the waves of blood coursing through them. Nor how much of a cacophonous racket it all is. I reach forward and take hold of my shield, whipping it around and slinging its straps over my shoulders--like I've done a thousand million times before, and never should have done again. I clasp my helm and gently lower it upon my brow, thankful for the silence that descends once its bottom rim hits my armor.
Finally, I wrap my fingers around the hilt of Truth, and hoist it up. Of all the petty materials clinging to me, it is only this, my sword, which I can bear to tolerate. This armor may be mine, as is my shield, and even this body. But Truth is my function. It is why I came, and once all understood; I was finally able to leave.
Yet here I am once again. These simpletons have forgotten all that was shown to them. All that was proven to them through sacrifice, war, and death. They now instead choose ignorance. So, I turn to face them, setting Truth down, point-first, upon the cold stone floor. Like obedient dogs the circle immediately re-arranges into neat rows now facing me, all the while each of them still practically kissing the ground I just tread upon. These people are not even fit to stand upon my grave; and yet they've gone and ransacked it.
"Speak," I bellow, and the sound of my voice reverberates throughout the chamber. One of the sniveling mages at least has the spineless obedience to shuffle forward. "We are not worthy to look upon ye, mighty Savior. But we have beckoned ye to-"
"I said speak!" I cut him off with a bark as sharp as Truth, "Not grovel like maggots. Do not patronize me; address me with respect!"
One of the spell-channellers immediately steps up to his full height, letting his cerulean robes sway by his ankles. He rears his head back to stare directly at me from beneath a patchwork azure hood, and his body goes rigid. I can see the beads of sweat trailing down his youthful face, and the dilation of his pupils, but to his credit, he remains ramrod straight with knees locked and arms at his sides. "My lord, we need, rather, we all need... The people, they are in need of a Savior."
He takes a gulpful of air and swallows it, and it is amusing to follow the bulge down his throat. "The world has fallen into disarray," he continues. "Terrible storms come every day, the earth quakes, and pestilence and famine streak merciless swaths across the land. The people are starving, they prey upon one another, and always the skies darken sooner every day. Something horrible is coming, but none of us can ascertain what."
I nod only once. It's the only effort I find worth giving them.
"As you can see, we are all magi of different, rival schools. But this same attunement to the magical energies that permeate this world have also given us intuition of what is to come. All know of the legends of the Saviors, those who come to aid humanity in its darkest hours, and all who live today still revere you. What you did will never be forgotten."
Obviously they have, otherwise they should have known better than to have done all this.
"And so we've all put our petty quarrels aside to bring you back," the arcanist continues to drone. "We cannot afford to wait for another Savior to reveal themselves. The world is running out of time, and you are the greatest champion it has ever known."
"That is not how the world works," I finally interject. "You know this. You all know this. Each Savior comes when it is their proper time, and once their work is done they are to return nevermore. You've defied much; you are disrupting the order."
The man shrivels beneath his robes, but some final stroke of cowardice of something else must be unwavering enough to keep him standing. "Y-yes, my lord. W-we are aware of this transgression. But there is another that has disrupted the order."
His words are becoming lower and higher between each syllable. He's beginning to squeak, and my grip on Truth tightens. This pompous account may be true, but it is still rife with arrogance and ignorance. "Well?" I cut into him.
"Ah!" he yelps, and then locks himself back into place. "There is another, a destroyer. He has wreaked more havoc across the land than any disaster, and we believe many of the catastrophes come from his own hand."
"A great destroyer?" I reply not without some interest, and my fingers relax slightly upon Truth's guard. "That may be so," I continue, retaking grasp of the sword, "But that is still not within my domain. I have come before to fight the great destroyer of that time, and I have done what needed to be done then. This is for you to deal with now."
"But my lord," the mage blurts out, "We are powerless, and time is running out."
"No," I come towards him, bringing Truth up in my hands. "You are all impatient cowards. You have put all your faith blindly into distorted legends of events that happened years ago, and not once did you ever try and learn what really happened."
"All of you," I shout, "Get up and face me, or must this young man speak for all you old codgers? Get up!"
The spellcasters do, quickly but only with submissive haste. They all keep their heads bowed, and none of them bother to speak. Only the one arcanist continues to hold his gaze to me, and his constitution is already fading quickly.
"I care not for your concerns, or your world," I state plainly. "Have you all forgotten why I and every Savior before me have come?" None speak, or even motion their heads.
"We come not to your rescue," I declare loud enough for the words to rattle down their spines. "Nor to clean up your messes."
I scan the magi in front of me, those who brought me back to life. I glare into each of their eyes, and I see their fear. But more distinctly , I see their weakness. These men would not stand unless told to do so, just as when I had awakened.
"We, the Saviors, are sent to test the will of men. And you all, before me, have failed."
Truth screams through the air, slicing through the silken robes of a nearby magus with ease and releasing the blood within out in a spray. The man cries out, and then collapses into a heap. The other spellweavers immediately recoil, wincing at the steaming life fluids that pepper their faces and once-fancy clothes. They stumble backwards, some slipping on the lines of cold blood they drew upon the floors earlier.
I tread forward, deliberately stomping one metal-plated foot onto the sprawled arm of a fallen caster. There is a loud snap and a scream, but I walk on without hesitation. I swing again at a straggler, and the arcane sigils upon his robes crackle with energy and explode, their magic overloaded and combusting upon their wearer. The roar of the instant azure flames drown out the volume of his cry, and the fire immediately saps all of his oxygen away. But its harsh glow fills the room all the way to the back walls, and I finally see what was actually there.
There are scores, dozens upon dozens, as I whirl around, trying to count them all. Nearly a hundred altars, and upon each one a vivisected corpse. The skins of their body are stretched back and held in place by the sacrificial daggers used on them, and above each bloody sacrifice are more runes, anchoring seals, etched in the victims' own life-fluids. The trails of blood I saw earlier trail all the way to these sacrifices, and trace along the once dim walls in dizzying labyrinths. There are no scars or piercings or tattoos on these bodies. Their hair is fairly neat and they are of decent health. I see the bodies of young men, old men, women and children. These are no criminals, sacrificed for a greater good. These are simple villagers, folken.
I thought all the blood had come from the spellcasters themselves, as is normally done. But this...
"What have you done?" I bellow, and while the columns do not shake each of the magi quiver.
"My lord!" one of the channellers, another arcanist in red robes now, speaks up. "We needed those well-versed in reaching your spirit and restoring your body. We could not afford any mistakes or miscastings, which is why we enlisted in the help of necromancers."
"Yet you resorted to blood magic still, and even sacrificed countless innocents in what defies the order anyway?!"
"We had to insure that you returned with your full consciousness intact and your power whole!" the magus squealed. "Please my lord, we did what we thought was best!"
"You decide to save people by sacrificing them," the words growl forth from my helm. "A whole city's worth of them!"
My emotions are roiling within me, making me pant. I still myself, slipping back into calm. "And here I am, as you have called me. Your Savior."
Looking over the lot of them, I simply declare, "I come to judge. And I have judged ye all guilty."
I pound towards the magus and grab his face in one gauntleted hand before he can squirm away. I can feel his screams resounding off the metal, and I lift him in my grasp until both the man's legs dangle over the ground. The other channellers, at least those dressed similarly to him, scream in protest and fling their open palms at me. Some unseen force buffets against me, but in my appointed armor, their efforts are utterly for naught. I squeeze my fingers, and after a loud crunch thick, chunky liquids seep forth and splatter onto the ground. The man's body is flung away at one of his disciples with enough force to knock both of them down.
The air to my left crackles aloud with lightning and the mages punch forward several spheres composed of pure electricity. The crackling globes soar towards me, and I swing Truth in a wide arc that slices through the spells as if they were paper. The eyes on the casters grow wide at the sight, but the onrushing force of Truth coming towards them strikes and cleave through their necks. I cast no magic.
By now the floors are awash in blood, the fresh now obscuring and mingling with the old. There is chanting to my left. I glance over, and behold the necromancers huddled by their altars. The daggers embedded there twitch and wiggle free, floating into the air in a pointed and keenly edged swarm.
I step forward, and throw Truth forward like a spear. Its eternally sharp blade shrieks through the air and impales one of the dark magic wielders, who clatters to the ground. The pitch of the chanting from the others doubles in compensation, but despite the loss all the flying daggers turn point-first towards me and shoot ahead like arrows.
My arms whip around and free my shield, bringing it around and positioning in before my face and upper chest. Bending at the knee, I yell and charge, ramming through the oncoming daggers. I feel the stone floor crack beneath my steps, and even after I am through the cloud of blades I continue to stampede forth, straight into the necromancers, crushing a few of them right into the wall. There is the barest utterance of a scream before the sound of ripping cloth, shattered bone, and crushed organs.
Sparing no moment I step back, tearing my shield away from the now-dented walls, and slice forward with it, driving its rim into the collarbones of another necromancer. I shift back, punching another and grabbing the side of his face as I draw my hand back. I whip him around and smash his skull into the wall, now utterly covered with blood and bits of bone. Finally I stop, only to bend and retrieve my Truth and re-sling my shield. Now the blade is utterly pulsing in my hand. I turn to face the surviving mages.
"My lord!" one of them, a druid from his garb, cries. "We only did what we thought was right! Please stop this!"
"You are all cheaters and charlatans," I spit. "You are murderers who did what was most convenient. This world is no longer my concern, and I've already sacrificed myself once for it. But it appears it was all a waste to give my life for you pitiful creatures."
"But the great destroyer, he is unstoppable!"
"Have none of you learned what I was sent to prove!?" I raise Truth's cruel and bloody edge to them. "There will always be one who comes to destroy, but I led you all, and died for you, so that you could defeat him for yourselves. This world has no more need of Saviors!"
I slice through the air before me, and the distance between them and I is literally cut; one of the sword's few abilities I do not mind using. Within that instant, I stand amidst their cowering huddle, and their slow eyes, still drawn forward, cannot react in time. I slash through those nearest to me, bringing the blade's pommel up and bashing it into others. I elbow a witch doctor next to me, my heavy plated armor easily cracking his ribs to the point of sticking out through the skin. The casters start to scatter, but Truth's keen edge flies through the air, always finding its mark.
I shoot out my free hand before a shaman trying to flee, and his neck slams against my wrist. Before he can fall, I reach down and grab him by the collar of his jerkin. He stares up at me with wide, terrified eyes. Greedy ones that wouldn't hesitate in withholding water from thirsty villagers unless they brought sufficient payment, I see. I pull him closer to my helm, rear back, and butt him squarely in the forehead. As I withdraw, the face containing those eyes is now no more than a bloody pulp. He drops to the ground.
They all fall before me. Some of their deaths are instant, some longer, but all of them are painful. Truth's golden hue is streaked with crimson as it drips blood. And finally all is blessedly silent.
I wipe my sword on the robes of one of the fallen, and sheath it. But...what is that? It is the faint sound of ragged, shallow breathing. I approach the source of the noise. It is the blue-robed younger wizard , the first one to speak. He is clutching at the huge gash across his torso, squeezing his bowels back into his body. The breaths coming from his bleeding mouth are squealed and wheezy, half-gurgling with internal bleeding and edged with abject panic.
His bloodshot eyes look up at me as I approach, and both arms fall limply away, letting the viscera spill forth. "Please, my lord," he rasps. "We were wrong... Forgive us."
"I forgive none. All must be held accountable for their actions." I lift my foot and rest it upon his chest bone. Faintly through the metal, I feel a slowing heartbeat.
"But, the destroyer must be stopped. He is like you," the dying youth manages through bloody gurgles, "We call him the Dark Savior."
Now my own words begin to falter. "A...Savior?" The words come out more as a whisper. Had this world grown so twisted that another one had arisen, but his purpose had become corrupted? Or was my task not yet truly done? No, neither of these felt quite right. I would have known if my function was not yet completed, and there were to be no more Saviors after me.
"I will do as I see fit," I remark to the dying man, "And we shall see what happens."
I lift the foot upon his chest high, and then stomp straight down.
